Read Online Midnight Cowboy by James Leo Herlihy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Leo Herlihy
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might, uh, be—um-uh …” He closed his eyes and frowned, inclined his head toward his body, as if what he wanted were trapped somewhere in his stomach, and might be conjured out of him by an act of will.
“Just say it,” Perry encouraged him. “Whatever it is.”
“Hopeless. I’m hopeless.” Oh Jesus Christ! he thought, the truth is an ugly sonofabitch. He lifted his shoulders, wanting his face to disappear into his body.
When he opened his eyes, he half expected Perry to be on his way out the door. Instead he was looking at him as gently as ever, and with even more concern than before.
“Why? Tell me why you’re hopeless, Joe.”
“Shee-it, Perry, I may as well tell you, I am dumb. I am. I am one dumb sombitch. I don’t know shee-it. I can’t talk right, I can’t think straight.” He laughed, but his face was grave. He saw nothing funny at all. For he had hung some ugly, ungainly, unforgivable thing in the air between them and it had to be pushed away; he hammered at it with his laughter. But he couldn’t get at it. The more he laughed, the bigger it got.
Suddenly he saw in his mind a beautiful picture: Sally Buck’s gravestone, pure white and utterly blank, needing to be filled in, inscribed. The crayon in his head drew a quick sketch on the stone, a cartoon of himself, and that somehow made him easier: The picture was complete. He could look at Perry again.
“I keep thinkin’,” he heard himself saying, somewhat to his surprise, “that what I’ll do is I’ll keep worshing them dishes and then they’ll bring in some more and I’ll worsh ‘em, and then uh …”
“And then …”
“And then I’ll come up here and sleep some, and then I’ll worsh some more dishes and then I’ll, um …”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll, uh …” He put his arm forward and shook it, waving his hand back and forth, as if to indicate that the word was somewhere in the room.
“Just say it, Joe.”
“Die.”
Oh! Oh shit! What kind of thing to hang in the air is that? Kill it, kill it!
He tried one quick harsh blast of laughter. No, that wasn’t going to get rid of the thing. Nothing would. It: was too big, too ugly.
In his mind there was a shovel, and he placed the shovel in the hands of some shadowy creature, and this creature set about using the shovel to dig a grave next to Sally’s. And then there was an open coffin sitting next to the new grave, and the coffin had a beautiful young person in it: himself. Oh, oh goddammit, he thought, is that all I get? Just a coffin for all my being young, a coffin for all my juice, and all my good looks? The sadness of it overwhelmed him, and suddenly he was crying, writhing on the floor of that H tel room looking at a stranger’s dirty sneakers, gasping for breath. He felt the necessity of getting that stranger out of the room, and he said,
“Go,”
but that was all he could get out, for there was something inside of him now far bigger than his lungs and it was using up all the space where breathing was supposed to take place, and not only that, it was poking at his liver and into his heart and all his vital places, and it hurt like a handful of knives in him. The dirty sneakers had a person in them. What’s it want? What’s it want with me? What’s this sombitch want with me? his mind demanded over and over again. Don’t he know I’m, I’m, I’m …
The stranger took hold of his shoulders and pushed him onto his back with great force, and then Joe was being sat upon, straddled by him. These actions were sudden enough to drive out the big, sharp-edged, heavy horror that was in him. Now he breathed again, emitting sound with each exhalation of breath, and the groans comforted him: Only live people made such noises. His face was wet. Apparently he’d been crying; but he wasn’t ashamed of it. It was the marijuana, that’s all; it wasn’t his fault.
He looked at Perry
“Just say it,” Perry encouraged him. “Whatever it is.”
“Hopeless. I’m hopeless.” Oh Jesus Christ! he thought, the truth is an ugly sonofabitch. He lifted his shoulders, wanting his face to disappear into his body.
When he opened his eyes, he half expected Perry to be on his way out the door. Instead he was looking at him as gently as ever, and with even more concern than before.
“Why? Tell me why you’re hopeless, Joe.”
“Shee-it, Perry, I may as well tell you, I am dumb. I am. I am one dumb sombitch. I don’t know shee-it. I can’t talk right, I can’t think straight.” He laughed, but his face was grave. He saw nothing funny at all. For he had hung some ugly, ungainly, unforgivable thing in the air between them and it had to be pushed away; he hammered at it with his laughter. But he couldn’t get at it. The more he laughed, the bigger it got.
Suddenly he saw in his mind a beautiful picture: Sally Buck’s gravestone, pure white and utterly blank, needing to be filled in, inscribed. The crayon in his head drew a quick sketch on the stone, a cartoon of himself, and that somehow made him easier: The picture was complete. He could look at Perry again.
“I keep thinkin’,” he heard himself saying, somewhat to his surprise, “that what I’ll do is I’ll keep worshing them dishes and then they’ll bring in some more and I’ll worsh ‘em, and then uh …”
“And then …”
“And then I’ll come up here and sleep some, and then I’ll worsh some more dishes and then I’ll, um …”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll, uh …” He put his arm forward and shook it, waving his hand back and forth, as if to indicate that the word was somewhere in the room.
“Just say it, Joe.”
“Die.”
Oh! Oh shit! What kind of thing to hang in the air is that? Kill it, kill it!
He tried one quick harsh blast of laughter. No, that wasn’t going to get rid of the thing. Nothing would. It: was too big, too ugly.
In his mind there was a shovel, and he placed the shovel in the hands of some shadowy creature, and this creature set about using the shovel to dig a grave next to Sally’s. And then there was an open coffin sitting next to the new grave, and the coffin had a beautiful young person in it: himself. Oh, oh goddammit, he thought, is that all I get? Just a coffin for all my being young, a coffin for all my juice, and all my good looks? The sadness of it overwhelmed him, and suddenly he was crying, writhing on the floor of that H tel room looking at a stranger’s dirty sneakers, gasping for breath. He felt the necessity of getting that stranger out of the room, and he said,
“Go,”
but that was all he could get out, for there was something inside of him now far bigger than his lungs and it was using up all the space where breathing was supposed to take place, and not only that, it was poking at his liver and into his heart and all his vital places, and it hurt like a handful of knives in him. The dirty sneakers had a person in them. What’s it want? What’s it want with me? What’s this sombitch want with me? his mind demanded over and over again. Don’t he know I’m, I’m, I’m …
The stranger took hold of his shoulders and pushed him onto his back with great force, and then Joe was being sat upon, straddled by him. These actions were sudden enough to drive out the big, sharp-edged, heavy horror that was in him. Now he breathed again, emitting sound with each exhalation of breath, and the groans comforted him: Only live people made such noises. His face was wet. Apparently he’d been crying; but he wasn’t ashamed of it. It was the marijuana, that’s all; it wasn’t his fault.
He looked at Perry
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