shadow and she had a new bruise on her arm.
Mademoiselle Colette handed me a wad of bills, then pressed her fat knee against the girl’s chest. “Apologize to the gentleman,” she demanded.
I grabbed the mademoiselle’s hand and shoved the money back in her plump fingers. “She didn’t steal it,” I said. “Really—I gave it to her.”
The mademoiselle released the girl and waddled backwards, leering at me. “She’s not worth it.”
I stepped between the two of them. “Well, I think she is.” My voice was shaking. “It’s my money, anyhow—isn’t it for me to decide?”
“If that’s what you want,” Mademoiselle Colette laughed. “But I get my commission.” She stuffed half of the money into her dress and threw the rest onto the floor. “Fuck her again,” she growled. “Till you get your money’s worth.” Then she stomped out and slammed the door.
I picked up the bills and laid them on the bed, next to the girl. “Here you go,” I said. “Keep it. Get out of here.” She didn’t say anything—just kept her face buried in the sheets. I wanted to ask if she’d come to Texas with me. I wanted to ask if she knew anything about raising chickens. But instead of asking another stupid question, I squeezed out the window and onto the fire escape.
CHAPTER 10
I didn’t have sex with the girl, but I sure got screwed. There was no going to Texas without money. And there was no going back to Remus empty-handed, either. Even if the railroad let me return on credit, there was no way to pay it back—Father had given me the last of his money. And supposing I did go home, what would Father say? I could picture him shaking his bandaged head and saying, “As it is written in Proverbs, ‘Many a man is brought low by a loose woman.’”
Why did I have to give that girl my money? I felt sorry for her, I wanted the hell out of there, and I was too flustered to stop and divide it between the two of us.
I bummed around town all morning, staring in shop windows and sitting on park benches. I went into restaurants and offered to wash dishes in exchange for food, like people in the movies always do, but no one would have me. In the afternoon, I swiped a bottle of warm milk off someone’s porch. I took one swig and spit it out—it was as sour as an old sock.
Around dinnertime, the gray sky let loose with a cold drizzle. I sat under a tree and pulled my coat over my head, but it was no use. I was cold, broke, and lonesome. In other words, I had the blues.
I started humming a tune I’d once heard a logger sing back in Remus:
I got the blues so bad,
the whole round world looks blue;
I ain’t got a dime, and I don’t know what to do.
Somehow, that made me feel a little better. It helped to know that I wasn’t alone—lots of other guys had been down and out, just like me. And what did they do? They sure didn’t sit around and mope.
When a woman gets the blues,
she hangs her little head and cries;
But when a man gets the blues,
he grabs a train and rides.
That’s what Sammy Swisher did, and Eddie Quackenbush, and Bucky Hendershott—all my old friends. They’d jumped freights and beat it out of town. I’d always been too scared to try, but now there was no other choice.
+ + +
By the time I got to the trainyards, the sky was pouring buckets. I walked along the tracks, past rows of empty boxcars, soaked through to the bone. Finally, I came to a tin-roofed shed with an open door, and ducked inside for shelter.
It was dark inside, so I was startled to get a welcome. “Hey ’bo—got any grub?” When my eyes adjusted, I saw five or six men huddled in a circle around a makeshift stove. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of brewing coffee.
I’d read a few stories about hoboes, so I was anxious to try out their lingo. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m busted. Flatter than a pancake.”
But instead of welcoming me as one of their own, they looked away and muttered
Mademoiselle Colette handed me a wad of bills, then pressed her fat knee against the girl’s chest. “Apologize to the gentleman,” she demanded.
I grabbed the mademoiselle’s hand and shoved the money back in her plump fingers. “She didn’t steal it,” I said. “Really—I gave it to her.”
The mademoiselle released the girl and waddled backwards, leering at me. “She’s not worth it.”
I stepped between the two of them. “Well, I think she is.” My voice was shaking. “It’s my money, anyhow—isn’t it for me to decide?”
“If that’s what you want,” Mademoiselle Colette laughed. “But I get my commission.” She stuffed half of the money into her dress and threw the rest onto the floor. “Fuck her again,” she growled. “Till you get your money’s worth.” Then she stomped out and slammed the door.
I picked up the bills and laid them on the bed, next to the girl. “Here you go,” I said. “Keep it. Get out of here.” She didn’t say anything—just kept her face buried in the sheets. I wanted to ask if she’d come to Texas with me. I wanted to ask if she knew anything about raising chickens. But instead of asking another stupid question, I squeezed out the window and onto the fire escape.
CHAPTER 10
I didn’t have sex with the girl, but I sure got screwed. There was no going to Texas without money. And there was no going back to Remus empty-handed, either. Even if the railroad let me return on credit, there was no way to pay it back—Father had given me the last of his money. And supposing I did go home, what would Father say? I could picture him shaking his bandaged head and saying, “As it is written in Proverbs, ‘Many a man is brought low by a loose woman.’”
Why did I have to give that girl my money? I felt sorry for her, I wanted the hell out of there, and I was too flustered to stop and divide it between the two of us.
I bummed around town all morning, staring in shop windows and sitting on park benches. I went into restaurants and offered to wash dishes in exchange for food, like people in the movies always do, but no one would have me. In the afternoon, I swiped a bottle of warm milk off someone’s porch. I took one swig and spit it out—it was as sour as an old sock.
Around dinnertime, the gray sky let loose with a cold drizzle. I sat under a tree and pulled my coat over my head, but it was no use. I was cold, broke, and lonesome. In other words, I had the blues.
I started humming a tune I’d once heard a logger sing back in Remus:
I got the blues so bad,
the whole round world looks blue;
I ain’t got a dime, and I don’t know what to do.
Somehow, that made me feel a little better. It helped to know that I wasn’t alone—lots of other guys had been down and out, just like me. And what did they do? They sure didn’t sit around and mope.
When a woman gets the blues,
she hangs her little head and cries;
But when a man gets the blues,
he grabs a train and rides.
That’s what Sammy Swisher did, and Eddie Quackenbush, and Bucky Hendershott—all my old friends. They’d jumped freights and beat it out of town. I’d always been too scared to try, but now there was no other choice.
+ + +
By the time I got to the trainyards, the sky was pouring buckets. I walked along the tracks, past rows of empty boxcars, soaked through to the bone. Finally, I came to a tin-roofed shed with an open door, and ducked inside for shelter.
It was dark inside, so I was startled to get a welcome. “Hey ’bo—got any grub?” When my eyes adjusted, I saw five or six men huddled in a circle around a makeshift stove. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of brewing coffee.
I’d read a few stories about hoboes, so I was anxious to try out their lingo. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m busted. Flatter than a pancake.”
But instead of welcoming me as one of their own, they looked away and muttered
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