Stig Dagerman - Sleet - Selected Stories

I’m more than happy to leave of my own free will, though the deputy is right behind me giving me his two cents worth. Don’t know who died and made him dictator, for Christ’s sake.

“Can think of some newspapers that would be interested in this situation,” I say to Doughboy and his girl.

“Yeah, yeah, OK,” Doughboy says, like it’s all I been talking about.

Can’t get me out of there fast enough because the goddamn deputy keeps pushing me in the back.

“Let’s go, Lindqvist,” he says, pushing me along.

“That’s spelt with a ‘qv,’ — you just remember that!” I say, in case he thinks he can treat me like trash. The doorman’s eyes open wide as I walk back through the turnstile. Probably thinks he’s seeing things, the dimwit.

“Just wait till newspapers get hold of this story,” I say to him, and I’d say he looks pretty nervous. The thought of getting exposed in the papers — that’ll put the fear of God in these hicks every time.

There’s that goddamn hole again! Now Doughboy’s sweetheart is gonna think I’m drunk. She’s a pretty little thing, that one. I’m walking behind them, giving her the odd pinch here and there. And Doughboy, he tells me to keep my goddamn paws to myself. That’s the problem with him. Can’t handle his liquor. Otherwise he’s OK. He gets into his car with the girl climbing in right after him. Then I squeeze in the front seat right next to her. They probably thought I’d get in the back, but why the hell would I do that? It’s fun to crowd in next to a woman. Who would pass up a chance like that?

Now Doughboy’s looking to show off a bit. He eases out into the road nice and slow and turns the headlights on. But then he starts picking up some real speed, and the girl can’t help bouncing a bit on the seat. She’s a beauty, this one. I’d say it’s still up for grabs who’s gonna bed her tonight. Not like I’m a womanizer, but getting girls is something that’s always come kind of easy to me.

“Eight long months I was stuck in that goddamn Lappland shithole,” I start to tell her, and she just grins.

“Yeah, okay,” Doughboy snaps, cutting me off in the middle. “Okay, okay,” he says again, like it’s the only thing I’ve been talking about all night.

It’s stuffy all of a sudden here inside the car, and the sweat starts running off me in sheets. The noise of the engine is blocking up my ears. I can taste the whiskey making its way back up my throat. Must be something wrong with the exhaust, fumes coming into the car. But Doughboy, he don’t say a word, and the girl just sits there caressing his chin. Each and every second it gets stuffier and hotter, and it feels like someone or something in my gut is pumping whiskey right up into my throat, along with that goddamn pudding I had at home earlier. And the road, it begins to bend and roll around, the wind catching and crumpling it, the roadside fences jerking and heaving. I’m feeling seasick. I try to roll down the window, but I grab the wrong handle and the door flies open instead.

“What the hell?” Doughboy yells and slows down. No need to yell. Don’t know what makes him think I’ll let myself get treated like garbage by the likes of him, a goddamn nobody with a pile of found money that don’t even know how to honor his debts. The fresh air’s nice anyway, and the whiskey bubble in my throat goes away. I can see we’re almost at the nurse’s place, where Doughboy come up behind the old man in his car. I should thank him for that. He did right by the old man. The tin-knocker, on the other hand, I wish we’d see him along this road. I’d tell Doughboy to run him over. But now he’s slowing way down, and I better close the door before he gets furious. I really should thank him, ’cause here it is. This is the place.

“Doughboy—” I say, but then it all comes back up in my throat again. Must be the exhaust fumes.

“Get out, you son of a bitch!” Doughboy screams.

The door is open, so that’s easy enough. All of a sudden, I’m laying in the road, and I can hear Doughboy yelling his head off.

“Puking in my car, you fucking pig! In my car!”

The girl pulls the door shut and then they’re gone.

I don’t feel right, laying here like this. Not like I broke anything. And the sickness is gone now. But when I try to get up my legs feel like clay, so I lay back down flat on my back and reach out my hand to grab hold of the hedge. It’s Jacob’s hedge. And I wonder how long it would take for my body to go cold. ’Cause it’s dark at the nurse’s place and it’s dark on the road. Not a goddamn star in the sky. And I can’t help thinking: You’re alone. You’ve always been alone. Remember at Mamma’s funeral how everybody kept their distance and wouldn’t look direct at you. Your whole life you’ve been alone like that. The old man was the only one that treated you like a regular person. And now he’s gone. And here you lay on the same spot where the old man took his last fall, and if a car come along now who’s to say if it could stop in time. So no wonder you’re sobbing. And you’re cold. And now it’s starting to rain, so you can just as well lay here and let yourself get soaked through and through.

It’s a hell of a thing, letting yourself get carsick like that. You can bet they’re back there in that goddamn kitchen, the whole pack of them sitting around and talking about how Knut is probably shitfaced right now, like always. Can you help it if you got legs made of clay? Can you help it if you get carsick? And that goddamn pudding — they should have to swallow that themselves. There’s a lot they should be made to swallow. Like the estate inventory after Mamma died, how Nisse took it home and touched it up — it would be good to jam that right down their throats. The old man’s the only one that gave two shits for you, so is it any wonder you lay here bawling in the rain? And you ain’t drunk. ’Cause who the hell can think about estate inventories drunk? There’s no way you could do that. But now you’re sharp as a whip again and they better watch out when you get home. Wouldn’t it be nice to catch a couple of them in your crosshairs? Look at them lousy little shit wreaths they bought! And they’re bursting with money. But you, picking up folks’ trash for a living, does that make you cheap? Damn straight it don’t! Everybody knows that stingy is something you’ve never been. But the thanks you get is none at all. Who thanks you for going to the churchyard and putting flowers on your Mamma’s grave, flowers that cost you eight crowns of your own hard-earned money? Or who appreciates you for sending the old man money for his dipping tobacco, every month for eight long years? Or the twenty crowns you spent hiring a car and a driver when you got out of that Lappland shithole? The thanks you got when you showed up at your own home was a hard kick in the ass and your own wife helped throw you out. So is it any wonder you’re laying here on your back, crying in the road next to Jacob’s hedge? And now the road is washing out with light, a car coming round the curve. It’s just as well if they run you over. Then we’ll see what that goddamn pack of jackals has to say back in the kitchen at home. We’ll see if they take back some of the knocks they made against you, the shitty things they had to say. At the funeral Lydia and her radio dealer will regret every last thing they’ve done to you, Knutboy. Every last thing they’ve said. To think that this is how you died, ’cause there ain’t no way that car’s gonna stop in time, not when it’s this dark out.

But when I’ve been dead for a good long while, somebody shines a light in my face and yells: “Lord Almighty! It’s one of the Lindqvists. Knut. Snot-slinging drunk! Can we get him up on the bike and wheel him home? His old man’s getting buried tomorrow. We can’t just leave him here in the road like this.”