Fredric Brown - The Screaming Mimi

YOU can never tell what a drunken Irishman will do. You can make a flying guess; you can make a lot of flying guesses.

You can list them in the order of their probability. The likely ones are easy: He might go after another drink, start a fight, make a speech, take a train... You can work down the list of possibilities; he might buy some green paint, chop down a maple tree, do a fan dance, sing God Save the King, steal an oboe... You can work on down and down to things that get less and less likely, and eventually you might hit the rock bottom of improbability: He might make a resolution and stick to it.

I know that that's incredible, but it happened. A guy named Sweeney did it, once, in Chicago . He made a resolution, and he had to wade through blood and black coffee to keep it, but he kept it. Maybe, by most people's standards, it wasn't a good resolution, but that's aside from the point. The point is that it really happened.

Now we'll have to hedge a bit, for truth is an elusive thing. It never quite fits a pattern. Likewell, a drunken Irishman named Sweeney; that's a pattern, if anything is. But truth is seldom that simple.

His name really was Sweeney, but he was only five-eighths Irish and he was only three-quarters drunk. But that's about as near as truth ever approximates a pattern, and if you won't settle for that, you'd better quit reading. If you don't, maybe you'll be sorry, for it isn't a nice story. It's got murder in it, and women and liquor and gambling and even prevarication. There's murder before the story proper starts, and murder after it ends; the actual story begins with a naked woman and ends with one, which is a good opening and a good ending, but everything between isn't nice. Don't say I didn't warn you. But if you're still with me, let's get back to Sweeney.

Sweeney sat on a park bench, that summer night, next to God. Sweeney rather liked God, although not many people did. God was a tallish, scrawny old man with a short but tangled beard, stained with nicotine. His full name was Godfrey; I say his full name advisedly, for no one, not even Sweeney, knew whether it was his first name or his last. He was a little cracked, but not much. No more, perhaps, than the average for his age of the bums who live on the near north side of Chicago and hang out, when the weather is good, in Bughouse Square . Bughouse Square has another name, but the other name is much less appropriate. It is between Clark and Dearborn Streets, just south of the Newberry Library; that's its horizontal location. Vertically speaking, it's quite a bit nearer hell than heaven. I mean, it's bright with lights but dark with the shadows of the defeated men who sit on the benches, all night long.

Two o'clock of a summer night, and Bughouse Square had quieted down. The soapbox speakers were gone, and the summer night crowds of strollers who were not habitues of the square were long in bed. On the grass and on the benches, men slept. Their shoelaces were tied in hard knots so their shoes would not be stolen in the night. The theft of money from their pockets was the least of their worries; there was no money there to steal. That was why they slept.

God, said Sweeney, I wish I had another drink. He shoved his disreputable hat an inch farther back upon his disreputable head.

And I, said God. But not bad enough.

That stuff again, Sweeney said.

God grinned a little. He said, It's true, Sweeney. You know it is. He pulled a crumpled package of cigarettes from his pocket, gave one to Sweeney, and lighted one himself.

Sweeney dragged deeply at the fag. He stared at the sleeping figure on the bench across from him, then lifted his eyes a little to the lights of Clark Street beyond. His eyes were a bit blurry from the drink; the lights looked haloed, but he knew they weren't. There wasn't a breath of breeze. He felt hot and sweaty, like the park, like the city. He took his hat off and fanned himself with it. Then some three-quarter drunken impulse made him hold the hat still and stare at it. It had been a new hat three weeks ago; he'd bought it while he was still working at the Blade. Now it looked like nothing on earth; it had been run over by an auto, it had rolled in a muddy gutter, it had been sat on and stepped on. It looked like Sweeney felt.

He said, God, and he wasn't talking to Godfrey. Neither, for that matter, was he talking to anyone else. He put the hat back on his head.

He said, I wish I could sleep. He stood up. Going to walk a few blocks. Come along?

And lose the bench? God wanted to know. Naw. I guess I'll go to sleep, Sweeney. See you around. God eased himself over sidewise onto the bench, resting his head in the curve of his arm.

Sweeney grunted and walked out the path to Clark Street . He swayed a little, but not much. He walked across the night, south on Clark Street , past Chicago Avenue . He passed taverns, and wished he had the price of a drink. A cop, coming toward him said, Hi, Sweeney, and Sweeney said, Hi, Pete, but kept on walking. And he thought about one of Godfrey's pet theories and he thought, the old bastard's right; you can get anything you want if you want it badly enough. He could easily have hit Pete for half a check or even a buck if he'd wanted a drink that bad. Maybe tomorrow he'd want one that bad.

Not yet, although he felt like a violin's E-string that was tuned too tight. Damn it, why hadn't he stopped Pete? He needed a drink; he needed about six more shots, or say half a pint, and that would put him over the hump and he could sleep. When had he slept last? He tried to think back, but things were foggy. It had been in an areaway on Huron over near the El, and it had been night, but had it been last night or the night before or the night before that? What had he done yesterday?

He passed Huron, Erie . He thought maybe if he walked on down to the Loop, some of the boys from the Blade would be hanging out in the place on Randolph and he could borrow something there. Had he been there yet this time, this drunk? Damn the fog in his brain. And how far gone was he now? Did he still look all right to go into the place on Randolph ?

He watched along the windows for a mirrored one, and found it. He looked at himself and decided he didn't look too bad, too far gone. His hat was out of shape and he didn't have a necktie and his suit was baggy, naturally, but Then he stepped closer and wished he hadn't because that was too close and he really saw himself. Bleary red eyes, a beard that must be at least three days, maybe four, and the horrible dirtiness of his shirt collar. It had been a white shirt a week ago. And he saw the stains on his suit.

He looked away and started walking again. He knew now he couldn't look up any of the boys from the paper, not at this stage. Earlier on a drunk, yes, when he still looked all right. Or maybe later, when he didn't care how he looked. And, with the realization that he inevitably would do just that a few day from now, he started swearing to himself as he walked, hating himself, hating everything and everybody because he hated himself.

He walked across Ontario Street , across the night. He was swearing aloud as he walked, but didn't know he was doing it. He thought, The Great Sweeney Walking Across the Night, and tried to throw his thoughts out of perspective, but they wouldn't throw. Looking into the mirror had been bad. But, worse than that, now that he was thinking about himself, he could smell himselfthe stale sweat of his body. He hadn't been out of the clothes he was wearing sincehow long ago was it his landlady had refused to give him the key to his room? Ohio Street . Damn it, he'd better quit walking south or he would find himself in the Loop , so he turned east. Where was he going? What did it matter? Maybe if he walked or the night before or the night before that? What had he done yesterday?