All the King's Men - Robert Penn Warren [62]
But was that it? In the end, I decided that there was one more reason behind the other reasons. This: Tiny Duffy became, in a crazy kind of way, the other self of Willie Stark, and all the contempt and insult which Willie Stark was to heap on Tiny Duffy was nothing but what one self of Willie Stark did to the other self because of a blind, in ward necessity. But I came to that conclusion only at the very end, a long time afterwards.
But now Willie had just become Governor and nobody knew what would come afterwards.
And meanwhile–while the campaign was on–I was out of a job.
My job had been political reporting for the Chronicle. I had a column, too. I was a pundit.
One day Jim Madison had me in to stand on the Kelly-green carpet which surrounded his desk like a pasture. “Jack,” he said, “you know what the Chronicle line is in this election.”
“Sure,” I replied, “it wants to elect Sam MacMurfee again because of his brilliant record as an administrator and his high integrity as a statesman.”
He grinned a little sourly and said, “It wants to elect Sam MacMurfee.”
“I’m sorry I forgot we were in the bosom of the family. I thought I was writing my column.”
The grin went off his face. He played with a pencil on his desk. “It’s about the column I wanted to see you,” he said.
“O.K.,” I replied.
“Can’t you put some more steam in it? This is an election and not a meeting of the Epworth League.”
“It is an election, all right.”
“Can’t you give it a little more?”
“When what you got to work with is Sam MacMurfee,” I said, “you haven’t even got a sow’s ear to make a silk purse out of. I’m doing what I can.”
He brooded over that for a minute. Then he began, “Now just because the Stark happens to be a friend of yours, you–”
“He’s no friend of mine,” I snapped. “I didn’t even see him between last election and this one. Personally, I don’t care who is ever Governor of this state or how big a son-of-a-bitch he is. But I am a hired hand, and I do my best to suppress in my column my burning conviction that Sam MacMurfee is one of the fanciest sons-of–”
“You know the Chronicle line,” Jim Madison said heavily and studied the spit-slick, chewed butt of his cigar.
It was a hot day, and the breeze from the electric fan was on Jim Madison and not on me, and there was a little thread of acid, yellow-feeling saliva down in my throat, the kind you get when your stomach is sour, and my head felt like a dried gourd with a couple of seeds rattling around in it. So I looked at Jim Madison, and said, “All right.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean in the way I said it,” I said, and started for the door.
“Look here, Jack, I’m–” he began, and laid the cigar butt down on the ash tray.
“I know,” I said, “you got a wife and kids and your boy’s in Princeton.”
I said that and kept on walking.
There was a water cooler outside the door, in the hall, and I stopped by it and took one of the little cone-shaped cups and drank about ten of them full of ice water to wash the yellow thing out of my throat. Then I stood there in the hall with my stomach full of the water like a cold bulb inside me.
I could sleep late, and then wake up and not move, just watching the hot, melted-butter-colored sunlight pour through the cracks in the shade, for my hotel was not the best in town and my room was not the best in the hotel. As my chest rose and fell with my breathing, the sheet would stick damply to my bare hide, for that is the way you sleep there in the summertime. I could hear the streetcars and the blatting of automobile horns off yonder, not too loud but variegated and unremitting, a kind of coarse, hoarse tweedy mixture of sounds to your nerve ends, and occasionally the clatter of dishes, for my room gave on the kitchen area. And now and then a nigger would sing a snatch down there.
I could lie there as long as