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By Root 33219 0

By then there was only a nickel left. So he had gone ahead and bought this chocolate icecream cone, like for dessert sort of, since he might as well, and now he finished the icecream and dropped the rest of the cone in the can under his bunk feeling a sudden panic about what to do for shoepolish. He tossed the comic book on his bunk wishing he hadnt spent 15c for it. He could have bought a pack of tailormades, and maybe run it up to a carton in a game. He sat on his bunk and rolled a cigaret, looking at the gaily colored cover against the olive drab. The covers always made them look like they had so much inside, but they never did. He smoked cautiously, trying to keep the flaky Bull Durham from getting on the back of his tongue and gagging him. He sure wished he had the will power not to have bought a goddam comic book. Old Prew had the will power not to buy a goddam comic book. Andy did sometimes. He bet old Prew would loan him shoepolish, if he was here, instead of in the Stockade. Old Prew always had shoepolish.

Finally, when the heaviness of his own weakness bore down on him too hard, he squashed the butt out in the can under his bunk and got out his guitar, the old one. He followed his mood, striking blue minors. When he joined the Army he had visions of coming home bronzed by southern seas like Errol Flynn, a world traveler like Ronald Colman, an adventurer like Douglas Fairbanks Jr, a man to be reckoned with like Gary Cooper, a man of the world like Warner Baxter, a man people would listen to respectfully like President Roosevelt—not as much as President Roosevelt, but that same idea. And in a year and a half now he could not see how he had changed a bit. It was discouraging. Friday leaped full force, like a standing broad-jumper, into practicing the Steel Git-tar Rag with a sudden savage energy. Someday he would have to get onto old Prew and old Andy to finish up The Re-enlistment Blues, or they probly never would do it. Someday he would go back to Scranton a civilian, and he would play The Re-enlistment Blues on his new git-tar he would have by then for his old man and the neighbors on the block, and his old man would say: “Well, boy, where hell you larn a play a git-tar like at?” and he would say: “In the Hawaiian Islands, Pop, across the Pacific Ocean, where I helped to write this song myself.” He had it all figured out, what he would say. And his old man would say: “Look a my boy play at git-tar, pizon, look a him! he wrote that song himself he’s playin!” And the dames on the block would go for him; they would fight for a chance to take him to the bushes in the park then. Maybe he would go on the stage. Like Andy was always talking about Eddie Lang and Dajango. Eddie Lang was a Wop, too. In this country a Wop could go on the stage like anybody else. He bet a Wop couldnt go on the stage in Germany. He practiced furiously, going back and back, and over and over a phrase until he knew he had it perfect, the notes of the fast gay piece disturbing the hot heavy drowse of the noon air insistently.

Cpl Bloom, on his bunk, wanting to relax into the dry summer hum that this music was overpowering so he could escape his appetite, waited for someone to shut the dimwit up. Bloom felt indignant. Didnt the halfwit know guys were trying to sleep in here? Even a dimbrain ought to have that much consideration. Bloom did not care for himself, he had all afternoon, but these men were going out on Fatigue, they only had an hour off.

“For the love of God,” he bellowed humorously at the ceiling finally, “stop that goddam racket. These men tryin to get a little sacktime. Aint you got no consideration?”

Friday did not hear. He was entranced by his own ability to make such beautiful sounds. He had gone into his private world where nobody laughed at anybody else.

When he did not stop, Bloom sat up incredulously. Maybe the dummy didnt know who it was had yelled? Or, he thought, maybe having Prewitt around to baby him all the time has made him too big for his britches, maybe?

He didnt have anything against the halfwit, if anything