rather than walked down the stairs; almost crashed through the street door, in attempting to open it the wrong way.
After the dog, I had thought nothing more could be done to me, that I was as demoralized as a man could get. But I was wrong. The vicious abuse of the mulatto woman had shaken me in a way that fear could not. Or perhaps it was the fear and the abuse together.
I drove blindly for several minutes, oblivious to the hysterical hornblasts of other cars. The outraged shouts of their drivers, and the squealing of brakes. Finally, however, when I barely escaped a head-on collision with a truck, I managed to pull myself together sufficiently to turn into the curb and park.
I was on an unfamiliar street, one that I could not remember. I was stopped in front of a small cocktail lounge. Wiping my face and hands dry of sweat, I combed my hair and went inside.
"Yes, sir?" The bartender beamed in greeting, pushing a bowl of pretzels toward me. "What'll it be, sir?"
"I think I'll have a-"
I broke off at the sudden insistent jangling from a rear telephone booth. The bartender nodded toward it apologetically, and said, "If you'll excuse me, sir-?" And I told him to go ahead.
He hurried from behind the bar, and back to the booth. He entered, and closed the door. He remained inside for some two or three minutes. Then he came back, again stood in front of me.
"Yes, sir?"
"A martini," I said. "Very dry. Twist instead of olive."
He mixed the drink, poured it with a flourish. He punched the numbers on the tabulating cash register, extended a check as he placed the glass before me.
"One-fifty, sir. You pay now."
"Well-" I hesitated; shrugged. "Why not?"
I handed him two dollar bills. He said, "Exact change, sir."
And he picked up the drink, and threw it in my face.
11
He was a lucky man. As I have said, my general easygoing attitude, an ah-to-hell-with-it attitude, is marred by an occasional brief but violent flare up. And if I had not been so completely beaten down by the dog and the mulatto woman, he would have gotten a broken arm.
But, of course, he had known I had nothing to strike back with. Manny, or the person who had made the call for her, had convinced him of the fact. Convinced him that he could pick up a nice piece of change without the slightest danger to himself.
I ran a sleeve across my face. I got up from my stool, turned and started to leave. Then, I stopped and turned back around, gave the bartender a long, hard stare. I wasn't capable of punching him, but there was something that I could do. I could make sure that there was a connection between the thrown drink, and the afternoon's other unpleasantries-that, briefly, his action was motivated and not mere coincidence.
"Well?" His eyes flickered nervously. "Want somethin'?"
"People shouldn't tell you to do things," I said, "that they're afraid to do themselves."
"Huh? What're you drivin' at?"
"You mean, that was your own idea? You weren't paid to do it?"
"Do what? I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"All right," I said. "I'll tell some friends of mine what a nice guy you are."
I nodded coldly, again turned toward the door.
"Wait!" he said. "Wait a minute-uh-sir?
"It was a joke, see? Just a joke. I wasn't s'posed t'tell ya, an'-I can't tell ya nothin' else! I just can't! But-but-"
"It's all right," I said. "You don't need to."
I left the bar.
I drove home.
I parked in the driveway near the porch. Another car wheeled up behind mine, and Manny got out. Smiling gaily as she came trotting up to me, and hooked an arm through mine.
"Guess what I've got for you, darling. Give you three guesses!"
"A cobra," I said, "and two stink bombs."
"Silly! Let's go inside and I'll show you."
"Let's," I said grimly, "and I'll show you."
We went up the steps, and across the porch, Manny hugging my arm, smiling up into my face. The very picture of a woman with her love. Mrs. Olmstead heard us enter the house, and hurried in from the kitchen.
"My my!"
After the dog, I had thought nothing more could be done to me, that I was as demoralized as a man could get. But I was wrong. The vicious abuse of the mulatto woman had shaken me in a way that fear could not. Or perhaps it was the fear and the abuse together.
I drove blindly for several minutes, oblivious to the hysterical hornblasts of other cars. The outraged shouts of their drivers, and the squealing of brakes. Finally, however, when I barely escaped a head-on collision with a truck, I managed to pull myself together sufficiently to turn into the curb and park.
I was on an unfamiliar street, one that I could not remember. I was stopped in front of a small cocktail lounge. Wiping my face and hands dry of sweat, I combed my hair and went inside.
"Yes, sir?" The bartender beamed in greeting, pushing a bowl of pretzels toward me. "What'll it be, sir?"
"I think I'll have a-"
I broke off at the sudden insistent jangling from a rear telephone booth. The bartender nodded toward it apologetically, and said, "If you'll excuse me, sir-?" And I told him to go ahead.
He hurried from behind the bar, and back to the booth. He entered, and closed the door. He remained inside for some two or three minutes. Then he came back, again stood in front of me.
"Yes, sir?"
"A martini," I said. "Very dry. Twist instead of olive."
He mixed the drink, poured it with a flourish. He punched the numbers on the tabulating cash register, extended a check as he placed the glass before me.
"One-fifty, sir. You pay now."
"Well-" I hesitated; shrugged. "Why not?"
I handed him two dollar bills. He said, "Exact change, sir."
And he picked up the drink, and threw it in my face.
11
He was a lucky man. As I have said, my general easygoing attitude, an ah-to-hell-with-it attitude, is marred by an occasional brief but violent flare up. And if I had not been so completely beaten down by the dog and the mulatto woman, he would have gotten a broken arm.
But, of course, he had known I had nothing to strike back with. Manny, or the person who had made the call for her, had convinced him of the fact. Convinced him that he could pick up a nice piece of change without the slightest danger to himself.
I ran a sleeve across my face. I got up from my stool, turned and started to leave. Then, I stopped and turned back around, gave the bartender a long, hard stare. I wasn't capable of punching him, but there was something that I could do. I could make sure that there was a connection between the thrown drink, and the afternoon's other unpleasantries-that, briefly, his action was motivated and not mere coincidence.
"Well?" His eyes flickered nervously. "Want somethin'?"
"People shouldn't tell you to do things," I said, "that they're afraid to do themselves."
"Huh? What're you drivin' at?"
"You mean, that was your own idea? You weren't paid to do it?"
"Do what? I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"All right," I said. "I'll tell some friends of mine what a nice guy you are."
I nodded coldly, again turned toward the door.
"Wait!" he said. "Wait a minute-uh-sir?
"It was a joke, see? Just a joke. I wasn't s'posed t'tell ya, an'-I can't tell ya nothin' else! I just can't! But-but-"
"It's all right," I said. "You don't need to."
I left the bar.
I drove home.
I parked in the driveway near the porch. Another car wheeled up behind mine, and Manny got out. Smiling gaily as she came trotting up to me, and hooked an arm through mine.
"Guess what I've got for you, darling. Give you three guesses!"
"A cobra," I said, "and two stink bombs."
"Silly! Let's go inside and I'll show you."
"Let's," I said grimly, "and I'll show you."
We went up the steps, and across the porch, Manny hugging my arm, smiling up into my face. The very picture of a woman with her love. Mrs. Olmstead heard us enter the house, and hurried in from the kitchen.
"My my!"
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