a bottomless drinking glass;
a swizzle stick that smoked when put in a drink;
a cigarette lighter shaped like a dog, operated by lifting the dog’s hind leg;
a cigarette lighter shaped like a toilet, operated by lifting the seat;
a rubber fly;
a real fly entombed in plastic ice;
a deck of cards in which the spades and clubs were red and the diamonds and hearts black;
a deck whose backs could be read with tinted glasses;
a deck in which the jacks simpered, the queens winked and beckoned, and the kings leered;
semen, vomit, and excrement reproduced in soft plastic;
a watch decorated with a nude woman whose arms were its hands, depicted at a relatively modest 6:30;
and a watch numbered counterclockwise.
Besides all these, there was one picture that was more or less conventional. Suspended from a stick-on hook like an erectile penis, it showed a voluptuous blonde whose gown, brassiere, and panties would vanish if the room became humid.
It was not humid, however, and the blonde appeared fully dressed. Barnes was dressed too, in tattered nylon pajamas and a robe. His room boasted a small table in addition to the bed and dresser, and he sat before it composing a letter on the florid, gold-crested stationery of the nearby Hotel Consort. He wrote slowly and laboriously, the tip of his tongue occasionally protruding from one corner of his mouth. From time to time he kissed the point of his souvenir pen.
Dear Lois,
Wonderful to hear from you. I know now you don’t hold a grudge. Me neither. It’s over but it might have been different. I think about that alot and I bet you do to.
Can’t understand what happened to the child support. I would have my bank stop the check but then what would happen if it’s just stuck in the mail and later got delivered to you alright. Let me know when you write next— if not I’ll have them stop and send you a new one, no joke.
Doing alot of business but the weather is so bad I wish I was south like you. Rain and snow. I know you said I could visit Little Ozzie and of course Lois so did the judge.
But, I’m not sure you mean it. Tell you what. If you mean it get me a plane ticket and send it. (Address c/o Mr. B. Free who is District Manager here.) Then I’ll know you mean it and I’ll pay you back when I get there.
Kiss Little Ozzie for me.
See You soon.
When he had completed this letter, Barnes drew an S-shaped flourish under his signature. After carefully retracting the point of the souvenir pen, he picked up the letter and read it with evident satisfaction.
Taking up his pen again, he addressed an envelope, crossing out the location of the hotel and substituting that of Free’s house. When the letter had been folded and sealed inside, he took a quarter-sheet of stamps from the table’s shallow drawer, tore off one, moistened its back with the tip of his hard-working tongue, and (with the greatest attention to its position) gummed it on upside-down.
After satisfying himself that it had adhered, he added the letter to a modest stack of similar ones on the left side of the table, stood up, and stretched. In his stocking feet, he padded across the room to the light switch. Drawing the blind down the single window left the room in a darkness that was nearly total.
The whisper of his feet on the floorboards came again, followed by a nearly imperceptible scraping as he shifted the picture of the voluptuous woman with the disappearing gown to one side.
The hole in the wall behind it showed no light. His finger explored it, and at last he thrust the souvenir pen into it. When he had satisfied himself that it had not been blocked, he replaced the picture and switched on the light again. Taking up a soiled supermarket tabloid from the bed, he began to read the classifieds.
The Women
Stubb had fallen asleep, but the noise woke him. He flipped the wall switch and opened the door to illuminate the dark hall. Candy lay halfway up the stair, trying to rise.
He found her purse, hung it over his wrist, and bracing his feet on the worn wood, got his hands beneath her arms. “Hold the rail,” he told her.
She nearly fell backward, taking him with her.
“Jesus!”
“’S all right,” she said. “I’m swell.” Her tongue was thickened almost to unintelligibility.
After a moment, he realized she no longer knew whether she was going up or down. “You want to go to the john?” he asked. “Up here.”
She shook her head. “Go bed.”
“Swell. Your room’s up here too. Jesus, what have you been drinking?”
“Had li’l party.”
“I bet.” He put a hand under her knee and lifted until her foot was on the step where he stood. “Come on, you can make it. Hold on to the rail.” He tugged at her, and she lurched upward.
Once he got her to the top, it was easier. Half steering, half carrying her, he brought her to her door. Her key, chained to a rabbit’s foot, was near the top of her purse.
