Midnight Cowboy (25 page)

“It’s all very simple: The ideal of the infant is to maintain its mother’s love—forever. I have done this. I have lived this ideal existence. The problems are relatively minor: First of all, she will predecease me.
Perhaps!
Oh, you see, that’s one of the marvels of my mother’s character:
She won’t die!”
He pounded the chair arm with his fist. “It’s true. These women of my mother’s breed, they refuse to die, they are on the side of life. They will not say yes to death. They have far too much love of life in them simply to let go of it all. That’s courage. That’s how this country was traversed in the covered-wagon days. The men were supported, cajoled, driven on by these women, and that’s how the primitive was conquered, annihilated. Do you realize—and this is not at all off the track, this is the very heart of the matter—my mother went to Minnesota in a wagon? In other words—let me interpret, let me tell you what this means—in her lifetime, this country has gone from the pioneer stage to this complete
flowering
that all of us enjoy today. You and I, Joe, every day we reap the harvest in this garden spot of the world. And it’s these women who planted the seeds, yes, we owe it all to them, this entire wonderful civilization of ours, every scrap of it is their making.

“And not only did they do their job, but think of the
speed!
My boy, there is no country in the entire history of the world that has progressed from the brute to the utterly civilized with such dispatch, such efficiency. And
there’s
your reason.” He pointed rather coyly to Estelle’s picture and winked at it. The old lady in the photograph appeared to be modestly accepting the compliment. “Isn’t she cute? The dead image of Queen Victoria. Our entire home is done in Victorian, pierced rosewood and red velvet, and we live in a glorious tower overlooking the lake, and with such grace and style. I take her to the theater and all the concerts in her wheelchair—when she’s up to it. Don’t I?” he said to the picture. And then he blew it a kiss and declared it was time to eat.

There followed a long telephone conversation in which the room clerk told Locke there was no restaurant in the hotel, and Locke tried assiduously to convince the room clerk that he was mistaken in this peculiar notion, there had to be a restaurant because he was hungry.

At one point he cupped his band over the mouthpiece and described the impasse to his guest. “Joe, can you believe it, this poor man’s got it into his head that there’s no restaurant in this entire hotel. And of course there’s no reasoning with these people any more. The railroads are the same way. You see why I’m forced to fly?”

At length the recalcitrant clerk “admitted” that there was a Chinese restaurant in the next block and promised to send someone for chop suey and egg rolls.

Before, during, and after this meal, and even while his large white teeth were being picked and sucked, Locke continued to spew out words. He seemed to be building something with them, one of those nightmare constructions that is constantly being undermined at a slightly greater rate of speed than one is able to achieve in the building. This one seemed to have to do with the identity of Joe Buck, for even though the conversation had little to do with him, it proceeded on the assumption that Locke’s guest was a kind of ideal and perfect being, composed of all the manliness and heroism of an early Gary Cooper with the culture and sensibility and compassion of a Ronald Colman. Locke seemed to be afraid that if his visitor were allowed to speak so much as one full sentence, the construction would topple.

Meanwhile Joe Buck found it unnecessary to listen to what was said. He merely cocked an eyebrow, set his face at a certain tilt, and whenever the speaker smiled he followed suit and nodded agreeably. Occasionally he would tune in on a phrase or two: “My mother can’t bear anything depressing!” “Of course you cattle people understand these matters far better than I, a mere paper merchant.” “Back to my thesis then: The brutes tamed the country and the women tamed the brutes, the latter of course having by
far
the more difficult job, and succeeding, I’d say, almost entirely, wouldn’t you agree?”

And Joe’s thoughts would return to the problem of getting the evening onto a paying basis. But he made little progress. The words of his host acted upon him with a soporific, almost paralyzing effect. He had constantly to fight against falling into an actual trance of boredom by shifting his position, rubbing his neck, cracking his knuckles, squinting.

It was after eleven when the telephone rang. Joe seized this opportunity to go into the bathroom, where he could consult himself in the mirror. As he left the room, Locke was speaking loudly and distinctly into the mouthpiece.

“Do you want to hear about a coincidence? … Mama, a co-in-cidence. Guess who we were talking about at this very mo-ment? … I said, when the phone rang, guess who was being dis-cussed. … Dis-cussed. … No, not disgusted! Dis-c-c-c-c-cussed. Talked about! … Oh, Mama! Haven’t you got it turned up? Which one are you wearing? …
That
one’s no good, why aren’t you wearing the Acousticon? …
A-cou-sti-con!
… Mama, dammit, this is im-pah-see-bull!”

In the bathroom, Joe splashed his face and neck with cold water until he felt that some blood had returned to his head. Then he leaned in very close to his own image and whispered: “Minute that sombitch gets off the telly-goddam-phone, you move into action. That’s an order!”

Joe looked around for something to steal. There was an electric razor on the top of the toilet, but it was too bulky for his pocket. Besides, under a palm tree, where would you plug the thing in? There was nothing worth bothering about in the medicine chest either. But he did help himself to some cologne water again: took off his boots and opened his clothing and sloshed himself good with the stuff.

Then he listened at the door. Locke’s telephone conversation showed no signs of terminating. Joe turned again to the mirror and began a rehearsal:

“Listen, mister, uh—I mean, Towny. Listen, Towny, did I mention to you my kid is sicker’n shee-it? Well, he is, and I got to get him South quick as I can. Yeah. Well, I, uh, I don’t know
what
all he’s got wrong. Had polio when he was teensy, and now he’s snottin’ at the nose, shivers and sweats all the time, busted leg, ever’ damn thing. So what I thought, Towny, I thought I better get him on down South quick. Now listen. Now
listen. Listen to me, goddam yai—
Sssssh,” he cautioned himself and then continued the rehearsal in a whisper. “Now if you’ll just listen to me, Towny. Oh, I’ve had a hell of a good time here tonight listenin’ to you for about forty-eight hours straight. Oh my yes, I’ve sure enjoyed it, ever’ goddam pissy-ass second of it. But now
you
listen awhile. I want some money. I got to have it quick, too, so if you want to swing on this thing, you better shut up and start in swingin’l”

In the sitting room, Townsend P. Locke sat on the edge of the couch, one hand resting on the telephone receiver, which had been placed in its cradle, and the other hand covering his mouth. His eyes were big with worry.

“Oh, Joe,” he said as his guest returned to the room. “I behaved so childishly. I shouted. I was nasty. I was impudent. Should I call her back and apologize? She despises extravagance. Luxury she adores, extravagance no. She makes these marvelous distinctions. Well, I can’t worry, can I? Shall we have a tiny?” He pointed to the gin bottle on the cocktail table.

Joe said, “Yeah, lemme pour you one, Towny.”

“Thank you, that’s very nice.”

Joe poured until the glass was half full of straight gin, then he placed it in the outstretched red hand.

Joe remained standing directly in front of Locke, his pelvis on a level with Locke’s face. There was a long silence. Gradually Locke’s attention returned from Chicago to New York and still the silence continued. The man was aware of Joe’s body standing in front of him and his face showed plainly the agitation he felt.

Joe fixed his face into a smile and looked at Locke. Locke looked up and met Joe’s eyes and gave a small laugh. Joe nodded. Then he said, “What d’you want, Towny?”

Locke raised his black eyebrows and said, “What?”

Joe made a loose shallow cup of his hand and let it fall near his crotch. “What you got me up here for?”

“Oh!” Locke cried out, pressing his hand against his heart. His face showed genuine pain. “It’s so difficult. So difficult. Impossible. You young people, you don’t know what you do. You, you have this, this agonizing beauty. I know you’re a splendid, truly lovely person, Joe. I knew that at once. I told you so in the street. And now you make this, this obscene gesture, and the combination, the innocence, the obscenity—there’s something so agonizing in it, so beautiful. I’m not sure I can bear it.

“I should never have asked you up. I wanted so to be decent this trip, I was going to try so hard not to disgust myself. I suppose I hoped that we could have some communion in conversation, that I, as an older person, might convey to you some of my impressions of the world. What I mean is that I hoped we could find some higher level of exchange, isn’t that ridiculous?” He took a long swallow of gin, and when he was used to having it in him, he spoke again, his voice dark and vehement: “I loathe life, I loathe every moment of it.” He started to erase these words with a laugh, but gave it up at once. “Please go now, please. Don’t make it more difficult for me. Just go, while I’ve got this scrap of strength left, the strength to ask you to.”

“You mean, go?” Joe said. “You want me to leave?”

“Please understand, I just want, I don’t want, well yes, yes I do. I want, I want you to, please, I want you to leave!”

Locke reached out and took Joe’s hand, squeezing it between his own. “Please help me be good,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to be like I was in July.”

Joe nodded. His own disappointment was great, but still he understood the man’s plea. He started to walk away, but Locke held onto his hand. “Joe, listen, will you come back tomorrow and see me? Will you promise?”

“W-what’s going on tomorrow,” Joe said, “that ain’t going on tonight?”

“I won’t be the same tomorrow. I’ll be different. I won’t be so nervous. I can’t tell you how awful I feel suddenly, like the bomb is going to fall. Which I want, you understand, I want it to fall, want it terribly! I’m just nervous about when!” He tried to laugh again and gave it up. “Look, sheer panic! Feel, feel my heart!” He placed Joe’s hand inside his jacket. “A combination of things, I suppose, that awful traffic noise out there, room service sending up that inedible slush when I wanted everything so nice, then this disastrous telephone call from Estelle. But please say you’ll come back tomorrow!”

Joe removed his hand and walked toward the door. “I’m going to Florida,” he said. “I got to go to Florida.”

“Oh, this is terrible!” Locke rose and followed Joe to the door. “I meet someone who understands me as no one
ever
has, and off they go to—Listen! Wait! I want to make you a present! For your trip! You’ll let me, won’t you?” He hurried into the bedroom.

Joe was astonished at this unexpected turn of events. He relaxed at once into a keen state of pleasure and anticipation, wondering how large a present was about to be made by the man whose tower overlooked the lake and who hired musicians for his mother’s birthday.

He could hear the sound of a drawer opening and closing in the next room.

Locke returned. He was smiling. He walked toward Joe with one fist outstretched.

“I’d count it an honor if you’d take this.”

Joe tried to find some words for his gratitude even before he saw the gift itself.

Locke’s fingers uncurled near Joe’s face, revealing a St. Christopher medal. “Please take it.” Joe looked at it.

“Go ahead! You don’t have to be Catholic or anything. He’s the patron of
all
travelers.” Joe shook his head.

“But I
want
you to have it,” Locke said. “For helping me be good.”

Joe allowed the medal to be placed in his pocket. And he went on shaking his head even after the man from Chicago asked him what was the matter.

The evening had taken a heavy toll of his spirits. He wondered as he climbed the stairs to the X-flat whether or not he’d have enough energy left to think up a story for Ratso.

“Ratso,” he said softly, looking at the winter moon from the window of the third-floor landing. “No. Rico. I’ll call him Rico. Rico,” he continued, “I’m afraid this thing didn’t work out none too good. I kind of pissed away the night on a bum lead. But I got a thing or two lined up for tomorrow, and I’d say we was going to be on that bus in two days at the latest. How’s ‘at sound to you?” He shook his head: It didn’t sound good at all. Perhaps it would be better to say he’d raised part of the money, and the balance could be managed tomorrow. Well, Ratso, he would say, another twenty and we’ll be on that bus.

He walked in with the intention of telling this lie, and found Ratso lying there awake looking up at the ceiling. Joe expected him to sit up and begin to question him about the evening’s proceeds, but Ratso made no motion at all and said nothing.

Joe walked over and looked down at him. For some reason—maybe he knew the truth—Ratso did not meet his eyes. He continued looking at something on the ceiling, and he said, “I had shitty dreams.” His voice was small and soft. All the gravelly harshness had gone from it.