His heart condition was all the doctor found. Jimmy thought the medical
man was a little grudging in the admission that nothing else was
discernibly wrong, but gratitude that he was not worse off made him
feel a little better.
Leaving the hospital with the lovely, elderly nurse holding him by one
arm, and the doctor on the other side of him, Jimmy looked around him,
at the street, at the people, at the mauve trees with their lovely puce
foliage. It was night and the pale green moon moving in its eccentric
path cast just the faintest tone over the whole scene. Admirably
dressed women, their beautiful shapeless clothes hanging loosely so
that nothing of their bodily contours could be seen, walked sedately
along the black plastic street, their dresses barely avoiding dragging
on the eternal surface with which the last scientists, so many years
ago, had covered the roads and the streets.
Perpetua, it was called, and seemingly it was correctly named. Striving
madly to forget that which awaited him, Jimmy thought wildly about the
street covering, about, in short, everything but the saloon that he was
being escorted to ... would the doctor and the nurse take him through
the swinging doors? Or would he have to make that brave first step all
by himself?
The doctor cleared his throat. "We're almost there, son. Be brave."
Be brave! A fine thing to say. It was easy for the doctor to make
speeches, but he, Jimmy Comstock 101, was the one who was going to have
to enter the foul place!
And then, despite the slowness of his steps, they were finally there.
He realized, looking at the saloon, that he had never really looked at
one of these dens of iniquity before. He had always, in the past, gone
by them with averted eyes.
He reeled, and the lovely nurse, her exquisitely wrinkled face showing
her concern, grabbed at him just in time to prevent him from falling to
his face.
"There, there, Jimmy boy," her cracked voice was so ... soothing
and at the same time so exciting ... he found himself beginning to
fantasy about her again, and it was only this that gave him the bravado
necessary to step through the swinging door.
A gust of beery air hit him in the voice. His throat closed up in
revulsion at the disgusting odor. Behind him he could hear the nurse
say, "Grandfather be with you now!"
And then she and the doctor were gone, and he was alone. Alone in the
moiling turmoil, the frightful, frightening atmosphere of that which he
must become. To the right, the left, everywhere he looked there were
fellow heart disease patients. All of them were treating their disease.
Some seriously, some seeming even to enjoy it, which Jimmy found
impossible of comprehension. One of the ones who seemed to be enjoying
the treatment of his disease staggered up to him with a fog of alcohol
preceding him.
"Hi chum!" The drunk was small and young and seemingly very happy.
Jimmy gulped. "Hello, there, how are you? I'm James Comstock 101. Who
are you?"
"Danny Grundy 112. C'mon kiddo, wancha to meet an old buddy of mine."
The drunk had him by the arm and there was no escape. Grundy pulled
him through the welter of men and women who lined the bar and gulped or
sipped their poisonous yet beneficial potions.
* * * * *
Behind the bar a tremendously fat man, a white apron pulled tight
around the huge circumference of what Jimmy thought of as his tummy,
said, "What'll it be? What's your pleasure?"
Jimmy turned to his new found friend and asked, "How can I get drunk
the fastest, easiest way?"
"Leave it to me, old buddy, old sock," Grundy said.
"Maxwell, mix up three of your super-double extra strong corpse
revivers, will you like a pal?"
"Surest thing you know," Max busied himself with bottles containing
oddly colored liquors.
Rather than look at the terrible thing he was going to have to drink,
Jimmy asked, "Where is the man you wanted me to meet?"
A howl of laughter from a nearby group drowned out his words, forcing
him to repeat himself. Grundy looked at the group and said, "There he
is. I'll bring him over."
The man he dragged to meet Comstock was equally young, no more than
thirty-eight, with an unformed face, and the barest amount of white
hair at the temples. He had some pictures in his hand and as he was
introduced to Jimmy he held out the photos.
Grundy said, "Tony Bowdler 131, wancha to meet my oldest friend,
Jimmy--what was your name, old sock?"
Jimmy identified himself and as he turned his eyes to look at the
pictures, Bowdler mumbled, "Do' wancha to think I'm unner the affluence
of inkohol, but lemme know how you like them feelthy pictures."
The man's voice was blurred and Jimmy could not quite comprehend what
he was saying. That was the only reason he looked at the top picture.
All the blood drained out of his head. There, on the picture, brazenly
posed for anyone to see, were a man and a woman. Good looking people
too. The woman was real s..y. Almost seventy, with exciting white hair,
and a deeply wrinkled face, she was even more desirable than the nurse.
How then had she ever allowed a despicable picture like this one to be
taken? It was beyond Jimmy, completely beyond him. Frozen in the glossy
eternity of the picture, her loose dress lifted so that her ankle
showed, she was allowing the man in the picture to k..s her hand.
The picture blurred in front of Jimmy's dazed eyes. This was a kind of
perversion beyond his reckoning. How could people allow such a thing?
Grundy said, "You think that's hot, boy, lay a glim on some of the
others! Here, look at these," he spread them out one at a time and
giggled inanely, "This last picture is a real killer! Take a peek!"
Comstock shook his head no, but his new found friend paid no attention
to him. Pointing to the foul pictures lined up on the bar he picked
up the last one and held it right under Jimmy's nose. Just before he
forced his eyes closed, the picture was engraved on his sickened brain.
The people were the same as the ones in the other picture, but, oh the
depth of depravity, oh poor lost souls, the man was actually k...ing
the woman full on the m...h!
The bartender said, "Hey, what's wrong with the Johnny-come-lately?
Looks like he's going to faint. Better get some medicine in him fast!"
Bowdler grabbed Jimmy's one arm, Grundy the other, while the stout
bartender poured the drink down Comstock's slack mouth. Gagging, half
spitting, he still swallowed enough so that he could feel what he
thought was liquid fire going down his aching throat.
"How's that feel, ol' pal?" Bowdler asked anxiously.
"Awful," Jimmy said, but he sipped more of it anyhow. This was his
curse, this was his cure, he had to take it, so he took it.
* * * * *
The bartender went back to his other customers, and the trio raised
their glasses. Jimmy's new found friends were teaching him how to make
a toast.
"Here's to heart trouble," Grundy said, "thank Grandfather I didn't get
cancer!"
"Tha's the boy. Drink her down.... Bottoms up...." Bowdler put his hand
over his mouth. "Mus' 'pologize," he said, "reelize don't know you well
enough to talk that way. Ve'y sorry, ole man."
Comstock gagged again, but this time not from the drink, but as a
conditioned reflex. At that moment he could again taste the soap his
mother had used to wash out his mouth that time when he was but a lad
of twenty-nine, and he had slipped and said something about the b....m
of a well. The drink helped to wash out the long enduring soap taste.
"Yeah," Grundy was saying. "I don't care how drunk a man gets, a
gentleman never uses dirty words."
"You're righ' ole pal, ole pal. I'm sorry...." Bowdler hung his head in
shame. As though to change the subject he picked up his pornographic
pictures and looked through them lovingly. At last, pausing over one
that Thompson could see showed a man and woman in the last stages of
reckless abandon, (they were holding hands) Bowdler said, "Y'know if I
din' like gettin' drunk so much I'd be sorry I din't have tuberculosis
so I could pose for feelthy pix like these."
"Y'know," Grundy had his arm wrapped lovingly around Jimmy's neck by
now and they were on their second set of corpse revivers, "y' know I've
known fallen women who told me they were kina glad they had diabetes.
Don't seem possible, does it?"
"No." Jimmy's face was set sternly. "I cannot imagine snuch a ting. I
mean I cannot magine uch a sting...." He rubbed his mouth. It felt a
little strange.
Bowdler ordered another round. Nearby a particularly abandoned looking
woman who must have been in the last stages of coronary thrombosis if
the amount of liquor she had imbibed was any indication, waved to Jimmy.
He turned his head away quickly, hoping no one else had seen what the
woman did. He was instantly sorry he had done so for suddenly the room
swirled.
When it stopped, he turned to Grundy and said, "Shay, how offen doesa
room do that?"
"Do what?" Grundy asked, his mouth slack.
"How offen do they make it go roun' and roun' like that?"
Evidently he had said something highly amusing for his new friends went
off in gales of laughter. They had to whack each other on the back
before they could make their giggles subside.
Grundy said, finally, "If you think this room is movin' wait'll you see
your bedroom move tomorrow morning!" Then he and Bowdler went off into
helpless laughter again.
* * * * *
Comstock tried to explain that there was no special mechanism in his
room which would allow it to spin in any fashion at all, but the
combination of the peculiar trouble he was having in articulating and
the roars of laughter from Bowdler and Grundy made him finally desist.
Perhaps this was some joke that he would have explained at some future
time.
The fourth drink, Comstock found must have had some different
ingredients in it although he had watched the bartender carefully and
seemingly the same constituents went into the making of it, but, on
sipping it, he found that the taste was different. He no longer felt as
if he was going to die in agony when he swallowed. Instead, a rather
pleasant kind of warmth went all through him.
He gazed at his new friends. New? How dare he consider them that? These
were his pals. Why ... he'd cut off his right arm for either of them.
He felt a desire to explain this sudden feeling of camaraderie, but
that odd thing affected his speech again and the words did not come
out quite as he had expected they would. He wondered if a stutter or
a stammer was part of angina pectoris, but that did not seem likely
somehow.
The sixth drink he never had any remembrance of downing. As a matter of
fact, the following morning when he woke up he had all he could do to
figure out how, when and who had installed the merry-go-round mechanism
in his room. Apparently the saloon was not the only place so equipped.
Lying in bed, looking about him he at first wondered if he were in some
strange place, but second thought reassured him. He was home, in his
own bed. The colored portrait of Grandfather looked down at him ... he
hoped that the picture did not reflect any disapproval on Grandfather's
part. He mumbled, "I can't help it ... I'm sick ... the doctor made
me...."
Then he held onto the sides of the bed for dear life and prayed that
whoever was making the room turn around would stop sooner or later,
preferably sooner.
On one of the circling trips the room seemed to slow down a tiny bit
and he was able to crawl out of bed onto the floor. The floor was
bigger and he lost the fear he had had in bed that he was going to fall
out. At least there was no place to fall now.
When his mother entered the room he was curled up peacefully on the
rug, sound asleep.
She woke him gently and gave him a glass of milk.
Jimmy eyed his mother in horror. How could he ever have loved a woman
who could do such a terrible thing? The milk seemed to be fastened
directly to his stomach. Racing from the room he found that there are
more than a few problems connected with being a drunk.
* * * * *
When he came back and fell into his bed, his mother moved around the
room, opening the curtains letting in the sunlight, as she had every
day of his life.
He said, "Mother, will you please take those hobnails out of your
shoes? And whatever you're doing to those curtains, stop it. The
racket's enough to rouse the dead."
"They wouldn't let me come to the hospital, dear," she said.
"Was it very bad for my little boy?"
"Very bad. Did you get the report on me?"
She nodded. "But do I really have to give you that poison they
recommended for your mornings?"
"What poison?" If she'd only stop yelling.
"Coffee!"
At that moment he knew he would have sold his soul for a cup of coffee.
Aloud he said, "Bring it ... fast! And get that sickening glass of milk
out of here. It's leering at me."
Shaking her head, she left.
If the inside sweats would only stop a moment, he thought, he'd be able
to take time out to feel sorry for her. After all she hadn't raised
her son to be a drunkard ... it must be very difficult for her. But a
question rose large in his mind. How had those bats gotten into his
insides? Looking down at it, feeling what the bats were doing to the
wall of his stomach, he called it a belly for the first time in his
life.
"My belly," he said to himself, "hurts." And he didn't even feel the
soap sensation in his mouth. But then the taste that was already there
was so much like the inside of a parrot's cage that perhaps the psychic
soap was just lost in the other, more horrible, taste.
Curiously he found that the steaming, jet black coffee made him feel
better. How had he known it would? Perhaps Grundy ... or Bowdler had
told him about it....
His mother watched him drink the dread potion silently. Then she said,
"My poor, poor boy. When do you have to do this terrible thing again?"
He lifted his head and found that he could endure the sunlight. In some
lost cavern in the back of his head he heard Bowdler's drunken voice
saying, "And if you think you're gonna die, buddy boy, remember, a hair
of the dog will fix you up."
The idea of eating a dog's hair almost made him run for the bathroom
again, but he conquered the feeling.
Then he considered his mother's question. When must he get drunk again?
Why ... right now. This minute. Besides, he wanted to find out more
about these puzzles that baffled him, from his buddies. He smiled
remembering the good feeling of fellowship that had been his when he
had sung some old song with Bowdler and Grundy.
How did the words go?
His startled mother raised her eyebrows when her poor sick boy lurched
to the side of his bed and began to hum, "For he's a jolly good
fellow...."
Yep.
Back to the saloon.
That's where he belonged.
Rising slowly from some subterranean depth was the dawning realization
that he was beginning to enjoy his ailment....
Good old Grundy.... Good old Bowdler ... they were indeed the salt of
the planet.