Absence of the Hero (5 page)

“The bathtub?”

“Sure
! All people do! Go on, get into the bathtub!”

“Well, O.K.,” I said. “Why not?”

I put the plug in the tub and let the water run in, meanwhile taking off my shoes and the rest of my clothes. I stood there and looked down at the warm, clean water. It was my lucky day.

“Oh,” screamed the little girl, “you got a
worm, a worm
!
”

Well, I knew I was pretty dirty but I'd never had any worms before, and I couldn't for sure feel any on me.

“Oh no, I haven't,” I said.

“Sure! I can
see
it!”

She said it like she meant it. I got a little scared. “Where's it at then?”

“In
front
of you! In
front
of you there!”

“Oh,” I said.

“That's no worm,” I said.

“What is it?”

“It's what I go to the bathroom with.”

There was no need to say any more about it. She didn't ask any further questions, just stood there looking at me.

I got into the tub and sat down in the water. It felt pretty good. It was my lucky day. Yes sir, it was. I felt real funny in a good sort of way. I was just about relaxed when the little girl screamed again.

She was a screaming kid, that one.

And I'd like to make that clear. The neighbors claimed later that they heard the little girl screaming almost all the time that it was established I was in that house.

Of course, they didn't know I was in there then.

But they tied up that screaming, later, to mean in their minds, that I had been molesting her all during that time.

Well, I'm telling you what really happened, so don't pay any attention to them.

I would have no more of touched that little girl than I would have touched her mother, and you can believe that. She was just like her mother, only just a little lady in a very short skirt with clean white bloomers.

Just then, the little girl screamed again, and you could see I wasn't doing anything to her. How could I when I was laying in that bathtub? As man to man, brother, I wanted to get clean. Kids don't interest me. Though I understand in Mexico, they start pretty young. It's the hot climate.

“What's the matter, kid?” I asked her. “You mustn't scream. If you scream the neighbors will hear you and they'll find out I'm here with you and you wouldn't want that to happen, would you?”

The little girl screamed again. “You'll
drown
the worm!” she screamed. “You'll
drown
the worm!”

“Please go away in another room somewhere, and please stop screaming and let me bathe in peace,” I told the little girl. “This was your idea, after all.”

(You can see here, by the way I talked to the girl, that I wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.)

“But the worm will drown.”

“No, he won't,” I assured her. “This worm likes water.”

“No, he
don't
!
No worms like water, not water
that
hot. You'll
kill
him!”

“Believe me, kid,” I said, “I wouldn't kill this worm for anything in the world.”

I guess the little girl didn't believe me.

The kid began to cry.

She began to make a hell of a noise. (And I guess this is part of what the neighbors mentioned later that they heard.)

I began to think of the neighbors too. I knew, though I was
innocent
, it would look bad if I were caught there—so, in desperation, I tried to keep her quiet.

“Look,” I said, “he won't drown. I'll hold him out of the water. See?”

She came and watched and at last she was quiet. I felt sort of foolish washing with one hand, but it was worth it.

“O.K.,” she said, “now I'll hold him up out of the water so you can have both hands to wash.”

“Nothin' doin'!” I said.

The kid stood back, clenched her fists at her sides, and began screaming all over again.

I got scared. It was more than I could take. I kept thinking about the neighbors.

“O.K.,” I said.

So she held him up and I began to use two hands to wash. It was a little awkward but it was my first in years and the kid was keeping quiet, so it was worth it. I guess it was my lucky day.

I was just about calm again when the kid let out another screech: “Hey, he's moving!”

“Worms move,” I said.

I kept on washing.

“I'll wash the worm,” the little girl said and grabbed an extra piece of soap and began rubbing.

I began to wish I had never listened to the kid. It all really began when the little girl had called me a pretty man. I thought of her mother downtown, moving up and down shady department store aisles, touching things, buying things, moving around. I was just some sort of animal, some sort of animal outcast. I had no rights. The Mrs. Webers were not for me. Yet, I couldn't help thinking about her.

“Hey, he's
growing
!” screamed the little girl. “He's
growing real
big
!”

I rinsed the soap off of myself, pulled the plug, and stepped out of the tub. I began to dry myself off and the kid was drying off the worm when, so help me, Mrs. Weber stepped into the bathroom. I hadn't heard her come in at all.

Of course, she'd never seen me that way before. And I didn't have time to explain.

She just stood there and began to scream just like the kid had screamed, only better—I mean, worse: louder and with a trill that sent whirlings up and down my spine.

I ran up to her and put
my hand on her mouth to try to keep her
quiet while I explained. I could feel the texture of
her new dress against my skin. It felt funny. It
felt like another animal or something.

But under the texture was Mrs. Weber and I was frightened. She bit my hand as I tried to hold it over her mouth and she began to scream again.

I had to hit her. I knocked her down.

I felt real sorry for Mrs. Weber as she lay there on the floor, her new dress mussed on the wet, steamy floor. I could see where her rolled stockings ended and the flesh began.

I was going to
help her up but then the little girl began to
scream. I ran to the little girl and grabbed her and tried to keep her quiet.

But then Mrs. Weber began. Then, all I could do, was run back and forth, back and forth, grabbing and hitting, grabbing and hitting, hardly knowing what I was doing.

And now, I'm in this goddamned jail and I never did get my cardboard.

I never even got a little drink of wine out of the whole thing.

They've got me up for two counts of rape, child molestation, breaking and entering, and everything else.

The doctors claim that both of them had been raped. Maybe so. I hardly knew
what
I was doing, trying to keep them quiet, trying to keep them from screaming.

I say not guilty. It wasn't my fault. I never did get my cardboard or even a little drink. I have shown you how it wasn't my fault. Do you believe me? Or don't you believe me?

I keep thinking of myself in high school in a clean blue sweater. I used to have a friend named Jimmy. We would listen to the high school orchestra in the auditorium sometimes during homeroom period. We would go around singing songs later that the orchestra had played. Songs like “Ave Maria” and “When the Deep Purple Falls Over Sleepy Garden Walls” and “God Bless America.”

Don't you believe me? Doesn't anybody believe me?

When I was a young one, I used to read
The Collected Poems of
Richard
Aldington
to my friend Baldy while we were drinking. To me, there was no greater honor (to Aldington) than to sing his things out over wine, under the bright electricity of my cheap room. Baldy did not rise to my enthusiasm—and I could never really understand; Aldington was a clear poet: clear, emotional, and forward. I think he has affected me more than the greater-rated poets, but my friend Baldy never praised R.A., never rejected. He simply sat and drank with Bacchus.

He praised not Aldington (which I was trying to get him to see) but me. “Jesus,” he'd say the next day, “Hank was really drunk last night! He got out the old book of poetry. He can really read that stuff too! I never heard
any
body read poetry the way Hank does!”

Baldy happened to say just this one day to Helen, a woman who cleaned the rooms.

So, following with the informality of the situation, I put forth: “How's about a little snip, Helen?”

She didn't answer. They had the damnedest people around there. They never said anything when they were supposed to.

I poured a goodly portion and she snatched it up off of the dresser.

“I really got to clean the rooms,” she said.

Then
I
had a spot. “Aldington knew Lawrence,” I said. “D.H. Lawrence. Now there was a guy. That son of a bitch could really
spin
it!”

“Yes,” Baldy said, “Lawrence.”

“Out of the coal mines,” I said. “Married Richthofen's daughter. You know, the guy who shot down 80 airplanes. Or maybe this guy was her brother. Though Lawrence wasn't exactly out of the coal mines. It was his father.”

“Do you have another spot of that stuff, honey?” the housecleaner asked.

I poured her a little refresher.

“What kind of stuff is this? It tastes so different.”

“Port.”

“Port, eh?”

“Yes,” I said. “ I used to drink muscatel but it dried me up. They put too much sulphur in it.”

She knocked off her glass. “Ya know, you're
nice
boys. I don't mind drinking with
you
boys. You're different.”

Well, that made me feel pretty good, so I poured a big one for myself and a big one for Baldy and a big one for Helen, to sort of celebrate.

“This Lawrence and this Aldington buddied around together,” I continued.

At that moment there was a thunderous knock on the door. Like a Beethoven climax. “Hank! Hank!”

“Come in, Lou.”

It was the ex-con and ex-hard-rock miner. He had a bottle with him. Port. Good for the stomach.

“Sit down, Lou. We were just talking about a guy whose relative shot down 80 planes.”

“See you got company, Hank.”

“Yeah, Lou.”

“Here, have some of my stuff folks.”

“Pour away, Lou!”

“I really
should
clean the rooms, but you boys are
so
nice.”

“Where's your husband, dearie?”

“Oh, he sailed away in the Merchant Marine and when he came back he wasn't worth a damn. He'd gotten all these women and he was never satisfied anymore.”

“But you still got me, Helen,” Lou said, putting his hand on her knee. “What's say you and I—” He leaned over and finished the sentence in her ear. He might as well, of course, have spoken it aloud.

“You
bastard
you, why can't you be nice like these
other
boys?
They're
not that way! Why can't you be
nice
?”

“But I
am
nice, baby! Wait ‘til you get to
know
me! Wait 'til you see what I
got
!”

“For Christ's Sake, Lou!” I screamed. “Keep your
pants
buttoned!” (I was sensitive in those days). “This is a
literary
discussion!”

Everybody settled back for a moment then and I rose and went about replenishing their glasses.

“One time this Lawrence wanted to form a colony, a colony just of his friends. You know: start a new world somewhere. I thought it was a pretty good idea, myself. If I hadda been there I would have shoved off with him right away and considered it a great honor. But all these people turned him down. He asked them one at a time: ‘Are you coming with me to this island or not?' And everybody backed down. Except Aldington. No, maybe it was Huxley. Anyhow, Lawrence got disgusted and he got drunk and sick and the whole thing fell through.”

“Where
was this island?” the ex-con asked. “Maybe there was nothing
to eat there. And maybe they couldn't take women. You
can't tell. There might have been something fishy about this Lawrence guy.”

“No, no,” I said, “it was straight. They were to colonize, to make a new world.”

“How about the grub? How about the broads?”

“Everything was set,” I said. “Everything was worked out beforehand.”

“And they still wouldn't go?”

“No.”

The ex-con turned to the scrubwoman, hand on knee. “Helen, would you go to an island with me? I could show you something you'd
never
forget.”

“Lou,” I said, “stay in line, please.”

“That's right, Hank, keep the bastard off me! I'm just here for a friendly drink.”

“But I'm tryin' to be friendly, real friendly,” protested the ex-con.

“Take it easy, Lou.”

“Sure, Hank, sure.”

“Hank,” Baldy woke up, “who do you think was the greatest writer of all time?”

“Shakespeare,” the ex-con said.

“I think Robert Louis Stevenson or Mark Twain,” said the scrubwoman.

“What do you think, Hank?”

“Well, I don't know, Baldy.”

“Shakespeare, beyond a doubt,” the ex-con maintained, draining his glass. “Nobody could touch old Shakey, but
nobody
!”

“Some claim Shakespeare died in a barroom brawl,” I disclosed.

“
Sure
! Shakey was a
man
!”

“Dearie,” the scrubwoman asked me, “could I have a bit more port?”

“Let's sing something!” Baldy suggested. “The Gypsy Song. You know:
sing gypsy, laugh gypsy, love while you may
. I like that one.”

“No,” I said. “I've had multitudinous warnings about the gypsy song already.”

“Keep your hands
off
me, you
bastard
!”

“Lou!” I shouted. “Anymore of that and I'm kicking you out!”

“You're not
man
enough!”

“I'm
warning
you, Lou.”

“I used to be a hard-rock miner. Once I fought a guy with pick-handles. He broke my left arm with the first blow and I still went on to kill the son of a bitch with one hand! Go on: you hit
me
first! You get first knock! Go on, Hank buddy! I
like
you, Hank! You're a man, a
real
man! Let's fight! Let's you and me
fight
, Hank!”

“Calm down, Lou. I don't want to get kicked out of here.”

“Maybe you'd better read some poetry,” the scrubwoman suggested.

“This Lawrence, what'd he write about?” Baldy asked.

“Well, he probed around a lot. Like a lot of us he wanted to keep the Inner Man as unpolluted as possible. He was preoccupied, much of the time, with sex.”

“Who the hell
isn't
?” the ex-con stood up. “We're
all
that way, ain't we, baby?” He stood there swaying, looking down at the scrubwoman. “
Ain't
we, baby? Huh?
Ain't
we?”

“Look, Lou, these boys are talking about
literature
. Can't you be decent?” the scrubwoman asked.

“This Lawrence guy's got nothing on
me
!
I
know why he wanted to go to this island with all those people and I know why those people wouldn't go! Because they were
crazy-afraid
of this
Lawrence
,
that's
why! They could see it in his
eyes
, it showed all
over
him! . . . Wanted to take a bunch of broads and
colonize
!
COLONIZE
! Just because this guy shot down 80 airplanes, it doesn't put him in the clear!”

“No, no, Lou,” I said, “that wasn't Lawrence. That was Baron Manfred Von Richthofen.”

“Well, he was probably worse than Lawrence! Each time he shot down a plane he probably got his—”

“You mean,” I interrupted Lou, “each victory represented a Sexual Symbol?”

“
You
know what I mean!” he snarled.

“Well, it's been a nice evening folks,” I said, “and I bid you all a fond farewell.”

“Ya mean we gotta
go
?” the ex-con asked.

“That's about the content of it,” I replied.

“Well, to hell with that
fish
! I'm goin' down to the bar and finish it off right! Comin', doll baby?” he leered at the scrubwoman.

“No, thank you, Louis.”

“O.K., you old
bag
!”

The door slammed.

“Maybe it was Homer,” I said.

“Homer what?” from Baldy.

“Homer who was the greatest.”

“See you tomorrow night, Hank?”

“Sure, Baldy.”

“How about Confucius?”

“That's good. He was right in there, all right. . . .”

“Just another spot, my dear boy,” the scrubwoman said.

“All right, Helen.”

“You know you have the most
lovely
hands, like a violinist.”

“It's nothing. It's really nothing at all.”

“You been to college, haven't you?”

“Yes, but college can never make a man intelligent. It can only educate him.”

“Do you write stories and poetry and stuff?”

“Well, yes.”

“Ya had anything printed?”

“Not yet, Helen. I'm still developing, you see.”

“Develop'ng?”

“Yeah.
You see, a writer's got to go through a period of development.”

“Ya mean, ya gotta shoot down airplanes or something first?”

“Not exactly. But it helps a hell of a lot.”

“Will you write a story about me, sometime?”

“Maybe. Maybe I will.”

“You see, I was born in Pittsburgh, PA. My father was a doctor but he drank too much and they took away his license—”

The
next morning as I turned over in bed, my freedom
of movement was blocked by a very substantial mass of
humanity: the scrubwoman.

“Good mornin', honey boy!”

“Oh . . . hello, Helen.”

“Ya
sure
had a load-on, Hanky. The minute I began tellin' you my life story, you began pourin' it down left and right.”

“And then what happened?”

“Don't tell me you don't
remember
, honey boy?”

I leaped out of bed and began donning my clothing.

“Where ya goin', honey boy?”

“Down to a bar. Down to some bar somewhere.”

“Ya comin' back, honey boy?”

“Not for three or four days, at least.”

I moved toward the door with some acceleration, opened it, and then—

“Ya know somethin', honey boy?”

“What?”

“Ya know who the greatest writer is?”

“I said ‘Homer' but I really haven't given it much thought.”