Miss Lonelyhearts Read Online Free Page B

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 life," he
said, loading his voice with sympathy.
    "I have no story."
    "You must have. Every one has a
life story."
    The old man began to sob.
    "Yes, I know, your tale is a
sad one. Tell it, damn you, tell it."
    When the old man still remained
silent, he took his arm and twisted it. Gates tried to tear him away, but he
refused to let go. He was twisting the arm of all the sick and miserable,
broken and betrayed, inarticulate and impotent. He was twisting the arm of
Desperate, Brokenhearted, Sick-of-it-all, Disillusioned -with-tubercular-husband.
    The old man began to scream.
Somebody hit Miss Lonelyhearts from behind with a
chair.

 
MISS LONELYHEARTS AND MRS. SHRIKE
     
    Miss Lonelyhearts lay on his bed fully dressed, just as he had been dumped the night before. His
head ached and his thoughts revolved inside the pain like a wheel within a
wheel. When he opened his eyes, the room, like a third wheel, revolved around
the pain in his head.
    From where he lay he could see the
alarm clock. It was half past three. When the telephone rang, he crawled out of
the sour pile of bed clothes. Shrike wanted to know if he intended to show up
at the office. He answered that he was drunk but would try to get there.
    He undressed slowly and took a bath.
The hot water made his body feel good, but his heart remained a congealed lump
of icy fat. After drying himself, he found a little whisky in the medicine
chest and drank it. The alcohol warmed only the lining of his stomach.
    He shaved, put on a clean shirt and
a freshly pressed suit and went out to get something to eat. When he had
finished his second cup of scalding coffee, it was too late for him to go to
work. But he had nothing to worry about, for Shrike would never fire him. He
made too perfect a butt for Shrike's jokes. Once he had tried to get fired by
recommending suicide in his column. All that Shrike had said was:
"Remember, please, that your job is to increase the circulation of our
paper. Suicide, it is only reasonable to think, must defeat this purpose."
    He paid for his breakfast and left
the cafeteria. Some exercise might warm him. He decided to take a brisk walk,
but he soon grew tired and when he reached the little park, he slumped down on
a bench opposite the Mexican War obelisk.
    The stone shaft cast a long, rigid
shadow on the walk in front of him. He sat staring at it without knowing why
until he noticed that it was lengthening in rapid jerks, not as shadows usually
lengthen. He grew frightened and looked up quickly at the monument. It seemed
red and swollen in the dying sun, as though it were about to spout a load of
granite seed.
    He hurried away. When he had
regained the street, he started to laugh. Although he had tried hot water,
whisky, coffee, exercise, he had completely forgotten sex. What he really
needed was a woman. He laughed again, remembering that at college all his
friends had believed intercourse capable of steadying the nerves, relaxing the
muscles and clearing the blood.
    But he knew only two women who would
tolerate him. He had spoiled his chances with Betty, so it would have to be
Mary Shrike.
    When he kissed Shrike's wife, he
felt less like a joke. She returned his kisses because she hated Shrike. But
even there Shrike had beaten him. No matter how hard he begged her to give
Shrike horns, she refused to sleep with him.
    Although Mary always grunted and
upset her eyes, she would not associate what she felt with the sexual act. When
he forced this association, she became very angry. He had been convinced that
her grunts were genuine by the change that took place in her when he kissed her
heavily. Then her body gave off an odour that
enriched the synthetic flower scent she used behind her ears and in the