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Authors: David Goodis, Robert Polito
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years old.
He heard Jones Jarvis saying, "I'm prone to think that maybe it's both. Ruined throat. Broken heart."
"Let it ride," Whitey mumbled. He still had his hand pressed hard to his eyes. "For Christ's sake, let it ride."
"Eugene Lindell," the old man said.
No."
"Eugene Lindell." And then the loud crisp sound of snapping fingers. And the old man saying, "Now I get it. It's been coming slowly and now it's really hit me and I got it. Eugene Lindell."
"Please don't."
But the old man had it started. And he had to go on with it. And he said aloud to himself, "First time I heard that name I was listening to the radio. The announcer said, 'And now the lad with the million-dollar voice. Here he is, folks, Gene Lindell, singing--"
"Stop it," Whitey choked.
"Singing--"
"Will you stop it?"
"Singing from 'way up high on the moon and 'way down deep in the sea. High and low and high again, and it was a voice that made you high when you heard it, happy high and sad high, and you hadda close your eyes, you didn't wanna see a goddamn thing, just sit there and listen to that singing. You knew you'd never heard a voice like that in all your born days. And then them bobby-soxers started yelling and screaming and you felt like doing the same. That voice did things to you, went into you so deep it made you get the feeling you hadda come out of yourself and fly up and away from where your feet were planted. So next day I walked into a music store and all the loot I'd saved that week was shoved across the counter. 'Gene Lindell,' I said. 'Gimme his records.' The clerk said, 'Sorry mister. We're sold out' A few days later I tried again, and this time he had just one in stock. I took it home and played it and played it, and for weeks I went on playing that record and the jitterbugs would come in and forget to chew their bubble gum, only thing they could do was stand there with their mouths open and get hit between the eyes with that voice. They'd forget to move their feet. They were jitterbugs but they couldn't jitter because that voice took hold of them and paralyzed them. That was what it did. It was that kind of voice."
Whitey was sitting bent very low on the edge of the cot. He had both hands covering his face. It seemed he was trying to shut himself away from the living world.
But he could hear the old man saying, "You had it, Gene. You really had it."
He took his hands away from his face. He looked at the old man and smiled pleadingly, pathetically. His crackedwhisper voice was scarcely audible. "Why don't you stop it? What do you want from me?"
"Just a simple answer," Jones Jarvis said. He had leaned back and now he leaned forward again. "Tell me," he said. "How did you lose it? What happened to you?"
The smile widened and stiffened and then he had it aimed past the old man, his eyes glazed and fixed on nothing in particular. It all added up to a sort of crazy grimace.
"Won't you tell me?" the old man asked very softly and gently. And then, plaintively, "I think I got a right to know. After all, I was one of your fans."
Whitey sat there and tried to look at the old man. But he couldn't look. And he couldn't get the grimace off his face. He was trying very hard but he couldn't do anything but just sit there and stare at nothing.
Jones watched him for some moments. Then Jones's expression became clinical and he said, "Maybe you could use a drink."
Whitey tried to nod. But he couldn't move his head. It felt very heavy and sort of crushed, as though steel clamps were attached to his temples and pressing against his brain.
Jones got up from the three-legged stool and moved toward the row of gallon jugs filled with colorless liquid. He picked up a jug, took it to the table, and began pouring the liquid into the half-filled bottle. He poured until the bottle was completely full. Then he put the jug back in its place among the others. He set it down very carefully, moved some of the other jugs to get them exactly in line along the wall, then nodded
He heard Jones Jarvis saying, "I'm prone to think that maybe it's both. Ruined throat. Broken heart."
"Let it ride," Whitey mumbled. He still had his hand pressed hard to his eyes. "For Christ's sake, let it ride."
"Eugene Lindell," the old man said.
No."
"Eugene Lindell." And then the loud crisp sound of snapping fingers. And the old man saying, "Now I get it. It's been coming slowly and now it's really hit me and I got it. Eugene Lindell."
"Please don't."
But the old man had it started. And he had to go on with it. And he said aloud to himself, "First time I heard that name I was listening to the radio. The announcer said, 'And now the lad with the million-dollar voice. Here he is, folks, Gene Lindell, singing--"
"Stop it," Whitey choked.
"Singing--"
"Will you stop it?"
"Singing from 'way up high on the moon and 'way down deep in the sea. High and low and high again, and it was a voice that made you high when you heard it, happy high and sad high, and you hadda close your eyes, you didn't wanna see a goddamn thing, just sit there and listen to that singing. You knew you'd never heard a voice like that in all your born days. And then them bobby-soxers started yelling and screaming and you felt like doing the same. That voice did things to you, went into you so deep it made you get the feeling you hadda come out of yourself and fly up and away from where your feet were planted. So next day I walked into a music store and all the loot I'd saved that week was shoved across the counter. 'Gene Lindell,' I said. 'Gimme his records.' The clerk said, 'Sorry mister. We're sold out' A few days later I tried again, and this time he had just one in stock. I took it home and played it and played it, and for weeks I went on playing that record and the jitterbugs would come in and forget to chew their bubble gum, only thing they could do was stand there with their mouths open and get hit between the eyes with that voice. They'd forget to move their feet. They were jitterbugs but they couldn't jitter because that voice took hold of them and paralyzed them. That was what it did. It was that kind of voice."
Whitey was sitting bent very low on the edge of the cot. He had both hands covering his face. It seemed he was trying to shut himself away from the living world.
But he could hear the old man saying, "You had it, Gene. You really had it."
He took his hands away from his face. He looked at the old man and smiled pleadingly, pathetically. His crackedwhisper voice was scarcely audible. "Why don't you stop it? What do you want from me?"
"Just a simple answer," Jones Jarvis said. He had leaned back and now he leaned forward again. "Tell me," he said. "How did you lose it? What happened to you?"
The smile widened and stiffened and then he had it aimed past the old man, his eyes glazed and fixed on nothing in particular. It all added up to a sort of crazy grimace.
"Won't you tell me?" the old man asked very softly and gently. And then, plaintively, "I think I got a right to know. After all, I was one of your fans."
Whitey sat there and tried to look at the old man. But he couldn't look. And he couldn't get the grimace off his face. He was trying very hard but he couldn't do anything but just sit there and stare at nothing.
Jones watched him for some moments. Then Jones's expression became clinical and he said, "Maybe you could use a drink."
Whitey tried to nod. But he couldn't move his head. It felt very heavy and sort of crushed, as though steel clamps were attached to his temples and pressing against his brain.
Jones got up from the three-legged stool and moved toward the row of gallon jugs filled with colorless liquid. He picked up a jug, took it to the table, and began pouring the liquid into the half-filled bottle. He poured until the bottle was completely full. Then he put the jug back in its place among the others. He set it down very carefully, moved some of the other jugs to get them exactly in line along the wall, then nodded
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