Hunger and Thirst

  He started along the pock-marked face of Broadway.

  Two blocks up, he stopped in the shade and, dizzily, leaned against a store window. He watched his reflection staring out ghostlike on a background of toy, colored alligators. There was a sharp pain in his head now, the dull eating of a headache. The alligators swirled around crazily. Their yellow bodies seemed to squirm and vibrate. Their red eyes glowered at him malevolently.

  He brushed a shaking, irritated hand over his sweat-covered neck to brush off a crawling bug. He pushed away from the window and walked on. His eyes were wet. The sidewalks would not stand still.

  His stomach heaved and growled. He stared stupidly ahead and walked on. The sweat rolled off his back and he felt the drops run across his chest and soak into his underwear. He loosened his belt, pushed his fingers into his protruding stomach.

  17th. 18th. 19th. 20th. 21st. The condemned man. The last mile. It was so like that.

  And here was what? Another park. Lush spot decaying in the wilderness. Choked Eden.

  People still hurrying. Young bodies and old. Nameless tunes floating to obscurity. Laughter. Futile meanderings. Generation of diapers. And death. Trucks, liquor, cigarettes, stomachs, bodies, heat, hunger—Oh wretched pitiful bugs!

  He ran in front of a truck.

  It ground to a stop inches from him.

  He pretended he didn’t even notice it. He walked away rapidly and leaped on the sidewalk. He brushed along the buildings. A siren hit his ears. Signs whirled by. People, faces, endless whiteness. Legs and breasts and arms. A blur of rushing people passed him by.

  At last. It came to him. A way to overcome sex. Always be hungry and disillusioned. Hunger replaced the sex drive physically and disillusion placed it neatly in the narrow little niche where it rightfully belonged.

  The world is covered with the wet paint of sex. His mind discoursed as he plodded on. Despite signs we reach out curious fingers and, when we pull them away to discover that we are marked, we mutter angrily and look offended. Never at ourselves. Oh, never that. We are imperious, implacable, grand noble men and women. We are God’s creations, love us. The world is against us. It is the devil. It is Fate. We sit back rocking on our sour heels like two-bit Jobs. If we were genuinely disgusted we would …

  Yes, that’s what we’d do.

  Instead of by war. By honest means. Putting off the sordid, putting off the ignominy of futile attempt. Finding rest eternal from the endless treadmill.

  He crossed 24th Street, wiping great drops from his face.

  A taxi rushed by and a hot wind rushed up his leg. He ignored it. A voice said, “Be careful.” He walked on.

  Gallant merchants giving their all.

  Our competitors won’t like this but YOU will!

  It makes me happy to see such kindness. I want to go in and embrace the man and say—God will reward you for this great charity toward your brother man. Oh, bless you, kind sir, may your tribe increase!

  He walked on past whirling peppermint sticks of barber shops, under shrines of commerce, over matchbooks and gum wrappers, under steel and blaze.

  30th. 31st. 32nd. Restaurants. People hurrying. Prices Slashed To the Bone!

  He stepped in between two moving cabs. One brushed against him and almost knocked him over. A dart of fear clutched his heart. His chest constricted.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered fearfully, jumping on the sidewalk.

  Then, walking on, he smiled wanly to himself. The will to live. After all this. Strange. Almost absurd. What was the point?

  It was foul hot. One could hardly breathe. There was no air. It was like standing trapped in a boiler. The heat simmered up and hit his face. The sweating city breathed in his face. It had no friends.

  Gimbel’s. Macy’s. He passed beneath their walls, shrines of the bargain. Cathedrals of thrift. Brassieres all shapes and sizes and suggestions. If you ain’t got, we give. Be a hypocrite and start some fine young fellow on his way to twenty years. Cruelty to dumb animals. Thumb me a woman. Her breasts came from South Orange.

  Nearing 42nd Street.

  More people. Rushing faster. Clip clop clip they rushed past him. He swirling dizzily among their their alien waves. He went under and came up. They rushed, called, did not laugh. They were all going somewhere. He alone was going nowhere. But perhaps he was going somewhere. Maybe he just didn’t know where he was going.

  He passed a construction site. A large wooden structure was hanging over the sidewalk. He plunged into the dim tunnel. It smelled of heat and sweaty bodies and hot rubble. He stared ahead dully. His feet moved on and on, unguided. Street after street. He was in the sun again. Block by block. Would it ever end?

  Times Square.

  Broadway. Magic spot.

  He shuffled past.

  Bleating horns tore at his ears. People blazed their devious paths. Neon eyes blinked down at him as he walked. A limp American flag stirred in a slight breeze. The sun was hiding behind a sullen cloud.

  An old lady pulled a few newspapers out of a trash can and hustled on to greater glory.

  People waiting for other people. Stares, worried mutters, idle couching against strange walls. Boys and girls together. Sun on his neck. Cigar and spittle. Subway breath. Gaudy shirts and rags, the people. He passed them and did not like them. He did not see them clearly. They were passing away.

  First New York Showing! SHOCKING! REVEALING! In Person!

  Mist of lurid sportshirts. The Camel-ring blower puffing out methodical clouds.

  44th Street. A pause for the rushing vehicles. A moment of inertia. A cross-town wind. Gigantic nudes. Clothes For Men. Clothes For Woman. Gigantic breasts cruising out from the great body. Saucer nipples. A little boy scout looking intently. A giggle. On to the lures of nature. Drinks. Drugstore. Good to the last drop. Him walking and sweating and drifting away.

  Smiles and laughter. The great White Way. Always two big features! Join The Waves! Theatres of the street. Quiet marquees. The so many goal and so colorless. Just add hot water. Planter’s Peanuts. Breasts and chests. I love you world. I hate you. Will there be more room when I am gone? Or will it be like a drop leaving the ocean?

  He passed a blind woman who wore a light green print dress. She was singing a strange song. And moving by inches. The clank of coins. My cup runneth over.

  With pennies.

  Block by block, her stringy blonde hair rustling in the breeze. The almost inaudible tap tap of her cane.

  75!—Beautiful Girls—75!

  The sun came out again on the dirty street. Walking.

  Walking.

  Walking.

  Walking.

  GOD DO THEY NEVER STOP!!!!

  Walking. Like a grisly machine. I am caught in the meshes. The wheels grind and the teeth catch my soul and turn me over and over. Howard … …. Howard. Chic Paris. All beef frankfurters.

  50th Street.

  Great buildings. Squat citizens. A lonely fat girl in a white coat passed him. She looked into his eyes. He stared at her dizzily. She started a smile but he lurched past and left her.

  Everything was getting more and more vague. What was he doing there anyway? He stared at pigeons on a cigar sign and he felt his feet moving beneath him, carrying him somewhere.

  Pieces of conversation falling in the liquid lead sunshine.

  I’ll get a ticket to Chicago.

  Oooh, let’s see that!

  Naw, I don’t wanna get it now.

  Jerry, are we goin’ in the right direck-shin?

  This way, come on, come on Willy!

  Yours truly, ham and eggs.

  D. S. C. Bus Stop. A great breasted woman nudged past. His elbow brushed across her chest. He shuddered and walked faster. The sun hurt his eyes. He looked at the ground instead.

  53rd Street. Air cooled. A negro with floppy black shoes reading a newspaper waiting for people who want shiny shoes. Mama what is that. That is a nigger, that is a …

  Marquees jutting out their gaudy chins
. A yawn.

  He was hungry.

  He began to think of food he had eaten. Great steaks and fried mushrooms and onions on them. Roast chicken with dripping giblet gravy and piping-hot spiced dressing. Chow mein with tasty bits of hot shrimp and crisp hot noodles. Fried eggs and thick ham and bacon. A big tomatoey pizza with the stringy cheese hanging from his fingers. Fresh jewish rye and yellow cheese. Milk, crackers, ice cream … God, I’m hungry. Will you feed me? Will you receive me?

  He couldn’t eat. He was starving. But the thought of stopping somewhere and standing at a counter or sitting at a table and having people around him and eating the food that they prepared and brought to him, repelled him

  He had to keep moving.

  His feet were hot and sweaty. He was tired, exhausted. He kept walking. The urge for human things was leaving. His belief was weaker. It all seemed to pass. He lost strength and equally did the reality of this incarnate dead thought around him, this monster from mud. The foundations faded. Perhaps it was true, what he’d thought once in college. That the world was all there only because he believed in it. And now he was losing the belief and it was fading away into obscure pale shadows, finally to disappear entirely.

  He plunged into the less crowded car-selling district. A strange sense of quiet there. No roaring crowds. The hum passed away. But it is an economic peace. Who among the great jostlers could plunk down enough for one of these shiny phaetons?

  He was weaving more now. He was very thirsty. He must have a drink of water, at least. Stop reasoning! His mind cried. Thunder rolling off. In the park then. Mists falling away. The patterns forming.

  Yes, the park.

  A long walk through kind green solitude. Under the shade, on the grass. There he might find peace, something to end the fury and the turmoil and the feeling of desperate hopelessness that coursed his body like a raging, diseased current.

  A shoe lace went inside his shoe. He bent over to pick it out and a wave of darkness, hidden before, leaped from the ground and he staggered against a plate window with a startled gasp.

  A man came out of the store. “What’sa matter buddy?”

  He stared at the man. The naked woman on the red tie, posing sensually. The long cigar lolling in his mouth. The blatant curiosity on his face.

  “I’m all right,” he said.

  “Sure. Damn hot. Wanna come in and sit a while?”

  “No.”

  He turned away and started dizzily up the street, feeling the man’s eyes follow him. Kindness, you slimy bastard? I can’t buy one of your precious cars? There was nothing of good report in any man. They were all out to get someone.

  He found himself staggering to the right as he crossed the street. A big truck rolled by. The exhaust fumes made his stomach heave. He belched loudly and felt he was about to vomit. On the other side of the street he leaned his forehead against a church bulletin board. His eyes clouded and ran. Topic: And God Will Draw Nigh.

  He pushed away. A few more blocks and I’ll have cold water to drink. A sudden glistening idea. Cold water in the park. Only to drink?

  He walked on, seeing the world through slitted eyes.

  His mind creaked on. On. You want to know what we need?

  Pass me my soapbox. We need more red lights. No, not the kind presaging the locale of whores. Traffic red lights. On corners of the mind. Moreover they should be red both ways. Then we would sit for long periods and maybe our bodies would stop shaking and jumping around. And maybe that atrophied function of thinking would slowly start to churn again.

  But we have green lights both ways. No one is thinking. Everyone is stepping on the gas at once. Confusion, chaos, blood and rubble. A heaped up mass of rubble and death and the green lights clicking merrily after we have gone.

  He passed a group of pigeons taking their mincing strolls under sightless feet. Their heads moved back and forth on swivel necks. They ruffled their feathers and scurried to escape the feet and then slowed down again into their sedate struttings. They walked in circles, shapeless figures. We are all walking in circles. Our beginning is our end. Our accomplishment, our destruction.

  Columbus Circle.

  He leaned weakly against a store window.

  And looked at Columbus standing on a pole.

  Hail to thee, proud Genoese. What the hell have you done? Oh, why blame you, poor idiot? If you were not the stubborn ass you were, then some other one would have beguiled a queen and pounded across the ocean on an adventurous cork to find this blessed land.

  Ah, but you look so proud. What do those stony eyes see? Great forests? Indians?

  How things have changed. There is grass around the base of your pedestal but around that is tarry pavement. And the sun beats on your scaly brow. And the birds do profane your noble head and shoulders.

  Look proud. You did a great job. You have two statues, an intersection and a day; what more do you want? What say? You wish not to see your New World vaporized around you? Can’t blame you, Knickers.

  He pushed away from the window and passed a veiled woman tapping her black umbrella on the sidewalk. He passed a young girl whose skirt blew in the wind and wrapped itself around her thighs and legs. He stared.

  Passage of the flesh. He passed a staring old man with a red face who wore a black suit and a cap and puffed dumbly on a gnarled pipe.

  Here were the carriages, the smell of horses and taxis. The people lined up on the stone benches, eager to pounce back into the race. Some are lost already but they are still in the race. There are idlers in the current. As chip tossed as the rest but too tired to fight, too weary to care where it took them.

  He left the sidewalk and stumbled across the ground. His feet pushed through the dead leaves. They crackled and stirred and fell asleep again.

  A little boy was walking between two women, hand in hand. He stared at them. Poor surrounded boy, he thought, what hope for the masculine when hemmed in by the feminine? He looked away at hundreds of casual pigeons emoting quietly to the city. Fish eyes like vultures. But their beaks were not as strong.

  I want a drink I am so thirsty.

  This is my island he thought as he stumbled on. My tuft of grass on the steel island. The roar is outside. I have found a quiet place. I am alone. It is silent here.

  Then there was a rubbery weakness in his legs that made him stop and lean against a tree. He felt himself sinking. He was down in a cross-legged sprawled position. A couple walked by. The woman looked at him in disgust. She whispered to her companion.

  Yes. I am drunk, people. Sick drunk of the world. But it is a drink I can give up only once.

  He stared up at the buildings through the leaves. The sounds were farther away. The sound of feet around him seemed farther and farther away. The sound of feet seemed farther and farther away. He was on another island. He was an island unto himself. The poet was wrong.

  He chewed at his fingers. He felt like eating one of them. He took a tuft of grass and pulled a blade from it. He put it in his mouth and chewed on it. A brief acrid taste started in his mouth. He spit it out.

  “I want water,” he moaned it aloud, “I’m thirsty!”

  A group of little boys were passing by and they stopped to look at the funny man. They stared. They giggled. He stared back at their weaving forms. They were like mirages of little boys seen in a delirium.

  “What are you looking at?”

  They edged away. He grabbed the trunk of the tree and started to pull himself up. “I’ll get you!” he cried and lurched toward them. They jumped forward and ran over the hill, laughing, looking back over their fleeting shoulders.

  He turned away and started toward the lake.

  He saw a fountain on the path.

  He staggered toward it. A woman and her little boy were there first. He stood there quietly, shaking. His hands were trembling. There were tears beginning in his eyes. The little boy drank and drank.

  “Let the man have a drink,” said the mother.

  “Om thirsty,?
?? said the little boy.

  He stood there watching. There was stupid smile stamped on his face. The water dashed and sparkled in the sunlight. His hands reached out like another’s hands. They reached for the little boy. The mother pulled her little boy away.

  “Thank you, madame,” a voice said, hollow and broken, “I was about to strangle him.”

  “Oh!” she said.

  He bent over the fountain, eyes closed. He felt them staring at him as they pulled away, looking back over their shoulders.

  The water gushed down his throat. It wasn’t cold. It tasted of iron. His throat would not contract. He let the water run down and up into his mouth and breathed through his nose. The water rushed into his throat and began to choke him.

  He straightened up and the sun faded. The sky became black. He stumbled about on the pavement, choking in the flaring spurts of darkness. He tripped over the edge of the walk and fell on his knees on the dry ground. He crawled in to the grass and fell on his back, great coughs racking his body.

  Then his throat cleared. He lay there breathing heavily. The sun shone on his face and he opened his eyes. He looked directly at the white fire. Then, closing his eyes, he examined the black arc that stood out on the red background. He put both his hands over his eyes. He could still see it. He watched it, almost fascinated, thinking that it was something strange held in his eyes by the hands.

  His arms fell on the ground with a thump. He coughed. An ant crawled across his right wrist. It felt like someone else’s wrist. He looked at it. He couldn’t move. He lay there and closed his eyes and fell asleep in a minute.

  He cried out and sat up quickly. A thundering herd of roller skaters disappeared over the mountain.

  The sun was still shining. He looked around.

  A woman in a violet dress was lying in a sprawled position on her side. She looked dead. He followed the line of her leg along to the buttocks, the thighs, the hips and down to her large hanging breasts pressed against the grass.