“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 73
girls had shelter and food for as long as they wanted to stay. All they had to do in return
was hump any of the men who asked them to, which seemed to make everything just
about perfect for them.
Every fourth day or so Hungry Joe came crashing in like a man in torment, hoarse,
wild, and frenetic, if he had been unlucky enough to finish his missions again and was
flying the courier ship. Most times he slept at the enlisted men’s apartment. Nobody was
certain how many rooms Major—de Coverley had rented, not even the stout blackbodiced
woman in corsets on the first floor from whom he had rented them. They
covered the whole top floor, and Yossarian knew they extended down to the fifth floor as
well, for it was in Snowden’s room on the fifth floor that he had finally found the maid in
the lime-colored panties with a dust mop the day after Bologna, after Hungry Joe had
discovered him in bed with Luciana at the officers’ apartment that same morning and
had gone running like a fiend for his camera.
The maid in the lime-colored panties was a cheerful, fat, obliging woman in her midthirties
with squashy thighs and swaying hams in lime-colored panties that she was
always rolling off for any man who wanted her. She had a plain broad face and was the
most virtuous woman alive: she laid for everybody, regardless of race, creed, color or
place of national origin, donating herself sociably as an act of hospitality, procrastinating
not even for the moment it might take to discard the cloth or broom or dust mop she was
clutching at the time she was grabbed. Her allure stemmed from her accessibility; like
Mt. Everest, she was there, and the men climbed on top of her each time they felt the
urge. Yossarian was in love with the maid in the lime-colored panties because she
seemed to be the only woman left he could make love to without falling in love with.
Even the bald-headed girl in Sicily still evoked in him strong sensations of pity,
tenderness and regret.
Despite the multiple perils to which Major—de Coverley exposed himself each time he
rented apartments, his only injury had occurred, ironically enough, while he was leading
the triumphal procession into the open city of Rome, where he was wounded in the eye
by a flower fired at him from close range by a seedy, cackling, intoxicated old man, who,
like Satan himself, had then bounded up on Major—de Coverley’s car with malicious
glee, seized him roughly and contemptuously by his venerable white head and kissed
him mockingly on each cheek with a mouth reeking with sour fumes of wine, cheese and
garlic, before dropping back into the joyous celebrating throngs with a hollow, dry,
excoriating laugh. Major—de Coverley, a Spartan in adversity, did not flinch once
throughout the whole hideous ordeal. And not until he had returned to Pianosa, his
business in Rome completed, did he seek medical attention for his wound.
He resolved to remain binocular and specified to Doc Daneeka that his eye patch be
transparent so that he could continue pitching horseshoes, kidnaping Italian laborers
and renting apartments with unimpaired vision. To the men in the squadron, Major—de
Coverley was a colossus, although they never dared tell him so. The only one who ever
did dare address him was Milo Minderbinder, who approached the horseshoe-pitching
pit with a hard-boiled egg his second week in the squadron and held it aloft for Major—
de Coverley to see. Major—de Coverley straightened with astonishment at Milo’s
effrontery and concentrated upon him the full fury of his storming countenance with its
rugged overhang of gullied forehead and huge crag of a humpbacked nose that came
charging out of his face wrathfully like a Big Ten fullback. Milo stood his ground, taking
shelter behind the hard-boiled egg raised protectively before his face like a magic
charm. In time the gale began to subside, and the danger passed.
‘What is that?’ Major—de Coverley demanded at last.
‘An egg,’ Milo answered ‘What kind of an egg?’ Major—de Coverley demanded.
‘A hard-boiled egg,’ Milo answered.
‘What kind of a hard-boiled egg?’ Major—de Coverley demanded.
‘A fresh hard-boiled egg,’ Milo answered.
‘Where did the fresh egg come from?’ Major—de Coverley demanded.
‘From a chicken,’ Milo answered.