Opus 21: Descriptive Music for the Lower Kinsey Epoch of the Atomic Age, a Concerto for a One-man Band, Six Arias for Soap Operas, Fugues, Anthems & BarrelhouseWylie, Philip
Philosophy
Opus 21: Descriptive Music for the Lower Kinsey Epoch of the Atomic Age, a Concerto for a One-man Band, Six Arias for Soap Operas, Fugues, Anthems & Barrelhouse
Wylie, Philip
Authors -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction; Patients -- Fiction; Philosophy -- Fiction
"Nothing," he said, and he sat down listlessly in an over-stuffed easy
chair that was covered with chintz in full leaf. He didn't bother even
to loosen his tie.
I looked at him and compassion melted out of me.
"Eaten?"
He nodded. "Had to. Have to keep going."
I said, "Nuts."
It was time, I thought, for Dr. Wylie to reverse the field. We had been
running with sympathy too long.
Tears filled his eyes. "I hate to make such a spectacle of myself!"
"How _right_ you are!"
"Phil--I'm caving in! I can't think of another thing to do. My guts are
full of ground glass. All I see--is Marcia--in my mind. I can't go on
this way--"
"Want to quit--going on that way?"
"How can I?" It sounded as if he didn't want to quit.
I said, "Listen, Paul, if you care to go to the cleaner, the dentist
and down a gantlet all at once--you can quit."
"What do you mean?"
"Want a look at the real score? Or do you prefer to carry the torch of
your slap-happy illusions forever?"
He stared. "You know something you've kept from me!"
"Certainly. I know a lot I couldn't tell you if I tried."
"For Christ's sake--!"
"All right. And remember, you asked. You went up to Hattie's last
night--"
"That fat she-fiend--!"
"--and they said Marcia wasn't there. But she was."
He leaped to his feet. "I'll grab a cab--"
I got to my feet, too--not by leaping, and stood in front of him.
"You'll grab no cab, Paul. Sit down--or shall I sit you down?"
"Go on--" he said. "Tell me, then."
"Marcia is up at Hattie's--working."
He looked at me dementedly and snatched the phone.
"You won't get them to put her on," I said. "She doesn't want to talk
to you."
"I'm calling the cops," he answered. "I'll bust that joint wide open
and get her out, if it's the last thing--!"
I hung up his telephone by reaching out with my foot. "Listen, Paulo.
Listen good, once. You've made a lot of mistakes. Some, you admit.
Some, you haven't caught on to--in spite of the infallible, scientific
mind. And others--you haven't the empirical data to guess."
"For the love of God, say what you're going to say!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account