Harlan Ellison - Web of the City

He still saw the man’s eyes, however; rimmed with black and deep pools of red that beat at him ferociously. He remembered one night the old man had come home from a drunk and found him sleeping on the sofa. In his besotted state he had clubbed Rusty with a rolled-up magazine and sent him reeling. That had been one of the last times Rusty had allowed himself to get close enough to his father for the man to strike him. That had been a long, long time ago, and Rusty tried to exclude Pops from his world, as much as possible.

It was three or four days, sometimes, before the old man impinged on his consciousness. Then it was a shock and a sharp wrench to blank out the old man again.

That had been hours before and Pops was far behind, far uptown, and Rusty walked Times Square like a hungry animal. His feet marked the paving blocks, ticking them away, one after another till he was sure the next would mark the end of the world, and he would step off into quiet oblivion.

His mind was tormented; he had to do something.

The walk downtown had taken a long time, and Times Square—the cesspool of 42nd Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues—drew him like a quicksand bog. He stumbled into the neon and blare of the area hardly knowing he had been unerringly aiming at it all day. The Strip was crowded, as only a Sunday night crowd in New York can be a crowd. One gigantic, pulsing, living mass, moving, surging, pressing, hot and sweating, carrying along with it the fever of lechery and the stink of bad hot dogs, good papaya juice, tired feet. Rusty joined the tide and let it carry him along.

He paused before an open-air restaurant where bright cards hung above the soiled counters, enticing Rusty to dishes of fish and salad. He turned in and passed the bar. No beer now. He knew instinctively that his stomach would not take it. He passed down the counter to the hot table, and got in line. He stood silently waiting for the people before him to get their meals, and as the swarthy, muscled cook looked across tiredly, Rusty said, “Shrimp plate.”

He watched the stocky man smoothly gather up the shrimp from the grease bucket, the salad, the potatoes from the deep, snapping fat and empty them all into the paper plate. It was a remarkable thing, Rusty thought, the way the cook could handle all those things, so fast, so agilely. It was very much like the way a man handled his own life. Some men better than others. Some men not at all.

He paid across the counter, received his change and carried the plate to a table. Beside him a fat man in a dirty white shirt, open at the neck and showing curling strands of wet hair, watched as he set the plate down.

The fat man turned back to his own nearly empty plate, and concentrated a piece of bread on a puddle of gravy. He licked his lips with a tongue-tip, and leaned across as Rusty settled into his food. “You, uh, you wanna pass the salt, please?” he asked. His eyes were tiny and very white at the outer edges.

Rusty hardly glanced at the man and passed the salt shaker across. The man tried desperately to touch Rusty’s hand as the shaker passed between them, but he failed.

Rusty concentrated on eating, and the fat man toyed with the scraps on his plate, finally leaning over, breathing warmly into Rusty’s neck, and saying, “You, uh, you like movies? Huh, kid?”

Rusty turned, seemed to notice the man for the first time. He saw the plump, moist hands, the greasy folds of skin that wattled the neck, the tiny, piggish eyes and the movement, movement, movement of the lips. The man’s crew-cut, Prussian look startled the boy. At once he knew the fat man for what he was.

“No. I don’t dig movies. Never go.” Rusty started to move to another table.

The fat man’s pudgy hand snaked out and touched the boy’s. A sharp intake of breath came from the man, and he wet his lips again. “You don’t wanna go to a movie with me, huh?”

Rusty shook his head, tried to get away. The man held fast, like some sort of porous plaster. Rusty grew panicky, and he received a clear memory picture of the day a snapping turtle had fastened on his finger and not let go till he had mashed it between two rocks. He grew more frightened as the seconds grew and finally he jerked at the grip.

The man slid closer. His free hand went beneath the table, as though trying to escape the revealing light. It came to rest on Rusty’s knee, and the boy’s face went gray.

“Leggo!” Rusty snarled, and his hand found the handle of the fork. The fat man was immersed in technicolored fantasies of his own; his fingers clenched the boy’s flesh. Rusty struggled, but was blocked by the man’s terrible hold and angle of chair and table. He grasped the fork tightly and before he knew what he was doing, swung the utensil overhand with ferocity.

The fork caught the fat man in the hand, and the four prongs went into the soft, flabbed skin with a ripping and scraping. The fat man’s eyes unfilmed and a gurgle rose up in his mouth. He bellowed something unintelligible, and struggled back up out of the chair.

The fork still hung from his hand, loosely, but imbedded and surrounded by spraying blood. He clenched his teeth, bit his lip and pulled the fork loose. He threw it from himself, and went back, back, back, as though an innocent and delicate child had attacked him.

He did not look at Rusty, but though he looked elsewhere, his surprise and horror were directed at the boy. Rusty slid his chair away from the table and as the fat man cried and moaned he ducked out of the restaurant, and quickly lost himself in the tide that flowed toward Eighth Avenue.

The movie houses all looked run-down and too glossy for any fun. He caught a disjointed view of a million neon words wriggling across marquees, and decided he did not want a movie now. Perhaps later, but not now. Now he would try the shooting gallery. Yeah, that was it. The shooting gallery.

Playland was open—always open, never closed, always open—and through the big front glass windows, he could see all the tourists and hangers-on, spending their dimes and nickels on Pokerino and skeet ball.

He walked in, and leaned against the counter, watching the bald, ugly man behind the printing press making fake newspaper headlines in the white empty spaces on dummy papers.

BEN AND WALLY HIT TOWN

GIRLS RUN FOR COVER!!

ARMY LETS GEORGE LIPPOLIS OUT

U.S. FRIGHTENED

MARGIE AND FRANCINE AVAILABLE,

BOYS STORM N.Y.

He read the samples upon the walls, and chuckled dryly. It was all a bad dream. There was no forgetting. He turned to the balding, ugly man and said, “How much?”

“What?”

“I said, how much for one of them papers?”

“Fifty cents. Anything ya wanna say, I’ll put it on.”

Rusty knew he was doing something he shouldn’t… knew he was sinking himself deeper into his own misery, but he told the man, “Put, ‘Dolores Santoro murdered.’ Then, uh, write, ‘Her brother killed her. He’ll get his.’ ”

The balding, ugly man looked at the boy strangely, and said hesitatingly, “That’s more’n I can get on two lines.”

Rusty shoved off, walked away, the man behind him yelling across the floor, “Hey! You! Don’choo want that paper? Hey, c’mon, I’ll figger some way to get it on—aw hell!”

Rusty stopped at the booth and changed a dollar into nickels and dimes. The attendant fished a fistful from a dirty white hip apron, and two-finger counted them into Rusty’s palm. The boy turned away and considered the machines. Instinctively, he went to one of the target machines and fingered the metal barrel of the rifle. The background behind the glass showed a forest with levels in which a few scattered rabbits and turkeys stood, a b-b shoot center in each. He slid a dime from the heap in his hand and put it into the slot. The machine clicked, banged and lights went on in the forest. Bunnies popped up, turkeys popped up, a white-goateed farmer with a corn-cob pipe popped up, clutching a straw hat, a bear peered from behind a tree, weaving left to right, and out of sight around the trunk. A timer began snapping off the seconds.