ordered another drink, then decided to call and tell them he was sick and was going home. He called Louise and told her he had gotten violently ill after eating and was on his way home, that he had spent over an hour in the rest room and this was the first chance he had to call, and he could feel that other Harry watching him and could feel his head shaking and he finally mumbled a goodbye and hung up the phone.
He slowly sipped his drink and thought of getting drunk, but somehow the idea not only did not appeal to him, he did not know exactly how to go about it, never having been able to force down enough liquor to get drunk. When it started to make him woozy, he stopped.
As he sipped his third drink he tried to find something to rage about, something to isolate and attack, something that would prove to be the reason for the disturbing and unfamiliar feelings burning through him, but there was no coordination within him between desire and ability. Eventually he gave up trying and finished his drink and left.
The next day he left the house at the usual time, so his mother would not question him, then called in sick. He still could not accept the idea of explaining his absence the previous afternoon, and even in the quiet of his room he could not fabricate a story that he would be able to relate believably. By taking off today there would be no doubt that he really was sick, and they probably would not question him.
He went to Forty-second Street and sat through a couple of old westerns, then walked up to Bryant Park and sat on a bench, avoiding all eyes, even those of the pigeons. He felt strangely conspicuous and had the vague feeling that people
(71)
were looking at him and wondering what he was doing there. He stayed there as long as he could, watching the pigeons peck away at food thrown them, vaguely hearing the music of the recorded concert and trying to get involved with the way in which the sunlight glanced off the leaves of trees and slanted through the branches, casting moving shadows . . . the flowers, shrubs, statues ... to no avail. No matter how hard he tried to stay on the bench and wish time by, he could not and had to get up and walk around the perimeter of the park, keeping his eyes on the path.
He continued walking until he reached the library and went inside hoping to get involved with something in there, but all he could do was wander aimlessly through rooms and tiers of books until he once more found himself in Bryant Park. He walked to Forty-second Street, then down to Times Square and another movie. He tried to sit through both films, but had to leave after seeing the second half of one and the first half of another. He rode the train back to Brooklyn and went to Caseys.
He walked to the end of the bar, where Tony and Al were sitting. Holy Krist, look whos here. It must be Sunday.
Yeah, or six oclock. Hi, whatta ya say?
Hi.
Holy shit Harry, whats the occasion, your boss die or something? both of them laughing as Harry pulled up a stool and sat.
Up yours Al—hey Pat, give me a beer. Youd better give them one too, they look like theyre waiting for a live one.
Thats the kind of talk I like to hear, quickly draining the glass and pushing it forward.
All shit aside though Harry, whats the occasion?
Nothing. Why? Cant a guy take a day off without everybody going apeshit?
Yeah, sure, laughing, but not you. You never take a day off and then come here.
Well, I am today. Im taking a day off and Im going to have a couple of beers.
(72)
Yeah, how come?
I thought I/d do a survey.
Yeah, what kind of survey?
An investigation into the nature of being a bum, and I cant think of anyone better qualified to help me than you guys.
Hey, I resemble that remark, laughing, Pat joining them.
You think just because I dont go to an office every day—
Whata ya mean, aint this
He slowly sipped his drink and thought of getting drunk, but somehow the idea not only did not appeal to him, he did not know exactly how to go about it, never having been able to force down enough liquor to get drunk. When it started to make him woozy, he stopped.
As he sipped his third drink he tried to find something to rage about, something to isolate and attack, something that would prove to be the reason for the disturbing and unfamiliar feelings burning through him, but there was no coordination within him between desire and ability. Eventually he gave up trying and finished his drink and left.
The next day he left the house at the usual time, so his mother would not question him, then called in sick. He still could not accept the idea of explaining his absence the previous afternoon, and even in the quiet of his room he could not fabricate a story that he would be able to relate believably. By taking off today there would be no doubt that he really was sick, and they probably would not question him.
He went to Forty-second Street and sat through a couple of old westerns, then walked up to Bryant Park and sat on a bench, avoiding all eyes, even those of the pigeons. He felt strangely conspicuous and had the vague feeling that people
(71)
were looking at him and wondering what he was doing there. He stayed there as long as he could, watching the pigeons peck away at food thrown them, vaguely hearing the music of the recorded concert and trying to get involved with the way in which the sunlight glanced off the leaves of trees and slanted through the branches, casting moving shadows . . . the flowers, shrubs, statues ... to no avail. No matter how hard he tried to stay on the bench and wish time by, he could not and had to get up and walk around the perimeter of the park, keeping his eyes on the path.
He continued walking until he reached the library and went inside hoping to get involved with something in there, but all he could do was wander aimlessly through rooms and tiers of books until he once more found himself in Bryant Park. He walked to Forty-second Street, then down to Times Square and another movie. He tried to sit through both films, but had to leave after seeing the second half of one and the first half of another. He rode the train back to Brooklyn and went to Caseys.
He walked to the end of the bar, where Tony and Al were sitting. Holy Krist, look whos here. It must be Sunday.
Yeah, or six oclock. Hi, whatta ya say?
Hi.
Holy shit Harry, whats the occasion, your boss die or something? both of them laughing as Harry pulled up a stool and sat.
Up yours Al—hey Pat, give me a beer. Youd better give them one too, they look like theyre waiting for a live one.
Thats the kind of talk I like to hear, quickly draining the glass and pushing it forward.
All shit aside though Harry, whats the occasion?
Nothing. Why? Cant a guy take a day off without everybody going apeshit?
Yeah, sure, laughing, but not you. You never take a day off and then come here.
Well, I am today. Im taking a day off and Im going to have a couple of beers.
(72)
Yeah, how come?
I thought I/d do a survey.
Yeah, what kind of survey?
An investigation into the nature of being a bum, and I cant think of anyone better qualified to help me than you guys.
Hey, I resemble that remark, laughing, Pat joining them.
You think just because I dont go to an office every day—
Whata ya mean, aint this
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