Now and on Earth Read Online Free Page B

a place in another year or two. Don't you remember how your father went? Like you. Exactly like you. Irritable. Erratic. Dull. Then-well, you know. Ha, ha. You're damned right you know.
    I wonder if they are mean to you in those places. I wonder if they put the slug on you when you get to cutting up .
    Ha, ha-ha, ha, ha. They'll give you a spoon to eat with, bud. And a wooden bowl. And they'll cut your hair off to save on shampoos. And after the first month they'll make you wear mittens to bed… They can't get you there? They got Pop there, didn't they? Not they . You. You and Mom and Frankie.
    Remember how easy it was? Come on, Pop, we'll have a bottle of beer and go for a little ride. Pop didn't suspect. He'd never think his own family would do a thing like that to him. You had to? Of course you did! And they'll have to. And you won't know until it's too late- like Pop did.
    Remember the startled look on his face as you sidled out the door? Remember how he knocked upon the panels? Knocked; then pounded? Clawed? Remember his hoarse voice following you down the hall? The quavering and cadenced tones-"Frankie, Jimmie, Mom, are you there? Mom, Frankie, Jimmie, are you coming back?" And then he began to cry-to cry like Jo might. Or Mack or Shannon.
    Or you.
    “M-mom I’m afraid, Mom. Take me out of here. T-take-me-out-of-here! Mom… Frankie… Jimmie… JIMMIE! Take-me out…”
    I screamed and sobbed and my head rose to a peak and flopped back in a sickening mush.
    “I’m coming, Pop! I won’t leave you! I’m coming!”
    And Mom was shaking me by the shoulder, and the clock on the mantel said five-thirty.
    The whisky flask was empty. So was the wine bottle.
    "Jimmie," said Mom. "Jimmie. I don't know what in the world's going to become of you."
    I staggered to my feet. "I do," I said. "How about some coffee?"

4
    We didn't have anything in the house to take with me for lunch, and I lost my coffee before I'd gone a block. I coughed and choked and vomited, and then I began to cramp and I knew I ought to go to the toilet. But I was afraid I'd be late, so I went on.
    It wasn't so bad going down the hill. All I had to do was stand still and keep lifting my feet and the sidewalk rolled under them. But when I reached Pacific Boulevard, I began to have trouble. They've got six-lane traffic on Pacific, and every lane was filled with aircraft workers going to the plants. Most of them were in jalopies because cars are higher than get-out on the West Coast, and you knew their brakes couldn't be too good. And they were all traveling fast, bumping and crowding into each other to get to the plants ahead of the others. It was still early, but you have to get there early if you want a parking space within walking distance.
    It would've been hard for me to get through that traffic even if I'd felt-well-normal, and I didn't. I wasn't just so sick and tired I wanted to lie down in the gutter and go to sleep. The wine was playing tricks on me. I couldn't coordinate my impulses with my limbs and muscles.
    I'd start to step into the traffic, but my reactions were so slow that I couldn't move until the opportunity was gone. Several times I was unable to halt the impulse I'd started, and I walked into moving cars, banging my knees against fenders and wheels. I couldn't judge distance at all. A car that seemed to be a block away would, in the same instant, have its bumper against my legs, its driver shouting what the hell.
    I can't say exactly how I got across. I remember falling down and skinning my knees and rolling, and there were a lot of horns blowing. And then I was on the other side. It was a quarter of seven, and I had a mile to go.
    I started off at a trot down the dirt road that curved around the bay. There was a steady procession of cars passing me, moving not a great deal faster than I was and so close that they brushed my clothes. But none of them stopped. Their passengers looked out at me phlegmatically, and looked away again. And I