600
PARTISAN REVIEW
trying his best to be kindly and decent to me, but rubbing me the wrong way
invariably and inevitably. Small disputes blew up into large battles. If he
wanted to watch some inconsequential television show, when I perhaps
wanted to tune in to some other silly program, I took it badly and fought him
over it. Ifhe mentioned, with good humor, how much he was helping out the
household with food and money, I'd leap up and tell him what he could do
with it! (Of course the fact that the house needed his help only hurt worse.)
The unusual arrangement, whereby Sam stayed over at our place for four
nights and at his own for three, with his estranged wife and beloved daugh–
ter, was probably also affecting me in school, where my usual mischief-mak–
ing was becoming something larger. Until, that is, Schulte's entered the pic–
ture, and somehow calmed me down in school.
It
was not surprising that I spent many hours downstairs idling away
the time, daydreaming, projecting, and rearranging reality.
(
....
)
That far side ofAmericana was a darker, stranger world from ours;
luridly lit (including a string of neon lights blinking), cozy and tawdry (old
stuffed couch and chairs) a brothel not a bookstore. One large square room,
off of which a corridor led to several other smaller rooms. A round wooden
table with straightbacked chairs occupied the center, and, on the walls peering
down at you, colorful calendars of brown and white females, nude or nearly
nude. The music came from a pair oflarge wooden speakers, soft rock-and–
roll like dirty clouds circling and hovering, looking for a way out. Only there
was no exit, it seemed.
"Hey, come on in and meet the folks," Jackson exclaimed, guiding the
dazed
me.
Four people were lounging about and sitting, including Jackson. A male
friend, and two females. The older one, maybe thirty, was a shiny ebony
lady enclosed in a tight yellow dress, which barely held in her plump curves;
she wore black pumps and big golden hoop earrings. The other was a
younger white woman, maybe eighteen or twenty, dressed simply in pale
blue sweater and flare skirt, and flat shoes. Slender, strawberry in complex–
ion and hair, she seemed out of place there, like me say. They made a very
unlikely pair, I thought, and wondered ifall this was somewhat fictional, too.
The male dude asked, "What's your choice, sport?" Not unfriendly, but,
well, chintzy, his smile forced. He was dressed to kill, I noticed; Panama hat,
satiny vest, and black and white spats. The first real pair I had ever seen.
"Uh," I looked over at his makeshift bar, "The 7-Up
will
be fine."
"Mixed with Seagram's, right?"
"No, by itself actually. Thanks."
"The boy don't drink?" said the man, mocking lightly.
