Hubert Selby - Requiem for a Dream

The first day of the diet was over. Well, almost. Sara sat in her viewing chair, sipping on a glass of water, concentrating on the show on the screen and ignoring the refrigerator which was whispering enticingly to her. She finished the water, her tenth glass, thinking thin. She refilled the glass from the pitcher on the table, the pitcher that replaced the chocolate box. If eight glasses of water was good, then sixteen is twice as good and maybe I/ll lose twenty pounds the first week. She looked at the glass of water and shrugged, If I stay up all night I cant make sixteen. I drink any more Im going to be up all night anyway. She sipped the water, thinking thin. The refrigerator reminded her of the matzoh in the cupboard. Without looking at it she told it to mind its own business. What do you have to do with the cupboard? Its bad enough you have to remind me about the herring you got but the cupboard is too much already. She sipped some more water and stared at the screen and shut her ears to the refrigerator, but he managed to penetrate the barrier and tell her that the herring, the beautiful and delicious herring in sour cream, will go bad if she doesn’t eat it soon and it would be a shame to let such good herring tidbits go to waste. So listen to Mr. Concerned. Youre worried so much about the food going bad why do you do it? Thats your job meshuggener . Youre supposed to keep the food from going bad. You do your job an the herring will be fine thank you. She sipped some more water— thin, thin, thin, thin . Too bad I dont have a scale. I could weigh myself and see how its working. Eh, right now it would groan. All this water. Anymore and I/ll float away. The program ended and Sara yawned and blinked her eyes. She thought briefly of staying up and watching the late show, but quickly ignored that thought. Her body was aching and was crying for sleep. It was a day. The hair is getting closer to the red. At least now theres a nodding acquaintance. She drank more water— thin, thin . The form… eh, a nothing. Zipping through like a whirling dervish, youll excuse the expression. And the eggs and grapefruit, one, two, three, and some lettuce thank you. A long, tiring day. Almost too tired to go to bed. She suddenly remembered the refrigerator, If he tries to grab me I/ll hit him, and not in the tuchis . She finished her water— thin, th — zophtic, zophtic, zophtic . She stood up and listened to the sloshing, I feel like a goldfish bowl. She turned off the set, put the pitcher and glass in the sink and, with head high and shoulders back, she walked past the refrigerator swerving neither to the left nor right, her eyes fixed steadfastly ahead at her goal, knowing that she had conquered the enemy and that he shook with fear—listen to him grumbling and rumbling, shaking in his boots already—and she walked like a queen, a television queen, to her bedchamber. She slowly, and luxuriously, lowered herself onto the bed and stretched out, thanking God for such a nice bed. Her worn nightgown felt so silky and smooth and cool and softness seemed to surround her, and a feeling of peace and joy gently spread out from her stomach, like small ripples in a pond, through her body and rested ever so lightly on her eyes as she floated off into a joyous and refreshing slumber.

Marion hustled them out of the house early so Harry and Tyrone were among the first to show up for work. Actually it didnt make any difference because so few shaped up that everyone was put to work. They took another dexie before leaving so they were very quick and ready to go. It was a hot and humid night and the sweat poured off them as they tossed bundles of papers into the trucks, but they just tossed and laughed and giggled and talked, doing as much work as any six men there. When their first truck was loaded they went over to another one to help, and the guys stood back and shook their heads as Harry and Tyrone tossed the bundles of papers around like it was a privilege and a game… a fun game. One of the guys told them to cool it, Youll fuck this thing up man. Like how? Shit, they push us hard enough as it is, if you guys start racin like this theyll expect this every night. One of the other guys handed each of them a can of cold beer, Here, take it easy and cool off. We come here pretty steady, you know? an we want ta keep it like it is. Sheeit, I dig what you say baby. We be cool. We doan want the man to lay a heavy han on nobody jim. Yeah, Harry nodded an swallowed half the beer then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, goddamn thats good. Cuts through the blotter I got in my mouth. The other guys slapped Harry and Tyrone on the back and everybody was happy, and when the trucks were finished Harry and Tyrone bought the next dozen cans of beer and passed them around while they waited for the next line of trucks to back in. Later on a few bottles of wine were passed around and Harry and Tyrone were feeling pretty good, the alcohol taking the sharp edge off the dexies. They worked a couple of hours extra and were as happy as hogs in shit figuring out just how much they would make that night. The kick in the ass came when they found out they wouldnt get paid that night, but would have to wait until the end of the week to get their checks. Sheeit. Now aint that a shame? Aint that a mutha fuckin shame? Ah fuck it man. What the hell. This way we/ll get our bread all at once an wont have to worry about pissin it away before we get enough for the piece. Yeah, maybe so, but workins weird enough, but workin without getting the braid is somethin else jim. Dont sweat it, Ty my boy, just go home an take those downers Marions gave ya an get some rest. A couple more nights an we got our piece. Harry extended his hand and Tyrone slapped it, You goddamn right baby, and Harry slapped his and they left the newspaper plant, hurrying to get home before they got caught in the early morning rush hour, and the sunlight.

Marion languidly tidied up the apartment after they left, humming and singing to herself. The apartment was small and there wasnt much to do other than clean the cups and coffee pot and put them away. She sat on the couch, hugging herself as she listened to the music. She had the strangest feeling inside, a feeling that was unfamiliar but not threatening. She thought about it, tried to analyze it, but she couldnt quite identify it. For some reason she kept thinking of the many, many madonnas she had seen in the museums of Europe, especially in Italy, and her mind was filled with the bright blues and brilliant light of the Italian renaissance and she thought of the Mediterranean and the color of the sea and sky and how, as she looked at the isle of Capri from the restaurant on the top of the hill in Naples, she suddenly realized why the Italians were masters of light and why they could use blue like no one before or since. She remembered sitting on the patio of that restaurant under the net awning, the sun warming a new life into her and firing her imagination and experiencing what it must have been like to sit there a few hundred years ago in that light and color and listen to Vivaldis strings singing and vibrating through that air, and Gabrielis brass canzones pulsing from the nearby towers, and sit in a cathedral with the sun bursting through the stained windows and gleaming on the carved wood of the pews listening to a Monteverdi Mass. It was then, for the first time in her life, that she felt alive, really and truly alive, like she had a reason for existing, a purpose in her life and she had realized that purpose and would now pursue it and dedicate her life to it. All that summer and fall she painted, mornings, afternoons, evenings, then walked around the streets that were still echoing the music of the masters, and every stone, every pebble seemed to have a life and reason of its own and she somehow felt, though vaguely, a part of that reason. Some nights she would sit in the caf£ with other young artists and poets and musicians and who knows what else, drinking wine and talking and laughing and discussing and arguing and life was exciting and tangible and crisp like the clear Mediterranean sunlight. Then as the grayness of winter slowly seeped down from the north the energy and inspiration seemed to ooze from her as paint from a tube and now when she looked at a bare canvas it was only a bare canvas, a piece of material stretched over a few pieces of wood, it was no longer a painting waiting to be painted. It was just canvas. She went further south. Sicily. North Africa. Trying to follow the sun to the past, the very recent past, but all she found was herself. She went back to Italy, gave away all her paintings, equipment, books and what nots. She went back to that restaurant on the hill in Naples and sat there for endless hours for a week, looking at Vesuvius, Capri, the bay, the sky, trying, with the desperation of the dying, to reawaken those old feelings, trying with jewels of sparkling wine to rekindle the flame that half fired her imagination just a short lifetime ago, and though the wine sparkled in the sunlight, and the moonlight, the once blazing fire was extinguished and Marion finally succumbed to the stone coldness within her. She shivered as she remembered leaving Italy and coming back to the States, back to the grossness of her family, back to the dulled brilliance of her life. She shivered again, involuntarily, as she sat on the couch, looking back through so many miserably unhappy yesterdays, then smiled and hugged herself tighter, not from coldness nor fear nor despair, but joy. All that was in the near and distant past. Over with. Gone. Once more her life had reason… purpose. Once more there was a direction for her to follow. A need for her energies. She and Harry were going to recapture those blues of the sky and sea and feel the warmth of desire that had been rekindled. They were going to a new renaissance.