Nathanael West - The Day of the Locust [57]
Original coil…In a book of abnormal psychology borrowed from the college library, he had once seen a picture of a woman sleeping in a net hammock whose posture was much like Homer’s. “Uterine Flight,” or something like that, had been the caption under the photograph. The woman had been sleeping in the hammock without changing her position, that of the foetus in the womb, for a great many years. The doctors of the insane asylum had been able to awaken her for only short periods of time and those months apart.
He sat down to smoke a cigarette and wondered what he ought to do. Call a doctor? But after all Homer had been awake most of the night and was exhausted. The doctor would shake him a few times and he would yawn and ask what the matter was. He could try to wake him up himself. But hadn’t he been enough of a pest already? He was so much better off asleep, even if it was a case of “Uterine Flight.”
What a perfect escape the return to the womb was. Better by far than Religion or Art or the South Sea Islands. It was so snug and warm there, and the feeding was automatic. Everything perfect in that hotel. No wonder the memory of those accommodations lingered in the blood and nerves of everyone. It was dark, yes, but what a warm, rich darkness. The grave wasn’t in it. No wonder one fought so desperately against being evicted when the nine months’ lease was up.
Tod crushed his cigarette. He was hungry and wanted his dinner, also a double Scotch and soda. After he had eaten, he would come back and see how Homer was. If he was still asleep, he would try to wake him. If he couldn’t, he might call a doctor.
He took another look at him, then tiptoed out of the cottage, shutting the door carefully.
26
Tod didn’t go directly to dinner. He went first to Hodge’s saddlery store thinking he might be able to find out something about Earle and through him about Faye. Calvin was standing there with a wrinkled Indian who had long hair held by a bead strap around his forehead. Hanging over the Indian’s chest was a sandwich board that read—
TUTTLE’S TRADING POST for GENUINE RELICS OF THE OLD WEST Beads, Silver, Jewelry, Moccasins, Dolls, Toys, Rare Books, Postcards. TAKE BACK A SOUVENIR from TUTTLE’S TRADING POST
Calvin was always friendly.
“‘Lo, Char,” he called out, when Tod came up.
“Meet the chief,” he added, grinning. “Chief Kiss-My-Towkus.”
The Indian laughed heartily at the joke.
“You gotta live,” he said.
“Earle been around today?” Tod asked.
“Yop. Went by an hour ago.”
“We were at a party last night and I…”
Calvin broke in by hitting his thigh a wallop with the flat of his palm.
“That must’ve been some shindig to hear Earle tell it. Eh, Skookum?”
“Vas you dere, Sharley?” the Indian agreed, showing the black inside of his mouth, purple tongue and broken orange teeth.
“I heard there was a fight after I left.”
Calvin smacked his thigh again.
“Sure musta been. Earle get himself two black eyes,
“That’s what comes of palling up with a dirty greaser,” said the Indian excitedly.
He and Calvin got into a long argument about Mexicans. The Indian said that they were all bad. Calvin claimed he had known quite a few good ones in his time. When the Indian cited the case of the Hermanos brothers who had killed a lonely prospector for half a dollar, Calvin countered with a long tale about a man called Tomas Lopez who shared his last pint of water with a stranger when they both were lost in the desert.
Tod tried to get the conversation back to what interested him.
“Mexicans are very good with women,” he said.