Fender. You have no job. He had no job. He shrugged. So. The weather was lousy, dinner not so hot again, bed would be… as always. But he had an address. My god, those are the world’s worst words, the world’s worst, I mean when you read in the papers where it says that so and so of no fixed address was picked up for loitering or pinching purses or was arrested for drunk and disorderly and it says: of no fixed address. Imagine. Pearson keens; he wails with his arms. Such a person has no place. He can’t be found. He’s like one of those unphysical things they talk about in science now — like one of those things that’s moving, you know, always moving on, but through no space. Jesus. Who can understand? I leave that sort to them like I leave these vagrants to police; but imagine a man without a place to be, a place that’s known, that has a name, is some way fixed; why that’s like being alone at sea without a log to hang on — and the sharks at your toes. Fender shrugged. Fender: you have no job. You lack an occupation, Fender — a position, Fender — a spot to johnny on. He shrugged. Yeah. He lacked. And Fender — Charlie Fender — of such and such a number, such and such a road, in such and such a town and state, has quit, is fired, is out, at his age, after so, so many years…. Yes, he thought, I do not even occupy myself.
In the arms of the chair he felt a great distance from everything. His arms on the arms of the chair embraced him, squeezed. And he was not in the space his toes turned up in. It could, he supposed, have happened to him any time: a terrible accident like a plane crash, dividing limbs and luggage up indifferently, scattering toiletries. Planes were property. He saw his socks softly falling; they’d snag eventually on wires and trees. Everything was property — Pearson was correct — yet pouf! and it’s snowing shirts and business papers. The chair… the chair’s arms were weariless. Pouf, Fender. Can you restrain your bacteria? No, you’re freezerless. So pouf! One day it’s done. Even now you’re melting down. True — but those icicles gather the snow as it softens, oppose their coldness to the sun, and turn their very going into… Isabelles. Look, Fender: feet flat on the floor. Keep. Them. There. Arms in the arms of the chair. Armchair. Oh hug, and hold hard, and be beloved! But Fender did not stir. His inner exclamations were like advertising signs — for gasoline and colas — the worst kind. Chair arms were property. They would enwooden him; reskin him in something floral, a disposition of designs as in a dance to decorate his coverings. He’d be… tattooed. It was stupid. He tried to drive himself into wordlessness. There were so many words which worried him. Phrases. Voices. Scenes. It was stupid. Ah, finally you’re For Sale, Fender. Yeah. He lived in his pie like the peas. That’s very funny. I hope — I trust you see the humor in it — for you to be For Sale. Held in the chair he could not move to any music. He was tattooed. The legs fold over on the dotted line. Tat. Tat. Tat. He stared at his knees… where fell like trousered water… what? They played colored lights on the wall of Niagara. His icicles gleamed. That boy had taken such a big one — god — so carelessly — and carried it away. What did he know! what did he feel! the pain to that poor house! the wrench! Yet Fender did not shout; he did not move. He was falling away toward his feet nonetheless… softly, still. Like socks scattered from a suitcase in an air crash… lightly snowing. In each pie there are how many? how many? how many?… peas.
So finally you’re For Sale, Fender. That’s very funny. I hope you see the humor in it. It makes a fellow’s job a whole lot easier — I mean, if there’s humor in it and the humor’s seen, it’s easier all around. Be happy, eh? Does that check? How long do you plan to stay listed? Well it was fart smart to stand empty through the winter, that’s all I say. What I mean, it was dumb — bum dumb. Come to think of it, you were vacant longer than that. You’re bound to be badly shit up. Now if I were you, considering your kind of case, what’s best by and large and everything, why I’d try multiple listing. That way, if a good thing turns up, maybe you can close the deal on your own — after all, you’re with an agency — Pearson — jesus, he’s piss bliss, Pearson is. Anyway, you can’t expect anybody to make you their main concern — I mean, you know, that’s the way it goes, it’s a tough business, and five percent of you — well it won’t run to much. Okay? It’s good that’s clear — a happy thing. Now what are your sizes? How much room do you have around the ribs there — there in the cage? Many kidney malfunctions? They come on often, about your age. Your shoulders slope and we ought to burn that wart off your chin. Why the hell — if I had a wart on my chin like that — Look, I’ve got the usual things to check out…. Um, your skin is sort of fibrous looking, I’m afraid, and pretty splotchy — poor stuff — scaly, thin — a sour diet. How long have those bruises been in? and that spread of blood along the shin? broken capillaries, are they? Say, Fender, no bull, we’re in the same business, man to man, eh? why take the trouble? Hell, you know the list’s the same for everybody: sinus, spleen, intestines, all those glands…. Should we start with the palate and drop straight down: teeth, tonsils, tongue, lungs, liver, bronchial tree? would it be worth the bother? And after that, let’s see, going up it’s rectum, colon, stomach, heart, and so on, all the soft goods, and then the skull, spine, pelvis, ribs, et cetera, et cetera — but there’s little point — I mean, consider your chances calmly a minute. Well look, fellow, there’s no charm to your entrances. Like I say — we’ve got to face the facts, and an old place is an old place. You know the business. No surprises. Right? So let’s concentrate on good points if we can — jolly buttocks maybe — we’ve customers for them. But I don’t like that loosening hair. Jesus, look what you’ve done to your knuckles. And how about the light in there? Dammit, you know it’s the first thing they ask. They come in — they want to see where the light falls. Say, I’ll tell you a trick. I always take a yardstick with me, and times like that, when the sun’s pouring pleasantly in, I just measure it up for them — so many feet of it. You can figure the effect. Selling’s not all fuck luck, nossir. Not all fuck luck… fuckaluck. What? you’re cool? no crap now, how could you be cool? you’ve no shade. Hey — isn’t that right? Nothing to say — right? Fender, you haven’t any answer — right? How will they look with a colored bulb in your porch light, the walls of Niagara? Had your heart flushed recently or your bowels scrubbed? I like to have the dates. Well no harm, no harm, we’re friends in business — but let’s look at some stools before I leave, on the off chance, just the same….
Shoes, the rug — he saw the rug — and the foot of a table rising from the weave, thickening as it treed its top — was it rosily wooded? — waxed featureless and gleaming. Prop-purr-tee: a lovely sound. Was he an organ looking out? was this how it seemed to the liver, lying… where? He knew where peas were likely in pot pies, but he could not imagine his liver — did not wish — the way he dreamed of women, always smudged across the crotch. Prop-purr-tee. They shone. He could not watch. Fender — why not rent? All right, all right then, I’d like to give you a break, but it’s not up to me, a sale’s no certain thing, not everybody’s hunting, it isn’t like you were a honey-sweet piece, they’re not anxious, they’ve no itch. Oh sure, to live above themselves, but not, you know, to… Hey, does that check? Now — damage to the skin? property your vintage, some crazing’s likely — but, yeah, we’ve covered that. Drafts get in? I don’t know, Fender. Honestly. You’re in a bad district. It’s the slack season. Things are slow all over. You might try lodgers….