(What happened to Richard? Nothing. He was merely drunk, and it was America in the Night, and the Blues were playing, and the train whistle was blowing across the meadows of Night. Pity. Sadness. Dream. Love. Grief-stricken beauty. Hope of our land.)
I have traveled to distant cities, said the famined heart of Richard, and I have seen how cruel is man. Cruel wretch! I am only youth, but I swear I know ...
“The nightingale sings the saddest song I know ... he knows things are wrong ... and he's right ...”
And he wept, remembering the gaiety in Pepi Martin's, remembering the sad lamps of night. Christ! his famined heart cried, if tears shall wash away the cruelty of our years, and sow the seeds of pity in our black, broken hearts, and remind us that life is brief and lovely, not long and foolish, that it is strange and beautiful, yea as a dream, then so let it be, if it must be tears, if tears alone may serve ...
Crack! The drummer had struck his rim-shot, and the band was off once more on a mad swing tune, and the dancers howled with delight, and smoke clung to the rocking rafters. Din! Din! Din!
The drunken sailor was sprawled across his cups, and the shouting went on all about him; and the music rebounded from beam to beam, bouncing and bouncing in steady stream.
The door opened, and in staggered Richard. The proprietor's eye hardened. Richard moiled across the little room, lost in the din and smoke, and made his way toward the Men's Room. Inside, he reeled against the wall and tried to read a penciled epitaph.
“What rhetoric!” said a horn-rimmed face beside him.
“Fragments of Milton!” muttered Richard.
He looked through the horn-rimmed glasses and saw two friendly eyes, two sad eyes.
“You've read Milton?” asked Pete.
“Some.”
“Ah, ... then, you've probably read Emerson.”
“Some.”
“What do you think of his essay on Compensation? My name is Pete Miller. What's yours? I'm from New York. Where are you from? I am studying America in my jalopy. Where are you sitting?”
Richard laughed, loud and long.
“Blues in the Night,” he answered drunkenly. “My name is Johnny Dreamer. Christ returns to America, in the night. Dreamer's my name.”
“Well then, Dreamer, come on over and sit with me,” cried Pete drunkenly. “I am studying America in my jalopy.”
They left the Men's Room and pushed their way through the mass of people. At a little table in the corner, Pete ordered two drinks, and then directed his horn-rimmed stare at Richard.
“I,” he began, “am writing a novel called âThe Wound of Living,' and it is my theory that Life, which begins in perfect innocence, and in relatively perfect health, ends in deep wound and deterioration. The very definition of life is the disintegration of it. That is why I fear nothing. Have you noticed that nice looking girl in the other booth? Do you write also?”
Richard looked over to the next booth, but saw nothing to speak of. The seat began to reel.
“I am not a writer,” he shouted to Pete above the din. “I play tenor sax in college. I am studying nothing in particular, since I want some day to play sax for a big-name band.”
“What college?” asked Pete, shouting.
“Princeton,” cried Richard. “I'm home for the summer, and I feel lousy, because for some reason or other, I am bored and lonely. See?”
“I see!” shouted Pete with his honest eyes. “You've been wounded!”
The drunken sailor had by now turned over, and his drunken face was revealed to all who cared to look ... a little mustache under a large nose. From the general direction of the bandstand, music leaped through the fogged air in great bouncing gobs, and the dancers gyrated and gyrated until Richard had to take hold of his seat or fall to the floor. Pete was shouting:
“Dreamer! I would say you were drunk!”
A waiter dashed over nervously, shouting:
“Everythin' all set boys?”
“Right,” assured Richard, holding up an assuring finger.
The waiter darted off, dodging expertly.
“I'm glad I met you,” shouted Pete. “I wanted someone to talk to. I'm running all around the country in my jalopy. New Orleans is my next stop.”
“Glad I met you,” howled Richard. “I was feeling pretty low just a moment ago. I'm drunk, you know.”
Two female eyes were fixed on the eyes of Richard. He blinked, then looked carefully. Yes, she is looking at me. I shall dance with her.
Richard rose; “Excuse for a minute Pete. I am going to [take] advantage of a momentary infatuation. This girl is ogling me on.”
“Bravo!” screamed Pete, raising his drink to mobile lips. He always spoke through stiff, careful lips, in deep, correct tones. “It's the girl I was telling you about. Bravo!”
Richard reeled through the smoke, toward the two eyes.
“Dance?” he said into her ear. She was one of the seven in the new party of customers.
“Hmmm,” she smiled melodiously. “I certainly shall.”
A moment later, they were clutched to each other, elbowing through a solid mass of dancers.
“Lovely night,” whispered the girl in his ear.
“What's your name?” asked Richard.
“Annabel,” she answered, breathing warmly. Everything, to Richard, was giddy and absolutely wonderful. His remembrance of Blues in the Night was vague, triumphant. He remembered also the fields that surrounded Pepi Martin's, hushed and patient in the night. And the sad lamps, and the goodness of Christ, and the warmth of Life, and the bitter beauty, and the awful glory, and his saxophone back in New Jersey moaning in trembling tremolo of the day when he should ever meet two such sad eyes and such a pity-furrowed brow. And the yielding waist.
“I have the Blues in the Night,” cried Richard, triumphantly.
“I too,” she whispered in his ear. Strange and beautiful dream, come to me, now. I am giddy.
Then, the next thing he knew, Richard was seated back with Pete, and Annabel was beside him, her head upon his shoulder.
Pete was talking, talking, but Richard could hear nothing. Pete's obese spectacles were rolling in slow undulations, and Annabel's head was light upon his shoulder. And in his ear, the incessant boom of the bass-pedal mingled with the rancid, beery air.
Then the three of them were out in the drive, feet crunching in the pebbles, and Richard was howling to the moon: “Alms for the Love of Allah! Alms for the Love of Allah!” The air screamed with purity.
“Allah!” echoed Annabel.
“Is your second name Lee?” asked Pete.
“Wiley!” she corrected, pinching Pete's ear.
Then they were in Pete's jalopy. The car lurched from the drive, leaving Pepi Martin's. Then the black tar road began to unwind, like a great black snake, uncoiling. Dark night winds rushed around the car, and Pete turned on the radio. Annabel sat between the two youths, singing with the music from the radio.
“What!” howled Richard drunkenly, “What circumstance, what beautiful circumstance, brings the three of us together upon this night of June 8, in this year of grace, in this little jalopy, swerving through America in the Night, with the sad meadows of Mississippi riding past in infinite wisdom? ...”
“Secret forest of the night,” shouted Pete, driving.
“What circumstance?” insisted Richard. “I shall tell you ... it is the famished heart, the poor starving heart ... I am alone, and drunk, and lonesome ... and I meet Pete ... and I meet Annabel ...”
“Oh! the moon never beams,” began Pete, “without bringing me dreams ...”
“And Annabel meets Pete, and Pete meets Annabel. And I meet Annabel, and Annabel meets me. And I meet Pete, and Pete meets me ....”
“... nor the demons down under the sea, can ever dissever my soul ... from the soul ... of the beautiful Annabel ... Wi ... Lee....”
And Annabel sang with the music.
The power and glory of Bacchus!! Why, world, should it be the work of Bacchus to unburden the famined hearts of the earth? Why not you, world?
Suddenly, with the music roaring in their ear[s], and the wind flapping about the car in cold blasts, they were not riding in the road, but beside it in a field, and the tires were screeching, and the road itself had curved off to the left, a bit insultingly. Richard, arm draped over the right front door of the little coupe, suddenly realized that the car was about to turn over, and upon his draped arm. But there was no time for fear. The headlamps illuminated a large tree, which was now riding toward them very speedily, very insultingly. Every bit of the bark was plainly legible. It came near to hitting Richard's draped arm, but didn't. It rode into the car at the right front fender. There was a dull biff.
“Surely, this has happened to me before, perhaps in a dream!” thought Richard, as he tumbled slowly from the car along with the door. Then he was rolling lackadaisically in the grass, and then he was staring up at the stars and the moon. It was nothing, he thought. Death is nothing. I am dead.
But those were real stars, and that was a real breeze, chilled with night. Perhaps I am not dead. I shall see. Richard rose to his feet, and then fell on one knee. He rose again, and his legs gathered strength. From somewhere came the quiet sound of trickling water, but outside of that, there was utter silence. A door from a nearby farmhouse was flung open.
Richard reeled forward, and saw the car, which had just now been moving along in grand style, now leaning sadly and wearily against the tree, crushed within itself like an accordion. It was very sad, thought Richard. The poor sad little car, stopped and melancholy. A piece of glass tumbled within the wreckage. The water trickled on. The radio had stopped.
This had not happened, because I am Richard Vesque, and Richard Vesque was not born to be in an automobile accident on June 8. No, it has not happened, for I am Richard. Things like these happen in the papers and in the movies, but not in real life to Richard Vesque, the Princeton boy.
Richard was keenly conscious of a terrific headache. He walked around the wreckage, and the next thing he knew, he was cursing, cursing with foul words. For there lay Pete, flat upon his back, beside his little jalopy, stopped and with no more radio music. The horn-rimmed glasses were pointed stolidly toward the stars.
Where is Annabel?
Richard staggered to the wreckage, and peered into the mangled front seat. There was a patch of her dress. Richard touched it, and realized to his horror that it was her flesh he was feeling underneath that patch of dress. He grabbed, knowing then that it was her upper arm. Richard heaved, wincing as the wreckage groaned reluctantly. Richard tugged, and the wreckage tinkled, collapsed in small places, groaned. The poor flesh of Annabel, tugging against steel wreckage.
Weakly, Richard now withdrew the girl's bulk from the tangle of steel and dragged her to a standing position. Then he lifted her into his arms and with watery knees, lurched forward toward a patch of thick grass. When he had deposited her gently upon the grass, a flashlight cut into his eyes, and then fell upon Annabel's body. Someone had come.
The trickling water was not trickling water. It was a faucet of blood coming from Annabel's face. Richard reeled to one knee, and began to curse and weep all at once.
“Who was driving?” asked a voice.
“Oh, leave the poor kid alone,” muttered Richard. “He's hurt.”
A beam of light fell upon Pete's upthrust face.
“This one's dead,”said a woman in calm amazement.
Richard felt his own leg, and knew that it was all blood.
“What a Goddamned thing!” he cursed aloud. “Christ! Why'd you go and do that! Jesus!”
“Take it easy, boy. We've called the ambulance. That's a pretty mean wreck. It sounded like a truck wreck from my bedroom. How fast were you going?” There were a lot of people around, and cars parked across the road.
“I dunno,” muttered Richard. “Get this poor girl to the hospital, will you?”
He was sick, repulsively sick with doom and tragedy and death. He could have vomited, but he wouldn't. The whole thing was too disgusting to think about. From somewhere came the dim howl of an engine whistle. Richard felt tears come to his eyes, then his hands began to shake convulsively. Screeching with the horror and agony of man, the ambulance approached through the night, siren paving the terrorized way.
The ambulance was long and sleek. It was low and racy, and could negotiate any curve without going off the road.
[The Very Thing I Live For]
How can I deceive the very thing I live for? (writing)
(truth)
I love life more dearly, yes, more dearly [than] my
strange, dark
self, which I yet do not understand. Who am I? I can't
say ... I
am a stranger to myself: I emerged in birth into a
strange, gray
world, and my child self was full of wonder...
You may wander west across the plains, across the
mountains into
the dry Nevadas, you may journey south to the sultry
Gulf, or
north to the dark pines...wherever you go, seek the
deepest, darkest
forest and steal into its most secluded and innermost
glade, and
there you'll find a heavy rock mouldy and dark and green
in the
green, green shade, and when you turn it over, and the
crow caws
from his secret branch, and the forest echoes and echoes,
and
the elfin deer peeps over from a hidden brook, and the
owl ruffles
his feathers in the cool shade by a virgin well, and the
tall pines
sway pointing at the passing high clouds, and from far off
you
hear once more the caw of the crow, yes, when you turn
over this
rock, there you'll find my heart...
When I see you and your beauty, yes, your youthful,
laughing beauty,
my heart stirs the heavy green rock and once more I see
a field
of violets in the May breeze and want to go out with the
sheep
and sing by the waterfalls...