by Michael Bloomfield page 8
He appeared to have been sleeping, or passed out, and he looked as though he�d been lying in there with all his weight on his face. Joe introduced him only as Jimmy. He was old and toothless and looked only slightly less demented than the girl in the flour sacking.
From under the couch he dragged out a scratched and stained violin with only two strings on it. �Now you really goin� to hear somethin�,� said Joe, pulling out a fresh pint of Schnapps.
I asked for the bottle. I had heard that more drink could sometime cure a hangover, and besides, I thought if I could get enough down me I might go numb, and at that point, numbing out seemed like just the way to go.
I took a big swig of Schnapps and gagged. Joe snatched the bottle away and commanded George to turn the recorder on.
Jimmy picked up his bow and began sawing off strange tonalities in no particular key and mumbling incomprehensible lyrics. My stomach started roiling again and I was sure I was going to be sick. I asked the woman of the house where the toilet was, and she led me to a door at the end of a hallway.
I opened the door and found not a toilet, but a closet. There was nothing in the closet but a few sheets of newspaper and a hole�a hole, about two feet in diameter, in the floor. I turned and looked at the woman.
�Our daughter have a little trouble with her weight,� she said. �She too big, don�t you know. The regular seat in the bathroom, it ain�t right for her, so we done fix up this here place.�
I tried to stammer out a question, but the woman just waved at the hole. �Don�t worry none,� she said, �no one livin� down �neath us now. Ain�t been no one for months.�
She walked away and I got down on my hands and knees and got sick with no trouble at all. But I faced away from the hole. There was just no way I could look down that thing.
When my business In the closet was finished I went back to the living room and took George aside.
�Georqe,� I said �this is about enough. We�ve got to go back to Chicago, now.� He agreed right away, so I asked Joe to pack up.
His eyes popped. �What you mean we goin�? You know I�m doin� the carryln� here!�
�Joe, I don�t care who�s doing the carrying--.George and I are going back.�
�You don�t like my people!�
�I like your people just fine, Joe, but it�s just not my scene, I�m sorry�-- �Yeah, you Is sorry, all right! Well, you go on back to Chicago! Go on an� go wherever you wants�I�m stayin� here!�
I looked at George. He was fidgeting with the car keys. Joe pulled on his Schnapps and glowered at us over the top of the bottle.
�Joe, look,� I asked, �do you want us to drop you somewhere before we leave?� He thought a moment. �Yeah� he finally said, �you carry me over to East St. Louis, where my cousin live.�
So George and I crossed over an old iron bridge into Illinois and Joe directed us to the outskirts of town, where we drove down a narrow dirt road full of potholes. We stopped in front of a ramshackle frame house set well back off the road and Joe, carrying an old battered suitcase got out.
--Continued on page 9