The Mulching of America by Harry Crews

Author:Harry Crews [Crews, Harry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sales Personnel, General, Miami (Fla.), Fiction
ISBN: 9780684825410
Google: xYtaAAAAMAAJ
Amazon: 0684825414
Publisher: Touchstone
Published: 1995-04-15T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

They were just settling into the tiny room, Gaye Nell on the edge of the narrow bed, Peterbilt, Hickum Looney, and LaFarge cross-legged on the floor, Slimy curled in a far corner holding his hurt wrist against his chest, with the Boss standing, his back against the wall, between a tiny TV and a blond chest of drawers with a Gideon Bible on top of it. The Boss made eye contact with each of them for an instant, licked his lower lip, raised his hand, and had his misshapen mouth open to speak when a tiny East Indian wearing a huge yellow turban burst into the room. His face was as composed as a mask, but his large wet eyes were bright and angry.

“No, Boss,” he said. “Not even for you. The answer must be no. I have my job to think of. One person pay, one person stay. You know the rule.” The little Indian spoke with a clipped English accent.

“Murkerjee,” said the Boss, getting all the syllables of the name in order and perfectly enunciated despite his damaged lip. “Hab nu lost nur nodnammed mind?”

“Murk,” a thin, grieving voice called, “it’s me, Slimy. Over here in the corner. Do you believe what they’ve done to me? Look what they’ve done to my fucking arm, Murk. And on top of that, my ear. I think I’m gonna lose my fucking ear.”

Murkerjee bent a little at the waist and squinted into the dim corner of the room where Slimy squirmed in gentle undulation, holding up one badly swollen wrist and with his good hand demonstrating that his ear had been torn badly. Black blood was crusted on the side of his neck under the damaged ear.

“Why,” asked Murkerjee, “have you done this thing to the ear on the head of my friend Slimy? This is a terrible thing that I would never have thought. ” And then without waiting for an answer, he asked: “Is it your wish, Slimy, that I call the constabulary?”

The voice from the far corner was suddenly much stronger: “You know goddam well I can’t talk to no cops.”

“Please do not blaspheme under this roof, Slimy, for I too must live under it,” said Murkerjee. “Americans are strange, most strange. You are forever a puzzlement to me.”

“You come in here dressed like a clown, talking like a parrot,” said Gaye Nell, “and say we’re the strange ones.” Something that seemed to threaten to choke her rattled in her throat. She stood up from her place on the bed and flexed her fingers. “What you need is an attitude adjustment. Nobody talks like that with me in the same room with them.”

“Damn,” said Hickum, “you’ve shot the toes off one and almost tore the ear off another one, don’t you—”

“Nooney,” said the Boss softly, and the room fell instantly silent. His eyes turned and held on Gaye Nell. She sat again on the bed and folded her hands in her lap.

The Boss walked over to Hickum, squatted down, and put his divided upper lip next to his ear.

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