EVERETT BJORKMAN
213
The old man maintained a breakneck speed, and Everett found
the run exhilarating, heels clanging on the stairs, his hand sliding
around the central pole (exciting!), the wind gusting face and side
and back and side and face. Once he glanced overhead, getting a
glimpse of the spiraling stair winding upward and the yellow soles
of the ba,rtender's bare feet coming nimbly behind him. He wondered
if
he were being pursued, hut panic gave way to giggling, and he
spun down now with rattling rapidity, giggling in the wind, seeing
nothing, feeling only the iron sliding smoothly under his palm and
the regular triangles of the narrow stairs catching his feet.
When they reached the phone booth, which was marked MEN,
he was panting heavily, exhausted by exercise and laughter. It did a
fellow good to let go now and again. But Everett had a sense of
discipline, too, and now he quickly pulled the folding door and shut
off the roaring of the sea and wind, the crying of the
gulls,
the
argument of
~e
two men squatting outside on the stairs with their
hands in one another's groin. Everett expelled a happy sigh and
relieved himself, zipped, looking around for a washstand, finding
nothing but glass walls and the telephone. The stillness, the odor, the
tilting floor, all made him light-headed for a moment; he leaned
against the wall and opened a package of Tums. These spilled,
bounced on the floor like buttons and rolled into the pool which
had collected in the downhill corner. Everett could see nothing out–
side in the windy night; he experienced an unaccustomed wave of
self-consciousness as he thought of how he must look, lighted up in
the glass box on the face of the cliff, and he assumed a business-like
air as he turned to make
his
call.
As
he searched his pocket for a coin, finding little but cherries,
lemons and occasional plums, he tried to remember the number.
There were rarely directories in places like
this.
At last there was
nothing to do but dial and dial and hope he would happen on the
right combination. The little silver hook that is intended to stop one's
finger fell off with a clink when he came round for the first number,
letting him wind on, like winding a toy, feeling the spring tightening
and tightening, until it reached its limit; then he let it spin, whirring,
a hundred turns, coming at last to rest. Unfortunately,
his
finger had
wiped off the numbers, and he now had no idea which hole belonged
where, but no matter-there she was.
