is most real, most passionate, and most replete with suffering.”
Jim, who could put his cock in her whenever he wanted and feel her luxurious tits morning noon and night, approached her with the wooden stick held up and suffered down upon her to leave them the fuck alone or else—and he made a sudden motion with the stick that sucked the breath right out of her, and she went to the shower, obedient and aroused.
“Come,” said Jim, and the man with the hat went to the table, still covering his eyes.
“You’ve got to get a grip on your life,” said Jim.
“What does that mean?”
“Oh good, well at least you can hear me. Then hear this: you’re a bum. Don’t you know that one day you’re going to die? And then who’s going to care? Marjorie?”
Marjorie was sunning herself with soap.
“Christ,” said the man with the hat. “All right. I’ll tell you the truth about it, as best I can.”
“I don’t want to hear the truth!” cried Jim. “What’s the truth got to do with it? That’s the problem with you, man, and that’s the problem with your life. Forget the truth. The truth’s got nothing to do with your life. Are you a goddamned philosopher? Do you create anything? You walk around the streets thinking about yourself, thinking about the truth. Didn’t you learn anything in school?”
“Like whad’ya mean?”
“Oh sheez.”
They ate the rest of their macaroni in silence and Jim was so disgusted with the man with the hat that their lunch was unbearable, totally unbearable. They couldn’t talk. They needed the outdoors, which was more vast and more forgiving.
“Come, let’s go,” said Jim, and the two men left and still the bitch was singing in the shower, making the man with the hat tingle with rage all over.
Outside they walked, and the man with the hat calmed down, for he had always walked, and Jim said, his voice contemplative and his skin absorbing the sun: “All right, see. All I’m getting at is this. You’ve got to think about what you want, then make a plan of how you’re going to get it.”
“A plan!” whined the man with the hat.
Jim said patiently, “You came to me didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
They wandered into a park, and now the man with the hat was sitting on a bench and Jim was sitting in the grass before him and they were sharing a cigarette.
“Life,” said Jim, looking at the trees, “is all about plans and action, plans and action. If you have no plan you can’t take action. And if you’re doing something and it’s not in the plan, what do we call that? Messin’ around.”
Messin’ around! So that’s what he’d been doing! The man with the hat was in agony. He rolled his face up to the sky.
“What I’m saying is making an impression on you,” said Jim, encouraging. “What I’m saying is making sense. All right. Well, that’s all you need to know. What’s your plan? What do you want , boy?” Jim smacked him on the knee and stared at him hard.
The man with the hat was thinking, thinking.
Jim regarded him carefully and considered, “You ought, like me, to have studied church history for fifty years, to understand how all this hangs together.”
“All right,” said the man with the hat. “I’ve got a plan. I’ll go home and I’ll write, and for fifty fucking days I’ll write, till the skin shows through my fingertips. Then I’ll throw out every word that’s a lie. Then I’ll send it all in to the Antigonish Review . But a real beaut, word-processed and all.”
Jim was thinking about Dolores.
“You’re never going to make it,” said Jim through his lips. “You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying.”
THAT NIGHT THE moon hung like a ball of sticky dough. The sky was a deep, deep purple and children were walking about in Halloween costumes. Jim and the man were walking through the streets and the Halloween costumes sucked. The man with the hat noticed them all, but he was listening to Jim as Jim
Jim, who could put his cock in her whenever he wanted and feel her luxurious tits morning noon and night, approached her with the wooden stick held up and suffered down upon her to leave them the fuck alone or else—and he made a sudden motion with the stick that sucked the breath right out of her, and she went to the shower, obedient and aroused.
“Come,” said Jim, and the man with the hat went to the table, still covering his eyes.
“You’ve got to get a grip on your life,” said Jim.
“What does that mean?”
“Oh good, well at least you can hear me. Then hear this: you’re a bum. Don’t you know that one day you’re going to die? And then who’s going to care? Marjorie?”
Marjorie was sunning herself with soap.
“Christ,” said the man with the hat. “All right. I’ll tell you the truth about it, as best I can.”
“I don’t want to hear the truth!” cried Jim. “What’s the truth got to do with it? That’s the problem with you, man, and that’s the problem with your life. Forget the truth. The truth’s got nothing to do with your life. Are you a goddamned philosopher? Do you create anything? You walk around the streets thinking about yourself, thinking about the truth. Didn’t you learn anything in school?”
“Like whad’ya mean?”
“Oh sheez.”
They ate the rest of their macaroni in silence and Jim was so disgusted with the man with the hat that their lunch was unbearable, totally unbearable. They couldn’t talk. They needed the outdoors, which was more vast and more forgiving.
“Come, let’s go,” said Jim, and the two men left and still the bitch was singing in the shower, making the man with the hat tingle with rage all over.
Outside they walked, and the man with the hat calmed down, for he had always walked, and Jim said, his voice contemplative and his skin absorbing the sun: “All right, see. All I’m getting at is this. You’ve got to think about what you want, then make a plan of how you’re going to get it.”
“A plan!” whined the man with the hat.
Jim said patiently, “You came to me didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
They wandered into a park, and now the man with the hat was sitting on a bench and Jim was sitting in the grass before him and they were sharing a cigarette.
“Life,” said Jim, looking at the trees, “is all about plans and action, plans and action. If you have no plan you can’t take action. And if you’re doing something and it’s not in the plan, what do we call that? Messin’ around.”
Messin’ around! So that’s what he’d been doing! The man with the hat was in agony. He rolled his face up to the sky.
“What I’m saying is making an impression on you,” said Jim, encouraging. “What I’m saying is making sense. All right. Well, that’s all you need to know. What’s your plan? What do you want , boy?” Jim smacked him on the knee and stared at him hard.
The man with the hat was thinking, thinking.
Jim regarded him carefully and considered, “You ought, like me, to have studied church history for fifty years, to understand how all this hangs together.”
“All right,” said the man with the hat. “I’ve got a plan. I’ll go home and I’ll write, and for fifty fucking days I’ll write, till the skin shows through my fingertips. Then I’ll throw out every word that’s a lie. Then I’ll send it all in to the Antigonish Review . But a real beaut, word-processed and all.”
Jim was thinking about Dolores.
“You’re never going to make it,” said Jim through his lips. “You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying.”
THAT NIGHT THE moon hung like a ball of sticky dough. The sky was a deep, deep purple and children were walking about in Halloween costumes. Jim and the man were walking through the streets and the Halloween costumes sucked. The man with the hat noticed them all, but he was listening to Jim as Jim
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