Chapter IV

Max Wyman shoved his way through such a roar of voices and such a crush of bodies as he had never known before. Scratch Sheet Square was bright as day--brighter. Atomic lamps, mounted on hundred-story buildings hosed and squirted the happy mob with blue-white glare. The Scratch Sheet’s moving sign was saying in fiery letters seventy-five feet tall: “11:58 PM EST ... December 31st ... Cops say two million jam NYC streets to greet New Year... 11:59 PM EST ... December 31st ... Falcaro jokes on TV ‘Never thought we’d make it’... 12:00 midnight January 1st ... Happy New Year... “

The roar of voices had become insane. Max Wyman held his head, hating it, hating them all, trying to shut them out. Half a dozen young men against whom he was jammed were tearing the clothes off a girl. They were laughing and she was too, making only a pretense of defending herself. It was one of New York’s mild winter nights. Wyman looked at the white skin not knowing that his eyes gloated. He yelled curses at her, and the young men. But nobody heard his whiskey-hoarsened young voice.

Somebody thrust a bottle at him and made mouths, trying to yell: “Happy New Year!” He grabbed feverishly at the bottle and held it to his mouth, letting the liquor gurgle once, twice, three times. Then the bottle was snatched away, not by the man who had passed it to him. A hilarious fat woman plastered herself against Wyman and kissed him clingingly on the mouth, to his horror and disgust. She was torn away from him by a laughing, white-haired man and turned willingly to kissing him instead.

Two strapping girls jockeyed Wyman between them and began to tear his clothes off, laughing at their switcheroo on the year’s big gag. He clawed out at them hysterically and they stopped, the laughter dying on their lips as they saw his look of terrified rage. A sudden current in the crowd parted Wyman from them; another bottle bobbed on the sea of humanity. He clutched at it and this time did not drink. He stuffed it hurriedly under the waistband of his shorts and kept a hand on it as the eddy of humanity bore him on to the fringes of the roaring mob.

“Syndic leaders hail New Year ... Taylor praises Century of Freedom... 12:05 AM EST January 1st... “

Wyman was mashed up against a girl who first smiled at his young face invitingly ... and then looked again. “Get away from me!” she shrieked, pounding on his chest with her small fists. You could hear individual voices now, but the crowd was still dense. She kept screaming at him and hitting him until suddenly Scratch Sheet Square Upramp loomed and the crowd fizzed onto it like uncorked champagne, Wyman and the screaming girl carried along the moving plates underfoot. The crowd boiled onto the northbound strip, relieving the crush; the girl vanished, whimpering, into the mob.

Wyman, rubbing his ear mechanically, shuffled with downcast eyes to the Eastbound ramp and collapsed onto a bench gliding by at five miles per hour. He looked stupidly at the ten-mile and fifteen-mile strips, but did not dare step onto them. He had been drinking steadily for a month. He would fall and the bottle would break.

He lurched off the five-mile strip at Riverside Downramp. Nobody got off with him. Riverside was a tangle of freightways over, under and on the surface. He worked there.

Wyman picked his way past throbbing conveyors roofed against pilferage, under gurgling fuel and water and waste pipes, around vast metal warehouses and storage tanks. It was not dark or idle in Riverside. Twenty-four hours was little enough time to bring Manhattan its daily needs and carry off its daily waste and manufactures. Under daylight atomics the transport engineers in their glass perches read the dials and turned the switches. Breakdown crews scurried out from emergency stations as bells clanged to replace a sagging plate, remag a failing ehrenhafter, unplug a jam of nylon bales at a too-sharp corner.

He found Breakdown Station 26, hitched his jacket over the bottle and swayed in, drunk enough to think he could pretend he was sober. “Hi,” he said hoarsely to the shift foreman. “Got jammed up in the celebration.”

“We heard it clear over here,” the foreman said, looking at him closely. “Are you all right, Max?”

The question enraged him. “‘Smatter?” he yelled. “Had a couple, sure. Think ‘m drunk? Tha’ wha’ ya think?”

“Gee,” the foreman said wearily. “Look, Max, I can’t send you out tonight. You might get killed. I’m trying to be reasonable and I wish you’d do as much for me. What’s biting you, boy? Nobody has anything against a few drinks and a few laughs. I went on a bender last month myself. But you get so Goddammed mean I can’t stand you and neither can anybody else.”

Wyman spewed obscenity at him and tried to swing on him. He was surprised and filled with self-pity when somebody caught his arm and somebody else caught his other arm. It was Dooley and Weintraub, his shift-mates, looking unhappy and concerned.

“Lousy rats!” Wyman choked out. “Leas’ a man’s buddies c’d do is back’m up...” He began to cry, hating them, and then fell asleep on his feet. Dooley and Weintraub eased him down onto the floor.

The foreman mopped his head and appealed to Dooley: “He always like this?” He had been transferred to Station 26 only two weeks before.

Dooley shrugged. “You might say so. He showed up about three months ago. Said he used to be a breakdown man in Buffalo, on the yards. He knew the work all right. But I never saw such a mean kid. Never a good word for anybody. Never any fun. Booze, booze, booze. This time he really let go.”

Weintraub said unexpectedly: “I think he’s what they used to call an alcoholic.”

“What the hell’s that?” the foreman demanded.

“I read about it. It’s something they used to have before the Syndic. I read about it. Things were a lot different then. People picking on you all the time, everybody mad all the time. The girls were scared to give it away and the boys were scared to take it--but they did anyway and it was kind of like fighting with yourself inside yourself. The fighting wore some people out so much they just couldn’t take it any more. Instead of going on benders for a change of pace like sensible people, they boozed all the time--and they had a fight inside themselves about that so they boozed harder.” He looked defensive at their skeptical faces. “I read it,” he insisted.

“Well,” the foreman said inconclusively, “I heard things used to be pretty bad. Did these alcoholers get over it?”