EVERETT BJORKMAN
217
"Gradualism," he whispered, like a dirty word,
in
her ear. "But
they are privately
with
the wave. They do not speak of marriage.
They favor penetration." Now, trying to ignore the betel odor, he
snuggled closer, throwing a leg over hers and feeling the hard round
belly through his suit coat, watching the withered old mouth work–
ing like a squid. "So do I," he whispered wetly, acknowledging to
himself, even as he said it, that he would say anything to achieve his
ends when he was in one of his rakish moods.
In a few moments Everett was interrupted by a sharp report and
looked up to see the bartender, a smoking rifle between his legs,
standing over the body of the old man, whose open mouth was
streaming
milk.
Clearly the revolt was underway and Everett's policy did not
cover natural disasters or rebellion. "Fire when ready," the bartender
was shouting and all around the room the women gave birth with
thunderous explosions, like cannon, bearing not children but men,
bare to the waist, in black berets, armed, with bayonets fixed. The
process interested Everett intensely. Thrown off the old lady, he
watched her lift the lower part of her body off the floor, arching
her back until, in the firing position of a howitzer, she let go, her son
landing like a ballet dancer momentarily off-balance some ten feet
away, waving his rifle and running to take his place in the rapidly
forming ranks.
Since Everett was aware that in spite of his contacts, or because
of them, he would be the first target, he pulled himself across the
floor on his stomach, writhing past the subsiding mothers toward the
door. Outside the sky had darkened and a steady rain beat on the
metal roof of the building, gusting onto the porch. Everett turned up
his
collar and waited disconsolately for a taxi, realizing how .little
chance there was at the rush hour
in
the rain. He turned gloomily
to the door marked MEN and entered a carpeted club room where
men of his own sort dozed on leather overstuffed chairs before the
television screen. During the commercial he could get himself attended
to at the bar.
There was a proper colored bartender in a starched white
straitjacket who could cleverly pour drinks by gripping the neck of the
bottle between his flashing white teeth. Solicitous attendants brushed
Everett's clothing, sprinkled his neck with talcum, sprayed his ankles
