David Goodis - The Blonde on the Street Corner

“Just look at you. You got out of high school twelve years ago. And since then what have you done? Answer me, what have you done? You’ve done absolutely nothing. Every once in a while Blayner’s would call you into their shipping room. You’d make twelve-fifty a week and as soon as things fell off they’d let you go. And why would it be you and not someone else? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you sure enough. Because they’ve got you down pat, mister, just as I’ve got you down pat. They know you’re lazy. They know you’re a clockwatcher. They know you’re no good now, and you never were any good and you never will be any good.”

This Italian, Nucio, his name was, from Southwark, had knocked out Caesar Thimmons in four rounds at the Olympia. Thimmons was a fast colored boy who had decisioned Johnny Silvo and Jack Haggerty and Mike Phillips. He had been getting the better of the Italian when -

“So what do you do all day? I ask you — what do you do? I’ll tell you. You stand on the corner. You stand there with those other no-good bums. The whole lot of you — just standing there on the corner — doing nothing. My God, how can you stand there all day long and not do anything? I’d go crazy, I swear I would.”

In the fourth round Thimmons was pounding Nucio all around the ring. His left was working like a charm. He had the Italian against the ropes and he was working the left and then dancing in and flicking both hands to the body. Then it happened. Nucio ducked under a jab and came up with the right and -

“There are so many things a young man can do. I know if I was a young man I’d find something to do. I’d go from house to house selling magazines or dish rags or vacuum cleaners or anything. You eat and you sleep and you stand on the corner and that’s all. That’s all you do. You and the other bums. One of these days your father is going to get good and fed up with this sort of thing and he’ll tell you to get a move on and get a job and bring some money in the house or else. And you know very well what I mean.”

Ralph finished his coffee and the article about the Italian lightweight at the same instant. He shoved the paper and the cup to one side and he said, “What are you talking about?”

She stabbed viciously at a potato and said, “You know very well what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend you didn’t hear. That’s your father’s trick. He pretends he don’t hear. But he hears every word I’m saying. I’m on to him, all right. And I’m on to you.”

“You know, Mom, you’re pretty. You don’t look a day over thirty-five.”

“Now you shut up!”

“Can I have sixteen cents?”

“Sixteen cents?”

“I just thought that you could spare sixteen cents so I could buy a pack of cigarettes.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Well now, isn’t that nice. He wants sixteen cents for a pack of cigarettes. Isn’t that perfectly sweet of him?” She took a deep breath. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself — standing there and asking me for sixteen cents for a pack of cigarettes. You look just like a beggar. Standing there and asking for sixteen cents. Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“All right, don’t give it to me then.” He started to leave the kitchen. He took his time.

She said, “For subway fare to go downtown I’d gladly give you the money. You’d be downtown and you’d be looking for a job. But I certainly am not going to give you sixteen cents for cigarettes!” As she said this she took a small purse from the top of the icebox. She reached into the purse and took out sixteen cents.

He reached out for the money. Glaring, she held it away from him.

“Aw, come on, Mom—”

“I know I shouldn’t give it to you. I just know I shouldn’t.” She put the money in his hand.

“Thanks, Mom.” He smiled at her. She saw gratitude in his eyes. Her baby wanted a pack of cigarettes. And she had given him the sixteen cents. Now he was grateful, his eyes smiling at her. The same light had been in his eyes so long ago in the days when she had held him in her arms, and the milk had dribbled down his chin, and from the sweet pillow of her breast he had looked up at her, and the nourished, contented smile on his face had said, “Thanks, Mom.”

They were on the corner. They were leaning against the purple brick wall of the candy store, the three of them. The collars of their coats were turned up, and they kept stamping their feet up and down and blowing into their cupped hands.

“This is not for me,” Ken said. “This is definitely not for me” He was thirty-four, a tall, starved-looking creature. He wore a thin topcoat. It was torn. His shoes also were torn.

“What isn’t for you?” Dippy said. Dippy was thirty-three years old. One or two or three days a month he helped somebody install oil burners and made himself a few dollars. He was short and thin and he rolled his own cigarettes and plastered his black hair down with a lot of grease. He seldom bathed.

“He means that the cold isn’t for him,” George said. George was thirty-one. Every election he watched at the polls and made himself five dollars. Sometimes he was a Republican and sometimes he was a Democrat. One election day he got his parties mixed up and wound up in the hospital with a slight concussion and cuts and bruises on the face. He had pale blonde hair, almost white, and his eyes were very pale blue, his skin very pale. He was of medium height and weight and he had strong wrists. At one time he had figured on playing big league baseball. But somehow he never got around to it. He had played third for several sandlot ball clubs in all parts of the city, and he had been kicked off every one of them. Once he had gone down to Richmond, to play in the D league. He lasted one week. He always kept saying that his finesse in fielding was suited only for the big leagues. Finally he said he was disgusted with big league baseball and was definitely through with it. He never wore a hat.

“One of these days,” Ken said, “I’m gonna pick me up and head South.”

“That’s what you said last year,” George said, his teeth clacking, his lips bluish.

“One of these days,” Ken said, “I’m gonna get on a subway and go downtown and head over to the Baltimore Pike. Then I’ll be on my way. I’ll hitch straight down to Florida, to Miami. I’ll get myself a smart job in some high-class hotel. I bet a bellhop can knock off a clean forty a week down there in the season. I’ll live like a duke down there.”

“In Florida?” Dippy said.

“Sure. It’s the only place in the world. Look how it is up here. A miserable icebox. The wind cuts into you and it’s so mean that it makes you mean. D’ja ever notice that? How mean people can be in the wintertime? It’s the cold that does it. But down in Florida everybody’s happy, and why shouldn’t they be? It’s warm, it’s nice. There’s a beach. There’s everything.”

“In Florida?” Dippy said.

“Sure. I got a good mind to pick me up and shoot down there this week. Why not tomorrow? What’s to stop me from starting out tomorrow?”

“I’ll go with you,” Dippy said.

“Sure,” Ken said. “I bet we can make it in four or five days. Now’s the best time to go. We’ll get bellhop jobs in a hotel and really live.”

“We’ll go tomorrow, then,” Dippy said.

“Sure. We’re practically on our way already,” Ken said.

George looked at them. He shook his head slowly and then looked at the pavement and sighed.

Ken said, “This is something I been wanting to do for a long time. I been wanting to get out of this lousy town. I gave this town a chance to make good with me. I gave it a good chance. Now I’m through with it, see? I’m through with it for good.”