Portnoy's Complaint by Philip Roth Read Free Book Online

tongue hanging out. Shout he could shout, squabble he could squabble, and oh nudjh , could he nudjh! But defend himself? against me? Alex, keep this back talk up, my mother warns, as I depart from the roaring kitchen like Attila the Hun, run screaming from yet another half-eaten dinner, (continue with this disrespect and you will give that man a heart attack!   Good! I cry, slamming in her face the door to my room. Fine! I scream, extracting from my closet the zylon jacket I wear only with my collar up ( a style she abhors as much as the filthy garment itself). Wonderful! I shout, and with streaming eyes run to the corner to vent my fury on the pinball machine.
                Christ, in the face of my defiance- if my father had only been my mother! and my mother my father! But what a mix-up of the sexes in our house! Who should by rights be advancing on me, retreating- and who should be retreating, advancing! Who should be scolding, collapsing in helplessness, enfeebled totally by a tender heart! And who should be collapsing, instead scolding, correcting,   reproving, criticizing, faultfinding without end! Filling the patriarchal vacuum! Oh, thank God! thank God! at least he had the cock and the balls! Pregnable (putting it mildly) as his masculinity was in this world of goyim with golden hair and silver tongues, between his legs (God bless my father!)   he was constructed like a man of consequence, two big healthy balls such as a king would be proud to put on display, and a shlong of magisterial length and girth. And they were his : yes, of this I am absolutely certain, they hung down off of, they were connected on to, they could not be taken away from, him!

                Of course, around the house I saw less of his sexual apparatus than I did of her erogenous zones. And once I saw her menstrual blood . . . saw it shining darkly up at me from the worn linoleum in front of the kitchen sink. Just two red drops over a quarter of a century ago, but they glow still in that icon of her that hangs, perpetually illuminated, in my Modern Museum of Gripes and Grievances (along with the box of Kotex and the nylon stockings, which I want to come to in a moment). Also in this icon is an endless dripping of blood down through a drainboard into a dishpan. It is the blood she is draining from the meat so as to make it kosher and fit for consumption. Probably I am confusing things- I sound like a son of the House of Atreus with all this talk of blood-but I see her standing at the sink salting the meat so as to rid it of its blood, when the attack of woman's troubles sends her, with a most alarming moan, rushing off to her bedroom. I was no more than four or five, and yet those two drops of blood that I beheld on the floor of her kitchen are visible to me still . . . as is the box of Kotex . . . as are the stockings sliding up her legs . . . as   is-need I even say it?-the bread knife with which my own blood would be threatened when I refuse to eat my dinner. That knife! That knife! What gets me is that she herself did not even consider the use of it anything to be ashamed of, or particularly reticent about. From my bed I hear her babbling about her problems to the women around the mah-jongg game: My Alex is suddenly such a bad eater I have to stand over him with a knife . And none of them apparently finds this tactic of hers at all excessive. I have !to stand over him with a knife! And not one of those I women gets up from the mah-jongg table and walks out of .her house! Because in their world, that is the way it is with bad eaters-you have to stand over them with a knife!
                It was years later that she called from the bathroom,   Run to the drugstore! bring a box of Kotex! immediately! And the panic in her voice. Did I run! And then at home again, breathlessly handed the box to the white fingers that extended themselves at me through a narrow crack in the bathroom door . . . Though her menstrual