#but i did try and off myself the same day shiv broke up with me lmao

[faofinn]

A question.

We're in a situation where there is no more Fao and Finn.

Shiv has left, taking Fao and Ely (epoch's, but too much to talk to both of us), and leaving all our fics frozen still.

As mentioned previously, you can find shiv on ao3, but all of my work has only ever been on here.

Would people be interested in a rewritten situation where the Daniels etc remain (but without Fao obv)? Fao left in prev works but removed from future? Leaving the blog frozen with no changes or additions? Completely new characters on a new blog that has zero to do with the boys?

If anyone has any tips etc, they'd be appreciated.

[rhysismydaddy]

Prisoner's Game Pt. 4 (Rowaelin)

THANK YALL FOR BEING PATIENT I AM SO SORRY

Parts 1 \ 2 \ 3

________________________________

Journal Entry #2000

Sometimes I think it wouldn't be so bad to die.

To leave this island forever and not have to worry about being discovered anymore.

I wasn't always this macabre, but two thousand days of checking over my shoulder and wishing for a man's murder has dulled the wishful excitement I felt when I first got here.

Five years ago, I was grateful to even be alive.

I couldn't believe a stranger give up everything for me and the others--couldn't believe she'd agree to fight this battle because of my decision.

I have to actually remind myself to still be grateful to her, if I'm being honest.

Because sometimes I think about that night all those years ago, when she showed up in the darkest part of the night to kill me. When she'd held the knife with a trembling hand and told me that the price for betraying Arobynn Hamel was my life. When we discovered together that she couldn't bring herself to kill me.

Sometimes I think it would be better if she would've just done it.

At least it would've been over.

At least I wouldn't have to spend years on an island, living the same day over and over again. I think that's what's driving me mad, beyond anything else.

The predictability of my time.

Every day, I follow the same routine. The routine she laid out for me in a hushed whisper.

I wake up and go to the small café a mile down the road to watch the news. And every day, I pray to see Arobynn Hamel's face next to to the words, "Breaking news: billionaire crime boss found dead."

Because that was her only stipulation.

That the ten of us would stay on the island, hidden from sight, until news of his death was announced. In exchange, we got to live.

She'd warned me it would take a long time.

She'd told me to not get complacent.

And then she'd whispered what she planned to do.

Even now, over five years later, the words she'd whispered while shoving a plane ticket and a new passport into my hands were crystal clear.

"The devil isn't going to go down easy."

~Aelin~

The shaft of her recently-fashioned shiv was cold in her hand as she silently grabbed it from under her pillow.

The soft clink of the bars shutting again told her whoever had just snuck in her cell was now locked in with her.

Unfortunate for them.

She wasn't afforded the luxury of a clock, but she knew it was the middle of the night. Normal visiting hours were far over. There was no one here but the bored night guards, four janitorial staff, and rows and rows of sleeping inmates.

And the idiot trying to sneak up behind her bed.

She kept her eyes closed as she listened to the quiet steps walk closer and closer. Right when she was about to turn around and attack, they stopped.

Then the weirdest thing happened. It sounded like whoever it was slid down the wall directly across from her bed.

A killer wouldn't do that.

Curiosity piqued, Aelin turned her head to see who and what was going on.

It was dark in the cell, but she'd recognize that shock of silver hair anywhere.

"Rowan?" she whispered, so quietly she almost didn't even hear herself. "What are you doing here?"

He didn't respond, but the way his muscles tensed told her he'd heard her.

Slowly, she sat up so she could see him better and maybe figure out what was going on.

For the first time in a long time, he looked less than perfect. Far less than it, actually.

His hair was going every possible direction, like he'd been running hands through it and pulling on it. He was wearing a gray t-shirt, rumpled dress slacks, and tennishoes that weren't even tied.

But that wasn't what worried her most. It was the way he was sitting completely still and silent.

He didn't even look like he was breathing.

"Hey," she tried again. "What's going on? Look at me."

Another few heartbeats passed, and then he slowly shook his head.

"Please, Rowan. Just look at me."

He winced, like hearing her say his name physically hurt him.

And then his head came up.

Deep green eyes met hers, and even though it was what she'd wanted, what she'd needed, Aelin instantly wished he'd look away.

Because with one look, she knew he'd figured it out.

He knew, and the pain and turmoil in his eyes... she'd put that there.

She'd seen him angry and sad and happy and everything in between, but she'd never seen him, or anyone else, look so broken.

He looked completely and utterly broken as he sat before her.

"Rowan," she whispered, shaking her head even though she didn't know why.

He bowed his head again, seemingly unable to even look at her.

"Ro," she whispered, dropping to her knees in front of him.

Almost like the old nickname broke something inside him, Rowan's shoulders started to shake.

And then he sobbed.

It was the kind of sob that couldn't possibly be held in. The kind that made her heart clench and tears brew in her own eyes, the kind that told her how much pain he was in.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she put a hand on his arm. He shook off the touch like it burned him and looked up at her again.

"I ruined your life," he croaked, the tears on his face reeking of self-hatred. "I ruined your life."

She shook her head. "No, you didn't."

Anger bled into his tone. "I put you in prison for eight years for murdering people who aren't even fucking dead, Aelin. I didn't listen to you, didn't look hard enough. I've had the clues you left me for eight years. We were in love, and I didn't even try hard enough to... I... please explain to me how I didn't ruin your life."

"You did not ruin my life, Rowan," she told him again, meaning every word.

"Eight years of your life, gone because of me. I don't even understand how you can look at me." He huffed a laugh, but he was far from amused. "No wonder you hate me."

His chest was heaving, his hands were in fists, and his stubble-crested jaw was damp with tears.

And she'd thought he hadn't cared.

Aelin felt like a fool--a horrible, stupid fool--for ever doubting him. For thinking him indignant.

Because this was technically what she'd wanted. What she'd planned to happen.

She'd wanted it to hurt, had wanted him to feel an ounce of what she'd felt when he'd led the case against her.

But it wasn't what she wanted anymore.

Moving slowly, Aelin crawled onto his lap, put her hands on the side of his face, and lifted his gaze to hers while she said, "Arobynn Hamel ruined my life, not you."

He shook his head, breathing heavily. "No-"

She cut him off by wrapping herself around him.

Like she was trying to heal physical wounds, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled his head to her chest. She sank into him until there wasn't an inch of space between them. Her hands wandered over his back as she held him tight to her.

He was stiffer than a board at first, but eventually he sagged against her, wrapping his arms around her in return.

It was like he was drowning in the sea, and she was the only thing preventing him from being swept away. He shook, his entire body trembling, and his arms became a vice around her.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered after a moment.

She shook her head, but it didn't matter. He said it again, and again, and again, until his voice was hoarse and broken.

Aelin ran her hands over his back slowly, and just held him as pain he'd felt for eight years seemed to reach a crest.

Eventually he stopped crying and just laid against her, warm breath fanning across her collarbone.

"I'm so sorry, Aelin," he whispered yet again.

"Please stop saying that. None of this is your fault. You aren't the reason I'm in prison."

"Yes, I am," he insisted, shifting beneath her. "But I'm getting you out right now."

He looked up, eyes bright with new-found purpose, and wiped the tears off his cheeks like they were distracting him.

"What?"

He nodded quickly. "We can bring those people back, and you can get your life back. I know it's not the same, and I know I can't get you these years back, but-"

"No."

He paused. "No?"

She shook her head. "I can't leave yet."

"Leave? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I still have shit to do here. I'm not leaving before it's done."

His eyes narrowed. "You're acting like this is a hotel, not a high-security prison. And what do you even mean?"

Aelin had the good sense to feel a little guilty as she slowly got to her feet and walked to the wall at the back of the cell. A few well-placed taps later, it swung open.

Rowan's mouth dropped open, then closed, then repeated the whole routine like he couldn't decide what to say first.

He apparently figured it out, because it opened again so he accuse, "I knew you were robbing me! Where the fuck is my bed?"

She sighed and rubbed her temples. "That's what you care about right now? Seriously?"

He grumbled something as he got to his feet and leaned into the makeshift doorway in the wall.

It took him a few moments to examine the ladder leading down to the tunnel, and then he straightened and looked at her again with a mixture of confusion, awe, and understanding on his face.

"You've been sneaking out this whole time."

She nodded.

Most of her escapes had been in the past six months, but she'd occasionally left in the years before to check on something or track down a lead.

"You beat up your roommate so they'd put you back in solitary."

Aelin nodded again.

"But how did you know they'd bring you to this cell?"

A small smile pulled on her lips. "Look again," she told him, gesturing towards the open brick door.

He stuck his head in the hole again and couldn't stifle his surprised intake of breath as he saw the other ladders.

He came back in the cell, and the expression on his face made her bite her lip to hold back a smile. "You... you tunneled into prison?"

"Into every solitary cell," she confirmed.

"When? Why?"

"One of my old jobs for Arobynn was to break a client of his out of solitary. I knew which cell he was in, but... getting locked up is kind of a right of passage for my former career, so I figured I'd plan ahead and give myself a way out, should I ever need it." She smiled. "Hamel never could figure out how I did it, so it's safe for me to use now."

Rowan spent a long moment looking at her. "That's... genius."

"I tend to be," she agreed.

They were both silent for a minute, then he said, "You need to tell me everything. Enough of both of us wasting time assuming what the other is thinking. We need to get everything out in the open, and we need to do it now."

Aelin nodded, knowing it was true.

It was time to either finally trust him or kill him, and just the thought of the latter made something inside of her twist so hard she felt nauseous.

She nodded to the tunnel, not wanting to have the following conversation overheard by any prying ears. He nodded and followed her down, closing the door behind him.

When she knew they were alone, she started to explain.

"Maddison Kliff, my first so-called victim, funded her campaign for senator with money from Arobynn Hamel."

Rowan's eyebrows went up in surprise, but he nodded for her continue.

"He gave it to her, with the caveat that when she won, she'd vote against renewable energy for Rifthold. He has millions in oil, so when she did the exact opposite and voted for the green plan that switched the city to 70% electric, he took a pretty hard hit." She took a deep breath. "The day after the vote, I got my orders to kill her."

His jaw clenched.

"I went that night, thinking I could do it. Thinking I'd get it over with and never think about it again. I snuck in her townhouse and had everything set up." She let out a laugh. "But then I realized my deal with Arobynn covered ten of Sam's jobs. If I killed Maddison, and did a good enough job of it to get away with it, I knew he'd put nine more names on the list."

"So you didn't do it," Rowan said, like he already knew but needed to hear her say it.

"So I didn't do it."

Aelin ran a hand through her hair, starting to pace. "I ran. And then I went back the next night with a suitcase, a new ID for her, and a plan."

"Why Aruba?" he asked.

"I'd done all that research for our trip," she said, a pang of sadness shooting through her at the memory of planning their first vacation together. "I didn't have time to research another place. And I never told you, but the house I wanted us to rent? You kind of... own it."

"I own a house in Aruba," he repeated slowly, his tone making it clear he didn't understand.

She rolled her eyes at his tone. "Arobynn might be a bastard I'd love to put in a grave, but he paid me well. I was eighteen and didn't know what else to do with the money. So I bought a house."

"In Aruba. In my name."

She nodded. "No one can trace it back to you. It's hidden in an off-shore corporation, owed by another off-shore corporation, but technically, yes, you're the owner. It was going to be your Christmas present."

"You bought me a house," his lips twitched. "For a Christmas present."

"I was in love with you," she muttered. Then pointed out, "My lack of shopping impulse control really isn't the point of the story."

He rolled his eyes, still fighting a grin at her antics. "Please continue."

"Right. So I sent her to the house in Aruba and told her to stay at the house with anyone else he wanted me to kill. I told her to not say a word to anyone besides those people, and that I'd be forced to actually kill her if she did. If Arobynn finds out they're alive, he'll send someone for me."

She explained the list next. "He requires proof of all completed jobs, so I kept the "murder weapons" and made sure the crime scenes had enough blood to indicate the person couldn't still be alive. It was mostly fake, but I took just enough blood from each of the victims and mixed it in to make it realistic enough to fool DNA scanners. Then I put the weapons in storage lockers he owns and wrote the numbers down so I wouldn't forget them."

Rowan nodded, most certainly remembering that part.

He was doing a good job of hiding his emotions, but she still saw how heavily this all weighed on him.

Everything he'd been feeling for eight years was hitting him at once, and while explanation made sense, it probably didn't make him feel any better about the role he'd played in all of this.

He confirmed it by asking, "Why didn't you tell me?"

He asked it almost casually, but she didn't miss the pain he couldn't keep from seeping into his voice.

"I wanted to," she breathed. "Gods, I wanted to. I know now you investigated before giving the list to the cops, but to me, it looked like you found it and just turned me in. You never asked me. And you looked at me... you looked at me like you thought I was guilty. I knew you wouldn't believe me."

Rowan went quiet, regret and shame coming off of him in waves so thick she almost choked on it.

"How is all of this going to play out?" he asked, seemingly trying to force himself to think about something else. "And what do you have to do that you need to be in prison for?"

She hesitated, suddenly not wanting to tell him.

Not out of a lack of trust, but because if she told him... he'd realize she's guilty of the crime she's in prison for. He might go back to hating her, back to thinking her a horrible person.

And she just got him back.

She's pulled from her thoughts when he reaches a hand out, slowly gripping her jaw to tilt her face to his.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, the words final.

Of course he knew what she was thinking just from looking at her face. He always was a little too astute.

A part of Aelin wanted to put on a brave face and act like that wasn't exactly what she'd been worrying about, but a bigger part wanted him. Wanted him to see that even after all this time, she needed him.

So she forced down the witty jokes and sultry smiles she usually used as ways to hide her vulnerability and looked up at him.

"Promise?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "I promise, Aelin."

His hand was still on her face, and he leaned in until his forehead rested against hers. "I'm never going to leave you again. I'm so... I'm so fucking sorry I did in the first place. I should've come to you, or at least listened when you told me you were innocent."

"I'm sorry I thought you didn't fight for me," she said back. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

They'd both done things they regretted, but Aelin knew that now, no matter what, he was telling the truth. He wasn't going to leave her.

The knowledge felt like a weight lifting off her shoulders, and just to lighten the mood, she whispered, "And I'm sorry I stole your bed."

He pulled back to glare at her. "You're going to explain one day how you even pulled that off. But I'd like the answer to my other question first."

Aelin took a step back and ran a hand through her hair.

"Arobynn Hamel dying is the endgame, Rowan. I have to stay in prison so I can kill him and have an alibi no one will question."

He paused, and for a moment, her fears skyrocketed, so she rushed to explain, "As long as he's alive, those people have to be in hiding and I have to look like I killed them. Once he's dead, I can bring them back without worrying Arobynn will kill them. Or me."

He gave her a strange look, but she spoke before he could, explaining, "It's why I've been in prison for so long. I would've killed him and ended it years ago, but I only found him a couple months ago. He's been in hiding ever since I was locked up, because the FBI knew I was one of his and started looking for him."

"Okay, but Aelin-"

She cut him off. "I know it's insane and not at all ideal, but I need you to leave me in here. Just until he's dead, and then it's over."

He stepped forward and grabs her shoulders, shaking her slightly.

And then he did the weirdest thing.

He smiled.

"What the hell do you look happy about?" she demanded. "I'm being serious-"

It was his turn to interrupt her. "Aelin, if that's the stipulation, you're already free."

Unease drifted through her stomach. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he's already dead."

Shock rushed through her so fast and thoroughly, her vision swam and she swayed in his grip. "What... what did you just say?"

"That's why I came today, now. I actually figured out you were innocent two days ago, but I wasn't going to come until I could tell you with certainty I was getting you out, and I knew you couldn't bring everyone back without risking your life. I've spent the past 48 hours planning a jailbreak and a way to sneak you to somewhere the US doesn't have extradition."

He grinned again. "But then it was announced on the 11 o'clock news tonight that he died last week of pneumonia complications. His family kept it private because they wanted a small funeral, but he's dead, Aelin."

Still feeling the weight of shock, she argued, "He's not dead."

"But he is."

"No," she insisted, pushing away from him and starting to pace again. "He can't be dead."

His face softened at the panic in her voice. "Aelin, I know you wanted it to be you, but-"

"No, Rowan, you don't understand. I mean he cannot physically be dead, because I haven't finished killing him!"

It was his turn to be shocked.

"What do you mean you haven't finished killing him?"

She took a deep breath, trying to keep her emotions in check. "I've been poisoning him since the day I figured out where he holes up. Turns out he has kidney problems and goes in once a week for dialysis. I show up and add a little... extra to his medication. The last time I went was less than a week ago, and while he might have been sick, he most definitely was still alive."

Besides that, what were the odds that Rowan figured out her "victims" were still alive, and just two days later Arobynn croaks?

It would be one hell of a coincidence, and Aelin learned long ago to not believe in those.

His eyes went wide. "What? You mean he faked his death? Why the hell would he do that?"

"Because," she said slowly, dread forming like a lead ball in her stomach as she realized what this meant for her, for the ten people whose lives she'd traded her freedom for. "I told Maddison and the others to wait for news of his death before coming back. I told them that until he was dead, they weren't safe."

She shook her head, whispering, "I told them to watch the news."

Rowan realized what she was saying and cursed.

"He knows."

~~~~~~~~~~~

Lemme know in the comments if you want to be tagged!

Part 5 will (realistically) be out in the next three weeks. Sorry for the slow updates; school is consuming all my time and energy.

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[fbdo1986]

Winter’s Chill - A Succession Fic

a/n: We meet again! Once again, here is something exploring the Roys and their sibling bonds! Admittedly, I’m digging deep into some of my own weaknesses here, but I couldn’t help but write something after discussing the concept (Connor holding onto things that his siblings grew out of) with a friend. This takes place on the timeline of Season 1, but without any of the events transpiring that cause Connor to be brought into conversations surrounding the future of Waystar Royco. 

Warnings: Brief Allusions to Death and Grief/Loss (actual loss is not present)

Word Count: 3222

On a regular January evening in New York, the soft sheen of snow leaves a film on all the windows of houses and apartments alike, and the sound of it brushing up against the panes has an almost transfixing quality. People outside brave the cold, swaddled in winter coats and scarves that are close to dragging on the ground. Crowded streets don’t have a chance to get very slick, yet the chill seems to coat everything the snow doesn’t touch. Those inside face a lingering shiver, with windows and doors locked tightly so as not to let anything in. If it weren’t so regular this time of year, it would be almost comforting. The isolated figures of the Roy siblings take refuge inside, not many miles from one another. The three go through the same motions, nearly. Funneling warm breath into chapped hands, shrugging off coats, as though they passed around the same mannerisms amongst themselves. 

The same can’t be said currently across the country, where both Connor and his girlfriend bustle about inside his home, until Willa stops in front of what catches her eye. 

“What do you have all this stuff for?” She asks, picking up a box that sits against the desk at the far corner of the living room. She sets it on the tabletop, leaving it unopened.

“What’s that?” Connor calls from the kitchen, meandering back into the living room to hear her clearer. 

“You’ve got… boxes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you open them.” She traces a hand over the cardboard as he rejoins her side. “Can I open this?” She looks up at him momentarily, her dark eyes meeting his light ones.

“Sure.” He says softly. He backs up, leaving room for her. It’s been a while. Usually, Connor goes through these things alone. He’s unsure, this might hold things that he’s kept so long he almost forgets what they are. Maybe that’s for the better.

So the box is opened. And immediately as her hands retreat, recognition tinged with regret washes over him. There’s no tape saving it from inspection, and the perplexity adorning Willa’s face stings, because there’s no right way—no proper way—to explain these seemingly useless mementos. But he’s kept them in any way he can, physically or otherwise. But now it’s the only way he has a piece of them at all.

He practically hides his face, like a little kid. Caught red-handed in sentimentality that he can’t look in the eye. 

“Are these yours?” She holds them up for him to see. They’re like evidence of a crime scene. Of a better self. It feels like years and years ago. A lifetime. They’re one of various pairs of mittens: blue with a snowflake pattern. They’re the size of a child’s hand. 

Tears clog his throat. His chin quivers. 

“What’s wrong?” She looks at him with a concern that words cannot convey. She knows that his childhood—all of theirs, collectively—is a sore, tender subject maybe best kept in boxes. Her frown gets deeper with every passing second.

He wants to say that it’s nothing. But really, it shows fully how much time has passed. It's etched in the pattern, he swears. But lord, when did these get so small? How could they have grown? Even more than he remembers, much more than that. And he knows, of course he knows they have. But with the true recognition of it—years and years between them, even though it feels like yesterday—his chest tightens, releases, and then the words fall out.

“They’re Kenny’s.” He turns away. “And the red ones are Shiv’s.” He swipes a hand across his face and is unsurprised by the fact that when he draws it away it’s wet with tears. “Rome’s are at the bottom.” 

No one penetrates the silence right away. Finally, Willa speaks tentatively. “Did something happen? They’re not…?”

“No.” He interrupts before she can complete the thought. “I-I talk about them like they’re ghosts. I mourn them like they’re gone. And-and they haunt me. But they’re not.” His shoulders come to meet his ears defensively, nearly folding in on himself.

She softens. “How long has it been?” She knows a lot about Connor’s siblings, he talks about them frequently and rarely spares any details. But she’s never seen them around, and there is—if nothing else—a rift surrounding them purely due to distance. Yet what she’s sure of, something he’s spent his whole life building, is a bond that connects them further than just through their father. 

He clears his throat. “Uh, six years.” Since he’s seen them all at once. It was at Kendall’s wedding. Some big, elaborate thing. And of course, he never made the conscious choice to leave them behind. In fact, he devoted himself to quite the opposite as he left home at eighteen. By twenty-one, he had his own place which served as an unofficial second home for his siblings just as much as it did for him. So it’s difficult to articulate how or why this ever happened. But somewhere between then and now, it all slipped away. 

Now, they paint a funny picture. Kendall, ushered into the business as soon he was old enough with Roman trailing at his heels, and Shiv holding her own trying to shoulder her way into politics, all around the little epicenter that is where they grew up. And, well, he’s somewhere in New Mexico. That’s all he can say. It slipped away. 

He grasps at her hands, but stops himself short. His voice is a near whisper. “Oh, Will. I want it back so badly. I want to go back, turn time around and make it up to them. Because… I remember everything. When each of them were born. When I got home just in time to see Roman for the first time. Shiv’s first cello recital, when I taught Kenny how to swim. And his drawings. I doubt that dad ever kept them.” And then it breaks. “I was everything. Now I’m just… nothing. How do you… forgive yourself for realizing you spent as much time in someone’s life as you have out of it? How do you stop feeling sorry?” 

It hurts him. It hurts him more than the multiple unspoken understandings he’s made throughout his life, some he only fully processed years afterward. More than knowing there was a day when his father decided he just wasn’t enough. And even more than the day where Kendall broke his arm, and Connor swore his chest felt the same impact. All the air was crushed out of his lungs. All it took was one thud and then grass—green grass, streaked through with summer sun—didn’t look quite the same anymore. 

In the pause she brushes the tears from his cheek. “Sweetheart, you can’t just stop everything. You can’t forget that you have a life. You can’t be everything. You can’t.” She stands stoically, softening with the last few words. 

“It’s not about that. It’s the fact that I promised myself I would do something, be something for them. I remember it so clearly.” His face hardens as more tears gather at his chin. He pretends they aren’t there.

“But you said it yourself. They’re not gone. Why have you waited? Why not reach out, try again?”

“I’m scared. I don’t… I don’t want to face them knowing I disappointed them.” It’s as though every year the reminder cuts deeper and deeper. He’s further and further from those days spent in the park, ensuring that before every outing they were bundled up tight, scarves around their necks with their mittened hands in his own. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine it. Anything else. It’s as though anything beyond the smallness of their hands was just pretend. Even as he saw it all unfold in adulthood, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was like seeing a little kid in daddy’s suit. Trying to be big, drowning in clothes. Just playing pretend. 

And then…. it wasn’t anymore. And now the rest comes rushing forward, and now that time finally caught up… it’s terrifying to admit. 

Willa shakes him out of it further. “You can’t keep them like objects, Con. They’re real people. Real people you can talk to. And if you’re even half as good of a brother as you make yourself out to be they definitely miss you. You’re not disappointing anyone.”

He sighs, absentmindedly thumbing the fabric of the small mitten he’s just taken in his hands. It’s Kendall’s. He puts it to his chest and gives it a squeeze. He isn’t quite sure of how they’d see him now, like this. He laughs with tears in his eyes. He’s always been sentimental, sure, but he doesn’t think anyone knows that he’s kept these things.

“So come on. Tell me your stories.” She chuckles, coaxing him to sit as her hands hold his forearms. “You have some, don’t you? About the mittens. Of course you do.” She presses a kiss into his forehead. “And tomorrow, you’ll make this right again. Okay? Call. Write. Start with Kendall. Start anywhere.” Warmth blooms in her features and so they settle, stopping their bustling to reminisce.

“Now, go on. Remember the sweet things." It's useless to combat her smile. So he starts, telling her about when they went out in the cold and he taught them how to make snow angels. How their eyes brightened when they realized there was no restraint here, that they could enjoy themselves with all the giddiness in the world. And so, they made a routine of it. Every chance he got, trekking out of the house just to see the sparks in their eyes. Falling and laughing in snow. Even if it took up the whole afternoon, even if it left their faces red and chapped from the wind, their glow never left.

The next day Connor gathers up the courage to take Willa’s advice, and with a deep breath he dials the phone.

A voice on the other end appears. "Hello?"

"Uh, Kendall?" He's a little frantic, since he didn't expect him to pick up, honestly.

"Con? Are you alright?" He’s unsure exactly why Kendall felt compelled to ask, but he supposes maybe asking a question off the bat isn’t expected. Or, maybe it's the waver in his voice, on the edge of breaking, or the simple fact that he’s doing this at all. 

"Yeah, of course. I'm sorry. I know it's a little out of the blue. Hey, uh, if you're busy I can always call back—" He backpedals. It’s too much to put onto him some random night, some odd years later.

"No." Kendall eases him, and takes a seat close to where he stands. "I'm good. We can talk."

Connor doesn’t speak right away, leaving a silence which Kendall scrambles to fill. “... Hey, um.” He exhales sharply. “Clearly you called for some reason, and if you don’t want to go through with it I’m not going to force you, but, it’d be nice. Y’know. To talk.” 

He hates how tense he feels, how abnormal this has become. "I'm sorry, Kenny." 

"Sorry? Why are you sorry? Don’t lie to me." Solid concern pools into his voice. And Connor can picture him like he’s right in front of him.

He weakens. He’s always had a tendency for this, to choke up when it comes down to it. “Gd.” He pinches the bridge of his nose momentarily. “Everything. All of it, Ken. I—I’m so sorry that I couldn’t stay. That I couldn’t be your big brother anymore. The way I used to be.”

“Connie… ” Kendall says, frowning slightly.

“Come on, Ken. You can’t do that to me.” Connor says, smiling sadly as he wipes away more stray tears from his eyes. “You just can’t. You know how I get.” The nickname feels charged, almost. As though it carries the weight of all the memories they forged when it was just him and Kendall.

“But I mean. You-you’ve always done enough. You were always there. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“But isn’t that all I’ve ever had, really? What else? What else have I done, or devoted myself to? As if I even did something that ever helped, that made you proud.” Connor huffs dismissively. “I’ve had my whole life to make things better, and what have I done? I retreated.” 

“No, you didn’t. You made us a home, a real one. You always had our backs, and protected us.” It’s something Kendall has held close his whole life. And although he doesn’t talk about it with them, he knows Shiv and Roman house the same sentiment.

“But I just, I’ve been gone so long. So many things have happened and all I’ve wanted to do is ask. But, but, I don’t know. I just, I have some things of yours, from when you were kids, and I dunno. If you’d want them back, I can—I can… ” His chest is heavy. It’s leaden with just wanting to let it out, that he misses him. That he misses when they grew up, when he was their outlet, the doorway to the world beyond their walls. That really, his siblings are the only fond reminders of home. He covers his face momentarily, heaving out a watery sigh.

It’s ridiculous. Trying to rewind time, trying to force Kendall to understand after such a gap of time, or hell, choking up on the telephone. There’s just no easy way to say it. No way to put how he feels into words, especially if he can’t get it out. But honestly, there’s just a piece of him that’s never quite been filled. And while feeling completely whole is out of the question, closing the gap might help. It’s the only thing he’s holding onto.

Connor’s shoulders slump forward. “Just, forgive me, I guess. For how long it’s been.” Neither can deny that.

“Oh, Con. It’s—This? Please. None of it is your fault.” It’s all so much more than that. So much bigger than any of them can fathom, more than they can ever fully come to terms with.

“Still. I could’ve been there. I used to be.” He scoffs. “I don’t even know how you are.”

“You know I can’t blame you for that. Leaving.” Kendall reassures him. “I mean that.”

“So I guess that means things are hard, then.” Connor doesn’t even mean to jump there, it just happens. Because he’s the only one who had the chance.

“It means they’re like they’ve always been. I’m okay.” Kendall laughs softly, and it eases them both.

“Okay.” A small smile flicks to Connor’s face even as he tries to fight it. It’s a touch ironic, how Connor has to be reassured by Kendall now, when the roles were reversed growing up. He was always that figure, a pair of shoulders to be leaned into for comfort, looming above the rest. 

And pretty soon, they slip into normal conversation. Trading simple anecdotes and jokes surrounding their current circumstances, time doesn’t quite rewind—but it does make it slow somehow. Laughter is easy, and somewhere they forget about the hurt that inspired the conversation in the first place.

Yet eventually, silence falls between them. Each brother tenses instinctively, fearing that the distance has been built between them again, that it’s too much to overcome. That they’ve waded deep enough that there’s nothing to fall back on; small talk can’t save them now.

“Connor?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep the things you have. My things. Okay?” Kendall pauses. “... And I miss you.” His heart tugs with guilt and fondness in tandem. And soon he’s spilling quiet tears of his own.

“I miss you, too.” Connor says finally, with a soft droop of his shoulders. The words are an exhale.

“So, um. Come back sometime. And uh, don’t be afraid to stay.” Kendall sniffs. “I’m sure the rest would want to catch up. You still have your place in the city, right? From when we were kids?”

“Yeah, yeah. I do.” Another instance of keeping pieces of the past. He doesn’t hesitate to smile, though.

“Good. Like old times, then.” Kendall says solidly.

“Yeah.” Connor nods to himself. “Yeah.” 

“Honey? It’s snowing.” Willa calls sweetly, eyes and smile equally wide. It’s a sight that they aren’t graced with often, since they’re secluded from the depths of the mountainous ranges of the state, where snow collects on their peaks. He sneaks a glance through the windows and surely enough, light flakes dance to ground below them.

“Well, I won’t keep you.” Kendall’s voice is amused, hiding a chuckle. He’s heard Willa in the background. “But uh, can I count on you? Staying for a little while?”

“You can. I’ll let you know when, but it’ll be soon. I swear.” He’ll make it up to them, he knows he will. This time, he’s sure.

“I know. I always could.” The sentiment is enough to draw tears from them again. They’ve never tried to hide their proclivity for emotion, but it’s the rest that makes it stew in their stomachs—how attached it seems to be to when Kendall would collapse into his arms unthinkingly, with Connor already outstretched, ready for the weight—that makes it that much easier to falter. It’s not… sad, not happy either. Just the understanding that somehow they ended back up just like they used to be, with fragile arms instead of strong ones. When neither is big nor small, just something in between. Something a little too quick to break, something that toes the line between readiness and second-guessing, where both need something bigger to hold them up even when they stand heads above where they used to. 

“Well, uh. Thanks, Kenny. I mean it. ” Connor says sheepishly. “Not just for this, even.” 

“Take care of yourself, alright?” Kendall offers, like it’s a hand on the shoulder.

“I will.”

So that’s how they leave it. No intentional goodbye, yet it’s filled instead by knowing that this time, there’s a plan to return. He won’t let it slip from his hands or get shoved into boxes to become souvenirs of childhood. It’s as tangible as the phone in his hands or the snowflakes coming to rest on the landscape unexpectedly housing them.

He sidles comfortably up against Willa, and the two venture out into the cold. A shiver takes her by the shoulders and he pulls her close as they watch the snow fall gently. The mountains are far away, so the expanse of desert as it meets the sky—quickly blurring to white—seems to chase on forever. There’s nothing around to greet them, as though the world could swallow them up, and it’s not as though there isn’t an occasional wish for more beyond their windows, even when the sky is brilliantly blue. However, they’ve been granted another guest, even if it’s just fleeting snow that dissolves on their fingertips. They’ve been gone from the city for years now, and that’s a reminder on its own. But whereas the city goers let it gather on their clothes and hair without a second thought, almost with annoyance, Connor welcomes it—albeit childishly, without the thought of covering his hands—as an opening, a prospect, an occurrence that he can’t help answer with the tinge of laughter. “Huh.” He smiles, wondering if it’s snowing again in New York. 

[chloca-cola]

Resonance Chapter Two: Love Bites(And So Do I)

Chapter 2 of my The Last Of Us fic 💕

TW: None, only some swearing

Word Count: 2,290

~

~Present Day~

"Hey, wake up." Ellie's voice broke through Joel's fitful slumber and he grumbled, slowly opening his eyes and waving her away.

"I'm up, I'm up." He complained, sitting up and stretching, as Ellie's eyes studied him hard. "What?" He asked, annoyed, and she sighed, standing from her couched position. 

"You were talking in your sleep." She offered softly. "Again. You do it a lot." Joel scoffed, standing up from the makeshift bed on the floor, all his joints cracking, and he groaned.

"What I say?" He inquired, grumpily, and Ellie shrugged, gathering her things and stuffing them back into her backpack.

"Something about Scavengers. A mistake. Nothing like groundbreaking or anything." Joel hung his head, he had been having a dream about Mickey Two-Knives. A woman he hasn't thought about in a few years now. He rubbed his forehead and turned back to Ellie, a serious look on his face.

"Look, all I'm gonna say about it is, we gotta be extremely careful through this next area." Ellie tilted her head at the older man in confusion.

"More infected? We can handle them, no problem." Joel pursed his lips together, shaking his head, not sure how to tell Ellie exactly why they had to be so wary about this territory that was once known as the Appalachian Mountains, back when names of things mattered.

"Not exactly. From what I've heard and read along our way here. This is Mickey Two-Knives new huntin' grounds."

"Mickey Two-Knives?" Ellie sounded just like Joel had the first time he learned that firecrackers name and he shook his head, as he donned his pack.

"Trust me, don't let that cartoonish name fool ya. She's a menace. She earned that name for a reason." Ellie shrugged, unconvinced, scoffing loudly, brushing passed Joel and he sighed.

"Anyone who has a name like that sounds like they're living in a video game." She offered on a long sigh, her arms swinging as she walked and Joel followed along behind her, catching up to her quickly.

"Ellie, trust me. Just stay behind me ok? And if we do see her, whatever you do, don't say that to her." Ellie rolled her eyes, but deep down she knew that since Joel was so cautious around this Mickey person it had to be for a reason. 

She looked around them as they were walking along quietly, even though she's seen woods now, back around Boston, they just looked...different here. 

"This place is really...green." She whispered to Joel and he made an affirming sound.

"Yeah, real pretty. It's always been a beautiful area, even before nature retook everything." 

"You been here before now. Well, before all of this?" She asked, catching back up to Joel, as he crouched, listening carefully to their surroundings.

"Yeah, long time ago. With Tommy. Our Glorious Hiking Trip, he called it." She smiled at him.

"You guys ride your Harleys here?" He nodded, motioning for her to stay back while he checked something out. He climbed over the log, easily walking, staying close to the ground, when something whizzed by his face, barely missing slicing off his nose, and it embedded itself in the tree beside him.

"Shit!" He shouted, standing and staggering back a few steps, looking around until his eyes landed on a throwing knife. His eyes narrowed, studying it closely, stepping closer to it.

"I thought I told ya if I ever saw ya again I'd kill ya, Joel." It was Mickey, she stepped out into the clearing, both of her bowie knives in her hands ready to fight him. Joel spun around to see her standing before him, not looking like she's aged much since the last time they had a standoff. "Ya got some big fuckin' balls comin' into my territory." She snarled at him, taking another menacing step towards him, which to Ellie, just looked comical because of their size difference. Joel held out his hands in a placating manner, as she moved closer to him, bound and determined to fight him. She couldn't believe after 10 years, she's seeing his fucking face again. "Shoulda went around the mountains."

"I couldn't do that, Mickey, you know that, now, just calm down." Her nostrils flared, her hazel-green eyes furious, her pale face was growing redder by the second.

"Calm down?!" She shouted at him as she lunged towards him, knives raised to strike, Joel grabbed his gun and was about to shoot when Mickey got tackled from the side by Ellie. They fell in a heap a few feet away from Joel. 

"You're not gonna fucking kill Joel, I'll kill you first!" At first Mickey was too dazed to react to this small teenager on top of her, but after a few ticks, she easily bucked Ellie off of her. Ellie was on her feet quickly, her own gun drawn too. Mickey scrambled to her feet, gathering her knives again, staring at the both of them, but more so at Ellie. She was calculating her age, trying to determine if Joel had a daughter again.

The wheels were turning, Joel could see that, after spending as much time with her as he had all those years ago, he knew when she was lost in her thoughts.

"She's not my daughter." Joel answered causing Mickey to look at him in mock surprise, replacing his gun at the small of his back, his hands outstretched again in a show of pacifism. 

"Yeah, I gathered that one. She's what 13? Unless ya had…" She nearly said "one", knowing Joel had once, in fact, had a daughter, she bit her tongue. "Her, before we met up."

"She's right here." Ellie quipped, motioning towards herself as she watched the two adults before her interacting, following Joel's example, and putting her gun away. Mickey looked back to her, her eyes looking Ellie up and down before averting her gaze from her back to Joel.

"Why are ya here?" The same question, 10 years later, the same cadence of speaking, the same distrusting eyes.

"We're just passed through." She frowned at him, remembering the night she first met him and the anger and sadness rose in her, and Joel could see it in her eyes. Ellie looked between them, so many questions filling her brain. What had happened between them? "I'm just trying to get to Tommy." 

"Yeah...tried to kill him a few years ago, too, when he came through these parts." She still hadn't put her knives back in their sheaths on her thighs, so Joel knew not to make any sudden movements. Mickey may looked relaxed, but she was still poised to strike him. "Surprised ya two split ways." She made her way around them to the tree, never turning her back on either of them, switching one bowie knife to her other hand long enough to retrieve her throwing knife, and she replaced it in her pouch.

"We had some differences-" Mickey clucked her tongue, shaking her head, smiling sarcastically at him, both her hands armed again.

"Wasn't askin' because I don't fuckin' care." Ellie chuckled then, causing Mickey to turn her attention to the young girl again. 

"Don't encourage her, Ellie." Joel warned, and Ellie rolled her eyes over exaggeratedly, motioning to Mickey.

"That shit was funny though." She pointed out and Mickey smiled at her, nodding approvingly.

"I like this kid already. Name's Mickey Two-Knives." She replaced one bowie knife in its sheath, to hold out the hand for Ellie to shake.

"Ellie." She greeted and Joel sighed as he watched the two females shaking hands, finally relaxing his posture, stepping towards them, only for another knife to be thrown in his direction, ducking just in time. His hands flew up to shield his face, looking back towards where the knife sat in another tree.

"Dammit, Mickey." He cursed at her and she squatted down next to him, leaning her head down down to get a better look at his face as he lowered his hands, her own hands dangling between her legs as her forearms rested on her knees.

"Don't think that just because I like the girl here that it means I forgive ya for what ya did." She stated, before tapping his scruffy chin with her index finger, causing Joel to give her a stern look as they locked glares. "I'm only gonna help ya through these here parts because of that girl. If she weren't here, I'd have killed ya." Ellie let out a frustrated scoff.

"Man, fuck off lady, we got this far without you-"

"Ellie." Joel stated sternly, and Mickey held his gaze, still smiling sarcastically at him. 

"Keep that spirit kid. It'll get ya a long way." Mickey let Joel go, standing back to her full height, spinning on her heels to face Ellie. "But don't think for a minute that ya understand what happened between Joel and me." 

Mickey walked passed Ellie, the young girl watching Mickey's back as she grew smaller from the distance, but Mickey stopped, looking over her shoulder. 

"Y'all comin'?" Joel sighed to himself, standing up straight, and moving to retrieve Mickey's knife for her.

"Not even breathin' hard." He muttered to himself, turning the knife this way and that, before adding it to his shivs.

"D'you say something, Joel?" Ellie asked, but he just shook his head.

"Nothing important." He assured, before they followed along behind Mickey.

"Time hasn't been kind to you, huh?" Joel asked, causing Mickey to make a 'tsch' sound, cutting her eyes sharply at him, looking him over as they walked through the abandoned streets of this mountain town.

"You're no panty dropper yourself." She snapped back, and Joel gave her a sour look. Ellie walked along behind them, shaking her head at the obvious sexual tension between them. 

"Like I'd be trying to impress you that way anyway." He retorted, as both their heads were on a swivel, checking out their surroundings. 

"Like ya could ever get into my pants." She snapped again, before she held a hand out, palm down, a gesture of stay still and get down. "People still invade my territory from time to time. I gotta big area, hard to patrol it all by myself." She whispered, as she crouched down, pointing at a few lone people, who were digging through the cars. "Been more of 'em lately."

"Why not recruit them?" Ellie asked, and Mickey looked at her, shrugging a shoulder.

"What can I say, people aren't really my thing anymore." She stated pointedly at Joel, who rolled his eyes.

"What do you want me to say, Mickey? Sorry?" He asked, flippantly, and she growled at him, eyes flooding with tears that she blinked away quickly.

"Sorry won't cut it, ya asshole." She stated coldly, and Ellie sighed, rubbing her face,  exasperated already with these two.

"You guys are supposed to be the adults here. I shouldn't have to tell you to pay attention." Joel and Mickey looked over their shoulders at Ellie, who was giving them both a stern look and Joel sighed.

"She's right, ya know." Mickey stated, looking back at the group which had now grown in size and she cursed. "Oh, what the fuck. Seriously? Why is it that whenever ya show up on my doorstep, shit happens?" Mickey grumbled, shoving Joel by his shoulder and Ellie pushed her in return. "Look kid, I like ya, but I'm ain't above killin' a child." Mickey warned, and Ellie scoffed.

"That's real goddamn noble of you." She bit back, while Joel eyed them both, it was like having two Mickey's now, and who the hell needs that? 

"Nobility died with the humans, or haven't ya heard?" Ellie frowned at the older woman, challenging her.

"How the hell are humans gonna come back from this if that's how you feel?" That shut Mickey up quickly, how could she have forgotten that over these last ten years? She hung her head, chewing on her bottom lip mulling over those words, knowing it's how she used to believe before her life fell apart. She finally nodded, looking back at Ellie.

"Ok, kid, I'll give ya that one. I'm sorry." Mickey looked back up to see Joel's shocked face and she scowled at him again. "What the hell is that look for?"

"I...don't think I've ever heard you say I'm sorry." Mickey scrunched her nose at Joel, feeling fury only he knows how to cause rise in her.

"Oh, fuck off Joel." They both glared daggers at one another and Ellie rolled her eyes again.

"Are we gonna confront them?" She asked, trying to subvert another argument between them and Mickey nodded.

"Of course, this is my fuckin' territory after all." Joel shook his head, pointing his finger towards the nearly 20 people now.

"There's too many, Mickey." He pointed out and she snorted at him, rolling her eyes.

"That'll just make it more interestin'. Don't tell me you're scared now, Joel." She countered and Joel shook his head, looking at Ellie, a warning that she stay here.

"I'm not letting you go out there alone." Joel stated, pulling his gun from the small of his back, and Mickey waved her hand flippantly.

"You ain't letting me? Honey, ya can't control me." She quipped, vaulting over the barricade and running head first towards the group. 

"She's crazy!" Ellie shouted at Joel, as he turned to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

"Stay here and take people out when you can, but do not leave cover." She nodded, getting her own gun out and moving closer to the barricade, as Joel leaped over it, following Mickey into the fray.

[injusticeff]

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dom

The prison orange that I was required to wear just symbolized everything about my freedom being taken away. I couldn’t even eat freely anymore; everything was on a timed schedule, every single day.

It was something I hated since usually, I had always been so unpredictable.

I got mean mugs from people I didn't even know and the food tasted like they just threw any old thing together and called it breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It only took a few days for me to stop pushing away the food and not eating it, seeing as I was most likely going to be in here for a while.

My trial had been held about a week ago and seeing everything that I had been charged with, the judge gave me the maximum of fifteen years for the attempted homicide alone. Once I heard that, I didn't even care to listen to the rest of the sentencing for my other charges. I most likely had a life sentence on my hands and I wasn't sure if I could do the full twenty with all of these criminals around me.

We had to be up at a certain time every day and although I tried to avoid going to get breakfast as much as I could, we couldn't just roam around whenever we wanted to since this was a maximum security prison. Only the worst criminals who couldn't be trusted were transferred here, and I just felt like I didn't belong here at all. Nearly half of the men here have murdered someone. The only person I've tried to kill ended up living so I didn't understand why the judge had me here.

What I've done wasn't even half as bad as what some of these other people have done.

My thoughts were abruptly interrupted when I felt a hard shoulder bump into mine as I walked towards the cafeteria for breakfast, nearly knocking me off balance since I wasn't really focused. Once I caught my footing, I almost broke my neck snapping it in his direction as a cold glare resided on my face.

"What, you got a problem?" He spoke in a teasing manner as two of his friends stood behind him, giving me the same mug that he was giving me.

I knew he was just trying to start shit with me because that's what most people did to fresh meat, attempting to see what they were all about. Whether or not they were pussy. "Yea, watch where the fuck you going. I know you seen me walking nigga." I retorted quickly with venom laced in my voice as the trio began to surround me but I couldn't back down now. Even if they beat my ass in this very spot, I couldn't go out without a fight.

My head was held high as we eyed each other with menacing looks, neither one of us backing down from the other. I wasn't even worried about the two followers behind me because I could tell this one was the one who called the shots.

"This nigga think he bold. Bitch boy, you ain't even with no crew. We could stab yo ass right now and the only people who won't look the other way is the guards. And that's only 'cause it's they job." The inmate in front of me spoke causing his two lackeys to laugh.

But my face remained straight as I looked at him, multiple other inmates eyeing us to watch the drama that was about to go down. It was like high school all over again. "Unlike you, I don't need two niggas up my ass all day to feel tough. I wouldn't even be surprised if they could tell me how yo shit tastes."

The male in front of me clenched his jaw, moving closer towards me before he suddenly stopped as he glared over my shoulder in annoyance. I subtly looked behind me and saw two guards standing there, trying to see what all of the commotion was about since there were literally inmates leaving their table to come into the hallway and watch the brawl that was bound to go down. He let out a deep exhale as his eyes refocused on me. "Don't think you safe now nigga."

He motioned the other two to follow him as he started backing away from me slowly, never taking his glare off of me and I did the same. All I was trying to do was go and eat breakfast but as always, there's got to be some bullshit.

Rolling my eyes, I turned around and continued my trek to the cafeteria, ignoring the multiple stares that came my way. I knew that I couldn't just say something to everybody because I'd end up dead by tomorrow so the best thing I could possibly do was ignore it.

Once I got my food, I sat at a table that only one man occupied. Most of the other tables were full and I didn't want to be surrounded by a bunch of men who seem to gossip like women since there wasn't much entertainment in here. After sitting down away from the other inmate, I began to eat my food quietly. Jail food was probably the most disgusting thing I've had to eat thus far in my life but I've found a few things that were okay to eat and I wasn't about to starve myself.

I heard the man across from me mumble something to me as he scooped a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, not even looking my way. My head turned both ways to figure out if there was someone else he could have been talking to but no one was even remotely focused on what we had going on. I turned back to him. "What nigga?"

"I said you need to be careful. Sometimes the best thing in here isn't trying to prove yourself, it's staying off the radar." He spoke, not once making eye contact with me.

I smacked my lips. "Well, how am I supposed to do that when niggas like that go around looking for trouble? I'm not finna let nobody punk me. I don't care if it's my momma." I retorted back, being sure to give him the full attention that he wasn't giving me.

He finally turned my way and I almost gasped once I got to see him fully. The other side of his face held a long scar that started at his forehead and ended right below his left eye, which had a white cast to it indicating that he couldn't see out of that eye anymore. "Just listen to what I say nigga. Or don't say I didn't warn you." With that, he got up and left the table leaving me to ponder on what possibly could have happened to his face.

It also made me wonder if what happened to him happened while he was in here locked up.

***

I impatiently waited in line to use the phone, the person before me seeming to take forever to finish his conversation. There was a set time that we were able to use the phone and if we didn't get to call anyone because we were too far back in line, well oh well. We'd have to try again next time.

I had gotten here a bit earlier since I knew there would be a line wrapped around the corner by the time I got here if I didn't. I was the next one up but it sounded like the person in front of me was speaking to his mother. He was a white man that didn't look like he could even hurt a fly but I knew looks could be deceiving, especially in here. He could be someone who raped and murdered twenty people and I wouldn't even know.

My foot tapped loudly causing him to look down at it, then up at me before turning back around to finish up his conversation. He finally said his goodbyes and as soon as that phone was being placed down, I was picking it up and dialing a number quickly. We only had about six minutes left to make a call and I was hoping it would be enough time since it took the receiving caller a good two minutes to be able to accept the call.

But she never answered my calls. Hell, she probably had the number blocked for all I knew. I still called her every day though, hoping that at least one day she'd pick up the phone for me.

That day clearly wasn't today as I heard the beep signaling to create a voicemail message sound off on the other end causing me to sigh heavily. "Simone, baby, answer my calls. Please. I hate being in here and not being able to see you and Junior. Can you just bring him down to visit? At least once. I'm going crazy in here and I don't wanna end up—" Suddenly I heard another beep, letting me know that was all I could record for right now.

I closed my eyes and sighed, attempting to calm myself down before I threw the phone and messed things up for everyone. Each day, it was like I left the same message over and over. I just wanted to see my son.

I hung the phone back up and walked back in the direction of my cell, the message I had just left weighing heavy on my mind. It had been over a month and she was still ignoring me. Either that or she changed her number which was worse because I'd never be able to find out how to contact her while I sat in here for years.

Despite everything that happened, Simone was the love of my life and I still want to be able to see my son grow up. I don't want my last memory of him to be when he was four and I don't want him to end up forgetting about me either.

I stepped into my cell and let out a breath of relief that my cellmate wasn't there. He wasn't that bad, he just enjoyed talking a lot. Half of the time, I don't even think he knew what he was talking about himself, he just kept blurting out words.

Laying on my bed, I closed my eyes and threw my arm over my face, attempting to get the depressing thoughts of my son forgetting who I was out of my head. He was at the age where he wouldn't remember most of things that happened when he grew up. I didn't want him to also not remember me. I definitely didn't want him to end up calling another nigga his dad either. That would hurt me to my core.

I sighed once I heard my cell door close, not bothering to look that way since giving eye contact to my cell mate was like an invitation to converse in his eyes. "Aye yo, George, I really don't feel like talking right now man. Just give me a minute."

Once a few seconds had passed by and I didn't hear a response, I removed my arm from over my eyes and sat up immediately seeing that nigga from breakfast and his two puppy dogs standing right by the door. I quickly jumped up and attempted to reach into my little cabinet where I kept a shiv made from an old toothbrush I found, but the three men swiftly grabbed me and began throwing blows anywhere they could.

The only thing I could do was curl into a ball and shelter my face from the six hands that were trying to get at it. Suddenly I felt hands grab my wrists as I was somehow forced onto my stomach, the two followers holding me down as their knees dug into my shoulder so I wouldn't be able to move.

I instantly began thrashing and fighting hard against the two once their leader began tearing a hole down the back of my jumpsuit, followed by him nearly ripping my underwear off of my body. I moved violently in their hold but their grip on me only tightened more as I kicked behind me as best as I could.

A gut wrenching scream escaped my mouth once I felt a sharp object being shoved into my anus, the brutal force of the item tearing at the skin and instantly causing internal bleeding. The inmate from breakfast forced the object in and out of me repeatedly as one of his friends stuffed their sock in my mouth to keep my cries for help muffled, salty tears freely falling from my eyes as pain shot throughout my body.

"How that taste bitch."

Bree

I sullenly packed the boxes holding all of my belongings into the moving truck I had rented out for the day. The coldness in his eyes as he watched my every move only made the pain I felt inside so much worse.

Tears pooled in the brims of my eyes as I stared at all of the cardboard boxes filled with my things, finally causing me to realize that this was really happening to me. Xae was kicking me out of the house. He wasted no time in packing up my stuff once he got home from the ceremony.

He stood at the foot of the front doorway, watching with crossed arms as he made sure all of my things were gone so that I'd have no reason to come back, as he stated to me. I neared closer to him as I made my way to get the last of my boxes, his stone cold expression never faltering from his face.

"Xae," I reached out to touch his arm as the hot and salty liquid continued to leak from my eyes, "I'm so sorry baby but please... don't do this to me. I don't want things to end like this."

He responded by simply moving his arm out of my reach and stepping to the side so that I'd have better access inside to get the rest of my belongings. I sniffled quietly as I hung my head low, slowly allowing my hand to fall back down to my side.

"I think this is the last of it." My head rose again once I heard the sound of Simone's voice calling out to me as she appeared in the doorway with the last box in her hand. She had been helping me make sure that everything was packed into the U-Haul truck since Xavier was refusing to give me any type of assistance.

Simone carried the box out to the truck as I remained standing right in front of Xae. While my eyes were on him, his eyes were strictly focused on her and it made my heart fall to the pit of my stomach. I knew that what I was afraid was going to happen between the two had no obstacles holding them apart now.

"Xae," I called out to him one last time causing his eyes to slowly trail back over to me with annoyance written all over his face, "Can we please just talk about this? I made a mistake but that's no reason to throw away what we had together for almost three years."

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips as he shook his head. "I didn't throw shit away, Bree. You did. So now, shut the fuck up and deal with it."

My mouth fell agape as I stared at him in complete shock. He had never even fixed his mouth to say something so disrespectful to me before. I had to have really sent him over the edge for something like that to have left his lips. It had only caused more tears to frequent my eyes as I watched him stare down at me without an ounce of sympathy. "Xae... please don't—"

Before I could finish my sentence, Simone had jogged back over causing me to stop talking because I didn't want to embarrass myself by seeming too desperate. But my heart ended up falling to the pit of my stomach once I witnessed Xae immediately throw his arm around her waist and pull her body into his, almost protectively. My eyes couldn't even tear away from his hand that rested on her hip as my blood began to boil.

"So, y'all are together now?" The question came out in a barely audible whisper but I could tell the both of them heard me because Simone subconsciously took a step away from Xavier. Unlike him, she actually looked like she felt bad for me and didn't want to make things worse by being all touchy feely with the man I was supposed to marry a couple of days prior.

She looked like she wanted to say something too, but Xae quickly shook his head and motioned for me to leave. "That doesn't matter. You have all your shit so it's time to go." Simone quickly gave him a stern look that made it unnecessary to even open her mouth to lecture him and lightly squeezed his hand before leaning over to whisper something in his ear.

I attempted to subtly lean forward to hear what she was saying to him, but to no avail. Once she pulled away, Xae looked at me and sighed. "I'm sorry. I might be hurt but that doesn't give me the right to treat anyone like shit." He spoke lowly causing my mouth to fall agape once again.

My eyes swiftly darted between him and her, wondering what in the world she could have said to get him to apologize to me in a matter of seconds. "I—uh, it's okay. I probably deserve it." I hung my head low as it shook from side to side; disappointed in myself was an understatement.

An awkward silence soon took over between the three of us and I took that as my cue to finally leave. Xae clearly wasn't going to give me another chance and I was beginning to get tired of the look of pity on Simone's face. I knew she was just being nice but it wasn't making me feel any better at all.

My legs slowly carried me over to the driver's side of the large U-Haul truck and due to my short stature, I literally had to climb in. Once I was seated and closed the door, I took one last glance over at Xae who was now not even focused on me at all, but had a slight grin on his face as he spoke to Simone. His hands just couldn't stay away from her as he kept attempting to pull her into him and she kept a slight distance between them most likely since I was still there.

I allowed the remaining tears to fall freely down my cheeks as I started up the truck and drove away before my heart exploded in my chest from watching the two of them together. But I guess it wasn't all bad; at least he was happy...

***

I skillfully backed the truck into Antonio's driveway so that I wouldn't have to walk too far to grab my stuff and take it inside. My eyebrows furrowed once I realized the other unknown car parked in his driveway and I exited the truck to look inside of the empty vehicle. There was nothing even remotely distinguishable about the car. Nothing hanging from the rear view mirror nor any knickknacks on the dashboard.

I shrugged and headed inside to let Antonio know that I was here and I was going to need help with carrying some of the more heavy boxes. I figured he'd probably bought me a cheap car to drive since he was usually busy dealing with his restaurant and such and was going to be gone majority of the time. The car I used to drive around was Xae's so I couldn't keep that and Antonio knows how much I hate being stuck inside all of the time.

Knocking lightly on the door a few times, I rocked back and forth on my feet as I awaited an answer but it wasn't coming quick enough for me so I knocked again. It was as if the second knock triggered something inside and I suddenly heard loud yelling causing a look of confusion to wash over my face.

The screaming from inside became louder and before I knew it, the door had swung open revealing a fuming Serina who looked as red as a tomato. She instantly rolled her eyes at the sight of me and I held no hesitation in doing the same. I was tired of seeing this bitch.

"What do you want?" She asked as she leaned against the door frame, blocking the entryway as if this was her house.

My face immediately scrunched up. "What do I want? Girl, I'm not about to play with you." I retorted as I forcefully pushed passed her and began calling for Antonio once I was inside. He finally came out from what looked to be the direction of the kitchen, looking just as livid as she did. "I need help moving my stuff inside."

A low chuckle sounded off from behind me but when I turned around, Serina was staring straight at Antonio instead of me. "So, you're really letting this bitch move in with you? How long have y'all known each other again?"

"Mind your fucking business." Antonio mumbled as he moved passed the both of us to go outside to the truck.

Her eyes immediately fell back on me, a hateful look in her eye that I knew for a fact was jealousy which only caused me to smirk back at her. "You think you've won because you're here now but, newsflash sweetheart, you're only here because you might be carrying his child. He doesn't love or care about you." She spoke with nothing but pure venom laced in her voice.

"And you think he loves you?" I laughed out, honestly amused at her attempt to get under my skin. "Remember that you're only mad at me because I had the man you wanted. In front of you, no less. So don't come at me on that bullshit." I replied, completely fed up with holding my tongue for people. If she wanted to play that game, I could really hurt her feelings and I wouldn't mind doing so either because this bitch had it coming.

Serina rolled her eyes as her hands found their place on her hips. "I don't give a fuck what you think you had. You also had a fiancé up until a few days ago too but where's he at now? Oh yea, he doesn't love or care about you either."

My nostrils flared as soon as she brought up Xae and my blood instantly began to boil over. I couldn't believe that Antonio's been telling her all of my deep and personal business when he knew damn well that I didn't like this bitch at all. "You're nothing but a cheating, lying, hoe and frankly, I don't care what a cheating lying hoe has to say about me anyway. That's exactly why I fucked Antonio all up and down this house. Did you ever get the chance to even make it to the bed yet?" She added with a devious smirk painted all over her face.

I'm not sure what exactly took over me, but the next thing I knew, I was on top of her sending slaps and blows to her face as she scratched and pulled at my hair, occasionally landing a few hits of her own. My legs kicked and flailed once I felt myself being pulled off of her.

"LET GO OF ME! You fucking asshole, you told her everything!" Hot angry tears stained my cheeks as I tried my best to get out of Antonio's hold and take off on him as well.

Serina soon began to stand up, holding her nose due to it being busted and charged at me again. Antonio still hadn't let me go so she was able to grab a huge chunk of my hair and started throwing wild punches causing me to rapidly kick my feet out to defend myself. "Yo, what the fuck, stop!" I heard Antonio yell which instantly caused her to halt her movements and back away from me. It was as if she was his little puppy dog, following all of the orders he'd give her.

With a heaving chest, she stormed out of the house and was sure to slam the door behind her. Antonio and I both waited but we didn't hear a car start. Instead, glass began breaking from outside and loud thumps could be heard. My eyes immediately widened as I thrashed to get out of his hold once again. "Get off! My stuff is out there!" I just knew this broad wasn't damaging my property.

"Ok, calm down! I'll handle it." Antonio replied as he cautiously let me back down to my feet, waiting a few seconds to make sure I wouldn't go outside and run up on her again before he jogged out his front door causing the loud noises to stop altogether.

Shaking my head, I headed over to the bathroom to check on my face which had started burning a couple of minutes ago. I stared at my reflection to see my skin riddled with scratches and one of my eyes beginning to swell a bit, knowing it would leave a slight bruise once it went down.

If this was what was going to happen just because of me living here, I'd rather just be alone.

Ajanae

A shaky breath escaped my lips as I sat in my car, staring ahead of me at the police station I had been hesitating to go into for the last hour. I knew that once I went inside, my life was over and I just wanted a few more minutes of freedom before that happened. 

It just felt like my apology wasn’t enough. After all, they were only just words that meant absolutely nothing since my actions have been anything but apologetic. I hadn't told Simone yet because although I was doing it mainly for her, I was also doing it for myself; living with the guilt in aiding the end of someone else's life was something that was painfully hard to live with and I didn't want to anymore. I couldn't just keep thinking about myself and saving my own ass.

My hands anxiously gripped and un-gripped the steering wheel as my heart beat out of my chest. It felt so loud, the person in the car over could probably hear it. Allowing an anxious breath to escape my lips, I finally shut off my car and allowed the newfound silence from the engine cutting off to surround me as Antonio sat quietly beside me. I had to leave someone with my car and I didn't necessarily have as much trust for any of my other family members as I did for him.

As I reached for the handle of the car door, my phone's ringtone began to blare throughout the speakers of my car due to me having my phone hooked up to the bluetooth to play music. A shaky sigh of relief left my lips and I quickly reached for it before pressing the green button to answer the call. Subconsciously, I knew I was trying to do everything I could to procrastinate.

I had never been to any type of jail or prison before and I knew once I entered the building, I wasn't going to be leaving in a very long time. I had done my research beforehand to find out the maximum and minimum sentences for accessory to murder and I wasn't sure if I was ready to spend years with my freedom abruptly stripped from me. But for Simone, I was going to do it all anyway.

"Hello?" I answered a bit more anxiously as I watched the seconds on the call tick by.

The person on the other line held their silence for a few seconds longer, their slow breathing being the only thing that could be heard from the other end. My eyebrows furrowed together in confusion and I reached for my phone to hang up, but the voice that came through my speakers immediately halted me in my tracks. "I know what you're doing Ajanae... and I shouldn't have to tell you that it isn't smart."

My heartbeat unwillingly started to quicken as my brows only knitted closer together. "...Dom?"

"Nae, baby, I thought you were smarter than this. Just pull away from the police station and go home."

I slightly jumped in my seat as my eyes darted around the outside of the station and parking lot to see if anyone was around or watching but there was not a soul in sight. Antonio stared at me from the passenger seat in pure confusion. "How did you—"

"Why do y'all keep asking me that dumb shit and why do I keep telling y'all the same answer? Just 'cause I'm locked up don't mean I don't still have eyes and ears everywhere. I gotta say though... I didn't think you'd actually do it." His tone was eerily calm and nonchalant, almost as if he was just doing this to play with my mind.

And it was starting to work.

"Dom, why do you even care? It's not like you're getting out any time soon. What's a few more years added on? I'm tired of living with these secrets." My voice cracked slightly as I spoke and tears began to form in the brims of my eyes.

I was more haunted by the situation than it seemed but my fear of going to prison had been the only thing keeping my guilt in check.

"I'm only thinking 'bout you here, baby girl. Trust me, you're not built for this life... no one is." His voice had lowered as he trailed off, seeming a bit contemplated. It was a tone I never heard coming out of his mouth before, but he was sure to quickly dismiss it. "So, like I said, just go home, run yourself a warm bath, and enjoy your freedom while you have it."

More tears poured from my eyes as he spoke and I began shaking my head as if he could see me. "I can't. It's not right."

"You wasn't thinking 'bout what was right when you was helping me so stop bitching." He snapped. "Don't do it or I'm telling you right now, you'll regret ever meeting me." And with that, the call abruptly ended leaving nothing but silence to take over.

After a few seconds, I quickly wiped the tears away from my eyes with a new determination. I wasn't about to let this man keep controlling me and everyone else the way he had been for years. And the gag was, I already regretted ever meeting him. It was crazy because just a few months ago, he still had me head over heels in love with him. I thought he could do no wrong.

"Who was that?" Antonio's voice spoke up from beside me. He sounded cautious to even say anything, like he didn't want to bring it up but knew he had to.

I quickly shook my head, dismissing the subject entirely. I didn't want to have to explain the entire situation. He didn't even know the reason that I was turning myself in; just that he needed to keep my car safe and maintained during the meantime. It just made things way less complicated for me. And frankly, I didn't want to see the look of disappointment on my cousin's face when I told him what I'd done.

"Just an ex—"

He quickly shifted in his seat as if he was The Flash. "You mean that punk ass bitch that had you laid up in a hospital bed for two weeks because he thought you were cheating on him with me?!" I could literally feel the seething anger radiating off of him as he spoke.

The car fell silent and immediately, I knew that he knew the answer to that question. I had always tried to defend him, telling myself and others that he only did it because he didn't know Antonio was my cousin and not some random guy I picked up on the street. But now I know that, that was nowhere near true. This was just what he did to the women that fell in love with him.

"Yo, why the fuck is he calling your phone talking 'bout some he's gonna make you regret meeting him? I'm gonna make that nigga regret ever being born when I get my hands on him."

My head snapped in my cousin's direction in irritation. "Just let it go, alright? Forget this ever happened. Besides, the only way you'd be able to 'get your hands on him' was if you were sitting in a jail cell."

"Shit, we in front of a police station right now. Say I won't go and smash the windows on one of them squad cars—"

"Just stop!" I quickly interrupted before he actually managed to work up the courage to put some action behind his words. "I don't want anything to do with Dominick and I don't want you or anyone else to get involved with him either. Everything he touches becomes toxic." By now, my tears had all but dried up and I was a bit more agitated that Ant was really trying to risk his freedom for something that happened years ago.

He glared over at me, clearly still livid about the whole situation before looking out of the window with a frustrated sigh. "Whatever, man."

"I'm serious, Antonio! I'm not saying that to be dramatic because when I walk through those doors," I yelled as I swiftly pointed towards the double doors of the police station, "I'm being charged with accessory to murder and he's being charged with murder." His eyes widened a bit at my revelation, his lips not even daring to part themselves and say something. "So when I say everything he touches becomes toxic... I mean that shit." My voice had softened up a bit as I attempted to read his facial expression but I couldn't quite tell what he was thinking.

"So, you—you helped him kill someone. Like someone is six feet under right now because of you two?" He asked as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. It was surreal even hearing it come out of my own mouth.

A low sigh escaped my lips as I shrugged slightly. "I mean, it's a bit more complicated than just that but yea. Someone's dead and I played a part in that. So yea..."

The car was overcome with silence once again as neither of us knew exactly what to say to each other. There was nothing to really say at a moment like this. Antonio sat back in his seat, staring ahead of himself in what I knew to be pure thought. It wasn't everyday your cousin told you they helped commit a murder. I know I didn't help in the physical sense, but the guilt still feels all the same.

"Just... don't tell ma or tía, please. I don't want them to have to live with knowing that. And you know if you tell one, the other is gonna find out like that." I snapped lightly to add emphasis to how quick information got around with the two. They were always like two peas in a pod since they were younger; which was why Antonio and I were so close. We basically grew up together too. "If they ask, just tell them I wouldn't say. And that goes for all our other nosey ass family members too. I don't want anyone knowing why... at least not out of our mouths."

He nodded and let out another sigh as he just looked at me. I knew that he was disappointed in me too, but still wanted to support me doing the right thing. He'd always have my back when I needed it the most. "I hope you know you're fucking crazy. And dumb as hell for letting that nigga talk you into ruining your life." My eyes lowered as they stung a bit, feeling the water works already coming over me. I knew I was stupid from what I did but hearing it from someone so close to me just hit different. "But... I really admire you for running towards your problems instead of away from them. I don't know if I'd be able to turn myself in knowing I'd get years."

"You wouldn't, pussy. You couldn't even tell your friend that you fucked his bitch." I retorted, earning a stern glare from my cousin. I knew the subject was still a bit fresh but I couldn't help it. It was just so funny seeing how worked up he got over just the mention of it. "Kidding, kidding. But I—uh, I think I better do this before I really do chicken out."

He nodded and we were soon both hopping out of the car and making our way up to the front of the station. I stopped directly in front of the doors and let out a nervous breath that I didn't even know I was holding in. It was now or never.

Reaching to my side, I tightly embraced Antonio as a couple of stray tears crept down my cheeks. "I love you big bro."

"I love you little sis, you be safe in there and make sure I'm the first person you put on your visitation list." He replied causing me to let out a light laugh as I pulled out of the hug and swiped my tears away.

"I will." And with that, I turned towards the haunting police station, the feeling of my freedom stripping away just as I stepped through the double doors.

[aethelar]

Picture this, folks. New York. January. Cold like a loveless marriage, the sort that turns around and shivs you just for something to do. Snow gone brown and mushy. Grey sky, and the clouds look like tobacco smoke against it. Probably taste like it too, and piss out bourbon when they rain - the city’s got that kind of feel to it. And me, traipsing through the alley like a damn schmuck on a case that’s locked up tighter than a whorehouse to beggar. I’ve been on this thing for thirty six hours and it’s gone straight to hell with a manic grin and a trail of bodies to mark the way.

Am I being screwed over? Like a choir boy on an altar, but a case is a case. You don’t hire a guy like me if you’ve got an easy one and this is so far from an easy one I may as well get a new passport and emigrate. I’ve had two guys try to drop me and I’m getting fucking sick of being shot at, and the church that was supposed to be my next lead is a pile of smoking rubble with a corpse or two thrown in as a fun freebie to brighten my day. Nothing cheers you up like learning that your kidnapping case went murderous on you. Better than Christmas come eleven months early and leaving a pipe bomb in your stocking, and Santa being a dick who drank the last of the booze and stuck an IOU note to the empty flask.

How did I get myself here? Well. It started with this dame. Scamander, that was the name, friend of Queenie’s sister, something like that - Queenie comes over to my desk all smiles like she couldn’t stick a stiletto through your heart and twist it. Says she has a case for me, says I’ll like this one. Says I should open the window and let some sunlight in the room before I choke on the gloom, but all that would do is swap the smoke from inside for the smog from outside and it’s high quality smoke in my office. I ain’t trading that for the cheap shit they breathe in the street.

“Don’t be shy honey,” she says to the dame. “Graves don’t bite. He talks big, but he’s a real softy on the inside.”

You’re a star, Queenie. A real diamond in the shitpile of life. God only knows why I keep you around.

She ushers the dame in, and I prepare myself for the usual schtick. Been doing this job for long enough now that I know the trope: red dress, killer heels, flashier jewels than a doll their age could afford but the kind of makeup that says exactly where they got the money from. Drop a bit of leg on the desk, bat their eyes and take the sort of drag on their cigarette that a guy would usually pay to see, dump a case on me that no sane detective would ever take.

Joke’s on them; they can lean forwards all they want, but this detective is as bent as politician’s morals. Nice assets darling, but they do exactly squat for me. I take the cases. I solve the cases, because that’s what I do. And then I charge them through the fucking nose for the privilege and drop their pretty jewels off at the pawn shop on my way home. It pays the bills.

So I’m sat there, bracing myself for more of the same, and Queenie steps back as the dame comes through.

I swear my heart took one look and decided to do the fucking charleston against my ribs. One of the routines which is all kicks and flailing like an epileptic flamingo and some idiot shredding a ukulele in the background.

“Take a seat, sweetie,” Queenie says, and I can see on her face that she knows exactly what her new case is doing to me. If I wasn’t so close to cardiac arrest I’d say something about that, but I focus on remembering to breathe instead. “You want anything? Coffee, tea, can I get you a slice of something nice?”

“Whiskey,” I croak out, and Queenie ignores me.

“Oh,” the dame says, and fuck if his voice isn’t liquid honey and ice cream in summer. Fuck. “No, I’m good. I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” He ducks his head and looks up through a curly ginger fringe. Pain starts shooting down my left arm as my heart gives out.

“Don’t be silly,” Queenie scolds. “I’ll get you a tea, you just wait right there.” 

He smiles, all bashful and shy, and I start praying because I’ve lived through a lot in the comedic shitshow that’s my life but this? This is what’s going to kill me.

“So Mr Scamander,” I say in a strangled attempt at a drawl. “I hear you have a case for me?”

He nods, quick and jittery like, and reaches into his pocket for a photo. When he unfolds it it shows some miserable fuck with a haircut not even a mother could love and I swear, this better not be his boyfriend. My life is trouble enough without the inevitable fallout when I steal the guy’s dame from under his nose. Because I will. I’ll feel bad about it, sure, but morals are a luxury I’m miles too broke to afford and opportunities like this don’t come often enough to pass them by.

“This is Credence. He’s my...” He pauses. It’s a long pause, one that drags on too long as he searches for the words, and I can tell you this because I wasn’t breathing during it and my chest was on fucking fire by the time he picked up again. “He’s family. And he’s missing, and I wanted - I was hoping - you think you can find him, Mr Graves?”

And see, you don’t come to a dive like this with a basic missing person’s case like that. My brain’s as pickled as my liver from all the spirits I’ve soaked it in, but I ain’t blind enough not to spot that there’s something more going on here. I shoulda chucked the dame out the window and told him to keep the change for trying to pull a fast one on me, or at the very least grilled him like a flambe steak until he spilled the beans.

He leans forward and bites his lip, big eyes all wide and bad news writ over him like a twenty foot billboard and fuck me sideways with a jazz band.

My will’s in my left shoe and Queenie, the traitor, is inheriting the business and every dime of the debt that comes with it. 

[nowontheroad]

5

I left everybody and went home to rest. My aunt said I was wasting my time hanging around with Dean and his gang. I knew that was wrong, too. Life is life, and kind is kind. What I wanted was to take one more magnificent trip to the West Coast and get back in time for the spring semester in school. And what a trip it turned out to be! I only went along for the ride, and to see what else Dean was going to do, and finally, also, knowing Dean would go back to Camille in Frisco, I wanted to have an affair with Marylou. We got ready to cross the groaning continent again. I drew my GI check and gave Dean eighteen dollars to mail to his wife; she was waiting for him to come home and she was broke. What was on Marylou's mind I don't know. Ed Dunkel, as ever, just followed.

There were long, funny days spent in Carlo's apartment before we left. He went around in his bathrobe and made semi-ironical speeches: "Now I'm not trying to take your hincty sweets from you, but it seems to me the time has come to decide what you are and what you're going to do." Carlo was working as typist in an office. "I want to know what all this sitting around the house all day is intended to mean. What all this talk is and what you propose to do. Dean, why did you leave Camille and pick up Marylou?" No answer-giggles. "Marylou, why are you traveling around the country like this and what are your womanly intentions concerning the shroud?" Same answer. "Ed Dunkel, why did you abandon your new wife in Tucson and what are you doing here sitting on your big fat ass? Where's your home? What's your job?" Ed Dunkel bowed his head in genuine befuddlement. "Sal -how comes it you've fallen on such sloppy days and what have you done with Lucille?" He adjusted his bathrobe and sat facing us all. "The days of wrath are yet to come. The balloon won't sustain you much longer. And not only that, but it's an abstract balloon. You'll all go flying to the West Coast and come staggering back in search of your stone."

In these days Carlo had developed a tone of voice which he hoped sounded like what he called The Voice of Rock; the whole idea was to stun people into the realization of the rock. "You pin a dragon to your hats," he warned us; "you're up in the attic with the bats." His mad eyes glittered at us. Since the Dakar Doldrums he had gone through a terrible period which he called the Holy Doldrums, or Harlem Doldrums, when he lived in Harlem in midsummer and at night woke up in his lonely room and heard "the great machine" descending from the sky; and when he walked on 12 5th Street "under water" with all the other fish. It was a riot of radiant ideas that had come to enlighten his brain. He made Marylou sit on his lap and commanded her to subside. He told Dean, "Why don't you just sit down and relax? Why do you jump around so much?" Dean ran around, putting sugar in his coffee and saying, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" At night Ed Dunkel slept on the floor on cushions, Dean and Marylou pushed Carlo out of bed, and Carlo sat up in the kitchen over his kidney stew, mumbling the predictions of the rock. I came in days and watched everything.

Ed Dunkel said to me, "Last night I walked clear down to Times Square and just as I arrived I suddenly realized I was a ghost-it was my ghost walking on the sidewalk." He said these things to me without comment, nodding his head emphatically. Ten hours later, in the midst of someone else's conversation, Ed said, "Yep, it was my ghost walking on the sidewalk."

Suddenly Dean leaned to me earnestly and said, "Sal, I have something to ask of you-very important to me-I wonder how you'll take it-we're buddies, aren't we?"

"Sure are, Dean." He almost blushed. Finally he came out with it: he wanted me to work Marylou. I didn't ask him why because I knew he wanted to see what Marylou was like with another man. We were sitting in Ritzy's Bar when he proposed the idea; we'd spent an hour walking Times Square, looking for Hassel. Ritzy's Bar is the hoodlum bar of the streets around Times Square; it changes names every year. You walk in there and you don't see a single girl, even in the booths, just a great mob of young men dressed in all varieties of hoodlum cloth, from red shirts to zoot suits. It is also the hustlers' bar -the boys who make a living among the sad old homos of the Eighth Avenue night. Dean walked in there with his eyes slitted to see every single face. There were wild Negro queers, sullen guys with guns, shiv-packing seamen, thin, noncommittal junkies, and an occasional well-dressed middle-aged detective, posing as a bookie and hanging around half for interest and half for duty. It was the typical place for Dean to put down his request. All kinds of evil plans are hatched in Ritzy's Bar-you can sense it in the air-and all kinds of mad sexual routines are initiated to go with them. The safecracker proposes not only a certain loft on 14th Street to the hoodlum, but that they sleep together. Kinsey spent a lot of time in Ritzy's Bar, interviewing some of the boys; I was there the night his assistant came, in 1945. Hassel and Carlo were interviewed.

Dean and I drove back to the pad and found Marylou in bed. Dunkel was roaming his ghost around New York. Dean told her what we had decided. She said she was pleased. I wasn't so sure myself. I had to prove that I'd go through with it. The-bed had been the deathbed of a big man and sagged in the middle. Marylou lay there, with Dean and myself on each side of her, poised on the upjutting mattress-ends, not knowing what to say. I said, "Ah hell, I can't do this."

"Go on, man, you promised!" said Dean.

"What about Marylou?" I said. "Come on, Marylou, what do you think?"

"Go ahead," she said.

She embraced me and I tried to forget old Dean was there. Every time I realized he was there in the dark, listening for every sound, I couldn't do anything but laugh. It was horrible.

"We must all relax," said Dean.

"I'm afraid I can't make it. Why don't you go in the kitchen a minute?"

Dean did so. Marylou was so lovely, but I whispered, "Wait until we be lovers in San Francisco; my heart isn't in it." I was right, she could tell. It was three children of the earth trying to decide something in the night and having all the weight of past centuries ballooning in the dark before them. There was a strange quiet in the apartment. I went and tapped Dean and told him to go to Marylou; and I retired to the couch. I could hear Dean, blissful and blabbering and frantically rocking. Only a guy who's spent five years in jail can go to such maniacal helpless extremes; beseeching at the portals of the soft source, mad with a completely physical realization of the origins of life-bliss; blindly seeking to return the way he came. This is the result of years looking at sexy pictures behind bars; looking at the legs and breasts of women in popular magazines; evaluating the hardness of the steel halls and the softness of the woman who is not there. Prison is where you promise yourself the right to live. Dean had never seen his mother's face. Every new girl, every new wife, every new child was an addition to his bleak impoverishment. Where was his father?-old bum Dean Moriarty the Tinsmith, riding freights, working as a scullion in railroad cookshacks, stumbling, down-crashing in wino alley nights, expiring on coal piles, dropping his yellowed teeth one by one in the gutters of the West. Dean had every right to die the sweet deaths of complete love of his Marylou-1 didn't want to interfere, I just wanted to follow.

Carlo came back at dawn and put on his bathrobe. He wasn't sleeping any more those days. "Ech!" he screamed. He was going out of his mind from the confusion of jam on the floor, pants, dresses thrown around, cigarette butts, dirty dishes, open books-it was a great forum we were having. Every day the world groaned to turn and we were making our appalling studies of the night. Marylou was black and blue from a fight with Dean about something; his face was scratched. It was time to go.

We drove to my house, a whole gang of ten, to get my bag and call Old Bull Lee in New Orleans from the phone in the bar where Dean and I had our first talk years ago when he came to my door to learn to write. We heard Bull's whining voice eighteen hundred miles away. "Say, what do you boys expect me to do with this Galatea Dunkel? She's been here two weeks now, hiding in her room and refusing to talk to either Jane or me. Have you got this character Ed Dunkel with you? For krissakes bring him down and get rid of her. She's sleeping in our best bedroom and's run clear out of money. This ain't a hotel." He assured Bull with whoops and cries over the phone-there was Dean, Marylou, Carlo, Dunkel, me, Ian MacArthur, his wife, Tom Saybrook, God knows who else, all yelling and drinking beer over the phone at befuddled Bull, who above all things hated confusion. "Well," he said, "maybe you'll make better sense when you gets down here if you gets down here." I said good-by to my aunt and promised to be back in two weeks and took off for California again.

6

It was drizzling and mysterious at the beginning of our journey. I could see that it was all going to be one big saga of the mist. "Whooee!" yelled Dean. "Here we go!" And he hunched over the wheel and gunned her; he was back in his element, everybody could see that. We were all delighted, we all realized we were leaving confusion and nonsense behind and performing our one and noble function of the time, move.

And we moved! We flashed past the mysterious white signs in the night somewhere in New Jersey that say SOUTH (with an arrow) and WEST (with an arrow) and took the south one. New Orleans! It burned in our brains. From the dirty snows of "frosty fagtown New York," as Dean called it, all the way to the greeneries and river smells of old New Orleans at the washed-out bottom of America; then west. Ed was in the back seat; Marylou and Dean and I sat in front and had the warmest talk about the goodness and joy of life. Dean suddenly became tender. "Now dammit, look here, all of you, we all must admit that everything is fine and there's no need in the world to worry, and in fact we should realize what it would mean to us to UNDERSTAND that we're not REALLY worried about ANYTHING. Am I right?" We all agreed. "Here we go, we're all together . . . What did we do in New York? Let's forgive." We all had our spats back there. "That's behind us, merely by miles and inclinations. Now we're heading down to New Orleans to dig Old Bull Lee and ain't that going to be kicks and listen will you to this old tenorman blow his top"-he shot up the radio volume till the car shuddered-"and listen to him tell the story and put down true relaxation and knowledge."

We all jumped to the music and agreed. The purity of the road. The white line in the middle of the highway unrolled and hugged our left front tire as if glued to our groove. Dean hunched his muscular neck, T-shirted in the winter night, and blasted the car along. He insisted I drive through Baltimore for traffic practice; that was all right, except he and Marylou insisted on steering while they kissed and fooled around. It was crazy; the radio was on full blast. Dean beat drums on the dashboard till a great sag developed in it; I did too. The poor Hudson-the slow boat to China-was receiving her beating.

"Oh man, what kicks!" yelled Dean. "Now Marylou, listen really, honey, you know that I'm hotrock capable of everything at the same time and I have unlimited energy-now in San Francisco we must go on living together. I know just the place for you-at the end of the regular chain-gang run-I'll be home just a cut-hair less than every two days and for twelve hours at a stretch, and man, you know what we can do in twelve hours, darling. Meanwhile I'll go right on living at Camille's like nothin, see, she won't know. We can work it, we've done it before." It was all right with Marylou, she was really out for Camille's scalp. The understanding had been that Marylou would switch to me in Frisco, but I now began to see they were going to stick and I was going to be left alone on my butt at the other end of the continent. But why think about that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see?

We arrived in Washington at dawn. It was the day of Harry Truman's inauguration for his second term. Great displays of war might were lined along Pennsylvania Avenue as we rolled by in our battered boat. There were 6-295, PT boats, artillery, all kinds of war material that looked murderous in the snowy grass; the last thing was a regular small ordinary lifeboat that looked pitiful and foolish. Dean slowed down to look at it. He kept shaking his head in awe. "What are these people up to? Harry's sleeping somewhere in this town. . . . Good old Harry. . . . Man from Missouri, as I am. . . . That must be his own boat."

Dean went to sleep in the back seat and Dunkel drove. We gave him specific instructions to take it easy. No sooner were we snoring than he gunned the car up to eighty, bad bearings and all, and not only that but he made a triple pass at a spot where a cop was arguing with a motorist-he was in the fourth lane of a four-lane highway, going the wrong way. Naturally the cop took after us with his siren whining. We were stopped. He told us to follow him to the station house. There was a mean cop in there who took an immediate dislike to Dean; he could smell jail all over him. He sent his cohort outdoors to question Marylou and me privately. They wanted to know how old Marylou was, they were trying to whip up a Mann Act idea. But she had her marriage certificate. Then they took me aside alone and wanted to know who was sleeping with Marylou. "Her husband," I said quite simply. They were curious. Something was fishy. They tried some amateur Sherlocking by asking the same questions twice, expecting us to make a slip. I said, "Those two fellows are going back to work on the railroad in California, this is the short one's wife, and I'm a friend on a two-week vacation from college."

The cop smiled and said, "Yeah? Is this really your own wallet?"

Finally the mean one inside fined Dean twenty-five dollars. We told them we only had forty to go all the way to the Coast; they said that made no difference to them. When Dean protested, the mean cop threatened to take him back to Pennsylvania and slap a special charge on him.

"What charge?"

"Never mind what charge. Don't worry about that, wiseguy."

We had to give them the twenty-five. But first Ed Dunkel, that culprit, offered to go to jail. Dean considered it. The cop was infuriated; he said, "If you let your partner go to jail I'm taking you back to Pennsylvania right now. You hear that?" All we wanted to do was go. "Another speeding ticket in Virginia and you lose your car," said the mean cop as a parting volley. Dean was red in the face. We drove off silently. It was just like an invitation to steal to take our trip-money away from us. They knew we were broke and had no relatives on the road or to wire to for money. The American police are involved in psychological warfare against those Americans who don't frighten them with imposing papers and threats. It's a Victorian police force; it peers out of musty windows and wants to inquire about everything, and can make crimes if the crimes don't exist to its satisfaction. "Nine lines of crime, one of boredom," said Louis-Ferdinand Celine. Dean was so mad he wanted to come back to Virginia and shoot the cop as soon as he had a gun.

"Pennsylvania!" he scoffed. "I wish I knew what that charge was! Vag, probably; take all my money and charge me vag. Those guys have it so damn easy. They'll out and shoot you if you complain, too." There was nothing to do but get happy with ourselves again and forget about it. When we got through Richmond we began forgetting about it, and soon everything was okay.

Now we had fifteen dollars to go all the way. We'd have to pick up hitchhikers and bum quarters off them for gas. In the Virginia wilderness suddenly we saw a man walking on the road. Dean zoomed to a stop. I looked back and said he was only a bum and probably didn't have a cent.

"We'll just pick him up for kicks!" Dean laughed. The man was a ragged, bespectacled mad type, walking along reading a paperbacked muddy book he'd found in a culvert by the road. He got in the car and went right on reading; he was incredibly filthy and covered with scabs. He said his name was Hyman Solomon and that he walked all over the USA, knocking and sometimes kicking at Jewish doors and demanding money: "Give me money to eat, I am a Jew."

He said it worked very well and that it was coming to him. We asked him what he was reading. He didn't know. He didn't bother to look at the title page. He was only looking at the words, as though he had found the real Torah where it belonged, in the wilderness.

"See? See? See?" cackled Dean, poking my ribs. "I told you it was kicks. Everybody's kicks, man!" We carried Solomon all the way to Testament. My brother by now was in his new house on the other side of town. Here we were back on the long, bleak street with the railroad track running down the middle and the sad, sullen Southerners loping in front of hardware stores and five-and-tens.

Solomon said, "I see you people need a little money to continue your journey. You wait for me and I'll go hustle up a few dollars at a Jewish home and I'll go along with you as far as Alabama." Dean was all beside himself with happiness; he and I rushed off to buy bread and cheese spread for a lunch in the car. Marylou and Ed waited in the car. We spent two hours in Testament waiting for Hyman Solomon to show up; he was hustling for his bread somewhere in town, but we couldn't see him. The sun began to grow red and late.

Solomon never showed up so we roared out of Testament. "Now you see, Sal, God does exist, because we keep getting hung-up with this town, no matter what we try to do, and you'll notice the strange Biblical name of it, and that strange Biblical character who made us stop here once more, and all things tied together all over like rain connecting everybody the world over by chain touch. . . ." Dean rattled on like this; he was overjoyed and exuberant. He and I suddenly saw the whole country like an oyster for us to open; and the pearl was there, the pearl was there. Off we roared south. We picked up another hitchhiker. This was a sad young kid who said he had an aunt who owned a grocery store in Dunn, North Carolina, right outside Fayetteville. "When we get there can you bum a buck off her? Right! Fine! Let's go!" We were in Dunn in an hour, at dusk. We drove to where the kid said his aunt had the grocery store. It was a sad little street that dead-ended at a factory wall. There was a grocery store but there was no aunt. We wondered what the kid was talking about. We asked him how far he was going; he didn't know. It was a big hoax; once upon a time, in some lost back-alley adventure, he had seen the grocery store in Dunn, and it was the first story that popped into his disordered, feverish mind. We bought him a hot dog, but Dean said we couldn't take him along because we needed room to sleep and room for hitchhikers who could buy a little gas. This was sad but true. We left him in Dunn at nightfall.

I drove through South Carolina and beyond Macon, Georgia, as Dean, Marylou, and Ed slept. All alone in the night I had my own thoughts and held the car to the white line in the holy road. What was I doing? Where was I going? I'd soon find out. I got dog-tired beyond Macon and woke up Dean to resume. We got out of the car for air and suddenly both of us were stoned with joy to realize that in the darkness all around us was fragrant green grass and the smell of fresh manure and warm waters. "We're in the South! We've left the winter!" Faint daybreak illuminated green shoots by the side of the road. I took a deep breath; a locomotive howled across-the darkness, Mobile-bound. So were we. I took off my shirt and exulted. Ten miles down the road Dean drove into a filling-station with the motor off, noticed that the attendant was fast asleep at the desk, jumped out, quietly filled the gas tank, saw to it the bell didn't ring, and rolled off like an Arab with a five-dollar tankful of gas for our pilgrimage.

I slept and woke up to the crazy exultant sounds of music and Dean and Marylou talking and the great green land rolling by. "Where are we?"

"Just passed the tip of Florida, man-Flomaton, it's called." Florida! We were rolling down to the coastal plain and Mobile; up ahead were great soaring clouds of the Gulf of Mexico. It was only thirty-two hours since we'd said good-by to everybody in the dirty snows of the North. We stopped at a gas station, and there Dean and Marylou played piggyback around the tanks and Dunkel went inside and stole three packs of cigarettes without trying. We were fresh out. Rolling into Mobile over the long tidal highway, we all took our winter clothes off and enjoyed the Southern temperature. This was when Dean started telling his life story and when, beyond Mobile, he came upon an obstruction of wrangling cars at a crossroads and instead of slipping around them just balled right through the driveway of a gas station and went right on without relaxing his steady continental seventy. We left gaping faces behind us. He went right on with his tale. "I tell you it's true, I started at nine, with a girl called Milly Mayfair in back of Rod's garage on Grant Street-same street Carlo lived on in Denver. That's when my father was still working at the smithy's a bit. I remember my aunt yelling out the window, 'What are you doing down there in back of the garage?' Oh honey Marylou, if I'd only known you then! Wow! How sweet you musta been at nine." He tittered maniacally; he stuck his finger in her mouth and licked it; he took her hand and rubbed it over himself. She just sat there, smiling serenely.

Big long Ed Dunkel sat looking out the window, talking to himself. "Yes sir, I thought I was a ghost that night." He was also wondering what Galatea Dunkel would say to him in New Orleans.

Dean went on. "One time I rode a freight from New Mexico clear to LA-I was eleven years old, lost my father at a siding, we were all in a hobo jungle, I was with a man called Big Red, my father was out drunk in a boxcar-it started to roll-Big Red and I missed it-I didn't see my father for months. I rode a long freight all the way to California, really flying, first-class freight, a desert Zipper. All the way I rode over the couplings-you can imagine how dangerous, I was only a kid, I didn't know-clutching a loaf of bread under one arm and the other hooked around the brake bar. This is no story, this is true. When I got to LA I was so starved for milk and cream I got a job in a dairy and the first thing I did I drank two quarts of heavy cream and puked."

"Poor Dean," said Marylou, and she kissed him. He stared ahead proudly. He loved her.

We were suddenly driving along the blue waters of the Gulf, and at the same time a momentous mad thing began on the radio; it was the Chicken Jazz'n Gumbo disk-jockey show from New Orleans, all mad jazz records, colored records, with the disk jockey saying, "Don't worry 'bout nothing!" We saw New Orleans in the night ahead of us with joy. Dean rubbed his hands over the wheel. "Now we're going to get our kicks!" At dusk we were coming into the humming streets of New Orleans. "Oh, smell the people!" yelled Dean with his face out the window, sniffing. "Ah! God! Life!" He swung around a trolley. "Yes!" He darted the car and looked in every direction for girls. "Look at her!" The air was so sweet in New Orleans it seemed to come in soft bandannas; and you could smell the river and really smell the people, and mud, and molasses, and every kind of tropical exhalation with your nose suddenly removed from the dry ices of a Northern winter. We bounced in our seats. "And dig her!" yelled Dean, pointing at another woman. "Oh, I love, love, love women! I think women are wonderful! I love women!" He spat out the window; he groaned; he clutched his head. Great beads of sweat fell from his forehead from pure excitement and exhaustion.

We bounced the car up on the Algiers ferry and found ourselves crossing the Mississippi River by boat. "Now we must all get out and dig the river and the people and smell the world," said Dean, bustling with his sunglasses and cigarettes and leaping out of the car like a jack-in-the-box. We followed.

On rails we leaned and looked at the great brown father of waters rolling down from mid-America like the torrent of broken souls-bearing Montana logs and Dakota muds and Iowa vales and things that had drowned in Three Forks, where the secret began in ice. Smoky New Orleans receded on one side; old, sleepy Algiers with its warped woodsides bumped us on the other. Negroes were working in the hot afternoon, stoking the ferry furnaces that burned red and made our tires smell. Dean dug them, hopping up and down in the heat. He rushed around the deck and upstairs with his baggy pants hanging halfway down his belly. Suddenly I saw him eagering on the flying bridge. I expected him to take off on wings. I heard his mad laugh all over the boat-"Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!" Marylou was with him. He covered everything in a jiffy, came back with the full story, jumped in the car just as everybody was tooting to go, and we slipped off, passing two or three cars in a narrow space, and found ourselves darting through Algiers.

"Where? Where?" Dean was yelling.

We decided first to clean up at a gas station and inquire for Bull's whereabouts. Little children were playing in the drowsy river sunset; girls were going by with bandannas and cotton blouses and bare legs. Dean ran up the street to see everything. He looked around; he nodded; he rubbed his belly. Big Ed sat back in the car with his hat over his eyes, smiling at Dean. I sat on the fender. Marylou was in the women's John. From bushy shores where infinitesimal men fished with sticks, and from delta sleeps that stretched up along the reddening land, the big humpbacked river with its mainstream leaping came coiling around Algiers like a snake, with a nameless rumble. Drowsy, peninsular Algiers with all her bees and shanties was like to be washed away someday. The sun slanted, bugs flip-flopped, the awful waters groaned.

We went to Old Bull Lee's house outside town near the river levee. It was on a road that ran across a swampy field. The house was a dilapidated old heap with sagging porches running around and weeping willows in the yard; the grass was a yard high, old fences leaned, old barns collapsed. There was no one in sight. We pulled right into the yard and saw washtubs on the back porch. I got out and went to the screen door. Jane Lee was standing in it with her eyes cupped toward the sun. "Jane," I said. "It's me. It's us."

She knew that. "Yes, I know. Bull isn't here now. Isn't that a fire or something over there?" We both looked toward the sun.

"You mean the sun?"

"Of course I don't mean the sun-I heard sirens that way. Don't you know a peculiar glow?" It was toward New Orleans; the clouds were strange.

"I don't see anything," I said.

Jane snuffed down her nose. "Same old Paradise."

That was the way we greeted each other after four years; Jane used to live with my wife and me in New York. "And is Galatea Dunkel here?" I asked. Jane was still looking for her fire; in those days she ate three tubes of benzedrine paper a day. Her face, once plump and Germanic and pretty, had become stony and red and gaunt. She had caught polio in New Orleans and limped a little. Sheepishly Dean and the gang came out of the car and more or less made themselves at home. Galatea Dunkel came out of her stately retirement in the back of the house to meet her tormentor. Galatea was a serious girl. She was pale and looked like tears all over. Big Ed passed his hand through his hair and said hello. She looked at him steadily.

"Where have you been? Why did you do this to me?" And she gave Dean a dirty look; she knew the score. Dean paid absolutely no attention; what he wanted now was food; he asked Jane if there was anything. The confusion began right there.

Poor Bull came home in his Texas Chevy and found his house invaded by maniacs; but he greeted me with a nice warmth I hadn't seen in him for a long time. He had bought this house in New Orleans with some money he had made growing black-eyed peas in Texas with an old college schoolmate whose father, a mad-paretic, had died and left a fortune. Bull himself only got fifty dollars a week from his own family, which wasn't too bad except that he spent almost that much per week on his drug habit-and his wife was also expensive, gobbling up about ten dollars' worth of benny tubes a week. Their food bill was the lowest in the country; they hardly ever ate; nor did the children-they didn't seem to care. They had two wonderful children: Dodie, eight years old; and little Ray, one year. Ray ran around stark naked in the yard, a little blond child of the rainbow. Bull called him "the Little Beast," after W. C. Fields. Bull came driving into the yard and unrolled himself from the car bone by bone, and came over wearily, wearing glasses, felt hat, shabby suit, long, lean, strange, and laconic, saying, "Why, Sal, you finally got here; let's go in the house and have a drink."

It would take all night to tell about Old Bull Lee; let's just say now, he was a teacher, and it may be said that he had every right to teach because he spent all his time learning; and the things he learned were what he considered to be and called "the facts of life," which he learned not only out of necessity but because he wanted to. He dragged his long, thin body around the entire United States and most of Europe and North Africa in his time, only to see what was going on; he married a White Russian countess in Yugoslavia to get her away from the Nazis in the thirties; there are pictures of him with the international cocaine set of the thirties-gangs with wild hair, leaning on one another; there are other pictures of him in a Panama hat, surveying the streets of Algiers; he never saw the White Russian countess again. He was an exterminator in Chicago, a bartender in New York, a summons-server in Newark. In Paris he sat at cafe tables, watching the sullen French faces go by. In Athens he looked up from his ouzo at what he called the ugliest people in the world. In Istanbul he threaded his "way through crowds of opium addicts and rug-sellers, looking for the facts. In English hotels he read Spengler and the Marquis de Sade. In Chicago he planned to hold up a Turkish bath, hesitated just for two minutes too long for a drink, and wound up with two dollars and had to make a run for it. He did all these things merely for the experience. Now the final study was the drug habit. He was now in New Orleans, slipping along the streets with shady characters and haunting connection bars.

There is a strange story about his college days that illustrates something else about him: he had friends for cocktails in his well-appointed rooms one afternoon when suddenly his pet ferret rushed out and bit an elegant teacup queer on the ankle and everybody hightailed it out the door, screaming. Old Bull leaped up and grabbed his shotgun and said, "He smells that old rat again," and shot a hole in the wall big enough for fifty rats. On the wall hung a picture of an ugly old Cape Cod house. His friends said, "Why do you have that ugly thing hanging there?" and Bull said, "I like it because it's ugly." All his life was in that line. Once I knocked on his door in the 60th Street slums of New York and he opened it wearing a derby hat, a vest with nothing underneath, and long striped sharpster pants; in his hands he had a cookpot, birdseed in the pot, and was trying to mash the seed to roll in cigarettes. He also experimented in boiling codeine cough syrup down to a black mash - that didn't work too well. He spent long hours with Shakespeare - the "Immortal Bard," he called him - on his lap. In New Orleans he had begun to spend long hours with the Mayan Codices on his lap, and, although he went on talking, the book lay open all the time. I said once, "What's going to happen to us when we die?" and he said, "When you die you're just dead, that's all." He had a set of chains in his room that he said he used with his psychoanalyst; they were experimenting with narcoanalysis and found that Old Bull had seven separate personalities, each growing worse and worse on the way down, till finally he was a raving idiot and had to be restrained with chains. The top personality was an English lord, the bottom the idiot. Halfway he was an old Negro who stood in line, waiting with everyone else, and said, "Some's bastards, some's ain't, that's the score."

Bull had a sentimental streak about the old days m America, especially 1910, when you could get morphine in a drugstore without prescription and Chinese smoked opium in their evening windows and the country was wild and brawling and free, with abundance and any kind of freedom for everyone. His chief hate was Washington bureaucracy; second to that, liberals; then cops. He spent all his time talking and teaching others. Jane sat at his feet; so did I; so did Dean; and so had Carlo Marx. We'd all learned from him. He was a gray, nondescript-looking fellow you wouldn't notice on the street, unless you looked closer and saw his mad, bony skull with its strange youthfulness-a Kansas minister with exotic, phenomenal fires and mysteries. He had studied medicine in Vienna; had studied anthropology, read everything; and now he was settling to his life's work, which was the study of things them-selves.-in the streets of life and the night. He sat in his chair; Jane brought drinks, martinis. The shades by his chair were always drawn, day and night; it was his corner of the house. On his lap were the Mayan Codices and an air gun which he occasionally raised to pop benzedrine tubes across the room. I kept rushing around, putting up new ones. We all took shots and meanwhile we talked. Bull was curious to know the reason for this trip. He peered at us and snuffed down his nose, thfump, like a sound in a dry tank.

"Now, Dean, I want you to sit quiet a minute and tell me what you're doing crossing the country like this."

Dean could only blush and say, "Ah well, you know how it is."

"Sal, what are you going to the Coast for?" "Only for a few days. I'm coming back to school." "What's the score with this Ed Dunkel? What kind of character is he?" At that moment Ed was making up to Galatea in the bedroom; it didn't take him long. We didn't know what to tell Bull about Ed Dunkel. Seeing that we didn't know anything about ourselves, he whipped out three sticks of tea and said to go ahead, supper'd be ready soon.

"Ain't nothing better in the world to give you an appetite. I once ate a horrible lunchcart hamburg on tea and it seemed like the most delicious thing in the world. I just got back from Houston last week, went to see Dale about our black-eyed peas. I was sleeping in a motel one morning when all of a sudden I was blasted out of bed. This damn fool had just shot his wife in the room next to mine. Everybody stood around confused, and the guy just got in his car and drove off, left the shotgun on the floor for the sheriff. They finally caught him in Houma, drunk as a lord. Man ain't safe going around this country any more without a gun." He pulled back his coat and showed us his revolver. Then he opened the drawer and showed us the rest of his arsenal. In New York he once had a sub-machine-gun under his bed. "I got something better than that now - a German Scheintoth gas gun; look at this beauty, only got one shell. I could knock out a hundred men with this gun and have plenty of time to make a getaway. Only thing wrong, I only got one shell."

"I hope I'm not around when you try it," said Jane from the kitchen. "How do you know it's a gas shell?" Bull snuffed; he never paid any attention to her sallies but he heard them. His relation with his wife was one of the strangest: they talked till late at night; Bull liked to hold the floor, he went right on in his dreary monotonous voice, she tried to break in, she never could; at dawn he got tired and then Jane talked and he listened, snuffing and going thfump down his nose. She loved that man madly, but in a delirious way of some kind; there was never any mooching and mincing around, just talk and a very deep companionship that none of us would ever be able to fathom. Something curiously unsympathetic and cold between them was really a form of humor by which they communicated their own set of subtle vibrations. Love is all; Jane was never more than ten feet away from Bull and never missed a word he said, and he spoke in a very low voice, too.

Dean and I were yelling about a big night in New Orleans and wanted Bull to show us around. He threw a damper on this. "New Orleans is a very dull town. It's against the law to go to the colored section. The bars are insufferably dreary."

I said, "There must be some ideal bars in town."

"The ideal bar doesn't exist in America. An ideal bar is something that's gone beyond our ken. In nineteen ten a bar was a place where men went to meet during or after work, and all there was was a long counter, brass rails, spittoons, player piano for music, a few mirrors, and barrels of whisky at ten cents a shot together with barrels of beer at five cents a mug. Now all you get is chromium, drunken women, fags, hostile bartenders, anxious owners who hover around the door, worried about their leather seats and the law; just a lot of screaming at the wrong time and deadly silence when a stranger walks in."

We argued about bars. "All right," he said, "I'll take you to New Orleans tonight and show you what I mean." And he deliberately took us to the dullest bars. We left Jane with the children; supper was over; she was reading the want ads of the New Orleans Times-Picayune. I asked her if she was looking for a job; she only said it was the most interesting part of the paper. Bull rode into town with us and went right on talking. "Take it easy, Dean, we'll get there, I hope; hup, there's the ferry, you don't have to drive us clear into the river." He held on. Dean had gotten worse, he confided in me. "He seems to me to be headed for his ideal fate, which is compulsive psychosis dashed with a jigger of psychopathic irresponsibility and violence." He looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "If you go to California with this madman you'll never make it. Why don't you stay in New Orleans with me? We'll play the horses over to Graetna and relax in my yard. I've got a nice set of knives and I'm building a target. Some pretty juicy dolls downtown, too, if that's in your line these days." He snuffed. We were on the ferry and Dean had leaped out to lean over the rail. I followed, but Bull sat on in the car, snuffing, thfump. There was a mystic wraith of fog over the brown waters that night, together with dark driftwoods; and across the way New Orleans glowed orange-bright, with a few dark ships at her hem, ghostly fogbound Cereno ships with Spanish balconies and ornamental poops, till you got up close and saw they were just old freighters from Sweden and Panama. The ferry fires glowed in the night; the same Negroes plied the shovel and sang. Old Big Slim Hazard had once worked on the Algiers ferry as a deckhand; this made me think of Mississippi Gene too; and as the river poured down from mid-America by starlight I knew, I knew like mad that everything I had ever known and would ever know was One. Strange to say, too, that night we crossed the ferry with Bull Lee a girl committed suicide off the deck; either just before or just after us; we saw it in the paper the next day.

We hit all the dull bars in the French Quarter with Old Bull and went back home at midnight. That night Marylou took everything in the books; she took tea, goofballs, benny, liquor, and even asked Old Bull for a shot of M, which of course he didn't give her; he did give her a martini. She was so saturated with elements of all kinds that she came to a standstill and stood goofy on the porch with me. It was a wonderful porch Bull had. It ran clear around the house; by moonlight with the willows it looked like an old Southern mansion that had seen better days. In the house Jane sat reading the want ads in the living room; Bull was in the bathroom taking his fix, clutching his old black necktie in his teeth for a tourniquet and jabbing with the needle into his woesome arm with the thousand holes; Ed Dunkel was sprawled out with Galatea in the massive master bed that Old Bull and Jane never used; Dean was rolling tea; and Marylou and I imitated Southern aristocracy.

"Why, Miss Lou, you look lovely and most fetching tonight."

"Why, thank you, Crawford, I sure do appreciate the nice things you do say."

Doors kept opening around the crooked porch, and members of our sad drama in the American night kept popping out to find out where everybody was. Finally I took a walk alone to the levee. I wanted to sit on the muddy bank and dig the Mississippi River; instead of that I had to look at it with my nose against a wire fence. When you start separating the people from their rivers what have you got? "Bureaucracy!" says Old Bull; he sits with Kafka on his lap, the lamp burns above him, he snuffs, thfump. His old house creaks. And the Montana log rolls by in the big black river of the night. " 'Tain't nothin but bureaucracy. And unions! Especially unions!" But dark laughter would come again.

7

It was there in the morning when I got up bright and early and found Old Bull and Dean in the back yard. Dean was wearing his gas-station coveralls and helping Bull. Bull had found a great big piece of thick rotten wood and was desperately yanking with a hammerhook at little nails imbedded in it. We stared at the nails; there were millions of them; they were like worms.

"When I get all these nails out of this I'm going to build me a shelf that'll last a thousand years!" said Bull, every bone shuddering with boyish excitement. "Why, Sal, do you realize the shelves they build these days crack under the weight of knickknacks after six months or generally collapse? Same with houses, same with clothes. These bastards have invented plastics by which they could make houses that last forever. And tires. Americans are killing themselves by the millions every year with defective rubber tires that get hot on the road and blow up. They could make tires that never blow up. Same with tooth powder. There's a certain gum they've invented and they won't show it to anybody that if you chew it as a kid you'll never get a cavity for the rest of your born days. Same with clothes. They can make clothes that last forever. They prefer making cheap goods so's everybody'll have to go on working and punching timeclocks and organizing themselves in sullen unions and floundering around while the big grab goes on in Washington and Moscow." He raised his big piece of rotten wood. "Don't you think this'll make a splendid shelf?"

It was early in the morning; his energy was at its peak. The poor fellow took so much junk into his system he could only weather the greater proportion of his day in that chair with the lamp burning at noon, but in the morning he was magnificent. We began throwing knives at the target. He said he'd seen an Arab in Tunis who could stick a man's eye from forty feet. This got him going on his aunt, who went to the Casbah in the thirties. "She was with a party of tourists led by a guide. She had a diamond ring on her little finger. She leaned on a wall to rest a minute and an Ay-rab rushed up and appropriated her ring finger before she could let out a cry, my dear. She suddenly realized she had no little finger. Hi-hi-hi-hi-hi!" When he laughed he compressed his lips together and made it come out from his belly, from far away, and doubled up to lean on his knees. He laughed a long time. "Hey Jane!" he yelled gleefully. "I was just telling Dean and Sal about my aunt in the Casbah!"

"I heard you," she said across the lovely warm Gulf morning from the kitchen door. Great beautiful clouds floated overhead, valley clouds that made you feel the vastness of old tumbledown holy America from mouth to mouth and tip to tip. All pep and juices was Bull. "Say, did I ever tell you about Dale's father? He was the funniest old man you ever saw in your life. He had paresis, which eats away the forepart of your brain and you get so's you're not responsible for any­thing that comes into your mind. He had a house in Texas and had carpenters working twenty-four hours a day putting on new wings. He'd leap up in the middle of the night and say, 'I don't want that goddam wing; put it over there.' The carpenters had to take everything down and start all over again. Come dawn you'd see them hammering away at the new wing. Then the old man'd get bored with that and say, 'Goddammit, I wanta go to Maine!' And he'd get into his car and drive off a hundred miles an hour-great showers of chicken feathers followed his track for hundreds of miles. He'd stop his car in the middle of a Texas town just to get out and buy some whisky. Traffic would honk all around him and he'd come rushing out of the store, yelling, 'Thet your goddam noith, you bunth of bathats!' He lisped; when you have paresis you lips, I mean you lisps. One night he came to my house in Cincinnati and tooted the horn and said, 'Come on out and let's go to Texas to see Dale.' He was going back from Maine. He claimed he bought a house-oh, we wrote a story about him at college, where you see this horrible shipwreck and people in the water clutching at the sides of the lifeboat, and the old man is there with a machete, hackin at their fingers. 'Get away, ya bunth a bathats, thith my cottham boath!' Oh, he was horrible. I could tell you stories about him all day. Say, ain't this a nice day?"

And it sure was. The softest breezes blew in from the levee; it was worth the whole trip. We went into the house after Bull to measure the wall for a shelf. He showed us the dining-room table he built. It was made of wood six inches thick. "This is a table that'll last a thousand years!" said Bull, leaning his long thin face at us maniacally. He banged on it.

In the evenings he sat at this table, picking at his food and throwing the bones to the cats. He had seven cats. "I love cats. I especially like the ones that squeal when I hold 'em over the bathtub." He insisted on demonstrating; someone was in the bathroom. "Well," he said, "we can't do that now. Say, I been having a fight with the neighbors next door." He told us about the neighbors; they were a vast crew with sassy children who threw stones over the rickety fence at Dodie and Ray and sometimes at Old Bull. He told them to cut it out; the old man rushed out and yelled something in Portuguese. Bull went in the house and came back with his shotgun, upon which he leaned demurely; the incredible simper on his face beneath the long hatbrim, his whole body writhing coyly and snakily as he waited, a grotesque, lank, lonely clown beneath the clouds. The sight of him the Portuguese must have thought something out of an old evil dream.

We scoured the yard for things to do. There was a tremendous fence Bull had been working on to separate him from the obnoxious neighbors; it would never be finished, the task was too much. He rocked it back and forth to show how solid it was. Suddenly he grew tired and quiet and went in the house and disappeared in the bathroom for his pre-lunch fix. He came out glassy-eyed and calm, and sat down under his burning lamp. The sunlight poked feebly behind the drawn shade. "Say, why don't you fellows try my orgone accumulator? Put some juice in your bones. I always rush up and take off ninety miles an hour for the nearest whorehouse, hor-hor-hor!" This was his "laugh" laugh-when he wasn't really laughing. The orgone accumulator is an ordinary box big enough for a man to sit inside on a chair: a layer of wood, a layer of metal, and another layer of wood gather in orgones from the atmosphere and hold them captive long enough for the human body to absorb more than a usual share. According to Reich, orgones are vibratory atmospheric atoms of the life-principle. People get cancer because they run out of orgones. Old Bull thought his orgone accumulator would be improved if the wood he used was as organic as possible, so he tied bushy bayou leaves and twigs to his mystical outhouse. It stood there in the hot, flat yard, an exfoliate machine clustered and bedecked with maniacal contrivances. Old Bull slipped off his clothes and went in to sit and moon over his navel. "Say, Sal, after lunch let's you and me go play the horses over to the bookie joint in Graetna." He was magnificent. He took a nap after lunch in his chair, the air gun on his lap and little Ray curled around his neck, sleeping. It was a pretty sight, father and son, a father who would certainly never bore his son when it came to finding things to do and talk about. He woke up with a start and stared at me. It took him a minute to recognize who I was. "What are you going to the Coast for, Sal?" he asked, and went back to sleep in a moment.

In the afternoon we went to Graetna, just Bull and me. We drove in his old Chevy. Dean's Hudson was low and sleek; Bull's Chevy was high and rattly. It was just like 1910. The bookie joint was located near the waterfront in a big chromium-leather bar that opened up in the back to a tremendous hall where entries and numbers were posted on the wall. Louisiana characters lounged around with Racing Forms. Bull and I had a beer, and casually Bull went over to the slot machine and threw a half-dollar piece in. The counters I clicked "Jackpot"-"Jackpot"-"Jackpot"-and the last

"Jackpot" hung for just a moment and slipped back to "Cherry." He had lost a hundred dollars or more just by a hair. "Damn!" yelled Bull. "They got these things adjusted. You could see it right then. I had the jackpot and the mechanism clicked it back. Well, what you gonna do." We examined the Racing Form. I hadn't played the horses in years and was bemused with all the new names. There was one horse called Big Pop that sent me into a temporary trance thinking of my father, who used to play the horses with me. I was just about to mention it to Old Bull when he said, "Well I think I'll try this Ebony Corsair here."

Then I finally said it. "Big Pop reminds me of my father."

He mused for just a second, his clear blue eyes fixed on mine hypnotically so that I couldn't tell what he was thinking or where he was. Then he went over and bet on Ebony Corsair. Big Pop won and paid fifty to one.

"Damn!" said Bull. "I should have known better, I've had experience with this before. Oh, when will we ever learn?"

"What do you mean?"

"Big Pop is what I mean. You had a vision, boy, a vision. Only damn fools pay no attention to visions. How do you know your father, who was an old horseplayer, just didn't momentarily communicate to you that Big Pop was going to win the race? The name brought the feeling up in you, he took advantage of the name to communicate. That's what I was thinking about when you mentioned it. My cousin in Missouri once bet on a horse that had a name that reminded him of his mother, and it won and paid a big price. The same thing happened this afternoon." He shook his head. "Ah, let's go. This is the last time I'll ever play the horses with you around; all these visions drive me to distraction." In the car as we drove back to his old house he said, "Mankind will someday realize that we are actually in contact with the dead and with the other world, whatever it is; right now we could predict, if we only exerted enough mental will, what is going to happen within the next hundred years and be able to take steps to avoid all kinds of catastrophes. When a man dies he undergoes a mutation in his brain that we know nothing about now but which will be very clear someday if scientists get on the ball. The bastards right now are only interested in seeing if they can blow up the world."

We told Jane about it. She sniffed. "It sounds silly to me." She plied the broom around the kitchen. Bull went in the bathroom for his afternoon fix.

Out on the road Dean and Ed Dunkel were playing basketball with Dodie's ball and a bucket nailed on a lamppost. I joined in. Then we turned 10 feats of athletic prowess. Dean completely amazed me. He had Ed and me hold a bar of iron up to our waists, and just standing there he popped right over it, holding his heels. "Go ahead, raise it." We kept raising it till it was chest-high. Still he jumped over it with ease. Then he tried the running broad jump and did at least twenty feet and more. Then I raced him down the road. I can do the hundred in 10:5. He passed me like the wind. As we ran I had a mad vision of Dean running through all of life just like that -his bony face outthrust to life, his arms pumping, his brow sweating, his legs twinkling like Groucho Marx, yelling, "Yes! Yes, man, you sure can go!" But nobody could go as fast as he could, and that's the truth. Then Bull came out with a couple of knives and started showing us how to disarm a would-be shiver in a dark alley. I for my part showed him a very good trick, which is falling on the ground in front of your adversary and gripping him with your ankles and flipping him over on his hands and grabbing his wrists in full nelson. He said it was pretty good. He demonstrated some jujitsu. Little Dodie called her mother to the porch and said, "Look at the silly men." She was such a cute sassy little thing that Dean couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Wow. Wait till she grows up! Can you see her cuttin down Canal Street with her cute eyes. Ah! Oh!" He hissed through his teeth.

We spent a mad day in downtown New Orleans walking around with the Dunkels. Dean was out of his mind that day. When he saw the T & NO freight trains in the yard he wanted to show me everything at once. "You'll be brakeman 'fore I'm through with ya!" He and I and Ed Dunkel ran across the tracks and hopped a freight at three individual points; Marylou and Galatea were waiting in the car. We rode the train a half-mile into the piers, waving at switchmen and flagmen. They showed me the proper way to get off a moving car; the back foot first and let the train go away from you and come around and place the other foot down. They showed me the refrigerator cars, the ice compartments, good for a ride on any winter night in a string of empties. "Remember what I told you about New Mexico to LA?" cried Dean. "This was the way I hung on . . ."

We got back to the girls an hour late and of course they were mad. Ed and Galatea had decided to get a room in New Orleans and stay there and work. This was okay with Bull, who was getting sick and tired of the whole mob. The invitation, originally, was for me to come alone. In the front room, where Dean and Marylou slept, there were jam and coffee stains and empty benny tubes all over the floor; what's more it was Bull's workroom and he couldn't get on with his shelves. Poor Jane was driven to distraction by the continual jumping and running around on the part of Dean. We were waiting for my next GI check to come through; my aunt was forwarding it. Then we were off, the three of us-Dean, Marylou, me. When the check came I realized I hated to leave Bull's wonderful house so suddenly, but Dean was all energies and ready to do.

In a sad red dusk we were finally seated in the car and Jane, Dodie, little boy Ray, Bull, Ed, and Galatea stood around in the high grass, smiling. It was good-by. At the last moment Dean and Bull had a misunderstanding over money; Dean had wanted to borrow; Bull said it was out of the question. The feeling reached back to Texas days. Con-man Dean was antagonizing people away from him by degrees. He giggled maniacally and didn't care; he rubbed his fly, stuck his finger in Marylou's dress, slurped up her knee, frothed at the mouth, and said, "Darling, you know and I know that everything is straight between us at last beyond the furthest abstract definition in metaphysical terms or any terms you want to specify or sweetly impose or harken back . . ." and so on, and zoom went the car and we were off again for California.

8

What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing?-it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.

We wheeled through the sultry old light of Algiers, back on the ferry, back toward the mud-splashed, crabbed old ships across the river, back on Canal, and out; on a two-lane highway to Baton Rouge in purple darkness; swung west there, crossed the Mississippi at a place called Port Alien. Port Alien-where the river's all rain and roses in a misty pinpoint darkness and where we swung around a circular drive in yellow foglight and suddenly saw the great black body below a , bridge and crossed eternity again. What is the Mississippi River?-a washed clod in the rainy night, a soft plopping ( from drooping Missouri banks, a dissolving, a riding of the tide down the eternal waterbed, a contribution to brown foams, a voyaging past endless vales and trees and levees, * down along, down along, by Memphis, Greenville, Eudora, Vicksburg, Natchez, Port Alien, and Port Orleans and Port of the Deltas, by Potash, Venice, and the Night's Great Gulf, and out.

With the radio on to a mystery program, and as I looked out the window and saw a sign that said USE COOPER'S PAINT and I said, "Okay, I will." we rolled across the hoodwink night of the Louisiana plains-Lawtell, Eunice, Kinder, and De Ouincy, western rickety towns becoming more bayou-like as \\e reached the Sabine. In Old Opelousas I went into a grocery store to buy bread and cheese while Dean saw to gas and oil. It was just a shack; I could hear the family eating supper in the back. I waited a minute; they went on talking. I took bread and cheese and slipped out the door. We had barely enough money to make Frisco. Meanwhile Dean took a cartoon of cigarettes from the gas station and we were stocked for the voyage-gas, oil, cigarettes, and food. Crooks don't know. He pointed the car straight down the road.

Somewhere near Starks we saw a great red glow in the sky ahead; we wondered what it was; in a moment we were passing it. It was a fire beyond the trees; there were many cars parked on the highway. It must have been some kind of fish-fry, and on the other hand it might have been anything. The country turned strange and dark near Deweyville. Suddenly we were in the swamps.

"Man, do you imagine what it would be like if we found a jazzjoint in these swamps, with great big black fellas moanin guitar blues and drinkin snakejuice and makin signs at us?"

"Yes!"

There were mysteries around here. The car was going over a dirt road elevated off the swamps that dropped on both sides and drooped with vines. We passed an apparition; it was a Negro man in a white shirt walking along with his arms up-spread to the inky firmament. He must have been praying or calling down a curse. We zoomed right by; I looked out the back window to see his white eyes. "Whoo!" said Dean. "Look out. We better not stop in this here country." At one point we got stuck at a crossroads and stopped the car anyway. Dean turned off the headlamps. We were surrounded by a great forest of viny trees in which we could almost hear the slither of a million copperheads. The only thing we could see was the red ampere button on the Hudson dashboard. Marylou squealed with fright. We began laughing maniac laughs to her. We were scared too. We wanted to get out of this mansion of the snake, this mireful drooping dark, and zoom on back to familiar American ground and cowtowns. There was a smell of oil and dead water in the air. This was a manuscript of the night we couldn't read. An owl hooted. We took a chance on one of the dirt roads, and pretty soon we were crossing the evil old Sabine River that is responsible for all these swamps. With amazement we saw great structures of light ahead of us. "Texas! It's Texas! Beaumont oil town!" Huge oil tanks and refineries loomed like cities in the oily fragrant air.

"I'm glad we got out of there," said Marylou. "Let's play some more mystery programs now."

We zoomed through Beaumont, over the Trinity River at Liberty, and straight for Houston. Now Dean got talking about his Houston days in 1947. "Hassel! That mad Hassel! I look for him everywhere I go and I never find him. He used to get us so hung-up in Texas here. We'd drive in with Bull for groceries and Hassel'd disappear. We'd have to go looking for him in every shooting gallery in town." We were entering Houston. "We had to look for him in this spade part of town most of the time. Man, he'd be blasting with every mad cat he could find. One night we lost him and took a hotel room. We were supposed to bring ice back to Jane because her food was rotting. It took us two days to find Hassel. I got hung-up myself-1 gunned shopping women in the afternoon, right here, downtown, supermarkets"-we flashed by in the empty night-"and found a real gone dumb girl who was out of her mind and just wandering, trying to steal an orange. She was from Wyoming. Her beautiful body was matched only by her idiot mind. I found her babbling and took her back to the room. Bull was drunk trying to get this young Mexican kid drunk. Carlo was writing poetry on heroin. Hassel didn't show up till midnight at the jeep. We found him sleeping in the back seat. The ice was all melted. Hassel said he took about five sleeping pills. Man, if my memory could only serve me right the way my mind works I could tell you every detail of the things we did. Ah, but we know time. Everything takes care of itself. I could close my eyes and this old car would take care of itself."

In the empty Houston streets of four o'clock in the morning a motorcycle kid suddenly roared through, all bespangled and bedecked with glittering buttons, visor, slick black jacket, a Texas poet of the night, girl gripped on his back like a papoose, hair flying, onward-going, singing, "Houston, Austin, Fort Worth, Dallas-and sometimes Kansas City-and sometimes old Antone, ah-haaaaa!" They pinpointed out of sight. "Wow! Dig that gone gal on his belt! Let's all blow!" Dean tried to catch up with them. "Now wouldn't it be fine if we could all get together and have a real going goofbang together with everybody sweet and fine and agreeable, no> hassles, no infant rise of protest or body woes misconceptalized or sumpin? Ah! but we know time." He bent to it and pushed the car.

Beyond Houston his energies, great as they were, gave out and I drove. Rain began to fall just as I took the wheel. Now we were on the great Texas plain and, as Dean said, "You drive and drive and you're still in Texas tomorrow night." The rain lashed down. I drove through a rickety little cowtown with a muddy main street and found myself in a dead end. "Hey, what do I do?" They were both asleep. I turned and crawled back through town. There wasn't a soul in sight and not a single light. Suddenly a horseman in a raincoat appeared in my headlamps. It was the sheriff. He had a ten-gallon hat, drooping in the torrent. "Which way to Austin?" He told me politely and I started off. Outside town I suddenly saw two headlamps flaring directly at me in the lashing rain, Whoops, I thought I was on the wrong side of the road; { eased right and found myself rolling in the mud; I rolled back to the road. Still the headlamps came straight for me. At the last moment I realized the other driver was on the wrong side of the road and didn't know it. I swerved at thirty into the mud; it was flat, no ditch, thank God. The offending car backed up in the downpour. Four sullen fieldworkers, snuck from their chores to brawl in drinking fields, all white shirts and dirty brown arms, sat looking at me dumbly in the night. The driver was as drunk as the lot.

He said, "Which way t'Houston?" I pointed my thumb back. I was thunderstruck in the middle of the thought that they had done this on purpose just to ask directions, as a panhandler advances on you straight up the sidewalk to bar your way. They gazed ruefully at the floor of their car, where empty bottles rolled, and clanked away. I started the car; it was stuck in the mud a foot deep. I sighed in the rainy Texas wilderness.

"Dean," I said, "wake up."

"What?"

"We're stuck in the mud."

"What happened?" I told him. He swore up and down. We put on old shoes and sweaters and barged out of the car into the driving rain. I put my back on the rear fender and lifted and heaved; Dean stuck chains under the swishing wheels. In a minute we were covered with mud. We woke up Marylou to these horrors and made her gun the car while we pushed. The tormented Hudson heaved and heaved. Suddenly it jolted out and went skidding across the road. Marylou pulled it up just in time, and we got in. That was that- the work had taken thirty minutes and we were soaked and miserable.

I fell asleep, all caked with mud; and in the morning when I woke up the mud was solidified and outside there was snow. We were near Fredericksburg, in the high plains. It was one of the worst winters in Texas and Western history, when cattle perished like flies in great blizzards and snow fell on San Francisco and LA. We were all miserable. We wished we were back in New Orleans with Ed Dunkel. Marylou was driving; Dean was sleeping. She drove with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching back to me in the back seat. She cooed promises about San Francisco. I slavered miserably over it. At ten I took the wheel-Dean was out for hours-and drove several hundred dreary miles across the bushy snows and ragged sage hills. Cowboys went by in baseball caps and earmuffs, looking for cows. Comfortable little homes with chimneys smoking appeared along the road at intervals. I wished we could go in for buttermilk and beans in front of the fireplace.

At Sonora I again helped myself to free bread and cheese while the proprietor chatted with a big rancher on the other side of the store. Dean huzzahed when he heard it; he was hungry. We couldn't spend a cent on food. "Yass, yass," said Dean, watching the ranchers loping up and down Sonora main street, "every one of them is a bloody millionaire, thousand head of cattle, workhands, buildings, money in the bank. If I lived around here I'd go be an idjit in the sagebrush, I'd be jackrabbit, I'd lick up the branches, I'd look for pretty cowgirls-hee-hee-hee-hee! Damn! Bam!" He socked himself. "Yes! Right! Oh me!" We didn't know what he was talking about any more. He took the wheel and flew the rest of the way across the state of Texas, about five hundred miles, clear to El Paso, arriving at dusk and not stopping except once when he took all his clothes off, near Ozona, and ran yipping and leaping naked in the sage. Cars zoomed by and didn't see him. He scurried back to the car and drove on. "Now Sal, now Marylou, I want both of you to do as I'm doing, disemburden yourselves of all that clothes-now what's the sense of clothes? now that's what I'm sayin-and sun your pretty bellies with me. Come on!" We were driving west into the sun; it fell in through the windshield. "Open your belly as we drive into it." Marylou complied; unfuddyduddied, so did I. We sat in the front seat, all three. Marylou took out cold cream and applied it to us for kicks. Every now and then a big truck zoomed by; the driver in high cab caught a glimpse of a golden beauty sitting naked with two naked men: you could see them swerve a moment as they vanished in our rear-view window. Great sage plains, snowless now, rolled on. Soon we were in the orange-rocked Pecos Canyon country. Blue distances opened up in the sky. We got out of the car to examine an old Indian ruin. Dean did so stark naked. Marylou and I put on our overcoats. We wandered among the old stones, hooting and howling. Certain tourists caught sight of Dean naked in the plain but they could not believe their eyes and wobbled on.

Dean and Marylou parked the car near Van Horn and made love while I went to sleep. I woke up just as we were rolling down the tremendous Rio Grande Valley through Glint and Ysleta to El Paso. Marylou jumped to the back seat, I jumped to the front seat, and we rolled along. To our left across the vast Rio Grande spaces were the moorish-red mounts of the Mexican border, the land of the Tarahumare; soft dusk played on the peaks. Straight ahead lay the distant lights of El Paso and Juarez, sown in a tremendous valley so big that you could see several railroads puffing at the same time in every direction, as though it was the Valley of the World. We descended into it. - -

"Clint, Texas!" said Dean. He had the radio on to the Glint station. Every fifteen minutes they played a record; the rest of the time it was commercials about a high-school correspondence course. "This program is beamed all over the West," cried Dean excitedly. "Man, I used to listen to it day and night in reform school and prison. All of us used to write in. You get a high-school diploma by mail, facsimile thereof, if you pass the test. All the young wranglers in the West, I don't care who, at one time or another write in for this; it's all they hear; you tune the radio in Sterling, Colorado, Lusk, Wyoming, I don't care where, you get Glint, Texas, Glint, Texas. And the music is always cowboy hillbilly and Mexican, absolutely the worst program in the entire history of the country and nobody can do anything about it. They have a tremendous beam; they've got the whole land hogtied." We saw the high antenna beyond the shacks of Glint. "Oh, man, the things I could tell you!" cried Dean, almost weeping. Eyes bent on Frisco and the Coast, we came into El Paso as it got dark, broke. We absolutely had to get some money for gas or we'd never make it.

We tried everything. We buzzed the travel bureau, but no one was going west that night. The travel bureau is where you go for share-the-gas rides, legal in the West. Shifty characters wait with battered suitcases. We went to the Greyhound bus station to try to persuade somebody to give us the money instead of taking a bus for the Coast. We were too bashful to approach anyone. We wandered around sadly. It was cold outside. A college boy was sweating at the sight of luscious Marylou and trying to look unconcerned. Dean and I consulted but decided we weren't pimps. Suddenly a crazy dumb young kid, fresh out of reform school, attached himself to us, and he and Dean rushed out for a beer. "Come on, man, let's go mash somebody on the head and get his money."

"I dig you, man!" yelled Dean. They dashed off. For a moment I was worried; but Dean only wanted to dig the streets of El Paso with the kid and get his kicks. Marylou and I waited in the car. She put her arms around me. I said, "Dammit, Lou, wait till we get to Frisco."

"I don't care. Dean's going to leave me anyway."

"When are you going back to Denver?" "I don't know. I don't care what I'm doing. Can I go back east with you?"

"We'll have to get some money in Frisco." "I know where you can get a job in a lunchcart behind the counter, and I'll be a waitress. I know a hotel where we can stay on credit. We'll stick together. Gee, I'm sad." "What are you sad about, kid?"

"I'm sad about everything. Oh damn, I wish Dean wasn't so crazy now." Dean came twinkling back, giggling, and jumped in the car.

"What a crazy cat that was, whoo! Did I dig him! I used to know thousands of guys like that, they're all the same, their minds work in uniform clockwork, oh, the infinite ramifications, no time, no time . . ." And he shot up the car, hunched over the wheel, and roared out of El Paso. "We'll just have to pick up hitchhikers. I'm positive we'll find some. Hup! hup! here we go. Look out!" he yelled at a motorist, and swung around him, and dodged a truck and bounced over the city limits. Across the river were the jewel lights of Juarez and the sad dry land and the jewel stars of Chihuahua. Marylou was watching Dean as she had watched him clear across the country and back, out of the corner of her eye-with a sullen, sad air, as though she wanted to cut off his head and hide it in her closet, an envious and rueful love of him so amazingly himself, all raging and sniffy and crazy-wayed, a smile of tender dotage but also sinister envy that frightened me about her, a love she knew would never bear fruit because when she looked at his hangjawed bony face with its male self-containment and absentmindedness she knew he was too mad. Dean was convinced Marylou was a whore; he confided in me that she was a pathological liar. But when she watched him like this it was love too; and when Dean noticed he always turned with his big false flirtatious smile, with the eyelashes fluttering and the teeth pearly white, while a moment ago he was only dreaming in his eternity. Then Marylou and I both laughed -and Dean gave no sign of discomfiture, just a goofy glad grin that said to us, Ain't we gettin our kicks anyway? And that was it.

Outside El Paso, in the darkness, we saw a small huddled figure with thumb stuck out. It was our promised hitchhiker. We pulled up and backed to his side. "How much money you got, kid?" The kid had no money; he was about seventeen, pale, strange, with one undeveloped crippled hand and no suitcase. "Ain't he sweet?" said Dean, turning to me with a serious awe. "Come on in, fella, we'll take you out-" The kid saw his advantage. He said he had an aunt in Tulare, California, who owned a grocery store and as soon as we got there he'd have some money for us. Dean rolled on the floor laughing, it was so much like the kid in North Carolina. "Yes! Yes!" he yelled. "We've all got aunts; well, let's go, let's see the aunts and the uncles and the grocery stores all the way ALONG that road!!" And we had a new passenger, and a fine little guy he turned out to be, too. He didn't say a word, he listened to us. After a minute of Dean's talk he was probably convinced he had joined a car of madmen. He said he was hitchhiking from Alabama to Oregon, where his home was. We asked him what he was doing in Alabama.

"I went to visit my uncle; he said he'd have a job for me in a lumber mill. The job fell through, so I'm comin back home."

"Coin home," said Dean, "goin home, yes, I know, we'll take you home, far as Frisco anyhow." But we didn't have any money. Then it occurred to me I could borrow five dollars from my old friend Hal Hingham in Tucson, Arizona. Immediately Dean said it was all settled and we were going to Tucson. And we did.

We passed Las Cruces, New Mexico, in the night and arrived in Arizona at dawn. I woke up from a deep sleep to find everybody sleeping like lambs and the car parked God knows where, because I couldn't see out the steamy windows. I got out of the car. We were in the mountains: there was a heaven of sunrise, cool purple airs, red mountainsides, emerald pastures in valleys, dew, and transmuting clouds of gold; on the ground gopher holes, cactus, mesquite. It was time for me to drive on. I pushed Dean and the kid over and went down the mountain with the clutch in and the motor off to save gas. In this manner I rolled into Benson, Arizona. It occurred to me that I had a pocket watch Rocco had just given me for a birthday present, a four-dollar watch. At the gas station I asked the man if he knew a pawnshop in Benson. It was right next door to the station. I knocked, someone got up out of bed, and in a minute I had a dollar for the watch. It went into the tank. Now we had enough gas for Tucson. But suddenly a big pistol-packing trooper appeared, just as I was ready to pull out, and asked to see my driver's license. "The fella in the back seat has the license," I said. Dean and Marylou were sleeping together under the blanket. The cop told Dean to come out. Suddenly he whipped out his gun and yelled, "Keep your hands up!"

"Offisah," I heard Dean say in the most unctious and ridiculous tones, "offisah, I was only buttoning my flah." Even the cop almost smiled. Dean came out, muddy, ragged, T-shirted, rubbing his belly, cursing, looking everywhere for his license and his car papers. The cop rummaged through our back trunk. All the papers were straight.

"Only checking up," he said with a broad smile. "You can go on now. Benson ain't a bad town actually; you might enjoy it if you had breakfast here."

"Yes yes yes," said Dean, paying absolutely no attention to him, and drove off. We all sighed with relief. The police are suspicious when gangs of youngsters come by in new cars without a cent in their pockets and have to pawn watches. "Oh, they're always interfering," said Dean, "but he was a much better cop than that rat in Virginia. They try to make headline arrests; they think every car going by is some big Chicago gang. They ain't got nothin else to do." We drove on to Tucson.

Tucson is situated in beautiful mesquite riverbed country, overlooked by the snowy Catalina range. The city was one big construction job; the people transient, wild, ambitious, busy, gay; washlines, trailers; bustling downtown streets with banners; altogether very Californian. Fort Lowell Road, out where Hingham lived, wound along lovely riverbed trees in the flat desert. We saw Hingham himself brooding in the yard. He was a writer; he had come to Arizona to work on his book in peace. He was a tall, gangly, shy satirist who mumbled to you with his head turned away and always said funny things. His wife and baby were with him in the dobe house, a small one that his Indian stepfather had built. His mother lived across the yard in her own house. She was an excited American woman who loved pottery, beads, and books. Hingham had heard of Dean through letters from New York. We came down on him like a cloud, every one of us hungry, even Alfred, the crippled hitchhiker. Hingham was wearing an old sweater and smoking a pipe in the keen desert air. His mother came out and invited us into her kitchen to eat. We cooked noodles in a great pot.

Then we all drove to a crossroads liquor store, where Hingham cashed a check for five dollars and handed me the money.

There was a brief good-by. "It certainly was pleasant," said Hingham, looking away. Beyond some trees, across the sand, a great neon sign of a roadhouse glowed red. Hingham always went there for a beer when he was tired of writing. He was very lonely, he wanted to get back to New York. It was sad to see his tall figure receding in the dark as we drove away, just like the other figures in New York and New Orleans: they stand uncertainly underneath immense skies, and everything about them is drowned. Where go? what do? what for? -sleep. But this foolish gang was bending onward.

9

Outside Tucson we saw another hitchhiker in the dark road. This was an Okie from Bakersfield, California, who put down his story. "Hot damn, I left Bakersfield with the travel-bureau car and left my gui-tar in the trunk of another one and they never showed up-guitar and cowboy duds; you see, I'm a moo-sician, I was headed for Arizona to play with Johnny Mackaw's Sagebrush Boys. Well, hell, here I am in Arizona, broke, and m'gui-tar's been stoled. You boys drive me back to Bakersfield and I'll get the money from my brother. How much you want?" We wanted just enough gas to make Frisco from Bakersfield, about three dollars. Now we were five in the car. "Evenin, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat to Marylou, and we were off.

In the middle of the night we overtopped the lights of Palm Springs from a mountain road. At dawn, in snowy passes, we labored toward the town of Mojave, which was the entryway to the great Tehachapi Pass. The Okie woke up and told funny stories; sweet little Alfred sat smiling. Okie told us he knew a man who forgave his wife for shooting him and got her out of prison, only to be shot a second time. We were passing the women's prison when he told it. Up ahead we saw Tehachapi Pass starting up. Dean took the wheel and carried us clear to the top of the world. We passed a great shroudy cement factory in the canyon. Then we started down. Dean cut off the gas, threw in the clutch, and negotiated every hairpin turn and passed cars and did everything in the books without the benefit of accelerator. I held on tight. Sometimes the road went up again briefly; he merely passed cars without a sound, on pure momentum. He knew every rhythm and every kick of a first-class pass. When it was time to U-turn left around a low stone wall that overlooked the bottom of the world, he just leaned far over to his left, hands on the wheel, stiff-armed, and carried it that way; and when the turn snaked to the right again, this time with a cliff on our left, he leaned far to the right, making Marylou and me lean with him. In this way we floated and flapped down to the San Joaquin Valley. It lay spread a mile below, virtually the floor of California, green and wondrous from our aerial shelf. We made thirty miles without using gas.

Suddenly we were all excited. Dean wanted to tell me everything he knew about Bakersfield as we reached the city limits. He showed me rooming houses where he stayed, railroad hotels, poolhalls, diners, sidings where he jumped off the engine for grapes, Chinese restaurants where he ate, park benches where he met girls, and certain places where he'd done nothing but sit and wait around. Dean's California-wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to forgather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken-down, handsome, decadent movie actors. "Man, I spent hours on that very chair in front of that drugstore!" He remembered all-every pinochle game, every woman, every sad night. And suddenly we were passing the place in the railyards where Terry and I had sat under the moon, drinking wine, on those bum crates, in October 1947, and I tried to tell him. But he was too excited. "This is where Dunkel and I spent a whole morning drinking beer, trying to make a real gone little waitress from Watsonville-no, Tracy, yes, Tracy-and her name was Esmeralda-oh, man, something like that." Marylou was planning what to do the moment she arrived in Frisco. Alfred said his aunt would give him plenty of money up in Tulare.

The Okie directed us to his brother in the flats outside town.

We pulled up at noon in front of a little rose-covered shack, and the Okie went in and talked with some women. We waited fifteen minutes. "I'm beginning to think this guy has no more money than I have," said Dean. "We get more hung-up! There's probably nobody in the family that'll give him a cent after that fool escapade." The Okie came out sheepishly and directed us to town.

"Hot damn, I wisht I could find my brother." He made inquiries. He probably felt he was our prisoner. Finally we went to a big bread bakery, and the Okie came out with his brother, who was wearing coveralls and was apparently the truck mechanic inside. He talked with his brother a few minutes. We waited in the car. Okie was telling all his relatives his adventures and about the loss of his guitar. But he got the money, and he gave it to us, and we were all set for Frisco. We thanked him and took off.

Next stop was Tulare. Up the valley we roared. I lay in the back seat, exhausted, giving up completely, and sometime in the afternoon, while I dozed, the muddy Hudson zoomed by the tents outside Sabinal where I had lived and loved and worked in the spectral past. Dean was bent rigidly over the wheel, pounding the rods. I was sleeping when we finally arrived in Tulare; I woke up to hear the insane details. "Sal, wake up! Alfred found his aunt's grocery store, but do you know what happened? His aunt shot her husband and went to jail. The store's closed down. We didn't get a cent. Think of it! The things that happen; the Okie told us the same likewise story, the troubles on all sides, the complications of events-whee, damn!" Alfred was biting his fingernails. We were turning off the Oregon road at Madera, and there we made our farewell with little Alfred. We wished him luck and Godspeed to Oregon. He said it was the best ride he ever had.

It seemed like a matter of minutes when we began rolling in the foothills before Oakland and suddenly reached a height and saw stretched out ahead of us the fabulous white city of San Francisco on her eleven mystic hills with the blue Pacific and its advancing wall of potato-patch fog beyond, and smoke and goldenness in the late afternoon of time. "There she blows!" yelled Dean. "Wow! Made it! Just enough gas! Give me water! No more land! We can't go any further 'cause there ain't no more land! Now Marylou, darling, you and Sal go immediately to a hotel and wait for me to contact you in the morning as soon as I have definite arrangements made with Camille and call up Frenchman about my railroad watch and you and Sal buy the first thing hit town a paper for the want ads and workplans." And he drove into the Oakland Bay Bridge and it carried us in. The downtown office buildings were just sparkling on their lights; it made you think of Sam Spade. When we staggered out of the car on O'Farrell Street and sniffed and stretched, it was like getting on shore after a long voyage at sea; the slopy street reeled under our feet; secret chop sueys from Frisco Chinatown floated in the air. We took all our things out of the car and piled them on the sidewalk.

Suddenly Dean was saying good-by. He was bursting to see Camille and find out what had happened. Marylou and I stood dumbly in the street and watched him drive away. "You see what a bastard he is?" said Marylou. "Dean will leave you out in the cold any time it's in his interest."

"I know," I said, and I looked back east and sighed. We had no money. Dean hadn't mentioned money. "Where are we going to stay?" We wandered around, carrying our bundles of rags in the narrow romantic streets. Everybody looked like a broken-down movie extra, a withered starlet; disenchanted stunt-men, midget auto-racers, poignant California characters with their end-of-the-continent sadness, handsome, decadent, Casanovaish men, puffy-eyed motel blondes, hustlers, pimps, whores, masseurs, bellhops-a lemon lot, and how's a man going to make a living with a gang like that?

10

Nevertheless Marylou had been around these people-not far from the Tenderloin-and a gray-faced hotel clerk let us have a room on credit. That was the first step. Then we had to eat, and didn't do so till midnight, when we found a nightclub singer in her hotel room who turned an iron upside down on a coathanger in the wastebasket and warmed up a can of pork and beans. I looked out the window at the winking neons and said to myself, Where is Dean and why isn't he concerned about our welfare? I lost faith in him that year. I stayed in San Francisco a week and had the beatest time of my life. Marylou and I walked around for miles, looking for food-money. We even visited some drunken seamen in a flophouse on Mission Street that she knew; they offered us whisky.

In the hotel we lived together two days. I realized that, now Dean was out of the picture, Marylou had no real interest in me; she was trying to reach Dean through me, his buddy. We had arguments in the room. We also spent entire nights in bed and I told her my dreams. I told her about the big snake of the world that was coiled in the earth like a worm in an apple and would someday nudge up a hill to be thereafter known as Snake Hill and fold out upon the plain, a hundred miles long and devouring as it went along. I told her this snake was Satan. "What's going to happen?" she squealed; meanwhile she held me tight.

"A saint called Doctor Sax will destroy it with secret herbs which he is at this very moment cooking up in his underground shack somewhere in America. It may also be disclosed that the snake is just a husk of doves; when the snake dies great clouds of seminal-gray doves will flutter out and bring tidings of peace around the world." I was out of my mind with hunger and bitterness.

One night Marylou disappeared with a nightclub owner. I was waiting for her by appointment in a doorway across the street, at Larkin and Geary, hungry, when she suddenly stepped out of the foyer of the fancy apartment house with her girl friend, the nightclub owner, and a greasy old man with a roll. Originally she'd just gone in to see her girl friend. I saw what a whore she was. She was afraid to give me the sign, though she saw me in that doorway. She walked on little feet and got in the Cadillac and off they went. Now I had nobody, nothing.

I walked around, picking butts from the street. I passed a fish-'n-chips joint on Market Street, and suddenly the woman in there gave me a terrified look as I passed; she was the proprietress, she apparently thought I was coming in there with a gun to hold up the joint. I walked on a few feet. It suddenly occurred to me this was my mother of about two hundred years ago in England, and that I was her footpad son, returning from gaol to haunt her honest labors in the hashery. I stopped, frozen with ecstasy on the sidewalk. I looked down Market Street. I didn't know whether it was that or Canal Street in New Orleans: it led to water, ambiguous, universal water, just as 42nd Street, New York, leads to water, and you never know where you are. I thought of Ed Dunkel's ghost on Times Square. I was delirious. I wanted to go back and leer at my strange Dickensian mother in the hash joint. I tingled all over from head to foot. It seemed I had a whole host of memories leading back to 1750 in England and that I was in San Francisco now only in another life and in another body. "No," that woman seemed to say with that terrified glance, "don't come back and plague your honest, hard-working mother. You are no longer like a son to me - and like your father, my first husband. 'Ere this kindly Greek took pity on me." (The proprietor was a Greek with hairy arms.) "You are no good, inclined to drunkenness and routs and final disgraceful robbery of the fruits of my 'umble labors in the hashery. O son! did you not ever go on your knees and pray for deliverance for all your sins and scoundrel's acts? Lost boy! Depart! Do not haunt my soul; I have done well forgetting you. Reopen no old wounds, be as if you had never returned and looked in to me-to see my laboring humilities, my few scrubbed pennies-hungry to grab, quick to deprive, sullen, unloved, mean-minded son of my flesh. Son! Son!" It made me think of the Big Pop vision in Graetna with Old Bull. And for just a moment I had reached the point of ecstasy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, and the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, with a phantom dogging its own heels, and myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off and flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent and inconceivable radiancies shining in bright Mind Essence, innumerable lotus-lands falling open in the magic mothswarm of heaven. I could hear an indescribable seething roar which wasn't in my ear but everywhere and had nothing to do with sounds. I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn't remember especially because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it. I realized it was only because of the stability of the intrinsic Mind that these ripples of birth and death took place, like the action of wind on a sheet of pure, serene, mirror-like water. I felt sweet, swinging bliss, like a big shot of heroin in the mainline vein; like a gulp of wine late in the afternoon and it makes you shudder; my feet tingled. I thought I was going to die the very next moment. But I didn't die, and walked four miles and picked up ten long butts and took them back to Marylou's hotel room and poured their tobacco in my old pipe and lit up. I was too young to know what had happened. In the window I smelled all the food of San Francisco. There were seafood places out there where the buns were hot, and the baskets were good enough to eat too; where the menus themselves were soft with foody esculence as though dipped in hot broths and roasted dry and good enough to eat too. Just show me the bluefish spangle on a seafood menu and I'd eat it; let me smell the drawn butter and lobster claws. There were places where they specialized in thick red roast beef au jus, or roast chicken basted in wine. There were places where hamburgs sizzled on grills and the coffee was only a nickel. And oh, that pan-fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from Chinatown, vying with the spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman's Wharf-nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market Street chili beans, redhot, and french-fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausalito across the bay, and that's my ah-dream of San Francisco. Add fog, hunger-making raw fog, and the throb of neons in the soft night, the clack of high-heeled beauties, white doves in a Chinese grocery window . . .

11

That was the way Dean found me when he finally decided I was worth saving. He took me home to Camille's house. "Where's Marylou, man?"

"The whore ran off." Camille was a relief after Marylou; a well-bred, polite young woman, and she was aware of the fact that the eighteen dollars Dean had sent her was mine. But O where went thou, sweet Marylou? I relaxed a few days in Camille's house. From her living-room window in the wooden tenement on Liberty Street you could see all of San Francisco burning green and red in the rainy night. Dean did the most ridiculous thing of his career the few days I was there. He got a job demonstrating a new kind of pressure cooker in the kitchens of homes. The salesman gave him piles of samples and pamphlets. The first day Dean was a hurricane of energy. I drove all over town with him as he made appointments. The idea was to get invited socially to a dinner party and then leap up and start demonstrating the pressure cooker. "Man," cried Dean excitedly, "this is even crazier than the time I worked for Sinah. Sinah sold encyclopedias in Oakland. Nobody could turn him down. He made long speeches, he jumped up and down, he laughed, he cried. One time we broke into an Okie house where everybody was getting ready to go to a funeral. Sinah got down on his knees and prayed for the deliverance of the deceased soul. All the Okies started crying. He sold a complete set of encyclopedias. He was the maddest guy in the world. I wonder where he is. We used to get next to pretty young daughters and feel them up in the kitchen. This afternoon I had the gonest housewife in her little kitchen-arm around her, demonstrating. Ah! Hmm! Wow!"

"Keep it up, Dean," I said. "Maybe someday you'll be mayor of San Francisco." He had the whole cookpot spiel worked out; he practiced on Camille and me in the evenings. One morning he stood naked, looking at all San Francisco out the window as the sun came up. He looked like someday he'd be the pagan mayor of San Francisco. But his energies ran out. One rainy afternoon the salesman came around to find out what Dean was doing. Dean was sprawled on the couch. "Have you been trying to sell these?" "No," said Dean, "I have another job coming up." "Well, what are you going to do about all these samples?" "I don't know." In a dead silence the salesman gathered up his sad pots and left. I was sick and tired of everything and so was Dean.

But one night we suddenly went mad together again; we went to see Slim Gaillard in a little Frisco nightclub. Slim Gaillard is a tall, thin Negro with big sad eyes who's always saying, "Right-orooni" and "How 'bout a little bourbon-

The last night Dean went mad and found Marylou somewhere downtown and we got in the car and drove all over Richmond across the bay, hitting Negro jazz shacks in the oil flats. Marylou went to sit down and a colored guy pulled the chair out from under her. The gals approached her in the John with propositions. I was approached too. Dean was sweating around. It was the end; I wanted to get out.

At dawn I got my New York bus and said good-by to Dean and Marylou. They wanted some of my sandwiches. I told them no. It was a sullen moment. We were all thinking we'd never see one another again and we didn't care.

PART THREE

1

In the spring of 1949 I had a few dollars saved from my GI education checks and I went to Denver, thinking of settling down there. I saw myself in Middle America, a patriarch. I was lonesome. Nobody was there-no Babe Rawlins, Ray Rawlins, Tim Gray, Betty Gray, Roland Major, Dean Moriarty, Carlo Marx, Ed Dunkel, Roy Johnson, Tommy Snark, nobody. I wandered around Curtis Street and Larimer Street, worked awhile in the wholesale fruit market where I almost got hired in 1947-the hardest job of my life; at one point the Japanese kids and I had to move a whole boxcar a hundred feet down the rail by hand with a jack-jet that made it move a quarter-inch with each yank. I lugged watermelon crates over the ice floor of reefers into the blazing sun, sneezing. In God's name and under the stars, what for?

At dusk I walked. I felt like a speck on the surface of the sad red earth. I passed the Windsor Hotel, where Dean Moriarty had lived with his father in the depression thirties, and as of yore I looked everywhere for the sad and fabled tinsmith of my mind. Either you find someone who! looks like your father in places like Montana or you look] for a friend's father where he is no more.

At lilac evening I walked with every muscle aching] among the lights of 27th and Welton in the Denver colored section, wishing I were a Negro, feeling that the best the] white world had offered was not enough ecstasy for me, not \ enough life, joy, kicks, darkness, music, not enough night. I stopped at a little shack where a man sold hot red chili in paper containers; I bought some and ate it, strolling in the : dark mysterious streets. I wished I were a Denver Mexican, or even a poor overworked Jap, anything but what I was so drearily, a "white man" disillusioned. All my life I'd had white ambitions; that was why I'd abandoned a good woman like Terry in the San Joaquin Valley I passed the dark porches of Mexican and Negro homes; soft voices were there, occasionally the dusky knee of some mysterious sensual gal; and dark faces of the men behind rose arbors. Little children sat like sages in ancient rocking chairs. A gang of colored women came by, and one of the young ones detached herself from motherlike elders and came to me fast-"Hello Joe!" -and suddenly saw it wasn't Joe, and ran back, blushing. I wished I were Joe. I was only myself, Sal Paradise, sad, strolling in this violet dark, this unbearably sweet night, wishing I could exchange worlds with the happy, true-hearted, ecstatic | Negroes of America. The raggedy neighborhoods reminded] me of Dean and Marylou, who knew these streets so well from] childhood. How I wished I could find them.

Down at 23rd and Welton a softball game was going on under floodlights which also illuminated the gas tank. A great 1 eager crowd roared at every play. The strange young heroes of all kinds, white, colored, Mexican, pure Indian, were on the field, performing with heart-breaking seriousness. Just sandlot kids in uniform. Never in my life as an athlete had I ever permitted myself to perform like this in front of families and girl friends and kids of the neighborhood, at night, under lights; always it had been college, big-time, sober-faced; no boyish, human joy like this. Now it was too late. Near me sat an old Negro who apparently watched the games every night. Next to him was an old white bum; then a Mexican family, then some girls, some boys-all humanity, the lot. Oh, the sadness of the lights that night! The young pitcher looked just like Dean. A pretty blonde in the seats looked just like Marylou. It was the Denver Night; all I did was die.

Down in Denver, down in Denver All I did was die

Across the street Negro families sat on their front steps, talking and looking up at the starry night through the trees and just relaxing in the softness and sometimes watching the game. Many cars passed in the street meanwhile, and stopped at the corner when the light turned red. There was excitement and the air was filled with the vibration of really joyous life that knows nothing of disappointment and "white sorrows" and all that. The old Negro man had a can of beer in his coat pocket, which he proceeded to open; and the old white man enviously eyed the can and groped in his pocket to see if he could buy a can too. How I died! I walked away from there.

I went to see a rich girl I knew. In the morning she pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of her silk stocking and said, "You've been talking of a trip to Frisco; that being the case, take this and go and have your fun." So all my problems were solved and I got a travel-bureau car for eleven dollars' gas-fare to Frisco and zoomed over the land.

Two fellows were driving this car; they said they were pimps. Two other fellows were passengers with me. We sat tight and bent our minds to the goal. We went over Berthoud Pass, down to the great plateau, Tabernash, Troublesome, Kremmling; down Rabbit Ears Pass to Steamboat Springs, and j out; fifty miles of dusty detour; then Craig and the Great) American Desert. As we crossed the Colorado-Utah border 11 saw God in the sky in the form of huge gold sunburning clouds above the desert that seemed to point a finger at me and say, "Pass here and go on, you're on the road to heaven." I Ah well, alackaday, I was more interested in some old rotted! covered wagons and pool tables sitting in the Nevada desert] near a Coca-Cola stand and where there were huts with the! weatherbeaten signs still napping in the haunted shrouded 1 desert wind, saying, "Rattlesnake Bill lived here" or "Broken-j mouth Annie holed up here for years." Yes, zoom! In Salt! Lake City the pimps checked on their girls and we drove on. I Before I knew it, once again I was seeing the fabled city of] San Francisco stretched on the bay in the middle of the night. I ran immediately to Dean. He had a little house now. I was! burning to know what was on his mind and what would hap- j pen now, for there was nothing behind me any more, all my I bridges were gone and I didn't give a damn about anything at ] all. I knocked on his door at two o'clock in the morning.

2

He came to the door stark naked and it might have been the President knocking for all he cared. He received the world in the raw. "Sal!" he said with genuine awe. "I didn't think you'd actually do it. You've finally come to me."

"Yep," I said. "Everything fell apart in me. How are things with you?"

"Not so good, not so good. But we've got a million things to talk about. Sal, the time has finally come for us to talk and get with it." We agreed it was about time and went in. My arrival was somewhat like the coming of the strange most evil angel in the home of the snow-white fleece, as Dean and I began talking excitedly in the kitchen downstairs, which brought forth sobs from upstairs. Everything I said to Dean was answered with a wild, whispering, shuddering "Yes!" Camille knew what was going to happen. Apparently Dean had been quiet for a few months; now the angel had arrived and he was going mad again. "What's the matter with her?" I whispered. He said, "She's getting worse and worse, man, she cries and makes tantrums, won't let me out to see Slim Gaillard, gets mad every time I'm late, then when I stay home she won't talk to me and says I'm an utter beast." He ran upstairs to soothe her. I heard Camille yell, "You're a liar, you're a liar, you're a liar!" I took the opportunity to examine the very wonderful house they had. It was a two-story crooked, rickety wooden cottage in the middle of tenements, right on top of Russian Hill with a view of the bay; it had four rooms, three upstairs and one immense sort of basement kitchen downstairs. The kitchen door opened onto a grassy court where washlines were. In back of the kitchen was a storage room where Dean's old shoes still were caked an inch thick with Texas mud from the night the Hudson got stuck on the Brazos River. Of course the Hudson was gone; Dean hadn't been able to make further payments on it. He had no car at all now. Their second baby was accidentally coming. It was horrible to hear Camille sobbing so. We couldn't stand it and went out to buy beer and brought it back to the kitchen. Camille finally went to sleep or spent the night staring blankly at the dark. I had no idea-what was really wrong, except perhaps Dean had driven her mad after all.

After my last leaving of Frisco he had gone crazy over Marylou again and spent months haunting her apartment on Divisadero, where every night she had a different sailor in and he peeked down through her mail-slot and could see her bed. There he saw Marylou sprawled in the mornings with a-boy. He trailed her around town. He wanted absolute proof that she was a whore. He loved her, he sweated over her. Finally he got hold of some bad green, as it's called in the trade -green, uncured marijuana-quite by mistake, and smoked too much of it.

"The first day," he said, "I lay rigid as a board in bed and couldn't move or say a word; I just looked straight up with my eyes open wide. I could hear buzzing in my head and saw all kinds of wonderful technicolor visions and felt wonderful. The second day everything came to me, EVERYTHING I'd even done or known or read or heard of or conjectured came to me and rearranged itself in my mind in a brand-new logical way and because I could think of nothing else in the interior concerns of holding and catering to the amazement and gratitude I felt, I kept saying, 'Yes, yes, yes, yes.' Not loud. 'Yes,' real quiet, and these green tea visions lasted until the third day. I had understood everything by then, my life was decided, I knew I loved Marylou, I knew I had to fir my father wherever he is and save him, I knew you were buddy et cetera, I knew how great Carlo is. I knew a thousand things about everybody everywhere. Then the third day began having a terrible series of waking nightmares, and the were so absolutely horrible and grisly and green that I lay there doubled up with my hands around my knees, saying, 'Oh, oh, oh, ah, oh . . .' The neighbors heard me and sent for a doctor. Camille was away with the baby, visiting hot folks. The whole neighborhood was concerned. They came in and found me lying on the bed with my arms stretched out forever. Sal, I ran to Marylou with some of that tea. And do you know that the same thing happened to that dumb little box?-the same visions, the same logic, the same final decision about everything, the view of all truths in one painful In leading to nightmares and pain-ack! Then I knew I loved her so much I wanted to kill her. I ran home and beat my head on the wall. I ran to Ed Dunkel; he's back in Frisco with Galatea; I asked him about a guy we know has a gun, I went the guy, I got the gun, I ran to Marylou, I looked down mail-slot, she was sleeping with a guy, had to retreat and he hesitate, came back in an hour, I barged in, she was alone-and gave her the gun and told her to kill me. She held the gun in her hand the longest time. I asked her for a sweet dead pact. She didn't want. I said one of us had to die. She said no. I beat my head on the wall. Man, I was out of my mind. She'll tell you, she talked me out of it."

"Then what happened?"

"That was months ago-after you left. She finally married a used-car dealer, dumb bastit has promised to kill me if he finds me, if necessary I shall have to defend myself and kill him and I'll go to San Quentin, 'cause, Sal, one more rap of any kind and I go to San Quentin for life-that's the end of me. Bad hand and all." He showed me his hand. I hadn't noticed in the excitement that he had suffered a terrible accident to his hand. "I Ht Marylou on the brow on February twenty-sixth at six o'clock in the evening-in fact six-ten, because I remember I had to make my hotshot freight in an hour and twenty minutes-the last time we met and the last time we decided everything, and now listen to this: my thumb only deflected off her brow and she didn't even have a bruise and in fact laughed, but my thumb broke above the wrist and a horrible doctor made a setting of the bones that was difficult and took three separate castings, twenty-three combined hours of sitting on hard benches waiting, et cetera, and the final cast had a traction pin stuck through the tip of my thumb, so in April when they took off the cast the pin infected my bone and I developed osteomyelitis which has become chronic, and after an operation which failed and a month in a cast the result was the amputation of a wee bare piece off the tip-ass end."

He unwrapped the bandages and showed me. The flesh, about half an inch, was missing under the nail.

"It got from worse to worse. I had to support Camille and Amy and had to work as fast as I could at Firestone as mold man, curing recapped tires and later hauling big hunnerd-fifty-pound tires from the floor to the top of the cars-could only use my good hand and kept banging the bad-broke it again, had it reset again, and it's getting all infected and swoled again. So now I take care of baby while Camille works. You see? Heeby-jeebies, I'm classification three-A, jazz-hounded Mori-arty has a sore butt, his wife gives him daily injections of penicillin for his thumb, which produces hives, for he's allergic. He must take sixty thousand units of Fleming's juice within a month. He must take one tablet every four hours for this month to combat allergy produced from his juice. He must take codeine aspirin to relieve the pain in his thumb. He must have surgery on his leg for an inflamed cyst. He must rise next Monday at six A.M. to get his teeth cleaned. He must see a foot doctor twice a week for treatment. He must take cough syrup each night. He must blow and snort constantly to clear his nose, which has collapsed just under the bridge where an operation some years ago weakened it. He lost his thumb on his throwing arm. Greatest seventy-yard passer in the history of New Mexico State Reformatory. And yet-and yet, I've never felt better and finer and happier with the world and to see little lovely children playing in the sun and I am so glad to see you, my fine gone wonderful Sal, and I know, I know everything will be all right. You'll see her tomorrow, my terrific darling beautiful daughter can now stand alone for thirty seconds at a time, she weighs twenty-two pounds, is twenty-nine inches long. I've just figured out she is thirty-one-and-a-quarter-per-cent English, twenty-seven-and-a-half-per-cent Irish, twenty-five-per-cent German, eight-and-three-quarters-per-cent Dutch, seven-and-a-half-per-cent Scotch, one-hun-dred-per-cent wonderful." He fondly congratulated me for the book I had finished, which was now accepted by the publishers. "We know life, Sal, we're growing older, each of us, little by little, and are coming to know things. What you tell me about your life I understand well, I've always dug your feelings, and now in fact you're ready to hook up with a real great girl if you can only find her and cultivate her and make her mind your soul as I have tried so hard with these damned women of mine. Shit! shit! shit!" he yelled.

And in the morning Camille threw both of us out, baggage and all. It began when we called Roy Johnson, old Denver Roy, and had him come over for beer, while Dean minded the baby and did the dishes and the wash in the backyard but did a sloppy job of it in his excitement. Johnson agreed to drive us to Mill City to look for Remi Boncoeur. Camille came in from work at the doctor's office and gave us all the sad look of a harassed woman's life. I tried to show this haunted woman that I had no mean intentions concerning her home life by saying hello to her and talking as warmly as I could, but she knew it was a con and maybe one I'd learned from Dean, and only gave a brief smile. In the morning there was a terrible scene: she lay on the bed sobbing, and in the midst of this I suddenly had the need to go to the bathroom, and the only way I could get there was through her room. "Dean, Dean," I cried, "where's the nearest bar?"

"Bar?" he said, surprised; he was washing his hands in the kitchen sink downstairs. He thought I wanted to get drunk. I told him my dilemma and he said, "Go right ahead, she does that all the time." No, I couldn't do that. I rushed out to look for a bar; I walked uphill and downhill in a vicinity of four blocks on Russian Hill and found nothing but laundromats, cleaners, soda fountains, beauty parlors. I came back to the crooked little house. They were yelling at each other as I slipped through with a feeble smile and locked myself in the bathroom. A few moments later Camille was throwing Dean's things on the living-room floor and telling him to pack. To my amazement I saw a full-length oil painting of Galatea Dunkel over the sofa. I suddenly realized that all these women were spending months of loneliness and womanliness together, chatting about the madness of the men. I heard Dean's maniacal giggle across the house, together with the wails of his baby. The next thing I knew he was gliding around the house like Groucho Marx, with his broken thumb wrapped in a huge white bandage sticking up like a beacon that stands motionless above the frenzy of the waves. Once again I saw his pitiful huge battered trunk with socks and dirty underwear sticking out; he bent over it, throwing in everything he could find. Then he got his suitcase, the beatest suitcase in the USA. It was made of paper with designs on it to make it look like leather, and hinges of some kind pasted on. A great rip ran down the top; Dean lashed on a rope. Then he grabbed his seabag and threw things into that. I got my bag, stuffed it, and as Camille lay in bed saying, "Liar! Liar! Liar!" we leaped out of the house and struggled down the street to the nearest cable car-a mass of men and suitcases with that enormous bandaged thumb sticking up in the air.

That thumb became the symbol of Dean's final development. He no longer cared about anything (as before) but now he also cared about everything in principle; that is to say, it was all the same to him and he belonged to the world and there was nothing he could do about it. He stopped me in the middle of the street.

"Now, man, I know you're probably real bugged; you just got to town and we get thrown out the first day and you're wondering what I've done to deserve this and so on-together with all horrible appurtenances-hee-hee-hee!-but look at me. Please, Sal, look at me."

I looked at him. He was wearing a T-shirt, torn pants hanging down his belly, tattered shoes; he had not shaved, his hair was wild and bushy, his eyes bloodshot, and that tremendous bandaged thumb stood supported in midair at heart-level (he had to hold it up that way), and on his face was the goofiest grin I ever saw. He stumbled around in a circle and looked everywhere.

"What do my eyeballs see? Ah-the blue sky. Long-fellow!" He swayed and blinked. He rubbed his eyes. "Together with windows-have you ever dug windows? Now let's talk about windows. I have seen some really crazy windows that made faces at me, and some of them had shades drawn and so they winked." Out of his seabag he fished a copy of Eugene Sue's Mysteries of Paris and, adjusting the front of his T-shirt, began reading on the street corner with a pedantic air. "Now really, Sal, let's dig everything as we go along . . ." He forgot about that in an instant and looked around blankly. I was glad I had come, he needed me now.

"Why did Camille throw you out? What are you going to do?"

"Eh?" he said. "Eh? Eh?" We racked our brains for where to go and what to do. I realized it was up to me. Poor, poor Dean-the devil himself had never fallen farther; in idiocy, with infected thumb, surrounded by the battered suitcases of his motherless feverish life across America and back numberless times, an undone bird. "Let's walk to New York," he said, "and as we do so let's take stock of everything along the way -yass." I took out my money and counted it; I showed it to him.

"I have here," I said, "the sum of eighty-three dollars and change, and if you come with me let's go to New York-and after that let's go to Italy."

"Italy?" he said. His eyes lit up. "Italy, yass-how shall we get there, dear Sal?"

I pondered this. "I'll make some money, I'll get a thousand dollars from the publishers. We'll go dig all the crazy women in Rome, Paris, all those places; we'll sit at sidewalk cafes; we'll live in whorehouses. Why not go to Italy?"

"Why yass," said Dean, and then realized I was serious and looked at me out of the corner of his eye for the first time, for I'd never committed myself before with regard to his burdensome existence, and that look was the look of a man weighing his chances at the last moment before the bet. There were triumph and insolence in his eyes, a devilish look, and he never took his eyes off mine for a long time. I looked back at him and blushed.

I said, "What's the matter?" I felt wretched when I asked it. He made no answer but continued looking at me with the same wary insolent side-eye.

I tried to remember everything he'd done in his life and if there wasn't something back there to make him suspicious of something now. Resolutely and firmly I repeated what I said

-"Come to New York with me; I've got the money." I looked at him; my eyes were watering with embarrassment and tears. Still he stared at me. Now his eyes were blank and looking through me. It was probably the pivotal point of our friendship when he realized I had actually spent some hours thinking about him and his troubles, and he was trying to place that in his tremendously involved and tormented mental categories. Something clicked in both of us. In me it was suddenly concern for a man who was years younger than I, five years, and whose fate was wound with mine across the passage of the recent years; in him it was a matter that I can ascertain only from what he did afterward. He became extremely joyful and said everything was settled. "What was that look?" I asked. He was pained to hear me say that. He frowned. It was rarely that Dean frowned. We both felt perplexed and uncertain of something. We were standing on top of a hill on a beautiful sunny day in San Francisco; our shadows fell across the sidewalk. Out of the tenement next to Camille's house filed eleven Greek men and women who instantly lined themselves up on the sunny pavement while another backed up across the narrow street and smiled at them over a camera. We gaped at these ancient people who were having a wedding party for one of their daughters, probably the thousandth in an unbroken dark generation of smiling in the sun. They were well dressed, and they were strange. Dean and I might have been in Cyprus for all of that. Gulls flew overhead in the sparkling air.

"Well," said Dean in a very shy and sweet voice, "shall we go?"

"Yes," I said, "let's go to Italy." And so we picked up our bags, he the trunk with his one good arm and I the rest, and staggered to the cable-car stop; in a moment rolled down the hill with our legs dangling to the sidewalk from the jiggling shelf, two broken-down heroes of the Western night.