life.”
“Christ,” I said.
“My life is empty—I might as well be dead. All I’ve done and thought has been the Lincoln.” The elevator door opened and Pris started out into the lobby of the building. I followed. “Do you care what doctor you go to? I’ll just take you down the street, I guess.”
“Fine.”
As we got into the white Jaguar, Pris said, “Tell me what to do, Louis. I have to do something right away.”
At a loss I said, “You’ll get over this depression.”
“I never felt like this before.”
“I’m thinking. Maybe you could run for Pope.” It was the first thing that popped into my minid; it was inane.
“I wish I were a man. Women are cut off from so much. You could be anything, Louis. What can a woman be? A housewife or a clerk or a typist or a teacher.”
“Be a doctor,” I said. “Stitch up wounded lips.”
“I can’t stand sick or damaged or defective creatures. You know that, Louis. That’s why I’m taking you to the doctor; I have to avert my gaze—maimed as you are.”
“I’m not maimed! I’ve just got a cut lip!”
Pris started up the car and we drove out into traffic. “I’m going to forget the Lincoln. I’ll never think of it again as living; it’s just an object to me from this minute on. Something to market.”
I nodded.
“I’m going to see to it that Sam Barrows buys it. I have no other task in life but that. From now on all I will think or do will have Sam Barrows at the core of it.”
If I felt like laughing at what she was saying I had only to look at her face; her expression was so bleak, so devoid of happiness or joy or even humor, that I could only nod. While driving me to the doctor to have my lip stitched up, Pris had dedicated her entire life, her future and everything in it. Itwas a kind of maniacal whim, and I could see that it had swum up to the surface out of desperation. Pris could not bear to spend a single moment without something to occupy her; she had to have a goal. It was her way of forcing the universe to make sense.
“Pris,” I said, “the difficulty with you is that you’re rational.”
“I’m not; everybody says I do exactly what I feel like.”
“You’re driven by iron-clad logic. It’s terrible. It has to be gotten rid of. Tell Horstowski that; tell him to free you from logic. You function as if a geometric proof were cranking the handle of your life. Relent, Pris. Be carefree and foolish and stupid. Do something that has no purpose. Okay? Don’t even take me to the doctor; instead, dump me off in front of a shoeshine parlor and I’ll get my shoes shined.”
“Your shoes are already shined.”
“See? See how you have to be logical all the time? Stop the car at the next intersection and we’ll both get out and leave it, or go to a flower shop and buy flowers and throw them at other motorists.”
“Who’ll pay for the flowers?”
“We’ll steal them. We’ll run out the door without paying.”
“Let me think it over,” Pris said.
“Don’t think! Did you ever steal anything when you were a kid? Or bust something just for the hell of it, maybe some public property like a street lamp?”
“I once stole a candy bar from a drugstore.”
“We’ll do that now,” I said. “We’ll find a drugstore and we’ll be kids again; we’ll steal a dime candy bar apiece, and we’ll go find a shady place and sit like on a lawn for instance and eat it.”
“You can’t, because of your lip.”
I said in a reasonable, urgent voice, “Okay. I admit that. But you could. Isn’t that so? Admit it. You could go into a drugstore right now and do that, even without me.”
“Would you come along anyhow?”
“If you want me to. Or I could park at the curb with the motor running and drive you the second you appeared. So you’d get away.”
“No,” Pris said, “I want you to come into the store with me and be right there beside me. You could show me which candy bar to take; I need your
“Christ,” I said.
“My life is empty—I might as well be dead. All I’ve done and thought has been the Lincoln.” The elevator door opened and Pris started out into the lobby of the building. I followed. “Do you care what doctor you go to? I’ll just take you down the street, I guess.”
“Fine.”
As we got into the white Jaguar, Pris said, “Tell me what to do, Louis. I have to do something right away.”
At a loss I said, “You’ll get over this depression.”
“I never felt like this before.”
“I’m thinking. Maybe you could run for Pope.” It was the first thing that popped into my minid; it was inane.
“I wish I were a man. Women are cut off from so much. You could be anything, Louis. What can a woman be? A housewife or a clerk or a typist or a teacher.”
“Be a doctor,” I said. “Stitch up wounded lips.”
“I can’t stand sick or damaged or defective creatures. You know that, Louis. That’s why I’m taking you to the doctor; I have to avert my gaze—maimed as you are.”
“I’m not maimed! I’ve just got a cut lip!”
Pris started up the car and we drove out into traffic. “I’m going to forget the Lincoln. I’ll never think of it again as living; it’s just an object to me from this minute on. Something to market.”
I nodded.
“I’m going to see to it that Sam Barrows buys it. I have no other task in life but that. From now on all I will think or do will have Sam Barrows at the core of it.”
If I felt like laughing at what she was saying I had only to look at her face; her expression was so bleak, so devoid of happiness or joy or even humor, that I could only nod. While driving me to the doctor to have my lip stitched up, Pris had dedicated her entire life, her future and everything in it. Itwas a kind of maniacal whim, and I could see that it had swum up to the surface out of desperation. Pris could not bear to spend a single moment without something to occupy her; she had to have a goal. It was her way of forcing the universe to make sense.
“Pris,” I said, “the difficulty with you is that you’re rational.”
“I’m not; everybody says I do exactly what I feel like.”
“You’re driven by iron-clad logic. It’s terrible. It has to be gotten rid of. Tell Horstowski that; tell him to free you from logic. You function as if a geometric proof were cranking the handle of your life. Relent, Pris. Be carefree and foolish and stupid. Do something that has no purpose. Okay? Don’t even take me to the doctor; instead, dump me off in front of a shoeshine parlor and I’ll get my shoes shined.”
“Your shoes are already shined.”
“See? See how you have to be logical all the time? Stop the car at the next intersection and we’ll both get out and leave it, or go to a flower shop and buy flowers and throw them at other motorists.”
“Who’ll pay for the flowers?”
“We’ll steal them. We’ll run out the door without paying.”
“Let me think it over,” Pris said.
“Don’t think! Did you ever steal anything when you were a kid? Or bust something just for the hell of it, maybe some public property like a street lamp?”
“I once stole a candy bar from a drugstore.”
“We’ll do that now,” I said. “We’ll find a drugstore and we’ll be kids again; we’ll steal a dime candy bar apiece, and we’ll go find a shady place and sit like on a lawn for instance and eat it.”
“You can’t, because of your lip.”
I said in a reasonable, urgent voice, “Okay. I admit that. But you could. Isn’t that so? Admit it. You could go into a drugstore right now and do that, even without me.”
“Would you come along anyhow?”
“If you want me to. Or I could park at the curb with the motor running and drive you the second you appeared. So you’d get away.”
“No,” Pris said, “I want you to come into the store with me and be right there beside me. You could show me which candy bar to take; I need your
Similar Books
