The Fourth Angel by John Rechy

Author:John Rechy
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781555847272
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

10

Suddenly for Jerry the magic retreats like a wave from the seashore, and he's marooned again in reality, sorrow, death. Even the severed branch grows again! He grasps desperately for the words still floating on his mind, pulling them determinedly from the drugged illumination, as if to retain them like an anchor out of the magic; and the sea of the drugged world rescues him powerfully once more, the magic returns in an inundating wave; it carries him back to the living-room, where:

The four stand in a rectangle looking at each other for minutes; and each feels as if the others’ world contains him, as if his contains the others. And then they turn away, quickly ending the crushing closeness.

‘Let's go to the river!’ Cob says.

‘Shit, man, who can drive?’ Manny reminds. ‘We're too ripped!’

‘I can drive!’ ‘I can drive!’

‘I can drive!’

But they know they can't.

‘We'll hitchhike,’ Shell offers.

‘Outasite,’ Manny agrees.

No further deliberation needed, they walk out of the house, like silent pilgrims.

Outside, a magnificent breeze. Jerry smiles, raising his hand to capture it.

Then the others raise their hands gently, to capture their own share of the breeze.

‘I caught it!’ Manny announces in surprise.

‘I caught it too,’ Cob says, holding up his hand as if to exhibit the captured breeze.

‘And I've got it too! ‘ Shell exults.

‘Me too!’ Jerry says. He feels the breeze stirring restlessly in his hand. And then after moments of silence he says, ‘Let's let it go—it's got to be free if it's a breeze.’

Slowly all four open their hands, releasing the captured breeze, which seems to glide to its flowing origin.

That moment, it wafted them with a touch of sorrow. Four figures on the street, outlined so small against the desert mountains, they stare into the vast sky after the lost, freed breeze.

The sky. A breathing presence. Jerry whispers to it the reverberating conjugation, I love, you love, we love.

Manny stands in the middle of the street, his hands stretched as far as they'll reach over his head, as if to grasp the sky. ‘I want the sky to see me!’ he announces joyfully.

‘Me too!’ ‘Me too!’ ‘Me too!’

They all stand in the middle of the street, their bodies stretching toward the sky.

Now they're walking toward the highway, down the hill. The street curls, shortens before them, now it stretches, lengthens. For blocks they walk along a beautiful, warmly frozen eternity.

Then they stumble on a jagged, patched shadow. They peer at it with profound interest. Separated curiously from its origin—and they do not search for it—the shadow spills sinisterly.

‘Is it pretty or ugly ?’ Jerry asks.

‘Ugly,’ Cob decides.

They abandon it quickly.

‘I'm hungry,’ Manny says, spotting a supermarket nearby. Within the drug's overwhelming clarity, the store looks improvised, fashioned out of flimsy colored blocks.

Without pondering the decision, they walk into the supermarket, exploring the aisles. The store tilts, heavy with cardboard colors. Before the dairy products, Jerry reaches easily for a container of sour cream. Opening it, he scoops it out with his hand, eating it happily, now offering it eagerly to the others, who scoop the cream with their fingers.

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