American fiction -- 20th century; Bohemianism -- Fiction
“Sure, lead me to her,” said Carl, inaudibly laughing to himself.
“Alright, I’ll make it for eight tuhmorrow night. The four of us’ll go
somewhere.... Well, one more an’ we’ll beat it, Jack.”
Glancing swiftly ahead, Carl saw that this engagement would demand a
certain sum of money and he wondered how he could obtain it since he
would not be paid for his present work until the end of the week. While
he stood, grasping this little perplexity, he noticed that a man at his
left had placed a ten-dollar bill on the bar, in payment for a drink,
and that the man was immersed in a violent argument with a friend, with
his back turned to the bar. The bartender was at the other end of the
counter, and after a glance at Petersen, who stood dully peering into
his empty glass, Carl whisked the bill into one of his coat pockets.
Then he quickly prodded Petersen’s shoulder.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said, and the two walked out of the saloon,
Carl taking care to stroll in a reluctant fashion and steeling himself
for the angry shout that might come.
As Carl walked down the street he felt a twinge of regret at having
stolen the money of a stumbling, minor puppet. He told himself that
this petty gesture had been forced upon him by an innately vicious
contortion known as life, but his emotions cringed as they arranged an
appropriate explanation.
“This man whom I have robbed will curse the treacherous unfairness of
life and his eyes, dilated with bitterness, will see more clearly his
relation to the things around him. In this way I have really befriended
him. The railroad-detective, who once struck me on the head with the
butt of a pistol, when I was offering no resistance, was trying to
obtain revenge--revenge upon the people who had made him their snarling
slave--and he blindly reached out for the object nearest to him, which
happened to be my head. But there was no desire for vengeance in my
own gesture. I steal from men in order to prevent life from stealing
an occasional refuge for my thoughts and emotions. A purely practical
device.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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