Shore Leave

The Great American Novelist entered the bar and said I will not take my boots off. And then he said give me a scotch from the Old Country but don't tell me about its age 'cause I couldn't care less. The Great American Novelist said he was the New Thing. What's the New Thing they asked. I't's the Thing that doesn't age he replied and then touched his gun. They said does the New Thing has to be young and he said no but it has to be permanent. The barman poured him a scotch from the Old Country and the Great American Novelist drank it in a big gulp. He said give me another one. One of the patrons asked from the inside of a cloud of smoke why did he say that thing about his boots when he came in and the Great American Novelist said that he felt home here and that he didn't want to behave like a guest. He said that this here place was his because he was there. The barman poured him another scotch which was the color of honey and the Great American Novelist lifted the glass and drank the liquor with great concentration. Then he touched his gun again and he said even if I gave you an answer it doesn't mean that it was not a stupid question. And then he said as a matter of fact I think that the next thing you will say is gonna be very stupid. He said that stupid things bored him and that he had no time for them. He said to the barman this scotch is good they know how to make a good scotch over there they just don't know how to write. He said give me another one and turned his head toward the cloud of smoke. He said say it. He said don't be a coward. The patron in his cloud of smoke said I'm not. He said I'm just your regular mate. He said it is not cowardly to stop talking with you after you've insulted me. The Great American Novelist replied that his cowardliness had nothing to do with being insulted or not and that his cowardliness was fundamental and that it traveled across the sea with him. He said even if you are not a coward at this very moment you are one it's how you define yourself. The barman poured him a third scotch from the Old Country and he took the glass and looked through it as if to grasp the meaning of the color. The patron in his cloud of smoke said I read your book. The Great American Novelist said everybody has read my book. And then he drank his scotch and slammed the glass on the counter and he touched his gun. He said they read it in Europe even if all Europeans are self-loathing cowards you ought to know that being one yourself. He said it with his hand on his gun and then he said to the barman just leave the bottle why don't you. The barman took the bottle of scotch from the shelf and put in on the counter beside the empty glass. The Great American Novelist poured himself his own drink and drank it with great seriousness and then he grabed his gun and shot right in the middle of the cloud of smoke. He said he didn't have time to waste with spicks and micks and polacks and kikes and niggers because he was all of them in one. He said that very seriously and then he said something else about being the New Thing and about Painting the Town Red but I couldn't hear because my mind was racing too fast. Everybody was running away. There was chaos in the bar. I had the Great American Novel in my backpack and as I tried to make my way between the tables and the chairs and the screaming dames I felt a pinge in my spine. I knew the Great American Novelist had shot me because there was a sudden silence. He said even after four drinks I'm faster than an Apache. I played dead but I was aware that the bullet was in the book. Emprisoned deep inside its eight hundred and fifty nine exhaustive pages.