Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/281



GENE LIMBEAUX HAD SPENT EIGHT hours behind a desk, and now as he stood at his apartment door fumbling for his keys, he looked like a tired old man coming home from a hard day's work.

Once he had been a little boy but he had almost forgotten that. That boyhood full of unhappy memories was better dead. Those screams of "Kike," "you sissy Jew," "Jew sucker" yelled at him had also been buried along with lonesome past years.

His apartment felt steamingly hot as he drew his stout short frame through the door, and taking off the tan seersucker coat, he threw it across a chair. Out of his pocket he pulled a soiled handkerchief and wiped his face. He looked at the damp linen and shook his head. He would cream his face and take off these sweaty clothes. But first he would turn on the window fan.

The suction of the fan immediately sent a cool breeze through the room. He could hear the humming noises of the street mix with it as he drew open the long drapes and opened several windows. Then, going back to the door he closed and locked it.

So Gene Limbeaux stood again in his make-believe world. His whole expression had changed from a drab uninteresting man, to a younger, full of life person. Taking off the rest of his clothes, he strolled around the room naked, picking up over-running ash trays and emptying them into a waste basket. He hummed to himself in a high falsetto voice; picked up a dust cloth and began dusting the furniture.

Here in New Orleans he had found his niche. Bookkeeping seemed to be in his blood. Starting as a helper he was soon in charge of the whole office. He loved the technical details and the long columns 271