19.4
GEORGE DEAUX
"Madam," he is able to say, "arrest these men."
Just before Mercer aims the nicely pointed toe of a thirty-dollars–
a-pair shoe at his belly and lets him have it.
"Take that, you fucken commie creep nigger-lovin' peace fink ."
Not to be outdone in the expression of patriotism, the owner of
the shop gleefully pours one bottle of scalp tonic over him, while
mentally adding its cost to the bill.
The shine boy aims a shoe brush at his head and lets fly wick–
edly.
The high-school hero spits, and the other two barbers kick his
clothes into the street.
The lady cop, seeing where advantage lies, does her duty: swat–
ting on the head with her ticket book this indecently clad maniac
who, clutching his ears and groaning, collapses into a stupor among
the brass photographs, muttering, "You should be ashamed! Burning.
Burning."
Etched in his head: the misery of slums, give the kids a Milky
Way before the burning, the fires everywhere, the bombers every–
where, everywhere the fires.
"Men," he cries, "not so smug! Please not so smug!"
Clutching his head, he crawls powerless under the table, among
the brass spittoons and playmates, holding on to a table leg, pulling
his cape around his ears, while they tug at his ankles, laughing and
joking, kicking in the ass this peace-creep idiot in black underwear
who has brought a little bit of laughter into what had begun as just
another dull day in the City of Brotherly Love.
