“Look here,” said Rio, unsmiling. “This is amateur night. Now beat it.”
CHAPTER VI
Martin worked into the routine of the printing plant. There were thirty linotypes around him, shielding him with their clamor. He found retreat in their noise and liked to feel that he was a lever or cam, bending or turning inconspicuously in the tide of words. He hid his revulsion as an automaton and mixed his sweat with the oil of the machinery. There was an acrid taste of hot lead in the air, a taste of ink, the taste and rattle of matrices. Martin could feel his shoulders bend into the machine—could see the horizon shrink to the area of light on his copy. Type, type, type—up with the line. Feel the grinding of the fellow, pressing, digesting. Out with the slug, searing hot and good to calloused fingers.
When evening came and work was over, Martin straightened his back and went to the wash-trough. The gritty soap smelled good, like candy. He associated it with freedom. Outside, he felt like running—jumping a hydrant, racing a car. He wanted to shout at the slanting sunlight.
He lived uptown, at one of the most inexpensive club-hotels for men. The rooms were clean and, from the standpoint of his present earnings, the cost was reasonable. Most of the residents were hard-working fellows who needed a place to sleep. Martin read the recreational program; but women were not included in its itinerary, so he remained in his room or walked up and down the street.
He sat in his room, thinking to a point and back. The period seemed interminable. The break, the nervous ejaculation that would throw him out of this treadmill seemed further away than before. He remembered the sea and ships upon it, hot rain, salt and rust and bubbling, rising life. The memory filled his nose and lungs and mind.
“God damn,” he said, and struck the wall with his hand.
The buzzer in his room sounded and he went to the house-phone in the hall to answer.