Last Exit to Brooklyn (13 page)

Harry could do nothing but endure the nausea and slimy disgust. He wanted to smoke a cigarette, but was afraid, afraid that the slightest movement, even the taking of a deep breath, would cause him to heave his guts up; afraid even to swallow. So he just lay there, a sour taste in his throat; his stomach seeming to be pressuring against his palate; his face still buried in the pillow; his eyes tightly squeezed shut; concentrating on his stomach, trying to think the pressure and
foul taste away or, if not, at least control it. He knew, after years of fighting it, losing each time and ending up hanging over a bowl or sink if he was lucky enough to make it there, that this was all he could do. Nothing else would help. Except crying. And he was no longer able to cry. He had many times, locked in a bathroom or on the street after running from the woman he had been with, but now the tears no longer rilled from his eyes, even if he tried relaxing and allowing them to, his eyes just ached, feeling swollen and damp, unrelieved, just as the pressure at his throat remained constant and unrelieved. He just lay there … if only something would happen. He clutched harder at the pillow; clenched his jaw tighter until a piercing pain in his ear and a spasm in his neck muscles forced him to relax. His body jerked slightly, involuntarily. Nothing broke through or even slightly greyed the darkness; his eyes were shut and his head was jammed in the hemispherical blackness, the boundaries unseen, unfelt, to Harry nonexistent. It was just black.

He tightened the muscles in his toes until they cramped, the pain increasing; trying to concentrate on the pain enough to forget everything else. His toes felt as if they would shatter and his feet started to cramp, then the calves of his legs, and still he didnt relax his muscles until the pain became unbearable and he wanted to scream and only then he relaxed but the muscles remained tightened and he had to direct all his energy to the relaxing of the muscles before the pain killed him. His calves still ached, though they started to loosen slightly, but his feet felt as if they were going to twist and bend back upon themselves and his toes felt as if they were going to snap. His ears and neck started paining again from the clenching of his jaw – one thing though accomplished, he was no longer aware of the nausea and disgust, of the pressure against his throat and the taste of bile – his ears and neck pained though he was only vaguely aware of it. His calves loosened a little more and slowly the muscles relaxed until his feet and then his toes started to straighten and he then became aware of the ache in his jaw, then that too started slowly to lessen and eventually the cramps and pains disappeared and he loosened his grip slightly on the pillow and lay there, enervated, sweating, feeling for a moment nothing but weakness, then slowly aware of his throat and
stomach, the disgust and nausea forcing themselves upon his consciousness again. If something would happen … tears pounded against his eyes but couldnt force their way through, something … anything … krist. jesus fuckin krist. He allowed his eyes to open – the tears still pounding behind his eyes. His eyes focused on the bureau: there were two large knobs, a smaller one above, another large one to the side; a wall. His eyes started to smart from sweat. He wiped his face against the pillow. He turned his head slightly until he could see the ceiling. Now his vision reached to an end. The ceiling was there. The walls were there. No mysteries. Nothing hidden. There was something to be seen. It had an order. His eyes felt better. No longer felt pinched. No longer afraid to look. Now he had to move. The pressure must have gone down. It was still there, but it must have lessened. It must have. Should be able to move. He swallowed … again … his throat burned with the bitterness. He lay completely immobile. Not breathing. Stomach bubbling, trying to erupt. Throat pulsating. Burning. He swallowed again … breathed. Shallowly. Eruption subsiding slightly. Throat quieting. Still burning. Swallowed … breathed … slowly pulled his legs up … let them slide over the side of the bed. Sat up slowly. Not breathing. Contracting his nostrils. Sucking air gently between his teeth … he stood. Rubbed his face … went slowly to the parlour. Sat down and lit a cigarette and stared out the window. Smoked. Nothing on the street. No one. Car parked across the street, empty. Lit a second cigarette from the first. Throat burned, but stomach relaxing. Nausea no longer critical. Still there though. Foul. Mouth tasted foul. He sat and smoked. Stared. Eyes damp. Aching. No tears. Dropped the cigarette in the ashtray. Rubbed his face. Went back to bed. Stared at the ceiling until his eyes started to close. If something would happen. What? What? What could happen?? For what? About what? His eyes burned and watered. Couldnt keep them open. His body started to loosen. His head rolled slightly to one side. He adjusted his body. Still hadnt looked at Mary. Hadnt thought of
her
. His body twitched. He brushed his face against the pillow. He moaned in his halfsleep. Soon he slept.

The Harpies swooped down on Harry and in the darkness under their wings he could see nothing but their eyes: small, and filled with
hatred, their eyes laughing at him, mocking him as he tried to evade them, knowing he couldnt and that they could toy with him before they slowly destroyed him. He tried turning his head but it wouldnt move. He tried and tried until it rolled back and forth but still the eyes glared and mocked and the gigantic wings beat faster and faster and the wind whirled around Harry and his body chilled and he could sense their large sharp beaks and feel the tips of feathers as they brushed his face. He tried to slide down the rock but no matter how often he did he was still on the top with the wind whirling and the Harpies screeching, screeching and above the roar of the wind and the screeching he could hear his flesh being ripped from his belly, could hear the sharp tearing sound prick its way into his ears and then he heard his screams and the Harpies slowly, very slowly tore bits of flesh from his belly then slowly tugged as the long strips of flesh were pulled from his body and he yelled and rolled over and over and leaped up and ran, tripped and tumbled down the rock yet he was still on top of the rock and the Harpies still mocked him as they tore the flesh from his belly, his chest, and scraped their beaks on his ribs and suddenly thrust their beaks into his eyes and plucked them from their sockets and he heard the plop, plop of his eyes leaving his head and the screeching of the Harpies increased until he no longer could hear his own screams and he kicked and punched at them yet his body refused to move and all he could do was lie still as they once again, and again, over and over started ripping the flesh from his belly and chest, scraping his ribs and once more plucking the eyes from his head.

And he was alone on a street looking, turning slowly around in a circle, looking, looking at nothing. Everything was endless in every direction until there were walls that seemed to be moving on an eccentric rod and the walls came closer together, still rolling in half circles and Harry still turned in a circle and the walls came closer together and Harry yelled and started crying yet it was silent not even the walls making a sound as they approached each other and Harry ran until he hit a wall and was in the middle of the diminishing room and he could feel the slate smoothness of the walls as they touched his arms, the back of his head, his nose, and the wall slowly crushed him.

And his eyes rolled and bounced up the hill and Harry stumbled after them trying to find them, picking up stones, pebbles and burrs and trying to force them in the empty sockets and he spit out the stones and yelled as the burrs tore the already bleeding sockets and he continued to stumble up the hill and occasionally the eyes would stop and they would look at each other with a gigantic stare and wait until Harry almost touched them then continued to roll up the hill and Harry jammed two more burrs into the sockets and screamed as they ripped the lids and he screamed louder and louder as he twisted the burrs trying to get them out, his bloodied hands preventing him from getting a firm grip on them and his screams were louder and louder until he finally did scream and he sprang up in bed and opened his eyes waiting years for the wall and the chest of drawers to be recognized.

Mary stirred slightly and Harry held his head with his hands and moaned. The nightmare wasnt always exactly the same but after it was over it always seemed as if it had been. Year after year Harry would bolt up in bed occasionally, near dead with terror, trying to shove the weight off his chest so he could breathe and then slowly some familiar object would be seen and he would know he was finally awake. Again his eyes swelled but no tears flowed. He sat for many minutes then slowly lowered his head back to the pillow, wiping his face and head with his hand then covering his eyes with his arm.

Harry moved along the few blocks from his house to the factory, punched his time card, changed his clothes and went to his bench. He was the worst lathe operator of the more than 1,000 men working in the factory. He started shortly before the war and remained there all during the war. Soon after the war started the shop steward was drafted and Harry took his place and devoted more time to the activities of the union than he did his job. From the beginning he hounded and haunted the bosses and soon he was part of the outer clique of the union. During the war the company was powerless to fire him and when they tried after the war the union threatened to call a strike so Harry still stood in front of the same lathe.

Harry worked for 30 minutes or so each morning then turned off
his lathe and made the rounds of the factory reminding those who were behind in their dues that they had to pay by a certain date; asking others why they hadnt been to the last union meeting; or simply telling others not to work so fast, it aint gonna get ya nothin. Youre only makin money for the company and they got enough. And though he had been doing this for years and the foremen had learned to ignore him, many of the executives, especially cost estimators, production engineers, and the General Manager of the plant who was also a Vice-President of the Company, were still incensed whenever they saw him walking around the factory in defiance of all the rules and regulations. Usually they stormed off in another direction, but occasionally they would demand to know what he was doing and he would tell them he was doin his job, and if they persisted in questioning him he would tell them to go fuckthemselves, and if they did their job as good as he did his everybody would be better off and what the fuck do they know about work, all they do is sit on their fat asses all day breakin balls … and he would be sure to walk away smiling his sneering smile, looking at everyone, letting them know by his attitude that he wasnt afraid of any bigass boss, but they damn sure were afraid of him, convinced that what he had said was true and that he was right in doing and saying what he had.

His morning round usually took an hour and a half to 2 hours. Then he would go back to his bench and work until lunch time. Harry never went home for lunch, but went across the street to the bar and ate with the boys. He always started with a couple a quick shots and a beer, then a few beers with a sandwich and a few more after. He talked with some of the men, listening to their jokes, their stories of dames fucked, following each story with one of his own about how he bagged some dame and threw a fuck intoer and how she thought he was so great and wanted to seeim again and the others would listen, tolerating him, relieved when he would finally leave their group to go to another; and Harry would continue making the rounds of the bar, listening briefly then telling his stories or a joke about a queer who had his ears pulled off; occasionally sticking a finger in someones stomach and farting; or asking someone when they were going to buy him a drink, laughing, slapping the guy on the shoulder, and
leaving when he said right after you do; or if they were new on the job he would put his empty glass on the bar and wait for the bartender to fill it up and take the money from their change on the bar.

During the middle of the afternoon Harry reached the part of a job that required resetting the lathe and doing a small amount of figuring to set the job up properly so he decided to take a little walk. If he got too far behind in the work the foreman would have to set the job up. He slowly roamed around the factory asking some of the men how it was going, but mostly saying nothing and just smiling his smile, looking and roaming. He was walking around the 6th floor when he suddenly stopped and frowned, thought hard for a few minutes, took the small union booklet from his pocket describing the duties of different classifications, checked it then went over to one of the benches, turned off the lathe and asked the man working there what inthehell he thought he was doin. The man just stood there, trying to understand what had happened and trying to understand what Harry was talking about. Harry stood in front of him waving the booklet in the air, yelling over the noise of the factory. A few of the men near by turned to look and the foreman came running over, yelling at the operator, still standing in front of Harry trying to understand what was going on, and yelled, whys that goddamn machine off? Harry turned to the foreman and asked him if he told him to do this job. Whointhehell do you think toldim to do it. Im the foreman aint I. Well what the fucks the idea of havinim cut heavy stainless, eh? What the fucks the idea? Whattayamean whats the idea? This guys a A man. Hes been cuttin stainless for years. Why shouldnt he cut it. Cause hes a new man thats why. He only been here a couple a months. He doesnt even have a full union book yet. Aint that right, eh? Aint it? yellin in the operators face, waving the booklet. Yeah, but Ive been in the business 20 years. I can cut anything. Harry stepped closer to him, turning his back to the foreman and yelling louder. I dont give a fuck what ya can cut, a ya hear me? The union says ya gotta have a full book or been here 6 months before ya can cut heavy stainless, and ya betta do like I tellya or youll find yaself blackballed, yelling even louder, his face swollen – the operator staring, not understanding, wanting only to do his work and be left alone – ya hear me?
The foreman finally forced himself into the line of Harrys vision and yelled at him ta shut up. Fa krists sake, what thefuck ya yellin about? Im yellin cause I wanna yell. And youd betta get this guy off the job or youll find your ass inna sling too. Fa krists sake Harry, this jobs gotta be done and hes the only guy whos not workin a job that can do it. I dont give a fuck if ya havta wait ten fuckin years ta get it done, and I dont giveashit how much it costs the boss. Comeon Harry be reasonable, you – I can cut stainless or any other damn thing you got around here. Look buddy, youd better shut yafuckinmouth or youll be out on your ass. The operators face turned red and he started to reach for a wrench and the foreman quickly stepped in front of him, grabbed him by the shoulders and told him to go take a break, I’ll getya when we settle this. He left and the foreman took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second before turning back to Harry. Look Harry, theres no sense in making a issue of this. You know I never break any union rules, but this jobs gotta be done and he can do it so whats the harm? Dont try and brownnose me Mike. He aint cuttin no stainless. OK, OK, let me call upstairs and see what we can do. He walked back to his desk to call and Harry leaned against the idle lathe. The foreman hung up the phone and came back. Wilsonll be right down and maybe we can get this straightened out. I dont give a fuck whos comin down.