Free Ice-Cream Headache by James Jones Page A

on the red and white checked tablecloth, then he lurched to his feet toward the sink where the dishrag always was.
    Sandy pushed him back into his chair. “Its all right, George. I’ll change it tomorrow.”
    George breathed heavily. “Watch yourself, you,” he said to Tom. “Goddam you, be careful.”
    “What the hell. I dint do it on purpose.”
    “That’s all right, just watch yourself.”
    “Okay, Sergeant,” Tom said. “Okay, halfchick.”
    George laughed suddenly, munching a slab of cheese between two crackers, spraying crumbs. “Don’t call me none of your family names.”
    “We really use to have some times,” he said to Sandy. “You know what this crazy bastard use to do? After we got our leather, we use to stand out in the corridor and watch the guys with a leg off going down the hall on crutches. Tom would look at them and say to me, Pore feller. He’s lost a leg. And I’d say, Why thats turrible, aint it?”
    Sandy was looking at him, watching him, her sandwich untouched in her hand. Under her gaze George’s eyebrows suddenly went up, bent in the middle.
    “We use to go to town,” he said, grinning at her. “We really had some times. You ought to seen their faces when we’d go up to the room from the bar. You ought to see them when we’d take our pants off.” He laughed viciously. “One broad even fainted on me. They didn’t like it.” His gaze wavered, then fell to his drink. “I guess you can’t blame them though.”
    “Why?” Sandy said. “Why did you do it, George?”
    “Hell,” he said, looking up. “ Why? Don’t you know why ?”
    Sandy shook her head slowly, her eyes unmoving on his face. “No,” she said. “I don’t know why. I guess I never will know why,” she said.
    Tom was pinching the blonde one’s bottom. “That tickles mine,” he said. “You know what tickles mine?”
    “No,” she said, “what?”
    Tom whispered in her ear and she giggled and slapped him lightly.
    “No,” George said. “I guess you won’t. You aint never been in the Army, have you?”
    “No,” Sandy said, “I haven’t.”
    “You ought to try it,” George said. “Fix us one more drink and we’ll be goin.”
    “All right, George. But I wish you’d stay.”
    George spread his hands and looked down at himself. “Why?” he said. “Me?”
    “Yes,” Sandy said. “You really do need to sober up.”
    “Oh,” George said. “Sober up. Liquor never bothers me. Listen, Sandy. I wanted to talk to you, Sandy.”
    Under the red and white checked tablecloth George put his hand on Sandy’s bare knee below her skirt. His hand cupped it awkwardly, but softly, very softly.
    “I’ll get your drink,” Sandy said, pushing back her chair. George watched her get up and go to the countertop where the bottles were.
    “Come here, you,” George said to the short dark one. He jerked her toward him so roughly her head snapped back. He kissed her heavily, his left hand behind her head holding her neck rigid, his right hand on her upper arm, stroking heavily, pinching slightly.
    Sandy set the drink in front of him. “Here’s your drink you wanted, George,” she said, still holding the tabled glass. “George, here’s your drink.”
    “Okay,” George said. “Drink up, you all, and lets get out of this.”
    The short one was rubbing her neck with her hand, her face twisted breathlessly. She smiled apologetically at Sandy. “You got a wonderful home here, Miss Thomas,” she said.
    George lurched to his feet. “All right. All right. Outside.” He shooed them out the door, Tom grinning, his hand hidden under the blonde one’s arm. Then he stood in the doorway looking back.
    “Well, so long. And thanks for the liquor.”
    “All right, George. Why don’t you stop drinking, George?”
    “Why?” George said. “You ask me why.”
    “I hate to see you ruin yourself.”
    George laughed. “Well now thanks. That sure is nice of you, Sandy girl. But liquor never bothers me.” He