The Last Degradation

By Eric Thornton

Thomas Hobbes observed that life was "Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short." The author cannot help but believe that Mr. Hobbes would have found these stories to his liking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644249703

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The Last Degradation

Eric Thornton

Copyright © 2019 Eric Thornton

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2019

ISBN 978-1-64424-971-0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64424-970-3 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

The Last Degradation

Max Schwab lived alone. A rooming house. Twenty-five dollars a week. So who needs fancy? The landlady checked on him, eyed him queerly. Schwab controlled his anger, stifled it beneath a swarthy, placid face. He was tall, able to intimidate if necessary.

Look, Mrs. Stiznek. Look at those sheets. Unstained, they are. The bulb. One bulb in the lamp. Am I an insomniac? No. Lights out at ten.

You cook in the room, Mr. Schwab. I smell it down the hall. Mrs. Stiznek moved stiffly. She was fat, wore stockings rolled below her knees, shuffled about in broken slippers. Spying.

She’s loaded, thought Schwab. A foreigner hoarding her money. Squeezing every penny.

No girls, Mr. Schwab. I run a good house.

A man has needs, thought Schwab. A man has needs, so he makes do.

I see the girls, Mr. Schwab. Trash from the street. I warn, she repeated. No cooking. No girls. The landlady gave him an impatient look, shook her head in disgust.

Schwab watched her disappear down the hall and called after her, lowering his voice, You’re like a mother to me, Mrs. Stiznek. A goddamn mother.

I stay to myself, thought Schwab. Does that make me a criminal?

Despite such protestations, Schwab began to have doubts. The evidence pointed the other way. He noticed the couples, embracing, snuggling in restaurant booths, clasping hands while they waited in movie lines.

There had been a girl once. Adele. Schwab came to her house, looked floor wise, held himself at obsequious angles while her father uttered his banalities. I couldn’t agree with you more, Mr. Flugelstadt. The state department is crawling with communists.

Out on the porch, Schwab pressed Adele to him. She was plain, unremarkable save for a pair of enormous breasts. I love you, Max. I don’t know why, but I do.

Sure she does, thought Schwab. A woman with breasts like that will want kids. One after another. There’s no stopping such a woman!

Schwab broke it off a few weeks later. He’s a jerk, your father, he told her over the phone. She began crying. I’m trying to make it easier on you. Don’t cry, godammit! She did and Schwab hung up.

Give me a Trib, he told Chumly the news vendor. Chumly was blind, wore dark glasses and loud, ill-fitting shirts. He was a thin man. His clothing billowed, as though he were heading into a windstorm. The man can’t see, Schwab said to himself. That’s why he dresses that way. The poor slob.

I’ll tell you what’s the matter with you, Max. They were arguing again. The vendor had tilted his head, as though he were listening to Schwab’s breath, drawing a bead on him as they talked.

Spare me, Chumly. Save the speech. Here’s a quarter. I’m putting a quarter on the counter. Hear it?

You think you’re somehow different than the rest of us. Chumly picked up the quarter.

Some blind man, thought Schwab.

Chumly began rearranging the magazines. The entire back wall was devoted to men’s magazines, pornography. The women pouted, made faces, leaned forward, hands on knees. I see it all the time, Chumly went on. Who needs eyes to see it? People think they have a right to a better fate. That’s it. That’s it in a nutshell.

Schwab grimaced, waved impatiently. But Chumly continued to hold himself slightly off-center, his expression unchanged. Okay, said Schwab, raising his voice in indignation. Okay! Maybe that holds true for other people. They think their thoughts. Am I to blame for such stupidity? He tapped on the counter until Chumly turned, then reached carefully past him and retrieved his quarter.

I am better, he thought fiercely. It’s a matter of innate superiority, of finer sensibilities.

Schwab tucked his head and strode purposefully toward the office. He had never been late, and he was damned if he was going to start now. Why give Eckler the satisfaction? Eckler, his boss, was not the type to say anything. That would be merciful.

No. You couldn’t expect even that much consideration from a fellow like Eckler.

Llewellyn was already at his desk. He was a stout man, a mouth-breather with a pinkish cast to his skin, as though he had just been slapped or perhaps been forced to run a few steps. Despite his infirmities, Llewellyn was the cheerful sort, quick with a greeting. No, he isn’t phony, thought Schwab, as he nodded perfunctorily to his beaming colleague. He’s merely an idiot. The man actually thinks I’m interested in his home life, the cute things his kids say. The assumptions people make.

Psst, Llewellyn gestured dramatically toward Eckler’s door. He wants to see you.

You’re trembling, Llewellyn, Schwab said loudly. It’s me the old man wants to see. Is this the only job in the world? You’d think so the way you bow and scrape. You’re a clerk, Llewellyn. Jesus Christ, man. A clerk.

I’ve got children, Llewellyn protested. A wife I’ve got. I have to keep my job. You’re different.

Yeah, I’m different, thought Schwab as he knocked loudly on Eckler’s door.

Eckler called him in and forced Schwab to stand in the doorway for several seconds before looking up. He wore a string tie with a turquoise clip, a knickknack from some reservation in Arizona. The room reeked of stale cigar smoke, and on Eckler’s desk, in the corner, was a paper bag. He carries his lunch, thought Schwab. He carries a couple of dry sandwiches every day for twenty years, and he’s actually proud of it. Men with money don’t know how to spend it. That’s the crime of it.

Uh, Max. Yes. Have a chair. Schwab moved grudgingly to one of the wooden chairs and seated himself primly, as though