if he had to have them. He thought he— O, theres the phone.
Louise left, and Harry continued to arrange the papers, hoping—almost praying—that Mr. Wentworth would not call. He suddenly felt nauseous as he realized that that might be him on the phone now. He turned and looked toward Louise, who was nodding her head and writing on a pad. He tried to get her attention by increasing the intensity of his stare, but she continued to listen and take notes. All of a sudden his insides were in a turmoil, his bones and flesh seemed to be knotted with anxiety. For krists sake, Louise, look up, will you? Harry could feel his toes twitching and his eyes starting to tear slightly from staring so hard. Damn it, clenching his jaw tightly, is he on the phone????
Louise hung up the phone, looked at her notes for a few seconds, then noticed Harry staring at her. She returned his
(46)
stare for a second, wondering what was wrong with him, then realized why he was staring and smiled and shook her head no. Harry felt a sudden relief, as if he had just had a reprieve, but then realized that it was to be short-lived, as if he had been taken away from the gas chamber at the last moment, but was already on his way to the gallows. He shook his head. Jesus krist, whats going on? This is crazy. He looked at the mess he had made with the papers, then closed his eyes, took a deep breath and was determined to slow down and just take it easy and get the papers ready. He looked at them for a moment, then carefully and methodically started to assemble them properly.
Louise stopped at his desk on her way out. You look like youre ready to spend the night.
Well, I thought maybe I/d stay around for a few minutes, looking a little sheepish and embarrassed, just in case Mr. Wentworth called.
I dont think he/ll call now, not if he hasnt called already.
Yeah, youre probably right. Guess I/ll pack up.
Goodnight Harry. See you tomorrow.
Yeah. Good night. Harry straightened up his desk and got ready to leave, but decided to stay until five-thirty. He felt that if he somehow stayed that extra half-hour, it would make everything all right, that somehow it would erase what had happened today.
Happened???? Yeah, what in the hell did happen? What is all this bullshit about, anyway? Im doing my job. What do they want from me? Krist, youd think I killed someone, or something. Has it just been one day? Jesus. It seems like years ago since I stood on the corner and waited for whatser-name... . Somethings wacky. Just cant figure it. One day . . . I do a good job. They dont have any right to get on my back like that. O balls. Be damned if I know what it is, but something sure as hell is wrong.
He left the office and walked along Fifth Avenue for a few blocks, his head tumbling with images and words, then got on a bus and rode to Forty-second Street. He got off and walked
(47)
west to Times Square. The crowds seemed unusually oppressive and his ears hurt as if there were some sort of pressure behind them, as if they were about to be pierced with an ice pick, and his eyeballs felt like they were being pressed by two large thumbs.
He stopped at Grants and had a couple of hot dogs and clam juice, then continued down Forty-second Street until he turned into one of the movies. He did not know exactly what was going on on the screen, but it helped relieve the pain in his head. He had reviewed the day so many times, trying desperately to make some semblance of sense out of the events, that he was slowly becoming mentally exhausted, and whatever was happening on the screen absorbed enough from the surface of his mind so that he got relief from the pressure.
After a few hours he left the theater and went home. Every now and then the clacking of the subway train seemed to say Compton & Brisbane, Compton & Brisbane, and he would have to shake his head and concentrate on the people in the train or the advertisements until the noise was
Louise left, and Harry continued to arrange the papers, hoping—almost praying—that Mr. Wentworth would not call. He suddenly felt nauseous as he realized that that might be him on the phone now. He turned and looked toward Louise, who was nodding her head and writing on a pad. He tried to get her attention by increasing the intensity of his stare, but she continued to listen and take notes. All of a sudden his insides were in a turmoil, his bones and flesh seemed to be knotted with anxiety. For krists sake, Louise, look up, will you? Harry could feel his toes twitching and his eyes starting to tear slightly from staring so hard. Damn it, clenching his jaw tightly, is he on the phone????
Louise hung up the phone, looked at her notes for a few seconds, then noticed Harry staring at her. She returned his
(46)
stare for a second, wondering what was wrong with him, then realized why he was staring and smiled and shook her head no. Harry felt a sudden relief, as if he had just had a reprieve, but then realized that it was to be short-lived, as if he had been taken away from the gas chamber at the last moment, but was already on his way to the gallows. He shook his head. Jesus krist, whats going on? This is crazy. He looked at the mess he had made with the papers, then closed his eyes, took a deep breath and was determined to slow down and just take it easy and get the papers ready. He looked at them for a moment, then carefully and methodically started to assemble them properly.
Louise stopped at his desk on her way out. You look like youre ready to spend the night.
Well, I thought maybe I/d stay around for a few minutes, looking a little sheepish and embarrassed, just in case Mr. Wentworth called.
I dont think he/ll call now, not if he hasnt called already.
Yeah, youre probably right. Guess I/ll pack up.
Goodnight Harry. See you tomorrow.
Yeah. Good night. Harry straightened up his desk and got ready to leave, but decided to stay until five-thirty. He felt that if he somehow stayed that extra half-hour, it would make everything all right, that somehow it would erase what had happened today.
Happened???? Yeah, what in the hell did happen? What is all this bullshit about, anyway? Im doing my job. What do they want from me? Krist, youd think I killed someone, or something. Has it just been one day? Jesus. It seems like years ago since I stood on the corner and waited for whatser-name... . Somethings wacky. Just cant figure it. One day . . . I do a good job. They dont have any right to get on my back like that. O balls. Be damned if I know what it is, but something sure as hell is wrong.
He left the office and walked along Fifth Avenue for a few blocks, his head tumbling with images and words, then got on a bus and rode to Forty-second Street. He got off and walked
(47)
west to Times Square. The crowds seemed unusually oppressive and his ears hurt as if there were some sort of pressure behind them, as if they were about to be pierced with an ice pick, and his eyeballs felt like they were being pressed by two large thumbs.
He stopped at Grants and had a couple of hot dogs and clam juice, then continued down Forty-second Street until he turned into one of the movies. He did not know exactly what was going on on the screen, but it helped relieve the pain in his head. He had reviewed the day so many times, trying desperately to make some semblance of sense out of the events, that he was slowly becoming mentally exhausted, and whatever was happening on the screen absorbed enough from the surface of his mind so that he got relief from the pressure.
After a few hours he left the theater and went home. Every now and then the clacking of the subway train seemed to say Compton & Brisbane, Compton & Brisbane, and he would have to shake his head and concentrate on the people in the train or the advertisements until the noise was
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