“She’d be off to Timbuktu with her stupid little friends. I’m a lot of fun while I’m still kicking, but my days are numbered. I know it for a fact. I’ve even got the number.” Sitting back in her chair she pulled her chin into her neck and searched around in her pocket, pulling out a ratty piece of paper. “Ah. A hundred and eighteen.”
“What?” chirped the doll.
“Nothing. Go back to your ginger ale.” Then in a petty voice, “You see? You think she could nurse me back to health, or even put me to die properly? Impossible! When we go home she sits in front of the TV. When we go out she stares ahead as if we never left! I know you two think it is madness, but once in a while she’s a very good lover, and that makes up for all the rest. Her friends are terrible people, though. They have no morality and look at me as though I should have put the peas in the pot years ago! When we all know it isn’t true. Right? Right? You know. You were a nurse.”
Mr. Jones nodded.
“So anyway,” said the hag, leaning back, as the dollish young woman continued to smile. Her teeth shone brightly but she was no longer so appealing to the men, now that they had spoken in confidence with the hag.
“So…” said Fritz. “How much longer are you going to stay at this table for?”
Mr. Jones said quickly, “My friend is shy and people he doesn’t know make him nervous.”
“No reason to be nervous,” said the hag. “If you knew us you’d see that there’s nothing to be intimidated by, and far from being better than you, we’re actually less or the same.”
“Is it true?” asked Fritz suddenly, and Mr. Jones felt disgusted with the turn in the conversation. Was this the sort of tedious insecurity the world had come to?
“Don’t you realize that in general about people?” said the hag. “We’re nothing! Not at all! Not a thing!”
“But I always assume,” continued Fritz, with interest, “that people are better than me, and are judging me with a divine right.”
“Let’s go,” said the hag swiftly, and she rushed the young woman deep into the smoky bar.
“Wait!” cried Fritz, standing up.
Mr. Jones turned to look at his friend, whose face was now red and desperate. “I don’t know if it solves anything,” said Mr. Jones, choosing his words carefully. “After all, you never know what she might have meant. One can never know. And even if you do know, it might not even be true.”
“Oh, go back to your apartment!” spat Fritz, and he twisted his body and ran off with his drink in his hand after the hag and the doll.
Now Mr. Jones was all alone. He should never have gone out if this was the sort of behavior one encountered in the world. He missed the past; the quiet nothingness of lying in bed next to his dying wife, stroking her wet hair as she breathed with difficulty, and opened her eyes somewhat, every few days. Those were gentle times; how the light came through the window, how he barely slept at all, and how she lived with pain.
A FEW ADVENTURES OF THE YOUNG FORNICATOR
THE LANDLORD HAD been seeking rent from the young fornicator for two weeks now. Every time he knocked on the door there would be sounds, then no sounds. The landlord was furious and his wife slapped him. This caused the landlord to prowl the yard, the floor of the young fornicator, and the main lobby. Still the fornicator managed to elude him, and the landlord’s wife yelled at him for things relating to their life together and to the building and to their daughter Beth’s birthday.
IT WAS THE young fornicator’s day off and he lay in his bed with a girl. Her hair was long and she was twisting it around her finger, when suddenly he stood and went to look out the window and began to tell this story:
“I’ve seen the landlord’s daughter before, but she’s always had this vapid expression, so naturally I thought she was a little stupid. But then I was in the park one day and she was sitting on a
“What?” chirped the doll.
“Nothing. Go back to your ginger ale.” Then in a petty voice, “You see? You think she could nurse me back to health, or even put me to die properly? Impossible! When we go home she sits in front of the TV. When we go out she stares ahead as if we never left! I know you two think it is madness, but once in a while she’s a very good lover, and that makes up for all the rest. Her friends are terrible people, though. They have no morality and look at me as though I should have put the peas in the pot years ago! When we all know it isn’t true. Right? Right? You know. You were a nurse.”
Mr. Jones nodded.
“So anyway,” said the hag, leaning back, as the dollish young woman continued to smile. Her teeth shone brightly but she was no longer so appealing to the men, now that they had spoken in confidence with the hag.
“So…” said Fritz. “How much longer are you going to stay at this table for?”
Mr. Jones said quickly, “My friend is shy and people he doesn’t know make him nervous.”
“No reason to be nervous,” said the hag. “If you knew us you’d see that there’s nothing to be intimidated by, and far from being better than you, we’re actually less or the same.”
“Is it true?” asked Fritz suddenly, and Mr. Jones felt disgusted with the turn in the conversation. Was this the sort of tedious insecurity the world had come to?
“Don’t you realize that in general about people?” said the hag. “We’re nothing! Not at all! Not a thing!”
“But I always assume,” continued Fritz, with interest, “that people are better than me, and are judging me with a divine right.”
“Let’s go,” said the hag swiftly, and she rushed the young woman deep into the smoky bar.
“Wait!” cried Fritz, standing up.
Mr. Jones turned to look at his friend, whose face was now red and desperate. “I don’t know if it solves anything,” said Mr. Jones, choosing his words carefully. “After all, you never know what she might have meant. One can never know. And even if you do know, it might not even be true.”
“Oh, go back to your apartment!” spat Fritz, and he twisted his body and ran off with his drink in his hand after the hag and the doll.
Now Mr. Jones was all alone. He should never have gone out if this was the sort of behavior one encountered in the world. He missed the past; the quiet nothingness of lying in bed next to his dying wife, stroking her wet hair as she breathed with difficulty, and opened her eyes somewhat, every few days. Those were gentle times; how the light came through the window, how he barely slept at all, and how she lived with pain.
A FEW ADVENTURES OF THE YOUNG FORNICATOR
THE LANDLORD HAD been seeking rent from the young fornicator for two weeks now. Every time he knocked on the door there would be sounds, then no sounds. The landlord was furious and his wife slapped him. This caused the landlord to prowl the yard, the floor of the young fornicator, and the main lobby. Still the fornicator managed to elude him, and the landlord’s wife yelled at him for things relating to their life together and to the building and to their daughter Beth’s birthday.
IT WAS THE young fornicator’s day off and he lay in his bed with a girl. Her hair was long and she was twisting it around her finger, when suddenly he stood and went to look out the window and began to tell this story:
“I’ve seen the landlord’s daughter before, but she’s always had this vapid expression, so naturally I thought she was a little stupid. But then I was in the park one day and she was sitting on a
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