The Alcoholics Read Free

Rufus to stick his goddam shitgun ( now wasn't that a pretty name to call a scientific instrument! ) up his own butt. And he had declared that if Rufus didn't stop his silly goddam horsing around ( a pretty way for a doctor to talk!) he, personally, would kick his, Rufus', goddam ass all the way into Beverly Hills.
    Pretty-thought Rufus, gloomily, savoring his coffee. A pretty way for one professional man to address another. Oh, very pretty… Then he became aware that Josephine, the cook, was watching him, and he exchanged his downcast manner for one of frowning studiousness. He appealed to Josephine's ever-near hysteria.
    Drawing a toy stethoscope from the pocket of his white jacket, he blew through first one end, then the other, then draped them around his neck. Propping his chin up with one hand he slid the other inside his jacket, thus assuming a pose at once Napoleonic and convenient for scratching. Josephine started to giggle.

3
    Back in the era surrounding World War I, the General had been prominently mentioned as a vice-presidential candidate.
    Back in the days of the roaring 'twenties, he had served as chairman of the board of a hundred-million dollar corporation.
    Back in the early 'thirties, three press services and a nation-wide chain of newspapers had quoted his opinion- yes, and his firm belief-that we have but to tighten our belts, my fellow citizens, and place our trust in Almighty God, and we shall emerge from this crisis more strong and triumphant than ever…
    Back in the early 'forties, the early days of World War II, he had…
    As a matter of fact, he had done nothing; nothing wrong. Nothing that might not have been excused, even rewarded, at a different time. It was not so much what he had done but when he had done it: The artist, Time, had painted him into a picture of chaos, distorting the nominally normal, concealing virtue and exaggerating defect.
    He had been in the public eye for years. He remained in it now, the one figure in the picture that everyone recognized. Through the refracted light of familiarity, he became a symbol for Pearl Harbor, for Bataan, for the Philippines, for the accidental shooting-down of friendly planes. Perhaps the General had extended his lines too far. Perhaps his losses had been too high for the results achieved. Perhaps, and perhaps not. It did not matter. Time spun the wheel, and the arrow stopped at the General. He was not merely culpable of one doubtful action or several, but for the whole terrifying tragedy of war.
    Just as he had done nothing, nothing wrong, so nothing- nothing really wrong-had been done to him. He was not under arrest on the flight back to Washington. He was not court-martialed. There was no official demand for his resignation. True, there were official news releases to the effect that a detailed study of his conduct was being made and that "proper action would be taken at the proper time." The stories flowed into the newspapers for months-never actually accusatory; only reciting the statistics of lives lost, of men killed and wounded and captured, and stating that the General's responsibility was under study.
    The tides of the war changed, and the flow of stories to the newspapers ceased. But the General's case remained "under study," and he remained under suspension, drawing no pay. He asked for a trial. He demanded one. That put him back in the newspapers for a day-in bold-face, front-page "boxes," ironic in tone; in editorial-page cartoons-a be-spurred and drooling idiot shaking a bloody fist beneath the nose of John Q. Public.
    But he did not get a trial. Nothing, as has been noted, was ever done to the General.
    The war ended. The powers that were turned fretful, annoyed eyes on the General's "case." Restore him to rank? Give him a clean bill of health? Impossible. The public would never accept it. The General himself had become impossible. A common drunk, my dear fellow. Actually! "And did you see the article he wrote for that shoddy