square.
You ever been in there Suttree?
No. You're talking to a man that has though.
What did they put you in there for Mr Callahan?
Aw, slappin a little old guard.
He slapped a vertebra loose in his neck, said Suttree.
Goddamn, said Harrogate. When was this?
When was it Red? Two years ago?
Somethin like that.
They hell fire, how long you been in here Mr. Callahan?
That was another offense, said Suttree. He's been in and out.
They dont give ye nothin to eat but bread and water, said Callahan. In the box they dont.
I believe you'll like the guard's mess better than the box.
I aint warshin no more goddamned dishes.
Well, said Suttree, that's you.
That's me, said Harrogate.
I think you've lost your rabbitassed mind, said Callahan.
Maybe. But I'll tell ye one thing. I ever get out of here I sure to shit aint comin back again.
I think I even heard Bromo say that one time.
Who's Bromo?
The old guy. He's been in and out of here since nineteen thirty-six.
He was in fore that, said Callahan. He was in the other workhouse fore this one was built.
Well, said Harrogate. That's him.
Suttree grinned. That's him, he said.
The crimes of the moonlight melonmounter followed him as crimes will. Truth of his doings came in at the door and up the stairs in the dark. Come morning the prisoners were seeing this half fool in a new light. To his elbows in dishwater and wreathed in steam he watched them file across the kitchen with their plates of biscuits and gravy, nodding, gesturing. He smiled back. They saw him again that night, lost in his stained and shapeless suit. He appeared not to have moved the day long nor the stacked pans diminished. After supper he was returned to them clutching his blanket before him.
Well, said Suttree, you back?
Yep.
What happened.
I told em I was done fuckin with em. They want a dishwarsher they can hunt somebody else cause I aint it.
What did they say.
They asked me did I want to be hallboy. Said you make a few dollars sellin coffee.
A few dollars a year.
That's just what I figured. I told em I didnt want no hallboy bullshit.
So what happened?
Nothin. They just sent me on up.
He stood there with his rat's face in a kind of smug smirk. Suttree shook his head.
Yonder he is, called Callahan.
Watermelon man.
Punkins wasnt it?
Punkins? Godamighty.
Yeah, sang out Callahan, we get out we goin to open a combination fruitstand and whorehouse.
Harrogate smiled nervously.
Callahan was sketching for them a portrait of his brothel. Melons in black negligees.
Watch out the niggers dont hear of it.
The niggers is liable to lynch ye.
Other fruits discussed. A cantaloupe turned queer. Do you buy them a drink.
Worst of it is havin gnats swarm around the head of ye dick.
Fruitflies.
Stealing watermelons eh? said Suttree.
Harrogate grinned uneasily. They tried to get me for beast, beast ... Bestiality?
Yeah. But my lawyer told em a watermelon wasnt no beast. He was a smart son of a bitch.
Oh boy, said Suttree.
In the morning he went with them on the trucks. Rising in the rank cold, faint odor of bathless sleepers all about. People stirring in the dull yellow bulblight, stumbling into clothes and shoes. The warmth of the kitchen and the smell of coffee. Cooks and potwashers aged or maimed all hovered by the stove with hot crockery mugs in their hands. Harrogate nodded to them distantly, holding his thumbs wide of his plate.
In the long days of fall they went like dreamers. Watching the sky for rain. When it came it rained for days. They sat in groups and watched the rain fall over the deserted fairgrounds. Pools of mud and dark sawdust and wet trodden papers. The painted canvas funhouse walls and the stark skeletons of amusement rides against a gray and barren sky.
A sad and bitter season. Barrenness of heart and gothic loneliness. Suttree dreamed old dreams of fairgrounds where young girls with flowered hair and wide child's eyes watched by flarelight sequined aerialists aloft.
You ever been in there Suttree?
No. You're talking to a man that has though.
What did they put you in there for Mr Callahan?
Aw, slappin a little old guard.
He slapped a vertebra loose in his neck, said Suttree.
Goddamn, said Harrogate. When was this?
When was it Red? Two years ago?
Somethin like that.
They hell fire, how long you been in here Mr. Callahan?
That was another offense, said Suttree. He's been in and out.
They dont give ye nothin to eat but bread and water, said Callahan. In the box they dont.
I believe you'll like the guard's mess better than the box.
I aint warshin no more goddamned dishes.
Well, said Suttree, that's you.
That's me, said Harrogate.
I think you've lost your rabbitassed mind, said Callahan.
Maybe. But I'll tell ye one thing. I ever get out of here I sure to shit aint comin back again.
I think I even heard Bromo say that one time.
Who's Bromo?
The old guy. He's been in and out of here since nineteen thirty-six.
He was in fore that, said Callahan. He was in the other workhouse fore this one was built.
Well, said Harrogate. That's him.
Suttree grinned. That's him, he said.
The crimes of the moonlight melonmounter followed him as crimes will. Truth of his doings came in at the door and up the stairs in the dark. Come morning the prisoners were seeing this half fool in a new light. To his elbows in dishwater and wreathed in steam he watched them file across the kitchen with their plates of biscuits and gravy, nodding, gesturing. He smiled back. They saw him again that night, lost in his stained and shapeless suit. He appeared not to have moved the day long nor the stacked pans diminished. After supper he was returned to them clutching his blanket before him.
Well, said Suttree, you back?
Yep.
What happened.
I told em I was done fuckin with em. They want a dishwarsher they can hunt somebody else cause I aint it.
What did they say.
They asked me did I want to be hallboy. Said you make a few dollars sellin coffee.
A few dollars a year.
That's just what I figured. I told em I didnt want no hallboy bullshit.
So what happened?
Nothin. They just sent me on up.
He stood there with his rat's face in a kind of smug smirk. Suttree shook his head.
Yonder he is, called Callahan.
Watermelon man.
Punkins wasnt it?
Punkins? Godamighty.
Yeah, sang out Callahan, we get out we goin to open a combination fruitstand and whorehouse.
Harrogate smiled nervously.
Callahan was sketching for them a portrait of his brothel. Melons in black negligees.
Watch out the niggers dont hear of it.
The niggers is liable to lynch ye.
Other fruits discussed. A cantaloupe turned queer. Do you buy them a drink.
Worst of it is havin gnats swarm around the head of ye dick.
Fruitflies.
Stealing watermelons eh? said Suttree.
Harrogate grinned uneasily. They tried to get me for beast, beast ... Bestiality?
Yeah. But my lawyer told em a watermelon wasnt no beast. He was a smart son of a bitch.
Oh boy, said Suttree.
In the morning he went with them on the trucks. Rising in the rank cold, faint odor of bathless sleepers all about. People stirring in the dull yellow bulblight, stumbling into clothes and shoes. The warmth of the kitchen and the smell of coffee. Cooks and potwashers aged or maimed all hovered by the stove with hot crockery mugs in their hands. Harrogate nodded to them distantly, holding his thumbs wide of his plate.
In the long days of fall they went like dreamers. Watching the sky for rain. When it came it rained for days. They sat in groups and watched the rain fall over the deserted fairgrounds. Pools of mud and dark sawdust and wet trodden papers. The painted canvas funhouse walls and the stark skeletons of amusement rides against a gray and barren sky.
A sad and bitter season. Barrenness of heart and gothic loneliness. Suttree dreamed old dreams of fairgrounds where young girls with flowered hair and wide child's eyes watched by flarelight sequined aerialists aloft.
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