From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [80]
“Where’ll you be?” he asked, unbuttoning his pants and stuffing in his shirt, as they walked down to the stairs and down them to the ground floor porch where the endlessly falling water made an endless sound that was no longer heard because it had been going on so long.
“I’ll be in the Dayroom,” Prew said, “or else up in the latrine.”
Maggio was putting on his raincoat, as if it was a suit of armor and he was going forth to joust. “Okay,” he said. “You better be prepared to bring a footlocker to help bring home the ghelt.”
“You better win,” Prew said, “goddam you. I aint had a piece of ass in almost a month.”
“No wonder you’re pissed off,” Angelo grinned. “I aint had one since last payday.” He pulled his hat down on his forehead and peered up at Prew from under the knife edge of the brim. “Gimme a butt before I go.
“Jesus Christ!” Prew said, pained, but he reached in his pocket and brought out one, a single tube, from the unseen pack. “Since when did I take you to raise?”
“Whats a matter? You scared I’ll steal your lousy tailormades? After I win I’ll buy you a whole carton. Now match me and I’m gone.”
“Is your mouth dry?” Prew said. “You want me to spit for you?”
“Not on the floor,” Angelo said, raising his eyebrows in mock horror. “Not on the floor. Wheres your manners?”
“Aint there something else I can do for you? Use my mouth as an ashtray? cut off my balls and have a game of marbles? You oughta be able think of somethin.”
“No,” Maggio said. “But thanks. You’re a good boy. You ever get to Brooklyn, look me up. I’ll treat you right.” He opened the book Prew handed him, tore off one, struck it, and handed back the book, the bronze glow lighting up his thin child’s face. “I’ll see you, kid,” he said, puffing luxuriantly, like a rich man on a fifty cent cigar. He swaggered off out into the rain, ducked through the falling sheets of water, swaggered on, his bony shoulders hunched up belligerently, his thin arms swinging widely, his torso swaying from side to side, agitating the formless raincoat that enveloped him.
Prew watched him go, half grinning ruefully, no longer feeling mean, hoping he would win some money. He stood for a while looking out across the rainswept quad to the lighted sallyport, listening to the snatches of song and shouts from Choy’s as the door was opened, hearing the rattling of empty cases. He was back in the old familiar round again, hunting and twisting and pinching for the nickels that looked as big as dollars, trying to scour up enough for a few drinks and a piece of ass.
Even if he wins, he thought, you wont find the thing you want, not in any whorehouse, you who talk about a piece of ass so glibly, as if it held the answer. You were a goddamned stupid fool to ever let Violet get away from you, he thought bitterly, wishing now he had not forced the issue, had had some sense, wondering what she was doing tonight, right now. Maybe you didnt have the thing you’re always looking for, but at least you could have gone up there once a week; or once a month even. Way it is now you aint got even that. All you got now is the old round, the whorehouses where you never find it either, plus the absence of the money that it costs you to look there and that you have to scrounge for and then never get, except on Payday when they’re all so crowded that if you dont get your gun off in three minutes you have to take a raincheck. At least with Violet you had a woman. Maybe you could go back and see her and explain it, but even as he thought it he knew it would be useless, that it was past, that she had already found another soldier, or maybe even one of her own race. That was what she really wanted. Maybe you should have married her. Sure, maybe you should have stayed in the Bugle Corps, too, I guess? Maybe you’ll never find the thing it is you’re looking for? he thought and turned to go back up.
Andy and Sal Clark