Andrea Dworkin - Mercy

you roll it around your tongue and down on into your throat

and down on into your chest and you get fiery and warm and

you drink it down hard and fast and you sit stone still in

solemn concentration and you drink; the noise holds you

there, it’s almost physical, the noise, it’s a superhuman

embrace, bigger than a man’s, it’s swamp but not swam py, it’s

dry and dark and hot and popping, it’s dense and down and

dirty and you drink; the noise keeps you propped up, your

back upright and your legs bent and your feet firm ly balanced

on the stool, except the stool’s higher now, and you drink; and

yo u ’re like Alice, you’re getting smaller and it’s getting

bigger, and then you remember Humpty Dum pty was a

fucking eggshell and you could fall and break and D orothy got

lost in Oz and Cinderella was made into a pumpkin or nearly

such and there’s a terrible decline and fall awaiting you, fear

and travail, because the m oney’s gone, you been handing it

over to the big man behind the bar and you been drinking and

you been contemplating and the pile’s gone and there’s terrible

challenges ahead, like physically getting o ff the stool and

physically getting out o f the room and physically getting

home; it hardly seems possible that you could actually have so

many legs and none o f them have any bones that stand up

straight and you break it down into smaller parts; pay up so the

bartender don’t break your fingers; get o ff the stool; stand up;

walk, try not to lean on anyone, you can’t use the men as

leaning posts, you can’t volley yourself to the front sort o f

springing o ff one after the other, because one or another will

consider it affection; get to the door; don’t fall on the mandarin

with the list, don’t trip in front o f him, don’t throw up; open

the door on your own steam; get out the door fully clothed,

jacket, T-shirt, keys; once outside, you make another plan.

These are hard things; some o f them may actually be

impossible. It may be impossible to pay the bartender because

you may have drunk too much and it may be impossible to get

o ff the stool and it may be impossible to walk and it may be

impossible to stand up and it may be impossible to find the

door. It’s sad, yo u ’re an orphan and it’s hard to concentrate,

what with poor nutrition and a bad education; but sociology

w ill not save your ass if you drank more money than you got

because a citizen has to pay their bar bills. There’s tw o dollars

sitting on the bar in front o f you, the remains o f your pile like

old bones, fragments o f an archaic skeleton, little remnants o f

a big civilization dug up and yo u ’re eyeing it like it’s the grail

but with dishonorable intent and profane desire. It’s rightly

the bartender’s. H e’s been taking the money as it’s been due

with righteous discipline, which is w hy you ain’t overdrawn

on the account; you asked him in a tiny mouse voice afraid o f

the answer, you squeaked in the male din, a frightened

whisper, you asked him if you owed, you got up the nerve,

and yo u ’re straight with him as far as it goes but these extra

bills are rightly his; or you could have another drink; but you

had wanted to end it well, with some honor; and also he ain’t a

waitress, dear, and the m oney’s got his mark on it; and he ain’t

cracked a smile or said a tender word all night, which a girl

ain’t used to, he don’t like girl drinkers as a matter o f principle

you assume, he’s fast, he’s quiet, he’s got a hard, cold face with

a square ja w and long, oily hair and a shirt half open and a long

earring and bad teeth and he’s aloof and cold to you; and then

suddenly, so fast it didn’t happen, there’s a big, warm hand on

your hand, a big, hairy hand, and he’s squeezing your fingers

around the two dollars and he’s half smiling, one half o f his

face is smiling, and he says darling take a fucking cab. Y ou

stare at him but you can’t exactly see him; his face ain’t all in

one piece; it’s sort o f split and moving; and before you exactly

see his mouth move and hook it up with his words he’s gone,

w ay to a foreign country, the other end o f the bar where

they’re having bourbon, some cowboys with beards and hats.

Life’s always kind in a pinch. The universe opens up with a

gift. There’s generosity, someone gives you something special

you need; two dollars and you don’t have to suck nothing, you

are saved and the man in his generosity stirs you deeply.

Y o u ’re inspired to succeed with the rest o f the plan— move,

stand, walk, execute each detail o f the plan with a military

precision, although you wish you could take o ff your T-shirt

because it’s very hot but you follow the plan you made in your

mind and although your legs buckle and the ground isn’t solid,

it’s swelling and heaving, you make it past the strange, w avy

creatures with the deep baritone voices and the erections and

you get out, you get out the door even though it’s hard and

yo u ’re afraid because you can see outside that it’s raining, it’s

raining very hard, it’s pouring down, it’s so wet, you really

have an aversion to it because all your clothes will be drenched

and soaking and your lungs will be wet and your bones will

get all damp and wet and you can’t really see very well and the

rain’s too heavy and everything looks different from before

and you can’t really see through the rain and it’s getting in

your eyes as if your eyes are under water and burning, all

drowned in water, they hurt, and everything’s blurred and

your hair’s all wet as if it w o n ’t ever be dry again and there’s

water in your ears deep down and it hurts and everything's

chilly and wet. The w o rld ’s wet and watery and without

definition and without any fixed places o f reference or fixed

signs and it’s as if the city’s floating by you, like some flood

uprooted everything and it’s loose on the rapids and everywhere you step you are in a flood o f racing cold water. Y ou r feet are all wet and your legs are all wet and you squoosh in

your boots and all your clothes are soaked through and you are

dripping so much that it is as if you yourself are raining,

w ater’s flooding o ff you and it’s useless to be a person with

legs who counts on solid ground because here you have to

walk through water, which isn’t easy, yo u ’re supposed to