Last Exit to Brooklyn - Hubert Selby Jr

Last Exit to Brooklyn

Hubert Selby, Jr.

Copyright 1957, 1960, 1961, 1964
ISBN:
0-8021-3137-9

This book is dedicated, with love, to
Gil.

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Part I
Another
Day Another Dollar

For that which befalleth the sons of
men befalleth beasts;  even one thing
befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth
the other; yea, they have all one breath;
so that a man hath no preeminence
above a beast: for all is vanity.
Ecclesiastes 3:19

THEY sprawled along the counter and on the chairs.
Another night. Another drag of a night in the Greeks, a beatup all
night diner near the Brooklyn Armybase. Once in a while a doggie or
seaman came in for a hamburger and played the jukebox. But they
usually played some goddam hillbilly record. They tried to get the
Greek to take those records off, but hed tell them no. They come in
and spend money. You sit all night and buy notting. Are yakiddin me
Alex? Ya could retire on the money we spend in here. Scatah. You dont
pay my carfare . . .

24 records on the jukebox. They could have any 12
they wanted, but the others were for the customers from the Base. If
somebody played a Lefty Frazell record or some other shitkicker they
moaned, made motions with their hands (man! what a fuckin square) and
walked out to the street. 2 jokers were throwing quarters in so they
leaned against the lamppost and carfenders. A warm clear night and
they walked in small circles, dragging the right foot slowly in the
hip Cocksakie shuffle, cigarettes hanging from mouths, collars of
sport-shirts turned up in the back, down and rolled in front.
Squinting. Spitting. Watching cars roll by. Identifying them. Make.
Model. Year. Horse power. Overhead valve. V-8. 6, 8, a hundred
cylinders. Lots a horses. Lots a chrome. Red and Amber grill lights.
Yasee the grill on the new Pontiac? Man, thats real sharp. Yeah, but
a lousy pickup. Cant beat a Plymouth fora pickup. Shit. Cant hold the
road like a Buick. Outrun any cop in the city with a Roadmaster. If
ya get started. Straightaways. Turns. Outrun the law. Dyna-flows.
Hydramatics. Cant get started. Theyd be all overya before ya got a
block. Not in the new 88. Ya hit the gas and it throwsya outta the
seat. Great car. Aint stealin nothin else anymore. Greatest for a
job. Still like the Pontiac. If I was buyin a car. Put fendei skirts
on it, grill lights, a set a Caddy hubcaps and a bigass aerial in the
rear. . . . shit, thats the sharpest job on the road. Your ass.
Nothin can touch the 47 Continental convertible. Theyre the end. We
saw one uptown the other day. What-a-fuckin-load. Man!!! The
shitkickers still wailed and they talked and walked, talked and
walked, adjusting their shirts and slacks, cigarettes flipped into
the street—ya shoulda seen this load. Chartreuse with white walls.
Cruise around in a load like that with the top down and a pair of
shades and some sharp clothes and ya haveta beat the snatch off witha
club— spitting after every other word, aiming for a crack in the
sidewalk; smoothing their hair lightly with the palms of their hands,
pushing their d a/s gently and patting them in place, feeling with
their fingertips for a stray hair that may be out of place and not
hanging with the proper effect— ya should see the sharp shirts they
got in Obies. That real great gab-adine. Hey, did yadig that sharp
silverblue sharkskin suit in the window? Yeah, yeah. The onebutton
single breasted job with the big lapels—and whats to do on a night
like this. Just a few drops of gas in the tank and no loot to fill it
up. And anyway, wheres to go—but yagotta have a onebutton lounge.
Ya wardrobe aint complete without one. Yeah, but I dig that new shawl
job. Its real sharp even as a sports jacket—the con rolled on and
no one noticed that the same guys were saying the same things and
somebody found a new tailor who could make the greatest pants for 14
skins; and how about the shockabsorbers in the Lincoln; and they
watched the cars pass, giving hardlooks and spitting; and who laid
this broad and who laid that one; and someone took a small brush from
his pocket and cleaned his suede shoes then rubbed his hands and
adjusted his clothing and someone else flipped a coin and when it
dropped a foot stamped on it before it could be picked up and as he
moved the leg from the coin his hair was mussed and he called him a
fuck and whipped out his comb and when his hair was once more neatly
in place it was mussed again and he got salty as hell and the other
guys laughed and someone elses hair was mussed and they shoved each
other and someone else shoved and then someone suggested a game of
mum and said Vinnie should start and they yelled yeah and Vinnie said
whatthefuck, hed start, and they formed a circle around him and he
turned slowly jerking his head quickly trying to catch the one
punching him so he would replace him in the center and he was hit in
the side and when he turned he got hit again and as he spun around 2
fists hit him in the back then another in the kidney and he buckled
and they laughed and he jerked around and caught a shot in the
stomach and fell but he pointed and he left the center and just stood
for a minute in the circle catching his wind then started punching
and felt better when he hit Tony a good shot in the kidney without
being seen and Tony slowed down and got pelted for a few minutes then
finally pointed and Harry said he was fullashit, he didnt really see
him hitim. But he was thrown in the center anyway and Tony waited and
hooked him hard in the ribs and the game continued for another 5
minutes or so and Harry was still in the center, panting and almost
on his knees and they were rapping him pretty much as they pleased,
but they got bored and the game broke up and they went back in the
Greeks, Harry still bent and panting, the others laughing, and went
to the lavatory to wash.

They washed and threw cold water on their necks and
hair then fought for a clean spot on the dirty apron that served as a
towel, yelling through the door that Alex was a no good fuck for not
havin a towel forem, then jockeyed for a place in front of the
mirror. Eventually they went to the large mirror at the front of the
diner and finished combing their hair and fixing their clothes,
laughing and still kidding Harry, then sprawled and leaned.

The shitkickers left and they yelled to Alex to get
some music on the radio. Why dont you put money in the jukebox? Then
you hear what you want. Comeon man. Dont be a drag. Why dont you get
a job. Then you have money. Hey, watch ya language. Yeah, no cursin
Alex. Go get a job you no good bums. Whos a bum. Yeah, who? They
laughed and yelled at Alex and he sat, smiling, on a small stool at
the end of the counter and someone leaned over the counter and turned
the radio on and spun the dial until a sax wailed and someone yelled
for service and Alex told him to go to hell, and he pounded on the
counter for service and Alex asked if he wanted ham and eggs and he
told Alex he wouldnt eat an egg here unless he saw it hatched and
Alex laughed, Scatah, and walked slowly to the coffee urn and filled
a cup and asked if he was going to buy everybody coffee and they
laughed and Alex told them to get a job, you all the time hang around
like bums. Someday you be sorry. You get caught and you wont be able
to drink this good coffee. COFFEE!!! Man this is worse than piss. The
dishwater upstate tastes betteran this. Pretty soon maybe you be
drinking it again. Yourass I will. I should report you. Then Id have
some peace and quiet. Youd die without us Alex. Whod protect ya from
the drunks? Look at all the trouble we saveya. You boys are going to
get in trouble. You see. All the time fuckaround. Ah Alex. Dont talk
like that. Ya make us feel bad. Yeah man. Ya hurt our feelings....

Alex sat on his stool smoking and smiling and they
smoked and laughed. Cars passed and some tried to identify them by
the sound of the motor then looked to see if they were right, raising
their shoulders and swaggering back to their seats if they were.
Occasionally a drunk came in and they would yell to Alex to get up
off his ass and serve the customer or tell the guy ta getthehell out
before he was poisoned with Alexs horsemeat and coffee and Alex would
pick up the dirty rag and wipe off the spot in front of the drunk and
say yes sir, what you want, and theyd want to know why he didnt call
them sir and Alex would smile and sit on his stool until the drunk
finished and then walk slowly back, take the money, ring it up then
back to his stool and tell them they should be quiet, you want to
scare good customers away, and Alex would laugh with them and spit
the cigarette butt out of his mouth and turn his shoe on it; and the
cars still passed and the drunks still passed and the sky was clear
and bright with stars and moon and a light breeze was blowing and you
could hear the tugs in the harbor chugging and the deep ooooo from
their whistles floated across the bay and rolled down 2nd avenue and
even the ferrys mooring winch could be heard, when it was quiet and
still, clanging a ferry into the slip . . . and it was a drag of a
night, beat for loot and they flipped their cigarettes out the doors
and walked to the mirror and adjusted and combed and someone turned
up the volume of the radio and a few of the girls came in and the
guys smoothed the waist of their shirts as they walked over to their
table and Rosie grabbed Freddy, a girl he laid occasionally, and
asked him for a halfabuck and he told her to go fuckerself and walked
away and sat on a stool. She sat beside him. He talked with the guys
and every few minutes she would say something, but he ignored her.
When he moved slightly on his stool she started to get up and when he
sat down she sat. Freddy stood, adjusted his pants, put his hands in
his pockets and slowly walked out the door and strolled to the
corner. Rosie walked 6 inches to his right and 6 inches to his rear.
He leaned against the lampost and spit past her face. Youre worse
than a leech. A leech yacan get rid of. You dont go for nothin. Dont
bullshit me ya bastard. I know yascored for a few bucks last night.
Whats that to you? and anyway its gone. I aint even got a pack of
cigarettes. Dont tell me. I aint ya father. Ya cheap motherfucka! Go
tell ya troubles to jesus and stop breakin my balls. I/ll break ya
balls ya rotten bastard, trying to kick him in the groin, but Freddy
turned and lifted his leg then slapped her across the face.

Three drunken rebel soldiers were going back to the
Base after buying drinks for a couple of whores in a neighborhood bar
and were thrown out when they started a fight after the whores left
them for a couple of seamen. They stopped when they heard Rosie shout
and watched as she staggered back from the slap, Freddy grabbing her
by the neck. Go giter little boy. Hey, dont chuall know youre not to
fuck girls on the street.... They laughed and yelled and Freddy let
go of Rosie and turned and looked at them for a second then yelled at
them to go fuck their mothers, ya cottonpickin bastards. I hear shes
good hump. The soldiers stopped laughing and started crossing the
street toward Freddy. We/ll cut yur niggerlovin heart out. Freddy
yelled and the others ran out of the Greeks. When the doggies saw
them they stopped then turned and ran toward the gate to the Base.
Freddy ran to his car and the others jumped in and on the fenders or
held on to the open doors, and Freddy chased the doggies down the
street. Two of them continued running toward the gate, but the third
panicked and tried to climb over the fence and Freddy tried to squash
him against it with the car but the doggie pulled his legs up just
before the car bumped the fence. The guys jumped off the fender and
leaped on the doggies back and yanked him down and he fell on the
edge of the hood and then to the ground. They formed a circle and
kicked. He tried to roll over on his stomach and cover his face with
his arms, but as he got to his side he was kicked in the groin and
stomped on the ear and he screamed, cried, started pleading then just
cried as a foot cracked his mouth, Ya fuckin cottonpickin punk, and a
hard kick in the ribs turned him slightly and he tried to raise
himself on one knee and someone took a short step forward and kicked
him in the solarplexus and he fell on his side, his knees up, arms
folded across his abdomen, gasping for air and the blood in his mouth
gurgled as he tried to scream, rolled down his chin then spumed forth
as he vomited violently and someone stomped his face into the pool of
vomit and the blood whirled slightly in arcs and a few bubbles
gurgled in the puke as he panted and gasped and their shoes thudded
into the shiteatinbastards kidneys and ribs and he groaned and his
head rolled in the puke breaking the arching patterns of blood and he
gasped as a kick broke his nose then coughed and retched as his
gasping sucked some of the vomit back in his mouth and he cried and
tried to yell but it was muffled by the pool and the guys yells and
Freddy kicked him in the temple and the yellowbastards eyes rolled
back and his head lolled for a moment and he passed out and his head
splashed and thumped to the ground and someone yelled the cops and
they jammed back into and on the car and Freddy started to turn but
the prowl car stopped in front of them and the cops got out with
their guns drawn so Freddy stopped the car and the guys got out and
off the car and slowly walked across the street. The cops lined them
against the wall. The guys stood with their hands in their pockets,
their shoulders rounded and heads slumped forward, straightening up
and raising their arms while being frisked, then resuming their
previous positions and attitudes.