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Authors: John Fante
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and suggestive movements I told them why, because the fair white queen didn't want to be carried, if you please, she wanted instead to be laid flat, and at this they all laughed and thought me the greatest lover and hero to ever visit their fair country.
"You understand, fellows. We prefer to be alone, the queen and I. There is much unfinished business between us — if you get what I mean."
Laughter, and wild applauding from the bushes.
Chapter Nine
ONE NIGHT MY uncle dropped in. He gave my mother some money. He could only stay a moment. He said he had good news for me. I wanted to know what he meant. A job, he said. At last he had found me a job. I told him this was not good news, necessarily, because I didn't know what kind of a job he got me. To this he told me to shut up, and then he told me about the job.
He said, "Take this down and tell him I sent you."
He handed me the note he had already written.
"I talked to him today," he said. "Everything is set. Do what you're told, keep your fool mouth shut, and he'll keep you on steady."
"He ought to," I said. "Any paranoiac can do cannery work."
"We'll see about that," my uncle said. Next morning I took the bus for the harbor. It was only seven blocks from our house, but since I was going to work I thought it best not to tire myself by walking too much. The Soyo Fish Company bulged from the channel like a black dead whale. Steam spouted from pipes and windows.
At the front office sat a girl. This was a strange office. At a desk with no papers or pencils upon it, sat this girl. She was an ugly girl with a hooknose who wore glasses and a yellow skirt. She sat at the desk doing absolutely nothing, no telephone, not even a pencil before her.
"Hello," I said.
"That's not necessary," she said. "Who do you want?"
I told her I wanted to see a man named Shorty Naylor. I had a note for him. She wanted to know what the note was about. I gave it to her and she read it. "For pity's sakes," she said. Then she told me to wait a minute. She got up and went out. At the door she turned around and said, "Don't touch anything, please." I told her I wouldn't. But when I looked about I saw nothing to touch. In the corner on the floor was a full tin of sardines, unopened. It was all I could see in the room, except for the desk and chair. She's a maniac, I thought; she's dementia praecox.
As I waited I could feel something. A stench in the air all at once began to suck at my stomach. It pulled my stomach toward my throat. Leaning back, I felt the sucking. I began to feel afraid. It was like an elevator going down too fast.
Then the girl returned. She was alone. But no — she wasn't alone. Behind her, and unseen until she stepped out of the way, was a little man. This man was Shorty Naylor. He was much smaller than I was. He was very thin. His collarbones stuck out. He had no teeth worth mentioning in his mouth, only one or two which were worse than nothing. His eyes were like aged oysters on a sheet of newspaper. Tobacco juice caked the corners of his mouth like dry chocolate. His was the look of a rat in waiting. It seemed he had never been out in the sun, his face was so grey. He didn't look at my face but at my belly. I wondered what he saw there. I looked down. There was nothing, merely a belly, no larger than ever and not worth observation. He took the note from my hands. His fingernails were gnawed to stumps. He read the note bitterly, much annoyed, crushed it, and stuck it in his pocket.
"The pay is twenty-five cents an hour," he said.
"That's preposterous and nefarious."
"Anyway, that's what it is."
The girl was sitting on the desk watching us. She was smiling at Shorty. It was as if there was some joke. I couldn't see anything funny. I lifted my shoulders. Shorty was ready to go back through the door from which he had come.
"The pay is of little consequence," I said. "The facts in the case make the matter different. I am a writer. I interpret the
"You understand, fellows. We prefer to be alone, the queen and I. There is much unfinished business between us — if you get what I mean."
Laughter, and wild applauding from the bushes.
Chapter Nine
ONE NIGHT MY uncle dropped in. He gave my mother some money. He could only stay a moment. He said he had good news for me. I wanted to know what he meant. A job, he said. At last he had found me a job. I told him this was not good news, necessarily, because I didn't know what kind of a job he got me. To this he told me to shut up, and then he told me about the job.
He said, "Take this down and tell him I sent you."
He handed me the note he had already written.
"I talked to him today," he said. "Everything is set. Do what you're told, keep your fool mouth shut, and he'll keep you on steady."
"He ought to," I said. "Any paranoiac can do cannery work."
"We'll see about that," my uncle said. Next morning I took the bus for the harbor. It was only seven blocks from our house, but since I was going to work I thought it best not to tire myself by walking too much. The Soyo Fish Company bulged from the channel like a black dead whale. Steam spouted from pipes and windows.
At the front office sat a girl. This was a strange office. At a desk with no papers or pencils upon it, sat this girl. She was an ugly girl with a hooknose who wore glasses and a yellow skirt. She sat at the desk doing absolutely nothing, no telephone, not even a pencil before her.
"Hello," I said.
"That's not necessary," she said. "Who do you want?"
I told her I wanted to see a man named Shorty Naylor. I had a note for him. She wanted to know what the note was about. I gave it to her and she read it. "For pity's sakes," she said. Then she told me to wait a minute. She got up and went out. At the door she turned around and said, "Don't touch anything, please." I told her I wouldn't. But when I looked about I saw nothing to touch. In the corner on the floor was a full tin of sardines, unopened. It was all I could see in the room, except for the desk and chair. She's a maniac, I thought; she's dementia praecox.
As I waited I could feel something. A stench in the air all at once began to suck at my stomach. It pulled my stomach toward my throat. Leaning back, I felt the sucking. I began to feel afraid. It was like an elevator going down too fast.
Then the girl returned. She was alone. But no — she wasn't alone. Behind her, and unseen until she stepped out of the way, was a little man. This man was Shorty Naylor. He was much smaller than I was. He was very thin. His collarbones stuck out. He had no teeth worth mentioning in his mouth, only one or two which were worse than nothing. His eyes were like aged oysters on a sheet of newspaper. Tobacco juice caked the corners of his mouth like dry chocolate. His was the look of a rat in waiting. It seemed he had never been out in the sun, his face was so grey. He didn't look at my face but at my belly. I wondered what he saw there. I looked down. There was nothing, merely a belly, no larger than ever and not worth observation. He took the note from my hands. His fingernails were gnawed to stumps. He read the note bitterly, much annoyed, crushed it, and stuck it in his pocket.
"The pay is twenty-five cents an hour," he said.
"That's preposterous and nefarious."
"Anyway, that's what it is."
The girl was sitting on the desk watching us. She was smiling at Shorty. It was as if there was some joke. I couldn't see anything funny. I lifted my shoulders. Shorty was ready to go back through the door from which he had come.
"The pay is of little consequence," I said. "The facts in the case make the matter different. I am a writer. I interpret the
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