The End of the Road Read Online Free PDF Page A

Mourometz again. He’s the fizz that makes the collins bright, is Glière, but he’s not the vodka; these manics can’t be teased or dickered with. Now I was not only unmanic, I was uncomfortable.
    And resentful! There’s something to be said for the manic-depressive if his manics are really manic; but me, I was a placid-depressive: a woofer without a tweeter was Jake Horner. My lows were low, but my highs were middle-register. So when I’d a real manic on I nursed it like a baby, and boils plague the man who spoiled it! That was one thing. More’s the damage to have it suggested, and by a woman, that my honesty was flagging. Can a man stomach it? That it was a fact was beside the point. Great heavens, Morgans, the world’s not that easy!
    Even as I was dressing, the telephone rang again, with a doggedness that bespoke Mrs. Morgan. In a moment of lewdness (for I was pulling up my trousers at the time) I considered allowing that beskirted Diogenes to address her quest to my bare backside—but I let the moment go. Rennie, girl, said I to myself, I am out; be content that I don’t commit a lewdness with your voice, since you’ve aborted my infant manic. Ring away, girl scout: your quarry’s not in his hole.
    Later that morning I drove the thirty miles from Wicomico to Ocean City, there to fry my melancholy in the sun and pickle it in the ocean. But light and water only made it blossom. The beach was crowded with human beings whose reality I found myself loath to acknowledge; another day they might have been as soothingly grotesque as was my furniture, but this day they were merely irritating. Furthermore, perhaps because it was a weekday, there was not a girl on the beach worth the necessary nonsense involved in a pickup. Only a forest of legs ruined by childbirth; fallen breasts, potbellies, haggard faces, and strident voices; a rats’ nest of horrid children, as unlovely as they were obnoxious. When one is not in the spirit of it, there are few things less diverting than a public beach.
    When I reached the saturation point, about three o’clock, I washed the sand off me and headed back to the car. But one who felt as gloomily competent as I that day wouldn’t leave Ocean City without at least going through the motions of picking up a girl, any more than one would leave Pikes Peak without spitting—the trip were pointless otherwise. Along the boardwalk a few girls prowled in twos and threes, most wearing T-shirts with the name of either a college or a sorority printed on them. They met my glowering haughtily, each of us considering the other unworthy. I walked the three blocks to my car without seeing a target worth the ammunition, and so, like many a hunter nearing home, had finally to settle for even less satisfactory game or take none at all.
    A woman of forty—well preserved but definitely forty—whose car was parked in front of mine, was wrenching the handle of her door in vain when I approached. She was slender, not very full-breasted, well tanned, and in no way extraordinary—such an obvious target that I lost my taste for the hunt and walked past.
    “Pardon me, sir: I wonder if you could help me?” I turned and glared. The woman had been all brightness with her classic request, but my stare made her falter.
    “You’ll think I’m stupid, I guess—I locked my keys inside the car.”
    “I can’t pick locks.”
    “Oh, I didn’t mean that! My motel is just across the bridge. I was wondering if you’d run me over there, if you’re going that way. I have another key in my suitcase.”
    It is small sport shooting the bird who perches on the muzzle of your gun, but what hunter could keep from doing it?
    “All right.”
    The whole situation was without appeal, and as I drove Miss Peggy Rankin (her name) over the bridge from Ocean City to the mainland, I was made more desultory by the fact that I guessed she didn’t deserve to be so severely judged. She appeared to be fairly intelligent, and indeed,