The walk downtown had taken a long time, and Times Square —the cesspool of 42nd Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues—drew him like a quicksand bog. He stumbled into the neon and blare of the area hardly knowing he had been unerringly aiming at it all day. The Strip was crowded, as only a Sunday night crowd in New York can be a crowd. One gigantic, pulsing, living mass, moving, surging, pressing, hot and sweating, carrying along with it the fever of lechery and the stink of bad hot dogs, good papaya juice, tired feet. Rusty joined the tide and let it carry him along. He paused before an open-air restaurant where bright cards hung above the soiled counters, enticing Rusty to dishes of fish and salad. He turned in and passed the bar. No beer now. He knew instinctively that his stomach would not take it. He passed down the counter to the hot table, and got in line. He stood silently waiting for the people before him to get their meals, and as the swarthy, muscled cook looked across tiredly, Rusty said, “Shrimp plate.” He watched the stocky man smoothly gather up the shrimp from the grease bucket, the salad, the potatoes from the deep, snapping fat and empty them all into the paper plate. It was a remarkable thing, Rusty thought, the way the cook could handle all those things, so fast, so agilely. It was very much like the way a man handled his own life. Some men better than others. Some men not at all. He paid across the counter, received his change and carried the plate to a table. Beside him a fat man in a dirty white shirt, open at the neck and showing curling strands of wet hair, watched as he set the plate down. The fat man turned back to his own nearly empty plate, and concentrated a piece of bread on a puddle of gravy. He licked his lips with a tongue-tip, and leaned across as Rusty settled into his food. “You, uh, you wanna pass the salt, please?” he asked. His eyes were tiny and very white at the outer edges. Rusty hardly glanced at the man and passed the salt shaker across. The man tried desperately to touch Rusty’s hand as the shaker passed between them, but he failed.
Rusty concentrated on eating, and the fat man toyed with the scraps on his plate, finally leaning over, breathing warmly into Rusty’s neck, and saying, “You, uh, you like movies? Huh, kid?” Rusty turned, seemed to notice the man for the first time. He saw the plump, moist hands, the greasy folds of skin that wattled the neck, the tiny, piggish eyes and the movement, movement, movement of the lips. The man’s crew-cut, Prussian look startled the boy. At once he knew the fat man for what he was. “No. I don’t dig movies. Never go.” Rusty started to move to another table. The fat man’s pudgy hand snaked out and touched the boy’s. A sharp intake of breath came from the man, and he wet his lips again. “You don’t wanna go to a movie with me, huh?” Rusty shook his head, tried to get away. The man held fast, like some sort of porous plaster. Rusty grew panicky, and he received a clear memory picture of the day a snapping turtle had fastened on his finger and not let go till he had mashed it between two rocks. He grew more frightened as the seconds grew and finally he jerked at the grip. The man slid closer. His free hand went beneath the table, as though trying to escape the revealing light. It came to rest on Rusty’s knee, and the boy’s face went gray. “Leggo!” Rusty snarled, and his hand found the handle of the fork. The fat man was immersed in technicolored fantasies of his own; his fingers clenched the boy’s flesh. Rusty struggled, but was blocked by the man’s terrible hold and angle of chair and table. He grasped the fork tightly and before he knew what he was doing, swung the utensil overhand with ferocity. The fork caught the fat man in the hand, and the four prongs went into the soft, flabbed skin with a ripping and scraping. The fat man’s eyes unfilmed and a gurgle rose up in his mouth. He bellowed something unintelligible, and struggled back up out of the chair.
The fork still hung from his hand, loosely, but imbedded and surrounded by spraying blood. He clenched his teeth, bit his lip and pulled the fork loose. He threw it from himself, and went back, back, back, as though an innocent and delicate child had attacked him. He did not look at Rusty, but though he looked elsewhere, his surprise and horror were directed at the boy. Rusty slid his chair away from the table and as the fat man cried and moaned he ducked out of the restaurant, and quickly lost himself in the tide that flowed toward Eighth Avenue.
Excerpted from "Web of the City" By Harlan Ellison Published by Titan Books. Posted with permission of the publisher. All Rights Reserved. Web of the City is on sale now wherever books are sold.