The Man Game by Lee W. Henderson Page B

true he’d never noticed before how really long her neck was? Perhaps she was craning it more than ever? But really it was the most luscious neck, pale like that, heaving like that. Was the white hazy air around him infused with incoming rain or her intoxicating perfume?
    Next to her on the banister a grey squirrel appeared, ejaculated a vowelful squeak, and ramped the post on a spiralling path towards the awning above, giving a last, hostile snap of its tail before bidding farewell. She didn’t seem to notice. He could look at his wife—never mind the stout, utterly naked man in the middle of the street surrounded by homicidal men in all directions—and reject everything else about his life. Sammy shut his eyes. Drowning would be the way to go, he figured, a blissful bottomless end to an abject life.
    What are you afraid a? said Pisk.
    Nothing.
    If you’re a scared motherfucker go to church.
    You better pray I don’t geld you, said Daggett.
    Take off the dungarees, Daggett, you fat cow.
    Fuck my—, you … you pissant, said Daggett, wiping his greasy mouth. I had aboot enough a you.
    He was dressed head to toe in scum. In a boxer’s pose, one fist hovering in front of and a bit higher than the other, Daggett shuffled quickly across the dirt to mark this fight officially launched, hoping to get in a good clean clocking on Pisk’s face. If he got Pisk upside the ear he could have him on the ground without further notice. These fists on Daggett were as good as mallets. He kept in time with his own pulse, gaining momentum as his fist recoiled. Daggett’s approach made everybody hustle in, angling for a better view and pinching off any gap where Pisk might make an escape. Pisk watched Daggett come closer and maybe you could interpret that squint as a reaction, because otherwise Pisk didn’t budge. He was in position. There it was, Daggett’s left fist (just as it had been predictably hoisted in the bar). Pisk dodged it by turning his face only a bit.
    As Daggett swung by, Pisk reached out and took Daggett’s outstretched fist in his hand and lay his other hand on Daggett’s waist and, making jolly of momentum, stepped Daggett gaily around the road as if it were a ballroom. WhenDaggett nearly recovered his balance, Pisk spun him free and landed him on his ass
{see fig. 3.1 }
.
    For this wild act Pisk received shocked applause and coarse, spontaneous laughter. Spontaneous clapping, too, for something never before seen. All the ingrates, including Clough, an otherwise loyal friend of Furry and Daggett, applauded the move. Including any performance ever invited to the Pantages, this impromptu dance inspired more caterwauling, jabbering, and extended bouts of
hee-haw
than the town had yet heard.
    I liked that, said Moe Dee.
    Daggett sat murderously still on the dirt and waited for everyone to simmer down. He spat on the ground, nearly on his own hand. Then, pulling up his shoulders, Daggett almost stood, to fight some more, but—. Hesitation. He slumped again. His indecision wasn’t lost on anyone.
    With tears in his blond eyes, Fortes called out from his perch on the sidewalk: Daggett, my pal, ha ha, you ain’t never going to be free a this.
    Molly didn’t twit a smile. She just stood there, stilled, as if only a framed photograph of herself remained beside him, her green stare reaching beyond the image into what can only be called the future.
    FIGURE 3.1
The Pisk

    Calabi’s commentary: The lunging right hook transformed into a fey waltz and a tossing finish; the original move, as eloquent as a continuous stroke a the sword across the torso.

FOUR
    There are three types of the genus vagrant, the hobo, the tramp and the bum. The hobo works and wanders, the tramp dreams and wanders, and the bum drinks and wanders.
    â€“ BEN REITMAN
    A few days after the fight, Molly learned in her naturally assiduous and charming way that Toronto knew how to get in