Read Online 69 Barrow Street by Lawrence Block - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lawrence Block
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when Ralph awoke and climbed out of bed over the still-asleep form of Stella. He yawned and stretched and reached for a cigarette. After the cigarette was lit and the first puff of smoke taken deep into his lungs he was able to think clearly.
But he didn’t want to think clearly. He didn’t want to think at all. He wanted to crawl back into the bed and pull the covers over his head and never come out. He didn’t want to see anybody or do anything.
He felt sick inside, sick and weak and tormented. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at Stella, but with his eyes closed other images, worse pictures, flooded his mind.
He opened his eyes again.
There are no physical after-effects from smoking marijuana. There is no hangover, no physical craving for the drug, no boggy feeling in the limbs or fuzziness in the brain such as frequently follows a good drinking bout. When the drug wears off, the user is right where he was when he started, right where he would have been if he had never smoked the stuff in the first place.
So he couldn’t blame the way he felt on the marijuana. Ralph felt sick, physically sick, but not due to any physical causes. The memories of the party churned in his stomach and rose up in his throat and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick.
The moment passed.
Calmly he gazed around the small bedroom. Everything was in a frightening state of disarray. Feminine undergarments, some forgotten in the excitement of the evening and others torn to ribbons by the haste of the participants, covered the floor.
Ralph stooped over and picked up a tattered pair of lacy black panties. He stood up and held them in his hand, studying them. Vaguely he wondered whose they might have been and how they might have been reduced to their present torn state.
Well, it hardly mattered. Nothing mattered. Nothing could possibly matter, not when everything was so horribly sick and rotten inside.
Again his eyes scanned the room. Used contraceptives littered the floor, the castaways of those few couples who had cared enough to take precautions. Feeling his stomach beginning to turn over again, Ralph dressed in a hurry and left the room.
The front room was even worse. He sat down weakly on the couch and surveyed the damage. Most of the furniture was scarred with cigarettes that had been forgotten to burn themselves out on table-tops. There was a large burn in the center of the oriental rug.
But worst of all was the memories that the room held.
How could he banish those memories from his mind? It would be hard enough to attempt to forget what he had seen, the dissipation and perversion and decadence, the switching of partners back and forth, over and over until at last the sun streamed through the window and the party came to a grinding halt.
But how could he forget what he had done?
How?
He made room for himself on the couch by pushing aside some of the debris of the party and sat down heavily. His mind refused to focus properly and he lit a second cigarette from the butt of the first, chain-smoking in an effort to bring himself back to something with a vague resemblance to life.
To hell with it, he thought. To hell with trying anymore and to hell with pretending. He was no better than the rest of them, no better than Stella even. He was a sick, twisted little man and there was no point in pretending to be anything else. An artist? Sure, sure he was an artist. A pervert was more like it.
Now it would be very simple. He would stick to his life with Stella and he wouldn’t complain anymore. He would let himself enjoy it. It could be an enjoyable life—if you threw morality and human decency to the winds and let yourself be led around by the sheer pursuit of pure physical pleasure and gratification.
And he could probably learn to appreciate a life like that. He was sick and perverted and twisted enough to begin with…
Anything would be better than what he had now. And once he relaxed and accepted
But he didn’t want to think clearly. He didn’t want to think at all. He wanted to crawl back into the bed and pull the covers over his head and never come out. He didn’t want to see anybody or do anything.
He felt sick inside, sick and weak and tormented. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at Stella, but with his eyes closed other images, worse pictures, flooded his mind.
He opened his eyes again.
There are no physical after-effects from smoking marijuana. There is no hangover, no physical craving for the drug, no boggy feeling in the limbs or fuzziness in the brain such as frequently follows a good drinking bout. When the drug wears off, the user is right where he was when he started, right where he would have been if he had never smoked the stuff in the first place.
So he couldn’t blame the way he felt on the marijuana. Ralph felt sick, physically sick, but not due to any physical causes. The memories of the party churned in his stomach and rose up in his throat and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick.
The moment passed.
Calmly he gazed around the small bedroom. Everything was in a frightening state of disarray. Feminine undergarments, some forgotten in the excitement of the evening and others torn to ribbons by the haste of the participants, covered the floor.
Ralph stooped over and picked up a tattered pair of lacy black panties. He stood up and held them in his hand, studying them. Vaguely he wondered whose they might have been and how they might have been reduced to their present torn state.
Well, it hardly mattered. Nothing mattered. Nothing could possibly matter, not when everything was so horribly sick and rotten inside.
Again his eyes scanned the room. Used contraceptives littered the floor, the castaways of those few couples who had cared enough to take precautions. Feeling his stomach beginning to turn over again, Ralph dressed in a hurry and left the room.
The front room was even worse. He sat down weakly on the couch and surveyed the damage. Most of the furniture was scarred with cigarettes that had been forgotten to burn themselves out on table-tops. There was a large burn in the center of the oriental rug.
But worst of all was the memories that the room held.
How could he banish those memories from his mind? It would be hard enough to attempt to forget what he had seen, the dissipation and perversion and decadence, the switching of partners back and forth, over and over until at last the sun streamed through the window and the party came to a grinding halt.
But how could he forget what he had done?
How?
He made room for himself on the couch by pushing aside some of the debris of the party and sat down heavily. His mind refused to focus properly and he lit a second cigarette from the butt of the first, chain-smoking in an effort to bring himself back to something with a vague resemblance to life.
To hell with it, he thought. To hell with trying anymore and to hell with pretending. He was no better than the rest of them, no better than Stella even. He was a sick, twisted little man and there was no point in pretending to be anything else. An artist? Sure, sure he was an artist. A pervert was more like it.
Now it would be very simple. He would stick to his life with Stella and he wouldn’t complain anymore. He would let himself enjoy it. It could be an enjoyable life—if you threw morality and human decency to the winds and let yourself be led around by the sheer pursuit of pure physical pleasure and gratification.
And he could probably learn to appreciate a life like that. He was sick and perverted and twisted enough to begin with…
Anything would be better than what he had now. And once he relaxed and accepted
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