The Essential Fitzgerald - 45 Short Stories & Novels in One Edition. F. Scott Fitzgerald

this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion enough to propel him across Forty-second Street.

      Shanley’s was very dim. He was conscious that he was talking in a loud voice, very succinctly and convincingly, he thought, about a desire to crush people under his heel. He consumed three club sandwiches, devouring each as though it were no larger than a chocolate-drop. Then Rosalind began popping into his mind again, and he found his lips forming her name over and over. Next he was sleepy, and he had a hazy, listless sense of people in dress suits, probably waiters, gathering around the table….

      … He was in a room and Carling was saying something about a knot in his shoe-lace.

      “Nemmine,” he managed to articulate drowsily. “Sleep in ‘em….”

      STILL ALCOHOLIC

      He awoke laughing and his eyes lazily roamed his surroundings, evidently a bedroom and bath in a good hotel. His head was whirring and picture after picture was forming and blurring and melting before his eyes, but beyond the desire to laugh he had no entirely conscious reaction. He reached for the ‘phone beside his bed.

      “Hello—what hotel is this—?

      “Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye highballs—”

      He lay for a moment and wondered idly whether they’d send up a bottle or just two of those little glass containers. Then, with an effort, he struggled out of bed and ambled into the bathroom.

      When he emerged, rubbing himself lazily with a towel, he found the bar boy with the drinks and had a sudden desire to kid him. On reflection he decided that this would be undignified, so he waved him away.

      As the new alcohol tumbled into his stomach and warmed him, the isolated pictures began slowly to form a cinema reel of the day before. Again he saw Rosalind curled weeping among the pillows, again he felt her tears against his cheek. Her words began ringing in his ears: “Don’t ever forget me, Amory—don’t ever forget me—”

      “Hell!” he faltered aloud, and then he choked and collapsed on the bed in a shaken spasm of grief. After a minute he opened his eyes and regarded the ceiling.

      “Damned fool!” he exclaimed in disgust, and with a voluminous sigh rose and approached the bottle. After another glass he gave way loosely to the luxury of tears. Purposely he called up into his mind little incidents of the vanished spring, phrased to himself emotions that would make him react even more strongly to sorrow.

      “We were so happy,” he intoned dramatically, “so very happy.” Then he gave way again and knelt beside the bed, his head half-buried in the pillow.

      “My own girl—my own—Oh—”

      He clinched his teeth so that the tears streamed in a flood from his eyes.

      “Oh… my baby girl, all I had, all I wanted!… Oh, my girl, come back, come back! I need you… need you… we’re so pitiful … just misery we brought each other…. She’ll be shut away from me…. I can’t see her; I can’t be her friend. It’s got to be that way—it’s got to be—”

      And then again:

      “We’ve been so happy, so very happy….”

      He rose to his feet and threw himself on the bed in an ecstasy of sentiment, and then lay exhausted while he realized slowly that he had been very drunk the night before, and that his head was spinning again wildly. He laughed, rose, and crossed again to Lethe….

      At noon he ran into a crowd in the Biltmore bar, and the riot began again. He had a vague recollection afterward of discussing French poetry with a British officer who was introduced to him as “Captain Corn, of his Majesty’s Foot,” and he remembered attempting to recite “Clair de Lune” at luncheon; then he slept in a big, soft chair until almost five o’clock when another crowd found and woke him; there followed an alcoholic dressing of several temperaments for the ordeal of dinner. They selected theatre tickets at Tyson’s for a play that had a four-drink programme—a play with two monotonous voices, with turbid, gloomy scenes, and lighting effects that were hard to follow when his eyes behaved so amazingly. He imagined afterward that it must have been “The Jest.”…

      … Then the Cocoanut Grove, where Amory slept again on a little balcony outside. Out in Shanley’s, Yonkers, he became almost logical, and by a careful control of the number of highballs he drank, grew quite lucid and garrulous. He found that the party consisted of five men, two of whom he knew slightly; he became righteous about paying his share of the expense and insisted in a loud voice on arranging everything then and there to the amusement of the tables around him….

      Some one mentioned that a famous cabaret star was at the next table, so Amory rose and, approaching gallantly, introduced himself… this involved him in an argument, first with her escort and then with the headwaiter—Amory’s attitude being a lofty and exaggerated courtesy… he consented, after being confronted with irrefutable logic, to being led back to his own table.

      “Decided to commit suicide,” he announced suddenly.

      “When? Next year?”

      “Now. Tomorrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore, get into a hot bath and open a vein.”

      “He’s getting morbid!”

      “You need another rye, old boy!”

      “We’ll all talk it over tomorrow.”

      But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at least.

      “Did you ever get that way?” he demanded confidentially fortaccio.

      “Sure!”

      “Often?”

      “My chronic state.”

      This provoked discussion. One man said that he got so depressed sometimes that he seriously considered it. Another agreed that there was nothing to live for. “Captain Corn,” who had somehow rejoined the party, said that in his opinion it was when one’s health was bad that one felt that way most. Amory’s suggestion was that they should each order a Bronx, mix broken glass in it, and drink it off. To his relief no one applauded the idea, so having finished his highball, he balanced his chin in his hand and his elbow on the table—a most delicate, scarcely noticeable sleeping position, he assured himself—and went into a deep stupor….

      He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with brown, disarranged hair and dark blue eyes.

      “Take me home!” she cried.

      “Hello!” said Amory, blinking.

      “I like you,” she announced tenderly.

      “I like you too.”

      He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that one of his party was arguing with him.

      “Fella I was with’s a damn fool,” confided the blue-eyed woman. “I hate him. I want to go home with you.”

      “You drunk?” queried Amory with intense wisdom.

      She nodded coyly.

      “Go home with him,” he advised gravely. “He brought you.”

      At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his detainers and approached.

      “Say!” he said fiercely. “I brought this girl out here and you’re butting in!”

      Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer.

      “You let go that girl!” cried the noisy man.

      Amory tried to make his eyes threatening.

      “You go to hell!” he directed finally, and turned his attention to the girl.

      “Love first sight,” he suggested.

      “I