* * * * *
I went to a dry-cleaner, not the cheapest place I knew, because I
wouldn't be safe with the change from a twenty in that neighborhood.
My suit was cleaned while I waited. I paid a little extra and had
it mended. Funny thing about a suit--it's almost never completely
shot unless you just have it ripped off you or burned up. It wasn't
exactly in style, but some rich executives wore suits out of style
that they had paid a lot of money for. I remembered Fredric March's
double-breasted in _Executive Suite_ while Walter Pidgeon and the rest
wore Ivy Leagues. Maybe I would look like an eccentric executive.
I bought a new shirt, a good used pair of shoes, and a dime pack of
single-edged razor blades. I didn't have a razor, but anybody with
nerve can shave with a single-edge blade and soap and water.
The clerk took my two bucks in advance and I went up to my room.
I washed out my socks and underwear, took a bath, shaved and trimmed
my hair and nails with the razor blade. With some soap on my finger, I
scrubbed my teeth. Finally I got dressed.
Everything was all right except that I didn't have a tie. They had
them, a quarter a piece, where I got the shoes. It was only six
blocks--I could go back. But I didn't want to wait. I wanted to
complete the picture.
The razor blade sliced through the pink bath towel evenly. I cut out a
nice modern-style tie, narrow, with some horizontal stripes down at the
bottom. I made a tight, thin knot. It looked pretty good.
I was ready to leave, so I started for the door. I went back. I had
almost forgotten my luggage. The box still had three unwrapped blades
in it. I pocketed it. I hefted the used blade, dulled by all the work
it had done. You can run being economical into stinginess. I tossed it
into the wastebasket.
I had five hamburgers and five cups of coffee. I couldn't finish all of
the French fries.
"Mac," I said to the fat counterman, who looked like all fat
countermen, "give me a Milwaukee beer."
He stopped polishing the counter in front of his friend. "Milwaukee,
Wisconsin, or Milwaukee, Oregon?"
"Wisconsin."
He didn't argue.
It was cold and bitter. All beer is bitter, no matter what they say on
TV. I like beer. I like the bitterness of it.
It felt like another, but I checked myself. I needed a clear head.
I thought about going back to the hotel for some sleep; I still had
the key in my pocket (I wasn't trusting it to any clerk). No, I had
had sleep on Thanksgiving, bracing up for trying the lift at Brother
Partridge's. Let's see, it was daylight outside again, so this was the
day after Thanksgiving. But it had only been sixteen or twenty hours
since I had slept. That was enough.
I left the money on the counter for the hamburgers and coffee and the
beer. There was $7.68 left.
As I passed the counterman's friend on his stool, my voice said, "I
think you're yellow."
He turned slowly, his jaw moving further away from his brain.
I winked. "It was just a bet for me to say that to you. I won two
bucks. Half of it is yours." I held out the bill to him.
His paw closed over the money and punched me on the biceps. Too hard.
He winked back. "It's okay."
I rubbed my shoulder, marching off fast, and I counted my money. With
my luck, I might have given the counterman's friend the five instead of
one of the singles. But I hadn't. I now had $6.68 left.
"I _still_ think you're yellow," my voice said.
It was my voice, but it didn't come from me. There were no words, no
feeling of words in my throat. It just came out of the air the way it
always did.