And me, I’m quick on my feet, always have been, so I pick up his meaning straight away.
“I’ll back you up there, Doughboy,” I say. “First thing I’ll do when I get back to the city is write to the papers. I’m sure they’d be very interested to learn how decent folk get treated like shit by these hired goons at the door out here in the sticks. Christ! Any paper worth the ink it’s printed on would jump at that story!”
But the doorman just grins when I say this. So here’s another one for the list. I’ll catch up with him at the right time and give him something to remember me by. But now Doughboy grabs me by the arm and pulls me away. We head up into the woods together around back of the Pavilion. There’s a root sticking up that I can’t help tripping over, and Doughboy, he gets furious all of a sudden and says to me: “If you fall down one more fucking time I’m just gonna leave you there!” He ain’t got no right to talk to me that way. Can I help it if there’s a root sticking up out of the ground there? Nobody’s willing to give me a break.
Round back at the Pavilion there’s just regular farm fencing with some barbed wire strung along the top. So Doughboy helps me up and I go over. I get a bit snagged on the barbed wire, but come away no worse for the wear. He ain’t a bad fella, really, Doughboy. Me and him got the better of that goddamn doorman. That’s the important thing. I throw my arm round his shoulder.
“You know, eight long months I was stuck in that goddamn shithole—”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he says and pushes me away, like he knows everything there is to know about it.
Who the hell’s he think he is? That’s what I’d like to know. Treating me like that? But he don’t stop when I call after him. He just keeps going, right up to the open-air dance floor. Don’t take him long to get a girl on his arm, and head out on the floor with her. But me, I just get the cold shoulder when I try to follow suit. So it’s all about the money. That’s all that counts in this goddamn world. Guess I’ll just have to win the lottery. Then I can come back and dance till my heart’s content. I don’t see anybody I know. But what do I care? I was born and bred here. But when you go away and spend twelve years in Stockholm, you learn a thing or two about the world. So I walk around and mix it up with folks. I can be pretty damn entertaining when I want to be. Bashful is something I’ve never been, so I make the rounds and lay on the charm with some of the gals. And I get them to loosen up and enjoy themselves. Some start laughing their asses off. I ain’t no tongue-tied farm boy, wet behind the ears. No siree! I know how to be smooth with the ladies, and that’s a goddamn fact.
And lo and behold! Here’s the tin-knocker, so plowed I can’t figure how he made it past the doorman. But this is good, ’cause now I can give him a piece of my mind. I go up and grab him by the collar.
“Listen, buster!” I say. “If you think you can treat the old man any old way you please and get away with it you got another goddamn thing coming!”
“Who the hell are you?” the tin knocker says.
“Knut Lindqvist,” I say. “If that rings a bell. He was a good man, tried and true, and you got him all liquored up and then sent him on his way. And believe me, you’re gonna live to regret that!”
I get more and more furious by the moment. Tomorrow the old man is getting buried. And this no-good tin-knocker’s got so little respect that he’s out getting plastered the night before.
“A mouthful of my knuckles is what you got coming,” I tell him. But somebody’s right there, grabbing my arm before I can let it fly. And then a circle of gawkers closes in around us. Not that I mind. At least now they’ll know what sort of bastard the tin-knocker is. I spin around and there’s the deputy, brass badge pinned to his chest.
“We don’t want no trouble from you, Lindqvist,” he says, the meddling bastard. “Time for you to go home. You got a father to bury in the morning. Try not to forget.”
And I know just what to say back to him, the prick, but now Doughboy comes by with his arm around a woman, saying: “Come on, Knut-boy. Let’s get out of here. I got another eighth at home we can demolish.”
Another eighth!
He must really think I’m plastered, trying to feed me a line like that. Probably trying to save the tin-knocker’s ass. And now the goddamn deputy’s lecturing me for getting soused. What a crock of shit! If I was that gone I’d have jumped at Doughboy’s line. But this deputy’s a strong son of a bitch, old as he is, and now the tin-knocker’s flown the coop. Shitting bricks, I expect. Maybe he’s hiding outside, or hightailing it down the road. I’ll ask Doughboy to get the car and we can chase him down, and then we’ll see who has the last laugh. He’s a good fella, Doughboy, so he’ll do it, I’m sure.
I’m more than happy to leave of my own free will, though the deputy is right behind me giving me his two cents worth. Don’t know who died and made him dictator, for Christ’s sake.
“Can think of some newspapers that would be interested in this situation,” I say to Doughboy and his girl.
“Yeah, yeah, OK,” Doughboy says, like it’s all I been talking about.
Can’t get me out of there fast enough because the goddamn deputy keeps pushing me in the back.
“Let’s go, Lindqvist,” he says, pushing me along.
“That’s spelt with a ‘qv,’ — you just remember that!” I say, in case he thinks he can treat me like trash. The doorman’s eyes open wide as I walk back through the turnstile. Probably thinks he’s seeing things, the dimwit.
“Just wait till newspapers get hold of this story,” I say to him, and I’d say he looks pretty nervous. The thought of getting exposed in the papers — that’ll put the fear of God in these hicks every time.
There’s that goddamn hole again! Now Doughboy’s sweetheart is gonna think I’m drunk. She’s a pretty little thing, that one. I’m walking behind them, giving her the odd pinch here and there. And Doughboy, he tells me to keep my goddamn paws to myself. That’s the problem with him. Can’t handle his liquor. Otherwise he’s OK. He gets into his car with the girl climbing in right after him. Then I squeeze in the front seat right next to her. They probably thought I’d get in the back, but why the hell would I do that? It’s fun to crowd in next to a woman. Who would pass up a chance like that?
Now Doughboy’s looking to show off a bit. He eases out into the road nice and slow and turns the headlights on. But then he starts picking up some real speed, and the girl can’t help bouncing a bit on the seat. She’s a beauty, this one. I’d say it’s still up for grabs who’s gonna bed her tonight. Not like I’m a womanizer, but getting girls is something that’s always come kind of easy to me.
“Eight long months I was stuck in that goddamn Lappland shithole,” I start to tell her, and she just grins.
“Yeah, okay,” Doughboy snaps, cutting me off in the middle. “Okay, okay,” he says again, like it’s the only thing I’ve been talking about all night.
It’s stuffy all of a sudden here inside the car, and the sweat starts running off me in sheets. The noise of the engine is blocking up my ears. I can taste the whiskey making its way back up my throat. Must be something wrong with the exhaust, fumes coming into the car. But Doughboy, he don’t say a word, and the girl just sits there caressing his chin. Each and every second it gets stuffier and hotter, and it feels like someone or something in my gut is pumping whiskey right up into my throat, along with that goddamn pudding I had at home earlier. And the road, it begins to bend and roll around, the wind catching and crumpling it, the roadside fences jerking and heaving. I’m feeling seasick. I try to roll down the window, but I grab the wrong handle and the door flies open instead.
“What the hell?” Doughboy yells and slows down. No need to yell. Don’t know what makes him think I’ll let myself get treated like garbage by the likes of him, a goddamn nobody with a pile of found money that don’t even know how to honor his debts. The fresh air’s nice anyway, and the whiskey bubble in my throat goes away. I can see we’re almost at the nurse’s place, where Doughb
oy come up behind the old man in his car. I should thank him for that. He did right by the old man. The tin-knocker, on the other hand, I wish we’d see him along this road. I’d tell Doughboy to run him over. But now he’s slowing way down, and I better close the door before he gets furious. I really should thank him, ’cause here it is. This is the place.
“Doughboy—” I say, but then it all comes back up in my throat again. Must be the exhaust fumes.
“Get out, you son of a bitch!” Doughboy screams.
The door is open, so that’s easy enough. All of a sudden, I’m laying in the road, and I can hear Doughboy yelling his head off.
“Puking in my car, you fucking pig! In my car!”
The girl pulls the door shut and then they’re gone.
I don’t feel right, laying here like this. Not like I broke anything. And the sickness is gone now. But when I try to get up my legs feel like clay, so I lay back down flat on my back and reach out my hand to grab hold of the hedge. It’s Jacob’s hedge. And I wonder how long it would take for my body to go cold. ’Cause it’s dark at the nurse’s place and it’s dark on the road. Not a goddamn star in the sky. And I can’t help thinking: You’re alone. You’ve always been alone. Remember at Mamma’s funeral how everybody kept their distance and wouldn’t look direct at you. Your whole life you’ve been alone like that. The old man was the only one that treated you like a regular person. And now he’s gone. And here you lay on the same spot where the old man took his last fall, and if a car come along now who’s to say if it could stop in time. So no wonder you’re sobbing. And you’re cold. And now it’s starting to rain, so you can just as well lay here and let yourself get soaked through and through.
It’s a hell of a thing, letting yourself get carsick like that. You can bet they’re back there in that goddamn kitchen, the whole pack of them sitting around and talking about how Knut is probably shitfaced right now, like always. Can you help it if you got legs made of clay? Can you help it if you get carsick? And that goddamn pudding — they should have to swallow that themselves. There’s a lot they should be made to swallow. Like the estate inventory after Mamma died, how Nisse took it home and touched it up — it would be good to jam that right down their throats. The old man’s the only one that gave two shits for you, so is it any wonder you lay here bawling in the rain? And you ain’t drunk. ’Cause who the hell can think about estate inventories drunk? There’s no way you could do that. But now you’re sharp as a whip again and they better watch out when you get home. Wouldn’t it be nice to catch a couple of them in your crosshairs? Look at them lousy little shit wreaths they bought! And they’re bursting with money. But you, picking up folks’ trash for a living, does that make you cheap? Damn straight it don’t! Everybody knows that stingy is something you’ve never been. But the thanks you get is none at all. Who thanks you for going to the churchyard and putting flowers on your Mamma’s grave, flowers that cost you eight crowns of your own hard-earned money? Or who appreciates you for sending the old man money for his dipping tobacco, every month for eight long years? Or the twenty crowns you spent hiring a car and a driver when you got out of that Lappland shithole? The thanks you got when you showed up at your own home was a hard kick in the ass and your own wife helped throw you out. So is it any wonder you’re laying here on your back, crying in the road next to Jacob’s hedge? And now the road is washing out with light, a car coming round the curve. It’s just as well if they run you over. Then we’ll see what that goddamn pack of jackals has to say back in the kitchen at home. We’ll see if they take back some of the knocks they made against you, the shitty things they had to say. At the funeral Lydia and her radio dealer will regret every last thing they’ve done to you, Knutboy. Every last thing they’ve said. To think that this is how you died, ’cause there ain’t no way that car’s gonna stop in time, not when it’s this dark out.
But when I’ve been dead for a good long while, somebody shines a light in my face and yells: “Lord Almighty! It’s one of the Lindqvists. Knut. Snot-slinging drunk! Can we get him up on the bike and wheel him home? His old man’s getting buried tomorrow. We can’t just leave him here in the road like this.”
This’ll just stoke their righteous fires, you can be sure of that. They think I’m drunk when really I’ve just got clay in my legs. They plop me down in the trailer cart on top of the newspapers and start pulling me home with the bike. That’s when I set them straight. They hear all about the clay and a few odd things besides. “I was stuck in the asshole of Lappland for eight long months,” I tell them. “So you can be sure I seen a thing or two alright! I hired a driver and car from Norra Station, and that shit-licking excuse for a man goes out through the window faster’n lightning. And just behind him my woman’s sandals come flying, clonking him right in the head. Could’ve thrown her right out on her ass too, but I know how to control myself. Eight long months in that Lappland sewer—”
“Yeah, yeah,” says the fella on the bike that’s pulling me. Like that’s all he’s been hearing from me! Think they can look down their noses at me just ’cause I’m a little undisposed for the moment. Can I help it if I get carsick? There’s pills you can take for that. Next time I’ll do that so there ain’t no misunderstandings. One of these jack-asses is running behind me pushing me in the back like some kind of goddamn deputy. Probably can’t hear a word I say. So I turn half around as best I can and tell him: “Eight long months I was stuck in that Lappland shithole—”
“Shut up!” he says, the dumb bastard. Like he was the one stuck in that shithole for eight months.
It ain’t worth trying to have a proper conversation with these goddamn hayseeds. Till they come to the city and live a while in your shoes, they got no way of understanding what a man can go through.
The road is bumpy, with the trailer cart swaying this way and that behind the bike, so I can’t help dozing off. When I wake up again I’m half slung over a fence post. Christ only knows whose fence this is, though I start to get my bearings after a bit, enough to see that I’m back at home. I fumble along the fence until I get to the gate, where suddenly there’s no more poles running across, and then my legs start turning clay on me again. But I stay up on them all the same. Well, I do trip over the first step when I get to the stoop, ’cause it’s so damn dark and all. They could’ve hung a lamp out here for me when they knew I’d be coming home in the dark. But thinking about me, that ain’t something they’re much used to doing. So I crawl up the steps on my hands and knees and take hold of the door handle. Hope nobody heard me fall down on the stoop, or I’ll never hear the end of it till the day I die, how I went out and got so blind drunk the night before we put the old man in the earth that I couldn’t even stand. But I should be OK. Ain’t no way they’d be up at this hour.
Or so I think. But when I open the kitchen door, Christ Jesus! There they all sit, lined up round the table and staring at me like I’m some kind of ghost. Our youngest brother Tage is here now and he’s sitting there with all the rest, sipping a coffee in his uniform. There’s nothing but poison for me here.
“So you’ve been to the grave now, have you?” Ulrik says. “You didn’t happen to fall in, did you?”
And all that does is clear the path for Lydia. She raises the roof with a rant that don’t end. I take a couple steps into the kitchen, but the car sickness still has its claws in me, so maybe I can be excused if I don’t go right over and sit down in the chair I had my sights on. Instead I head right past all the chairs to the draining board by the kitchen sink. That’s where the neighbor girl stands, toweling off some dishes. And lord, is she a sweet little thing! Rough around the edges maybe, like most farm girls, but just right to put your arms around. And all of a sudden she starts yelling at me too. So Christ only knows how much shit they’ve been slinging on my name in front of her while I been off at the graveyard.
“You get your hands off that girl!” says the radio dealer, sticking out his chest like he’s the big man around here.
&nb
sp; And Lydia’s ranting so goddamn much there ain’t nothing I can do.
“Look at the state he’s in,” she screams. “Covered in puke and filth from head to toe! A big rip in the rump of his breeches! No hat on his head! So drunk he can barely stand up!”
And Christ almighty! How am I supposed to know there’s a chair right behind me? So of course I get tripped up when I turn away from the sink. Couldn’t that happen to anybody? And I ain’t about to put up with having insults flung right in my face like that! They can all sit up high on their horses, alright, but can they trouble themselves to buy a single flower to put on Mamma’s grave? Do they care enough about the old man to trouble talking with the fella that carried him into the nurse’s place after the accident, just to find out what really happened? No, that’s too much to expect of them!
I go right up to the table and bang my fist down so hard Tage’s coffee cup clatters to the floor. And then I give them a real good helping of truth. “For eight months I sent the old man money for dipping tobacco,” I say, “and you tell me right now if there’s anybody here that’s done more for him than that! And Mamma always got Elinda’s second-hand clothes, wore ’em till the day she died! And it ain’t no goddamn secret there’s a few folks here have a hard time swallowing me working in the sanitation trade. It’s easy enough for folks to shit a place up, but to have to clean it up, that’s another thing, ain’t it?”
But they’re so damned cold, the whole nasty lot of them, they just start pissing and moaning about my suit, as if the best suit of clothes I own ain’t fit for a small country funeral. “Shut your mouths,” I tell ’em. “Not everybody can make a living overcharging folks for old radio consoles and then drop money on brand new white shirts every other day. A man might not get fat working in the sanitation trade, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna be ashamed of the way I make my living!”
Sleet: Selected Stories Page 19
