We were outside by then, and his cackles drifted away in little frosty plumes of vapor. “It was the Psychology of Human Stress, but I actually like yours better.” Roger energetically flagged down a cab, whose driver would shortly be very sorry he picked us up. “It also said that it helps to keep a diary.”
“Shit,” I said. “I haven't kept a diary since I was eleven.”
“Well what the hell,” he said. “look for it, John. Maybe it's still around somewhere.” And he went off into another wild run of cackles which only ended when he leaned over and puked nonchalantly on his own shoes.
He did it twice more on the way to his apartment building at 20th and Park Avenue South, leaning as far out the window as he could (which wasn't too far since it was one of those Plymouths where the rear windows will only roll down about halfway and there's a grim little yellow and black sign that says DO NOT FORCE THE WINDOW!) and just sort of blowing it into the slipstream and then settling back with that same nonchalant expression on his face. Our driver, a Nigerian or Somalian by his accent, was horrified. He pulled over to the curb and ordered us out. I was willing, but Roger sat tight.
“My friend,” he said, “I would get out if I could walk. Since I cannot, you must convey us hence.”
“I want you out my caib, good sah.”
“So far I have done you the courtesy of vomiting out the window,” Roger said with that same nonchalant and rather pleasant expression on his face. “It hasn't been easy because of the angle, but I have done it. I think in another few seconds I am going to vomit again. If you don't convey us hence, I am going to do it in your ashtray.”
At Roger's building I assisted him into the lobby and saw him into the elevator with his apartment key in his hand. Then I wove my way back to the cab.
“You git annoder cab, mon,” the driver said. “You just pay me and git annoder. I don't want to no mo convey you hence.”
“It's just down to Soho,” I said, “and I'll give you a hell of a tip. Also, I don't feel like puking.” This was a bit of a lie, I'm afraid.
He took me, and from the look of my wallet the next day I did indeed give him a hell of a tip. And I actually managed to make it upstairs before throwing up. Although once I started I didn't stop for quite awhile.
I didn't go in the next day-it was all I could do to get out of bed. My head felt monstrous, bloated. I called in around three and got Bill Gelb, who told me Roger hadn't shown, either.
Since then I have done a lot of crying and have had mostly sleepless nights, but perhaps Roger wasn't so wrongthe only hours that I feel even halfway myself are the ones spent on the 9th floor at 490 Park. Riddley has just about had to sweep me out the door along with his red sawdust the last two nights. Maybe there is something to that old “he threw himself into his work” crap after all. Even this diary idea feels right... although it may only be the relief of finally being done with my dreadful pastoral novel.
Maybe I'll stay on after all. Onward and upward... if there is any upward left for me. Man, I still can't believe she's gone. And I still haven't lost hope that she may change her mind.
March 21, 1981 Mr. John “Poop-Shit” Kenton Zenith House Publishers, Home of the Pus-Bags 490 Kaka Avenue South New York, New York 10017
Dear Poop-Shit,
Did you think I had forgotten you? My plans for revenge will go forward no matter WHAT! happens to me! You and all your fellow “Pus-Bags” will soon feel the WRATH! of CARLOS!!
I have covened the powers of Hell,
Carlos Detweiller
In Transit, U. S. A.
PS-Smell anything “green” yet, Mr. Poop-Shit Kenton?
From John Kenton's diary. March 22, 1981
Had a letter from Carlos today. I laughed until I shrieked. Herb Porter came on the run, wanted to know if I was dying or what. I showed it to him. He read it and only frowned. He wanted to know what I was laughing about-didn't I take this Detweiller fellow seriously?
“Oh, I take him seriously... sort of,” I said.
“Then why in hell are you laughing?”
“I guess I just must be a warped plank in the great floor of the universe,” I said, and then went off into even madder gales of laughter.
Frowning so deeply now that the lines in his face had become crevasses, Herb laid the letter on the corner of my desk and then backed into the doorway, as if whatever I had might be catching. “I don't know why you're so weird lately,” he said, “but I'll give you some good advice anyway. Get yourself some personal protection. And if you need psychiatric help, John—” I just kept laughing-by then I'd worked myself into a semihysterical frenzy. Herb stared at me a moment longer, then slammed the door and walked away. Just as well, really, as I finished by crying.
I expect to speak to Ruth tonight. By exercising all of my willpower I have managed to hold off on calling her, expecting each day that she must call me. Maddening images of her and the odious Toby Anderson cavorting together-the locale which keeps recurring is a hot-tub. So I'll call her. So much for willpower.
If I had a return address for Carlos Detweiller I think I'd drop him a postcard: “Dear Carlos-I know all about covening the powers of Hell. Your Ob'd Servant, Poop-Shit Kenton.”
Why I bother to write all this crud down, or why I keep plowing through the stacks of old unreturned manuscripts in the mailroom next to Riddley's janitorial closet, are both mysteries to me.
March 23, 1981
My call to Ruth was an utter disaster. Why I should be sitting here and writing about it when I don't even want to think about it defies reason. Perversity upon perversity. Actually, I do know-I have some dim idea that if I write it down it will lose some of its power over me... so let me by all means confess, but the less said, the better.
Have I written here that I cry very easily? I think so, but I haven't the heart to actually look back and see. Well, I cried. Maybe that says it all. Or maybe it doesn't. I guess it doesn't. I had spent the day-the last two or three days, actually-telling myself that I would not a.) cry, or b.) beg her to come back. I ended up doing c.) both. I've had a lot of gruff locker room chats with myself over the last couple of days (and mostly sleepless nights) on the subject of Pride. As in, “Even after everything else is gone, a man's got his Pride.” I would draw some lonely comfort from this thought and fantasize myself as Paul Newman-that scene in Cool Hand Luke where he sits in his cell after his mother's death, playing his banjo and crying soundlessly. Heart-rending, but cool, definitely cool.
Well, my cool lasted just about four minutes after hearing her voice and having a sudden total remembrance of Ruthsomething like an imagistic tattoo. What I'm saying is that I didn't know how gone she was until I heard her say “Hello? John?”-just those two words-and had this searing 360 degree memory of Ruth-God, how here she was when she was here!
Even after everything else is gone, a man's got his Pride? Samson might have had similar sentiments about his hair.
Anyway, I cried and I begged and after a little while she cried and in the end she had to hang up to get rid of me. Or maybe the odious Toby-I never heard him but am somehow sure he was in the room with her; I could almost smell his Brut cologne-picked the phone out of her hand and did her hanging up for her. So they could discuss his love-ring, or their June wedding, or perhaps so he could mingle his tears with hers. Bitter-bitter-I know. But I've discovered that even after Pride has gone, a man's got his Bitterness.