And suddenly nobody’s hooting at him any more. His arms
commence to swell, and the veins squeeze up to the surface. He
clinches his eyes, and his lips draw away from his teeth. His head leans
back, and tendons stand out like coiled ropes running from his heaving
neck down both arms to his hands. His whole body shakes with the
strain as he tries to lift something he knows he can’t lift, something
everybody knows he can’t lift.
But, for just a second, when we hear the cement grind at our feet,
we think, by golly, he might do it.
Then his breath explodes out of him, and he falls back limp against
the wall. There’s blood on the levers where he tore his hands. He pants
for a minute against the wall with his eyes shut. There’s no sound but
his scraping breath; nobody’s saying a thing.
He opens his eyes and looks around at us. One by one he looks at
the guys - even at me - then he fishes in his pockets for all the IOUs
he won the last few days at poker. He bends over the table and tries to
sort them, but his hands are froze into red claws, and he can’t work
the fingers.
Finally he throws the whole bundle on the floor - probably forty or
fifty dollars’ worth from each man - and turns to walk out of the tub
room. He stops at the door and looks back at everybody standing
around.
“But I tried, though,” he says. “♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥, I sure as hell did that
much, now, didn’t I?”
And walks out and leaves those stained pieces of paper on the floor
for whoever wants to sort through them.