Disturbing the Peace (Vintage Classics) (26 page)

He wanted a drink, and chain-smoking cigarettes didn’t appease his thirst as he followed her through the enormous store. The Muzak system was playing “I’ll Never Smile Again,” and when that was over it played “All the Things You Are.”

“Aren’t you about finished?” he said.

“No. I need bread and paper napkins and something to make a salad with; also we need some Comet cleanser and some toothpaste and a few other things. Why don’t you wait for me at the front?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Please,” she said. “I don’t
want
you tagging along and suffering this way; you’re like a little child.”

On his way to the front of the store (“Excuse me … Excuse me …”), he passed Duz and Oxydol and Brillo; then he passed Grape Nuts and Post Toasties and Cheerios and a great many other bright things until he found what he suddenly knew he’d been dreading all along: a tall revolving display of Marjorie Wilder’s Chocolates. It was a six-sided rack, mechanized by some mysterious electric motor in its depths; it held hundreds of candy boxes, and it seemed to be turning to the slow, seeping rhythms of the Muzak system. “To have … to give,” read the cardboard sign; “The aristocrat of fine candies.”

What would happen if he pushed the damned thing over?
Would women scream? Would men come running? Would somebody call the police? He kept both fists tight in his pockets to restrain the impulse. Several of the boxes in each row were open to reveal their plump and succulent contents – nougat, coconut cream, English toffee, nut fudge – and he remembered sitting in wholesale offices long ago with the salesman who said “Taste one – just taste one. Be our guest.” How fine it would be to see the whole elaborate structure toppled to the floor, boxes dented and smashed, chocolates spilled and rolling in the dust under people’s feet.

“I’ll be through in a minute,” Pamela said, pushing her cart up close to him. “What’re you looking at? Oh.”

“Hey listen,” he said, plucking a box of chocolates from the rack and dropping it in the cart. “Let’s give Rose some
decent
candy to eat.”

“Let’s do what? Give who?”

“Rose. My little buddy out at UCLA. Here; let’s get him two.”

That was when it happened. He was leaning with one hand on the edge of the cart; with the other he reached for the second box, and when the cart rolled forward under his weight he lunged heavily into the display rack and down it went, scattering boxes, spilling loose chocolates in a spectacular crash on the linoleum floor. A woman did scream – one of the check-out girls – and two or three young men in white did come scurrying from different directions.

“Come on, quick,” he said, grabbing her arm. “We gotta get outa here.” And he forced her through the crowd, around the last of the check-out counters and through a big automatic door marked OUT.

“John, this is
crazy
,” she said breathlessly on the sidewalk.

“Quick. Hurry. Get in the car. Those slobs are gonna call the police.”

“Why would they do that? It was an accident.”

“It was an accident-on-purpose. I’ve been wanting to knock over one of those fucking racks for years. Never quite had the guts.” He wrenched the car into “Drive” and winnowed swiftly out of the parking lot, nicking the bumper of another car.

“Will you watch your
driving?
John, I left all my
shopping
in there.”

“Tough. I don’t happen to feel like spending three hours explaining the story of my life to some supermarket manager while the cops take notes, that’s all. If you gave a shit about me you’d see what I mean.”

Swerving through traffic, driving foolishly and fast, he took her to La Cienega and to the very kind of restaurant he’d suggested before: opulent, with a trickling fountain in its vestibule and a group of violinists strolling among its rich tables.

“Something from the bar, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, please. Couldn’t we just order some food?”

“No. I’ll have a double bourbon on the rocks.”

“I’ve never done anything quite so silly in my life,” she said. “Running away from that store like a pair of thieves. How can I ever go
back
there?”

“Nobody’ll recognize you. It’s a big town.”

“I’m worried about you, John,” she said. “It’s not just the drinking, though God knows you’ve been drinking too much. It’s something else. Something worse. I think you’re – I don’t think you’re well.”

“Thanks for the information,” he said. “I believe I’ll have another drink.”

Then at her insistence they ordered “New York Strip Sirloins,” which turned out to be the heaviest slabs of meat he had ever seen. He looked fixedly at his portion and knew that
if only he could cut into it and eat it some balance might be restored to the evening, some act of self-rescue might be performed, but the sight of it was nauseating. So was the sight of his huge baked potato, its own bulk overwhelmed by a gout of sour cream and chives, and so was the glistening amplitude of his salad. Close beside him, Pamela was tucking into her food with apparent relish, and he didn’t want to watch her. The only thing on the table that held any appeal for him was his half-finished whiskey. He picked it up, swirled the ice and drank; then he sliced out a small wedge of meat and chewed it mightily, but it was almost impossible to swallow.

“You enjoying that?” he asked her.

“Yes; it’s delicious.”

“Good. I’m not hungry, is all. You go ahead and eat. I just don’t happen to feel like watching you, is all. Makes me a little sick to watch you, as a matter of fact.”

She laid down her knife and fork, still chewing, and then she swallowed. “All right, tell me,” she said. “What’s the matter now?”

“They’re doing it again.”

“Who’s doing what?”

“Everybody in this whole place. Staring at me. Look at the fat guy over there in the silk suit. Don’t look now. And those two painted-up old whores in the corner. And that bunch of flaming faggots near the door.”

“John, nobody’s ‘staring’ at you. You’re hallucinating.”

“‘Hallucinating,’ huh? You like that word? You planning to have Chester Pratt work that into the screenplay? Look now. Look at the guy in the silk suit. Look at every single person in this—”

“John, this is absurd. You’re acting—”

“ ‘Paranoid,’ right? Is that another of your favorite words?”

“I wasn’t going to say that at all.”

“All right, look
now
if you don’t believe me. Everybody in this whole fucking restaurant is—”

“They’re
not
.”

“Yes they
are
, God damn it. What the fuck do you think I am,
crazy?
” And from the corner of his eye he saw the waiter advancing on their booth with quick little steps.

“Sir, I’ll have to ask you to keep your voice down.” The waiter was old and soft and Italian.

“All
right
,” he said. Far across the room the strolling violinists seemed to increase their tempo.

“Do you want to leave, John?”

“
No
, I don’t want to leave. I want to sit here and finish my drink. Fuck ’em. Go on, eat.
Eat
, God damn it.”

But instead of eating she covered her face with both hands.

“Oh,
Jesus
,” he said. “That really rips it. Look, I’m warning you: if you start crying here there’s going to be trouble. Stop it, now. I said
stop
it, God damn it. Look. You want to get me thrown
outa
here? They can do that, you know. If you go on crying and I go on yelling at you they’ll throw me outa this fucking faggot joint.
Stop
it, I said….”

The old Italian waiter was back, holding up both hands in supplication, and now poised behind him were three younger, stronger waiters. “Sir,” he said, “I spoke to you before. I
must
ask you to keep your voice down.”

Wilder laid a ten-dollar bill on the table, then a second and a third. That should cover it. “There,” he said. “Now why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

“Oh,
John
,” Pamela said.

The old waiter stood dumbfounded, opening and closing his mouth, and the three younger men suddenly converged around him, one of them pulling the table away from the booth. “That’s all she wrote, mister,” he said.

Wilder was on his feet, hauling off for a swing at the man who’d said that, but his wild, looping right was neatly blocked by the man’s forearm, and then suddenly all three waiters were on him, one of them clamping his neck in a painful half-nelson. They had him off his feet and struggling in their arms; they dragged and carried him among other startled diners as the violins played on. “That’s all she wrote,” one waiter kept saying through gritted teeth, until one of Wilder’s flailing hands found his throat and he pressed his thumb as hard as he could into the man’s Adam’s apple. From somewhere behind him he heard Pamela crying “Oh, don’t! Wait! Stop! …”

They were carrying him down the dark corridor and past the dribbling fountain; he felt that some semblance of pride could be maintained as long as he held his grip on the windpipe of the man who’d said “That’s all she wrote.” Then the heavy front door opened and they threw him sprawling onto the sidewalk; he rose and stumbled and fell again before he righted himself.

When Pamela came out he said “The car – where the hell’s the car?”

“The attendant took it,” she said. “Wait, I’ll—”

But the attendant was already sprinting away to get it, and in less than a minute they were away from the place, driving too fast down La Cienega Boulevard.

“I want you to stop this car,” she said in a surprisingly strong voice for someone who’d recently been crying, “and let me drive, before you kill us both.”

But he insisted on driving himself, while she huddled in fright against the passenger’s door. He took several wrong turns, caused other drivers to blare their horns at him for changing lanes too abruptly, and once scraped the fender of another car.

When they were home at last he fixed himself a drink. She had one too, and then she broke it to him.

“I’m moving out, John,” she said, pacing the carpet with her glass in her hand. “I can’t take this any more. I found another apartment today, while you were at the doctor’s, and I left a deposit on it. I’m planning to move in the morning.”

He was stricken – “Oh, baby, don’t do that; please don’t do that” – but at the same time he was mildly relieved: with her out of the place it would be possible to drink at any time of day, even in the morning. Besides, she would have to keep in close touch with him so as not to miss any meetings with Munchin. He’d get her back.

“There’s no phone there,” she said, “but as soon as I get one installed I’ll let you know; that way we won’t miss anything with Munchin. I’m sorry, John, but I can’t
live
this way.”

“Listen,” he said. “I’ll take my emergency kit.”

“Your what?”

“Brink gave me a special set of pills to take in emergencies – times when I feel I’m about to – I’ll take them now.”

“Oh, John, you’re too much. Do you honestly think pills are the answer to everything? You can’t change your whole personality with
pills
.”

“I don’t want to change my personality. I just want to get so you can go on living with me.”

“Well, you’d better forget it. No pills are going to fix that. Do you want to sleep on the sofa, or shall I?”

“I will,” he said. At least the sofa would give him easier access to the liquor supply. “Listen, Pamela, please reconsider this.”

“I’ve been reconsidering it for weeks. Now I’ve made up my mind.”

For the fourth night in a row – or was it the fifth? – he hardly slept at all. No amount of whiskey could make him drowsy as he sat or sprawled on the sofa and tried to think things out, and he watched the morning break through the closed blinds.

“I’ll just make some coffee,” Pamela said, coming sleepily out of the bedroom. “I don’t want to go through a whole
breakfast
scene before I leave.” And they went through no scene at all. They decided she would keep the car – he could rent another one – then he helped her with her suitcases and she was gone. There wasn’t even a chance to wonder whether he should kiss her goodbye.

The first thing he did when he was alone was go to his own suitcase and find Dr. Brink’s emergency kit: three vials of pills with names he forgot as soon as he’d swallowed them at the bathroom sink. Then he found a hard-boiled egg in the refrigerator and wolfed it down, and then he sat on the sofa with a light whiskey and water and tried to make plans.

It was on the third day that things began to close in. His watch had stopped, but the Venetian blinds showed that it must be past noon, and he decided he’d better get out. Once he was out, walking along Santa Monica Boulevard, he decided he’d better have some food. He had eaten only scraps from the refrigerator and cheap hamburgers from a corner stand since Pamela left. There was an all-day restaurant within walking distance, one that he and Pamela had often gone to, and he went there now determined to stuff his guts: he would have a big Western breakfast of steak and eggs.

“Something from the bar, sir?”

“No, thank you. Or wait – yes. I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”

And over his second Bloody Mary, while trying to work up the courage to attack his cooling food, he discovered that everyone in the place was staring at him. It
was
true this time; but these people, unlike the ones in the other restaurant, didn’t seem unfriendly. They seemed to be pitying him. They turned quickly away when he caught their eyes, but it was clear from
their expressions that they’d been staring as if to say Look at
that
poor guy.

He sat up straighter in his chair, put his hands on the table to steady them and tried to imagine how he looked to others. He was dressed well enough – a clean shirt, clean corduroy jacket and clean slacks – and except for the fact that he hadn’t shaved this morning he thought there could be nothing the matter with his face. But there it was, every time he glanced up to test it: somebody looking away with a barely perceptible shake of the head or a little exhalation of breath – That poor bastard’s
really
suffering.