Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [139]
Very casually, the punk dropped his eyes; Jack waited, but when the punk looked up it was in another direction. It was useless. He did not even want to get into a fight. All he wanted now was another drink. He went on down the street and into a liquor store and bought three fifths of Jack Daniel’s. Very expensive, but only the best. He took a cab home.
He opened one of the bottles in the cab and took a long swallow.
“Don’t do that, buddy,” the driver said without turning around.
“I’m celebrating,” Jack said.
“Yeah? Well, not in my cab. What’s the big occasion?”
They can’t help talking, can they, Jack thought. They must get very lonely. He told the driver about the end of his parole. “My third anniversary on the street,” he added.
“Oh, yeah? What’d they get you for?”
“I cornholed a cabdriver and took his money.”
The driver pulled over to the curb fast and got out and pulled the back door open. “Out,” he said.
“Have a drink, honey,” Jack grinned.
“Aw, shit.”
“Come on, have a drink an take me home. I dint cornhole you, did I?”
The driver took a quick short drink and got back in. “You’re puttin me on,” he said.
“Fuck yes, I’m puttin you on. You dumb son of a bitch.”
“Leave me alone, will you? I’m takin you home. I know how you feel. Don’t take it out on me.”
“Who’ll I take it out on? How about the niggers? Can I take it out on them?”
The cabbie laughed bitterly. “Sure. They takin over. You know what we call Yellow Cab now? The Mau-Mau Taxi Compny. They hire all the niggers, you know.”
“Goddam niggers takin all the good jobs,” Jack said bitterly. “Runnin all the banks. Fuckum. Fuck you, too.”
The driver sighed.
When they got to his place, Jack got out and paid off the driver. “Hey, pal,” he said, “how’s about comin in and blowin me?”
The driver stared at him with hatred, and put the cab in gear.
“No,” Jack said. “I’ll give you fifty bucks.”
The driver averted his eyes; Jack could tell he was thinking it over; coming in, seeing the money, trying to get it, knowing Jack was putting him on, yet tempted anyway. Jack laughed at him. “You got your price, don’t you?” he said. The driver gritted his teeth and drove off. Jack giggled. He felt mysterious and disembodied. He knew he hadn’t really wanted a fight. The cabbie was just working. No reason to hit a working man. Just get inside, go to bed and have a nice long drink.
He woke up in the morning sick with a cold, hung over, and feverish. He threw up several times, and tried to drink some whiskey, threw up again, and went back to bed. He was sick for three days, his head swollen and soggy, his hands trembling. He stayed about half drunk most of the time, and if it did not help him get rid of the cold, it did make him more comfortable. He didn’t shave and didn’t eat, and the cold just went away of its own accord, leaving him empty, sober, and shaky. He went down to the store and got some food, and when he came back there was a postcard for him in the mailbox. It was a picture postcard of the Mormon Tabernacle, and on the other side was a note from Sally. She was visiting her mother and stepfather with the baby, and would be home on Friday, love. Jack hadn’t even known she had a mother and stepfather; if she had ever mentioned them, he had forgotten. He went to bed again after eating, and that night he was back at work.
Twenty-Five
But he could not go on allowing his emotions to rise and fall at Sally’s whim. Try as he would, he could not understand her, unless the obvious was true and she had simply grown tired of being married to him. Perhaps to her the marriage had been an experiment, and the experiment had failed. Perhaps all marriages had some of this quality,