The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ on his back in the coal pile. He starts to get up, then falls back again. His face looks blurred, as if somebody’d pulled a silk stocking over it. At first, it’s white, then the blood starts.

      The jigs have both jumped out of the truck. Blood’s really flowing now. The T-5 begins spitting teeth. The jig holds the hunky’s head up so the blood can come out. It’s dark, thick blood and there’s not a tooth left across the front of his mouth.

      The other jig is holding a pistol on me with both hands. He’s shaking and he has his finger on the trigger. I can’t tell if the safety is on or not. He’s staring, wild-eyed, down that gun at me.

      ‘Man, you done it. The fuckin’ ahmy’s gwine’a kill you!’

      I try to stare it out with him. What else can I do? He’s liable to kill me as not.

      ‘Put down that gun, nigger. I’m not gwine’a kill you, not yet!’

      I’m feeling cold inside. The jig lowers the gun but keeps it in his hand. The hunky is sitting up. He still doesn’t know what happened.

      Weiss is leaning forward, his eyes open. His mouth has dropped but he’s not drooling yet.

      ‘Well, sir, after I hit him, I was confined to quarters and three days later I had a summary court-martial. I was reprimanded, it was written into my service record, and they shipped me out to Benning for Infantry basic. It wasn’t much of a way to begin an army career, sir.’

      So, General Columbato was court-martialed and broken to private after only five days in the regular army. The whole thing was a farce. I’m confined to quarters for the rest of the time I’m at Cumberland; this meant no details, no standing around in the cold. They also take half my first six months’ pay. Big deal, half of fifty-four dollars a month. After the sentencing, the captain who’s in charge sees I’m not hurting. I’m trying my damnedest not to smile about the whole thing. He leans toward me.

      ‘Soldier, I also command you to visit Corporal Lumbowski in the hospital!’

      ‘I can’t do that, sir.’

      He stands up and leans farther forward, vested authority pouring from his eyes.

      ‘And why not, soldier. That’s a direct order!’

      ‘I’m confined to quarters, sir.’

      I keep my face straight and he’s pissed. Maybe I’ll get a second court-martial for insulting a commissioned officer. I’m working my way up.

      The captain keeps his eye on me and pulls out a drawer from the desk. He writes on a pad of paper. He hands the paper across to me. I take it without looking at it.

      ‘That’ll get you to the hospital, private.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’

      I take the chance; give him a fancy salute, sharp one, he returns it. I spin on my heels and leave. I walk through the orderly room, down the steps, across the company street and into the barracks. I flop out on my bunk the way the rest of the slobs do. I borrow a comic book from the bunk next to me, Captain Marvel. The bunk’s covered with comic books. Five days and about a hundred comic books later, I get orders for Benning. I never do get to see that T-5.

      I’m finished and Weiss is wanting more. We sit there quiet for a couple minutes.

      ‘And that’s the whole story, Sergeant?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘And you don’t feel you’d do anything like that again?’

      ‘No, sir. I learned my lesson.’

      ‘Did you ever hit or use violence on the patient?’

      Finally, he asks the jackpot question!

      ‘No, sir. We were friends.’

      He pushes the pencil up and down a few more times.

      ‘Do you have any idea, Alfonso, why you’ve been victim to these aggressive, hostile impulses? Did your father ever beat you excessively? Do you have some deep feeling of being hurt?’

      Son-of-a-bitch!! He fooled me with all the fat and the smiles and glasses. He knows. I’m beginning to know, too. I’m stuck with some crazy things, like Popeye.

      I yam what I yam

      And that’s what I yam;

      I’m Popeye the sailor man:

      Toot!!! Toot!!!

      I eat all my spinach and

      Fight to the finish.

      I’m Popeye the sailor man;

      Toot!!! Toot!!!

      Bullshit!!!!

      I spend all that summer, when I’m not catching dogs, watching the birds. There are eighteen young birds besides Birdie and Alfonso. We get through the molt without losing a single young one. I’m really enjoying learning their different flying styles. Each bird has its own way. The flying is what interests me most. The way Mr Lincoln is interested in color, I’m interested in flying. I could watch all the time; it’s almost like flying myself.

      With the warm weather, my room is definitely beginning to smell ‘birdey’. My mother keeps sticking her head into the room and sniffing. I’ve got to do something before she goes over the edge.

      In the meantime, I’m doing experiments with the young birds. I want to know exactly how much weight a canary can carry and still fly. I also want to know how important wings are to flying. Would a bird without wings keep trying to fly? I take one of the young birds from the last nest and pull out its flight feathers as they grow in. It does everything the other birds do, except when it jumps out of the nest it can’t fly. It hops around the bottom of the cage. The others grow and are out flying in the aviary while it’s still bound to the bottom of the cage. However, when its flight feathers do grow in, it catches up with the others and is soon flying as well as they are.

      I choose some of the best flying young birds and put weights on their legs. For weights I make little bands from solder. I increase these weights a bit at a time, putting on more and more bands. My calculations show that, with my volume, to equal the density of a bird, I’d have to weigh less than fifty pounds. I can never make that and live. I’m hoping that birds can still fly when they have a higher density.

      The way I weigh the birds is to put our kitchen platform scale in the aviary. I spread some feed on the platform and wait. When one of the birds lands to eat, I read the scale. That way I get the weights of all the birds. The birds all weigh almost the same; there’s less than a few grams separating the heaviest from the lightest. It’s hard to believe, they’re so light. I don’t put any weights on Alfonso or Birdie; I figure they’ve already worked enough.

      I keep increasing the weights until a bird refuses to fly. There’s quite a difference in endurance. Some birds quit after I’ve only put two bands on each leg. They just sit on the floor of the cage puffed up and pretend they’re asleep. It seems that when a bird thinks it can’t fly, it gives up. I have to take the weights off these birds or they won’t even eat.

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