The Long Walk

“Shut up, you asshole! He’ll hear you!”

“I don’t give a sweet fuck! He’s crazy!” Barkovitch looked over at Scramm, outraged. “WHAT DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING, NUMBNUTS, PLAYING GIN RUMMY?” he screamed at the top of his lungs. Scramm looked around blearily at Barkovitch, and then raised his hand in a halfhearted wave. He apparently thought Barkovitch was a spectator. Abraham, who was walking near Scramm, gave Barkovitch the finger. Barkovitch gave it right back, and then turned to Garraty. Suddenly he smiled.

“Aw, goodness,” he said. “It shines from your dumb hick face, Garraty. Passing the hat for the dying guy’s wifey, right? Ain’t that cute.”

“Count you out, huh?” Garraty said stiffly. “Okay.” He started to walk away.

Barkovitch’s smile wobbled at the edges. He grabbed Garraty’s sleeve. “Hold on, hold on. I didn’t say no, did I? Did you hear me say no?”

“No-”

“No, course I didn’t.” Barkovitch’s smile reappeared, but now there was something desperate in it. The cockiness was gone. “Listen, I got off on the wrong foot with you guys. I didn’t mean to. Shit, I’m a good enough guy when you get to know me, I’m always gettin’ off on the wrong foot, I never had much of a crowd back home. In my school, I mean. Christ, I don’t know why. I’m a good enough guy when you get to know me, as good as anyone else, but I always just, you know, seem to get off on the wrong foot. I mean a guy’s got to have a couple of friends on a thing like this. It’s no good to be alone, right? Jesus Christ, Garraty, you know that. That Rank. He started it, Garraty. He wanted to tear my ass. Guys, they always want to tear my ass. I used to carry a switchblade back at my high school on account of guys wanting to tear my ass. That Rank. I didn’t mean for him to croak, that wasn’t the idea at all. I mean, it wasn’t my fault. You guys just saw the end of it, not the way he was… ripping my ass, you know…” Barkovitch trailed off.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Garraty said, feeling like a hypocrite. Maybe Barkovitch could rewrite history for himself, but Garraty remembered the Rank incident too clearly. “Well, what do you want to do, anyway? You want to go along with the deal?”

“Sure, sure.” Barkovitch’s hand tightened convulsively on Garraty’s sleeve, pulling it like the emergency-stop cord on a bus. “I’ll send her enough bread to keep her in clover the rest of her life. I just wanted to tell you… make you see… a guy’s got to have some friends… a guy’s got to have a crowd, you know? Who wants to die hated, if you got to die, that’s the way I look at it. I… I…”

“Sure, right.” Garraty began to drop back, feeling like a coward, still hating Barkovitch but somehow feeling sorry for him at the same time. “Thanks a lot.” It was the touch of human in Barkovitch that scared him. For some reason it scared him. He didn’t know why.

He dropped back too fast, got a warning, and spent the next ten minutes working back to where Stebbins was ambling along.

“Ray Garraty,” Stebbins said. “Happy May 3rd, Garraty.”

Garraty nodded cautiously. “Same goes both ways.”

“I was counting my toes,” Stebbins said companionably. “They are fabulously good company because they always add up the same way. What’s on your mind?”

So Garraty went through the business about Scramm and Scramm’s wife for the second time, and halfway through another boy got his ticket (HELL’s ANGELS ON WHEELS stenciled on the back of his battered jeans jacket) and made it all seem rather meaningless and trite. Finished, he waited tensely for Stebbins to stag anatomizing the idea.

“Why not?” Stebbins said amiably. He looked up at Garraty and smiled. Garraty could see that fatigue was finally making its inroads, even in Stebbins.

“You sound like you’ve got nothing to lose,” he said.

“That’s right,” Stebbins said jovially. “None of us really has anything to lose. That makes it easier to give away.”

Garraty looked at Stebbins, depressed. There was too much truth in what he said. It made their gesture toward Scramm look small.