Miss Lonelyhearts / the Day of the Locust

by Nathanael West

  A lizard lived in a hole near the base of this plant. It was about five inches long and had a wedge-shaped head from which darted a fine, forked tongue. It earned a hard living catching the flies that strayed over to the cactus from the pile of cans.

  The lizard was self-conscious and irritable, and Homer found it very amusing to watch. Whenever one of its elaborate stalks was foiled, it would shift about uneasily on its short legs and puff out its throat. Its coloring matched the cactus perfectly, but when it moved over to the cans where the flies were thick, it stood out very plainly. It would sit on the cactus by the hour without moving, then become impatient and start for the cans. The flies would spot it immediately and after several misses, it would sneak back sheepishly to its original post.

  Homer was on the side of the flies. Whenever one of them, swinging too widely, would pass the cactus, he prayed silently for it to keep on going or turn back. If it lighted, he watched the lizard begin its stalk and held his breath until it had killed, hoping all the while that something would warn the fly. But no matter how much he wanted the fly to escape, he never thought of interfering, and was careful not to budge or make the slightest noise. Occasionally the lizard would miscalculate. When that happened Homer would laugh happily.

  Between the sun, the lizard and the house, he was fairly well occupied. But whether he was happy or not it is hard to say. Probably he was neither, just as a plant is neither. He had memories to disturb him and a plant hasn’t, but after the first bad night his memories were quiet.

  11

  HE had been living this way for almost a month, when, one day, just as he was about to prepare his lunch, the door bell rang. He opened it and found a man standing on the step with a sample case in one hand and a derby hat in the other. Homer hurriedly shut the door again.

  The bell continued to ring. He put his head out of the window nearest the door to order the fellow away, but the man bowed very politely and begged for a drink of water. Homer saw that he was old and tired and thought that he looked harmless. He got a bottle of water from the icebox, then opened the door and asked him in.

  “The name, sir, is Harry Greener,” the man announced in sing-song, stressing every other syllable.

  Homer handed him a glass of water. He swallowed it quickly, then poured himself another.

  “Much obliged,” he said with an elaborate bow. “That was indeed refreshing.”

  Homer was astonished when he bowed again, did several quick jig steps, then let his derby hat roll down his arm. It fell to the floor. He stooped to retrieve it, straightening up with a jerk as though he had been kicked, then rubbed the seat of his trousers ruefully.

  Homer understood that this was to amuse, so he laughed.

  Harry thanked him by bowing again, but something went wrong. The exertion had been too much for him. His face blanched and he fumbled with his collar.

  “A momentary indisposition,” he murmured, wondering himself whether he was acting or sick.

  “Sit down,” Homer said.

  But Harry wasn’t through with his performance. He assumed a gallant smile and took a few unsteady steps toward the couch, then tripped himself. He examined the carpet indignantly, made believe he had found the object that had tripped him and kicked it away. He then limped to the couch and sat down with a whistling sigh like air escaping from a toy balloon.

  Homer poured more water. Harry tried to stand up, but Homer pressed him back and made him drink sitting. He drank this glass as he had the other two, in quick gulps, then wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, imitating a man with a big mustache who had just drunk a glass of foamy beer.

  “You are indeed kind, sir,” he said. “Never fear, some day I’ll repay you a thousandfold.”

  Homer clucked.

  From his pocket Harry brought out a small can and held it out for him to take.

  “Compliments of the house,” he announced. “’Tis a box of Miracle Solvent, the modern polish par excellence, the polish without peer or parallel, used by all the movie stars…”

  He broke off his spiel with a trilling laugh.

  Homer took the can.

  “Thank you,” he said, trying to appear grateful. “How much is it?”

  “The ordinary price, the retail price, is fifty cents, but you can have it for the extraordinary price of a quarter, the wholesale price, the price I pay at the factory.”

  “A quarter?” asked Homer, habit for the moment having got the better of his timidity. “I can buy one twice that size for a quarter in the store.”

  Harry knew his man.

  “Take it, take it for nothing,” he said contemptuously.

  Homer was tricked into protesting.

  “I guess maybe this is a much better polish.”

  “No,” said Harry, as though he were spurning a bribe. “Keep your money. I don’t want it.”

  He laughed, this time bitterly.

  Homer pulled out some change and offered it.

  “Take it, please. You need it, I’m sure. I’ll have two cans.”

  Harry had his man where he wanted him. He began to practice a variety of laughs, all of them theatrical, like a musician tuning up before a concert. He finally found the right one and let himself go. It was a victim’s laugh.

  “Please stop,” Homer said.

  But Harry couldn’t stop. He was really sick. The last block that held him poised over the runway of self-pity had been knocked away and he was sliding down the chute, gaining momentum all the time. He jumped to his feet and began doing Harry Greener, poor Harry, honest Harry, well-meaning, humble, deserving, a good husband, a model father, a faithful Christian, a loyal friend.

  Homer didn’t appreciate the performance in the least. He was terrified and wondered whether to phone the police. But he did nothing. He just held up his hand for Harry to stop.

  At the end of his pantomime, Harry stood with his head thrown back, clutching his throat, as though waiting for the curtain to fall. Homer poured him still another glass of water. But Harry wasn’t finished. He bowed, sweeping his hat to his heart, then began again. He didn’t get very far this time and had to gasp painfully for breath. Suddenly, like a mechanical toy that had been overwound, something snapped inside of him and he began to spin through his entire repertoire. The effort was purely muscular, like the dance of a paralytic. He jigged, juggled his hat, made believe he had been kicked, tripped, and shook hands with himself. He went through it all in one dizzy spasm, then reeled to the couch and collapsed.

  He lay on the couch with his eyes closed and his chest heaving. He was even more surprised than Homer. He had put on his performance four or five times already that day and nothing like this had happened. He was really sick.

  “You’ve had a fit,” Homer said when Harry opened his eyes.

  As the minutes passed, Harry began to feel better and his confidence returned. He pushed all thought of sickness out of his mind and even went so far as to congratulate himself on having given the finest performance of his career. He should be able to get five dollars out of the big dope who was leaning over him.

  “Have you any spirits in the house?” he asked weakly.

  The grocer had sent Homer a bottle of port wine on approval and he went to get it. He filled a tumbler half full and handed it to Harry, who drank it in small sips, making the faces that usually go with medicine.

  Speaking slowly, as though in great pain, he then asked Homer to bring in his sample case.

  “It’s on the doorstep. Somebody might steal it. The greater part of my small capital in invested in those cans of polish.”

  When Homer stepped outside to obey, he saw a girl near the curb. It was Faye Greener. She was looking at the house.

  “Is my father in there?” she called out.

  “Mr. Greener?”

  She stamped her foot.

  “Tell him to get a move on, damn it. I don’t want to stay here all day.”

  “He’s sick.”

  The girl turned away with
out giving any sign that she either heard or cared.

  Homer took the sample case back into the house with him. He found Harry pouring himself another drink.

  “Pretty fair stuff,” he said, smacking his lips over it. “Pretty fair, all right, all right. Might I be so bold as to ask what you pay for a…”

  Homer cut him short. He didn’t approve of people who drank and wanted to get rid of him.

  “Your daughter’s outside,” he said with as much firmness as he could muster. “She wants you.”

  Harry collapsed on the couch and began to breathe heavily. He was acting again.

  “Don’t tell her,” he gasped. “Don’t tell her how sick her old daddy is. She must never know.”

  Homer was shocked by his hypocrisy.

  “You’re better,” he said as coldly as he could. “Why don’t you go home?”

  Harry smiled to show how offended and hurt he was by the heartless attitude of his host. When Homer said nothing, his smile became one expressing boundless courage. He got carefully to his feet, stood erect for a minute, then began to sway weakly and tumbled back on the couch.

  “I’m faint,” he groaned.

  Once again he was surprised and frightened. He was faint.

  “Get my daughter,” he gasped.

  Homer found her standing at the curb with her back to the house. When he called her, she whirled and came running toward him. He watched her for a second, then went in, leaving the door unlatched.

  Faye burst into the room. She ignored Homer and went straight to the couch.

  “Now what in hell’s the matter?” she exploded.

  “Darling daughter,” he said. “I have been badly taken, and this gentleman has been kind enough to let me rest for a moment.”

  “He had a fit or something,” Homer said.

  She whirled around on him so suddenly that he was startled.

  “How do you do?” she said, holding her hand forward and high up.

  He shook it gingerly.

  “Charmed,” she said, when he mumbled something.

  She spun around once more.

  “It’s my heart,” Harry said. “I can’t stand up.”

  The little performance he put on to sell polish was familiar to her and she knew that this wasn’t part of it. When she turned to face Homer again, she looked quite tragic. Her head, instead of being held far back, now drooped forward.

  “Please let him rest there,” she said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Homer motioned her toward a chair, then got her a match for her cigarette. He tried not to stare at her, but his good manners were wasted. Faye enjoyed being stared at.

  He thought her extremely beautiful, but what affected him still more was her vitality. She was taut and vibrant. She was as shiny as a new spoon.

  Although she was seventeen, she was dressed like a child of twelve in a white cotton dress with a blue sailor collar. Her long legs were bare and she had blue sandals on her feet.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said when Homer looked at her father again.

  He made a motion with his hand to show that it was nothing.

  “He has a vile heart, poor dear,” she went on. “I’ve begged and begged him to go to a specialist, but you men are all alike.”

  “Yes, he ought to go to a doctor,” Homer said.

  Her odd mannerisms and artificial voice puzzled him.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “About one o’clock.”

  She stood up suddenly and buried both her hands in her hair at the sides of her head, making it bunch at the top in a shiny ball.

  “Oh,” she gasped prettily, “and I had a luncheon date.”

  Still holding her hair, so that her snug dress twisted even tighter and Homer could see her dainty, arched ribs and little, dimpled belly. This elaborate gesture, like all her others, was so completely meaningless, almost formal, that she seemed a dancer rather than an affected actress.

  “Do you like salmon salad?” Homer ventured to ask.

  “Salmon sal-ahde?”

  She seemed to be repeating the question to her stomach. The answer was yes.

  “With plenty of mayonnaise, huh? I adore it.”

  “I was going to have some for lunch. I’ll finish making it.”

  “Let me help.”

  They looked at Harry, who appeared to be asleep, then went into the kitchen. While he opened a can of salmon, she climbed on a chair and straddled it with her arms folded across the top of its back and rested her chin on her arms. Whenever he looked at her, she smiled intimately and tossed her pale, glittering hair first forward, then back.

  Homer was excited and his hands worked quickly. He soon had a large bowl of salad ready. He set the table with his best cloth and his best silver and china.

  “It makes me hungry just to look,” she said.

  The way she said this seemed to mean that it was Homer who made her hungry and he beamed at her. But before he had a chance to sit down, she was already eating. She buttered a slice of bread, covered the butter with sugar and took a big bite. Then she quickly smeared a gob of mayonnaise on the salmon and went to work. Just as he was about to sit down, she asked for something to drink. He poured her a glass of milk and stood watching her like a waiter. He was unaware of her rudeness.

  As soon as she had gobbled up her salad, he brought her a large red apple. She ate the fruit more slowly, nibbling daintily, her smallest finger curled away from the rest of her hand. When she had finished it, she went back to the living room and Homer followed her.

  Harry still lay as they had left him, stretched out on the sofa. The heavy noon-day sun hit directly on his face, beating down on him like a club. He hardly felt its blows, however. He was busy with the stabbing pain in his chest. He was so busy with himself that he had even stopped trying to plan how to get money out of the big dope.

  Homer drew the window curtain to shade his face. Harry didn’t even notice. He was thinking about death. Faye bent over him. He saw, from under his partially closed eyelids, that she expected him to make a reassuring gesture. He refused. He examined the tragic expression that she had assumed and didn’t like it. In a serious moment like this, her ham sorrow was insulting.

  “Speak to me, Daddy,” she begged.

  She was baiting him without being aware of it.

  “What the hell is this,” he snarled, “a Tom show?”

  His sudden fury scared her and she straightened up with a jerk. He didn’t want to laugh, but a short bark escaped before he could stop it. He waited anxiously to see what would happen. When it didn’t hurt he laughed again. He kept on, timidly at first, then with growing assurance. He laughed with his eyes closed and the sweat pouring down his brow. Faye knew only one way to stop him and that as to do something he hated as much as she hated his laughter. She began to sing.

  “Jeepers Creepers!

  Where’d ya get those peepers?…”

  She trucked, jerking her buttocks and shaking her head from side to side.

  Homer was amazed. He felt that the scene he was witnessing had been rehearsed. He was right. Their bitterest quarrels often took this form; he laughing, she singing.

  “Jeepers Creepers!

  Where’d ya get those eyes?

  Gosh, all git up!

  How’d they get so lit up?

  Gosh all git…”

  When Harry stopped, she stopped and flung herself into a chair. But Harry was only gathering strength for a final effort. He began again. This new laugh was not critical; it was horrible. When she was a child, he used to punish her with it. It was his masterpiece. There was a director who always called on him to give it when he was shooting a scene in an insane asylum or a haunted castle.

  It began with a sharp, metallic crackle, like burning sticks, then gradually increased in volume until it became a rapid bark, then fell away again to an obscene chuckle. After a slight pause, it climbed until it was the nicker of a horse, then still higher to become a ma
chinelike screech.

  Faye listened helplessly with her head cocked on one side. Suddenly, she too laughed, not willingly, but fighting the sound.

  “You bastard!” she yelled.

  She leaped to the couch, grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to shake him quiet.

  He kept laughing.

  Homer moved as though he meant to pull her away, but he lost courage and was afraid to touch her. She was so naked under her skimpy dress.

  “Miss Greener,” he pleaded, making his big hands dance at the end of his arms. “Please, please…”

  Harry couldn’t stop laughing now. He pressed his belly with his hands, but the noise poured out of him. It had begun to hurt again.

  Swinging her hand as though it held a hammer, she brought her fist down hard on his mouth. She hit him only once. He relaxed and was quiet.

  “I had to do it,” she said to Homer when he took her arm and led her away.

  He guided her to a chair in the kitchen and shut the door. She continued to sob for a long time. He stood behind her chair, helplessly, watching the rhythmical heave of her shoulders. Several times his hands moved forward to comfort her, but he succeeded in curbing them.

  When she was through crying, he handed her a napkin and she dried her face. The cloth was badly stained by her rouge and mascara.

  “I’ve spoilt it,” she said, keeping her face averted. “I’m very sorry.”

  “It was dirty,” Homer said.

  She took a compact from her pocket and looked at herself in its tiny mirror.

  “I’m a fright.”

  She asked if she could use the bathroom and he showed her where it was. He then tiptoed into the living room to see Harry. The old man’s breathing was noisy but regular and he seemed to be sleeping quietly. Homer put a cushion under his head without disturbing him and went back into the kitchen. He lit the stove and put the coffeepot on the flame, then sat down to wait for the girl to return. He heard her go into the living room. A few seconds later she came into the kitchen.

  She hesitated apologetically in the doorway.

  “Won’t you have some coffee?”

  Without waiting for her to reply, he poured a cup and moved the sugar and cream so that she could reach them.