The Demon (10 page)

 
Sunday night he met another Olga and did not get to work until a few minutes after ten Monday. Mr. Wentworth just looked at him as he walked into the office. It was not necessary for him to say anything, and Harry shriveled inside himself as

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he said good morning. He plunged into his work and the job was done on time, but the damage was done. Thank God it was time to go to lunch.

 
He was existing in a drift of confusion as he walked to the cafeteria nearest the office. Self-analysis was becoming a habit and he felt fuzzy as he tried to understand just what was happening and how and why. He could almost feel when it started happening—it wasnt so very long ago, of that he was certain—hoping that if he could just isolate that point in time he would see the why of the events and be able to change everything. Or if not the why, then the how, and then be able to prevent these things from happening. Yet the more he tried to find that point, and the closer he felt he was coming to it, the more vague and confused everything seemed to become, and all he could do was shake his inner head and allow all the images to tumble.

 
And when he did, he was left with a question like how could he be coming into work late suddenly, and when he did, why was Wentworth there waiting to pounce? And why should he be having trouble with his work? He liked his job and his work and he was burning with ambition. Nothing made any sense.

 
His mind was still a jumble of words, thoughts and images, when he found himself, tray of food in hand, smiling at a broad and asking her if this seat was taken.

No, nodding and continuing to eat and read.

 
Harry settled in and after a few minutes excused himself and asked her how she was enjoying the book. I remember reading a review, but Ive never gotten around to reading the book, smiling at her.

I like it. Its really interesting. Its—a—different.

 
Yeah, thats what I read. I didnt know it was out in paperback.

 
O yeah, for over a year I think, looking at the front of the book for the date of the printing. Yeah, here it is. Almost exactly a year.

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What do you know? I wonder where Ive been, smiling and shaking his head, the confusion, fuzziness and conflict of feelings smoothing away as he continued to eat and talk.

 
After lunch he walked her back to her office, making certain, as he had done lately, not to make a date for the next day. He was only a few minutes late in getting back to the office and though he still fidgeted slightly, there was no turmoil inside and he went about his business at his newly acquired pace of indifferent slowness.

 
The next morning he was early for work, but still had to rush to finish a job on time, a job that he had had on his desk for over a month. That in itself would not have been a problem except that Mr. Wentworth called him about nine-thirty and asked him to do a rush job for him, and Harry had to explain that he had the other job to finish and he could hear the annoyance (disgust?) in Wentworths voice when he said he/d give the job to Davis.

 
Harry was almost muttering out loud as he went about his work. Something was all botched up, and he sure as hell couldnt figure it out. And what does Wentworth want from my life? Calls up at the last minute for a job, then gets bugged because Im working on something that has to be done this morning. I thought you finished that weeks ago. You did, eh? Well thats too damn bad. If you didnt keep yourself locked in your damn office all day, maybe youd know what in the hells going on out here.

 
So give the job to Davis. Who gives a damn? What am I supposed to do, cry because you give someone else a last-minute job? Up yours.

 
A quick trip to the water cooler and cold water hitting his lips, then back to the desk. He attacked the work and finished it rapidly and accurately then left for lunch, unaware that he was leaving twenty minutes early.

 
He walked rapidly for a few blocks, his inner voice mumbling and blithering, until he once again found himself standing with a tray of food and asking if the seat was empty.

Her boss was out of town for the week and she was in no

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hurry to return to work and so they spent a leisurely time talking over coffee, then walking around for a while before returning to their offices. Before leaving, Harry asked her if she ate there every day, and she told him she did. Then if Im lucky, I/ll see you tomorrow.

Could be, smiling.

 
As Harry walked back to the office he felt a slight twinge of apprehensive nausea, but quickly shoved aside the vague thoughts that were trying desperately to define themselves. It was nobodys business if he wanted to have lunch with some broad, and whats the big deal? It aint interfering with anything, and it sure as hell aint hurting anybody.

 
He got back to the office even later than usual, and could feel the eyes burning into his back, and the clock, as if they were trying to brand him with the time. He squeezed his pencil hard as he rustled papers, announcing the fact that he had just returned, his inner voice telling all and sundry to go to hell, and that goes double for you Wentworth.

 
The next day he managed to keep his anger alive, having nurtured it from time to time during the night, but could not seem to focus it or direct it—it just seemed to be there, jumbling around inside him trying to find a way out. He slowly ate his cheese danish and sipped his coffee until it was too cold to enjoy, but continued to sip it anyway, not starting work until both were finished.

 
When he finally did start working, he attacked his calculator and almost shoved his pencil through the pad a few times, then jammed the papers into the proper order. He worked as slowly as possible, trying not to finish the job until late in the afternoon, but there was so little left to do that he finished before lunch in spite of his efforts. When he finished the goddamn job, he tossed his pencil on the desk and left for lunch.

 
She was just getting on line when he got there. As they talked and moved slowly along the line, picking up plates of food, the turbulence within him subsided, and when they were finally settled at a table, he quickly became involved with

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her. The strain drained from his arms and back and he could feel himself relaxing as they talked about nothing in particular.

 
Halfway through lunch he could feel a knot forming in his gut, a small one, and it started tugging at the back of his throat, and he could feel a change flow through him inwardly and outwardly. He could feel his thigh muscles twitching and he could feel his eyes closing slightly as he looked at her, the tip of his tongue wetting his upper lip, and his hand reached over and brushed a few crumbs off her lap and then his open hand was on her thigh and he looked more intently into her eyes, unclothing her and himself, feeling somewhere within him another Harry looking at what was happening and wanting to want to stop. She returned his gaze and put her hand on top of his and smiled in answer to whatever he was saying.

 
When they left, they walked along the street for a while, Harry leaning out of the way of passers-by and brushing her tit with the upper part of his arm and smiling into her eyes, and feeling that tug in his gut as the other Harry tried to pull him away from the game, but it was completely out of control and Harry was more a witness to his actions than the creator of them; and they talked about movies and then skin flicks, and Harry could feel the knot tightening, and the tugging increasing, and was aware, too, of the passing of time and an intense feeling of the intoxication of danger, but first and foremost he felt a rapport with his lust as he looked at her. He led her to the side of a building, out of the stream of people, and stood almost touching her as he told her that he would like to fuck the ass off her, continuing to look at her, the naked thrust of his lust exciting her; then, taking her hand, he led her to the Hotel Splendide, all his various feelings welling into one turbulence of excitement.

 
When they left, Harry went to a nearby bar and sat in the corner trying to disentangle the mass and mess of feelings within him. He did not understand them. It was as if he was sorry for not getting back to work on time, as if he had done

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something wrong, but did not know what; having a vague desire to change something, but not knowing what. He finished his drink and thought about going back to the office, but the mere thought made him turn red and he could feel his skin flush and the sweat form under his eyes and at the base of his spine. He could not go back to the office a couple of hours late. He tried to force himself, but the ability to move had been taken from him. He was paralyzed. He ordered another drink, then decided to call and tell them he was sick and was going home. He called Louise and told her he had gotten violently ill after eating and was on his way home, that he had spent over an hour in the rest room and this was the first chance he had to call, and he could feel that other Harry watching him and could feel his head shaking and he finally mumbled a goodbye and hung up the phone.

 
He slowly sipped his drink and thought of getting drunk, but somehow the idea not only did not appeal to him, he did not know exactly how to go about it, never having been able to force down enough liquor to get drunk. When it started to make him woozy, he stopped.

 
As he sipped his third drink he tried to find something to rage about, something to isolate and attack, something that would prove to be the reason for the disturbing and unfamiliar feelings burning through him, but there was no coordination within him between desire and ability. Eventually he gave up trying and finished his drink and left.

 
The next day he left the house at the usual time, so his mother would not question him, then called in sick. He still could not accept the idea of explaining his absence the previous afternoon, and even in the quiet of his room he could not fabricate a story that he would be able to relate believably. By taking off today there would be no doubt that he really was sick, and they probably would not question him.

 
He went to Forty-second Street and sat through a couple of old westerns, then walked up to Bryant Park and sat on a bench, avoiding all eyes, even those of the pigeons. He felt strangely conspicuous and had the vague feeling that people

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were looking at him and wondering what he was doing there. He stayed there as long as he could, watching the pigeons peck away at food thrown them, vaguely hearing the music of the recorded concert and trying to get involved with the way in which the sunlight glanced off the leaves of trees and slanted through the branches, casting moving shadows . . . the flowers, shrubs, statues ... to no avail. No matter how hard he tried to stay on the bench and wish time by, he could not and had to get up and walk around the perimeter of the park, keeping his eyes on the path.

 
He continued walking until he reached the library and went inside hoping to get involved with something in there, but all he could do was wander aimlessly through rooms and tiers of books until he once more found himself in Bryant Park. He walked to Forty-second Street, then down to Times Square and another movie. He tried to sit through both films, but had to leave after seeing the second half of one and the first half of another. He rode the train back to Brooklyn and went to Caseys.

 
He walked to the end of the bar, where Tony and Al were sitting. Holy Krist, look whos here. It must be Sunday.

Yeah, or six oclock. Hi, whatta ya say?

Hi.

 
Holy shit Harry, whats the occasion, your boss die or something? both of them laughing as Harry pulled up a stool and sat.

 
Up yours Al—hey Pat, give me a beer. Youd better give them one too, they look like theyre waiting for a live one.

 
Thats the kind of talk I like to hear, quickly draining the glass and pushing it forward.

All shit aside though Harry, whats the occasion?

 
Nothing. Why? Cant a guy take a day off without everybody going apeshit?

 
Yeah, sure, laughing, but not you. You never take a day off and then come here.

 
Well, I am today. Im taking a day off and Im going to have a couple of beers.

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Yeah, how come?

I thought I/d do a survey.

Yeah, what kind of survey?

 
An investigation into the nature of being a bum, and I cant think of anyone better qualified to help me than you guys.

Hey, I resemble that remark, laughing, Pat joining them.

You think just because I dont go to an office every day—

                                         
Whata ya mean, aint this our office—