was a uniformed driver leaning against a bus marked Gary-Hammond, gazing about with total disinterest. I decided I'd like to have the toothpick concession at O'Hare Airport, but at least he didn't shift it when I addressed him:
'Could you tell me if I can take this bus to Athens?'
'Where?'
'Athens, Indiana.'
'Where is that?'
'Between Gary and Hammond. It's an incorporated village.'
He looked at me doubtfully.
'Population 3,079 in 1939,' I added helpfully.
'No shit?' he said. 'Between Gary and Hammond?'
I nodded.
'You stand right there,' he told me. 'Don't move.
Someone's liable to steal you. I'll be right back.'
He went over to the dispatcher's desk and talked to a man chewing a toothpick. The bus driver gestured. Both men turned to stare at me. Then the dispatcher unfolded a map. They both bent over it. Another uniformed bus 364
driver came along, then another, and another. Finally there were five men consulting the map, waving their arms, arguing in loud voices, their toothpicks waggling like mad.
The driver came back to me.
'Yeah,' he said, 'I go to Athens.'
'You learn something every day,' I said cheerfully.
'Nothing important,' he said.
An hour later I was trying to peer through a misted window as the bus hurtled southeastward. I saw mostly darkness, a few dumps of lights, flickering neon signs.
And then, as we crossed the state line into Indiana, there were rosy glows in the sky, sudden flares, views of lighted factories and mills, and one stretch of highway seemingly lined with nothing but taverns, junkyards, and adult book stores.
About ninety minutes after leaving O'Hare Airport, with frequent stops to discharge passengers, we pulled off the road at a street that seemed devoid of lighting or habitation.
'Athens,' the driver called.
I struggled from my seat, lifted my suitcase from the overhead rack, and staggered down the aisle to the door.
I bent to look out.
'This is Athens?' I asked the driver.
'This is it,' he said. 'Guaranteed.'
'Thank you,' I said.
'You're welcome,' he said.
I stood on a dark corner and watched the bus pull away, splashing me from the knees downward. All I could feel was regret at not staying aboard that bus to the end of the line, riding it back to O'Hare, and returning to Manhattan by the earliest available flight. Cold, wet, miserable.
After a long despairing wander I came to what might be called, with mercy, a business district. Most of the stores were closed, with steel shutters in place. But I passed a drugstore that was open, a mom-and-pop grocery store, 365
and at last — O Lord, I gave thanks! — a liquor store.
'A pint of brandy, please,' I said to the black clerk.
He inspected me.
'Domestic?' he said.
'Anything,' I said. 'Anything at all.'
He was counting out my change when I asked if there were any hotels in the immediate area.
'One block down,' he said, pointing. 'Then two blocks to the right. The New Frontier Bar and Grill.'
'It's a hotel?'
'Sure,' he said. 'Up above. You want to sleep there tonight?'
'Of course.'
'Crazy,' he said, shaking his head.
I followed his directions to the New Frontier Bar and Grill. It was a frowsy beer joint with a dirty front window, a few customers at the bar with blue faces from the TV set, and a small back room with tables.
The bartender came right over; it was downhill. The whole floor seemed to slope towards the street.
'Scotch and water, please,' I said.
'Bar Scotch?'
'All right.'
He poured me what I thought was an enormous portion until I realized the bottom of the shot glass was solid and at least a half-inch thick.
'I understand you have a hotel here,' I said.
He looked at me, then bent over the bar to inspect me closely, paying particular attention to my shoes.
'A hotel?' he said. 'You might call it that.'
'Could you tell me your rates?'
He looked off into the middle distance.
'Five bucks,' he said.
'That seems reasonable,' I said,
'It's right next door. Up on flight. The owner's on the desk. Tell him Lou sent you.'
I quaffed my Scotch in one meagre gulp, paid, walked outside, and climbed the narrow flight of stairs next door.
The owner-clerk, also black, was seated behind a desk inclosed in wire mesh. There was a small hinged judas window in front.
He was a husky man in his fifties, I judged, wearing a T-shirt with a portrait of Beethoven printed on the front.
He was working a crossword puzzle in a folded newspaper.
He didn't look up. 'Five bucks an hour,' he said. 'Clean sheets and running water. Payable in advance.'
'I'd like to stay the night,' I said. 'To sleep. Lou sent me.'
He wouldn't look up. 'What's an ox with three letters?'
he said. 'With a long tail and short mane.'
'Gnu,' I said. 'G-n-u.'
Then he looked up at me.
'Yeah,' he said, 'that fits. Thanks. Twenty for the night.
Payable in advance.'
He opened the window to take the bill and slide a key on a brass medallion across to me.
'Two-oh-nine,' he said. 'Right down the hall. You're not going to do the dutch, are you?'
'Do the dutch?'
'Commit suicide?'
'Oh no,' I protested. 'Nothing like that.'
'Good,' he said. 'What's a four letter word meaning a small child?'
'Tyke,' I suggested.
Oh, what a dreadful room that was! So bleak, so tawdry. It was about ten feet square with an iron bed that had once been painted white. It appeared to have the promised clean sheets — threadbare but clean — but on the lower third of the bed, the sheet and a sleazy cotton blanket had been covered with a strip of black oilcloth. It took me awhile to puzzle that out. It was for customers too drunk or frantic to remove their shoes.
I immediately ascertained that the door could be double-locked from the inside and that there was a bolt, albeit a cheap one. There was a stained sink in one corner, one straight-backed kitchen chair and a small maple table, the top scarred with cigarette burns. There was no closet, but hooks had been screwed into the walls to
