Miss Lonelyhearts & the Day of the Locust Read Online Free PDF

Christ’s name was this Christ business? And children gravely dancing? He would ask Shrike to be transferred to the sports department.
    Ned Gates came in to see how he was getting along and suggested the fresh air. Gates was also very drunk. When they left the speakeasy together, they found that it was snowing.
    Miss Lonelyhearts’ anger grew cold and sodden like the snow. He and his companion staggered along with their heads down, turning corners at random, until they found themselves in front of the little park. A light was burning in the comfort station and they went in to warm up.
    An old man was sitting on one of the toilets. The door of his booth was propped open and he was sitting on the turned-down toilet cover.
    Gates hailed him. “Well, well, smug as a bug in a rug, eh?”
    The old man jumped with fright, but finally managed to speak. “What do you want? Please let me alone.” His voice was like a flute; it did not vibrate.
    “If you can’t get a woman, get a clean old man,” Gates sang.
    The old man looked as if he were going to cry, but suddenly laughed instead. A terrible cough started under his laugh, and catching at the bottom of his lungs, it ripped into his throat. He turned away to wipe his mouth.
    Miss Lonelyhearts tried to get Gates to leave, but he refused to go without the old man. They both grabbed him and pulled him out of the stall and through the door of the comfort station. He went soft in their arms and started to giggle. Miss Lonelyhearts fought off a desire to hit him.
    The snow had stopped falling and it had grown very cold. The old man did not have an overcoat, but said that he found the cold exhilarating. He carried a cane and wore gloves because, as he said, he detested red hands.
    Instead of going back to Delehanty’s, they went to an Italian cellar close by the park. The old man tried to get them to drink coffee, but they told him to mind his own business and drank rye. The whisky burned Miss Lonelyhearts’ cut lip.
    Gates was annoyed by the old man’s elaborate manners. “Listen, you,” he said, “cut out the gentlemanly stuff and tell us the story of your life.”
    The old man drew himself up like a little girl making a muscle.
    “Aw, come off,” Gates said. “We’re scientists. He’s Havelock Ellis and I’m Krafft-Ebing. When did you first discover homo-sexualistic tendencies in yourself?”
    “What do you mean, sir? I…”
    “Yeh, I know, but how about your difference from other men?”
    “How dare you…” He gave a little scream of indignation.
    “Now, now,” Miss Lonelyhearts said, “he didn’t mean to insult you. Scientists have terribly bad manners…. But you are a pervert, aren’t you?”
    The old man raised his cane to strike him. Gates grabbed it from behind and wrenched it out of his hand. He began to cough violently and held his black satin tie to his mouth. Still coughing he dragged himself to a chair in the back of a room.
    Miss Lonelyhearts felt as he had felt years before, when he had accidentally stepped on a small frog. Its spilled guts had filled him with pity, but when its suffering had become real to his senses, his pity had turned to rage and he had beaten it frantically until it was dead.
    “I’ll get the bastard’s life story,” he shouted, and started after him. Gates followed laughing.
    At their approach, the old man jumped to his feet. Miss Lonelyhearts caught him and forced him back into his chair.
    “We’re psychologists,” he said. “We want to help you. What’s your name?”
    “George B. Simpson.”
    “What does the B stand for?”
    “Bramhall.”
    “Your age, please, and the nature of your quest?”
    “By what right do you ask?”
    “Science gives me the right.”
    “Let’s drop it,” Gates said. “The old fag is going to cry.”
    “No, Krafft-Ebing, sentiment must never be permitted to interfere with the probings of science.”
    Miss Lonelyhearts put his arm around the old man. “Tell us the story of your