“Hey, no shit, Lou baby? You all buggin’ out on us?” interrogates Johnson, and tips bottle greedily in apparent fear of an immediate exodus.
“The eight thirty-five,” says Jones, meets three, farts, raises four. “Passage is procured. It is a matter now of history.”
“Aw, shit, I ain’t got nothing,” Fisher the flushed and fleshy affirms and fades.
Dune eyes Jones, eyes cards, eyes Jones, eyes cards, eyes Johnson slaking interminable thirst, eyes own terminable funds. “I gotta piss,” he trows and cedes. Jones gathers.
“Tonight! Well, what the hell, Jonesy? You git a offer summers or somethin’?”
“Cheese, old comrade, I have been fired.”
“Fired!”
“Fired. Dismissed. Bounced. Cashiered. Exiled. In brief, this is farewell. Summarily, I have been passed the shaft.”
Fisher flings five to each while curses are laid upon the head of Just-in Miller. Jones discovers two hoary old studs and a pair of sevens, promising, if not the end, at least an in. They wait. Duncan, however, returns not. Chester, still motile, investigates. “He’s sawin’ ’em off on the crapper” is his not overly voluminous report, and once again they are three.
Hands pass.
Fog descends.
Gains are lost.
Heads weigh and sag.
“Hey, Lou baby,” reaches Jones from afar the seedy voice, “I ain’t anxious to see ye cut out, man, but it’s eight-thirty.”
Jones, with incredible fortitude, stands. Straight proceeds he unto the crapper, deposes the Duncan, and employs the venerable instrument. Returns.
“Say, listen, Fish, let’s us see old Jonesy off, whaddaya say?” It is the irrepressible Johnson, as usual, talking.
Fish, bleary, seeks Johnson’s face, nods, and “Great idea!” cries before collapsing backwards to the floor.
“Well, Jonesy,” Johnson concludes, “it’s you and me.”
“Never, my friend, have the prospects been more cheering.”
Concludes, of course, is imprecise. That lean sonuvabitch never concludes. Unto the frugging station he without cease declaims. He has employed Good Friedegg in visitation upon the Brunuts and must intricately reveal the data of his consequent sainthood. “You’re leavin’ this fuckin’ town jist in time, Jonesy. It’s the goddamn end a the world in jist seven days.”
“West Condom, Cheese, is not the world.”
Soggy and lumped stand Jones and Johnson afoot the termite-crudded platform, awaiting Old Destiny. She arrives with a wheeze and a blackgrease groan at 9:17.
Jones boards her, as Johnson fades in a chorus of effusive well-meaning obscenities. “We’ll git ol’ Tiger for ye, Jonesy!” is the last he hears. The old girl leaps forward with a jolt, topples Jones over possessions. Fat conductor splits worthless goddamn sides in contemplation of the Fall. Jones recovers, shoves bill into laughingbuck’s quaking midriff, “Just plant those bags somewhere,” he belches, “and cram it.” Then, briefcase under arm, he lurches, pissed, to club car.
Jones alone.
Meditation.
Festival still of the goddess Eastre, last year of our Lord.
Destiny’s club car.
Why? The authoritative source withholds further comment.
On his butt, rye beside. High as a bloated angel.
Jones is goddamn glad to get out, says Jones. Upward and onward to the big city, man. Tips rye to that. Water Closet. Pull the chain.
Opens briefcase, flips caressingly through photos. Hayseed bandy-legs in, Jones covers. Hayseed reposes bony hunkers at distant end, minds own matters, whatever they might horribly be. Jones re-eyes photos.
Story: that fabled day of the boom’s lowering, the Brunist special. Jones is in darkroom just off job-room working up gore pix of car wreck. Enters heroic protagonist to jobroom, quiff in hand. Jones observes, unseen, through speedgraphic viewfinder and darkroom window. Little gift, touch here, touch there, big itch all around. Protagonist struggles with conversion-from-cult pitch which twitches quiff to drop drawers, switching protagonist’s premises the which can only lead to syllogistic fuck: beautiful beautiful beautiful! Jones nearly leaps ecstatic out to congratulate, but lovingly operates instead voyeuristic camera eye. Splendid prelim thrashing about very photogenic and then, little quiff delirious afloat on cloud of imminent glory sacrifice, protagonist suddenly stands off (human interest shot of deceived crotch pathetically petitioning) and resumes with unanticipated fury his from-cult brief, accenting phoniness self-delusion marriageneed and godmadness, all of it an exquisite torture, Jones the while seizing his own balls and jumping silently for joy — but then, instead of quashing the quiff, protagonist stands ladylike by as she jumps into rudiments of clothing and barefoot staggers out door, and then, and then, O farewell manly virtues! protagonist weeps. Ugh!
Epilogue: Jones presents set of prints as Happy Easter Bunny oblation and receives compensatory walking papers. No goddamn sense of humor.
Jones swigging rye in club car now resumes review, confers blue ribbon on one titled “Quiff Couching at Forty-five Degrees.” Hay seed passes on rubber legs, gawks, flushes. “Hey, them’s purty hot pitchers you got there, mister!”
Jones belches wearily. “Three bucks apiece,” says he. “Thirty silver dimes.”
7
Easter Sunday, after dark. The phone rings. Eleanor Norton answers. “Yes?”
“This is Jesus Christ calling.”
She blanches and those watching blanch, too. These are the Last Days and even harassment must be taken for a sign, must be exploited for concealed meaning. “Why are you troubling us?”
“I have an important message for you all.”
“Why don’t you bring the message personally?” She tries to be stern, but her voice fails her.
“Well, actually, that’s what I’m doing. To tell the truth, I am here in the room with you right now, but you can’t see me. My only means to cross the, uh, aspect barriers between us was by utilizing the electronic amplification system provided by this instrument you hold in your hand.”
“Ah!” It is too reasonable to be denied. Hand covering the mouthpiece, she explains to the others, now crowding around, all, like her, dressed in white tunics. “But what … what is your message?”
“We have waited too long. The publicity campaign being waged against us by our enemies is muddling up the frequencies. We cannot risk any further delays. We have decided the end, that is, the transition, must come tonight.”
“Tonight!” she cries, her voice breaking with a squeak. She covers the mouthpiece. “He says the end is coming tonight!”
Mary Harlowe, paling, to Mabel Halclass="underline" “You said it could be Easter!”
Willie Halclass="underline" “As it says in the Good Book—”
Jesus: “Can you make it out to the hill in twenty minutes?”
“Yes!” Eleanor is already standing, waving at Wylie to get ready to go. She hears the sarcasm, knows it’s wrong, another horrid prank, yet doubts what she knows, for how can one be sure? And there is no time to think. “In twenty minutes!” she cries to them all, not covering, and there is a flurry of activity.
“Uh, just one thing. You must rid yourselves of everything that belongs to this world or you won’t be light enough to pass through to the next. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes! Everything!”
“Roger. No possessions, no clothes, no jewelry, nothing.”
“No—!”
“Eighteen minutes.” (Click.)
She is frantic. She explains. Clara snorts. An argument ensues. Time passes. Even Wylie resists. But dare we take chances? Clara says flatly she isn’t going to go stand stark naked on that hill just on account of some telephone call and Elaine isn’t either. Carl Dean Palmers is strangely spotted with his acne-centered flush, but he refuses to support Eleanor. On the other hand, Ben Wosznik agrees they had better do it. They are grown-up people and common sense tells you you won’t be wearing clothes in Paradise anyhow, so why be embarrassed about it now? The widows pink and stammer, but seem to agree. Clara retorts she’s not embarrassed, she just doesn’t want to go put on a show for a townful of practical jokers.