Harlan Ellison Love ain,t nothing

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by men on either side, cursing foully, who had left the line to get at the
picketers, now they moved toward the mass of struggling bodies, still unaware
of what was really taking place. It was a bop, and they felt the sting of
participation. But in a moment they had collided with the frantic figure of
Lilian Goldbosch, whose nails were raking deep furrows down the cheek of the
tall, blond boy.
He was braced, legs apart, but did not move as she attacked him.
There was a contained, almost Messianic tranquility about him.
"Nazi! Nazi! Murd'rer!" she was mouthing, almost incomprehensibly. She slipped
into Polish and the sounds became garbled with spittle. Her body writhed back
and forth as she lashed out again and again at the boy.
Her arms were syncopated machines of hard work, destructive, coming up and
down in a rhythm all their own, a rhythm of which she was unaware. His face
was badly ripped, yet he did not move against her.
At that moment the two high school boys, faceless, came at the woman, one from
either side; they took her by the biceps, holding her, protecting not the
blond boy, but the older woman. Her
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file:///F|/rah/Harlan%20Ellison/Ellison,%20Harlan%20-%20Love%20Ain't%20Nothing
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me, let go, let--" she struggled against them, flashing them a glance of such
madness and hatred that for an instant they felt she must think them part of
the picketing group, and then--abruptly--her eyes rolled up in her head and
she fainted into Frank Amato's grasp.
"Thank you ... whoever you are," the blond boy said. He started to move away,
back through the rioting mob. It was as though he had wanted to take the
woman's abuse; as though his purpose had been to martyr himself, to absorb all
the hate and frenzy into his body, like a lightning rod sucking up the power
of the heavens. Now he moved.
Arch grabbed him by the sleeve.
"Hold it a minute ... hero! Not s'fast!"
The blond boy's mouth began to turn up in an insolent remark, but he caught
himself, and instead, with a flowing, completely assured overhand movement,
struck the younger boy's hand from his arm.
"My work's done here."
He turned, then, and cupped his hands to his mouth. A piercing whistle leaped
above the crowd noises, and as the signal penetrated down through the mob, the
swastika-wearers began to disengage themselves with more ferocity. One
picketer kicked out, caught an older man in the shin with the tip of a tightly
laced barracks boot, and shoved the man back into the crowd. Another boy
jabbed a thumb into his opponent's diaphragm and sent the suddenly wheezing
attacker sprawling, cutting himself off from further assault.
It went that way all through the crowd as the once-again-chanting picketers
moved slowly but methodically toward their cars. It was a handsomely executed
tactical maneuver, a strategic withdrawal of class and composure.
Once at the open car doors, they piled back against the black metal bugs,
raising arms in an unmistakable Heil! and screamed, almost as one: "America
always! To hell with the poisoners! Kill the Jews!"
Pop, Pop! With timing vaguely reminiscent of a Keystone Kops imbroglio, they
heaved themselves into the vehicles, and were roaring down the street, around
the corner, before the approaching growlers of the police prowl cars (summoned
on a major 415) were more than a faint whine approaching from the distance.
On the sidewalk in front of the theater, people--for no other release was left
to them--burst into tears and cursing.
Some kind of battle had been fought here--and lost.
On the sidewalk, someone had clandestinely chalked the symbol. No one moved to
scuff it out. None of the picketers had had the free time to do it; the
obvious was obvious: someone in the queue had done it.
The subtlest, most effective poison.
Her apartment was an attempt to reassure her crippled spirit that possessions
meant security, security meant permanence, and permanence meant the exclusion
of sorrow and fear and darkness. She had thrust into every corner of the small
one-bedroom apartment every convenience of modern technology, every possible [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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