Sweet Thursday (17 page)

Not everyone believes that Friday is unlucky, but nearly everybody agrees it is a waiting day. In business, the week is really over. In school, Friday is the half-open gate to freedom. Friday is neither a holiday nor a workday, but a time of wondering what Saturday will bring. Trade and amusement fall off. Women look through their closets to see what they have to wear. Supper is leftovers from the week.

Joe Elegant ordered sand dabs for supper at the Bear Flag. The Espaldas Mojadas returned from their latest triumph and were ushered with great courtesy to the rooms over the grocery. The Patrón distributed bottles of tequila. Also, he kept a saucer of Seconal at hand. Sometimes a passion of homesickness got into his wetbacks. Sleep, he thought, was better than fighting.

Doc slept late, and when he went to the grocery for his morning beer he found Joseph and Mary alert and gay, and the sound of singing drifted down the stairs.

“Have a good time?” the Patrón asked.

“What do you mean?” Doc demanded.

“Didn't you have a nice party last night?”

“Oh sure,” said Doc. He said it with finality.

“Doc, I'd like you to teach me more of that chess.”

“You still think you can cheat at it, do you?”

“No, I just like to figure it out. I got a case of Bohemia beer from Mexico, all cold.”

“Wonderful!” said Doc. “That's the best beer in the Western Hemi sphere.”

“It's a present,” said the Patrón.

“Why?”

“I don't know. Maybe I just feel good.”

“Thanks,” said Doc. He began to feel uneasy.

There were eyes on him. Going back to Western Biological, he felt eyes on him. It's the brandy, he thought. I shouldn't drink brandy. Makes me nervous.

He scrambled two eggs and shook curry powder over them. He consulted the tide chart in Thursday's
Monterey Herald.
There was a fair tide at 2:18
P.M.
, enough for chitons and brittlestars if the wind wasn't blowing inshore by then. The Bohemia beer settled his nerves without solving his restlessness. And for once the curried eggs didn't taste very good.

Fauna knocked and entered. She flicked her hand at the rattlesnakes. “How do you feel, Doc?”

“All right.”

“Get drunk?”

“A little.”

“How was the dinner?”

“Wonderful. You know what to order.”

“I ought to. Say, you want to box or should we lay it on the line? See what I mean about her?”

“Yes. How does she feel?”

“She ain't up yet.”

“I'm going collecting.”

“Want me to tell her that?”

“Why should you? Wait—I've got her purse. Want to take it to her?”

“Hell, she ain't crippled. Maybe she'll want to get it herself.”

“I won't be here.”

“You'll be back.”

“Say,” he said, “what the hell is this?”

She knew he might turn angry now. “I got a lot to do. You ain't mad at me?”

“Why should I be?”

“Well, if you need anything, let me know.”

“Fauna,” he began. “Oh, let it go.”

“What do you want?”

“I was going to ask you something—but I don't want to know.”

Suzy was hunched over a cup of coffee when Fauna got back.

“'Morning,” said Fauna. And then, “I said good morning.”

“Oh yeah,” said Suzy. “'Morning.”

“Look at me!”

“Why not?” Suzy raised her eyes.

“You can look down now,” said Fauna.

“You don't know nothing,” said Suzy.

“Okay, I don't know nothing. When did I ever get nosy with you? Joe,” she called, “bring me a cup of coffee!” She slid a tin box of aspirins across the oilcloth tablecover.

“Thanks.” Suzy took three and washed them down with coffee.

“He's going out collecting bugs,” said Fauna quietly.

“You went over there?”

“I met him in the street. Have a nice time?”

Suzy looked up at her with eyes so wide that she seemed to be turned inside out. “He didn't make no pass,” she said breathlessly. “Went out on the sand dunes and he didn't make no pass.”

Fauna smiled. “But he talked nice?”

“Didn't talk much, but he talked nice.”

“That's good.”

“Maybe I'm nuts, Fauna, but I told him.”

“Oh, you ain't nuts.”

“I told him everything. He didn't even ask.”

Fauna asked quietly, “What did he talk about?”

“He said there's a fella in old times made a wife out of flowers.”

“What for, for God's sake?”

“Well, I don't know. But it was all right when he said it.”

“What else did he say?”

Suzy spoke slowly. “Out in the sand dunes I done most of the talking. But he give me a boost every now and then when I run down.”

Fauna said, “He can do that better than anybody.”

Suzy's eyes were shining with excitement. “I almost forgot,” she said. “I never took no stock in stars and stuff like that, but you know what we had for dinner?”

“Champagne?”

“Fish and crab!” said Suzy. “And I didn't break out.”

“Well?”

“Remember what you said, how I'm fish and he's crab?”

Fauna turned her head away. “I got something up my nose,” she said. “I wonder if I'm catching cold.”

“Do you think that's a sign, Fauna? Do you?”

“Everything's signs,” said Fauna. “Everything.”

There was a glory in Suzy's eyes. “Right after we ate we was talking, and he said, ‘I'm lonely.'”

“Now that ain't like him,” Fauna said. “That's a dirty trick!”

“No, ma'am,” Suzy contradicted her. “He didn't say it like that. I heard that one before too. He said it like it was pushed out of him. It surprised him, like he didn't know he was going to say it. What do you think, Fauna? Tell me, what do you think?”

“I think there's going to be like a new gold star.”

“Well, s'pose—and there ain't no harm in supposing—s'pose I moved over there. It would be—well, it would be right across the street from here. Everybody knows I worked here. Wouldn't that kind of bother him?”

“He knows you work here, don't he? Suzy girl, you got to promise me something. Don't you never try to run away from nothing, because you can't. If you're all right nobody ain't going to tear you down. Guy that runs away, why, he's a fugitive. And a fugitive never gets away.”

“How about Doc?” said Suzy.

“Look, if you ain't good enough for him, he ain't good for you.”

“I don't want to lay no bear trap for him, Fauna.”

Fauna was smiling to herself. She said, “I guess a man is the only kind of varmint sets his own trap, baits it, and then steps in it. You just set still, Suzy girl. Don't do nothing. Nobody can't say you trapped him if you don't do nothing.”

“Well, he didn't really say—”

“They never do,” said Fauna.

Suzy said weakly, “I can't hardly breathe.”

“You know, you ain't cussed once this morning,” Fauna said.

“Ain't I?”

“Some of my gold stars was damn good hookers,” said Fauna. “But when I put up your gold star, Suzy, the whoring business ain't lost nothing. Like the Patrón says, you're too small in the butt and too big in the bust.”

“I don't want nobody to get the idea I'm hustling Doc.”

“You're damn right you ain't. I'll see to that.” She looked speculatively at Suzy. “You know, I'd like you to get out of town to night and kind of freshen up.”

“Where'll I go?”

“You could go on an errand for me to San Francisco if you wanted to. I got a little package up there in a safe-deposit box. I'll give you some dough. And I want you should buy some clothes and a hat. Get a nice suit. It'll last you for years. Look! Walk up and down Montgomery Street and see what the nice-looking dames is wearing—you know, the kind of material. They're pretty smart women up there. Before you buy, look around a little—make it nice. Come on back tomorrow.”

Suzy said, “You getting me out of the way?”

“Yeah,” said Fauna. “You got the idea.”

“Why?”

“Suzy girl, that ain't none of your business. There's a two o'clock bus and a four o'clock bus.”

“I'll take the four o'clock.”

“Why?”

“Well, you said Doc's going out collecting bugs. Maybe while he's gone I could kind of swamp out his joint. It ain't had a scrubbing for years.”

“That might make him mad.”

“I'll start him a nice stew cooking slow,” said Suzy. “I make a real nice stew.” She came around the table.

“Get your hands off me!” said Fauna. “Go on now! And don't you ever say that thing again that made a sucker out of me. My best fur!”

“You mean, ‘I love you'?”

“That's it. Don't you say it.”

“Okay,” said Suzy.

Doc got back from his collecting about four-thirty. He had over a hundred chitons bound with string to little glass plates to keep them from curling, and submerged in sea water in his collecting buckets were hundreds of brittlestars.

Now, killing is one of the delicate operations of a marine zoologist. You want the animal to resemble its living self, but this is impossible. In death the color changes, just as it does with us. Also, if any violent means of killing is used there is constriction, and in the case of brittlestars the death struggle causes the animal to shed its arms.

In the front room of Western Biological, Doc poured out part of the sea water from his wooden bucket. Then he moved the brittlestars to a large, flat-bottomed glass dish and poured some sea water on top of them. The little animals with the snakelike arms whipped about for a moment and then settled down. When they were quite still and resting Doc added a little fresh water to the dish. The arms stirred nervously. He waited a while and then added a little more fresh water. To a sea animal, fresh water is a poison, and if it is slowly introduced it is as subtle as morphine. It relaxes and soothes until the little creature goes to sleep and dies without violence.

Doc sat down to wait for the poison to act. He sensed that there was something wrong. What could it be? Had he forgotten something? He felt all right, the small hangover of the morning was gone. Of course! It was the case of Bohemia beer over at the Patrón's. His subconscious must have been reminding him of the beer. He looked out the window toward the grocery. And there was something wrong with that too. And finally he saw. His windows were clean. He turned and looked around the laboratory. The records were piled neatly on the shelves, not falling all over themselves. The floor was shining, and that smell—that was soap.

He moved to the kitchen. His dishes were clean, the pans scoured and shining. A delicious odor came from a pot on the gas stove. He lifted the lid. Brown meat juice bubbled up through carrots and onions, and a stick of white celery swam like a fish.

Doc went back to his table and sat down. His cot was made up and smooth and the turned-down sheet was clean. Suddenly a sense of desolation came over him—a great sadness that was like warmth. The toes of his lined-up shoes peeked out at him from under the bed.

The poor kid, he thought. Oh, the poor damn kid! I wonder if she's trying to repay—I hope I haven't done anything bad. My God, I hope she didn't misunderstand anything! What did I say? I know I didn't do anything, but what did I say? I wouldn't hurt Suzy for the world. He glanced around again. She sure does a job of cleaning, he thought. The stew smells wonderful too. He poured a little more fresh water into the glass dish. The arms of the brittlestars were arranging themselves in small spirals. They hardly moved when the fresh poison was introduced.

The clean laboratory made Doc nervous and apprehensive. And there was something missing from himself, something lost. The lowest voice of all was still. In his black depths he was somehow comforted. He went to the record shelf: not Bach…no, not Buxtehude…not Palestrina either. His hand strayed to an album not used in a long time. He had opened it before he knew what he was doing. And then he smiled and put the first record on the turntable: Mozart's
Don Giovanni
. It started its overture, and Doc, still smiling, went to the kitchen and stirred the stew. “Don Giovanni,” he said. “Is that what I think of myself? No! I do not. But why do I feel so good, and so bad?” He looked at his desk. The yellow pads were piled neatly and the pencils were sharpened. “I believe I'll try.” And at that point there were fumbling steps on his porch and Old Jingleballicks burst in.

It is madness to write about Old Jingleballicks, but since he came in at this point it is necessary. People coming out of a session with Old Jay felt slightly dizzy, and the wise ones, after a time, just didn't believe it. His name cannot be mentioned, for it occurs on too many bronze plaques that begin, “Donated by—.”

Old Jay was born so rich that he didn't know he was rich at all. He thought everybody was that way. He was a scientist, but whether brilliant or a screwball nobody ever knew, and since he had contributed to so many learned foundations and financed so many projects and served on so many boards of trustees, nobody dared openly to wonder. He gave millions away but he was likely to sponge on a friend. His scholastic honors were many, and there were people who thought privately and venomously that they were awarded in hope of a donation, that he was, in fact, like a football player whose grades have little relation to his scholarship.

He was a stubby man with a natural tonsure of yellow hair. His eyes were bright as a bird's eyes, and he was interested in everything. He was so close to reality that he had completely lost touch with realism. Sometimes he amused Doc, and at other times his endless and myopic enthusiasms could drive a man to despair. Old Jingleballicks shouted at everyone under the impression that this made for clarity.

“Did you get my wire?” he cried.

“No.”

“Came for your birthday. Always remember it. Same day they burned Giordano Bruno.”

“It's not my birthday,” said Doc.

“Well, what day is this?”

“Friday.”

“Oh! Well, I'll wait over.”

“It's in December. I only have one cot.”

“All right. I'll sleep on the floor.” He wandered to the kitchen, took the lid off the pot, and began eating the stew—blowing on it violently to cool it.

“That's not done,” said Doc, and he was irritated to find that he was shouting back.

“Done enough!” cried Old Jay and went on eating.

Doc said, “Hitzler came through. He said you were seen on a lawn in Berkeley, on your knees, pulling a worm out of the ground with your teeth.”

Old Jay swallowed a half-cooked carrot. “Not so!” he shouted. “Say, this stew's not done.”

“That's what I told you.”

“Oh! Well, you see I've watched robins getting worms. Little beggars dig in their heels, so to speak. I got to wondering how much actual pull was involved. Had a scale with a clamp in my teeth. Average night crawler resists to the extent of one pound six ounces. I tried forty-eight individuals. Think of it! A three-ounce bird pulls twenty-two ounces, over seven times his own weight. No wonder they eat so much. Just eating keeps them hungry. Like robins?”

“Not particularly,” said Doc. “Are you going to eat all my dinner?”

“I guess so,” said Old Jingleballicks. “But it's not done. You got anything to drink?”

“I'll get some beer,” said Doc.

“Fine! Get a lot.”

“Don't you want to contribute a little?”

“I'm short,” said Old Jay.

Doc said, “You are not. You're a freeloader.”

“Oh!” said Jingleballicks.

“I said, don't you want to contribute!”

“I'm a little short,” said Old Jay.

Doc said angrily, “You are not. You're a freeloader. You never pay. You ran the lab while I was in the Army and damn near bankrupted me. I don't say you stole most of the museum glass, I just say it's missing. Did you take those specimen jars?”

“Well, yes,” said Old Jingleballicks. And then he said thoughtfully, “I wish you were a charity or an institution.”

“What!”

“Then I could endow you,” said Old Jingleballicks.

“Well, I'm not an institution. So what do you do? You go to a lot of trouble to keep from paying a couple of dollars for beer.” And suddenly despair and humor crashed head-on in Doc and he burst into weary laughter. “Oh Lord,” he said, “you're just not possible! You're a ridiculous idea.”

“Your stew is burning,” said Old Jingleballicks.

Doc leaped to the stove and pulled the pot from the burner. “You ate all the juice,” he said bitterly. “Of course it burned!”

“It was very good,” said Old Jay.

In the grocery Doc said, “Give me a dozen cans of beer.”

“Don't you want the Bohemia?”

“Hell no!” Doc said. “I have a guest who—” And then an evil thought came to him. “A very interesting man,” Doc said. “Why don't you come over and have a drink with us? Old—I mean, my friend can explain chess to you better than I can.”

“Why not?” said the Patrón. “Maybe I better bring a little liquor.”

“Why not?” said Doc.

Crossing the street, the Patrón asked, “You going to the party tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“I like you, Doc, but I don't get you. You ain't real,” said the Patrón.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, everything you do is—well, you're like that chess. I don't get you at all.”

Doc said, “Do you suppose nobody's real to anybody else? You're going to meet a man who can't possibly exist.”

“Don't talk like that,” said the Patrón nervously.

Old Jay shouted as they went up the stairs, “I bring you tidings of great joy. The human species is going to disappear!”

“This is Joseph and Mary Rivas,” said Doc. “Joseph and Mary, this is Old Jingleballicks.”

“Why can't you rig a chess game?” the Patrón asked.

“Oh, you can, you can! Or at least you can rearrange your opponent. Comes to the same thing. Now, where was I? Oh yes—we are about to join the great reptiles in extinction.”

“Good!” said Doc.

“You mean there ain't gonna be no more people?” said the Patrón.

“Right, young man. We have played the final joke on ourselves. Open the beer! Man, in saving himself, has destroyed himself.”

“Who's destroyed?” the Patrón demanded.

“There must be chuckling on Olympus,” said Old Jingleballicks. “We go not to Armageddon but to the gas chamber, and we generate our own gas—”

Doc said, “I intended to work on my paper.”

“Good! I'll help,” said Old Jingleballicks.

“Oh God!
No!
” said Doc.

“Man has solved his problems,” Old Jay went on. “Predators he has removed from the earth; heat and cold he has turned aside; communicable disease he has practically eliminated. The old live on, the young do not die. The best wars can't even balance the birth rate. There was a time when a small army could cut a population in half in a year. Starvation, typhus, plague, tuberculosis, were trusty weapons. A scratch with a spear point meant infection and death. Do you know what the incidence of death from battle wounds is today? One percent. A hundred years ago it was eighty percent. The population grows and the productivity of the earth decreases. In a foreseeable future we shall be smothered by our own numbers. Only birth control could save us, and that is one thing mankind is never going to practice.”

“Brother!” said the Patrón. “What makes you so damn happy about it?”

“It is a cosmic joke. Preoccupation with survival has set the stage for extinction.”

“I didn't get one goddam word of that,” said Joseph and Mary.

Doc's hands were full. In his left he held a small glass of whisky and in his right a can of beer. He sipped from the one and gulped from the other. “Every instinct tells me to stay out of this,” he said, “and every impulse makes me want to get into it.”

“Good!” said Old Jay. “Is that whisky?”

“Old Tennis Shoes,” said Joseph and Mary. “Want some?”

“Perhaps a little later.”

“Okay.”

“It's a little later now,” said Old Jingleballicks.

“I guess you can hustle with anything,” said the Patrón. “I got a feeling I'm being took.”

“Well, the impulse wins,” said Doc. “You have forgotten one thing, Old Jingleballicks. Indeed, there have been species which became extinct through their own miscalculations, but they were species with a small range of variability. Now consider the lemming—”

“That is a very specialized case,” said Old Jingleballicks.

“How do you know we aren't? What do lemmings do when their population exceeds the food supply? Whole masses of them swim out to sea and drown, until a balance of food and population is reached.”

“I deny your right to use lemmings,” said Old Jingleballicks. “Hand me the bottle, will you?”

“Deny and be damned!” Doc said. “Is the lemming migration a disease? Is it a memory? Or is it a psychic manifestation forced on part of the group for the survival of the whole?”

Old Jay howled back at him, “I will not be robbed of extinction! This is a swindle.” He turned to the Patrón. “Don't listen to that man. He's a charlatan.”

“He sure in hell is,” said Joseph and Mary admiringly.

Doc leveled a finger between the eyes of Old Jay, holding his whisky glass like the butt of a pistol. “Disease, you say? Infection? Down almost to nonexistence? But tell me, are not neurotic disturbances on the increase? And are they curable or does the cure spread them? Now you wait! Don't you try to talk now. Do you suppose that the tendency toward homosexuality might not also have a mathematical progression? And could this not be the human solution?”