Free Ask the Dust by John Fante Page A

killing time. I bought cigarets, candy and candied fruit. I bought two reams of expensive paper, rubber bands, paper clips, note pads, a small filing cabinet, and a gadget for punching holes in paper. I also bought a cheap watch, a bed lamp, a comb, toothbrushes, tooth paste, hair lotion, shaving cream, skin lotion, and a first aid kit. I stopped at a tie shop and bought ties, a new belt, a watch chain, handkerchiefs, bathrobe and bedroom slippers. Evening came, and I couldn’t carry any more. I called a taxi and rode home.
    I was very tired. Sweat soaked through my new suit, and crawled down my leg to my ankles. But this was fun. I took a bath, rubbed the lotion into my skin, and washed my teeth with the new brush and paste. Then I shaved with the new cream and doused my hair with the lotion. For a while I sat around in my bedroom slippers and bathrobe, put away my new paper and gadgets, smoked good, fresh cigarets and ate candy.
    The deliveryman from The May Company brought the rest of my purchases in a big box. I opened it and found not only the new stuff but also my old clothes. These I tossed into the wastebasket. Now it was time to dress again. I got into a pair of new shorts, a brand new shirt, socks, and the other pair of pants. Then I put on a tie and my new shoes. Standing at the mirror, I tilted my hat over on eye, and examined myself. The image in the glass seemed only vaguely familiar. I didn’t like my new tie, so I took off my coat and tried another. I didn’t like the change either. All at once everything began to irritate me. The stiff collar was strangling me. The shoes pinched my feet. The pants smelled like a clothing store basement and were too tight in the crotch. Sweat broke out at my temples where the hat band squeezed my skull. Suddenly I began to itch, and when I moved everything crackled like a paper sack. My nostrils picked up the powerful stench of lotions, and I grimaced. Mother in Heaven, what had happened to the old Bandini, author of The Little Dog Laughed? Could this hog-tied, strangling buffoon be the creator of The Long Lost Hills? I pulled everything off, washed the smells out of my hair, and climbed into my old clothes. They were very glad to have me again; they clung to me with cool delight, and my tormented feet slipped into the old shoes as into the softness of Spring grass.

Chapter Nine
    I rode down to the Columbia Buffet in a taxi. The driver wheeled to the curb directly in front of the open door. I got out and handed him a twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have the change. I was glad because when I finally found a smaller bill and paid him off, there was Camilla standing in the door. Very few taxis stopped before the Columbia Buffet. I nodded casually to Camilla and walked in and sat at the first table. I was reading Hackmuth’s letter when she spoke.
    â€œAre you mad at me?” she said.
    â€œNot that I know of,” I said.
    She put her hands behind her and looked down at her feet. “Don’t I look different?”
    She was wearing new white pumps, with high heels.
    â€œThey’re very nice,” I said, turning to Hackmuth’s letter once more. She watched me with a pout. I glanced up and winked. “Excuse me,” I said. “Business.”
    â€œYou want to order anything?”
    â€œA cigar,” I said. “Something expensive from Havana.” She brought the box. I took one.
    â€œThey’re expensive,” she said. “A quarter.”
    I smiled and gave her a dollar.
    â€œKeep the change.”
    She refused the tip.
    â€œNot from you,” she said. “You’re poor.”
    â€œI used to be,” I said. I lit the cigar, let the smoke tumble out of my mouth as I leaned far back and stared at the ceiling. “Not a bad cigar for the money,” I said.
    The female musicians in the rear were hacking out Over the Waves . I made a face and pushed the change from the cigar towardCamilla. “Tell