right
,’ ” laughed the policeman. “Shit, you can’t even talk! Look at it this way: This is probably the only bunk in town where they won’t keep beatin on you. You’ll get breakfast and we’ll see you on home.”
“I’m sorry,” said Patrick, angling for the narrow bunk catercorner to one other amorphous form, foreshadowing, Patrick thought, his future. “Nothing to read. Someday I’ll be a dead bum.”
“I’ll tell you what: You just as well throw in with me, mean as you are.”
“Am I mean?”
“You’re plumb mean.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Patrick said in simpleminded drunkenness. “Oh, I wish you couldn’t say that about me.”
“Well, I can!” said the chief of police brightly.
And the lights dropped to minimum observation, just enough to get a vomiter’s tongue cleared or keep some whitecross detox bozo from beating his head on the fixed steel table where, it was intended, one would eat, play cards and be polite about the finger paints. As Patrick fell off to sleep, he felt that it was a good jail, one where they preferred your being a civilian to your being a jailbird, suicide or rising crime star.
Patrick didn’t know whether he was dreaming—he didn’t think he was—when he heard the chief’s voice, coming in through the alpha waves and alcohol, say, “The lady left your bail.”
As for now, his belongings, his keys and directions to his truck were what he most required.
The note from Claire read:
Patrick,
Tio flew to Tulsa early this A.M.
Stop/call for details as needed.
Claire.
Oh shit oh god oh now what. Can this be more sadness-for-no-reason? Pig’s conduct is what I’ll stand accused of,you can bet your hat on that. And my feeling is that the chaps who have made such a stretch of bad road out of my body with their cues are, at any other time or place, universally considered good fellows who never reverse their cues to beat on a human and who, all agreed, had been driven to the limits of their patience and who, moreover, when the jury returned, were universally acquitted and not a little applauded by all familiar with the particulars of the case. Except that Patrick couldn’t remember anything about it. Therefore he would join the cheering throng in its endorsement of each lump’s administering; for though he was the recipient, democracy did call for backing one’s fellows, even on limited information.
19
GRANDPA WAS DISCOVERED KNEELING ABOVE THE KITCHEN sink, killing yellow wasps against the window with the rolled Sunday Deadrock
News.
This seemed a little tough in one of our older cowboys, thought Patrick; this could be sadness-for-no-reason, although well short of harbinger-of-doom. There were dirty dishes containing glazed remains. Patrick’s thought—that he’d only been gone a day—had a minute hysterical edge. What would he find with a week’s absence? It seemed his grandfather had become unnaturally dependent upon him since his return. Before that, he could help, hire help, ask for help or do without. But now, silhouetted behind stacks of dirty dishes, he crawled after wasps, backlit brilliant yellow on the glass, and swung at them so hard he was in danger of losing balance and rolling to the floor.
“Did you get that editor?”
“No.”
“Over to some woman’s.”
“Exactly.”
“See you had a night in the hoosegow.”
Patrick stopped. “Where are you getting this?”
Grandpa slung his legs down and unrolled the wasps’-guts-encrusted
News.
There Patrick reviewed a photograph of himself being removed from the Northbranch Saloon by the police. A lucky motorist from Ohio got the photo credit. The small crowd did not look friendly and the police looked like heroes. There was only a caption, no text; it read:
W AITING FOR R AIN
It’s fair, thought Patrick.
“Well,” he said to his grandfather. “Let’s tidy this joint up.” His heart soared with the thought of stupid little projects.
Deep in the grain bin the mice
,’ ” laughed the policeman. “Shit, you can’t even talk! Look at it this way: This is probably the only bunk in town where they won’t keep beatin on you. You’ll get breakfast and we’ll see you on home.”
“I’m sorry,” said Patrick, angling for the narrow bunk catercorner to one other amorphous form, foreshadowing, Patrick thought, his future. “Nothing to read. Someday I’ll be a dead bum.”
“I’ll tell you what: You just as well throw in with me, mean as you are.”
“Am I mean?”
“You’re plumb mean.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Patrick said in simpleminded drunkenness. “Oh, I wish you couldn’t say that about me.”
“Well, I can!” said the chief of police brightly.
And the lights dropped to minimum observation, just enough to get a vomiter’s tongue cleared or keep some whitecross detox bozo from beating his head on the fixed steel table where, it was intended, one would eat, play cards and be polite about the finger paints. As Patrick fell off to sleep, he felt that it was a good jail, one where they preferred your being a civilian to your being a jailbird, suicide or rising crime star.
Patrick didn’t know whether he was dreaming—he didn’t think he was—when he heard the chief’s voice, coming in through the alpha waves and alcohol, say, “The lady left your bail.”
As for now, his belongings, his keys and directions to his truck were what he most required.
The note from Claire read:
Patrick,
Tio flew to Tulsa early this A.M.
Stop/call for details as needed.
Claire.
Oh shit oh god oh now what. Can this be more sadness-for-no-reason? Pig’s conduct is what I’ll stand accused of,you can bet your hat on that. And my feeling is that the chaps who have made such a stretch of bad road out of my body with their cues are, at any other time or place, universally considered good fellows who never reverse their cues to beat on a human and who, all agreed, had been driven to the limits of their patience and who, moreover, when the jury returned, were universally acquitted and not a little applauded by all familiar with the particulars of the case. Except that Patrick couldn’t remember anything about it. Therefore he would join the cheering throng in its endorsement of each lump’s administering; for though he was the recipient, democracy did call for backing one’s fellows, even on limited information.
19
GRANDPA WAS DISCOVERED KNEELING ABOVE THE KITCHEN sink, killing yellow wasps against the window with the rolled Sunday Deadrock
News.
This seemed a little tough in one of our older cowboys, thought Patrick; this could be sadness-for-no-reason, although well short of harbinger-of-doom. There were dirty dishes containing glazed remains. Patrick’s thought—that he’d only been gone a day—had a minute hysterical edge. What would he find with a week’s absence? It seemed his grandfather had become unnaturally dependent upon him since his return. Before that, he could help, hire help, ask for help or do without. But now, silhouetted behind stacks of dirty dishes, he crawled after wasps, backlit brilliant yellow on the glass, and swung at them so hard he was in danger of losing balance and rolling to the floor.
“Did you get that editor?”
“No.”
“Over to some woman’s.”
“Exactly.”
“See you had a night in the hoosegow.”
Patrick stopped. “Where are you getting this?”
Grandpa slung his legs down and unrolled the wasps’-guts-encrusted
News.
There Patrick reviewed a photograph of himself being removed from the Northbranch Saloon by the police. A lucky motorist from Ohio got the photo credit. The small crowd did not look friendly and the police looked like heroes. There was only a caption, no text; it read:
W AITING FOR R AIN
It’s fair, thought Patrick.
“Well,” he said to his grandfather. “Let’s tidy this joint up.” His heart soared with the thought of stupid little projects.
Deep in the grain bin the mice
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