86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,15
do.”
“The bleeding’s almost stopped. Just help me back to bed.”
“No it hasn’t. Don’t be an ass.”
“Promise me—you won’t tell Koffman. Promise me, god-damnit.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Why would I?”
“Okay, I’ll go tomorrow. I’ll do it on my lunch break. But don’t tell David, okay?”
“Just tell me what happened?”
“I was drunk. I was in a bar. Then I came back here. I don’t know. I guess I cut myself.”
“Splendid.”
“I said I can’t remember.”
“You drink too much, Bruno.”
“Have I stopped bleeding?”
“No. Not yet.”
Portia finished cleaning my cut. She put bacterial ointment on it, then a bandage and some tape to hold the gauze in place.
Standing up again I faced the mirror to examine her work. The bandage was right at my collar line. She’d done a good job. If I wore my shirts buttoned up, no one would be able to see what I’d done.
“You must promise you’ll go to the doctor tomorrow? First thing.”
“You have my one hundred percent guarantee. My personal commitment as a gentleman.”
“Don’t mock me. I’m deathly serious.”
“So am I. No shit.”
“Very well. Then I’ll go back downstairs to my desk. You’ll be okay for the time being.”
“Wait,” I said.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Don’t leave. I need you to help me back to bed.”
“Certainly. Are you dizzy?”
“Yeah. I’m dizzy.”
My arm around Portia’s shoulder as we shuffle across the floor toward my bed.
When we reach my rack Portia throws a towel down over the bloodstains. She helps me sit, then lifts my legs up on to the mattress.
I glance down at my cock—amazingly the thing is still half hard. The skinny woman with the Madonna hair is standing above me, looking down. “I don’t want to be alone,” I say.
“Not to worry. I’ll be right downstairs.”
“Then—how about a nightcap before you go?”
“That’s preposterous.”
Nodding down at my cock. “What about…that? You could be a big help…with that.”
“You’re an evil pig.”
“I’m attracted to you. Sexually. I love your tits.”
“That’s absurd. Tell the truth. You have an erection and I happen to be in the room.”
“C’mon, Portia? One drink.”
“Absolutely no. Good night.”
“Okay, good night…Hey, what about this: You stand there and watch and I’ll do the rest.”
“Fuck off!”
I couldn’t sleep. Two hours later, after the bleeding had finally stopped and I’d had a couple more drinks, and I was sure she’d fallen asleep, I went downstairs, tiptoed toward her snoring body, found her purse, then reached in and stole her supply of nicotine gum.
seven
Before dawn the next morning came the onset of the black dog. Madness. Shame. Jimmy screaming in my head. My eyes were not yet open but behind them the Voice was supplying my brain with poison. Nice, asshole. Now you’ve done it. You’re stuck with her. She’s got a ream of shit on you now. What happens when she pisses you off and you try to bump her? What then? Smooth, jerkoff. Well done.
I felt like puking while at the same time my body screamed its demand for a drink.
Ten minutes later, after half a bottle of Pepto, I was able to hold down two vikes and two fingers of whiskey. I could stand up.
The unshaven madman’s face in the bathroom mirror told me everything I need to know: terror and humiliation.
Then the flash of truth that all of it, my months of work, all my short stories, were gone. Lost. As dead as my dead computer. Then, over and over, the crazy rerun of the incident with Portia and the knowledge that there was a good chance I had permanently damaged myself with Dav-Ko. If the skinny English girl decided to, if she saw fit to spill her guts to Koffman, I’d be jobless and homeless too. The damage would be complete.
When I peeled the tape and gauze away from my cut I discovered a quarter-inch-wide scab forming down the side of my neck. There was no bleeding, so no medical attention would be necessary. The hell with doctors.
After a shower I was able to hold down another half a glass of whiskey. I could breathe again. The shakes were nearly under control.
Pulling the sheets off the bed I discovered that a wide blood stain had leaked through on to the new mattress.
Like a fumbling burglar covering his crime, I flipped the mattress to the clean side then picked up the lamp and broken glass, stuffing the pieces and all the bloody bedding into three plastic supermarket bags I’d saved for trash. There were a couple of bloody handprints on the wall above where I slept that wouldn’t come off.