The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [103]
Red felt a pang of fear which alerted him for an instant as if a drill were probing one of his teeth. "Up yours, Croft," he said.
Croft laughed with intense merriment. "See what I mean," he pointed out.
Red relapsed into a moody somnolence. "You're all good fuggin guys," he said, waving his arm vaguely through the air.
Croft giggled suddenly. It was the first time the men had ever heard him make such a sound. "Like Gallagher said, that dumb ol' sonofabitch floppin' around in the dirt like he was a chicken with its neck jus' been wrung."
Wilson cackled with him; he did not know why Croft was laughing, but it did not concern him. Everything about him had become diffused and uncertain and pleasant. He felt only an encompassing warmth for the men with whom he drank; in the languorous swirls of his mind they existed with him as something superior and amiable. "Ol' Wilson'll never let you all down," he chuckled.
Red snorted and rubbed the edge of his nose, which had become numb. He felt a savage irritation at a combination of things too numerous and subtle for him to determine. "Wilson, you're a good buddy," he said, "but you're no goddam good. I'll tell ya somethin', the whole bunch of us are no damn good."
"Red drunk," Martinez said.
"You're fuggin ay," Red shouted. Liquor seldom made him happy. It recalled in his mind a monotonous suite of dingy barrooms and men drinking quietly, looking with resignation into the bottom of their shot glasses. For an instant he could see again the opaque rings of the glass base. He closed his eyes and the rings seemed to flow into his brain. He felt himself sway drunkenly, and he opened his eyes, and sat upright fiercely. "Fug ya, all of ya," he said.
They paid no attention to him. Wilson looked around and saw Goldstein sitting alone at the next tent, writing a letter. Abruptly, it seemed shameful to Wilson for them to drink without including anyone else in the squad. For a few seconds he watched Goldstein scribbling busily with a pencil, moving his lips soundlessly as he wrote. Wilson decided that he liked Goldstein but he was vaguely irritated that Goldstein did not drink with them. That Goldstein's a good fella, he said to himself, but he's kind of a stick-in-the-mud. It seemed to Wilson that Goldstein was missing a very fundamental understanding of life.
"Hey, Goldstein," he roared, "come over here."
Goldstein looked up, and smiled diffidently. "Well, thanks, but I'm writing a letter to my wife now." His voice was mild, but it had an expectant fearful quality in it as if he knew he would be abused.
"Aw, forget that ol' letter," Wilson said, "it'll wait."
Goldstein sighed, stood up, and walked over. "What do you want?" he asked.
Wilson laughed. It seemed an absurd question to him. "Ah, hell, have a drink. What do ya think Ah asked ya for?"
Goldstein hesitated. He had heard that the liquor made in the jungle stills was often poisonous. "What kind is it?" he temporized. "Is it real whisky or is it jungle juice?"
Wilson was offended. "Man, it's just good liquor. Y' don' ask questions like that when a man offers ya a drink." Gallagher snorted. "Take the goddam drink or leave it, Izzy," he said.
Goldstein reddened. Out of fear of their contempt he had been about to accept, but now he shook his head. "No, no, thank you," he said. To himself, he thought, What if it should poison me? That would be a fine way, to leave Natalie to get along as best she can. A man with a wife and child can't take chances. He shook his head again, looking at their hard impassive faces. "I really don't want any," he said in his mild breathless voice, and waited with apprehension for their answer.
All of them showed contempt. Croft spat, and looked away. Gallagher looked righteous. "None