He has a room on West 48th, near Tenth Avenue, and he can save money if he tries But he hates the truckIt's the coal mines in open air, it jars at his back and in a thousand, a million tiny jounces, his kidneys begin to go and his stomach is too tricky in the morning to chance breakfastMaybe there has been one park bench too many, maybe there was too much rain in too many open places, but the truck route is no goodThe last hundred miles he always drives with his teeth clenchedHe drinks a lot, drifting along the bars on Ninth and Tenth Avenues, and sometimes he spends his free time in one movie house after another, the tawdry second-runs on 42nd Street One night in a bar he buys an ordinary seaman's card for ten bucks from a drunk who is about to go under, and he quits his jobBut after a week of hanging around South Street, he gets tired of it and goes on a long drunkAfter a week, when his money is gone, he sells the seaman's card for five bucks and keeps going for an afternoon on the whisky it buys He wakes up that night in an alley
jumbo chanel flap bag with a blood crust on his cheekWhen he grimaces he can feel the crust shredding into cracksA cop picks him up and sends him to Bellevue, where he is kept for two days, and when he gets out he panhandles for a couple of weeks But there is the happy endingHe catches a job finally as a dishwasher in a fancy restaurant in the East Sixties, and he gets friendly with a waitress there, ends up by living with her in a couple of furnished rooms on West 27th StreetShe has an eight-year-old kid who likes Red, and they get along well for a couple of years
Red switches to a job as night clerk in one of the flophouses on the BoweryIt's easier than dishwashing, and pays him five bucks more, twenty-three a weekHe holds on to it for the last two years before the war, drifting along through the liquid fetid heat of summer in the Bowery and the chill damp winters when the walls leak and the brown plaster becomes stained with grayLong nights pass in which he thinks of nothing, listening dully to the periodic wrangling passage of the trains on the Third Avenue
gucci backpacks el, waiting for the morning so he can go home to Lois Several times a night he passes through the main room where forty or fifty men are sleeping uneasily on their iron cots, and he listens to the constant soft coughing and smells the harsh styptic formalin and the bodies of the old drunks, a crabbed smell, glum and souredThe hallways and the bathroom stink of disinfectant, and over the urinals there is almost always a drunk retching his liquor, holding dreamily to the porcelain near the flush leverHe closes the door and goes into the card room, where a few old men are playing pinochle around an old round table, the floor under them black with grease and cigarette endsRed listens to their talk, mumbled and unfinished Maggie Kennedy was a fine figure of a woman, she said to me, now, what was it she said?
I told Tommy Muldoon he had no call to be running me in, and when I got done, he let me go I'll tell you thatThey're afraid of me ever since I broke Ricchio's jaw, you know he was the precinct sergeant, back in, well, now wait a minute
chanel white ceramic watch and I'll tell you the date, I broke his jaw with one punch back in a New Year's night eight year ago, 1924 it was, no, wait a moment back in 1933 that's closer to itHey, you rummies, pipe down goddammit we got some paying guests in the next room They're silent for a moment and then one of them says in his low mumbling voice, You ain't so smart, young feller, and ifen you don't shut your mouth I'll be obliged to whop you Come on down in the street, and I'll take you on Then one of them comes up to Red, and whispers to him, You better leave him alone 'cause he'll throw you down the stairs, the last night man he broke his neckI'm sorry I disturbed ya, pop, I'll be minding my manners You do that, son, and you and me won't have no trouble Across the street, they can hear a jukebox grinding in a barroom Back behind the night desk, Red turns on his radio and plays it softly(THE LEAVES OF BROWN CAME TUMBLING DOWN One of the men awakens screamingRed goes into the hall and quiets him, patting him on the shoulder and leading him back to his
gucci pantheon cot In the morning the bums dress hurriedly, and the big room is empty by sevenThey hustle along the chill streets in the dawn, their caps pulled down to their eyes, and their old jacket collars scrounged around their necksAs if they were ashamed, they won't look at one another, and like automatons most of them line up in the alleys off Canal Street for the coffee they receive from soup kitchensRed walks through the streets for a while before he catches the bus up to West 27thThe long night is always depressing He looks at his feet striding alongNothing's worth a good goddam But back in their furnished room, Lois is cooking his breakfast on a hotplate, and the kid, Jackie, comes running up to him, shows him a new schoolbookRed feels tired and happy Yeah, that's nice, kid, he says, patting him on the shoulder When Jackie has left for school, Lois sits down to eat breakfast with himSince he has been working in the flophouse they have only their mornings togetherAt eleven she leaves for the restaurant The eggs dry enough for you, honey? she
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