Undertow

by Warren Adler

  “One day, Don.”

  “I’m gonna lead this country. I’m gonna resurrect this country. We’re sinking deeper into the mud every minute. We’re a country of dying cities, without roots or direction. We’ve become a greedy little nation, and we’re getting greedier, bloated, sated. That’s my destiny, Lou. This country is on its knees, waiting for a leader. I’ll lead the motley crew, all the bastards of the world, all the fucking left-outs.”

  I had never seen Don like this. His thoughts were embarrassing. He frightened me. I tried to credit it to the booze, but despite the slurring of the words, he seemed remarkably clearheaded.

  “I’m just caught in the entrails of my own fantasy, Lou. And, unlike a hell of a lot of people, I know it. I want them to know that Donald Benjamin James lived here. Goddammit, I want them to know.”

  “That’s a teenage American dream right out of the thirties,” I said. “And I lost it just about the time World War II came along.”

  “I know you did, Lou. But I never lost it. By God, it’s still inside me, and it grows every year. My whole life is geared to that idea. Why the hell not? Besides, I know this game. I know it and I’m going to prove to the world I know it. I’m going to show the bastards that I can rise above this. Let them think what they want. I am going to make them believe my story. How about that—make them believe me. Davis is right on the ball. Between you and Jack and me, we’re gonna make them believe our story. Let them try to tear my heart out. I’ve got things up my sleeve they never dreamed about. Let them uncover every little floozie I’ve banged over the last twenty years and I’m gonna make them love me for it.”

  “I hope you do, Don.”

  “I know that, old Lou. Good old Lou. You and me, Lou. Someday we’re going to run the whole fucking world, the whole fucking world.”

  “Sure, Don.”

  “We’re gonna make the world remember us a thousand, two thousand years from now. Donald James and his old buddy, Lou Castle.”

  “What will they remember us for, Don?”

  “I’ve thought about that, Lou. I’ve thought hard about that.”

  He pointed a finger at me and looked deep into my eyes. His were redder now, squinty with booze and exhilaration.

  “We’re gonna give this fucking country back its hope. We’re gonna hypnotize them into getting back their hope. What are any of us without a dream? You gotta have a dream. I got a dream. You think I could have lived through the last twenty-four hours without a dream? And when they pack you into this life with such a short timeframe, if you don’t have a dream, what the hell have you got?”

  “There’s lots of us walking around with nothing but dead dreams.”

  “That’s the point. They’re dead. You can’t live without dreams, live ones. And nothing, nothing they can throw at me is going to stand in the way of keeping my dream alive.”

  As he talked, the bits and pieces of past conversations came back to me, the boyhood confidences, late-night talk across our college room. It was amazing how consistent Don’s outlook was, even now, after all he had been through, in this crummy Baltimore bar, even now with the liquor talking, it was still there—the pugnaciousness and audacity. Only death itself could have cut it down. Marlena died and that was terrible. But that was yesterday. Tomorrow was the only thing that counted.

  “I’d like to see the look on Mr. Plankwhite’s face—,” Don said, suddenly, a random thread plucked from an old suit.

  “Who the hell is Plankwhite?”

  “I fucked him good with my signals to pop. He always lost his ass.”

  Don laughed hysterically and banged on the table. Then, in a sudden deflection of interest, he stood up and walked to where the two fat prostitutes were sitting.

  “My ladies.” He bowed cavalierly. “Wouldst thou join my friend and me for some pleasant conversation.”

  The woman twittered. He threw twenty bucks on the table. The women looked at each other, and then at him.

  “You a dick?” one of them asked. She had big spaces of lost teeth in her mouth, which was ringed with a thick, sloppy smudge of lipstick.

  “A dick, a prick, a hard-on, an erect phallus. I am he.”

  The women giggled, got up, and joined us at our table. They were really raunchy looking, heavily rouged, beneath which you could see the stark white pallor of age and abuse. Both of them had dyed their hair a fading, nondescript red.

  “I’m Molly,” the one with the smudged lipstick said. “They call her Big Red.” Big Red laughed, her three chins shaking like jelly.

  “Have you a red pussy, Big Red?” Don asked, winking at Molly.

  “Red and juicy,” Big Red said.

  Both women seemed to have soaked themselves in cheap perfume. It was stifling just to be near them. Their breath wheezed and sputtered.

  “How do you like my lady friends, Lou?”

  “Beautiful.”

  There was no dragging him away now. He began to fawn over the one with the smudged lips. He squeezed her tits.

  “Hey, watch the merchandise,” she laughed.

  “How much is a peek worth?”

  The women looked at each other.

  “Two bucks?” She said it hesitantly.

  “Just for a peek?”

  “Okay, a buck,” she said.

  Don put down the buck. The woman with the smudged lips looked around her. The bartender gave her a tough look.

  “Look, let’s get out of here. Big Red has a place two blocks away.”

  “Are you afraid of the fucking bartender? I paid for a peek.” The woman was confused.

  “Look, I’ll play with your cock under the table, but I can’t do that; he’ll kill me.”

  “I want a peek.”

  “Come on outside. I’ll give you a peek outside.”

  “I want it here.”

  “Jeez, man. He’ll kill me.”

  “Come on Don,” I said. “Let’s get out of here. This is crazy.”

  “I want my peek.”

  “Okay. Okay. Take it easy,” the woman with the smudge said. She waited until the bartender was at the other end of the bar. She began to unbutton the top of her dress, revealing a huge mass of veined flesh. She literally lifted one huge breast out of its brassiere cup.

  “You like?” she said.

  “Now I want to suck it.”

  “He’ll kill me,” the woman whispered. “Please come on outside. I’m terrific. You can put it in my ass.”

  “Whoopee.”

  “I’m good. I’m really good. And Big Red’s great. Aren’t you, honey? Tell ’em how great you are, Big Red.”

  “I’ll take you around the world. That’s three bucks more. But I’m good.”

  “And if you tip her, she’ll take you to heaven,” the one with the smudge said.

  “Will you drink my piss?” Don said.

  “That’ll cost you twenty bucks,” Big Red said without hesitation.

  I couldn’t take it any longer.

  “Don, let’s get out of here.”

  “I don’t want to leave these pretty ladies.”

  “Here’s Big Red’s address. Come on and meet us. He’ll get sore, and then we can’t hustle here any more. Come on, honey.”

  Don winked.

  “Do you take American Express?” he asked, then enjoying the joke, fell back and rolled off his chair.

  “Cut that shit out,” the bartender said.

  Don got up and sat down again.

  “Come on, Don. Let’s meet them outside. Let’s all go to Big Red’s house.”

  The thought of copulating with that mass of flesh literally made me nauseous. But I had to get him out of here somehow.

  Don smacked his hand down on the table.

  “Just great girls.”

  “The address is 203. Two blocks to the right. We’ll be waiting.”

  Don leaned over the table and gave Big Red a wet noisy kiss on her cheek.

  “You just keep that big, juicy, red pussy waiting for us.
”

  The two fat prostitutes got up and flounced out of the bar.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “Human garbage,” he said, gulping down his drink.

  Suddenly, Don stood up and threw his glass on the floor. It smashed to bits, and the noise it made turned all eyes in our direction. The bartender looked at us menacingly.

  “Another double,” Don said, stepping up to the bar.

  “I ain’t servin’ you anymore,” the bartender said.

  “The hell you ain’t,” Don said belligerently. I grabbed his sleeve.

  “Come on, Don. Cool it.” He shrugged me away.

  “What’s with this guy?” the bartender asked, looking at his two cronies. The others, after a passing glance, turned back to their conversations. Barroom brawling was as commonplace here as the bad booze.

  “Hey—,” the big man who had spoken before said. “You hoid. No more. Get the fuck out of here.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Don,” I pleaded.

  “I want a double Scotch,” Don said, with drunken deliberation.

  “Where did you guys come from?” the bartender said. “You look like a couple of fags. These guys will break you up and throw you in the bay. When I say no more around here, I mean no more.”

  “Listen, you fat turd,” Don shouted. “Pour me another drink.”

  “He’s really pushin’ me,” the bartender said to his buddies.

  “Throw him out,” someone shouted at the other end of the bar, squealing with laughter.

  “You know, I’m gonna get to the other side of this bar in one minute and hand you your teeth, you fuckin’ fag.”

  Things were getting mean. I stood beside Don at the bar. Strangely, he seemed to be sobering, egging them on, calculating his moves.

  “You’re a fat turd.”

  This finally set the bartender off. He walked the full length of the bar, ducked under the opening and made his way to a spot directly in front of Don. I tried again to pull him away.

  “Leave me, Lou,” Don said.

  The bartender seemed smaller now that he had come from what had been a raised platform behind the bar.

  “Now, what were you saying?”

  “I said—” Don, with his sure sense of public reaction, looked around him. Apparently, he was winning respect among the customers. “I said that you’re a big, fat, ugly turd.” The bartender lunged; Don sidestepped, stuck his foot out, and tripped the bartender, who fell crashing against the tables, overturning two of them, and scattering empty bottles and glasses.

  “I’ll take him, Charlie,” the big man said as he confidently planted himself in front of Don. He stood there, two heads taller, crusty, mean, unshaven, relishing the scent of blood.

  “Don, for crying out loud,” I shouted. I was on the verge of panic.

  The big man was truly big, with that raw ugliness that afflicts a man to whom authority always means brute strength. He was totally confident of his physical power, which was accentuated, perhaps, by his bigness, his bovine face, his huge belly protruding over his belt. He looked as if he could crush Don’s head between his two hamlike hands. Don stood his ground, spoiling for some action, bursting to use up energy. The bartender’s friend was at least a head taller than Don, who stood coolly, unintimidated, cocky, his lips curled in a cool smile, cheeks flushed from the booze and excitement. All the faces in the bar—the lost empty faces of the sub-underground of womanless men—turned toward us.

  “Now, what was you sayin’?” the big man said to Don.

  “I called him a fat turd,” Don said without hesitation, jerking his thumb back to where the bartender stood nursing a sore knee. “And you’re a dumb shithead.”

  From where I stood it looked like a death wish on Don’s part. Even then I knew that it was some kind of test Don had set for himself, a need to measure his life against fate. Hell, I’m no psychiatrist.

  The big man lifted his right fist and started to bring it down on Don’s head in a hammerlike motion. It never reached its mark. Don stepped back and with the point of his foot, motored by a full punting kick, administered a shot in the groin that was awesome in its power. The big man’s face contorted in pain as he sank to his knees on the filthy floor, strewn with spittle and cigarette butts and broken glass. It was not enough. Don took the man’s head in his hands and brought his knee full strength up against the man’s chin. Then, in an act of violence that challenged my knowledge of him, Don hit the helpless hulk on one side of his face with every bit of strength and frustration and anger that his body could muster. It was as if all the hurt of the past days, of past years, had found its way into Don’s fist. It was an awesome bone-crushing blow that left the man dazed and pouring blood from nose and mouth as he whimpered on the floor in pain. The scene seemed like a stopped moment in time: the patrons at the bar were stunned and silent; the bartender, open-mouthed in disbelief, was frozen with a hand on his kneecap; there was a total absence of sound. Even the smoke refused to move. Don looked at the man on the floor, turned, and walked slowly out of the bar. I followed.

  We ran. I could hear only the sounds of our shoes against the pavement, reverberating through the narrow empty streets. I can’t tell you how long we ran. Perhaps it was only a few minutes. My chest began to burn as Don’s lead extended itself. Finally, I stopped and leaned against a deserted storefront. Don came back and stood by me as I gasped for air. I could barely make out his features in the darkness, but I sensed that he was calm and sober—spent, but content. When I recovered, we walked slowly along the streets, found a cab, and in silence rode back toward Washington.

  “Lord, I feel good,” Don said.

  XXVI

  Karen explored herself in the mirror. Years of careful observation had etched a map of her face in her brain. She knew every fold, every wrinkle’s history, every skin shade, and, more important, she knew how to use her creams and liquids and pastes to ward off and hold back the handiwork of time.

  Now, sitting as she was in front of the half-walled mirror with its circle of vaudeville lights, creaming off the day’s makeup, she could see the ravages of the lost battle. She ticked off the new sags around the jawline, the spreading crow’s-feet around the eyes, the beginnings of crenulation along the throat, the general pastiness of the skin tone. She was a mess, she concluded. Looking deeply into her own eyes, was even more confirmation. That old fresh-faced California girl was gone, fixed in history only in old photographs and her mind’s eye.

  From the moment the little princess phone beside her bed had tingled its sad news, she had responded as someone walking in a cloud bank. She had taken four Darvons already during the day and now she was preparing to take another one. A sleeping pill on top of it might be too dangerous, she thought.

  She was too strung out to think clearly. In general terms, she characterized herself as deeply hurt, but her feelings were so numbed by drugs that she couldn’t be sure about the extent of the psychic pain, except that she was numb, beyond feeling. Self-pity, nevertheless, dominated what little emotion she could muster. The familiar “Why me?” clanged a litany in her head.

  Perhaps at age twenty-five it would have been easier to accept, to shrug off like a bad cold, but with more than half the shooting match over, it was tough. Tougher than hell, because she had fantasized herself in the White House, had already begun to redecorate those gorgeously cavernous rooms, seen herself walking down the long curving staircase to the main entrance hall, gliding downward in a flowing, gossamer Paris gown.

  It was the kind of fantasy that little girls have when they play with dolls. She recalled that safe, warm world in her father’s house, the wonderfully green lawns stretching to the lake’s edge, the birds chirping endlessly in the morning. It was a great pastoral dream on a shelf in her memory, a lost, irretrievable world.

  Her father’s hand, soft in the center, a bare roughness along the inside of the joints from tennis, was always a dominant image in her life. That marvelous hand
that drew her on their long walks, along streets to infinity, to circuses and puppet shows, to toy stores and candy parlors and other places with sweet smells and happy colors.

  What would he have said now? She knew! Betrayal is betrayal is betrayal. “Did I know?” she asked herself, asked her image in the mirror. Suspicion doesn’t mean confirmation. Yes, she had been suspicious. Nights and weekends away from home. Surely, he could control himself when away. She acquiesced. The cause was everything. A political wife expects absences, like a navy wife. Perhaps even accepts an occasional clandestine sexual encounter. After all, men were different than women. Her sense of the erotic was not as highly charged as his. Dirty things just never turned her on. And she just couldn’t bring herself to suck that thing, although many of her friends admitted that they did—some even said they liked it. It was disgusting. Maybe that’s why he would step out on her, to get someone, some slut like that black bitch, to suck his thing. She shuddered. What was the world to think of her? Poor Karen, they would surely say secretly. Poor two-timed Karen. It was mortifying.

  I had to be a wife, mother, friend, political ally, she thought. All those endless banquets, handshakes, smiles, speeches, trips. She had memorized three whole speeches and had gotten real good at making them. Smile here, Karen. Tell that little joke here, Karen. Raise both hands here, Karen. In her sewing room, she kept thick scrapbooks of his career, their career; and sometimes going through them, looking backward, it was totally unreal, as if everything that had happened was to other people.

  They liked being celebrities. She liked it, loved it, revelled in it, wallowed in it. “My greatest political asset,” Don would tell everybody. And she was. Karen Whitford, the all-American girl. You’re everybody’s dream wife.

  Then she knew with certainty what her father would have advised. Leave him! In his life there was little truck with compromise. Word—“the word” was everything. Honor was the great, numero uno virtue. You died for honor. You ransomed your soul for honor. People said he was a right-winger, an ultraconservative. But he believed in individual responsibility, a lost virtue in today’s world. Don’s politics inflamed him.