Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [98]
Finally Uncle Vance broke the ice. “I heard you won a large amount of money from some Cholly down to your bowling alley,” he said. “Six hundred dollars, was it?”
Luanne looked at Billy, and he smiled and said, “Yes, I did just that.”
“Nice money,” Luanne said. “We runnin out of whiskey.”
Uncle Vance looked at Billy uncomfortably, and then with an embarrassed air, reached into his coat pocket and brought out an envelope, which he opened with his thick fingers, and removed three small, tightly rolled marijuana cigarettes. “I have these,” he said. “Would you care to share a few puffs?” Billy nodded, amused, and the girl said, “Well, you are sweet,” and Uncle Vance gave up being embarrassed by Billy’s presence, licked down one of the joints, lit it, drew his lungs full of smoke and air, and passed it to the girl, his eyes standing out of his head; she toked, passed it to Billy, and he drew deeply, hoping it was good marijuana and he would feel it hit him right away. They passed the joint around several times before Billy knew it was not going to be any good; it was probably locally grown and for that matter full of twigs. He felt a little high, but the whiskey obscured the feeling, and none of his tension seemed to have gone away. Abruptly, he stood up. “I got to go to work,” he said. Vance tried to look politely upset, but it didn’t come off, and Luanne was obviously glad to see him go. She and Vance probably had an appointment anyway; Billy had come over without telephoning. Billy wanted to tell the girl good-bye, but he couldn’t with Vance sitting there looking so stiff and respectable.
Vance walked down the hallway with him. “Maybe sometime we could talk a little business,” he said.
“Maybe,” Billy said. He felt a strong yearning for he did not know what. He looked up at Uncle Vance in the dark hallway. He could come here, sneaking back down into the rathole, for-bidden cigarettes in his pocket, to snitch a few pleasures he obviously did not get in his own respectable circle, and he could even be proud of himself; he and Billy could meet on this neutral ground and even share the girl and the whiskey and the marijuana, and even talk about discussing business. It seemed stupid.
“You ought to invest some of that money,” Uncle Vance said. “While you still got it. You got to think of the future, boy. You know that.” He chuckled softly. “Things are gonna open up one day, Billy, and those of us with the cash invested are goin to be on top.”
“Oh, yeah?” Billy could not help saying. “When does all this happen?”
“Take it easy, Billy. Maybe not for a while, maybe not in our lives; but we got children, both of us, and we got to think about them. Maybe in their time, you know?”
Billy left the building and caught a bus for the bowling alley. He was angry. Of course Vance was right and his was the right way; and of course Luanne and her spade friends were right and it would never happen and it was too much work and they were too angry and too full of passion to wait for anything; and of course the liberals were right and the time was coming, and the niggerlovers were right, too, because the niggers were pretty to look at, and the niggerhaters were right, too, because the niggers were sloppy and lazy and sensual, and so just naturally everybody was right except Billy and he was alone and that was just tough. But I don’t want to be a Negro; I don’t want to be a white man; I don’t want to be a married man; I don’t want to be a businessman; I don’t want to be lonely. Life seemed to be a figure eight. It terrified him, sitting on the bus, as if time had opened black jaws and swallowed him.
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