“They ain’t even got a fucking spittoon,” he said.
The secretary looked at him across the room.
“Where was you?” he said to Avery.
“In a camp.”
“I was at Angola.” He looked at Avery as though expecting an answer. “I was there twice.”
“Fine place, Angola.”
“Better than one of them fucking camps.” He blew his nose on the handkerchief and put it in his pocket.
“What was you up for?”
“Transporting whiskey.”
“Ain’t they a trash can over there?”
“No.”
“Ain’t even got a place to spit. The bastards,” he said.
Avery went in to see the parole officer, a sallow middle-aged state appointee in an outmoded business suit with big lapels and an off-colored bow tie. His coat hung damply from his shoulders. His eyes were yellow-green and his face was slick with perspiration. He had Avery’s file open on the desk before him. He unclipped a sheet of paper from the rest and read over it.
“You’ll have to get your employer to send us another letter,” he said.
“I already had him send one.”
“Yes. I have it right here, but it’s not notarized. It has to be notarized by a state notary.”
“It says I’m working steady. That’s what you wanted to know, wasn’t it?”
“It’s not a legal document without an official seal. Anyone could have written this letter.”
“Where can I get it notarized?” Avery asked.
“He has to sign it in front of a notary.”
“He might not want to write another letter.”
“We can’t accept this one.”
“Could you phone out to the main office? They’ll tell you that I’m working.”
“We have to have an employer’s letter for the file.”
“All right. I’ll ask him again.”
The official crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it in the wastebasket. He thumbed through the rest of the file and his yellow-green eyes went over each page.
“Are you still living in the same place?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Have you been going to any bars or keeping late hours?”
“No.”
“Are you associating with anyone who has a criminal record?”
“I told you these things the last time I was here.”
The official repeated his question without looking up from the file.
“I don’t know anyone with a criminal record,” Avery said.
“That’s all. Get your employer to write a notarized statement this week or you’ll be listed as unemployed.”
“What will that mean?”
“Your case will go before the board for review. You can’t stay out on parole without an honest means of support.”
Avery left the building and walked down the street to the drugstore on the corner. He could feel his temples pounding with anger. He looked up the number of his crew foreman in the telephone book. He didn’t know the foreman well and he didn’t want to ask a second favor of him. Also, the foreman had been hesitant in writing the first letter, because he hadn’t known that Avery was an ex-convict when he hired him on the job. Avery phoned him at his home. The foreman sounded irritated and he didn’t understand why another letter had to be written. At first he said he didn’t have time to see a notary, but he finally agreed and said that he would post the letter that week.
After he left the drugstore, he caught a streetcar to the Vieux Carré and walked along the streets in the summer evening to Suzanne’s apartment. Denise told him that she was out shopping in the stores and she wouldn’t be back for another hour. He went down to the sports parlor on the corner and bought a newspaper and read the ball scores. He sat in one of the chairs along the wall by the pool tables. Three men were playing a game of Kelly pool. He bought a beer at the bar and watched the game. There was a table free and he played a game of rotation by himself. He shot a second game with a merchant sailor from Portugal. The sailor spoke bad English and he used much obscenity when he talked, but he was good with a cue and he paid for the game even though he had won. Avery folded his newspaper and drank another beer at the bar and went back to the apartment. The cool dank smell of the sports parlor with its odor of draught beer and cue chalk had taken away the parole office, and he felt good walking down Rampart with the sun low over the buildings and the Negro children roller-skating on the sidewalk and the old women on the balconies calling to one another in French.
He saw Suzanne going up the steps to her apartment as he entered the courtyard. She had several boxes in her arms. She wore high heels and a dark suit and a small white hat with a white veil.
“Hello,” she cried. “Come up and see what I bought.”
He followed her up the steps and into the living room. She left the doors open to the balcony. She looked out of breath. She threw the boxes on the couch and tore them open and pulled out the new dresses amid the rustling of the tissue paper.
“Do you like them?” she said. “God, what bedlam. I’ll never go shopping at five again. I’m sorry I’m late. Where have you been?”
“The parole board and the pool hall.”
“Oh? Did anything happen?”
“No.”
“Did you have to talk with that same little man you told me about?”
“He’s been assigned to me as my counselor on readjustment.”
“Poor darling. You must be tired. Do you want a drink?”
“Do you have a beer?”
She went into the kitchen and got one out of the icebox and opened it. The foam came over the lip of the bottle.
“Did you meet any literary people at the pool hall?” she said.
“A Portuguese sailor.”
“Has he written anything?”
“Only on bathroom walls.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to a pool hall. What’s it like?” she said.
“Most of the upper-class people from the Quarter are there.”
“They’re lovely company.”
“Is Denise in?” he said.
“I don’t know. Denise!”
She looked in the bedroom.
“She must have gone out with that Tulane boy.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“That’s a subtle way of putting it,” she said.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“I’ve wanted you all day, too. It must be true that once you get in the habit of it you can’t do without it.”
“Do you feel that way?” he said.
“I don’t think I could go a week without you.”
“We won’t ever have to go without each other.”
“We’ll always be together and nothing else will matter,” she said.
He drank down the foam in the bottom of the bottle.
“Do you want another one?” she asked. “Let’s go to bed. We’ll go out and drink beer afterwards.”
“I know a German place we can go to. They have beer in those big mugs with the copper lids.”
They went into her bedroom and she slid the bolt on the door. She drew the French curtains on the big window overlooking the courtyard. He watched her undress.
“We have such good times, don’t we?” she said.
“We always will.”
“We won’t get tired of each other like married people do, will we?”
“No.”
“We’ll have each day like this. Always and always and always,” she said.
“Are you very happy?”
“You make me happy in a nice way.”
“You’re getting to be a bad girl.”
They lay on the bed. She put herself close and tongue-kissed him.
“How do you like me best?” she said.
“We’ll take turns. Am I too heavy for you?”
“Ummmm. This is fine.”
“Could we get an apartment together?
”
“I’ve thought about it, but it would get back to Daddy and I don’t want to hurt him.”
“It’s hard with Denise around.”
“She said she might find another place. Poor thing, I guess we’ve almost driven her out. But wouldn’t it be nice? I’d have the apartment to myself, and you could come over and we could do it anytime we wanted. Again and again and again with no one to bother us.”
“When is she leaving?”
“She isn’t sure yet.”
“Could we let her find us in bed?” he said. “That should hurry things up.”
“Stop being mean.”
“She’s nice, but it will be better when she’s gone.”
“You can come here after work, and we’ll undress and lie in bed and you won’t have to go home. Won’t it be wonderful?”
“Yes, it will.”
The last rays of the summer evening fell through the crack in the French curtains and the room became dark.
J.P. WINFIELD
Virdo Hunnicut was furious. His tie was pulled loose from his shirt collar, and he paced up and down the room talking loudly and jabbing his finger at J.P. to emphasize a point.
J.P. sat in the chair with only his trousers and undershirt on. His bare feet looked yellow on the rug. The razor nicks on his face were thinly flecked with blood, and his eyes were sunken. His hair was uncombed and it hung down over his forehead and ears. There was a throbbing pain in the back of his head; when he moved he felt something shoot through his neck and shoulders hot like ice. He heard Hunnicut speaking from afar. He tried to remember what had happened last night. He remembered going on the stage, and then somebody had booed and the curtain had been drawn and Seth was trying to pull him into the stage wing by his coat sleeve. Or was it April? It was like that bitch to do something like that. What was Hunnicut saying now? He didn’t give a goddamn, really. He wished Hunnicut would take a bath before he came into the room. He’d have to leave the window open all morning to get the stink out.
“—you’ll be finished, out on your ass in the street. I fired that goddamn stage manager for even letting you go on—”
Why didn’t he shut up, the fat unwashed bastard?
“Do you hear me? Open your eyes and look at me. We’re going to make an announcement over the air that you were sick last night. You had pneumonia but you wanted to go on anyway because you love the hicks so much. I’m going to wait a month and put you on the show again, but if you make another hophead performance like that you’re canned for good. Are you listening?”
Go fuck yourself.
“I don’t know how I picked you up to begin with,” Virdo Hunnicut said.
“Stop your goddamn shouting. I had my fill of it this morning,” J.P. said.
“I put you on top and you blow it.”
“I made a bundle for you.”
“You wasn’t nothing but a poor white trash farmer when you went on my show.”
“Listen, I ain’t—get the hell out of here. You’re stinking up the room.”
“What? What did you say?”
“You’re stinking up the room.”
Hunnicut’s face reddened. The sweat rolled off his neck onto his shirt. Everything about him was sweaty. His slacks stuck to his legs, and even his tie was damp. His face was strained with anger.
“You’re finished,” he said. “You take yourself and your cocaine and your slut wife with her douche bag and get out of town because I’m through with you. I’ve had enough. You ain’t worth the spit on a sidewalk. I don’t know how I put up with you this long. Go up to Little Rock and Nashville and see if they’ll give you a job when they find out you’re a junkie. I’m glad to get shut of you.”
Hunnicut walked out of the room, leaving an odor of sweat in the air behind him.
J.P. sat in the chair and felt the throbbing pain in his head increase. He couldn’t see clearly to the opposite side of the room. He wanted to get up from the chair and walk to the bed to lie down, but when he moved the pain dropped down in his neck and shoulders and he remained still. He wondered if he had said too much to Hunnicut. Pack your cocaine and your douche bag wife and get out of town. The stinking bastard. Don’t want junkies in Nashville and Little Rock to sell glow-in-the-dark tablecloths painted with the Last Supper. What about big-print Bibles miracle water actual photographs of Jesus books on faith healing flower seed egg formula vitamin tonic cut-out pictures of your favorite country singers? Snowbirds ain’t wanted. The pain in my head swells and lessens and swells again. My fingers twitch and the cigarette in my hand burns down to my knuckles. Got high Wednesday or Thursday night. Can’t remember after. My watch. Where the hell is my watch? Bitch of a wife probably sold it for a shot. If she ain’t spreading her legs for Doc Elgin. Back home we’d go after him with a gelding knife. Hopping a man’s wife for drugs. Couldn’t get in a whorehouse with a fist full of green. Eyes aching, feel full of sand like I looked at a welder’s torch too long. I need a drink or powder to get flat again and lie in bed with a soft-belly woman on top of me. That blond-headed whore up home with the rain falling outside. Tried to get her hot. You can’t get a whore hot. You hear stories about a fellow getting one hot and she keeps asking for more and then he gets it free whenever he wants. They ain’t got no interest in it. Even though they give you better loving than them tight-leg bitches that think they’re giving you something if they let you have a couple of inches. Take some snow now and a little whiskey and then go over to Jerry’s and get fixed up for the afternoon. Wonder if Hunnicut meant it. Who gives a goddamn? The unwashed bastard.
April comes into the room and stops behind my chair. We look at each other’s reflection in the dresser mirror. She is beginning to swell with child. Her dress is too tight. She don’t want to wear one of them maternity things. Don’t want to believe the baby is there. She told me she’d like to have a miscarriage. When she gets high she pretends she ain’t knocked up. I see the lines around her eyes and neck. Said she was twenty-seven. Must be older by ten years. Older than me. Hard to tell. She’s been jazzing since she was fifteen. First time in a woodshed with her uncle. She ain’t going to look good pregnant. Probably get fat and swole up like a sow. Wonder if she’s laying anybody besides Elgin. She always smells like she’s rutting when she takes off her pants. She ain’t going to get no more laying with a swole belly. A man don’t like to climb over a baby to get to it. She’s got a look in her eyes. She’s on it. She walks past my chair and out of the mirror and sits on the side of the bed and takes off her shoes. Her eyes stare at me flat. Sunday morning. She was over at Elgin’s. Prayer meeting with a needle in the tangle of sheets.
Need to dress and catch air before she starts talking. One paper of snow wrapped up in a sock in the drawer. I got to walk across the room and get it and cut out. She pulls her skirt over her knees and lays down in bed. She ain’t got any pants on. Rutting. I walk to the dresser jesus my head throbbing like the marrow of my skull brittle and cracked dust breathed into my brain and the pain drops down my back and circles my chest. Untwist the sock and tear the paper open. Put the powder under the tongue and wait. I feel it sucked into the skin taste it in the throat. Bitch was wrong. Never had to mainline. Ain’t going to neither. It don’t hurt you under the tongue. Niggers do it all the time. Don’t bother them none. You’re okay if you don’t jab it in the arm. Troy was hypo. Snow ain’t no different than getting drunk. Remember when I got tight on moon once. I could smell it in my sweat the next day. It ain’t no worse than moon. It don’t drive you blind or insane. Feel it spreading through my head and chest. Put on my shoes and shirt and get a drink at the bar and go down to the depot. Honey-colored hair. A little overweight but it makes it better.
“What did Virdo say?” April said. Her voice was slow and far away.
“He says I’m through.”
Her eyes turned from the ceiling and looked at him and blinked.
“I’m through,” he repeated.
“What?”
&
nbsp; “He called me white trash.”
“He’s not going to fire you. He told me so.”
“Ask him again.”
“He’s just going to leave you off the show for a while.”
“I ain’t taking no more insults from him.”
“Don’t be foolish. I talked with him. He’s not going to fire you, and that’s all there is to it.”
She’s really hyped, he thought. She sat up on the bed with her skirt over her knees. Her eyes blinked at him again.
“We talked it over. He said he would give you another chance. Why did you tell me you were through?”
He buttoned his shirt and laced his shoes and didn’t answer her. The pain in his head and body had lessened. The fingers of his right hand twitched as he tied his shoe string.
“Why did you tell me those things?” April said.
He left the room without putting on his coat or tie. He rang for the elevator and waited. It didn’t come. He heard April open the door of the room.
“Where are you going?” she said. “Come back and explain to me why you said Virdo fired you.”
He walked down the stairs to the lobby. He had to pause at the second flight and rest. The twitching in his fingers spread to the muscles of his arm. He walked two more flights and stopped again. He leaned against the wall and breathed hard. He felt his heart twist from the strain. Didn’t have no sleep, he thought. I’ll sleep this afternoon and let the whore fix me up. Makes a man right. Cleans the fatigue out of him. I need another piece like that blond slut back home. Should have gone to see her again before I left. He went down the last flight to the lobby and entered the bar.
The bartender was chipping up a block of ice in the cooler. The pick splintered a few pieces of ice on the floor. The bottles behind the bar were covered with a white sheet. There was no one else in the room save a Negro who was wiping off the tables with a rag. J.P. asked the bartender for a straight whiskey.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s Sunday. We can’t serve drinks until after one o’clock.”
Half of Paradise Page 27
