David Goodis - Cassidys Girl

---

This page formatted 2005 Munsey's.http://www.munseys.com123456789101112131415

---

It was raining hard in Philadelphia as Cassidy worked the bus through heavy traffic on Market Street. He hated the street on these busy Saturday nights, especially during April when the rain came down hard and the traffic cops were annoyed with the rain and took it out on cabbies and bus drivers. Cassidy sympathized with the traffic cops and when they glared and yelled, he only shrugged and gestured helplessly. If they had a tough corner to patrol, he had a tough bus to steer. It was really a miserable bus, old and sick, and its transmission was constantly complaining.
The bus was one of three owned by a small company located on Arch Street. The three busses went north each day to Easton, then back again to Philadelphia. Back and forth between Easton and Philadelphia was a monotonous grind, but Cassidy needed the job badly, and a man with his background always found it difficult to obtain jobs.
Aside from the pay, it was emotionally important for Cassidy to do this type of work. Keeping his eyes on the road and his mind on the wheel was a protective fence holding him back from internal as well as external catastrophe.
The bus made a turn off Market Street, went up through the slashing rain to Arch, went into the depot. Cassidy climbed out, opened the door, stood there to help them down from the bus. He had the habit of studying their faces as they emerged, wondering what their thoughts were, and what their lives were made of. The old women and the girls, the frowning stout men with loose flesh hanging from their jaws, and the young men who gazed dully ahead as though seeing nothing. Cassidy looked at their faces and had an idea he could see the root of their trouble. It was the fact that they were ordinary people and they didn't know what real trouble was. He could tell them. He could damn well tell them.
The last of the passengers stepped off the bus and Cassidy moved across the narrow, damp waiting room, smoking a cigarette as he turned in his trip report to the supervisor. He walked out of the depot and took a streetcar down Arch, going east toward the river, the big dark sullen Delaware. He lived near the Delaware, in a three-room flat that overlooked Dock Street and the piers and the river.
The streetcar let Cassidy out and he ran to the corner newsstand and bought a paper. He held the slanted paper over his head as he hurried through the rain toward home. The neon sign of a small taproom caught his eye and for a moment he considered the idea of a shot. But he let it ride because what he needed right now was food. It was half-past nine and he hadn't had any food since noon. He should have eaten in Easton but some company genius had made an abrupt schedule change and there was no other driver available at the moment. Things like that were always happening to him. It was one of the many enjoyable aspects of driving a bus for a two-by-four outfit.
The rain was coming down very hard and he ran for it, He let the paper fly away through the rain and scooted the last few yards and leaped into the doorway of the tenement building. He was breathing hard and he was more than a little wet. But now it felt nice to be inside and climbing the stairway to his home.
He walked down the hall and opened the door of the flat and walked in. Then he stood motionless, gazing about. After that he blinked a few times. Then he went on staring.
The place was a complete wreck. The room looked as if it had been given a vigorous spin and turned upside down several times. Most of the furniture was overturned and the sofa had been sent crashing into a wall with enough force to bring down a lot of plaster and create a gaping hole. A small table was upside down. Two chairs had their legs broken off. Whisky bottles, some of them broken, most of them empty were scattered all over the room. He took a long look at that. Then his eyes leaped. There was blood on the floor.
The blood was in little pools, a few threads of red here and there. The blood had dried but it was still shiny and the glimmer of it sent a burning spear through Cassidy's brain. He told himself it was Mildred's blood. Something had happened to Mildred!
Countless times he had warned her against throwing these drinking parties while he was away on the bus route. They had fought about it. They had fought blazingly and sometimes physically, but he always had a feeling he couldn't win. In the core of his mind was the knowledge that he was getting exactly what he had bargained for. Mildred was a wild animal, a living chunk of dynamite that exploded periodically and caused Cassidy to explode, and these rooms were more of a battleground than a home. Yet, as he looked at the blood on the floor, he had a grinding, ripping fear that he had lost Mildred. The thought of it amounted to a kind of paralysis. All he could do was stand there and see the blood.
There was a noise behind him. The door had opened. He turned slowly, knowing somehow it was Mildred even before he saw her. She was closing the door and smiling at him, her eyes going into him, then past him, her moving hand indicating the wreckage of the room. The gesture was only partially drunken. He knew she had a lot of liquor in her, but she was rather gifted when it came to carrying her liquor, and she was always fully aware of what she was doing. Now she was challenging him. It was her way of stating she had decided to throw a party and the guests had wrecked the place and did he want to make something of it?
Silently he answered Mildred's silent question. He nodded very slowly. He took a step toward her and she didn't move. He took another step toward her, waiting for her to move. He raised his right arm and she stood there smiling at him. His arm sliced air and his flat palm arrived hard and cracking across her mouth.
Mildred lost the smile for only an instant. Then it was there again, the lips and eyes aimed not at Cassidy but toward the other side of the room. She walked slowly in that direction. She picked up an empty whisky bottle and pitched it at Cassidy's head.
It grazed the side of his head and he heard it crashing against the wall. He lunged at Mildred, but she had lifted another bottle and she was swinging it in little circles. Cassidy threw up his arms protectively as he swerved away. He tripped over a fallen chair and went to the floor. Mildred moved toward him and he expected to feel the bottle coming down on his head. It was an excellent opportunity for Mildred and she never failed to take advantage of an opportunity.
But now, for some special reason that summed up as a puzzle, she chose to turn away from Cassidy, to walk slowly into the bedroom. As she closed the door Cassidy picked himself up, rubbed the side of his head where the other bottle had raised a lump, and felt in his pockets for a cigarette.
He couldn't find a cigarette. He moved aimlessly around the room, discovered a bottle that had a couple of drinks left in it, raised it to his lips and took the two drinks. Then he gazed at the bedroom door.
A feeling of vague uneasiness took root inside him and grew and sharpened and became acute. He knew he was disappointed because the battle hadn't continued. Of course, he told himself, that didn't make sense. But then there were very few elements in his life with Mildred that made sense. And lately, he recalled, there was absolutely nothing that made sense. It was getting worse all the time.
Cassidy shrugged. It wasn't much of a shrug. It was more of a sigh. He walked into the small kitchen and saw more wreckage. The sink was ready to collapse under the weight of empty bottles and filthy dishes. The table was a mess and the floor was worse. He opened the icebox and saw the sad remains of what he had expected would be his meal tonight. Slamming the door of the icebox, he could sense the uneasiness and disappointment going away and the rage coming back. A few loose cigarettes were on the table. He lit one, took several rapid puffs as he let his rage climb to high gear. When it reached that point, he barged into the bedroom.