William Gaddis - J R

— Well what, what is it what’s…

— No well see it’s just these here opportunities I pasted up see where it says we act as your…

— Look will you just get all this off my lap? I just said I couldn’t help you I don’t…

— Okay don’t get mad I was only…

— I’m not mad I’m, I’m just tired I’ve been…

— No but see I thought like where ljust helped you out on these here tickets you’d maybe…

— All right! but, thank you look thank you for the loan I appreciate it but what makes you think I know anything about these, this girdle and bra business or a coin op laundry and dry cleaner I don’t even…

— But you said before you have your own business.

— My work, I said I have my own work.

— I know. What is it.

— Composing.

— What?

— Music. Composing music.

— Oh. You mean teaching it like?

— Writing it.

— You mean like making it up?

— Yes.

— Oh. The train drained to another standstill and he came forward over the heap on his lap to add another to the succession of knots in the sneaker’s lace. — Are those the only shoes you’ve got hey? Mister Bast?

The foot propped in the far hinge dropped from sight. — Why.

— Nothing I just wondered, see I got this thing where you send away for this here selling outfit which…

— Look J R would you mind I’m, I just want to close my eyes for a minute.

— What, like go to sleep…? he wedged a sneaker more tightly into the seat ahead bringing the heap higher with his knees, sinking slowly until a nostril came in reach of his thumb, finally — I just wondered, I mean can you make much doing that? writing this here music I mean? he paused, his elbow grinding against the arm hung limp beside him. — I guess not or like why would you teach, right…? and then he twisted abruptly bringing the burst elbow over the back of the seat — where’s that magazine hey.

— Which.

— With all the tits, give it here a second.

— Here take it, you coming back to finish trading?

— Just a second… net stockings, parted lips, hams, breasts fled under his thumb — hey Mister Bast?

— Look I told you I…

— No but wait a second I just remembered something, it’s back here someplace wait… his thumb stopped on Unusual Poses, ran its black crescent down Strange Pleasures, I Have What You’re Looking For, Honeymoon Love Drops — here look, you want to send it in? Song writers wanted. Send no money now. Our master tunesmiths will put your song to music that will, hey…? He turned to the profile riding severed down a cheekbone in the cracked pane beyond, — look I’ll just stick it in your pocket then… it came out torn the length of the page — for if you want to send it in okay? and he crushed it with the back of the page out displaying a graveled nipple in the breast pocket beside him, freed his feet from the seat ahead for an ungainly step to the one behind. — Here.

— What did you rip out hey.

— Nothing something Mister Bast wanted and look, take this here fingerlooking good thing your crap’s always getting into my stuff… he got the sneakers wedged into the seat ahead, brought his knees up under the heap.

— Crap boy look at yours I never saw such crap look, Investments Facts, A Glossy of Investment Terms who wants to trade that crap.

— Who said I’m trading it… the hand burrowed beneath him paused to scratch, came up with the pencil stub — look hey I’m trying to figure up some stuff okay?

— I thought you came back to finish trading but who wants that bunch of crap, I mean where’s Break exciting cases Solve vicious crimes.

— Under here, you want it?

— Keep it, I can send for it too.

— Go ahead.

— You got it free.

— So? you got dinner invitation free.

— What do you want with it, you can’t even go.

— Either can you. B… the pencil stub smudged down the glossary’s margin — no wait d, it was d…

— What was.

— This here word I’m looking for where I’m sending away to find out what they are g, h, no wait d’s before wait, c…

— How come you want them if you don’t even know what it is.

— Because they’re real cheap wait, d…

— Boy no wonder you get so much crap look, for fingerprint and identification plus bona fide reports of private investigators plus Green Book of Crime plus break exciting cases okay? For you’re getting rare coins plus dear law student plus this here surplus book and three cosmetic samples plus gala dinner okay?

— Okay plus spot bid sales where’s that.

— No well then I get powerful muscles plus rush me K’ung p’a in plain wrapper plus renowned Oriental doctors okay? You want this here defenders of wildlife or this cutting up these Jews thing?

— Who wants all that crap no look, just these whole six surplus books plus reference guide and spot bid sales plus gala dinner that’s all, watch out for your foot…

— My foot! Boy I can’t hardly move with all this crap what’s that, you even stole that yellow pad off them?

— What do you mean stole… his dangling thumb moored at the nearest nostril, — we’re this here owner aren’t we?

— Owner shit, boy… the hand beside him brought up its crew of fingers for a siege of nailbiting, — go ask that old fart that caught us in the toilet you’ll find out you don’t own shit.

— Oh yeah…? he said in a tone so low it was lost before it reached his image on the dirty pane where he stared now as though staring through at something far beyond. — That’s what you think.

A lighted platform loomed past the windows and was gone.

— We went right past the station hey. Mister Bast? wake up…!

— Quick hey, hurry up…

— Look out for my stuff…

— Hurry up before it starts again…

— I can’t get this, hey Mister Bast can you get this door open?

— One at a time now, one more car back don’t push!

— Look out hey, it’s full of teachers…

— Aggressive and action-oriented…

— to demand duty-free lunch periods, I didn’t go to college to learn how to teach kids how to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or…

— say career oriented, and making less than an average construction worker…

— with insurance for cars damaged in the school parking lots and…

— when the plumbing in the junior high gets stopped up with contraceptives, if you call that…

— creative tension, creating creative tension they call it…

— mass resignation, you call it mass resignation, with the antistrike law if you call it a strike you…

— call a spade a spade.

— Try that and they’ll burn down the school.

They milled past Debbys cespool freshly annotated We kick ass yours too toward the stairs, crowding down, pairing off to seek parked cars in the rising wind that caught up leaves and bits of newspaper.

— Mister Bast did you see my sweater…? The bus door shut in her face and he watched it bully its way into traffic before he turned back for the station, shook a locked door, finally swung open the one beside it.

— I want to report a lost sweater, he said at the grating. — Red. A girl’s red sweater.

The agent looked up at the clock. Then he thrust a form under the sign on the grating Agent on Duty J Teets. — Fill out this, hey buddy! You want to bust that?

— Too God damned late, beat me to it… a crash came from the shadows.

— What do you think you’re trying to do?

— Think? another crash, — know God damned well what I’m trying to do… and another, — get the cigarettes I paid for out of your God damned machine here.

— Kick it like that again you’ll have trouble.