Somebody in Boots

by Nelson Algren

  When they reached the ferry a nickel apiece was required. Clay paid for both without hesitation, but was irritated to see Cass take no apparent notice—Cass walked straight ahead onto the boat as though he owned half the wharf.

  The truth was that Cass had really not seen, it had not even occurred to him that a fare might be required. And when they were half way across the river he turned to Clay and inquired, without even blushing from shame of ignorance, “Say, what ol’ river u this anyhow, fella?”

  Clay looked at him to see if he were joking; he himself knew every large river from coast to coast. He saw that Cass was in earnest, and he saw too that Cass looked as dull as an ox with its jaw hanging open.

  “The Hudson,” Clay said, and spat over the railing.

  Cass only said “Oh.” He did not doubt for a moment, and did not sense the other’s contempt.

  When the ferry docked Clay left him alone, walking off swiftly without a word. Cass was hurt, yet was not surprised. He merely thought to himself, “He just sees ah’m not like most others, that’s all. Reck’n ah’m a queer cuss one way or another.” It had happened often before, back in Great-Snake Mountain; so often there that he had grown up to expect others to go off from him, sooner or later. He did not understand this, he merely resigned himself to it.

  He felt dreadfully alone.

  He was not deeply concerned about eating or sleeping; yet he did wish to bathe, and he had no money. Seeing nothing which looked to him like a Sally, he asked the way of a fat fellow who stood about doing nothing. The fat one pointed silently straight down the street, and Cass went to a building bearing the sign: “Volunteer Prisoners’ Aid Society.” He could not read every word of this sign, and thought he was entering a Salvation Army home.. The man at the desk shook his head sadly—there was a fee here of twenty-five cents. If he didn’t have that he’d best go somewhere else. “Six blocks to the left and four down is a place. You’ll see the sign, bub.”

  “Six blocks to the left and four down” proved to be twelve to the left, and ten down. Cass walked from one side of the city to the other before he finally found the place, and then recognized it only by a line of men waiting in front.

  It was the Jesus-Saves mission.

  Here he was given a little pile of something made from shredded cabbage and carrots, and a cup of cold chicory-coffee. While eating, he learned that there was a shower in the basement. The coffee gave him the courage to ask the commandant’s permission to bathe. But a blank had to be filled out before this could be done—and when the commandant gave him a pencil and paper in the office Cass almost wished he had not asked at all. It had been so long since he had teamed to read and write that now it only came with an effort. But he labored manfully with the pencil, and succeeded in writing his name again, after a fashion. As the official led him to the head of the staircase that wound down into the basement, he warned that the shower was cold. Cass cared not a button. Not even the descent into the chill cellar could dishearten him.

  To get under the shower he had to wait some minutes for his turn. An old man stood under the feeble stream, scrubbing painful old joints. Cass waited in the doorway for him to finish. The light was so dim, the old man’s belly was so large, that its navel looked to Cass like a small incurved tunnelling into gray flesh such as he had seen small mole-things make in gray earth.

  There was one other in the tiny room—the louse-runner, a lank and pockmarked man of perhaps sixty years. Cass watched this delouser, and he began to feel ashamed that he would have to undress and be naked before such a man. The fellow had a shameless eye, and a searching manner. And Cass was ashamed to be naked before anyone, for he felt that others could read too much of his life in the scars of his body, in his rounded shoulders, his pigeon chest, in the thinness of his arms and legs. His blood was still unquiet from the shame he had felt at being unable to write more than his name when the commandant had given him the pencil.

  The louse-runner was crouched now over the old man’s clothes like a vulture hanging over a dung-heap. Holding his hands before his face beneath the little light, he rose slowly, with deliberation, studying his cupped palms as he rose. They were running with lice. He kicked the bundle off to the side without taking his eyes from his hands, and the old man held his head wistfully to one side, like an intelligent parrot.

  “Extryord’nary,” he piped, “extryord’nary.”

  The louse-runner brushed him from under the shower and stretched his hands under the water, rubbing his palms like cymbals together, as though to crush to mere pulp whichever lice might be so fortunate as to escape death through drowning. Then he shouted over his shoulder to someone unseen, and a pimple-faced youth with black rubber gloves came tearing down the stairs, took up the bundle in over-nice fingers, and carried it away to be fumigated.

  Cass began to undress then. Slowly. How sorry he felt for that old man! How ashamed he had looked! But what if he himself should be found to have lice on him? The very thought made him desire retreat, even at this late hour. Better go dirty or wash in some river somewhere than to risk such shame! He felt the louse-runner watching, and he undressed more swiftly. Why must the man stare so? Did he think he might be a girl?

  No socks to take off, no underwear. Dirt was frozen on him. The flesh of his arms and chest was blue-white, hairless and goose-pimpled. How ashamed he was to be so ugly!

  The shower was as cold as the commandant had warned him, but there was plenty of a strong brown soap; by diligent scrubbing he got most of the dirt off, albeit in the process his fingers became numb with cold. He felt the louse-runner looking closely again, as he scraped at his ankles. “Ah’d do some better if he’d quit a-lookin’ at me like as if ah was some cold-shouldered colt,” Cass thought to himself.

  The ordeal finished, he was given his clothes. For a moment Cass had the illogical notion that the louse-runner was disappointed at not having encountered a single louse in his overalls. When he was dressed Cass asked him for a cap, for it was cold in the place. The louser brought the matter before the commandant, in the latter’s office. There the commandant placed the entire responsibility back onto the louser’s shoulders. After some rummaging then, in the depths of the office clothes-closet, Cass was awarded a cotton cap that fitted down snugly over both ears and shaded his eyes with a peak so large that it lent him the aspect of a frequently-defeated jockey.

  Observing himself in it in a little cracked tin mirror hanging on the clothes-closet door, he said to the commandant, “God damn, don’t it look jest fine, mister?” The commandant stiffened, Cass became afraid, the man was standing up and pointing to a red and white card on the far wall. Helplessly Cass looked at him, wondering with increasing fright what thing he had said or done to provoke this man’s anger.

  “Ah caint read all that, mister—them’s too lawng words.” The commandant read for him, still pointing with outstretched arm.

  IF YOU MUST USE PROFANITY PLEASE STEP OUT IN THE ALLEY

  Cass began to feel a little better, and under his breath cursed both commandant and louse-runner roundly.

  Later he wandered past the old French graveyard on Basin Street, and strolled, for curiosity’s sake, in and out of stores on Canal. In the Southern Railroad depot he found a fountain where water ran cold as ice. Then he walked back to Canal, remembering the wharves. He found the Desire Street wharf deserted, hung his shoes on a beam, padded his cap into a pillow, and slept. When he woke the sun was beginning to slant, and the river had turned from brown to cold green. Cass rose refreshed, and resumed his strolling.

  All that late November afternoon he walked New Orleans in unconcern, caring not in the least which way he wandered. He passed by houses great and tall, stone mansions with strong iron gates; gates which barred wide paths winding through pleasant lawns. He looked through windows and saw white walls with pictures hanging; dimly Cass envied those within. He came, too, to houses much like his own had been: poor, unpainted, wooden . . . He saw black children who played withi
n sight and smell of unmentionable filth, in alleys where gray rats ran. He saw the clean children of the rich, that they were quick and bold. On Melpomene Street he saw a young Negress with a baby on her back, pawing in a garbage barrel like an angular black cat. All afternoon Cass wandered.

  Then it began to grow dark, and he forgot all that had happened at home and all that he had been on the road, for the lights of New Orleans came on, and he had never seen any lights quite so bright.

  The lights of the city! The sounds of the street! It was just as though somewhere a switch had been thrown, making all things of a sudden gay and brilliant and beautiful, just for him. Canal Street thronged with men and women, a thousand gay faces passed him by. Signs went on and off. Everyone was happy and laughing, everyone was talking, everyone hurried. The people were almost as he had imagined—but such lights he had not dreamed of. Cass had never heard such sounds. Green and blue and red the lights, flashing on and off and dancing; loud and soft and strange the sounds, all wonderfully confused. Directly above his head an orchestra blared through open windows into the southern night, and Cass stood long with neck upturned and mouth agape. And after a while he walked on, and he came to a quieter place. Signs went on and off. Then he came to a street where there were no signs.

  Cass came to a street that lay all deserted and unlit by any lamp or little window-gleam, and he went down a walk so narrow that on it but one could pass at a time. And he felt that all houses here were evil and old, that all their shades were drawn for shame; and that though the street was deserted and dark, yet there were women behind the shades; and that though the street was so soundless, so sad, behind the curtains men were laughing. So he walked on, and walked always more softly.

  A girl stepped out of a doorway he had not seen, hooked him by the arm and looked up smiling. A foolish smile, weak. Then she pursed her lips that were pale as death, and spoke in a blurred Alabama drawl. “Look daddy, y’all like to sleep with me tonight? Ah’m clean as cotton, daddy, an’ y’all kin take yo’ own good time.” They were almost to the corner, where streets were lit luridly. The girl spoke swiftly, urging him to walk slowly. “Y’all don’t have to pay me till yo’ see what yo’ gettin’. Don’t have to pay me till afterwhile, hon, if yo’ don’t want to pay me right off.”

  She placed his hand on her breast, and he paused. Wonderingly Cass touched her, pressing her breast half fearfully. How soft that was! Cass had never touched a woman before; as in a haze now he remembered the dark girls in back of the Poblano Cafe. She drew him aside and let him explore her until she felt that he was aroused; then she led him back to the doorway from which she had hailed him. She led him easily. His heart began zig-zagging wildly, desire and daring sent warm waves through his flesh. Should he? Should he take the chance—without money? Well, hadn’t she said he didn’t have to pay until after while? Maybe he’d only . . . maybe by then . . . His head was whirling, his thoughts raced crazily. When they reached the doorway he put down desire for a moment and drew back to tell her he had not a penny. But she caressed him into the passageway before he could speak three words.

  Somewhere in the back a man was laughing, a young man, judging by his laughter. The doors of the passage were numbered; against No. 14 Cass set aside his misgivings. He took her about and kissed the pale lips. The girl knew every trick to arouse him, and he pressed her against the door with all the thin strength of his loins. She laughed, a metallic little laugh, then struggled free and opened the door against which he pressed her.

  After the lock clicked behind her she lit a small lamp. Its glow lit faintly on the wall a picture of a bleeding heart in an oval frame. The girl went to the bed and sat on its edge, fingering a small silver cross at her throat. Seated beside her, Cass put his arms about her; sweat began rolling down the inside of his shirt from under his armpits. The girl rose and turned down the lamp till its flare was small as a match’s glow . . .

  Cass slept only briefly; when he woke it was still dark. He woke with a start, with a fear at his heart. Fear that the girl might waken before he got out. He became so afraid that he could scarcely breathe in his anxiety to get through the door.

  Yet he knew he had to take it easy, rise softly, step softly, go soft as a cat across the floor, softly as a young cat just half way across the room. The door was locked. He turned the knob all the way around twice without making a sound; he put all his weight against it without making a noise. It was locked, but he knew where the key was. He’d seen it on her dresser, saw it now in the dimness from where he stood. But when he reached the dresser what he had thought was a key proved to be only a small silver nail file. He opened a drawer, it had to be in there since it wasn’t on top. The dresser squeaked, and behind him he heard the whore jump up; in the dresser mirror he saw that, naked as she was, she stood at the door to block his way out. Cass turned about slowly, a half-grin smeared over half his face, his hair hanging in his eyes. He was faint with such fear as before he had never known.

  How savage she stood! All naked and snarling!

  “Nancy! Nancy!” Cass wanted to shout, “Nancy—come help me now!”

  But there was no room in his throat for a sound; his throat seemed closed with fear. It was the girl who called out.

  “Jack! Jack Gaines!” she shrilled like a magpie, “Jack! Jack Gaines!”

  Cass heard heavy feet come pounding through darkness, a side-door opened and a half-clad blond came in. He was breathing heavily; the hair on his chest seemed matted with sweat. Cass watched the chest, saw its yellow matting moving, rhythmically up and down, the while the fellow regained his breath.

  “The fartsnatcher ain’t give me a dime yet, Jackie, an’ he tried to heel out with mah ring on top of it. Ah’m gettin’ tired of gettin’ rooked by every punk who comes along—see what he got an’ whatever yo’ gits.”

  Cass saw the rouster coming toward him in a half-crouch, like a professional wrestler. For just one moment then it seemed to Cass that someone was tickling him in the pit of the stomach with a blood-tipped feather—and he was on the floor beneath the man, and the feather was a sharp-pointed stick jabbing and splintering in his gut. He found his voice with his face thrust nose-deep in carpet.

  “Ah got nothin’, mister—ol’ girl tol’ me ah didn’ have to pay nothin’—ah was but lookin’ fo’ th’ key—ah was but—”

  A short swift blow with the heel of the palm caught his tongue full between his teeth and sent red waves of red pain into his brain; so that of a sudden he saw Bryan lying flat on his back and Stuart above him, kicking. Such strength did fear then give him that he threw off the heavy rouster with a single effort of his back, struggled crazily to his feet and raced in blind panic to the hall door, forgetting that that door was locked. Straining at the knob, he heard the rouster coming up behind him, turned and dodged the fellow, and tore across the room to the side-door standing wide.

  The last thing Cass recalled was the white blur of the girl’s body beneath the red blur of a bleeding heart. She was in that doorway with her legs spread wide, she was holding the bed-post with her left hand—and some dark and heavy thing hung straight down out of the right.

  Pain wakened Cass. A long, slow-starting, zig-zag pain that began in his viscera and ran jaggedly upward with gathering speed until it flashed like an orgasm beneath his heart, and left him sick and sweating. Twice it went through him like an electric bolt, leaving him each time sicker, number.

  Cass did not open his eyes; he did not wish now to waken. He was cold, and frightened by the severity of his pain so that, as he sweated, he trembled a little. He did not wish to wake up. He wanted to sleep now. He wanted to sleep so long that he would never wake up. If once he opened his eyes, he knew, he would have to start living all over again. He would have to get to his feet and see men and women, would have to be tired and cold and alone. He would have to go begging, be mocked, shamed and beaten.

  So he lay long, in the place where he was, and he would not open his eyes. And he could not r
eturn to sleep because of the pain in his belly. Then he began to feel cold, so cold; so cold that when he touched the roof of his mouth with his tongue he thought that, whatever was wet there, was frozen.

  And because he was so utterly wretched, being unable to sleep or to rise, he whimpered. Tears forced his eyes open, he saw where he lay.

  He was lying in an open lot that appeared to be chiefly a dumping ground. It smelled of dead flesh. The first thing he saw clearly was the head of a dog whose body was gone. That head smiled amiably, there were ants in both eyes. He rose stiffly, wondering that no one had seen him lying there. New Orleans was already gray with morning.

  Cass did not know where to go, he did not know quite where he was. And he didn’t care greatly, one way or the other, and walked on only to avoid the stares that strangers would give him should he stand still. He could think only of Nancy, could only wish that he were not alone now. Nancy would tend him, tend him out of love. He touched his face, gingerly, and he felt dry blood beneath his chin—blood dried into clots like great rough scabs there. And down from the corner of his mouth ran a deep furrow into the flesh—his mouth jerked sidewise when he tried to touch the wound. Apparently the devils had tried to cut his throat.

  He was too ill to walk very far at a stretch. Every few hundred yards he sat down on curbstone or step. He was glad that it was still early morning so that there were not many people—strangers—to stare at him as he rested. People—strangers—to stare as he sat. All people were strangers, he was born to be stared at. His belly burned for water.

  Resting on a wooden bench in front of a little Italian grocery, Cass watched two children at play. Black children, skipping. For a minute he almost forgot his own wretchedness in watching their joy. But the man from the grocery came out, looked at him twice, shrugged his shoulders, and told him he would have to sit somewhere else. The bench was for customers, he had no room inside for it, his customers came out here and ate breakfast upon it. He might have a customer any minute now. Perhaps the customer would like to sit on the bench. Perhaps the customer would like to sit on the bench with nobody near him when he ate breakfast.