Hunger and Thirst (26 page)

The inside wrapper was white. He jerked it to him. Then, quickly, without heeding the pain, he pricked his finger with the sharp glass edge. He squeezed out a drop of blood, pretending not to notice the terrible idea the sight of it gave him.

Quickly, using the point of the glass fragment for a pen, he put the paper on his chest and wrote HELP in jagged, uppercase letters. He crumpled the piece of paper into a ball. Then he realized that no one would open it, it would just be a scrap of paper in the street. But if it came down slowly. If it flew …

He unrolled the paper and, with shaking fingers, made an airplane of it, folding it anxiously, heart throbbing in his chest.

He waited until his arm was a little rested. Until it didn’t shake so.

Then he threw the airplane at the opening in the window.

It swooped up. His heart moved with it.

It hit the window glass and fluttered down onto the dusty floorboards.

A clicking, sucking sound filled his throat. He turned back to the left, his eyes frightened and wild. It was getting harder and harder not to fall completely beneath terror. Everything was failing! Wasn’t there one way in the world to save himself? He thought of himself the day before thinking that in all the millions of rich and various possibilities in the world, there were surely more than enough to save him.

But were there?

He pricked himself harder, turning the glass edge like a corkscrew into one of the gouges he had made before, wincing at the sudden, biting pain. HELP he wrote on the outside of the wrapper. He wrote it again on the cardboard base. HELP. The dark blood was hardly visible on the dark cardboard.

He folded the wrapper into an airplane and threw it at the window opening. It hit the sill. He folded the other one and threw it. It hit the sill. The three pieces of paper lay near each other on the dusty floor with HELP written on them in his blood.

A groan of defeat passed his lips. His arm collapsed at his side and tears of futility ran slowly from his eyes.

It was getting dark again.

Suddenly, he cursed himself for having pawned his radio. He might have played it loudly, thunderously, until everyone complained and looked into the matter and found him there.

But the radio was gone.

He closed his eyes and felt the tears spring out from under the lids and dribble over his cheeks and then run down onto the pillow case.

The radio had been the last to go.

At first it was hard.

He needed the money, yes. He couldn’t get a job and atrophy in what he chose to call “some den of nine to five”. That was well known to him.

But it was a hard step down. It jarred his sensibilities.

To sell things. Well, that’s what it amounted to. They called it
pawning
something but the men who ran the shops and the men who pawned that something knew that ninety nine times out of a hundred the time period would elapse without the redeeming of the article. How else explain all those somethings for sale in pawn shops? It was a sham; that’s what; a game. Like the old bum who always said in complete, if ridiculous dignity—Sir, I meant to get a haircut but I find myself a nickel short. It was a front, a neat proper covering for the festering wound.

So he had left home and was out of money. And wouldn’t work. He had to write full time. It was his excuse. And, in retribution for it, he was forced to prowl the streets and hand around the pawn shops, mostly the old man’s shop because it was the biggest one. At first pretending to look in at the window with a face that he hoped bespoke clearly—I
buy—
and not—I am going to sell for I am destitute.

He stood there in his long brown overcoat and wondered if he should go in and he thought—God why should it be so hard? Do you think that old bastard gives a single damn whether you’re selling your soul for whiskey or rent or anything? At makes no difference to him. It’s business to him. He doesn’t even know who you are. You’re a face in a million faces, one more fleck of drifting spume in the endless waves of men who come in each day, morning, afternoon and night, selling jewelry, clothing, furniture, anything for money. Sir, this is my only begotten child, what am I offered? He thought that. And decided that the old man would make an offer too. As little as possible, mind you.

So he prowled and watched and did no writing for the worries of lack. And cursed perpetually that his mother hadn’t owned a joint bank account with him and that he didn’t have her bank book now that she was dead. He knew that Grace wouldn’t give it to him. Oh, she might maybe, but not her husband. He’d do anything to thwart Erick. He hated Erick. Erick knew that for a fact.

But that didn’t help pay bills. And he had to pay them. Everything slowed but debts went on as fast as ever.

So, one day when the rent was due and he had only fifty eight cents, he went into the old man’s shop carrying his school ring in his pocket. He would rather have sold one of his suits or his overcoat or his books. But they were too bulky. People would see him in the streets and know and their chuckling would reach his ears and he’d shake with rage as he knew their thoughts—He’s a bum and he’s going to sell his clothes or his books for liquor, for flesh. And their beady-eyed cruel chant would soar over the city like a diseased cloud—He’s gonna
hock
‘em,
hock
‘em,
hock
‘em!

He went into the shop and looked around. The old man was in the back looking through his ledger. He had on the purple shirt with the stripes and the greasy silk tie. It was supper time. Erick had waited for a time when the shop was empty.

The old man looked up with fishlike eyes.

“What d’ya want?” he asked brusquely.

Erick swallowed. He knew he was blushing terribly. He never felt more embarrassed in his life. The entire thing seemed the most repugnant thing in the world. Through his mind raced thoughts—I’d rather be backing Germany than here. I’d rather be dead, I’d rather eat horse shit. He shivered and found himself ambling helplessly back toward the counter where the old man stood, drawn there as if by a magnet, unable to control his movements.

He tried to look blasé. He didn’t. His hands shook and were sweating in his coat pockets. Caught short old man, his alien mind injected to torture him, damned awkward situation, need taxi fare to my estate, what for this little bauble of a school ring of mine?

“Well?” Sharp and cutting. The voice made him shiver.

“I … I have a ring to …”

The old man extended his pop-veined claw and twitched it toward himself with a well-practiced gesture that clearly said—All right, let’s see the worthless thing.

His hand trembled badly as he held out the ring. And he suddenly thought of a dozen different reasons why he had to keep the ring and why it was imperative for him to leave the shop immediately. On the run.

The old man plucked the ring away and looked at it with a scowl.

Roughly, he tossed it back on the counter.

“What in hell am I supposed to do with a school ring?” he snapped, tilting his head and glaring at Erick, “With
initials
in it and the
year
of graduation. What in hell do you think I run, a
charity
house?”

Erick shuddered violently, almost struck dumb by this abuse.

“Oh,” he said timidly, “I …
see.”

His stomach was drawn in tight. He felt hot floods of mortification rushing through his body. He dropped the ring back into his pocket, his face flushed darkly. It was the wrong pocket. It had a hole in it and he heard the ring bounce on the floor.

“Ooops,” he said, without thinking. He stooped over awkwardly and picked it up, his fingers shaking. He got a splinter from the floor.

“Uh, okay,” he straightened up, “I guess w-we can’t do business.” Shut up! screamed his brain,
shut up!

“I guess not,” snapped the old man, looking back to his ledger with his face curled up disgustedly, “
School
ring, no less.”

The door thudded shut behind him. His body was shaking with pent-up fury, unexpressed fury.

God damn you!
thundered his mind, Why did you take that? That’s all brother, oh,
that’s all!!
Mentally he twisted from side to side as if looking for some escape, some way to get free of it all, end it all suddenly, sharply.

He walked along quickly, not seeing anything or anybody, caught deep in his humiliation. Oh no,
that’s all
. Never again. I don’t care if I starve to death. They can throw me in the streets. They can
spit
on my face by Christ but I’ll never, never go back there. Oh no! I’ll never humble myself to some sneering, stupid little usurer again. I’ll cut my throat first!

Then the thought occurred to him that this decision wouldn’t make the least bit of difference to the old man. The old man could see him ranting and he would only shrug. In his mind he saw the old man shrug, his eye-lids drooping, his mouth a bored, wrinkled line. And the vision made Erick even more furious. He hated and reviled the old man with an all encompassing hatred, hated the old man for the power he held over Erick.

He walked faster and faster. He didn’t care where he was going. His lips were pressed tight and drained of blood. His eyes blazed with a fury of shame. He hated the old man. He could have killed him for what happened. He kept thinking of different ways to destroy him.

That was the first time.

And, he had vowed, the last.

But how quickly the mood passed. How soon did the power of material necessity overshadow all emotion. The rent was still due and his money was gone and he was even hungry now. And in hunger, humiliation was a forgotten sentiment.

To his own mind he
could
not get a job. He had no skills anyway, except his writing. His college journalism training was forgotten in the mists, it was less than useless.

He couldn’t borrow any more money from Lynn. And he felt ashamed at eating at Lynn’s place so often. Because I still have honor, he told himself. But the alien voice kept injecting the unpleasant suggestion that it was because Lynn no longer raved about his “promise”, his “future”, no longer told him to “keep fighting it”.

Instead, Lynn now said occasionally, “why don’t you give up these college freshman ideas about writing? So you
can’t
make the grade. All right, you can’t make it. What’s the difference? There’s still room in the world for a man who can’t write deathless prose.” That’s when Erick first began to stiffen. He rarely paid attention to the rest which ran, “There’s all kinds of writing in the world. Why don’t you stop beating your head against a wall and try some of the other kinds.”

And that made him furious. He had to sit there eating Lynn’s food and listening to his criticism. A terrible combination of sensations filled him. He was torn between his desire to eat and his desire to get up, curse Lynn to his face and leave.

He always did the same thing. Made a sorry compromise statement that tried to hark back to their old college philosophy.

“What!” he’d say, “Ride the subways and sway in unison with a stupid, puerile office crowd? Live in some den of nine to five with fools until my brain turns to stone? Be miserable, fawning to idiots?”

And Lynn would get that old look of blasé disgust on his thickening features; thickening from financial success. And that gave Erick fuel for his little fire. Anyway, he rationalized; how many times he forgot; anyway, Lynn has degraded. He’s not the intelligent fellow he was at college. He’s atrophied. Visibly. I don’t hate him, no, he would think in broad-minded hypocrisy, I just don’t care for his mind anymore. He’s become mediocre like the rest. Our paths uncross.

But, inside, he knew very well that he did hate Lynn. For this and for other things. But for this because Lynn showed up his weakness, held it up to glaring light, turned it over in prying fingers until Erick, in self defense, could do nothing else but hate him.

* * * *

A few days after the first attempt at pawning, Erick went to another shop with his cufflinks and his camera. At least he would have the dubious pleasure of not going to the old man’s shop even if it was the one closest to his room.

He was shocked and appalled by the small amount of money he was offered for the camera and the cuff links. His stomach sank as though it had turned to stone suddenly and were falling, falling. At first he flushed angrily and dragged the articles from the counter, his mind made up to leave in a blaze of outraged fury. The man had shrugged, turned away.

Then, halfway to the door, he suddenly realized that he had no other choice. He stood there for a long moment, motionless, hating himself for not stamping out and slamming the door so hard the glass broke.

And, sullenly, hardly speaking a word through the transaction, he returned to the counter and put down his camera and his cuff links. And the man paid him and gave him the pawn tickets. He crumpled the money in his fist, getting little pleasure in treating it thus brutally and scornfully as if, somehow, he were paying it back in physical pain for the mental torture it had caused him.

He then shoved the pawn tickets in his pocket and walked out quickly, heart pounding as violently as it had when German shells had crashed about him and his life was almost lost. He avoided what he believed to be the mocking, insulting eyes of a man who just came in at the door.

* * * *

Next he went to the bookshops on Fourth Avenue.

He sold a few of his books at a time, miserable every time for days after. Suffering a detailed remembrance of the infinite pleasures he had known at college building up his little private library; looking through the books each time before he sold them, holding them in loving hands, recalling the times he had read them, re-reading passages and relishing them, ignoring the knowledge that, if he weren’t about to sell them down the river, he would never even glance at them. He wouldn’t even dust them off.

He sold them.

And, every time he came back to the room with money, he felt a chilled emptiness at the dwindling amount of books. And cherished those that remained. And took hours to decide which ones he’d sell next. He would sit there cross-legged before the bookrack staring at the books, pulling out one at a time, perusing it, stroking it as though it were something well-loved, then replacing it. And he saw himself as holding a child in his lap, kissing and fondling it. Then shrugging his shoulders, slit eyed and carting the child off to the butchers for a fee.
Pride and Prejudice
was his child.
Jane Eyre, U.S.A., The Way of All Flesh
. He had loved them all.
Sister Carrie
and
War and Peace
and
Ulysses
and
Anna Karenina
and
The Idiot
and
The Short Stories of De Maupassant
. And the most horrible moment he had felt in years occurred to him when, after selling a group of books, he realized that one of them he had never even read.