Executioner's Song, The - Norman Mailer [162]
Gary found out her name was Connie, and when she inquired if he had a cigarette, Gibbs slid a pack down the hallway to her cell door. Connie thanked them.
They kept trying to talk but you had to holler loud, so Gary wrote a note and slid it over. Told her he was rather handsome, liked young girls, western music, and yodeling. Especially, he liked to yodel. She wrote back that she'd seen his picture in the newspaper and agreed he was good looking. Thanked him for being kind, and asked if he would yodel.
"Well, Tex," said Gibbs, "crank up." Gary could no more yodel than Gibbs could knit. So Gary just hollered over shucks he was lying, couldn't oo-lay, oo-lay-oo to save his butt. All three began to laugh, They had a good night sending notes back and forth. In the morning, she got out. Gary's depression was back.
6
September 11
I could not sleep for the third nite running. Somethings happening to me. I dozed briefly last nite and awoke in the middle of a dream about a severed head. I can hear the tumbrel wheels creaking again and the swift slide of the blade-in my dream I was being interviewed by a female Mont Court parole officeress or whatever, dreams take their own course, and pretty soon a doctor or the male Mont Court, or somebody, came back.
I've told you that I haven't slept lately-the ghosts have descended and set upon me with a force I didn't believe they possessed. I smack 'em down but they sneak back and climb in my ear and demons that they are tell me foul jokes, they want to sap my drink my strength, sap my will, drain my hope leave me derelict bereft of hope lost empty alone foul demon motherfuckers with dirty furry bodies whispering vile things in the nite chortling and laughing with a hideous glee to see me toss sleepless in endurance truly vile they plan to pounce on me in a shrieking mad fury when I leave with their hideous yellow long toe and finger claws teeth dripping with rank saliva and mucous thick yellow green. Dirty inhuman beasts jackals hyenas rumor monger plague ridden unhappy lost ghostly foul ungodly things unacceptable creeping crawling red eyed bat eared soulless beasts.
They won't let the ol' boy have a nites sleep. Goddamned lost mother fuckers.
I need our silver sword against them. They're slippery motherfuckers.
The demon ghosts
trick tease tantalize
bite and claw scratch and screech
weave a web of oldness oldness pull in harness
like oxen a wood creaking tumbrel a gray wood
tumbrel through the cobbled streets of my ancient mind.
They've attacked me before we have had several bouts they humped on me like fiends when I was on Prolixin for four months I endured a constant onslaught of demon fury oooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOH!
Left me drained and 50 pounds lighter but stronger than they will ever be.
they like it when I hurt
And I have been burning lately
I hate to say it but in the last week they almost got me they came the closest they ever have and they ever will.
Gibbs had a habit of waking up in the middle of the night for a cigarette. There, in the endless wee hours, he lit up and lay back to do some quiet thinking about his private situation. All of a sudden, Gary said, "You actually did it, didn't you, Gibbs?" He replied carefully, "Did what?" Gary said, "You actually lit that motherfucker, didn't you?"
In the morning, Gary said, "You talk in your sleep, Gibbs. You say a few words and then you start playing with your teeth. Sounds like you got a dice game going on down there." Gibbs got a little paranoid. He wasn't altogether happy about saying things in his sleep. If it was the wrong thing, Gilmore might decide to separate his heart from his lungs.
All that day, Gary's depression got worse, and the next night about 3 A.M., when Gibbs woke up again, Gary said, "Are you okay?" Gibbs replied, "I think so. I'm not sure." Made a point of trying to laugh even though he was gasping and coughing from his cigarette. "You going to be all right, man?" asked Gilmore, "need an iron lung maybe?"
Gibbs was silent. He was just trying to control his