CHAPTER SEVEN
THE
thought that they could leave me behind like a dog while they explored
“What are
you doing that for?” they would ask.
“To check
your lies,” I might answer. Or – “Some
of this I may use in the play.”
These
remarks served to put spice into their dialogues. They did everything to put me off the
track. Sometimes they talked like
Strindberg, sometimes like Maxwell Bodenheim.
To add to the confusion I would read them disturbing bits from the
notebook which I now carried with me on my peregrinations in the Village. Sometimes it was a conversation (verbatim)
that I had overheard outside a cafeteria or a night club, sometimes it was a
descriptive account of the goings on that took place in these dives. Cleverly interspersed would be fragmentary
remarks I had overheard, or pretended to have overheard, about the two of
them. They were usually imaginary, but
they were also real enough to cause them concern or make them blurt out the
truth, which is exactly what I was gunning for.
Whenever
they lost their self-control they contradicted one another and revealed things
I was not supposed to hear about.
Finally I pretended to be really absorbed in the writing of the play and
begged them to take dictation from me: I had decided, I said, to write the last
act first – it would be easier. My true
motive, of course, was to show them how this ménage à tois would end. It
meant a bit of acting on my part, and quick thinking.
Stasia had
decided that she would take notes while Mona listened and made
suggestions. The better to act the
dramaturge, I paced the floor, puffed endless cigarettes, took a swig of the
bottle now and then, while gesticulating like a movie director, acting out the
parts, imitating them by turns and of course throwing them into hysterics,
particularly when I touched on pseudo-amorous scenes in which I depicted them
as only pretending to be in love with
each other. I would come to an abrupt
stop occasionally to inquire if they thought these scenes too unreal, too
far-fetched, and so on. Sometimes they would
stop me to comment on the accuracy of some of my portrayals or my dialogue,
whereupon they would vie with one another to furnish me with further hints,
clues, suggestions, all of us talking at once and acting out our parts, each in
his own fashion, and nobody taking notes, no one able to remember, when we had
calmed down, what the other had said or done, what came first and what
last. As we progressed I gradually
introduced more and more truth, more and more reality, cunningly recreating
scenes at which I had never been present, stupefying them with their own
admissions, their own clandestine behaviour.
Some of these shots in the dark so confounded and bewildered them, I
observed, that they had no recourse but to accuse one another of betrayal. Sometimes, unaware of the implication of
their words, they accused me of spying on them, of putting my ear to the
keyhole, and so on. At other times they
looked blankly at each other, unable to decide whether they had really said and
done what I imputed to them or not. But,
regardless of how much they detested my interpretation of their doings, they
were excited, they wanted more, more. It
was as if they saw themselves on the stage enacting their true roles. It was irresistible.
At the
boil I would deliberately let them down, pretending a headache or that I had
run out of ideas or else that the damned thing was no good, that it was futile
to waste further time on it. This would
really put them in a dither. To soften
me up they would come home loaded with good things to eat and drink. They would even bring me
To vary
the torment, I would pretend, just as we had started work, that I had met with
some extraordinary experience earlier that day and, as if absent-minded, I
would digress into an elaborate account of a mythical adventure. One night I informed them that we would have
to postpone work on the play for a while because I had taken a job as an usher
in a burlesque house. They were
outraged. A few days later I informed
them that I had given up that job to become an elevator operator. That disgusted them.
One morning I awoke with the firm intention of gunning
for a job, a big job. I had no clear
idea what kind of job, only that it must be something worthwhile, something
important. While shaving I got the
notion that I would pay a visit to the head of a chain-store organization, ask
him to make a place for me. I would say
nothing about previous employments; I would dwell on the fact that I was a
writer, a free-lance writer, who desired to put his talents at their
disposal. A much travelled young man,
weary of spreading himself all over the lot; eager to make a place for himself,
a permanent one, with an up and coming organization such as theirs. (The chain stores were only in their
infancy.) Given the chance, I might
demonstrate … here I allowed my imagination free fancy.
While
dressing I embellished the speech I intended to make to Mr. W.H. Higginbotham,
president of the Hobson and Holbein Chain Stores. (I prayed that he wouldn’t turn out to be
deaf!)
I got off
to a late start, but full of optimism and never more spruce and spry. I armed myself with a briefcase belonging to
Stasia, not bothering to examine the contents of it. Anything to look
“businesslike”.
It was a
bitter cold day and the head office was in a warehouse not far from the
“I’m not
looking for a job,” I said. “I have an
appointment with Mr. Higginbotham’s secretary.”
He gave me
a searching look, but said no more. He
slammed the gate to and the lift slowly ascended.
“The
eighth floor, please!”
“You don’t
have to tell me! What’s your errand?”
The
elevator, which was inching upward, groaned and squealed like a sow in
labour. I had the impression that he had
deliberately slowed it up.
He was
glaring at me now, waiting for my reply.
“What’s eating him?” I asked myself.
Was it simply that he didn’t like my looks?
“It’s
difficult,” I began, “to explain my errand in a few words.” Terrified by the horrible scowl he was giving
me, I pulled myself up short. I did my best
to return his gaze without flinching.
“Yes,” I resumed, “it’s rather diff….”
“Stop it!”
he yelled, bringing the lift to a halt – between two floors. “If you say another word….” He raised a hand
as if to say – “I’ll throttle you!”
Convinced
that I had a maniac to deal with, I kept my mouth shut.
“You talk
too much,” said he. He gave the lever a
jerk and the lift started upward again, shuddering.
I kept
quiet and looked straight ahead. At the
eighth floor he opened the gate and out I stepped, gingerly too, as if
expecting a kick in the pants.
Fortunately
the door facing me was the one I sought.
As I laid my hand on the knob I was aware that he was observing me. I had the uncomfortable presentiment that he
would be there to catch me when they threw me out like an empty bucket. I opened the door and walked in. I came face to face with a girl standing in a
cage who received me smilingly.
“I came to
see Mr. Higginbotham,” I said. By now my
speech had flown and my thoughts were knocking about like bowling pins.
To my
amazement she asked no questions. She
simply picked up the telephone and spoke a few inaudible words into the
mouthpiece. When she put the receiver
down she turned and, in a voice all honry, said: “Mr. Higginbotham’s secretary
will see you in a moment.”
In a
moment the secretary appeared. He was a
middle-aged man of pleasant mien, courteous, affable. I gave him my name and followed him to his
desk which was at the end of a long room studded with desks and machines of all
kinds. He took a seat behind a large,
polished table which was almost bare and indicated a comfortable chair opposite
him into which I dropped with a momentary feeling of relief.
“Mr.
Higginbotham is in
“I see,”
said I, thinking to myself this is my way out, can’t confide in anyone but Mr.
Higginbotham himself. Even as I did so I
realized that it would be unwise to exit so quickly – the elevator runner would
be expecting precisely such an eventuality.
“He’s on a
big-game hunt,” added the secretary, sizing me up all the while and wondering,
no doubt, whether to make short shrift of me or feel the ground further. Still affable, however, and obviously waiting
for me to spill the beans.
“I see,” I
repeated. “That’s too bad. Perhaps I should wait until he returns….”
“No, not
at all – unless it’s something very confidential you have to tell him. Even if he were here you would have to deal
first with me. Mr. Higginbotham has many
irons in the fire; that is only one of his interests. Let me assure you that anything you wish
conveyed to him will receive my earnest attention and consideration.”
He stopped
short. It was my move.
“Well
sir,” I began hesitatingly, but breathing a little more freely, “it’s not
altogether easy to explain the purpose of my visit.”
“Excuse
me,” he put in, “but may I ask what firm it is you
represent?”
He leaned
forward as if expecting me to drop a card in his hand.
“I’m
representing myself … Mr. Larrabee,
was it? I’m a writer … a free-lance
writer. I hope that doesn’t put you
off?”
“Not at
all, not at all!” he replied.
(Think
fast now! Something
original!)
“You
didn’t have in mind an advertising campaign, did you? We really….”
“Oh no!” I replied.
“Not that! I know you have plenty
of capable men for that.” I smiled
weakly. “No, it was something more
general … more experimental, shall I say?”
I lingered
a moment, like a bird in flight hovering over a dubious perch. Mr. Larrabee leaned forward, ears cocked to
catch this “something” of moment.
“It’s like
this,” I said, wondering what the hell I would say next. “In the course of my career I’ve come in
contact with all manner of men, all manner of ideas. Now and then, as I move about, an idea seizes
me…. I don’t need to tell you that writers sometimes get ideas which practical
minded individuals regard as chimerical.
That is, they seem chimerical, until they have been tested.”
“Quite
true,” said Mr. Larrabee, his bland countenance open to receive the impress of
my idea, whether chimerical or practicable.
It was
impossible to continue the delaying tactics any longer. “Out with it!” I
commanded myself. But out with what?
At this
point, most fortunately, a man appeared from an adjoining office, holding a batch
of letters in his hand. “I beg pardon,”
he said, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to stop a moment and sign these. Quite important.”
Mr.
Larrabee took the letters, then presented me to the
man. “Mr. Miller is a writer. He has a plan to present to Mr. Higginbotham.”
We shook
hands while Mr. Larrabee proceeded to bury his nose in the file of
correspondence.
“Well,”
said the man – his name was McAuliffe, I believe – “well, sir, I must say we
don’t see many writers around these parts.”
He pulled out a cigarette case and offered me a Benson and Hedges. “Thank you,” I said, permitting him to light
the cigarette for me. “Sit down, won’t
you?” he said. “You don’t mind if I chat
with you a moment, I hope? One doesn’t
get a chance to meet a writer every day.”
A few more
polite parries and then he asked: “Do you write books or are you a newspaper
correspondent by chance?”
I
pretended to have done a little of everything.
I put it that way as if modesty compelled it.
“I see, I
see,” said he. “How
about novels?”
Pause. I could see he wanted more.
I
nodded. “Even
detective stories occasionally.”
“My
speciality,” I added, “is travel and research.”
His spine
suddenly straightened up. “Travel! Ah, I’d
give my right arm to have a year off, a year to go places.
“As a
matter of fact, yes,” I replied. “Though not for long.
A few weeks, that’s all. I was on
my way back from the Carolines.”
“The Carolines?” He seemed electrified now. “What were you doing there, may I ask?”
“A rather
fruitless mission, I’m afraid.” I went
on to explain how I had been cajoled into joining an anthropological
expedition. Not that I was in any way
qualified. But it was an old friend of
mine – an old classmate – who was in charge of the expedition and he had
persuaded me to go along. I was to do as
I pleased. If there was a book in it,
fine. If not … and so on.
“Yes,
yes! And what happened?”
“In a few
weeks we were all taken violently ill. I
spent the rest of my time in the hospital.”
The phone
on Mr. Larrabee’s desk rang imperiously.
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Larrabee, picking up the receiver. We waited in silence while he carried on a
lengthy conversation about imported teas.
The conversation finished, he jumped to his feet, handed Mr. McAuliffe
the signed correspondence and, as if charged with an injection, said:
“Now then,
Mr. Miller, about your plan….”
I rose to
shake hands with the departing Mr. McAuliffe, sat down again, and without more ado
launched into one of my extravaganzas.
Only this time I was bent on telling the truth. I would tell the truth, nothing but the
truth, then goodbye.
Rapid and
condensed as was this narrative of my earthly adventures and tribulations, I
realized nevertheless that I was genuinely imposing on Mr. Larrabee’s time, not
to mention his patience. It was the way
he listened, all agog, like a frog peering at you from the mossy edge of a pond, that urged me on.
All about us the clerks had vanished; it was well into the lunch
hour. I halted a moment to inquire if I
wasn’t preventing him from lunching. He
waved the question aside. “Go on,” he
begged, “I’m completely yours.”
And so,
after I had brought him up to date, I proceeded to make confession. Not even if Mr. Higginbotham had suddenly and
unexpectedly come back from
“There’s
absolutely no excuse for having wasted your time,” I began. “I really have no plan, no project to
propose. However, it wasn’t to make a
fool of myself that I barged in here.
There come times when you simply must obey your impulses. Even if it sounds strange to you … after all
I’ve told you about my life … I nevertheless believe that there must be a place
for one like me in this world of industry.
The usual procedure, when one tries to break down the barrier, is to ask
for a place at the bottom. It’s my
thought, however, to begin near the top.
I’ve explored the bottom – it leads nowhere. I’m talking to you, Mr. Larrabee, as if I
were talking to Mr. Higginbotham himself.
I’m certain I could be of genuine service to this organization, but in
what capacity I can’t say. All I have to
offer, I suppose, is my imagination – and my energy, which is
inexhaustible. It’s not a matter of a
job altogether, it’s an opportunity to solve my immediate problem, a problem
which is purely personal, I grant you, but of desperate importance to me. I could throw myself into anything,
particularly if it made demands on my ingenuity. This chequered career, which I’ve briefly
outlined, I feel it must have been to some purpose. I’m not an aimless individual, nor am I
unstable. Quixotic
perhaps, and rash at times, but a born worker. And I work best when in harness. What I’m trying to convey to you, Mr.
Larrabee, is that whoever created a place for me would never regret it. This is a tremendous organization, with
wheels within wheels. As a cog in a
machine I’d be worthless. But why make
me part of a machine? Why not let me
inspire the machine? Even if I have no
plan to submit, as I fully admit, that is not to say that tomorrow I might not
come up with one. Believe me, it’s of the utmost importance that at this juncture
someone should put a show of confidence in me.
I’ve never betrayed a trust, take my word for it. I don’t ask you to hire me on the spot, I merely suggest that you hold out a little hope, that
you promise to give me a chance, if it is at all possible, to prove to you that
all I say is not mere words.”
I had said
all I wanted to say. Rising to my feet,
I extended my hand. “It was most kind of
you,” I said.
“Hold on,”
said Mr. Larrabee. “Let me catch up with
you.”
He gazed
out the window a good full moment, then turned to me.
“You
know,” he said, “not one man in ten thousand would
have had the courage, or the effrontery, to engage me in such a
proposition. I don’t know whether to
admire you or -. Look here, vague as it
all is, I promise you I will give thought to your request. Naturally, I can’t do a thing until Mr.
Higginbotham returns. Only he could create a place for you….”
He
hesitated before resuming. “But I want
to tell you this, for my own part. I
know little about writers or writing, but it strikes me that only a writer
could have spoken as you did. Only an
exceptional individual, I will add, would have had the audacity to take a man
in my position into his confidence. I
feel indebted to you: you make me feel that I’m bigger and better than I
thought myself to be. You may be
desperate, as you say, but you’re certainly not lacking in resourcefulness. A person like you can’t go under. I’m not going to forget you easily. Whatever happens, I hope you will regard me
as a friend. A week
from now I suspect that this interview will be ancient history to you.”
I was
blushing to the roots of my hair. To get
such a response suited me far better than finding a niche in the Hobson and
Holbein enterprises.
“Would you
do me a last favour?” I asked. “Do you
mind escorting me to the elevator.”
“Did you
have trouble with Jim?”
“So you
know, then?”
He took me
by the arm. “He has no business running
that elevator. He’s absolutely
unpredictable. But the boss insists on
keeping him. He’s a war veteran and
distantly related to the family, I believe.
A real menace, though.”
He pressed
the button and the lift slowly ascended.
Jim, as he called the maniac, seemed surprised to see the two of us
standing there. As I stepped into the
lift, Mr. Larrabee extended his hand once again and said, obviously for Jim’s
benefit – “Don’t forget, if you’re ever” – and he stressed the ever – “in this
neighbourhood again, stop in to see me.
Maybe next time we can have lunch together. Oh yes, I’ll be writing to Mr. Higginbotham
this evening. I’m sure he’ll be deeply
interested. Goodbye now!”
“Goodbye,”
I said, “and all my thanks!”
As the
lift made its weary descent I kept my eyes riveted straight ahead. I had a look on my face as if rapt in
thought. There was only one thought in
my mind, however, and that was – when
will he explode? I had a hunch that
he was even more venomous toward me now – because I had been so cunning. I was as wary and alert as a cat. What, I wondered, would I do – what could I do … if suddenly, between
floors, he shut the power off and turned on me?
Not a peep, not a stir, out of him.
We reached bottom, the gate slid open, and out I stepped … a Pinocchio
with both legs burned off.
The
hallway was deserted, I noticed. I made
for the door, some yards away. Jim
remained at his post, as if nothing had ever happened. At least, I felt that that was his
attitude. Half-way to the door I turned,
on the impulse, and headed back. The
inscrutable expression on Jim’s face told me that he had expected me to do just
that. Coming closer I saw that his face
was truly a blank. He had retired into
his stone-like self – or was he lying in ambush?
“Why do
you hate me?” I said, and I looked him square in the eye.
“I don’t
hate anybody,” was the unexpected answer.
Nothing but the muscles of his mouth had moved; even his eyeballs were
fixed.
“I’m sorry,”
I said, and made a half turn as if to march away.
“I don’t
hate you,” he said, suddenly coming to life.
“I pity you! You don’t fool me. Nobody does.”
An inner
terror gripped me. “How do you mean?” I
stammered.
“Don’t
give me words,” he said. “You know what
I mean.”
A cold
shiver now ran up and down my spine. It
was as if he had said: “I have second sight, I can
read your mind like a book.”
“So what?” I said, amazed at my impudence.
“Go home
and put your mind in order, that’s what!”
I was
stunned. But what followed, as Mr.
Larrabee had put it, was absolutely unpredictable.
Hypnotized,
I watched him pull up his sleeve to reveal a horrible scar; he pulled up his
pants leg and there were more horrible scars; then he unbuttoned his
shirt. At the sight of his chest I
almost fainted.
“It took
all that,” he said, “to open my eyes. Go
home and set your mind straight. Go, before I strike you dead!”
I turned
at once and started for the door. It
took all my courage not to break into a run.
Someone was coming from the street.
He wouldn’t strike me now – or would he? I moved at the same pace, quickening it as I
neared the door.
Whew! Outside I dropped my briefcase and lit myself
a cig. The sweat was oozing from all
pores. I debated what to do. It was cowardly to run off with my tail
between my legs. And it was suicidal to
return. Veteran or not, crazy or not, he
meant what he said. What’s more, he had my number. That’s what burned me up.
I moved
away, mumbling to myself as I trudged along.
Yeah, he had me dead to rights: a time waster, a faker, a glib talker, a
no-good son of a bitch. No one had ever
brought me so low. I felt like writing
Mr. Larrabee a letter telling him that no matter how my words had impressed him
everything about me was false, dishonest, worthless. I became so indignant with myself that my
whole body broke out in a rash. Had a
worm appeared before me and repeated Jim’s words, I would have bowed my head in
shame and said: “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Worm. Let me get down beside you and grovel in the
earth.”
At Borough
Hall I grabbed a coffee and sandwich, then made
instinctively for “The Star”, an old-time burlesque house that had seen better
days. The show ha already started but no
matter: there was never anything new either in the way of jokes or in the way
of ass. As I entered the theatre the
memory of my first visit to it came back.
My old friend Al Burger and his bosom pal, Frank Schofield, had invited
me to go with them. We must have been
nineteen or twenty at the time. What I
particularly recollected was the warmth of friendship which this Frank
Schofield exuded. I had met him only two
or three times before. To Frank I was
something very very special. He loved to
hear me talk, hung on every word I uttered.
In fact, everything I said fascinated him for some reason. As for Frank, he was one of the world’s most
ordinary fellows, but brimming with affection.
He had a mammoth figure – weighed then almost three hundred pounds –
drank like a fish and was never without a cigar in his mouth. He laughed easily, and when he did his
stomach shook like jello. “What don’t
you come and live with us?” he used to say.
“We’ll take care of you. It makes
me feel good just to look at you.” Simple words, but honest and sincere. Not one of my boon companions at that time
possessed his homely qualities. No worm
had eaten into his soul yet. He was innocent, tender, generous
to a fault.
But why was he so fond of me? That’s what I asked myself as I groped my way
to a seat in the pit. Rapidly I went
over the roster of my bosom friends, asking myself what each and every one of
them really thought of me. And then I
thought of a schoolmate, Lester Faber, whose lips would curl into a sneer each
time we met, which was every day. No one
in the class liked him, nor the teachers either. He was born sour. Fuck him! I thought. Wonder what he does for a living now? And Lester Prink. What had become of him? Suddenly I saw the whole class, as we looked
in that photo taken on graduation day. I
could recall every one of them, their names, height, weight, standing, where
they lived, how they spoke, everything about them. Strange that I never ran
into any of them….
The show
was frightful; I almost fell asleep in the middle of it. But it was warm and cosy. Besides, I was in no hurry to get
anywhere. There were seven, eight or
nine hours to kill before the two of them would return.
The cold
had moderated when I stepped out of the theatre. A light flurry of snow was falling. Some inexplicable urge directed my steps
towards a gun shop up the street. There
was one revolver in the window which I invariably stopped to look at when
passing. It was a thoroughly
murderous-looking weapon.
In
customary fashion I stopped and pressed my nose against the show window. A hearty slap on the back made me jump. I thought a gun had gone off. As I turned round a hearty voice exclaimed:
“What the devil are you doing
here? Henry, my boy, how are you?”
It was
Tony Marella. He had a long extinct
cigar in his mouth, his soft hat was jauntily pitched, and his small beady eyes
were twinkling as of old.
Well,
well, and all that. The usual exchanges,
a few tender reminiscences, then the question: “And
what are you doing now?”
In a few
words I emptied my bag of woes.
“That’s
too bad, Henry. Jesus, I never suspected
you were up against it. Why didn’t you
let me know?” He put an arm around me. “What do you say we have a little drink? Maybe I can be of help.”
I tried to
tell him that I was beyond helping.
“You’d only be wasting your time,” I said.
“Come,
come, don’t give me that,” said he. “I
know you from way back. Don’t you know
that I always admired you – and envied you?
We all have our ups and downs.
Here, here’s a friendly little joint.
Let’s go in and get something to eat and drink.”
It was a
bar (hidden from the street) where he was evidently well known and in good
standing. I had to be introduced all
around, even to the shoeshine boy. “An
old schoolmate,” he said, as he presented me to one after another. “A writer, by God! What do you know?” He hands me a champagne cocktail. “Here, let’s drink on it! Joe, what about a nice
roast beef sandwich, with lots of gravy … and some raw onions. How does that sound, Henry? Christ, you don’t know how glad I am to see
you again. I’ve often wondered about
you, what you were doing. Thought maybe
you had skipped to
He went on
like this, happy as a lark, passing out more drinks, buying cigars, inquiring
about the racing results, greeting newcomers and introducing me afresh,
borrowing cash off the bartender, making telephone calls, and so on. A little dynamo. A good egg, anyone could see that at a
glance. The friend of every man, and
bubbling over with joy and kindness.
Presently,
with one elbow on the bar and an arm around my shoulder, he said, dropping his
voice: “Listen, Henry, let’s get down to brass tacks. I’ve got a cushy job now. If you like, I could make a place for
you. It’s nothing to get steamed up
about, but it may do to tide you over.
Till you find something better, I mean.
What do you say?”
“Sure,” I
said. “What is it?”
A job in
the Park Department, he explained. He
was secretary to the Commissioner. Which
meant that he, Tony, took care of the routine while the big shot made the
rounds. Politics. A dirty game, he confided. Someone always waiting to
stab you in the back.
“It won’t
be tomorrow or the next day,” he continued.
“I have to play the game, you know.
But I’ll put you on that list immediately. It may take a month before I send for
you. Can you hold out that long?”
“I think
so,” said I.
“Don’t
worry about money,” he said. “I can lend
you whatever you need till then.”
“Don’t!” I
said. “I’ll manage all right….”
“You’re a
funny guy,” he said, squeezing my arm.
“You don’t have to be shy with me. With me it comes and goes … like that! In this racket you’ve got to be well
heeled. There are no poor politicians,
you know that. How we get it, that’s
another matter. So far, I’ve been on the
level. Not easy, either … Okay,
then. If you won’t take anything now you
know where I am went you want it. Any time, remember that!”
I grasped
his hand.
“How about
another drink before we go?”
I nodded.
“Oh,
there’s something I overlooked. I may
have to put you down as a grave-digger … to begin with. Do you mind?
Just for a week or so. Then I’ll
move you into the office. You’ll take a
load off my back. Say, but won’t I be
able to make good use of you! You’re a born letter-writer – and that’s half
my job.”
On the way
out … “Stick to the writing, Henry. You
were born to it. I’d never be in this
racket if I had your talent. I had to
fight for everything I got. You know, ‘the little dago’.”
We’re
shaking hands…. “You won’t let me down now?
Promise! And say hallo to your
dad from me. So long
now!”
“So long, Tony!”
I watched
him hail a cab and hop in. I waved
again.
What
luck! Tony Marella, no less. And just when I thought the earth was ready
to receive me!