Boswell

I

Everybody dies, everybody. Sure. And there’s neither heaven nor hell. Parker says hell is six inches below the ground and four above the head. So we walk between, never quite managing to touch either, but reassured anyway because heaven is by two inches the closer. That Parker! What difference does it make? Everybody dies and that’s that. But no one really believes it. They read the papers. They see the newsreels. They drive past the graveyards on the outskirts of town. Do you think that makes any difference? It does not! No one believes in death.

Except me. Boswell. I believe in it. I believe in everything. My metaphysics is people, the living and the dead. Ladloc, the historian, says that history is the record of all the births and deaths for which there is a record. History is dates. John Burgoyne was born in 1722 and died in 1792. Louis XVI: 1754–1793. (Do you suppose Louis knew of Burgoyne’s death? Do you suppose he said, “Ah, he’s gone now, the old campaigner”? Do you suppose he suspected he’d be dead in a year himself?) Shakespeare: 1564(?)–1616. Caesar: 102 (or 100)–44 B.C. History. But do you notice how as one goes back the birthdays become less certain while the year of death is always absolute, fixed? Do you think that’s an accident? Listen, death is realer than life. I saw a sign on U.S. 40 in Kentucky. It said REMEMBER YOU MUST DIE. I remember. But I never needed the sign. I had my own father. My father was a healthy man. Content, vigorous, powerful, well. But when he died, he died of everything. The cancer, the blindness, the swollen heart, the failed markets. But even that, the death of one’s father in a hospital room, the kiss goodbye inside the oxygen tent, isn’t enough for some people. Even if they stretch a point and come to believe in the death of others, they refuse to believe in their own.

I remember reading in the St. Louis Globe-Democrat an interview with the murderer, Braddock, when I was a kid. Braddock, waiting in the deathhouse, told Edward Renfrue, the reporter, “When they pull that switch, they’ll be pulling it on the whole world. Nobody will outlive me. Nobody. The warden. The president. You. My girlfriends. Nobody. Everybody dies when I die.” He could believe in a fantastic short circuit that would end the world, but not in his own mortality. Do you suppose only a murderer thinks that way? Go on, it wasn’t until they pulled the switch that Braddock understood what it was like to be a murderer. Then he murdered everybody, all of us, the born and the unborn. And don’t you think he didn’t close his eyes two seconds before he had to just to make sure? Just so as not to be proved wrong? Listen, even my father, my own father, when I kneeled beside his bed in that white white stinking room, looked at me and there was blood in his eyes. Why, he’s angry, I thought. He’s mad at me.

I’m different. I remember I must die. It explains everything. People who do not know me well — people who don’t keep files on me, as I do on them (5 by 9 cards with the person’s name and dates and a brief identifying phrase) — think my interest in them is faked, self-interested, that I’m a social climber on the make for everybody. The truth is I’ve a sort of chronic infidelity. It’s not that I have a disappointment threshold lower than most, or a higher hope. It’s just what I said: congenital infidelity. I am not a lover but I am like one. I am a strategist, an arranger, a schemer, but there is nothing sinister about me, nothing sinister even about my plans. It’s as though I had devoted my life to arranging surprise parties, and, indeed, there is something celebrational in many of my contacts. I have in my files an engraved invitation in a raised, wonderfully ornate script:

Mr. & Mrs. Richard Montrose Shepley

Would Take Infinite Pleasure in Your

Attendance at the Marriage

Ceremony of their Daughter,

Celia Rochelle,

To Mr. Leon Randolph Wesley,

The Son of Mr. & Mrs.

Mark Hawthorne Wesley…

All those parents, still living, that striking girl, that marvelous young man, all those beautiful flowers, that sunny Sunday, that handsome church, those honored guests. That is precisely the note I aim for.

But who keeps Boswell’s file? Persons in institutional relationships to me? Government agencies? Department stores? Junk mailers? My book clubs? What do they know — a name, an address, a vague notion of my income? I at least have seen most of the people in my files, have been in their neighborhoods, have tasted the cuts of their meats.

Who has been in my neighborhood, who has tasted my meat? I have. I have. Who keeps Boswell’s file? Boswell does. I do.

In a way I have never been sure who my first celebrity really was. It depends, as do most things, upon what one is willing to count. I can remember, for example, going to radio programs to see the announcers, men in shirtsleeves, their watches handsome on their wrists. One of these could have been the first, then. Von Zell or Norman Brokenshire or Alec Drysdale or Dell Sharbard or Bill Goodman or Westbrook Van Voorhies. Fame was quantitative, disembodied, in direct proportion to how many heard the voice, bought the product, listened to the name. It had to do with the number of thousands of watts of a given station, with fortuitous time-slots, the ability to overcome static. (Even so, it was what they did before airtime that fascinated me — their deep-decibeled, low- throated “damns,” their nervous coughs, the occasional, luckily glimpsed, shiny spit that sprayed off their expensive lips.) I took the Radio City tour five times before I realized it was a failure. To see Harry Von Zell five times was, finally, redundant. I was jaded. I had climbed that mountain, been in that state capital, seen that wonder of the world. Even at first, then, experience was horizontal. What does a kid know? Everything, everything.

I stopped the tours. For me the scheduled appearance of a famous man was of no more account than the scheduled appearance of a famous planet. If it were available, it was of no use to me. You couldn’t buy a ticket of admission. It was of no use to go to theaters, concerts, ball games. Experience was something oblique, not crept up upon so much as come across. When I read Moby Dick I at last had a name for it. The gam. Two ships meeting accidentally in the middle of the ocean.

What opportunities, then, for the landlocked, for a child? For the time being I made do with the crank, the exotic, with people who, self-scarred by characters which were forever too much for them, were perpetual butts and trailed their shameful fame like cans tied to dogs.

But the first really famous man I ever met was Dr. Leon Herlitz, B.Pg., Berlin; M.Pd., Baghdad University; Ph.D., Lucerne. He’s dead now, of course. He leaves no survivors (none of us do), so I suppose I’m free to tell what I know. I have a feeling, however, that many already know his secret, that he instilled confidence by placing himself at our mercy, by making himself repeatedly vulnerable, exposing his heart, so that after a while it became merely a gesture, too automatic to be real superstition, a physicist touching wood. It was endearing though, no matter how many times he must have done it and despite the disparate personalities to whom he must have exposed himself. It was a testimony to — no, more — an endorsement of the really gentle needs of human beings that no one has ever used the information until now — saving only Dr. Herlitz, of course, whose information it really was and so who was entitled to use it.

He was an amazing man, Herlitz. I’m not being sentimental. Of course he was my first famous man; of course we all have an unreasonable loyalty toward our first celebrity, what Randolph calls “the hypnostatic effect of the primal evening star.” I realize all this. Nevertheless, Herlitz was a truly remarkable man. (I pay for having had Herlitz as my first great man, I pay for that. What expectations he created in me about great men!) Wasn’t he already an old man in 1922? When I first met him years later he was ancient. Who could count his years? I remember Ebbard Dutton’s article in Sports Illustrated on how Roger Maris got into baseball. Dutton referred to Herlitz as “the Satchel Paige of Psychologists.” It is awesome to think of the stages of the man’s career, the active influence he’s had on our culture from the last quarter of the nineteenth century up through the development of the hydrogen bomb. One doesn’t know whether to call him an historical or a contemporary figure. Why, he must already have been an adult when he put Freud into psychiatry in the last century; a man well past middle age when during World War I he acted as Chief of Personnel for the German army, personally assigning, on the basis of intricate tests and interviews, each German officer above the rank of lieutenant to his particular army, sector, regiment, battalion, even company. Bhangra, the Indian war historian, says that Herlitz, single-handed, “was responsible for the long duration of the war. The Germany army was, in essence, the most signally ill- equipped, ill-prepared, anachronistic army ever to fight a major war. Only the circumspect appointments and assignments of officers made by Dr. Leon Herlitz can account for the effective participation of the Germany army in the First World War. Herlitz raised the Department of Officer Personnel into a deadly instrument of warfare. It is not to be doubted that with even a mediocre army supported by even mediocre equipment Leon Herlitz could have conquered the world.” So he was already old when he talked Lindbergh into flying the Atlantic and ancient when he counseled the French Existentialists.

In truth, of course, Herlitz was not really a “placement counselor.” His official title at Harvard during the last years when he developed the famous classes of 1937 through 1945 (what an official Department of Health, Education and Welfare survey calls “collectively the most successful group of college graduates ever to enter the fields of Science, Finance, Government and the Arts”), was “Psychological Placement Officer.” Herlitz didn’t counsel. Herlitz commanded. When he was through with you your life was fixed, charted. He raged through your ideas about yourself like a violent wind. He was a kind of scientific gypsy, reading your fortune, your future. Like no other man who ever lived he knew what was best for people.

I encountered Dr. Herlitz during the famous “last phase.” It was after he voluntarily left Harvard in 1945. A man of great age, of extraordinary age, he who suspected and knew so much must have suspected his death. The old forget their deaths as easily as men forget old debts (we think we are forever quits with the world, all obligations canceled or unincurred). They have lived so long that they have developed a kind of hubris which even age and infirmity cannot defy. That’s why they seem so serene; it’s pride. But not Herlitz. It is my belief that a terrific anxiety overcame him and that this anxiety was less for himself than for his world. How could he be sure that the most promising men of their generation would continue to pour into Harvard where he could counsel, command, shape what might otherwise have been their unfulfilled lives? He hit upon the idea of a world tour. (Leonard Zeiss, the geriatrician, is convinced that for a man of his extraordinary years, Leon Herlitz was remarkably sound physically, but that in subjecting himself to “the Tour” he made himself prematurely vulnerable to the ravages of old age. It is a genuine tribute to Herlitz’s humanity that he was so loved by the scientific community. After all, to Leonard Zeiss, the geriatrician, Herlitz could easily have been just another old man. What was it, if not love, which guided Zeiss’ hand when he concluded his report in The Journal of the American Medical Association on “Herlitz As An Old Man”: “It was the Tour which took him. He might be alive today had he stayed on at Harvard. Leaving there must have been for Herlitz like her journey with Conway beyond the valley of Shangri-La was for Lo-Tsen”?)

On his tour he went chiefly to the high schools, sometimes notifying them only hours before his arrival. In that last phase he ranged all over the world, hitting each continent except Africa, where he hoped finally to spend the most time but which he never reached due to his tragic death. (Lane, the sociologist, is just one scientist who directly attributes the generally backward condition of Africa to the fact that Herlitz did not get there in time to guide its potentially great men.) At any rate, Herlitz ranged the world. In each country the government itself put its most rapid transportation at Herlitz’s disposal. Within the borders of a given country he was flown gratis at top speed wherever he wished to go. (Indeed, in the last days he became something of a political football. Governments looked upon Herlitz as a sort of natural resource, and, jealous that other countries might use his services to their disadvantage, did all they could to delay his departures. I make no charges, but it is well within the bounds of reason that Western Civilization may have been in rare accord when it caused these delays. Motivated by the white man’s traditional fear of the black man, there may have been a gentlemen’s agreement to “Keep Herlitz out of Africa!”)

To whatever city or town or hamlet Herlitz came, there would be assembled its children. These he would pass before, looking into their faces for some sign which only he could recognize. Before some individual child he would stop, scrutinizing the face carefully, and, still operating on some principle which only he understood (it was not brilliance; often quite ordinary people were singled out by Herlitz for special attention), he might point toward the child and say something to an aide who walked beside him with a clipboard. In this way he managed before he died to look into the faces of many of the world’s children. Frequently, if he found no individual “subjects” (Herlitz’s term), he might categorize an entire group before he went off. “These kids, farmers!” he might say, or, “Barbers.” “Realtors,” he might say, “the rest, salesmen.”

So I met Herlitz when I was still young and he was, perhaps, the oldest man I had ever seen.

Why did he pick me? There was no question about it, not even the hesitation and the staring I had heard about. I was not even standing in the front row. There were five lines of us stretched across the outside entrance to the assembly hall. I stood in the fourth — to the side. Yet that man picked me out as though no one else were there. Had what really happened been that I had picked him out, trapped him with my eyes? What does that mean? A seventeen-year-old with seventeen-year-old empty eyes to hold the eyes of a man like that? Impossible! What was it in my face? What sign of intelligence or hint of destiny that had escaped teachers, relatives, friends, that had slipped by even myself who looked for it, who peered nightly into the bathroom mirror as one looks into a microscope, had he seen as clear and there as a light in a window? What hint of character, gleam of heroism, finger to plug dikes, nose to sniff smoke, eye to see flame, mouth to shape warnings, had that man come upon when I, conscious but careless of finger, nose, eye and mouth, had, in the awful anonymity of my youth, signed my raffle tickets academically, with no thought to win? I felt like the thief on the Cross, shaken by an unuttered “Who, me?”, my very unlikeliness (but not that unlikely) suddenly the stamp of my identity. My first thought as Herlitz stepped, no, pressed, through the ranks, shouldering aside in his ruthless, old man’s way the more and most likely in order to reach me, was, Why, he’s a fraud.

But then, of course, he couldn’t be. After all, even if — picking me were a stunt, the ultimate act of arbitrary power, transmogrification of frog into prince, why, at least he could see prince somewhere within the rolls and folds of frog flap. Anyway, this is what I thought then, when I still lived behind my adolescent pimples and worried (even after I had fathered a child) whether girls would kiss me. But in a way, that kind of skill still amazes me. Any sort of insight does. I am mystified, too, by music coming from portable radios, and by the novelist’s induction of character through a description of his hero’s bone structure. I remember one book I read where everyone in a family was against a proposed daughter-in- law because when they met her they all felt she looked sickly. I can never tell when someone looks sickly. Broken bones, yes, because that’s surface. Blindness, arthritis, mumps and measles. Beyond that I cannot go. Some can. I can’t. Maybe that’s why I must talk to people, ask them leading questions, put them in contrived situations, turn the pressure on. I want to hear them yell for help. That I can understand. I suppose Herlitz saw all this. That Herlitz!

What else could he see? My clothes? I dress like a sergeant in civvies — seven-ninety-five slacks in Webster’s-New-Collegiate Dictionary-cover blue, wastepaper-basket green, woodwork brown; two-ninety-five white short-sleeve shirts, or white short-sleeve shirts with speckles of color; brown Toby Tyler shoes. That I was an only child? Really, this is embarrassing. It is not my method to speak of myself — or rather, of my past. I find I can barely remember it. At any rate, since I cannot speak uncritically if I speak at length, I will speak briefly.

My name is James Boswell. My parents are dead. My mother, poor woman, died when I was seven and left me to be raised by my father until I was ten. Then he died. My father left me his taste in clothes and his sister with whom I lived until I was fourteen, when she died. A sister of my mother brought me along until I was sixteen. She died and I reverted back to my father’s side, where a bachelor uncle took me the rest of the way.

I am thirty-five years old, but I have a son twenty. He was born out of wedlock to a fifteen-year-old girl who died bearing him. Her parents took my child in exchange ’ for their own. He knows me and who I am.

That kind of childhood gives a kid a pretty solid taste in funerals, but not much else. Of course, a real knowledge of funerals is no small thing. In a way, it qualifies one for life. It gives one, too, a certain sense of transience. Maybe that helps to explain my fascination with famous men. The famous are not transients at all, and this is odd. They spend so much time being guests one might think there would be something impermanent about them, but it’s not so. Of course they die, but I don’t mean that. Everybody dies. And all this wailing about Ozymandias is a pile of crap. They remember his name, yes? They get it right in the papers, no?

Herlitz shouldered the others aside and came right toward me. “Him,” he said, pointing at me with his cane. “Come,” he said. “Come, come.” He turned to Kohler, the principal. “We can be alone, where?”

I trailed behind the two of them, and every so often Kohler would pause, turn around, and look at me. I knew he was trying to remember my name, who played no piano, who made no speeches in the assembly hall, who shot no baskets. “Come. Come,” Herlitz said, although Kohler led us. He seemed to say it as much to himself as to Kohler or me, as though he were dissatisfied with a merely implicit urgency. The great, I remember thinking, are articulate. I followed Herlitz, his checkered jacket in the heavily dated Clark Gable style, his white, widely belled trousers, his old man’s white shoes. From behind, his impatience manifest in the angry taps of his cane, he suggested something strongly imperial, a cousin of the prince, an arch archduke. The high school corridor might have been the czar’s green lawn, Herlitz’s cane, a croquet mallet.

Kohler stopped. “You may use Mr. Fossier’s office.” He opened the door and Herlitz went in. I stood clumsily just inside the threshold, feeling as I have in doctors’ examining rooms when faced with more than one chair to sit in. Herlitz was as alien in that office as I was myself, of course — more, presumably, since I had been there before and he had not. But the great, as I say, are used to being guests, used to using other people’s facilities. He took command easily behind Fossier’s desk, placing his cane carefully across the faces of Fossier’s children beaming ceilingward beneath the desk’s glass top.

“Come,” Herlitz said angrily. I sat across the room from him primly, feeling queerly like a woman.

Herlitz glared at me without speaking.

It’s a test, I thought, afraid even of shifting in the chair. Look, my life was on the line. I knew his reputation. Suppose I made a mistake. Suppose I accidentally sat down as an actor would sit down, or maybe even as the secretary I felt like. Suppose Herlitz wasn’t that good. Suppose he couldn’t see that it wasn’t really me sitting there. I had to trust him, had to trust his test. I thought of the examining room again, remembering the seemingly dissociated questions of doctors who had quizzed me. You have a pain in your back. “Do you like bananas?” the doctor asks. Your elbow tingles. “Have you ever been sued by a Frenchman?” he wants to know. We don’t see how, but they’re able to tell a great deal from our answers.

Herlitz continued to stare at me. “Do you know Freud?” he asked finally, speaking so softly I could barely hear him.

“The psychiatrist,” I said.

“One of the five greatest Jews,” Herlitz said.

I nodded agreeably.

“Name them,” he said.

I could not seem to speak. I looked at Herlitz guiltily, shaking my head. This man who before had struck me as so impatient suddenly seemed content, massively placid and serene. We might have been passengers together in an open car, riding smoothly at dusk past beautiful fields.

“Moses,” he said. He seemed to exhale the word.

“Moses, yes,” I said.

“Christ,” he said.

“Christ.”

“Marx,” he said.

“Marx.”

“Einstein,” he said.

“Einstein.”

“And Freud.”

I nodded again, but not just agreeably this time. I could not tell what had come over me.

“Only Freud and Einstein I knew,” he said. “I just missed Marx.”

“You know Einstein?” I said.

“Einstein only twelve people in the world understand. I know ten of them.” He leaned forward. “Listen,” he said. “We can’t waste time. I killed a man.”

I stared at him.

“Okay,” he said, “here’s how it happened. It was in connection with Schmerler.”

“Schmerler.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You killed him?”

“Killed Schmerler? What are you talking about? I loved Schmerler.” He sighed. “I did him early. There have been many great men since but I’m proudest of him, I think.” He coughed. “He was my baby,” he said shyly.

“I don’t know Schmerler,” I said.

“Who knew Schmerler? I told him a million times, ’Schmerler, you’re an enigma, Schmerler.’ It was a shame he didn’t make himself understood better. He could have been the biggest name in the Zionist Movement. But no, he had to insist upon making the Jewish Homeland in Northern Ireland. He used to argue with Weizmann night and day. ‘Weizmann,’ he says, ‘your Jew isn’t basically a desert-oriented guy.’ That was Schmerler for you. If you say you don’t know him, there’s your clue. He was always correct in principle, in theory. Mao used to call him ‘The On-Paper Tiger.’”

Herlitz looked at me. “Oh, I see. You mean you don’t know him. Well, incipience. He was an inventor of political movements — that was his specialty. Groundfloorism. A familiar figure in every important basement in Europe. He was in on everything. Oh boy, what wasn’t he in on! Communism, Fascism, the Fourteen Points.

“Well, it was tragic. A very sweet man. He used to emphasize that it was life, life which was important, my kindness to you here, now, which counts; your politeness to me in this place at this moment which is all-important. He believed only in surfaces, Schmerler. Oh boy, was he deep! ‘Herlitz,’ he’d say, ’the most important thing is to live with yourself. We do terrible things. Remember, whatever you do in this world you’ve got to forgive it. You’ve got to remind yourself and remind yourself, it’s not your fault.’ Well, everybody took advantage. Moses had Pharaoh, Christ, Judas. Marx, of course, nobody liked. But Schmerler—it was painful to see it.

“Heinmacher — it disgusts me even to say his name — and that other one, Perflidowitz. All right, everyone knew he was a gangster, when he betrayed, nobody could be surprised. And Reuss. Hmm, that such a father could have such a lovely boy! I did him in Berlin in the old days. He’s in monorails, the great monorail developer.”

He waved his finger at me. He took his cane from the desk and touched my chest with it. “All right, now I have something to tell you. Listen. Wait.” He got up and went to the door and opened it. He looked for a moment up and down the corridor and then closed the door, locking it. He motioned for me to pull my chair closer to his. He was not satisfied until we were both sitting behind Fossier’s desk. Then he put his elbow on the desk, and carefully fitting his yellow head into his white cupped palm, he slid the elbow three or four inches forward along the smooth glass top. In this position he turned to me, looking not so much conspiratorial as despairing, his old, baggy skin upwardly taut, like a younger man’s.

“I was the last man on the Continent to remain faithful to Schmerler. Did 1 remain faithful to him! He would have been the loneliest man in Europe if it weren’t for me. Sure. What did they care, Heinmacher and that gang?

“Do you understand the wickedness, the elaborate trap? They helped him with the grand design. Well, grand. That was the irony, it wasn’t grand — just a very, minor experimental Slavic revolution, that’s all, just to keep his hand in. That whole part about the disposition of the Magyar royal family was Heinmacher’s idea. I never said Heinmacher wasn’t clever; of course he’s clever. Imagine. Making shotgun weddings between the royal family and its servants! It would have fouled the blood lines for generations! And then to fail to come forward like that when the gunboats were already in the harbor, not to have prepared the people, the underground press, not even to have told the leaders — Schmerler never suspected the conspiracy against him, the jealousy. To his dying day he thought that anybody who opposed him opposed him on principle. Principle! I’ll give them principle! What a scene. Terrible. They disclaimed everything, everything. He looked like a fool. I’ll never forget that laughter. All right. I admit it I was there. What could I do? As it was I did what I could. We stood there — together — outside the summer palace, waiting for the tanks.

“I will tell you a lesson. Look for the power. The power is always responsible. Well, it was simple. Who had the power in 1923? Perflidowitz and Heinmacher and Reuss, of course. Their sellout was all that was needed to undermine Europe’s confidence in Schmerler. What, finally, do people know about things? These men were professionals. They wanted to ruin him. And I know for a fact that it was Perflidowitz himself who started that shameful name going around—‘Basement Schmerler!’

“I’ll tell you something. History is the record of great men’s jealousies. That’s all.

“You see, don’t you, they had forgiven themselves. It’s ironic. They took the one thing he stressed again and again and used it against him. They had forgiven themselves in advance for all the evil they would ever do. It gave them their strength.

“What could I do? Could I let this happen? What were my obligations to Schmerler whom I had made— and, through him, to Europe, which he had made? Of course. I murdered Reuss. I killed him. Well, what else could I do? These were civilized men, Europeans. Reason ‘they could cope with; emotion they could cope with. Only barbarity they could not cope with.”

He took his palm away from his head, and the skin dropped slowly into place. “Understand,” he said, “I am not speaking metaphorically. This was no symbolic slaughter. I killed him, stopped his heart, spilled real blood.” He paused, and then, looking down at Fossier’s oldest boy, appeared to study him momentarily. “Chicken plucker,” he said absently.

“So they knew,” he said, turning to me again. “Heinmacher knew, Perflidowitz knew, that one man in Europe anyway was still loyal to Schmerler and would kill to prevent him harm. That took the sting from their jealousy.

“But I betrayed Schmerler, too. My confession is not that I murdered Reuss, but that I have never forgiven myself for murdering Reuss.” He touched my arm. Painfully, it seemed to me, he shook his head, the loose skin and pouches of ancient flesh subtly readjusting themselves. Then I noticed that his right eye, the one he had hidden in his palm, was fluttering involuntarily, the pupil itself seemed to vibrate wildly, while his great, old, almost colorless left eye continued to stare at me. He pushed himself back from the desk.

“It was the clothes,” he said.

He seemed bored, perhaps only tired. The hell with what the papers say, The Reader’s Digest. It takes Barney Baruch longer now to make those millions. And Frost is nobody’s Bobby. He’s beyond even Robert. No financier, no poet, no placement officer ever screwed around with time and got away with it. Herlitz still had the stuff, but it was the old stuff. And if that was the source of awe, it was the source of pity, too. However, I was wrong. He was only waiting until I understood.

“The clothes,” he said. “Your clothes. You dress like a pensioner. You’re — what?”

“James Boswell.”

“No, no, your age. Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“Oh,” he said. “Already seventeen.”

Clearly he was disappointed. Perhaps I had first struck him as precocious. It was as if whatever there had still been time for if I were fifteen or sixteen, was out of the question now at seventeen. I was not precocious after all. I was retarded.

“All right,” he said, suddenly energetic. “What do you want?”

Again I didn’t understand.

“From life. From life. Those clothes, those wonderful clothes, that sort of effacement at, what is it, seventeen — all right, even seventeen. Remarkable! You almost prove Hibbler. If he were alive to see you he would dance. Do you know that? Of course not, my baby, how could you know that? Hibbler was the great interpreter of myth. A brilliant man. Pointed out that the animal’s threat to eat a child alive in fairy tales is a euphemism for the sex act. Children have understood that for years. Well, that’s beside the point. You know of course the story of the Emperor’s clothes?

“There was once a proud and foolish Emperor. One day the Emperor had to consult with his tailor regarding his costume for a very special state occasion. Now, in the past the Emperor had been unkind to the little tailor, and the tailor, annoyed at the Emperor’s tyrannies, decided to play a trick on him. ‘Sire,’ the tailor said, ‘I knew you would need them and so I have been working on these for nine months. Wear them, your Highness.’ With that the tailor held out to the Emperor — nothing. Absolutely nothing. The Emperor was confused, but the tailor hastened to reassure him. ‘They are woven of magic thread, your Grace. To fools they appear like rags, or less than rags, but to the genteel eye they have the magnificence that only an Emperor would dare to appear in.’

“Well, you have imagination, you’ve already guessed the end of the tale. The Emperor walks naked through the streets, all his subjects laugh at him, and the Emperor thinks, ‘What a lot of damned fools the people are.’ Well, of course, two things are to be seen in the story — a secular rebellion against authority, and what Hibbler called the ‘humorous ghetto defense.’ You were certainly aware that the trickster was a little tailor. But what interests me is the use you’ve put the story to, your interesting reversal of it. It was the clothes, of course. You have managed to become invisible inside them!

“What are you, a voyeur? Do you ride piggyback past the girls’ bathhouse? You don’t even blush. Invisible again. Marvelous. Use it. Use it. I see your deference to me. Any other lad your age would already begin to be restless, uneasy at my words. Not you. You hang on each one. I knew I wasn’t wrong about you. What do you get out of it, I wonder? Ah, never mind, you won’t tell me. You couldn’t. Yet I think I can find a way to use you. You see, James Boswell Voyeur, we have a perfect relationship. You bite your lips and stare and I bite my lips and am an exhibitionist. Marvelous. There are things you could do, Boswell. You could be, for example, a great biographer. Magnificent. No, no, I see not. That would put you in the game. Nothing must ruin your splendid non-intervention. How did you get so wise at only seventeen? Ah, you’re a devil, Boswell.

“All right, why not? I have made doctors, scientists, bankers, artists, presidents. Why not a bum? Why not a great bum?”

He was making fun of me, I thought. All his confessions, his disappointment at my age, his talk about what life was all about and about my clothes were his way of deriding me. He was a sport, this old fellow. And he had known his man, all right. He had picked him from the fourth row — to the side. And why? Because he knew that was where I would be standing, would have to be standing. Oh, the great, the great, the wanton great, they kill for their sport. Then I thought, Do you think it’s easy to thrust someone’s fate at him? Do you think all you do is go up to a person and whisper, “Get thee to a nunnery,” “Pull that sword from that rock,” and that’s all there is to it? The boys in the back room know: none of us choose to run. So if they push a little bit, what then? It’s psychology, Boswell, psychology.

“What,” Herlitz said. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Louder.”

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Am I wrong about you? Am I?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“It could be. I’m a man. Only a man. Men make mistakes. Let me look closer. You had something else in mind, then? Something better? Softer? More luxurious? Tell.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m all alone. My mother, father — I have a baby already,” I said.

“Wealth, huh? A dynasty? You want to found a swimming pool and teach your child water safety? Never to point a rifle unless he means to kill? Remount horses which have thrown him? What to do with pits? To make a code of the smaller sanities? Well, Boswell, go somewhere else. I do not make men wealthy. I do not even make them happy. I only make them great.”

“Make me,” I said very quietly.

“Louder. Speak up. You are already invisible. Do not be inaudible too. Leave clues.”

“Make me. Make me great.”

“No,” he said. “I can’t because you are not great. I am no little tailor. There is no magic thread. I can’t make you great because you are not great. Perhaps you are not even very different. You are only a little interesting. You are Sancho Panza, Boswell. The second team. That’s not so bad, hagh?”

“Is that what you mean by a great bum?”

“Stop it. Voyeur! We both know what you are. Stop it! You’re trying to anger me. You’re too young and I’m too old. Boswell, you’re an utzer. You egg people on, hold their coats. I’ve already confessed a murder to you. Don’t be greedy. Now, now, it’s not a bad life. Really.”

It was as though he were trying to talk me into going into some sort of institution.

“Come,” he said. “Hand me my cane.”

I picked up the cane and gave it to him. “Is that all?” I asked.

Some reflex caused him to shudder. Then he straightened, and with the cane began to trace gentle, invisible rings. “Boswell,” he said, “you will grow handsome and straight and tall. You will please many hosts. Rooms will be aired against your arrival, towels fluffed and set across the foot of many beds. Train schedules will be checked, planes met, chauffeurs given instructions.” He advanced toward me, making passes with his cane. “You will sit, my friend, at the captain’s table.”

I could not watch the cane. I was afraid he was going to strike me with it. I looked down and closed my eyes. I could feel the cane stir the tops of my hairs as Dr. Herlitz waved it over me. “You will make a fourth,” he said, “hold rings, kiss brides, name children, have passports, hear confessions, drink saved wines. You will sit beside kings in the concert hall. Boswell. Voyeur, Eye, Ear, you will pull your chair beside the roaring fire. Boswell, Boswell, Go-between, Welcome Guest, Reliable Source, Persona Grata. I weep for you.”

He stopped. I opened my eyes. “What will I do?” I asked.

Herlitz stood before me. He seemed not to have heard me. Stiffly, awkwardly, he looked like someone who had just come out of a trance. He didn’t recognize me. “What will I do with my life?” I asked again.

Suddenly he dropped his cane. It rolled under the desk.

“What shall I do to live?” I pushed the desk out of the way and stooped and retrieved his cane.

“Oh, that,” he said. “Become a strong man.”

II

It was like a room inside a jungle. We moved with steamy abandon inside our glazy bodies, our muscles smoothly piling and meshing like tumblers in a lock. There was in the atmosphere a sort of spermy power, but a power queerly delicate, controlled, something not virginal but prudish, held back. Everywhere the taped wrist, the hygienically bandaged knee joint, the puckered, cottony whiteness of jockstrap gently balancing our straining balls. Even coming to the gym regularly I could never breathe that acidy air, moistened by the body’s poisons, without being struck by the fact that I was in a place of conservation, of a cautious, planned development of the body part, a sort of TVA of the flesh.

A gymnasium is not unlike a church, a bank. It has the same sense of dedication, of a giving over, a surrender to an overriding principle. It’s not God or money — it may not even be health, finally. Probably it’s just the development of the muscle itself, the aggrandizement of limbs and flesh, a cultivation as real and grand and impractical as the raising of any hothouse bulb. I had come to think of my fellows in the gym as one thinks of the members of some spiritual order. Even though I was one of them (you could not distinguish me from them; Herlitz was right), I felt the same mixture of admiration and fear I have felt about young priests.

And if they were like monks, brothers, like monks and brothers, too, they each had their special saints, their favorite parts. Malley doing knee bends on a dimpled mat wanted powerful thighs. Sisley on the rings wanted his thick shoulders, his great round arms. Levine, lonelily bouncing a basketball in small circles beneath a suspended backboard (I never saw him take a shot), was a wrist man. Lacey running, blowing out his breath in deep wet grunts like a steam engine, his sneakered feet stamping the gym’s white-lined floor, was passionately interested in his wind, his big lungs. Flambeau, patiently centering the broad wheel-based poles of the volley ball net, longed for some total development. Not for him the broad forearm if it meant the spindly leg. His was the big picture, some wider, more elusive ideal.

I had been coming to the gym for two years and was a regular myself (Oh, there are no buddies like locker room buddies. Each day we see each other’s behinds, groins, penises. I have worn Malley’s jock; he has worn mine. What is left but for us to like each other?) although I had no specialty. I did everything, developed everything (not like Flambeau, whose exercise led to a sort of delimiting or self-containment): chest, legs, back, arms, hands, neck, jaw, watching with a kind of pride my companions’ pride in the steady ballooning of my parts, growing, as Herlitz said, taller, but wider, too, expanding, blooming, becoming. I was big now, big, and to strangers watching, my great huge body might have seemed a threat (ah, but they couldn’t see my heart; that grew too — that love limb). I worked steadily, somewhat absently, without either sorrow or joy. In the locker room, for two years, I had been taking my towel from Baby Joe, who pushed it toward me sullenly from behind his wire cage. For two years I had weighed myself each night on the tall, free scale (each time, I mean it, pleased to be getting something for nothing), recording the steady accretion of pounds. For two years sitting naked and wet on the low, peeling bench by my locker, feeling beneath me in the vapory room something like a thin coil of excrement, hearing behind the iron double-deck lockers the rhythmed smack-thwump of Peterson, the handball player. (Peterson is very interested in the development of hands. He no longer wears a glove. I’ve felt the hard, smooth calluses of his upper palm; I’ve seen him hold a match against the unprotected skin.)

And if I had not yet sat at the captain’s table, I had at the coach’s, making with others the rude, brutal shop talk of athletes. The brutality is spurious. There is a real camaraderie here, the intense group feeling of amateurs. We are like crew members of a bomber. The camaraderie shines sportily down even from the walls in the gym’s corridors where hang the framed pictures of the teams: basketball players in trim, incredible shorts, in thick- numbered undershirts; football teams in their intricate, hyperbolic gear; baseball teams in puffy knickers, starchy hose, the players’ brows lost in the shadows of their caps so that they seem faceless. Somehow all seem faceless and — oddly, since these are athletes — bodiless too. Only their uniforms bulge clear. When the pictures are large enough to reveal their features, the men, for all their fellowship, seem sedate, serious, like men getting married.

Often I have come to the gym alone at night (I have a key, and though there is no heat the exercise soon warms me). Sometimes I have been startled to come upon Singleman, the gymnast. He comes alone too and sets up his bar and makes giant circles in the dim light of the caged ceiling bulb. (Everything in the gym is caged, barred, protected from our raw force. It is the architect’s detail, the mind’s contempt for the body.) It is something, to be there straining at the weights and hear Singleman whirling behind me, to hear the snap-whrr-snap as he soars, falls, soars in the dark. It isn’t all camaraderie. On a deeper level we are self-absorbed. Like the monks. It’s a question, finally, of our own soul, our own body. We dry ourselves with the intense absorption of men cleaning weapons. We rub each part with a selfish vigor, reach up inside our bodies with the towels. We toss them without seeing into the big canvas hamper.

There is a bulletin board near the mirror where we comb our hair. (Like any athletes we try to hide our bodies when we are in the streets. We hide them inside ordinary clothes, beneath carefully combed hair.) A poster admonishes us to drink more milk, to beware of sunburn. Tacked to the board is a clipping from the sports page which tells of the training habits of Bob Wormer, the Olympic decathlonist. “Every morning Big Bob runs up Mile High Mountain near Lago, Colorado, where he lives. ‘Believe me, I’m not starting from sea level either. They call it Mile High Mountain because it sticks up a mile higher than any of the mountains surrounding it. I figure I must be pretty near ten thousand feet up when I get to the top,’ Bob claims. He’s done it, when he’s felt he’s needed the additional challenge, with a knapsack filled with rocks on his back. “There’s no telling what the body can do if it’s pushed,’ Big Bob says. Well, that may be, but it is this reporter’s guess that there aren’t many men around who would be willing to push Big Bob’s body.” I read the clipping to cheer me up. I am feeling down. Believe me, I haven’t started from sea level either.

It had been occurring to me all day that nothing had happened, that everything was the same as it was when Herlitz had spoken to me. Only I am stronger, bigger. Tonight my uncle will challenge me again and I will be tempted to leave him. He will hold me to the smallest promises, remind me of things casually said. My uncle loves me. This is a new thing in my life. But he is only an uncle, and he is sick. I have been thinking lately that my life is off-center. In all this world I am closest to an uncle. I am father to a child I have seen only once. I am a kind of widower at twenty. Every few years I am freshly made an orphan. My friends are the men in this gym, off-center themselves.

Baby Joe watches us dress with his fevered, jealous eyes. Malley. Peterson. Levine. Singleman. Flambeau. Marty Penner. Lyman Necchi. Perry Lacey, the runner, sings a bawdy song in the shower, ever cheerful, ever big-lunged. I see him in the mirror as he steps out. He is smiling and I wonder if he has just jerked off. He likes to do it in the shower, he says, because then the water washes the scum down the drain. Perry is very neat. This is true. There is no scum on his shorts, no hair on his comb, no lint in his pockets. Perry is pristine. A pristine horse’s ass. He comes out of the shower and claps his hands and Baby Joe tosses him a towel. He pats himself all over his body with it as though he were applauding. He shakes his head like a dog and water spritzes onto Flambeau’s white duck trousers. (Only Flambeau dresses like an athlete. In street clothes, he looks as though he were on his way to the tennis courts.) Lacey shakes his head again; more water comes off his hair.

“Come on, Lacey, you’re doing that on purpose,” Flambeau says.

“Kiss mine,” Lacey answers neatly. He takes his towel by two corners and twirls it around rapidly. It is now a terry-cloth whip and Perry is Lonesome Lacey, the Nude Cowboy. Before I know what is happening he has come up behind me and flicked my ass murderously with his towel.

“Take that, and that, and that,” he says.

“Lacey, go run some laps.”

He squares himself off to face me, bouncing up and down alertly on his legs. The springs, he calls them. The springs. He hits me with the towel again. I try to move aside, but Lacey is a fast man.

“Lacey, I’m going to hit you with a bar bell.”

“Pals,” he says and extends his hand.

I take it and crush it a little, which makes Lacey sore. He flings his towel down and comes toward me, but Lyman Necchi hips him aside. “Lacey, go get dressed. Jimmy would kill you.”

Lacey is reasonable. He knows it’s true. “You guys make me sick,” he says. He says it cheerfully and I am convinced it is his big lungs. “I mean it. You make me absolutely sick. You think all a runner is is fast. You don’t think a runner’s strong.” When he goes to bars Lacey talks about good little men. “Well, a runner’s very strong. He’s got endurance as well as speed. Endurance counts. Persistence pays.”

I go back to my locker and start getting dressed.

“Big. Big. That’s all you know. It makes me sore. It really does. I mean, for Christ’s sake, they’ve got laws, official laws about a boxer’s hands. Did you know that? It’s actually illegal for a boxer to hit somebody with his hands. They’re ’lethal instruments’ in the eyes of the law. Weapons. It’s as if he took a gun and shot you.”

“So?” Malley asks.

“So? So what’s so special about a boxer? Why just a boxer? The public don’t know nothing. Do you mean to tell me you don’t think a runner’s springs ain’t just as lethal?”

“Or his breath?” I say, thinking of Lacey’s lungs.

“Wise guy,” Lacey says with cheery contempt.

“A golfer’s club, that’s lethal too. That’s a weapon,” Flambeau says.

“A forward’s set shot,” Levine contributes.

“A wrestler’s sweat suit,” Malley says.

“A jockey’s horse,” says Peterson.

“Kiss mine,” Lacey says.

“Oh, come on, Lacey,” Lyman Necchi says. “Do you think that if a golfer clubbed somebody with his number nine iron he wouldn’t be arrested? Is that what you think? What’s the matter with you?”

“That’s not the point. It specifically mentions a boxer’s hands in the law books, and it don’t say nothing about a golfer’s number nine iron.”

“Lacey’s right,” Flambeau says.

“‘Lacey’s right, Lacey’s right,’” Marty Penner mimics. Penner is my friend — at least I think he would be if we ever saw each other outside the gym. He lifts weights, too, but he has contempt for it. He does it, he has told me, because, like me, he is afraid of death. He feels he must keep in shape. But he does not come to the gym every day; he is not really a regular. Often he watches me as I press the bar bells. I know he hears me as I pull at the weights and murmur the little incantation which helps me to raise them: “Because my heart is pure. Because my heart is pure.”

The others finish dressing and one by one drift off to their homes, their bowling alleys, their pool parlors. But I move slowly. I remain behind lacing my shoes, and Penner paces his dressing to match mine.

Lacey works on a spit curl in front of the mirror and then turns to us. “See you guys tomorrow,” he says.

“Good night, Lacey.”

Lacey nods to me and walks off.

“Hey, Lacey,” Penner calls.

Lacey turns and looks back down the row of lockers. “Yeah?”

“You’re a prick. Good night.”

Lacey waves.

Penner sits down. “Have you heard anything about a job?” he asks.

“No.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. It’s winter. I guess all the action is down in Sarasota at the winter quarters.”

“You going down?”

“I don’t think so. I’d feel like a jerk. How do you apply to be a strong man? What do you do? A routine? I can just see some guy watching me in a tent someplace while I audition. ‘Yeah, kid. You’re strong but you ain’t powerful, you know what I mean?’ It’s nutty. Who needs it?”

Penner smiled.

“The Great Sandusky is in town,” I said.

“Sure,” Penner said “Call him.”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

Penner buttoned the big walnut buttons on his car coat. “Let me know what happens,” he said and went out.

“Sure,” I said. I gave a final tug at my lace and it broke. (I am always breaking my shoelaces.) I took a lace from one of my gym shoes and put it in the street shoe. When I got up to go I turned to Baby Joe, who was locking up his towel cage. “Hey, Baby Joe,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“How long do you think that cage would last if a big strong guy like me went to work on it?”

“You horse, I’ll know who done it,” he called after me.

I don’t mean to give a false impression. There are men who in the presence of madness become polite, sedate. Men who hear old ladies out, who listen to their fixed and mad ideas — sunspots, Hitler living on some Brazilian beach, the end of the world — and stand back, uncommitted but very polite. Of course you know where their hearts are and what they think of those old girls. The politeness is just aloof contempt. Not with me. I am listening. My mind is open, my contempt is not aloof. If it turns out that she is mad after all, I may not argue her out of it. There is too little time and too many old ladies. With me it’s a question of conservation, of human economy. There will be other old ladies I have to answer. In a girl’s arms and the girl has pimples and her breath is foul and the room is hot and the sheets are sticky and I’m tired anyway and the girl looks up and asks, “Jimmy, do you love me?”, I would not just say “Yes” or “Sure thing,” or, prizing my crummy little integrity, tell her “No” and list the reasons. I would make a pitch. And that’s my crummy little integrity, my Boswellness. What I mean is, I horse around when I have the chance. For an idolator I am no respector of persons save my own.

Uncle Myles was a bachelor and a lawyer and a Mason and a delegate to the Republican Convention and a deacon in the church and an honorary member of the Fire Department and a Friend of the Museum. He had charge accounts in all the department stores in our city and one in Weber and Heilbroner in New York and in Marshall Field in Chicago and Neiman-Marcus in Dallas and I. Magnin in San Francisco and Kauffman’s in Pittsburgh. Were he alive today he would carry in his wallet credit cards from all the major oil companies. It goes without saying that he would be a member of the Diner’s Club and Carte Blanche and all the rest. What he did not have was a season ticket to the ballpark and a subscribed box at the symphony and a book-club membership. He did not have them because they cost money, and my uncle did not have that either. He held the charge accounts because his credit was so good, and his credit was good because he never bought anything. He would have liked to — and that helped me to love him. Really, my uncle was not so different from myself. With me it was men; with him it was institutions. So I guess in an odd, collective way that made him a men man too.

As I have said, my uncle was a lawyer. A defending and defending attorney. He never made very much from it, though. Not that he defended lecherous old Negroes in Mississippi for winking at some passing white lady, or spun stately theories to night-school classes. No, he did not do very well because he was convulsive and trembled before the jury at the wrong time, and because he was a sort of civil-rights lawyer in reverse. He took the side of the Establishment in all things; indeed, he took the side of all Establishments. The Establishment rarely needs legal defending, and when it does it has the services of lawyers who do not shake. So my uncle, who was a regular himself, and an honorary member of the Fire Department and a Friend of the Museum, was left with the irregulars — defending, as it were, lecherous whites who winked at passing Negresses.

But my uncle was no fool. His arguments were better than mine, and I was afraid of them. I had lied to Marty Penner: I hadn’t gone to Sarasota because I couldn’t make up my mind to leave my uncle. Actually, I had become so accustomed to my guardians dying out from under me that I wasn’t prepared to do the leaving myself.

I went home on the bus. From the street I could tell that the apartment was dark, and I was grateful. My uncle sometimes went out alone at night. He had friends, I suppose. Everyone does. When I entered the apartment the house was quiet, and again I was relieved. I notice I frequently feel relief when people I am supposed to love leave me to myself. Bonner is right. Such a weight is the burden of love that the human being, even a strong man like myself, must put it down every so often. Women do not understand this; they are hurt when you hint it, and I suppose it is because they do not love as much or as strenuously as we do.

I went into my room and lay down. I had exercised heavily that day and I was tired. I was almost asleep when I heard a noise coming from my uncle’s room. It sounded like someone making violent love. The bed- springs were squawking in a steady passion. Could my uncle have a woman in his room? The idea saddened me, as other people’s lovemaking always does. When after about ten minutes the sounds still hadn’t stopped, I began to worry; I was certain it was a woman and that my uncle was humiliating himself on her. Then, of course, I realized how stupid I was. He was sick. I got out of bed and raced into his room. I snapped on the light.

My uncle was in bed alone, his body convulsed, his arms flung behind him on the headboard. He had smashed his watch crystal, and there was blood on his wrist. His left leg, arched, banged against his groin. Dreadfully, he had an erection. I leaned over his face.

“Can I help you? Uncle Myles. Can I help you?”

Below me my uncle’s body whipped and snapped. He might have been a dancer.

“Can I help you?”

“Sure,” he said. “Sing something.”

What did he want from me? What did he think a human being was, anyway?

“Come on, strong man,” my uncle said. “Pull my arms down.” Inside that turbulent body, his voice was steady, almost calm. “Hurry, hurry before my bones break.”

I reached out for his wrist, but was helpless to hold it. I tried again, and it twisted crazily out of my grip. “Both hands, Samson. Both hands.”

I took my uncle’s wrist in both my hands and pulled it toward the bed. The other hand, still free, punched the side of my head, but I wrestled his right arm down and kneeled on it. It continued to jerk, but finally my weight was too great for even those powerful convulsions. Then I tried to take his other arm, but it moved wildly away from me. Even after I managed to trap it I could not pull it down — I had no leverage. I had to straddle my uncle’s chest. Careful not to lose the arm I had already imprisoned, I pressed down on it with my knee. Then I reached toward his bleeding left wrist. It spun away from me, and for a moment I thought my uncle might be controlling it. (“There’s no telling what the body can do if it’s pushed”—Big Bob.) I took the arm at last and pulled at it as one pulls at an oar to turn a boat. The arm rattled and jerked, at one time taut and resisting, at another suddenly relaxed, pulling me off balance. Finally I mounted it with my knee as I had the other. I was now straddling my uncle’s chest, my knees dug into the hollow where the elbow bends. His face was white, wet. I looked down at him and he avoided my eyes. “The leg,” he said into the sheet. “Please, the leg.” His leg, out of control behind me, was like something loose.

“I’ll have to lie on you.”

I maneuvered the two arms, pinning them next to his body, and then slowly I reached around my uncle’s sides and locked my hands behind his back. Oh, the sad, sad uses of strength, I thought. I leaned down over him, my face sliding across his shoulder and into position against his turned head. My ear was next to his throat, and I could feel the heavy pulsings of his jugular. At my back his leg slapped against his groin. When the leg relaxed for a moment I thrust my legs between his, but instantly his legs contracted and crashed against me. I waited for the leg to go slack and then tried to slip one foot through his knee’s arch. I missed and kicked his calf, but the second time I managed to push my leg under his. His leg came up again and for a moment we rolled dreamily. Then I was able to hook his errant leg between mine, and by pushing backwards with all my strength force it down. I lay now entirely on top of him, hugging him. I could feel his erection against my stomach. We lay like lovers. He was sobbing.

“It’s all right,” I said. “It can’t be helped.”

His body stiffened and relaxed, stiffened and relaxed, but gradually his convulsions subsided. I continued to hold him. His sobs shuddered through his body, and then, slowly, they subsided too. I relaxed my grip but did not get off immediately. Then I rolled over and stood up.

My uncle could not look at me.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “Oh, James, I’m so sorry.”

“I thought you were with a woman,” I said.

“Damn a man’s body,” he said. “Damn it,” he said angrily.

“It’s all right,” I said. “Really. Please, Uncle Myles.”

“You’d better change,” he said. “Your pajamas are damp.”

“I will,” I said. “It’s all right.”

“Damn a man’s body,” he said.

“I guess I’ll go change.”

When I came back my uncle was sitting on the edge of my bed.

“I brought you some tea,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Let’s drink it in the living room.”

“All right.” I carried the cup into the living room and sat down on my uncle’s sofa.

He took a seat across the room from me. “It’s not cold, is it?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “it’s fine.”

“Lipton’s is an old house,” he said. He was trying to get back his composure, to win back whatever he thought he had lost to me. His body had just shown him what he was, what we all are, and now he had to forget it.

“An old house,” he said, snug in his faith in the established firm.

“Sure,” I said. “That’s why the tea’s hot.”

“What?” he said. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

I wished he would get another hard-on right there in front of me, that he would vomit in his Lipton’s. But all he did was sigh, extending his palms along the hard wooden arms of his chair. He crossed his legs and one pajamaed leg swung smartly out from beneath his silk robe. I could see his white heel where the slipper hung slackly.

“I think we’d better talk seriously,” he said.

He seemed to be studying me. What he said next surprised me. “How much do you weigh?” he asked.

“Two thirty.”

He shuddered.

“James, people are frightened of you. Do you know that?”

I stared down at my feet like a damned kid.

“It’s true. You are actually frightening to people. Can you blame them? Two hundred and thirty pounds and barely twenty years old. What are you trying to prove? Do you want people to look at a man and see a horse? I don’t understand it. Look at that hand. It’s as murderous as a butcher’s cleaver. Your legs are like trees. You’ve the chest of a draft horse. It’s disgusting. It’s not attractive. Do you think girls would find it attractive? People are frightened.”

“Are you frightened?”

“I’m your uncle.”

“Are you frightened?”

“I would be. I know what you’re like, however. I’m your uncle. I… Yes. I’m frightened. Yes, I’m very much frightened. I think of the strength in you and I’m terrified that you won’t always control it.”

“Aren’t you afraid I might lose a little control over it right now?”

“We’re civilized,” he said. Sure we are, I thought. He was himself again: my uncle. Back in the saddle. I told you we weren’t very different. All right, my horseness was outside, visible. He kept his in stables of his own devising. What was the difference? His blood was on my hip, for Christ’s sake. Right now my pajamas were stiffening in the sink.

“I mean to talk seriously to you and I will,” he said. “What do you intend to do with your life?”

“I’d like to lift elephants, Uncle Myles. Tear phone books.”

“A strong man,” my uncle snorted. “In a circus. A side show, not even a circus. Strength is humiliating to a man, do you know that?”

“Is it?”

“Physical strength is humiliating to a man,” my uncle shouted. “Listen, do you know what distinguishes human beings from animals? Love? Law? Reason? The ability to walk upright? None of those things. None of them. Any lioness loves its cub. Every herd has rules. A fox has cunning. A horse can rear. No. Only one thing distinguishes men from beasts: respectability. I’m not talking about self-respect. That’s just ego. A cat has that. Respectability is grander. Do you know what it is? Do you? Respectability is the decision of the private man that the powers of this world are right. The decision of the private man to be one with those powers. Decency is nothing more than the condition that what he considers valuable, you consider valuable, I consider valuable.

“There is a universal assumption, James, that man has intrinsic worth. He has. If he has worth then his products have worth. If his products have worth then they should be conserved. If they should be conserved then it is a privilege to have as many of those products as one can. I’ll go further. It is the duty of the private man to have those products. He must get all he can. Not to do so is waste. Waste is sin. If waste is sin, hoarding is virtue. Put money in your purse, Boswell. Put things on your shelves, in your closets, your banks, your vaults. How much closet space is there in a circus trailer?”

“This is ridiculous.”

“No. Conserve. Conserve. Man is basically a collector.”

“A squirrel can do that.”

“That’s the squirrel’s decency then, that it can save. Conserve. Collect. Accumulate. Receive. Get. Take.”

“Have you?”

“Well, I’ve failed,” he said. “But I’ve tried. It’s not a sin to be poor, Boswell — no one says that. It’s only a sin to accept one’s poverty. Where are you going?”

“I have to make a call.”

“To one of your freaks?”

“Sure.”

“Not from my phone. I forbid it.”

“All right. I’ll go downstairs.”

I went into my bedroom and flung clothes on my body. I started out. “A strong man,” my uncle laughed, coming after me. “Is that what you want? To be gaped at? A respectable man doesn’t call attention to himself. His life is quiet, sedate.”

Kiss mine, Uncle Myles, I thought. He almost had me, the little bastard. He could make me ashamed of my size, all right, any time he wanted. But at the last moment I remembered his size. I remembered, of all things, my Uncle Myles’ erection and the weird spontaneity of everybody’s life. Why fight it? We’re all of us strong men. We taste like big game, I bet. We’re gamy. We taste like tiger and ape and zebra.

“So long, Uncle Myles,” I called back to him. “You throw a very sedate convulsion, do you know that? Clean that wound, Uncle Myles. Close up that skin. Put on a Band-Aid. Johnson and Johnson is a very old house.”

“Where are you going? James, where are you going?”

“To the freak show. That’s where.”

I knew I would not be back until I had seen it.

So I was out in the street. I was twenty years old and out in the winter street, and what I had were the clothes on my back and the back itself and a key to the gymnasium. That’s savings, right? That’s conservation and collection and accumulation. That’s getting, isn’t it? I had cornered the market. Boswelfare!

There are getters and there are spenders, Uncle Myles, I thought, and we both know what I am.

I thought of Penner, the man who was my friend, or who would have been my friend if I had had a friend. (Uncle Myles once told me that I didn’t make friends. He was right.) I would call Penner. It seemed very important. I went into a drug store and squeezed into a booth. I looked his name up in the book. Only just then something went wrong. The collection was temporarily embarrassed. I had no dime in the accumulation.

It is virtually impossible for a healthy but despondent two-hundred-thirty-pound twenty-year-old, with nothing but the clothes on his back and the key in his pocket and friendless and oldly orphaned and newly de-uncled and no dime to make a phone call and no visible prospects, to die in a phone booth. Something happens. It’s a life principle. Wheels turn. Conditions ripen. It isn’t much, you think? Lover, it is all I have. Don’t forget it and you will be happy and you will go far.

I went outside. The movies were letting out. Right in front of me people were coming out of the theater and heading for their cars. I ducked down a side street and looked for a car with no snow on it. When I spotted one I went around to the trunk and, stooping, lifted it by its frame. I moved carefully sideways toward the curb and settled the rear of the car into as fluffy a snow bank as you ever saw. Then I stepped into a doorway to wait.

In five minutes there they were — some fat-throated, deep-voiced guy and his juicy wife. I swear I could see the wild sports coat beneath his overcoat, his wife’s blond hair under the babushka. They had just seen David Niven and she was telling him what a cute picture it was. They were laughing and he opened the car for her and then went around to the driver’s side. He got in and started the motor. It was a beautiful thing to hear. It purred like a dream and David Niven was a good actor and Detroit made swell cars and in a few minutes the heater would be blowing out hot air like a blast furnace and when he got home he was going to thump Blondie. Only — only the bottom fell out of his world. The rear wheels were spinning nine hundred miles an hour. The car was a slush- maker, an ice machine. He got out to see what was wrong, then came around behind the car and moved his fedora professionally back on his brow.

“What is it? Let’s go, I’m cold,” his wife said.

“Yeah, well, I’m in a damned snowdrift.”

“Well, get out of it. I don’t want to freeze to death out here.”

“I’ll have to rock it.”

He got back into the car and heaved it forward an inch and backwards an inch. The car settled down into the snow until spring. He gave it more gas and stalled the motor. He tried it in first, in second, in high, in reverse. In neutral. He got out of the car again.

“Will you have to call the motor club?”

“Shut up.”

“Maybe if you rocked it some more,” she said.

“It needs traction. It’s got no damned traction.”

“That’s too bad,” she said. “It’s so cold.”

“It needs more traction.” He stooped down and patted some snow into the ruts.

“You’ll get a heart attack,” his wife said.

“Get behind the wheel and put it in first. I’ll push.”

“Call the motor club already.”

“Just put it in first, will you!”

“It’s so cold,” she said. She lowered her voice. “It’s not a safe neighborhood.”

They tried it once his way and then she came out of the car. “You’ll get a heart attack and freeze to death in the street,” she said. “Let me push.”

“Get back in the car,” he shouted. “Get back in the god-damned car.”

It was time. I came out of the doorway and walked past them. The man looked at me and his wife whispered something to him. “Maybe if two people push,” he said loudly.

“Are you having car trouble, sir?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I seem to be stuck in a drift. I figured if we both pushed while my wife tried to drive we might get out.”

I walked over to the car. “It’s in pretty deep, isn’t it?”

“One solid shove and I think we could move it,” he said hopefully.

“That’s a two-dollar shove,” I said.

He looked at me. He hated me, but he understood me. I think he may even have admired me.

“All right,” he said. “You get me out of here and I’ll give you two dollars.”

“Get in the car,” I said.

“You can’t do it by yourself.”

“Get in the car and turn off the motor.”

“Turn it off?”

“I’m going to lift your car.”

I bent down over the car and pressed my face against the cold trunk. I placed my hands underneath the frame and lifted. “Because my heart is pure,” I said, and heaved the car out of the snow bank.

The wife gasped. The husband coughed nervously.

“Two dollars,” I said.

“Certainly,” he said. He turned his back to take his wallet out, then handed me two dollars. “You’re pretty strong,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be going,” he said, backing into the car.

“Watch the way you park it from now on,” I advised him.

I went around to the wife’s side. I could see her push the little button down that locks the door. She was looking up at me as her husband drove off. I winked at her and waved. I tried to let her know in that wink, and I think she may have understood, that there are forces in the world against which even David Niven is helpless, against which cuteness is about as effective as snow piled against a tire for traction.

I put the two dollars in my pocket next to my key and walked off whistling. It was the first time I had ever turned my strength to account. My uncle would have thought I was crazy, but Herlitz, Herlitz would have been proud!

I called Penner.

“Penner?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Boswell.”

“Who?”

“James Boswell. From the gym.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“Listen — Penner? I wonder if you could put me up for a few days. I’ve had some trouble with my uncle.”

“Oh.”

He put his hand over the receiver. There was somebody there. I knew what he was feeling. You just hate to turn people down if they don’t mean anything to you.

“I’m still here,” he said. “You need a place for tonight, is that it?”

“Well, for a few nights. Until I decide what to do.”

“This place is awfully small. Just a room.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right. Thanks anyway.”

“Have you got much luggage? I mean there aren’t any bar bells or anything, are there? I’ve got limited closet space.”

I remembered what my uncle had said about circus trailers. “I haven’t any luggage.”

“Well, come on over. We’ll work something out.”

“That’s all right, if the room’s that small, I’m not offended if—”

“No, it’s all right. Come on over. I’m glad you called.”

“You’re sure it will be all right?”

“Sure I’m sure. Certainly. It’s okay. Listen—” He lowered his voice. “I’m glad you called.”

“Well, if it’s all right. I’m leaving now.”

I took a taxi to Penner’s and gave the driver the rest of my two dollars. A spender spends. What’s $1.90? This was all in the old days, you understand. I wasn’t established and I was more or less innocent and everybody’s secrets were important to me. I had no discrimination, no taste in these things. If a man clapped a hand over a receiver he had something to hide. If he turned around two minutes later and lowered his voice and told you he was glad you called, he had two things to hide and maybe more. He was a good person to put up with. Who knew? Penner could turn out to be a queer, an embezzler, somebody into the mob for a few thou. I needed an intimacy badly. What innocence!

I’ve been going over some of my notes. What can I do with this stuff? I feel nasty tonight. From the old days: Boris Schlockin, the professor, joined the Communist Party after the Depression. Noel and Elizabeth Sarrow’s baby, Eileen, was adopted. The girl is 17 and doesn’t know. Philip Paris wrote his wife’s doctoral dissertation. Dr. Fernan Bidwell, who lobbies for the AMA against socialized medicine, does illegal operations. Herman Ote, the Boy Scout official, is a homosexual. Cardinal Fellupo was a suicide. Murray Butcher, the famous racer, drinks while driving. These are people I don’t even know, you understand, just that I’ve heard about. Usually I do not spread gossip. I use it to trade with, of course, but I am no gossipmonger. It is just that I must know it. I can’t help myself.

The driver let me out in front of Marty Penner’s rooming house. (It has just occurred to me that Penner must have been my first host.) There was a directory in the hall, a blue slate with the roomers’ names and room numbers written in chalk. (Later I copied some of the names down on file cards and asked Penner about them casually.) Penner lived on the first floor all the way in the back. I knocked.

“It’s Boswell.”

“Come in. The door’s not locked.”

Penner was frying eggs on a hot plate. The coil looked barely warm. “It takes a half hour,” he said, “but they’re usually delicious.”

I nodded. There was only one bed and we were both big men. I wondered where I would sleep.

“Did he throw you out?” Penner asked.

“What?”

“Your uncle. Did he throw you out?”

“No. I think I left on my own. Maybe it was both.”

Penner took the pan off the hot plate and stuck a fork into the eggs. He ate them out of the pan. “Out of the frying pan into my mouth,” he said with his mouth full of yellow egg. “Sorry I haven’t got any more or I’d offer you something. You’ve probably eaten, though. It’s pretty late.”

As a matter of fact I hadn’t, but it was pretty late. I made allowances, as I always do for my hosts. Whatever it was that had been upsetting Penner when I spoke to him on the phone, he seemed pretty jaunty now. “How long do you think you’ll need the place?” he said.

I told him it would be a terrific favor if he could let me stay three days. I hadn’t the slightest idea where I would go after that, but things happen.

“Three days,” he said as though that were what he was chewing in his mouth. “Three days. We’ll, well see.”

This was some Penner, I thought. Well, we’ll see, indeed. He was pretty sprightly about other people’s troubles. I am not a rude man. I decided to let him control the moods in that small room. I told him about the car lift. I made it very funny, but Penner didn’t laugh. I resented his indifference, but then I wondered where I got it, my resentment, my expectations of how people ought to act, to me and to each other. What was I? A booted- around guy who since age seven had never managed to run up more than four years in any one place. A guest in my own family, for God’s sake. How would I know anything about these things?

But I knew, all right. Penner was being lousy. And I knew this because whatever else I am or am not, I am a social person. I came into the world knowing.

I let Penner finish his eggs. They took as long to eat as they did to make. When he finished he went over to a tiny washstand in the corner of the room and rinsed out his pan. Then he took a coffee pot from behind a green-cloth-covered apple crate and put in some water and a single tablespoon of coffee. “There’s only the coil,” he said, “so if I make eggs I have to eat them before I make the coffee.”

“I see.”

“It makes for a long meal. Aids digestion.”

“It would.”

“Just one coil, one cup of coffee, one room, one closet, one bed, one faucet in the sink. And me, I’m single,” he said. “Simplicity. Functional, right?”

“Listen,” I said, “you could have told me on the phone. I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’ve got a key to the gym. I’ll sleep there.”

“No, no,” Penner said. “Don’t be silly. Are you putting me to any trouble?”

I had to admit that I didn’t seem to be.

“Look,” he said, “this is a rooming house. There’s always an empty room. I’ll find you one when it’s time to go to sleep.”

“What about the landlady?”

“Deaf.”

Penner picked up a newspaper. He read for a while and then remembered that I was sitting there on his one chair. “Have you seen the paper?”

“No,” I said.

“Here.” He handed me the classified section.

“Have you got the society section there?” I asked.

“Oh. Sure. Here.”

I read every word. I usually do, but tonight I was compulsive about it; I was damned if I would say another word to Penner until he spoke to me. I stared at the sons of, the daughters of, the announcements of, and read the character lines in the faces of important-looking bankers at their winter homes in Florida, and the character lines in the butts of their nieces on the white sand beaches. What was he thinking of? Was everyone crazy? What did he mean with his sotto voce “I’m glad you called”? Was he a master ironist? Who had been in the room with the rude bastard? If I’d had any brains I would have stood up and gotten the hell out of there. At least I could be silent.

“I’ve finished this section,” I said. “Would you like to see it?”

I know, I know. But I’m a spender. A spender spends. It doesn’t make much difference what other people do. He picks up checks. He picks up checks and picks up checks.

“No,” he said. “I’m pretty tired. I’ll find you a place to sleep. You stay here. It wouldn’t do for both of us to be prowling around the halls.”

When Penner went out I was tempted to look around his room to see if I could find out anything about him. But I didn’t know when he would be back, so I sat perfectly still and looked over the society section some more. Maybe he was testing me; maybe the son of a bitch was right outside the door and just waiting for me to make a move.

In a few minutes he was back.

“Four-L,” he said. “You don’t need a key.”

It was obvious by the way he sat down on the bed that he didn’t mean to escort me. One coil, one cup of coffee, one room, one bed, one trip to 4-L.

“Well,” I said, hating my lousy character, “goodnight, and thanks.”

“That’s all right.”

I found the stairs and went up. It was dark and I had to light matches in front of each doorway to read the room number. The numbers and letters were thin tin cutouts and I wondered abstractedly just who made them. What kind of market was there for 4-D, 3-M, 2-R? It was a strange world I was alive in, and everybody had seemed to find a place in it for himself. By the time I found 4-L I was pretty sorry for myself. I turned the handle gently, found a light switch and looked around. There were no sheets on the bed but there was a blanket in the closet. I turned on the tiny radiator, and rolled down the mattress and went to sleep.

When I woke in the morning I had to go to the bathroom very badly. It’s all those eggs I didn’t eat, I thought. All that coffee I didn’t drink. For some reason I felt it would be trespassing to use any toilet but the one on Penner’s floor. Downstairs there was a line of people waiting to get in. Penner wasn’t in the line and somehow I knew that it was he in the bathroom. The others looked at me suspiciously.

“Where’s Schwartz’s room?” I asked a man at the back of the line.

“I don’t know no Schwartz,” he said. “There a Schwartz here?” he asked an old man in front of him.

“Maybe that’s the new guy up on three,” he said. “Look on the board in the hall.”

I thanked him and went toward the front. Nobody was watching me, but I looked at the board anyway. I couldn’t go back, so I went outside. It was cold and I had left my coat in 4-L and I still had to pee but I would have to stay outside until they had all cleared out. I thought of going into Penner’s room, but that crowd in the hall would think it suspicious. In about ten minutes I walked back anyway. There were still a few people in line. The old man looked at me. “Did you find Schwartz?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He’s up in 4-L.” “Fine,” he said.

“Where’s Penner’s room?” I asked. “Oh, Penner. Penner’s in 1-M.” “Thank you,” I said and walked down to Penner’s room. I knocked.

“Boswell?”

“Yes.”

“Come on in. Door’s open.”

Penner was making himself more eggs. He was already dressed.

“I had a pretty good sleep,” I said.

He looked at his watch, and then began spooning eggs out of the pan into his mouth. I was pretty hungry, but I didn’t have any illusions.

“You’re dressed,” I said. “Do you work far?”

“Not far.”

“Uh huh. Listen, Penner, would it be all right if I hung around the place today until it’s time to go to the gym?”

“Sure,” he said. “Perfectly okay. There’s a little restaurant on the corner where you can grab some breakfast.”

Hadn’t he listened when I told him about the two dollars? Penner was a rat. As soon as he was gone I would pee, and then I would come back and steal his eggs.

“Will you be coming to the gym tonight?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve got to get out now.”

“Goodbye.”

He closed the door without answering and I heard him go down the hall.

When I came back from the bathroom I looked around for Penner’s eggs. I couldn’t find them anywhere and decided that I would make some coffee. Inside the coffee can were three eggs. I broke them into the pan and scrambled them with Penner’s one spoon. It took a long time and I couldn’t wait. I ate the wet, loose eggs and then washed the pan and the spoon in warm water from Penner’s single faucet. Then I put on six cups of coffee and lay down on Penner’s bed to wait.

I fell asleep and woke to the smell of strong, burning coffee. I drank about two cups and poured the rest down Penner’s one sink.

Now I was through. There was nothing more for me to do. I looked for something to read, but all I could find were a Bible and last night’s newspaper. I read the Bible for about forty minutes but it only made me sleepy. I was still curious about Penner, of course, but there was nothing in the room that told me very much. It was true about the simplicity of his life. He wasn’t a getter either. He had only two shirts in his drawer, two pairs of slacks and a couple of ties in his closet. It was like a wardrobe one takes somewhere for the weekend. Why, I realized suddenly, that was what my wardrobe was like, too. Were Penner and I somehow alike? Had he spent himself down to this? Now I was very curious about Penner. I had been kidding around before. Now I went to the door and locked it. I turned back and looked suspiciously at everything — for letters, a diary, anything. There was nothing. I pulled back the blanket and investigated Penner’s sheets. In the closet I found his laundry bag. I took it out and emptied it on the floor. I stooped down and picked out his underwear and looked inside. I thought I heard someone coming and I shoved everything back into the bag and put it in the closet. Whoever it was came up to the door and shuffled around outside it for a few minutes and then turned and left. It was a light step, either a woman’s or a very small man’s. I wondered about it for a while, then went back to Penner’s bed, picked up the Bible once more and soon I was asleep again.

Sometime in the middle of the afternoon I opened my eyes. I was laying on the bed like an ox, the radiator bubbling and hissing in the overheated room. I turned on my side and scraped against the Bible. I moved my feet off the bed and pushed myself upright with my arm. My feet were so heavy I couldn’t move them from their position on the floor. I had the impression they would grow there, rooting downward through the thin flooring, spreading outward toward the walls, through them. I felt massively doughy, unconsolidated. Probably it was time to go to the gym, but who needed it? It was absurd to exercise, to make myself larger than I already was. As I sat heaped like bedding on Penner’s mattress, it occurred to me that I was larger than anything in that room— perhaps larger than anything in that house. Certainly I was bigger than anything up in 4-L, but what did that mean? Four-L was a little room, practically unfurnished. I seemed almost architectural to myself, something in the landscape. Not a mountain or a building or even a tree— a bog, the weed row along a railroad track in summer.

I was not meant for afternoons, I could see that. What had I been doing with my afternoons before I came here? There had been the gym, of course, and a couple of years in a junior college. I had filled my days, I suppose, as a careless man covers a wall with paint. There were great gaps.

I stood up. It was a major effort. Like lifting a car. Penner’s room bored me. Penner bored me.

When I thought of Penner I remembered the eggs. There were the shells, still on the side of the hot plate. I tried to imagine what he would say. He would, I decided, be disappointed in me; I would be the proof of his queer theories of hospitality. Screw him. I could break his back. I could cripple him.

I started to cry. Break his back. I was some guest. The host doesn’t like it when his guest steals his food? Break his back. Blind him with a punch. The Social Boswell. Bosill. Bosbad. I had to replace the eggs, put back the Bible, make the bed.

I straightened the room and went out into the street. Penner hadn’t said anything about a key so I left the door slightly ajar. Nobody breaks into an open room. What if one did? Penner’s room would break a thief’s heart. It had broken mine, Boswell, the Egg Stealer’s.

I cursed myself for the cab and the flamboyant tip. Bosbad the Show-Oaf. I would have to get some money, but I knew even as I walked around looking for likely cars that I wasn’t up to the car-lift. It was light out and there were people on the street and how could I be sure of picking the right car and even if I did what if it belonged to some housewife with a lot of packages? She’d either give me a dime or call a cop. I walked down the unfamiliar street, cold and desperate but certain nevertheless that something would happen simply because I needed something to happen. I had been outside for about twenty minutes when I realized that it was all pretty ridiculous. I was forced to a revision of my theory. Things happen all right, but they are unexpected things. No prayer is answered.

It was too cold just to walk. I went into a bar where about half a dozen men sat drinking and talking. The bartender looked up at me and nodded. I stood just inside the bar and smiled back at him, trying to convey that I was neither a drinking man nor a talker, just a guy trying to warm up, neighbor. I exaggerated my discomfort by giving myself great hearty whacks with my palms. I embraced my shoulders, I shook my head, I brr-rr-rrr-ed through my lips, I clonked imaginary snow from my imaginary boots. “I’m back, Martha,” I called to myself, “the colt’s foaled, the sow’s pigged, the hen’s chickened.” “You come in here, Sam,” I called to myself from the kitchen, “and take some hot cocoa.”

“Cold are you, big fella?” the bartender said.

“Witch’s tit weather, mister,” I said.

“Have a shot. Warm yourself.”

“Too cold yet,” I said.

A couple of men looked around at me, then turned back to their drinks. One of them whispered something into the ear of an old man who sat beside him. With painful jerks the old man turned on his stool to look at me.

“He’s big. He’s big,” he said in a loud voice.

“Shh. Daddy,” the man who had whispered said.

“All I said is he’s big. He is big,” the old man said again.

“My father is impressed with your size, sir,” the man explained.

“I’m big,” I said agreeably.

All the good little men in the bar looked around at me.

“You think he’s a Polack?” the old man asked his son.

“Shh. Daddy!”

“Your Polacks are big men,” the old man said. He turned to look at me again. “Are you a Polack, sir?” he said.

“No, sir,” I said. “I’m so big because I work out in a gym.”

“How’s that?” he asked.

“I lift the weights,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed, “a weight lifter. All those fellows are muscle-bound.” He turned to his son. “Some wiry fella could kick shit out of him.”

“Just a moment, sir,” I said, inspired.

“How’s that?”

“That’s the biggest fallacy in the world,” I said.

I walked over to the old man, took my coat off and rolled up my sleeves. I turned around slowly in front of the old man. Everybody in the bar was watching me. “Do I look muscle-bound?” I appealed. “It’s the biggest fallacy in the world. ‘Intelligent lifting creates strength without giving the appearance of crippling, freakish muscular definition,’” I said as if I were quoting.

“Just look how cold he was,” someone down the bar said. “Sluggish blood. Muscle-bound blood. It don’t circulate fast enough.”

I looked at the man sternly. “Do you say I’m not strong?” I asked him.

“No. My God, anybody could look at you and tell you’re strong. Hell yes, you’re strong. Sure you’re strong. I’d never say you wasn’t strong. I’m just thinking about what my cousin told me who’s a doctor. He once proved to me scientifically that pound for pound the strongest human being is a kid. If a kid was as big as a man he’d be dangerous he’d be so strong.”

“Well, how come they ain’t dangerous when they grow up?” the old man’s son said. “Kids grow up, don’t they?”

“Ah,” the man down the bar said, “there’s where you miss the point. It’s a question of ratio. My only point is it’s not just size.”

The old man asked if he could buy me a drink.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, “but I’m in training for the Olympics.”

“Going to beat the Russkies, hey?”

“I’m sure going to try, sir,” I said.

“I still say it stands to reason if a man is bigger than another man he’s got more power,” the old man’s son said.

A couple of others agreed with him and I sensed my opening. “No, the doctor’s right,” I said, indicating the man at the other end of the bar.

“How’s that?” the old man’s son said, hurt because he had been defending me and I had abandoned him.

“Well, power has nothing to do with size,” I explained. “Size is just weight. Look, there are several men here. Now it stands to reason that all you men taken together have more size than I do, isn’t that so?” I asked this of a man who had as yet taken no part in the conversation.

“You’re bigger than any man here,” the man said.

“Taken together, I said.”

“Oh, yeah, taken together.”

I turned to the old man’s son. “Well, if you have more size than I do, then if your argument is right you ought to have more power than I do, too. But I say you don’t. I say that even though you have more size you don’t have more power. We’ll arm wrestle. I’ll bet I can beat any two of you at once.”

“How you going to do that?” the bartender asked.

“Well, I’ll sit here with my elbow up on the bar and two of you try to pull it down so that my arm touches the bar. If you can’t do it, I win. How about that, Doctor?” I asked the man down the bar. “Is that a fair test?”

A man on the other side of the old man’s son looked at me. “You want to bet us, is that right?”

“I believe in my strength,” I said.

“How much are you betting?” the man said.

“You say.”

He got off his stool and stood by the bowling machine. He signaled for the other men to collect around him. They had a conference, and then the man stepped from the group and came toward me. “We bet ten dollars,” he said, “but you’ve got to whip four of us.”

“One against four?” I said. “Aren’t you ashamed to come up against me with four helpers?”

“Oh, come on, fella,” the man said. “You’re a hustler. Do I look like a jerk? A guy comes in and says he bets he can beat two men, he knows he can beat two men. It’s a trick.”

“It’s no trick,” I said. “It’s strength.”

“Strength or trick, what difference does it make? If you suggest the bet it’s because you know you can win it. All I want to do is even up the odds. I’d say if you’re prepared to take on two of us you’re probably prepared to take on three of us, in a re-match. What I’m saying is let’s save us all some time and start with four right away. You might even be able to do it against four, but that’s where the bet comes in. I don’t think you’re that strong.”

There is such a thing in this world as counter- hustling. This man was a counter-hustler.

I didn’t know if I could beat them. There was no trick. I needed the money. Penner needed eggs.

“Well?” the man said.

“One of the four has to be the old man,” I said.

“Crap,” the man said, “even if it didn’t kill him, he’d be in the way. There’s going to be a lot of guys pulling at that arm.”

I hesitated.

“You pick the four you want to go against,” the man said generously.

I stood considering. “All right,” I said at last. “The bartender. The doctor. The old man’s son. And you.” That left three men out of it, the old man and a couple of truck drivers sitting in a booth.

“He’s afraid of you, Pop,” the bartender said to the old man.

“All right,” the counter-hustler said, “you set it up. What do you want us to do?”

I got up and slipped into an empty booth. I motioned two of the men to sit facing me. The doctor and the bartender sat down. “The old man’s son stands next to the doctor,” I said. “You stand next to him.”

“You’ve got all the room,” the counter-hustler said.

“You arrange it,” I said.

He shrugged. “Okay, we’d be crowded any way we did it. Your way is all right.”

“There has to be a time limit,” I said.

“No time limit,” the counter-hustler said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We could be here all night. Shouldn’t there be a time limit, Doctor?”

“I should think so,” the doctor said professionally.

“Five minutes?” I said.

“Ten,” said the counter-hustler.

“Seven,” I said.

“All right,” he said, “done.” He turned to his team. “Okay. Now for Christ’s sake, let’s not pull against each other. Doctor, you and Leroy push at his wrists. Me and Tommy will be pulling at him. Don’t any of you let go. If I see a spot open that needs some additional pressure I’ll get on it. The rest of you: Don’t let go! Now, we can use both hands. He can only use one. That’s eight hands to his one. We’ll have him down in no time.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Who’s got a watch?”

“I do,” the old man said.

“All right, you start us. If my arm is still up after seven minutes, blow the whistle.”

The truck drivers came out of their booth to watch. “I seen a fella do this once against seven guys in Dallas,” one of them said.

“Horse shit,” I said. “I’m the strongest man in the world.” I let my elbow come down sharply on the table. I made a fist. Four pairs of hands grabbed my wrist. I clenched my fist hard and the wrist swelled. The muscles in my forearm jumped. The forearm thickened. No hand could go all the way around my wrist. “Start us off,” I said to the old man.

“One for the money,” the old man said, “two for the show, three to get ready, and four to go!”

I braced myself. When the old man said go, seven hundred pounds of force shoved suddenly against my arm. Pain shot through it, but I held. At first I simply resisted but gradually I began to pull against them. Although it made the pain worse, I pulled against them viciously. I knew I was discouraging them. It was what I wanted. They were thinking, If his arm did not come crashing down after that first thrust it will never come down. I felt their pressure slacken individually. If they didn’t work together I could beat them.

“Come on,” the counter-hustler said suddenly, “all together. When I count three, pushers push and pullers pull with all your might. Your biggest effort.”

Their pressure relaxed almost completely while he counted.

“One,” he said.

“Two,” he said.

“THREE!”

“Because my heart is pure,” I yelled.

I felt strength surge into my arm. It drained from my legs, my chest, my back, my free arm, and spilled like water seeking its own level into the besieged arm. “Because my heart is pure,” I hissed at them. Their effort collapsed, their attack came to nothing. They began to push and pull against each other, coughing and panting.

“It’s no use,” the old man’s son said.

“He’s just one guy, God damn it,” my enemy said. “His arm gave a few inches that time. Come on. One. Two. Three.” They weren’t ready for him. The doctor lost his grip and his hand fell uselessly to the table.

“Don’t let go, don’t let go!” my enemy screamed. The doctor rushed his arm back into the contest but he grabbed the hand of the old man’s son. “No,” the counter-hustler said in despair, “that’s your own man.” He released his grip on me and guided the doctor’s hand to a vacant area on my arm. “All right,” he pleaded, “another shove. We can rock him down if we swing our guts into it Are you ready for me to count?”

The men grunted.

“One,” he counted, “two — all right, thureee!”

This time they came against me together. They shoved and pulled at my arm like men hauling down a flag. It was their lives’ most serious effort. My arm began to give. I thought they had broken it. A great pain, like something loose, slammed and tore through me. Pain came up my elbow like fire. I groaned. I could see tears on my fist. “No.” I screamed. “No. No. No! I will not be beaten. I will not be beaten. Because my heart is pure. Because my heart is pure!” Inches away from the table I was able to check the arm’s descent. They tried by sheer weight to force the arm the rest of the way down, but they had lost their rhythm again. Whatever it was that had brought them together, that had decided them to come to that bar in the first place — whatever mutuality of fate or luck or just plain taste that had caused each of them to accept my challenge, something monolithic in their lives which charted, categorized, classified them as though they were so many similar though perhaps not identical pieces of fruit — was gone. I hated them after all, my victims, because they could permit themselves to be my victims, because my victims were not great men, because my arm hurt. My arm went up easily, smoothly.

They hung on for the rest of the seven minutes, clinging to my arm indifferently, as they would in emergency to some piece of baggage they could not quite decide to abandon. They were dispirited, each in some particular stage of despair, routed, finally, as all men are finally routed, as individuals.

The old man called time and the hands came off my arm like so many birds quitting a branch.

The bartender handed me my ten dollars.

“No hard feelings,” my enemy said. “You were getting pretty sore there.”

“No,” I said, “of course not.” I rubbed my arm, holding it up, offering it to them. “It hurts,” I said.

“It was a good fight,” he said.

“It certainly was,” I said.

Was it? Was it? These particular victims didn’t think David Niven was cute — they thought he was a fag. These particular victims didn’t get spooked in bad neighborhoods. But these particular victims were victims, too. One didn’t do battle with them, one didn’t fight the good fight against them. Not the good fight. I was miserable. Where’s my life, huh, Herlitz? Herlitz?

They wanted to buy me a drink. No, I said. They wanted to challenge me with five guys, with six. With seven. Like the guy in Dallas. With eight. Better than the guy in Dallas. No, I said, though I knew now I could win. No. They offered to empty all the bars, to flag down trucks, to call cops in off their beat. They offered money. They would sponsor me; I would be their boy, their champion. Who needed it? No, I said. No.

I had forgotten first principles. I didn’t mean to be a character in a bar. All right, a strong man is not a bank president, but if he’s on a stage there’s some distance at least. People don’t know anything about him. They don’t even know his name. What was the name of the last magician you saw? Immortality is works — I insist on that. If people remember me I’ll be embarrassed. Damn a man’s body anyhow, as my Uncle Myles, the convulsive, says.

I went back to Penner’s room, straightened it, then went to the market and bought eggs. I got a paper and read the gossip columns. I looked longingly at a picture of a presidential dinner party; the Belgian Ambassador was smiling, his ear cocked aristocratically toward the lips of the woman next to him, the wife of the British Prime Minister. Prime Ministers are prime, I thought.

I crumpled the paper and shoved it away from me. What time was it? There was no clock in Penner’s furnitureless, wardrobeless, eggless world. I had forgotten to look when I was in the street. My arm ached. When would Penner be back? I didn’t even know where he worked. He was “not far.” Yeah, me too.

I went to the window. A lady was passing in the street with a green laundry bundle under her arm. I opened the window. “Lady, what time is it?” I called.

She passed by without answering, without stopping, without even looking around, as though strangers shouting to her from windows for the time of day were one of the hazards of city life she had been prepared for. Meet overtures with silence. Better than judo.

“Thank you, lady, and the same to you.”

I thought I might go out and spend some more of my ten dollars, buy some elegant little something for the man who has nothing, but my heart wasn’t in it. Or I might pretend to rent a room someplace. I had heard that landladies were supposed to be talkative. My heart wasn’t in that, either. Where was my heart, anyway, I wondered. Let Penner come back. We young men could talk over our plans.

I heard the same light footstep in the hall I had heard earlier. It came right up to Penner’s door. Then someone was saying words into Penner’s woodwork. “Marty? Marty? Are you there? It’s me.”

“Come on in, it’s not locked,” I said, using Penner’s favorite ploy — a lie, incidentally, as I discovered at feeding time.

A girl came in. A pretty little thing, but pale and frail-looking, whose passion brought on asthma attacks.

“Where’s Marty?” she asked, surprised.

“Not far,” I said.

“Are you his friend?”

“Like a brother,” I said.

“Is Marty coming back soon?”

“Have a seat,” I said. “We’ll wait for him together.”

“Who are you?”

“Jim Boswell.”

“I don’t remember Marty talking about you.”

“I don’t remember Marty’s talking about you.”

“Oh,” she said, “I’m Alice. I’m Marty’s friend.” I didn’t believe that one, I can tell you.

“Listen,” she said, “are you very close to Marty?”

“Not far.”

“Tell him not to do it.”

“He wants to do it,” I said. “His heart’s set on doing it. You know how Marty is.”

“It will ruin his life,” she said.

“He doesn’t think so,” I said curtly.

“You sound like you think it’s a good idea,” she said sadly.

I shrugged.

“I don’t understand how a friend of Marty’s could feel that way,” she said.

“Marty thinks it will be fun,” I explained.

She looked at me curiously. I had probably made a mistake.

“Does Marty know you’re here?” she said suspiciously. “I could call him,” she threatened. “Who are you?”

“Alice, I told you. I’m Jim Boswell.”

“I’ll come back later,” she said, “when Marty’s here.” She moved toward the door uneasily.

“Alice,” I said sharply, “please sit down. I want to talk to you.”

“I think I’d better come back later, Mr. Boswell.”

“All right,” I said, “but it’s silly to be shy. I know about last night. It was me who called. Didn’t Marty tell you that?”

She turned, troubled and unconfident.

“I don’t think it was very nice — what Marty did.”

“What did he do?” she asked in a dry voice.

I remembered the hand over the mouthpiece. “He threw you out,” I said.

Alice came back to the chair, and sat down. “I thought it was a woman,” she said quietly. She started to cry.

“Oh, don’t do that. Alice? Please don’t cry.”

I moved over to her chair. One hand was across her eyes. I leaned down toward her. “Please, Alice,” I said. “I’m sorry.” There were carbon smudges on her fingers, little bits of eraser rubber under her nails.

“Did you come here from work?” I asked as gently as I could.

She nodded. “Where’s Marty? Where is he?”

“Were you here earlier this afternoon?”

“On my lunch hour,” she sobbed. “I had to take a cab.”

Everybody was always coming up to Penner’s place in a cab. It might have been the Ritz.

“Please don’t cry,” I said. “Please don’t.” I wanted to touch her, to hold her like a little girl in my lap, to squeeze her behind. I wanted to change her life, to cure her asthma, to give her talent and lovers and irony and wealth. I have always had an unreasonable sympathy for certain unmarried working girls. Not waitresses, not stewardesses, not even girls who work in stores — but office girls, girls out of high school who become clerks and typists, girls who file things. (Frequently I am sorry for people without realizing that my own circumstances are substantially the same as theirs; the thought of people having to live in apartment buildings depresses me, yet I have lived in them and they aren’t bad.) When I see such girls on a bus or overhear them on their lunch hour in a cafeteria they make me sad. Where will they meet the fellows, I wonder. Do church functions really work? Who will mix with them at mixers? How about stamp clubs? Pen pals? Travelers Aid?

Alice continued to cry, her sobs coming in dry little wheezes. Her nose was running. I thought of the man in the bar whose hand had to be guided to my arm. I thought of my muscles. Who had given them to me? I had. Free enterprise had. Let Alice lift weights. Didn’t Weinbuhr himself say that compassion is the retreat of the impotent?

“Alice,” I said, “suppose Marty comes in? You don’t want him to see you like this.” Now I was speaking her language. She stopped sobbing and looked up at me gratefully. I helped her to her feet. “Don’t chase him, Alice,” I said. “A man doesn’t respect a woman who chases him.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“Of course,” I said. “And a girl’s got to look attractive for her friend. Nobody looks good with puffy red eyes and a runny old nose.”

“That’s for sure,” she said.

“Now you go on home and when Marty comes in I’ll talk to him.”

“Yes,” she said.

“That’s better,” I said. I opened the door for her. “Go on home now.” I winked at her as she went out. “And, Alice—”

“Yes?”

“Wash those fingernails, sweetie.”

Penner came in about ten minutes after Alice went out.

“You’re not at the gym,” he said for a greeting.

“No.”

He took off his coat and immediately began to prepare his dinner. When he pulled out the coffee can he saw the eggs I had bought. Without a word he put one egg in the pan.

Alice, I thought, you don’t know how lucky you are.

I let Penner scramble his egg in peace. When it was ready he took the pan and sat down on the bed. “Father,” he said, “for that which I am about to receive I thank Thee.” He chewed the egg solemnly, and when he had finished he brought the pan to the sink, scraped some bits of egg into a small bag, and washed out the pan. Then he took the bag and went to the window. “When you came last night, I forgot about the birds,” he said. He emptied the egg onto the ledge, then returned to the bed. Seeing the newspaper I had crumpled, he picked it up, smoothed it out and turned the pages.

“Where’s the classified section?”

“It’s all there,” I said.

“Oh yes, I missed it before.” He opened it up and went down a few columns with his finger. “Nothing tonight,” he said, as if to himself. He looked relieved.

“Are you looking for a job?”

“No.”

“A new place? Look, Penner, if I’m making you uncomfortable I’ll get out.”

“No, of course not,” he said.

I must have looked skeptical.

“No,” he told me, “I like having you. Really.” He lowered his voice as though he were embarrassed. “Sometimes — in the ads — there are people in trouble. Perhaps I can help them.”

“Oh,” I said.

Penner went back to the paper. What was he all about anyway? Birds? Ads? Alices? Oh yes, Alices.

“You had a visitor today, Penner.”

He hadn’t heard me.

“I say you had a visitor today.”

“A visitor,” he repeated.

“A girl.”

That worried him. He looked like someone who had been told he had mice.

“Alice was here,” I said.

Now he just looked disappointed, but there was shock in it, too, as though coming to his room were a vicious weakness he thought he had cured her of. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.” He put the paper aside. “Did she want anything?” he asked wearily.

“To see you. She said she’d come back.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he said,

“Penner, she told me she was with you last night and that you threw her out.”

“No,” he said. “That’s not true. I told her she could stay. I did.”

“But I was coming.”

“Please,” he said, “you don’t understand.”

“Well, Penner,” I said, getting up, “I’ve still got my key to the gym. I’m sorry I inconvenienced you, or if not you, Alice. After I leave she’ll come back and you can work something out.”

“No,” he said, looking genuinely frightened, “you can’t go. You asked to stay. You have to stay.”

“What are you talking about? Come on, Penner.”

“Oh, Boswell. Boswell, you’re pushing me into hell.”

“Penner, please. What is it with you?”

“Nothing. Just stay.”

“Goodbye, Penner.”

“A vow,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve taken a vow. That’s all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A vow. I took a vow never to refuse anyone anything. It’s so hard.”

“A vow?”

“I want to be a saint.”

“Then share your eggs,” I said.

He looked about to cry. First me, then Alice, now Penner. There was something tragic loose in that room. The heart’s raw onions.

“God forgive me,” he said. “I am not a naturally virtuous man. It’s harder for me. I have a terrible sensuality, Boswell. When Alice was here last night we did awful things. She’s in love with me. She wants me to marry her. I can’t do that.”

“Of course not,” I said. “Saints are all single men. Penner, stop this crap. What are you giving me?”

“For nine years I have never refused a human being anything. That is the vow I made to our Lord.”

“All right, why?”

“I am in love with Jesus.”

“Okay, Penner.”

“I’m going into the Church.”

“You? A priest?”

“If He will have me.”

“Okay, Penner.”

“Why are you scorning me? Is your soul saved?”

“Who knows, Penner?”

“Do you want me to pray with you?”

“Play with me?”

“Pray with you.”

“No.”

“If you stay we can go to church together.”

“Is that where you go in the daytime?”

“Yes. I’m there all day.”

“Penner, I don’t know if you’re conning me or what, but you put on a terrific show.”

“It’s because I’m not innately virtuous that you don’t believe me. I saw the eggs you bought. I pretended to ignore them because I was jealous of your generosity.”

A weight-lifting saint. A sound soul in a sound body. Why not? Didn’t the Virgin herself like tumblers? Penner was an athlete of God like the old ascetics. He played it too close to the chest, though. His room, his conversation when he wasn’t being baited, his hospitality, his days in church. If he never refused you he made it awfully hard for you to ask. He gave you the classified section, put you up on the fourth floor. He kept his eggs in coffee cans.

“Penner,” I said, “I wish you a happy journey to God. I hope you go Pullman, but personally I can’t stay with a man who is not innately virtuous. So goodbye and eat plenty of eggs.”

“You asked to be my guest,” he said pathetically.

“I’m releasing you, Penner. It’s okay. Hey, God, did you hear that? I’m releasing your servant Penner. I don’t want to stay in his room any more. How’s that, Penner? All right?”

“You son of a bitch,” he said. “You mother fucker.”

“You’ve got a lot of class, Penner. Tell Alice goodbye and give her a little pinch for me, Saint.”

“Boswell, forgive me. Please,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Let me pray for you.”

“Okay, Penner, pray this. Pray I stop crapping around.”

III

Perhaps there are men in the world’s counting houses with larger fortunes than Midas’. Perhaps there are anonymous fourths sitting around the world’s tables who have played better bridge than Hoyle. But it doesn’t make much difference. Midas has had fortunes named for him; the Earl of Sandwich, lunches. So it’s not quantity alone. One speaks, too, of the quality of a fortune, the quality of a love affair. My heroes don’t give only their time or their lives to their works. They give their names as well. They know what they’re doing. They cast their names upon the waters and they come back tenfold, a hundred, a million. It is the Christianity of Fame.

You can imagine, then, what the Hercules/strength equation must have meant to a man like The Great Sandusky. He could afford it, you say. Yes, but it hurt.

“He was a strong guy, sure, but could he have had better developed lumbar lats than that?” Sandusky has asked, his feet a careful nineteen inches apart, his hands locked in impossible tug-of-war behind his neck. He couldn’t have. In his prime Felix Sandusky had the biggest lumbar lats in the business. According to Sandusky, “Hercules got a good press only because the rest of your Greeks were little men. Sure, vitamins have killed the strong-man game. People are taller now, bigger in the arms, the legs, the chest. You hear a lot of talk about longevity, statistics about the average man living thirty or forty years longer than his great-grandfather, but that’s only half the story. Your trunks are vaster now. Look, it’s like anything else. It’s all contrast. Everybody has force.” (Sandusky liked to call his strength force.) “But if a guy has only a little force then a guy with just average or a little better than average force is a big deal. Hercules could probably take care of himself, but your general run-of-the-mill Greek was a guy with lousy force. So don’t tell me about Hercules! What with health foods and wonder drugs and vitamins and scientific weight training it takes a real man to stand out today. Every Tom, Dick and Harry has force today.”

Getting to meet The Great Sandusky was my first campaign.

I left Penner’s as elated as I had ever felt. Twenty- four hours before I had been broke. Since then I had earned twelve dollars and still had more than eight, which meant that I was getting, including expenditures, at a rate of better than seven-hundred-fifty per cent. That was very high-grade getting for me and quality keeping for anyone. Furthermore, I had made a decision which would change my life: a decision not to mess around. Herlitz helps him who helps himself.

In the gymnasium, daydreaming, just before sleep on the tumblers’ mats I had pulled down from the wall, the idea came to me: The Great Sandusky. The very name was a revelation. The Great Sandusky. We were both strong men of the world. He would help me. That he was in the city was common knowledge to all the regulars in the gym. It was Penner who had shown me the feature article on him in the paper. It said he lived now in a hotel near the river. I would write him. The Great Sandusky. Of course!

I let myself into the gymnasium office, took three sheets of stationery, and wrote:

The Great Sandusky

Riverside Hotel

2nd and Steamboat Streets

St. Louis, Missouri

Dear Sir,

I am an admirer of yours. Not simply because of your feats (which no man could gainsay), but because I am a strong man myself and know what effort was involved in the accomplishment of those feats. I should like very much to meet with you in order to discuss your achievements and to talk over with an expert certain plans of my own. Please arrange whatever appointment would be convenient to you. May I close by saluting a pioneer in strength and by remaining yours very truly, etc., etc.

I wrote it several times until it was awkward and stiff enough. Then I signed the letter and addressed the envelope. At the last moment I had an idea that would demonstrate my earnestness. I hunted around in the office until I found a couple of nails. These I bent and put into the envelope with the letter.

I supposed I would hear from him within two days. What the hell, an old man, out of condition, in a lousy water-front hotel — he would answer as soon as he got the letter. He would go downstairs and beg a few sheets of hotel stationery from the night clerk and painstakingly scratch out a reply. He didn’t. I heard nothing. On the fourth day I wrote again:

Dear Sandusky,

Perhaps you thought my last letter insincere, the work of a crank, or the teasing joke of a jealous man. I assure you neither assumption fits the case. I have the greatest respect for your feats. I know of your fabulous cow lift. A picture of you pulling the locomotive is in my wallet at this moment next to my mother’s own [with my crummy eight dollars, buddy] and I should like to assure myself that a life given over to the cultivation of strength reaps rewards in later age commensurate with the Spartan, with the Herculean [knew what I was doing] efforts necessary to develop that strength.

Remembering what I had read in the papers I crossed out “strength“ and wrote “force.” “I am a professional myself, sir,” I finished, and signed the letter.

Instead of two nails I enclosed a half-inch spike which I paid a professional machinist to heat and bend for me. This time Sandusky would certainly answer. When he didn’t I was more surprised than hurt. Then it occurred to me that, after all, he was now an old man. Perhaps he was dead. I called his hotel.

“May I speak to The Great Sandusky?”

“He ain’t in.”

“Please, it’s important.”

“There’s no phone in the room.”

“I don’t care what you give the cops to keep your license. I’ll see to it that Fire Chief Lesbeth hears about every one of those violations. You’ll be out of there so fast your head will spin. Get Sandusky.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Jimmy Boswell, that’s who it is.”

“Just a minute. I’ll see if he’s back.”

He went away.

“Hey, Boswell. The old man won’t speak to you. Says to tell you the spike is a cheap trick, that any jackass with reasonable force could bend a friggin’ spike.”

He hung up.

So, I thought. He had hubris, the old man. So much the better. The great are touchy folk. They are goosey. The goosey great. I give them every credit. It’s a free history, right?

I wrote a third letter:

My dear Sandusky [I began], I appreciate your reluctance to meet with outsiders, with the jackals who feed off the greatness of others. Let me be frank. I read the feature about you in the papers. It was disgusting. If I were a lawyer I would advise a suit. It made your efforts appear comical. The reporter’s insistence on your emphasis on the sub-scale of ordinary Greeks was a deliberate attempt to offset scientific observations by making them appear hobby-horsey. To provide amusement for weak, fat-ridden office workers. What does an outsider know? Has he sweated under the strain of a bench-lift; has he felt the pull of the jerk-and-press; the thrill of the curl; the back-hoist; the arm wrenching, shoulder wrecking agony of the dead lift? I am a strong man, Sandusky, and I have a legitimate historical interest in your training. If bending half-inch spikes is labor for a child then what is this?

I enclosed a twisted one-inch spike.

I received no reply, but in the mail three days later was a package for me. In it was the spike. Sandusky had straightened it.

In a hardware store I bought two pounds of iron filings. I put them in a box and sent them to Sandusky.

Two days later there was a post card addressed to me in the gym office. On the front was a picture of a sunset over some southern resort hotel. On the back was one word: “Come.”

I went to Sandusky’s hotel that same night. It was very ratty. The numerals on the control buttons in the single narrow elevator were smudges. Behind a clouded glass at the rear of the elevator was a faded picture of a rooster. “Good Morning!” it crowed. “Have Breakfast in the Wake-Up Room!” Beneath it a sign warned, “Room service is dis-continued after midnight.” Another sign said, “Laneur Hospitality Is World Famous. A Laneur Guest Is an Important Person.” Under this someone had written “Fuck you.” I read the inspection certificate. There was some very tiny print and seals and stamps and then the legend: “This elevator is authorized to carry no more than nine hundred (900) lbs. This elevator was last inspected on April 10, 1939.” It was signed illegibly. I looked at the heavy, raised brass OTIS medallion on the clumsy control at the front of the elevator. The control itself looked like something you drove a trolley with. I pulled the handle back and forth but nothing happened. The thick, important-looking handle slid uselessly to and fro in the wide slot.

The elevator moved slowly up to Sandusky’s floor. The cock crowed good morning. Room service warned. Laneur boasted. Guests retaliated. Authority regulated. It was a babble of silent, hopeless, irrelevancy. Inauspicious, I thought, inauspicious. The corridors on Sandusky’s floor smelled like a men’s room in a railroad station. What a masculine smell, I thought. I knocked on the door. There was something like a nervous, surprised little movement behind it, but no one answered. I knocked again.

“Who’s that?” a voice said.

I knocked.

“Who’s that, I said.”

“It’s Big Boswell,” I answered powerfully.

“No,” the voice said, “go away.”

“Sandusky, is that you?”

“Go away, I said.”

“I was invited. It’s Giant Jim. I must see you.”

“No,” the voice said. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

“You invited me, Sandusky. It’s Giant Jim Big Boswell. I have to talk to you.”

“Leave me alone, I said. Go away.”

“Is that you, Great?”

“No.”

“It is. I’ve come miles. From Idaho where I train. Where I carry trees up mountains to train. Let me in.”

“No, I said.”

“All right, Sandusky, I’ve had enough. You saw what I did to that spike. How much easier it would be for me to do the same thing to this door! I warn you.”

“Listen, you get out of here. I don’t have to see anybody.”

“All right, Sandusky. I warned you. Now I’m going to break your door. I’ll make wood shavings out of it. You could put them on a floor in a butcher shop.”

“Stop,” the voice said. “I’ll open the door.”

It opened. “Sandusky?”

“Come inside.”

“The Great Sandusky?”

“Don’t make bad jokes. Come inside.”

There was a mistake. In his pictures Sandusky was a huge man with a great shining massive skull, the famous “battering ram.” He was bulky rather than muscular, meaty, red-fleshed, faintly Tartar, a circus poster strongman in leopard-skinned dishabille, one furred strap tight across a wide and straining shoulder. He was fearful even in the photographs, like some strange wet animal. On a circus poster the man before me might have looked like the company’s advance man, nothing more. He was shorter than Sandusky could possibly have been, and if his appearance suggested that he had ever been in athletics it was because he looked so much like a vaguely seedy high school basketball coach who had known his share of point shavers, gamblers and hoods. A baggy sharkskin business suit gave him the careless, spilled-soup look of the insider, the man who breaks training. His fingers had the mustardy nicotine blotches of the revolutionary, and indeed, against the background of his hotel he looked like some out-of-date anarchist.

We looked at each other narrowly for a moment and then the man, smiling, offered me his hand. It’s a trick, I thought immediately. This was a hand which had crushed rocks. For all its shabby appearance of disuse and even disease, it would attempt to crush my own. He would break my fingers, would he? All right, I thought, we’ll see. Trying to appear as casual as he I let him have my hand. As soon as we touched I braced and squeezed first; there was no resistance, and I pressed the hand as I would a sponge. As he pulled his arm away I saw that I had made a mistake.

“Do you want to kill me? Is that the way you show your respect?”

“I’m sorry,” I said awkwardly. “I was trying to impress you.”

“You would impress me better if you behaved yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Forgive me.”

It was my flaw. If I met a great athlete I tried to crush his hand; a great banker, I cashed a check. Herlitz, that magician, was right again. I was a fourth — Boswell, the world’s sad fourth, who played other people’s games by other people’s rules. A reader of labels, of directions, a consumer on the most human of levels. Vampire. Sancho. Jerk.

Sandusky, if the little man was Sandusky, was backing away from me and rubbing his hand. I apologized again. He sat on the edge of his unmade bed.

“I made a mistake,” I said.

“All right,” he said, “forget it.”

“It was stupid of me. I’m sorry.” I apologized some more. I saw it gave him courage.

“Three years ago,” he said at last, “I would have thrown you through the wall for that.”

“Yes.”

“I would have torn off your head.”

“Yes,” I said. “Certainly you would have.”

“I had a terrible temper.”

“I heard that.”

“I was a wild man of Borneo in a side show when I was a young man and they had to let me go I was so realistic.”

“I read that somewhere,” I said.

“I once broke a man’s back who got too close to my cage.”

“Didn’t the police—”

“The rube called me a fake and threw peanuts. What police? What could they do, put handcuffs on me? Handcuffs?”

“They would have been like so much string,” I said.

“Yeah, string,” he said. “Crap, what does it mean? You see what happens to a man?” He held up his hand.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

He ignored me.

“Did you think Sandusky would be like this?” he asked. “I was hiding out. I don’t know how that reporter found me. How do they know those things? He used old pictures. I made him do that. You know what surprises me most?” He looked up at me. “Sit down.” I looked around for the first time, and noticed that except for the bed and a chest of drawers there was no furniture in the room. I had to perch on the edge of the bed with Sandusky. I sat carefully, prissily. Only roommates plop down on each other’s beds. A gentleman uses another man’s bed as he would another man’s car; it is highly personal machinery. Still, I thought, remembering my feelings when I had sat in the office with Herlitz, there is something deeply feminine in me. I thought absently of all the thank-you notes I would one day write.

“What surprises me most is the pain,” Sandusky said. “As an athlete yourself, you know that training is an accommodation to pain. That’s all. A champion is a man who has mastered pain. You’d think my training would have accustomed me to it.” He lowered his voice. “They want to throw me out of the hotel. I holler. At night. I holler.”

“Have you been sick?” I said.

“Sick? Hah, what would you know about it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s my fucking constitution. With my trouble any other man would have been dead in eight months. Me? Three years now and God knows how long to go.”

I could not really believe in Sandusky’s illness. “Why don’t you kill yourself?” I suggested.

“Don’t be fresh,” he snapped. “Say, you got a lot of nerve going around telling people to kill themselves.” He considered me for a moment. “Did you really do that?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“That thing. The spike. Or was it a trick?” He meant the filings.

“It wasn’t a trick,” I said.

He shook his head in soft, sad wonder. “You’re the strongest,” he said. “You got any money for an old champion?” he asked plaintively. He pronounced it “champeen.” He was mocking me.

“Have you got any scrapbooks?” I asked.

“What’s that?”

“Scrapbooks. Pictures of yourself — from the old days.”

“Say, what’s the matter with you? Are you straight?”

“Please,” I said. “I’d like you to show me your scrapbooks.”

Sandusky laughed crudely. “Why?”

“I’m a professional,” I said. “It’s scientific.”

I’d had the idea when he told me about making the reporter use old photographs. There must be a scrapbook. That would be the thing — a guided tour. History is rare. It happens once. Who sits under the apple tree with Newton? For the sake of argument, you’re Moses’ closest friend. But when he climbs Mt. Sinai he climbs alone. A tourist sees the mountain, and some raggedy Arab leads him up and shows him a piece of broken stone. But it’s not the same thing. What do places mean? Tombs? Relics? What counts is people in the moment before history happens. So if Sandusky had a scrapbook it was not enough just to see it. I had to sit by while he turned the pages. Ersatz? Certainly, who says no? But I must always go as close as I can go, sidling up to the fearful edge of someone else like a man with vertigo. I tell you there is a sort of shame for me in not being one of the Trinity, such absolute chagrin in not being important that I can hardly look anyone in the eye. I am just Boswell the Big. What a burden for a strong man. In the presence even of Sandusky I felt a sort of awe; even an old success, a past, provocative as a scent, could hold me.

“So you’re a pro, what difference does that make? What can you learn from photographs?” Sandusky asked.

“That’s not it,” I said. “Please.”

He threw up his hands. Under his sleeves, I knew, the flesh around his upper arms hung slackly, like an old woman’s on a bus. “I keep a few pictures,” he said. He seemed apologetic. “Loose,” he explained. “There’s nothing you could call a scrapbook.” He went to the chest of drawers and bent down.

He keeps them in the bottom drawer, I thought, where it’s uncomfortable for him to get at them. He’s humble. Not like Herlitz.

Having to stoop like that was obviously uncomfortable for Sandusky, and I stood to help him. He heard me move and looked back over his shoulder impatiently. “I can still pull out a damned drawer,” he said.

“Of course. I was just stretching.”

He scooped out a pile of pictures from beneath some papers — certificates and documents — and ran his hand over them rapidly, like a man in a gin rummy game looking through the discard pile. He picked out some pictures and pushed the rest back into a dark corner of the drawer. I saw the face of a woman on some of them — in my business one learns to look quickly — and wished that I might be able to look at these. (History is gossip, too, right? What stocks did Sandusky buy? Who was the beneficiary of those policies?) He picked up what was left and brought them back to the bed.

“These are just some poses,” he said shyly. “They’re corny, but you can get an idea.” I took the photographs from him and looked at them carefully and slowly. “Of course, I was pretty young when these were taken. A kid. Younger than you are, probably,” he said. “I was sort of a model in those days. That’s how I broke into the game.” As I looked at the pictures of Sandusky in his prime, of a near-nude Sandusky in postures of incredible stress, I was struck not so much by the contrast between the vigorous body of the young man and the collapsing presence sitting next to me, as by the complete lack of self-consciousness in the face on the photographs. There was an absorption so intense it might almost have been indifference. The young man wallowed in the sense of his body. A professional indeed. He was like a stage magician feigning surprise at the bunch of flowers suddenly appearing in his hand. I stared at the pictures, trying to get inside not his body, but the achievement of his body, the historic occasion of his body.

I must have embarrassed Sandusky. “They’re poses,” he said again.

“Yes,” I said hoarsely, “I know. Poses.”

I looked still more closely at the pictures. I examined them like a detective looking for clues. That’s what I was, a detective. I searched for the essence of Sandusky’s greatness, the achievement of man into meat. He had been like Christ, Sandusky. I saw that his shyness now was no swift accident, no result of the mere, though sudden, confrontation of the discrepancy between youth and age, wholeness and infirmity. It was there then, in the photographs. What I had mistaken for self-absorption, for pride, was a thorough selflessness. Sandusky, if he had ever existed, had disappeared behind that body, behind those eyes. His achievement was a self-sacrifice, not like my petty push-ups in the gym, a means to an end. Sandusky’s exercises were a means to the end. Remember, you must die. The corpse. The body. Sandusky remembered.

There was one photograph of Sandusky’s great, flexed right arm. In profile he gazed down at the bicep, transfixed. In another he stood with his fists on his hips. Where the elbows crooked, meaty slabs of muscle seemed to spill from the Niagara of his upper arms down into his forearms. His thumbs shoved against his rib cage, swelling his chest. In another he posed flatfooted, his toes lost, melted together in the overexposed photograph that washed his body in a frightening light like the brightness of a saint in a vision, the fingers of one hand splayed, rigid as steel tubes. His other hand grappled his wrist. I had the odd feeling that were he to let go he would have flown apart, the muscles flying outward from the center like shrapnel. This same quality of desperate containment pervaded all the photographs. Even in the pictures that showed Sandusky lifting heavy weights, he seemed not so much to be lifting them as burdened by them. In one his arms thrust defensively upward toward a huge bar bell. He squatted beneath the heavy weight obscenely, his knees spread wide and as high as his chest. His face was an agony, a passion of tears and pain, his breath heavy balls that threatened to pierce his cheeks, like the representation of Zephyrus in classic paintings. Lifting the weight, he seemed caught in some final humiliation. There were many such pictures. Another showed him upright, the weight high over his head. He almost seemed suspended from it. In the last photograph he actually was suspended. He hung in a device, his arms flung back across a horizontal bar, his shoulders wide as planks under the tremendous pressure. Wound about his entire body were thick chains from which, pendulant as gigantic metal fruit, were suspended huge weights like railroad wheels. Ah, I thought. Ah.

Sandusky looked over my shoulder. I heard his thick breath. “They’re poses,” he said. “When I was a kid.”

“Of course.”

“The weights came later. Stunts,” he said scornfully.

“Heroic feats.”

“Stunts. Lousy stunts. I liked the body-building, the training — that was good. You can see in the pictures. After I started doing the stunts I got fat, thick. I lost my definition.”

You never had any, Sandusky, I thought. That was your triumph. “That’s what made you The Great Sandusky,” I said.

“Oh, that. You want a laugh? Here, look at these.” He handed me two photographs I had not seen. One was of the lower part of his body, his waist and legs; the other was of everything above the waist.

I looked at the photographs and then at Sandusky. “They’re nice,” I said.

“Don’t you get it?” he said. “Don’t you get it?”

I shrugged.

“Lower Sandusky,” he said, pointing to the picture of his legs. Then, touching the other photograph, “Upper Sandusky! The town in Ohio! Get it?”

He handed me a full-length portrait of himself. “Greater Sandusky?” I said.

“Yeah,” he laughed, “yeah, yeah. Greater Sandusky!” He clapped me on the back. He laughed and laughed. “Greater Sandusky,” he wheezed through his laughter.

“Greater Sandusky.” I laughed with him. “Greater Sandusky! Greater Sandusky! Yeah. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Greatest Sandusky!” I roared, putting all three pictures in a pile.

“Yeah,” he laughed, “Greatest Sandusky!”

He fell back on the bed, one arm flung heavily across his forehead. The other he raised weakly to his lips, trying to contain his laughter. He looked like someone who knew he would be sick, and the sight of him beside me, beneath me, the strong man wrestled to his bed by laughter, made me laugh more. You’d have had to have been there, I kept thinking, already trying to explain to someone else afterwards what it had been like. You’d have had to have been there. I tried to say “Greatest Sandusky” again to keep the joke going. Sandusky saw me and shook his head in warning. He took his hand away from his lips long enough to say, “Do-o-n’t. Doannt. Don’t. No. D-dd-doonnt.”

I was made ruthless by my laughter. “Greatest Sandusky,” I said.

He giggled.

“Greatest Sandusky,” I said.

Sandusky roared.

“Greatest Sandusky!” I yelled at him.

He collapsed in laughter, the water rushing from his eyes. Startled, I saw that he looked like the Sandusky of old, the Sandusky of the photographs, his cheeks blown out in a rage of pain, his eyes drowned in his effort’s flood. Sandusky beneath the barbell, beneath the world’s gross weight, who held that weight from the ground, who was all we had between it and us. Sandusky’s face, its urgent effort, angered me. The heroic effort, the bald look of strain. There it was, the history I pursued and pursued, the moment I chased to see George do it. I gazed down at the straining Sandusky and wondered if it was possible to kill a man by making him laugh.

“Sandusky,” I yelled, screaming to make him hear me, “Sandusky, why does a strong man wear a jock?”

“D-d-do-on-nnt. Doannt.”

“To hold his bells up.”

“D-o-o-n’t. Ple-plee — leeze.”

“Mr. Sandusky, how is a strong man like a man who serves food in a restaurant?”

“D-on’t.”

“They’re both weighters!” He laughed, strangling, but I saw that he was regaining control. It was too bad, I thought. “If you can’t join ’em, kill ’em.” The new Boswell: Boswell the Bad. Aesthetically it was a pity. I could imagine Sandusky dead, and calling the police myself to report it, and their coming and finding Sandusky’s corpse. The Corpse of Sandusky, the heroic mold, all muscles and laughs. “Of course, gentlemen, he died out of his prime, but the essential materials are still there,” I would tell them, lifting a loose flap of skin and pulling it taut. “We could take him to a taxidermist and have him stuffed. It’s what he would want.” I would explain to the Inspector that I had told him a joke and he had died. But it was too late; already Sandusky was sitting up, his feet over the edge of the bed. He looked like someone who might wake with a hangover. He was disreputable, torn, and seemed as seedy as he had when I first came in.

“That was a good laugh,” he said stupidly. He smiled, remembering it.

“Yes.”

“It’s been years since I had a laugh like that.”

“It’s good for you to laugh like that once in a while. It clears the system.”

“Well, sure,” he said, “I know. When I was developing the body I used to make it a habit to read the joke books. It’s a very good lung exercise.”

“Is that a fact?” I said. When he said “the body” I felt another twinge of anger. He had confirmed again the selflessness of his life’s effort.

“I’m a little tired now,” he said apologetically.

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll get out of here.”

“Maybe you could come back another time. I enjoyed talking to you.”

“Sure,” I said, and got up.

“Wait a minute,” he said. He came over to me. “You might as well take one of these.” He handed me one of his poses.

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Sure,” he said. “What the hell.” He looked at me carefully. Then, to my surprise, he reached out and touched me. He put his hands on my arms, and stooping, slid his palm down my thighs. On his hands and knees he held my calf muscle, molding it, almost. “Say,” he said, looking up at me, “that’s all right.” He straightened up. “You got any pictures of the body? I’d like to see those calves.”

“Gee, I’m sorry, Mr. Sandusky, my photographer promised he’d have some ready for me yesterday, but he ran out of the high-gloss paper we use.”

“Oh,” he said, “I see.”

“Some should be coming in soon, though,” I said. “I could let you have a chest and legs and thighs, of course, and a neck that I’m very proud of. I saw the neck proofs yesterday when I went to the shop, and I think they’re terrific.”

“I’d like to see them,” he said. “The neck was always one of my weak spots, as you probably saw.”

“No,” I said, “you had a distinguished neck.”

“Well, it was scrawny,” he said, lowering his voice. “I was susceptible to sore throats and I could never exercise it the way I should have.”

“The way it deserved.”

“Yeah,” he said, “the way it deserved.”

“Well,” I said, shoving out my hand, “thanks for everything.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

I held up the photograph he had given me and grinned.

“Forget it,” he said, “my pleasure.”

Pleasure, I thought, leaving him, what would you great men know about pleasure?

IV

I still have in my files the photograph Sandusky gave me. A picture of a serious young man (like one of those figures you see in a tableau — can it move, does it breathe, is it real?) in a loin cloth. His arms (of course, that is merely a convenience, a convention of language; they are no more his than mine) fluid with muscle, his chest… It’s in my files. A cornerstone!

Herlitz, you comedian, you clown, you had some Old World fun with Boswell, hey? That Herlitz! He played a joke. Not just on me — on Freud, on the German generals, on the man with the monorails. He gave us projects. What, you think greatness is fun? Laughs? You think it’s all honors and international congresses and dressing for dinner? No, I tell you. Everybody dies. We’re all lashed to the mast. The man goes down beneath his cause like the soldier beneath his flag. Only his achievement, his thing, lingers. Men leave us their lousy things, that’s what. Vaccine or the patents or a greasy wallet with fourteen dollars and change and sixty dollars in uncashed traveler’s checks — it’s all the same. (They take it out of the hospital safe and send it to you in the mail. “Here are your father’s effects,” the letter says, not unkindly. They call them that, effects. Who needs his effects? I want him.)

So it was his selflessness I couldn’t stand in Sandusky, his heatless heart. Reckless! Let’s not kid ourselves, we all have to vacate the premises. But the great? They receive their eviction notices and — poof — it’s into the street at once with their furniture and effects. It’s stupid. Stupid? It’s immoral, what Forbush calls “The Mad Scientist Motif of Modern Life.” You think that’s an exaggeration? When the professor takes out the young girl’s brain and wires it up to the ape, you think maybe he’s got something against that girl? Like hell. The product at any price. So they go on pumping yellow jack into their veins, feeding themselves plague in the afternoon tea, dropping the bomb first on each other to see if it will work later on us. Like Sandusky, they build the body and scorn the soul. Maybe, at bottom, that’s good Christianity — maybe, at bottom, that’s what makes saints — but it’s immoral, damn it. Give me the self-centered who don’t make anything. Give me, by God, the raptless.

I came away shaken from my interview with Sandusky. Well, it was a disappointment, you see, a revelation. After Sandusky I would always know where I stood. It was I who had betrayed Herlitz after all. I had ignored what he had told me, that I was not a great man myself. Boswell, the sneak hero.

So I went on the wagon. I made resolutions. Lay off the great, I told myself, stay away from them. Swear off. You are not up to even the over-the-hill great, their frigid Decembers of achievement.

Ah, it was conscious though. I couldn’t help my feelings.

What I was really doing was lying low.

An excerpt from my journal:

May 14, 1948. Los Angeles.

A curious thing. Perhaps I am a man of destiny — of sorts. At least one of those people to whom things happen. Like two weeks ago when I slept with the whore. I didn’t have anything with me. But in my excitement I couldn’t wait, and since then I’ve been worried about syphilis. It’s really amazing. I know absolutely nothing about syphilis. Ignorant as a bird. I had meant to go to the library to look it up, but I never got around to it. It was really preying on my mind when a few days ago Time magazine devoted two pages to it in the Medicine section. A coincidence, I suppose, one I must make nothing of, but that sort of thing happens too frequently for me to brush it aside. I am special, unique. Not, I’m afraid, in any way that will ever do me any good, but I won’t be bored, I think. Do others feel their uniqueness as much as I do? Mine is sometimes staggeringly oppressive.

That’s not the reason for this entry, however. (See? Now I have “reasons,” though when I first started this journal it was only because I felt I needed some device to stop time, a sort of spiritual Brownie. I made entries like those phrases travelers put down in guestbooks: “Awe-inspiring.” “I am thunderstruck.” “It makes one feel insignificant.” But the truth is, nothing makes me feel insignificant. Hell, big as it is, couldn’t make me feel insignificant.

I came to Los Angeles to wrestle. I’ve been here almost three days. I must be particularly careful in Los Angeles. My resolution. And the temptation is great in a city like this. If one doesn’t absolutely shut his eyes the possibilities that he will run into the great are enormous. Washington, D.C., is the same way, so is Manhattan. So I must be very careful when I’m there, too. In Washington the great are too busy, and in New York they are frequently strangers in town themselves, but in Los Angeles they’re at home. Instead of this relaxing them, as one might think it would, it makes them even more self-conscious. This is their territory, but somehow they expect to be spotted. Perhaps they are even eager for it. Even in slacks and sandals they seem to throw out hints of their presence as sure and solid as a scent. Of course I am particularly vulnerable to this, and the temptation is always to forget what I learned from my encounter with Sandusky, to throw it all up and devote myself to some strategy which will engage their attentions. Also, there is the fact that I wrestle. I am, after all, something of a public figure myself — though, strangely, I am not really colorful or flashy enough to be a feature attraction, or even, for that matter, a contender in the more important preliminaries. I start the evening, or end it, or am the other guy on unimportant tag-teams. Nevertheless, I have often spotted stars in the audience. They flock to exhibitions of this sort. They sit there, their collars opened, their hats high on the backs of their heads, and scream obscenities at us. The women are even worse than the men. They come in furs or evening dress and study us darkly. We athletes are sort of American bullfighters. They admire us for what they think is our simplicity, our animality — which is only surface, after all, while their own is buried and therefore more urgent. Before the ballplayer, the wrestler, the boxer, the bullfighter, there was the gladiator, before that the Christian martyr, before that some shepherd on a slope of the Apennines.

So whenever I am here I must exercise my full will. It’s a real test of the resolution I made over a year ago. (In Cedar Rapids what danger am I in? Some obscure millionaire? A governor, perhaps, if I’m lucky? Lucky? What am I talking about? Which side am I on?) And then one doesn’t simply fly into Los Angeles two hours before a match and then out on a late plane two hours afterwards. Bogolub, the big promoter out here, insists on the wrestlers having at least two sessions in the gym before they go on — even sub-eventers like myself. I once complained to him that I thought the act got stale if it was rehearsed too often. “I don’t think so,” Bogolub said. He’s a tiny man, white-faced, like someone with a heart condition. He goes in a limousine which he drives himself to all the gyms in the city to watch his wrestlers. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think practice makes perfect.” “I can’t agree,” I told him. “That’s what makes horserac- ing,” he said, pointing vaguely toward the ring. I shrugged and went off to work out on the mat — my kind doesn’t even get to use the practice ring — with the ox I had been matched with. About ten minutes later the guy had pinned me according to plan and I was lying there underneath him, thinking absently of my Uncle Myles and how I had been either on top or underneath more men in my life than girls, when I saw Bogolub watching me carefully. It was almost a quarter of an hour after our talk, but he continued as if there had been no interruption. “In addition,” he said, “you’re just a tanker. The biggest men, the biggest, work out the routine in the gym before a match.” He’s an interesting man. He’s invented most of the famous wrestling personalities — a Herlitz of the Mat World, as it were. (There I go. Since I resolved not to chase the great I find that more and more of my time is taken up with the parochially important or the simply unusual. Why, for that matter, did I even challenge Bogolub? What am I? A dumb tanker. If I want to wrestle in Los Angeles I have to play by his rules.)

So in Los Angeles the question of how I can spend my time is very serious. I could stay in my room, I suppose, but what’s the point? Somehow I keep forgetting that I am still a very young man. In another context, with parents or perhaps just friends, I might even be considered a kid. Loneliness makes for precocity, but there is a danger that it makes for world weariness, too, if you let it. What right have I got to be world weary? A dumb tanker! There will be no drinking myself unconscious in hotel rooms for me, yet, no going down to some all-night cafeteria for a two-o’clock cup of coffee and a quick shot of human companionship. Just because one is resigned does not mean one is through. I promise you at least that much, Boswell. You are not through, in no sense washed up, you and your middle-aged heart. Just because you have it figured about life—everybody dies—there’s still no reason to turn yourself inside out, to go through the world skeleton first, to make every morning shave a memento mori. I try to keep myself presentable, like some old lady in a home for the aged with eau de cologne up her smelly crotch. That’s the ticket. Appearances, the heart’s red hair ribbon. That’s what makes horseracing! So I force myself.

Well, that’s not accurate. It’s true that sometimes I have to force myself — but not last night. Last night I was feeling pretty good about things. I wanted to see a motion picture. But in Los Angeles you can’t go to a first-run movie without running the risk of bumping into some damned movie star. They’re crawling all over the lobbies on some crazy busman’s holiday. Do I need that kind of aggravation? I figured it would be best to get out of town, so I bought a paper to see what was playing in the suburbs. In Chilanthica there was a revival of Plenty of Daddies with Edward Arnold and S.G. “Cuddles” Sackell and Eugene Pallette. Carmen Miranda and José Iturbi are in it, too, and Margaret O’Brien and Sabu, the Elephant Boy, in his first non-jungle picture. It introduces little Dickie Dobber, whom I’ve never seen in anything else. I see this film whenever I have the chance. One day I’m going to buy my own print, just to have it around.

I called the theater and asked when the last feature started; then I called the public service people and found out exactly how to get there. (Just like the old days. In certain ways I am still a planner, an arranger. My movements are a series of carefully plotted steps, like the directions on how to assemble a child’s toy. It never rains on my picnics.)

The name of the movie house in Chilanthica is the Orpheum. At first this was very satisfying. Nothing had ever happened to me in an Orpheum. It would be like, being bitten by a dog named Rover. But then I thought, Chilanthica is a very small town, there’s only one movie here. “Orpheum” is always the other movie in a small town, practically a brand name, the manager’s choice after “The Chilanthica” has been spoken for. It was disquieting. (I’m not that sensitive, but as I say, Los Angeles makes me nervous.) There was only the Orpheum, I kept telling myself, only the Orpheum. It was fishy. It was too much like being reduced to primal things. It didn’t make me any easier to note that the movie was on Elm Street. And sure enough there was an ice cream parlor (not a shoppe) across the street. Had the town been called Centerville or Maplewood I might have bolted, but “Chilanthica” was enough like the real world. So, like a jerk I bought my ticket and went in. It was, as I say, primal — like walking out onto a bare stage. I needn’t have called; there was only one showing. At 8:30, of course. I stood in the lobby watching some of the others coming in. It was pleasant at first, like the experience with the name, to see their anonymity, to exult in it as one can sometimes revel in muddy river water. A GP; the man who owned the filling station; the druggist; Mother Hubbard from the restaurant; the couple that ran what must surely have been “The Emporium” (he, vaguely big-time, well-dressed, sporty; she, almost but not quite chic). And people. Respectable, safely unimportant. Had I my wits I would have realized how pat it all was, they all were, these maskers, these phony Republicans.

Indeed, as a stranger, I had their attention. I saw the man from the Emporium eying me. Too big for a traveling salesman, he was thinking. Maybe a lettuce farmer. Has money for a movie. Maybe the talk about drought is premature. It might be a better year than they say. Have to talk to Margot about the fall line.

I walked off and bought some popcorn from the high school girl at the candy counter. She was a thin little thing with no makeup except for some heavily applied Johnson’s Baby Powder over her pimples. She handed me the popcorn and smiled nervously. She lays, I thought triumphantly. I breathed in deeply, smelling the popcorn, the butter, the salt, the waxy paper around the candy, the spilled soda bubbling down the drain of the Coca-Cola machine, the rust around the handle of the water fountain. Filling my lungs with the pleasant mediocrity of the place, I could settle down here, I thought. A nice place to raise children, hey, Herlitz? They would let me play in the band, go to the dances in the community center. (It was all center, this place, for the inner man.) Just forty-five minutes from Broadway, oompa, oompa pa. I actually whistled it and Mrs. Emporium, Margot herself, looked up and smiled at me. Mother Hubbard smiled at me. They don’t whistle songs like that any more, I thought. Who eats real home cooking these days? I winked at her and she blushed. Blushed! Fool, idiot, fall guy, I should have thought. A setup. A shill. The whole town’s a shill. They don’t eat home cooking any more! Main Street’s a novel, not a place. They’ve money in the bank, kids on Fulbrights. In the summer they go to Rome and have audiences with the Pope. Some guy in New York writes copy for Mother Hubbard’s soup. The factory is behind the shoppe (not the parlor). It’s served in Rosenthal bowls in executive suits from here to London. There are no people any more. Everybody’s a personage. Interview them, interview them all!

I went into the auditorium and sat down. (I sit toward the front. There’s nothing wrong with my eyes. I want to see everything. Everything!) The place was filling up rapidly. I was breathing heavily. At last it was sinking in that I wasn’t safe. But then the house darkened and Pathé News came on. It was safe, after all, I thought. The newsreel was two weeks old; I had seen it ten days before in a town in Nebraska. That’s right, drown me, ye backwaters!

Blissfully I watched for the second time some floods in the Ohio Valley. It was cute the way the narrator described it. (When no one is killed in a disaster the narrator is cute, though he gets serious when there’s a lot of property damage.) I saw a demonstration in Frankfurt, Germany, of a new kind of roller skate. The shoe part of the skate was about two feet off the ground. The wheels were attached by powerful springs to the shoes and every time the skater made a stride he’d bounce up high in the air. Then some girls tried it and of course they couldn’t do it very well and they fell down and you could see their underwear. Then there was a Press Club luncheon in Washington for President Truman. (Some people behind me applauded. A bad sign — in the real small town, in Nebraska, there had been boos.) A reporter asked the President about his plans for November and Truman smiled and was coy. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” he said and everybody laughed. (I could find out. I could.)

There was a Bugs Bunny at which I laughed contentedly. (The only time I am really at ease in a movie is during the cartoon. There is no Bugs Bunny. There is no Mickey Mouse.) And then, the worst time for me, the coming attractions, all those stars to look at. I stuck it out, and actually it didn’t go too badly. Science fiction and second-rate westerns and I hadn’t heard of many of the actors.

Then, at last, the picture came on.

It was just as grand as I remembered. It’s about three old bachelors who own different department stores and have to live together in the same Manhattan apartment because each distrusts the other. It shows how their lives are changed when Sabu, the Elephant Boy, comes to live with them. Sabu is an orphan whose parents have been eaten by tigers back in his native India and Edward Arnold hears about it and brings him to the States for Christmas. He’s got it worked out that this will help his sales figures, and Eugene Pallette and S. G. “Cuddles” Sackell have to go along with him because if they don’t they think it will hurt their sales figures. Of course none of them is really thinking about Sabu, and everything is so strange and new for him that he gets a little nervous and has to run off from time to time to the Bronx Zoo and climb in with the elephants and talk it over. But if it gets out that Sabu isn’t happy it will hurt everybody’s sales figures, so the three old men make up amongst themselves that they’ve got to be better to Sabu. Well, it’s a wonderful movie. Edward Arnold was never suaver, Eugene Pallette was never fatter, nor his voice more husky. They play curmudgeons, even S. G. “Cuddles” Sackell. The three of them are very shrewd, very stuffy — all anybody could want in a father.

After a while, though, although they don’t dare let the others see it, they really begin to like Sabu for himself, and then they start to outbid each other for his affection. They know he likes animals and there’s a scene where Edward Arnold sneaks out during the night and brings back a baby elephant for Sabu. When Eugene Pallette sees it the next morning all he can say is “Hmph, you call that an elephant?” and that night he goes out and brings back a bigger one. S. G. “Cuddles” gets it all mixed up and brings Sabu a beautiful pair of matched tigers. This bothers Sabu because of what tigers have done to his parents, but he doesn’t let on. As a matter of fact he gradually begins to forgive the tigers. Listen, why not? These old men can’t do enough for him. I’ve never seen anything like it. They turn on the love. They pour it all over him. What don’t they give that nut-brown orphan! Pajamas, robes, electric trains, radios! They have three different department stores to choose from! And at night Sackell sings Rumanian folk songs to him and Edward Arnold recites poetry. Even Eugene Pallette comes in and croaks out something at bedtime. They tuck him in all night long.

It’s marvelous — all those people breaking their necks for him, the economy of the City of New York contingent on Sabu’s happiness — all those daddies. He even has a kind of kid sister in Margaret O’Brien, who lives next door and comes in mornings to teach Sabu manners and how to be a good American. Actually, the only person not taken with Sabu is Margaret O’Brien’s cousin (and this I resented, seeing it as a deflection from the real meaning of the picture), played by Dickie Dobber. This was a snotty kid, a real curmudgeon. That sort of thing doesn’t look good on a child and I was glad when Sabu’s elephants turned on him.

Then comes the best part of all: the scene where they give Sabu the marvelous birthday party on the day he’s legally adopted by the three magnates and becomes an American citizen. This is where José Iturbi (playing himself) is one of the entertainers and Carmen Miranda (playing Margaret O’Brien’s maid, but really more like Sabu’s aunt than hired help) tries to get him to play some snappy rumba. Everyone is shocked, of course, because José Iturbi is an irascible Latin genius and believes only in serious music, but in the middle of the concerto that he’s composed for Sabu’s birthday he gives a sly wink and goes into a jazzy riff that leads into the rumba. Dickie Dobber unbends and nods at Carmen Miranda as if to say, “Hey, José Iturbi’s all right!” but of course Carmen Miranda knew it all along. (After all, José Iturbi really is a Latin. Like Carmen Miranda herself.)

Well, it was marvelous, and pretty soon I had forgotten it was really Edward Arnold up there, and Eugene Pallette, and, oddly, even José Iturbi, but just then — just when Edward Arnold is starting to tap his foot to José Iturbi’s music and the elephants are beginning to sway their trunks — the film snapped. You could actually hear it tear and go around flap-flap on the reel. Everybody groaned.

In the darkness, before the lights came on, I heard a voice next to me.

“Damn it, it’s the best scene in this turkey. You know old Kuperman, what a stickler he is for realism? He had the property man use VO in Eugene’s glass. Well, you saw it yourself. When the barman pours Edward’s drinks it’s from the bottle to his left. Eugene’s shots come out of the one next to it.”

“You’re kidding,” someone on the other side said.

“You know old Kuperman.”

“Was Pallette really loaded?”

“Loaded? There were a dozen and a half takes, Elizabeth.”

I knew. Even before the lights came on, I knew. It was Sabu, the Elephant Boy! It was Elizabeth Languor, the film soprano!

A man runs and runs. He does his push-ups, lifts his weights, builds his body, wrestles his wrestlers, pins, is pinned. It’s the old one-two. The old give-and-take. He gives and gives; they take and take. It’s not like in the old days when there were guarantees. That wop Aeneas had a belt, a spear. As long as he wore the one and threw the other they couldn’t touch him. Even the gods couldn’t touch him. Me they can touch. I do my best. I go on a bus thirty-five miles out of my way to a town nobody ever heard of, to a “Chilanthica,” a place to raise kids, where it’s fun to be a citizen, where when you vote you come away feeling clean all over. I pick a picture nine years old — and look what happens.

Once I was waiting to buy rolls in a bakery when a man rushed in carrying a package. He was mad. “See here,” he screams, shoving this package onto the counter, opening it as one might open a newspaper full of garbage. “See here, damn it,” he yells at the old lady who owns the bakery. “I warned you about the nuts. My wife is a sick woman she can’t eat nuts it gives her gas. And what do I see? Nuts! Nuts! I particularly didn’t want nuts!” That’s right. I know how he feels. You get what you don’t ask for.

When the lights came up I glanced to my left. Not despondently to see if I was right, or even hopefully to see if I was wrong, but — here’s the sickness, you see; here’s me all over—instinctively, to see what they were wearing. Sabu had on white trousers, a rope belt, a tailored black shirt. Wound round his head was a turban with a glittering black jewel in the center. I was surprised to see that he wore glasses. My first thought was of this journal. “Sabu, the Elephant Boy and Hollywood star, has to wear glasses when he goes to the pictures.” I glanced hastily at Elizabeth Languor. Gold brocade slacks, a gold belt, a soft pale sweater over a tight black T-shirt. There was a scarf around her neck. Hmm, I thought, a scarf, maybe to protect that throat. They caught me staring at them — did they think they had been recognized? Did they expect me to ask for an autograph? — and I turned away.

What should I do? Leave? Change my seat? Ignore it?

I couldn’t leave. The picture had been ruined for me, but I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t change my seat. Indeed, had they changed theirs I would have followed. Ignore them? Hah!

Instantly, you see, I was off the wagon. I tried to rationalize. You’ve never done an elephant boy before, I told myself, conscious that I had used Herlitz’ word. After all, it’s not as if you went looking for it. It fell in your lap. My lap, indeed. The gods have laps, not men.

Then my struggle was over. I leaned toward Sabu and listened.

“Have you ever done anything else with Kuperman?” Elizabeth asked.

“Not yet. Irv Teller thinks I’m just right for the Arab who goes over to the Jewish side in Storm in the Desert. Koop starts shooting it in the fall, but I’m a little reluctant.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve never worked with camels,” he said.

Elizabeth and I laughed. Sabu looked at me severely.

The lights went out again. “Vun-two, vun-two,” S. G. “Cuddles” Sackell said. “Loook, loook at ze elements, vat zey do ze roomboom.”

“Iss prununce chroomba,” Carmen Miranda said, snapping her fingers and grabbing his hips.

“Hmph,” Eugene Pallette growled huskily, something funny happening to his eyes, “you call that shaking? I’ll show you shaking.” He began moving his hips violently and caught little Dickie Dobber full in the chest, jamming him helplessly between the two elephants.

“That’s not in the script,” Sabu said to Elizabeth Languor. “He did that on his own.”

Real VO, I thought. Real Eugene Pallette drinking real VO.

The camera moved in jerkily to expose Dickie Dobber’s white, panic-struck face. The elephants rumbaed menacingly. Only Sabu could call them off.

“Koop left this in?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes, isn’t it marvelous?”

When everything was calm, Edward Arnold went up to Eugene Pallette and pulled his sleeve. “Better stay away from the bar,” Edward Arnold whispered. He said “bah.”

“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” Elizabeth Languor said.

“He certainly is,” Sabu said.

“I was with him in Latin Holiday,” Elizabeth said.

Was that you, I wondered to myself. I thought it was Jane Powell.

“Honestly,” Elizabeth said, “he’s so paternal and dignified. He had little Jane Powell thinking he really was her father.”

That’s right, I thought, you were the one who went to school in Switzerland, the daughter of the big industrialist.

Eugene Pallette looked up at Edward Arnold. “What bar?” he asked. He was panting heavily.

“By the wall,” Edward Arnold hissed.

“Hmph,” Eugene Pallette rasped, “you call that a wall?”

Sabu put his arm around Elizabeth Languor’s shoulder. “‘And let there be no moaning at the bar when I put out to sea,’” he whispered. He said “see.”

I squirmed in my seat; I bit my lips; I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. I had never been happier. There he was — Sabu, fourteen feet tall up there on the screen. A Star. Only not a star up there—up there only Rama, triply adopted son of department store magnates, Down here, beside me. I could smell elephant on him. Fourteen feet tall down here. It was a wonder he could even fit into the seat. And Elizabeth Languor thrown in! Could there be greater happiness in this world? I forgot my guilt and uneasiness. What guilt, what uneasiness?

Suddenly it wasn’t enough just to sit there — I had to impress them in some way. But if I spoke they would change their seats. They would call the usher, and I might be arrested. The law is made to protect the great. That’s civics — the folks in Chilanthica would know about that. I could explain to them who I was. “Perhaps you’ve seen me wrestle, Sabu and Elizabeth. On television. On the TV. Perhaps you saw me break the Mad Magruder’s ass.” I could lower my voice. I could wink, blow my fingernails; “it’s all fixed!” I would say precisely. Then later, over a tall drink, I would tell them the secrets of my trade, and in a little while, after confidence had been developed, I would pounce. “Is Hollywood ffixsed?” I would say. “Is Hollywood fixseď?”

Idiot! You think they don’t have jails in Chilanthica? (I saw it, a single jail, like the town’s single movie. The “pokey,” they would call it.)

I tried to control myself, to concentrate on Plenty of Daddies, but I couldn’t even understand it any more. The temptation was simply to turn in my seat and stare at them. Every so often that’s just what I did. I would turn my head an inch and glance at them out of the corner of my eyes. I was sure they noticed it. I was sure, in fact, that while they pretended to watch the picture they were staring at me in the same way, and that if I had nerve enough I could say just the right thing to engage them. The chat over a drink wasn’t such a wild notion after all. I wasn’t an idiot; I am an interesting human being. Surely they could respond to that. That was the pitch, of course, but how would I make it?

Nothing happened. The movie was almost over, and soon the lights would go up and we would all shuffle out to our cars, our houses, our buses, our hotel rooms. Surely it was too much to expect that Sabu and Elizabeth would go across the street to the ice cream parlor.

Act, I thought. Act!

I looked to my right. I was on the aisle. I looked to my left. Sabu. Elizabeth. A filled row. I made my decision. I stood up.

I turned to Sabu, the Elephant Boy. “Excuse me,” I said gravely.

He looked up at me, confused.

“I have to get by,” I explained.

Instinctively he pulled in his legs, but then, glancing significantly toward the aisle to my right, he frowned. I moved against his legs heavily.

“Ouch,” he said softly.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

“Oh, wait a minute,” he said, and stood to let me pass.

I halted in front of Elizabeth Languor. She glanced up at me and stood without a word. I moved quickly past the rest of the people in the row and out into the aisle. I went to the lobby and put a dime in the Coca-Cola machine.

“They stood up for me,” I croaked. “They stood up for me. Sabu and Elizabeth Languor.”

I threw the Coke away untasted and rushed back into the theater. I haven’t been gone long enough, I thought. It’ll look funny.

The big production number was on the screen. Edward Arnold and Eugene Pallette and S. G. “Cuddles” Sackell had their arms around each other. They had just merged their three department stores. Sabu was on one elephant and Margaret O’Brien was on the other. They all seemed to be coming through the big Manhattan apartment right into the audience. José Iturbi’s piano was following them. Everybody was singing Sabu’s concerto. I was coming down the aisle while they seemed to be coming up it. It was thrilling.

I moved into my row. Already people were getting up to leave, but I pushed past them to get to my seat. They looked at me, annoyed, but made timid by my size.

When I got to Sabu’s and Elizabeth’s seats, they were unoccupied.

Boswell, I thought, mover of men!

The journal entry closes there. I was up most of the night writing it, and Felix Bush, the Schenectady Stalwart, beat me the next evening in a match I was supposed to win. Bogolub came into the locker room afterwards while I was still in the shower.

“Boswell!” I pretended not to hear him.

“Boswell?”

“Boswell, you in there? You hear me? You in there? Well, I hope you’re in there because that’s where you wash up and that’s what you are, you understand? Washed up! No more in LA do you wrestle for me in my gardens with the television and the hook-ups to San Francisco and all the way up to Portland, Oregon. That’s all finished, tanker. A guy that can’t win a fixed fight! Wash up good, you hear me? I’m paying for the soap and I say to you you are welcome because you are washed up in Los Angeles, do you understand me?”

“Yes. Beat it.”

“Beat it? Beat it? Do you threaten me, phony? I better not understand you to threaten me because I got guys who sell popcorn for me in this place who can whip your ass. You’re finished.”

I came out of the shower and went over to my locker. Bogolub followed and stared at me while I dried myself. It always makes me nervous when people look at me when I’m naked. Even girls. I turned my back.

“Dry up good, do you understand me?” Bogolub said.

“Please,” I said wearily. “Mr. Bogolub.”

“No no, my boy,” Bogolub said gently, “you miss my meaning. You shouldn’t catch cold. You missed a spot on your back. Where the yellow streak is, that’s still wet!”

I turned to face him. “Look,” I said.

“Show me your ass again. I can’t stand to look at your face,” Bogolub said.

I shrugged.

“Why did Felix Bush beat you?” Bogolub demanded.

“I guess I was just bushed,” I said.

“Schmuck,” he said. “Pig-fart.”

“Get out of here, Mr. Bogolub.”

“Get out of here, Mr. Bogolub,” he mimicked. “Get out of here, Mr. Bogolub.” And then, in his own voice, “No tanker tells me to get out of my own place. You get out. You get dressed and get out. And that reminds me, I meant to tell you before. Why do you wear those crummy clothes? You look like something in a playground. I pay you. Wrestlers make good money. Ain’t you proud of your profession?”

“Wrestling is not my profession,” I yelled.

“That’s right. Not no more. Not in Los Angeles it ain’t.”

“Okay.”

“Okay! You bet okay! A tanker who can’t win a fight that I go to the trouble to fix it for him. With rehearsals yet. Let me tell you something, Mr. America, let me tell you something about the economics of this profession.”

I looked up at once. There was fixing beyond fixing, and I was going to hear about it. It was all I could do to keep from putting my arm around Bogolub, from offering him a swallow of the mineral water that was in all locker rooms.

“You don’t know yet the damage you done tonight, do you, tanker?”

Better remain sullen, I thought. He explains because he thinks you’re sullen. Even in retreat, I thought, even in retreat I pursue. Even when I avoid them I embrace insiders, their silly trade secrets, their lousy shop talk.

“Contracts have been made, do you understand that? How am I going to juggle all those contracts? Bush was supposed to fight Fat Smith here next month. Maybe he won’t. Maybe you ruined it for him, too. It’s something I got to figure it out. How can Smith go up against him now? He was on the card right here last week and lost to the Chink. Maybe you don’t remember the terrific beating you give to the Chink yourself last time you was here, but the public remembers. So right away, it’s an overmatch. A winner against a loser. It’s inconsistent. Where’s the interest? A guy like Bush is supposed to lose in Los Angeles. All of a sudden he beats a contender.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. In the long-range geometry I had plans for you. Clean-cut. A Mr. Universe type.”

“I didn’t know about that,” I said.

“Big shot. Vigilante. Takes things into his own hands and doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“What difference does it make? So Bush wins one fight. Who’s going to think about it that way?”

“Think about it? Think about it? Who said anything about anyone thinking about it? It’s the feeling of the thing. The balance. That’s what makes a good card. You queered that. Now I’ll have to readjust outcomes all the way up the line to get the balance back. And who pays for all that? I pay for it. It means new routines, new choreography, new identities, new costumes.”

“I’m sorry.”

Bogolub wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even mad any more; he was just thinking out loud. “Maybe I could mask somebody. Maybe some old tanker could come in masked. A new personality. That might fix things.”

“I could go against Fat Smith if I wore a mask,” I said. “Bush could fight my man.”

Bogolub was silent.

“That would restore the balance,” I said.

“Who you supposed to be fighting?” he asked finally. “The Grim Reaper, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see. I won’t make promises. You’re still on my shit list.”

“I’m really sorry about tonight,” I said. “I was sick.”

He looked at me. He didn’t believe my excuse, but was grateful that I made one. “You’d have to change your style,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “I’d have to change my style.”

It was because of Sandusky that I was wrestling. After our interview I returned to the only home I had: the gym. I stayed there, working out desultorily in the afternoons, sleeping there in the evenings. For about a week I simply drifted like that, knowing, I think, that sooner or later I would have to go back to my Uncle Myles. I was running out of money, I was getting bored. But mostly I was running out of money, since there is always something vaguely exciting about being on the bum. There wasn’t much I could do to make money. I couldn’t continue to throw cars into the snow and then pull them out — the work was seasonal. I stayed away from Uncle Myles because I believed, as I still do, that things happen. But lying on the tumblers’ mats at night, my only covers a half dozen volley ball nets (so that I felt oddly like a captured fish and dreamt of the sea), I knew that whatever was going to happen had better happen soon.

Then a week after I had seen Sandusky I got a letter from him. It was odd to think that the only being in the world who knew my address was The Great Sandusky. I opened the envelope.

My dear Boswell,

I have been thinking over your problem. I think it’s better to face things right off then to deceive yourself for a while only to find out when it’s already too late that you’ve just been kidding yourself along. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future but I can tell you that right now and for a long time to come probably the strong man game is dead. Now I say that speaking from a background of experience which covers I don’t like to think how many years. The facts are this: 1) That Vaudeville is dead and that let’s face it it was in Vaudeville that the real muscle money was made. It isn’t only strong men of course. Acrobats, animal trainers, all that crowd I used to tour the circuits with are in the same sinking boat. 2) There are still circuses and while it’s true that circuses have absorbed a certain number of the acts there was never any real demand for a strong man in a circus. Now I know, I know you always hear the term “Circus Strong Man,” but think about that for a minute. Did you ever see a strong man put on an act in the big ring? If you’re honest with yourself you’ll have to admit you did not. His apparatus is too costly and clumsy (and anyway who could set it up unless it was another strong man). No, your “Circus Strong Man” if the term means anything at all was a guy in a side show in a tiger suit, a freak with a bald head and a phony mustache. His size came more from good German beer than it did from training. You don’t want any part of that. 3) The carnival or “carny” as it is called does still use a strong man act, but more often than not it is faked and as with the side show it is not a good life. It is not clean and the traveling is not interesting. All towns you never heard of in N. Minnesota and etc.

So all the old showcases for a strong man act are gone, Vaudeville being the main one. (Now some of my friends think that television may bring new inroads but, frankly, I cannot agree and I think they are just kidding themselves and whistling in the dark. What would be more ridiculous than a guy claiming to have force lifting weights on a little tiny television screen? Those weights would look like six- ounce balls. No, definitely not. Besides, in an act like mine was, there had to be audience contact and on television you couldn’t have that.) Now there’s one other thing to think about as you probably know yourself. I am referring to the so-called “physical fitness magazine.” Well go ahead if you want to but if I had my way they wouldn’t be allowed to sell them. That world is just inhabited by a bunch of queers and fags. How would you like to have it on your conscience that some nut is using your picture in a magazine to jerk off in front of? It’s worse than the carny and more filthy and I wouldn’t think you’d want to touch it.

Well, you must be asking yourself, what does all this mean for me? Where does all this leave me? Well frankly, and I say it right out because I don’t like to see you break your heart, it means that there’s no place for you in the strong man game! Face it now, Boswell, I tell you like a father.

However, I have been thinking that there’s one area left that I haven’t mentioned and that’s wrestling. A lot of the boys go into that and make good money and a famous name and it’s not a bad life. I know what you’re going to say, that wrestling is fixed. Well it is and it isn’t. What I mean is that there are clean wrestlers and even those that are fake have to demonstrate a mastery of the different holds and etc. And don’t think it doesn’t hurt when you get slammed around like that! Of course you know how to fall but plenty of bones are still broken. So don’t kid yourself about that! After all, they’re really wrestling. Only the winner is fixed. And what does an artist care about that, right? It’s the form of the thing. The same as in weightlifting or anything else.

Now I don’t know whether this sounds like good advice to you or not. Maybe like most young men you would prefer to beat your head against the wall than learn from an older person’s experience, but I think you’re more sensible than that and so I took the liberty after you left me of writing to an old friend of mine who actually used to manage me at one time, maybe you heard of him — Mr. Frank Alconi — about you who now handles wrestlers and promotes matches in Jersey City. He wrote back saying that he is always looking for big strong boys like yourself for the ring world and that if you are interested he will forward train fare, coach of course. His address is Frank Alconi, 9 Water Street, Jersey City in New Jersey.

Do as you please, but I think this is the best thing. Whatever happens good luck to you. I sign as I used to in the old days when it meant something.

Yours in Force,

Felix Sandusky

P.S. Where are the poses you promised? I want to see that neck.

I wrote Frank Alconi for the money, and he sent it, and I went to Jersey City and became a wrestler.

I became a wrestler, I suppose, because, resolutions or no resolutions, it is an integral part of my character to take advice from the great. A reflex action. Go with the experts, I always say. There’s no father-figure crap about it. My father is dead.

I never sent Sandusky a picture. He had to be made to understand that it was my neck and I did not intend to do any better by it than I did by myself. There would be no silk shirts around it; I would not flatter it with ties. I wrote Sandusky once thanking him for his interest because that is good sportsmanship. Otherwise, when I was in St. Louis I sent him passes to the matches and that was the end of it. If he was so in love with my neck he might want to be around when it was strangled.

Frank Alconi put me to work at once. I was already strong, of course, and Alconi said I was a natural and anybody Felix had faith in by Jesus he had faith in too. But for a long time I didn’t know what I was doing. I went wearily up and down the East Coast between Jersey City and Raleigh, North Carolina, precariously ambulatory, describing my sensations to myself in a kind of hospital shorthand — restive, critical, grave. Indeed, my memories of those first weeks are chiefly memories of liniment. My body was like some great northern forest, one part of which was always on fire. The other wrestlers kept telling me what a good sport I was and visited me at the rubbing table afterwards. Beating me up made them feel young again. They seemed to like to feel my muscles. I can remember more than once, lying on the rubbing table near unconsciousness and death in the unheated basement of a civic auditorium, looking up into the loveless smiles of ancient apes, having them stare down at me lost in wonder, and then, tracing their prehensile fingers over the bumps and hollows of my flesh, pointing with inverted pride at their own tough and lumpy bodies, which looked, from the angle at which I saw them, like great hairy mounds of red meat. Then these fellows would shrug, pull on their pin-striped businessmen’s suits, snap their Wall Street Journals smartly under their armpits, and go off with a wave to lose themselves among the traveling salesmen in the hotel lobby. In those days druggists went blind mixing special liniments to keep me alive.

When I got back to Jersey City I told Alconi I would have to have more training.

He grinned. “Tough. Felix said you was tough.” I rubbed my neck sentimentally. “Rough, huh? Trip’s been rough?” “A cob, Mr. Alconi.”

“Sure. It’s the gym does it. All the time developing yourself against instruments, against metal, when what you need’s contact with human beings. Where’s the fight in a bar bell?”

“That must be it.”

“Sure,” Alconi said. “You need the old smash.” He ground his fist against his palm. “The old kaboom. The old grrr-rr-agh.” He pulled some air down out of the sky, cradled it in the crook of his right elbow, and strangled it. “The old splat cratch.” He kneed an invisible back. “The old fffapp!” He grabbed handfuls of invisible hair and gouged invisible holes in invisible eye sockets.

“With all due respect, Mr. Alconi, that’s not what I need,” I said. “That’s what I’ve been getting. What I need is to learn to protect myself against that.”

“Sure,” he said. “I understand, kid. Only I’m not your trainer, you realize. As your manager I get thirty- four per cent of your purses. As your trainer I’d be entitled to another”—he considered my bruises—“fifteen per cent.”

“Sure,” I said.

“That would still leave you with fifty-one per cent of yourself. You’d be in command.”

“Chairman of the Board, as it were,” I said.

“Yeah,” Alconi laughed. “That’s right, Chairman of the Board.”

I slept on it. The next day I went up to Alconi again. “Who’d pay expenses?” I asked. I had been paying my own.

Alconi frowned. “What the hell,” he said, “we’ll take the railroad expenses off the top, the gross. We’ll split.”

“Okay,” I said.

We signed a new contract and I went back to my hotel and renewed auld lang syne with a pharmacist I had been keeping.

In the morning Alconi called me over to his office in the gym. “Boswell,” he said, “Jimmy, you lucked out. I got a class of ladies starting Monday and I’m registering you.”

“Ladies!”

“Girls. Female wrestlers.”

“You want me to train with girls,” I said.

“Jimmy,” he said, winking evilly, “it’s better than bar bells.”

“Sure.”

“The coming thing,” he said expansively. “Lady wrestlers. The wave of the future, Jimmy. I can foresee the time when they’ll be girl tag teams, girl midgets, interracial girl wrestling, mixed matches with men.”

“Interracial mixed matches with men,” I said.

“Let’s go slow, Jimmy,” he said.

At first I was shy. After all, it’s an odd feeling to see the world strapped across the thick, broad shoulders of some nubile young lady, an extraordinary concept to be struggling for air nuzzled against the breast of some matronly female giant. But I got used to it, and soon began even to enjoy myself. This was frequently and embarrassingly apparent even to the young ladies. Ultimately, for everyone’s protection, Alconi’s male instructor had to put me on a private crash program. It wasn’t the same.

Training with ladies, however, even for as brief a period as I did, had an oblique side effect on my style. For a long time I was reluctant around the area of my opponent’s chest. Understanding the cause, I. attributed this to some innate though grossly misdirected sense of decency on my part, but it was noticed by the fans and their explanations leaked back to me. “He’s a chicken,” some said. “No,” said the others, “he killed a man once in Canada with a bear-hug and he’s afraid he might do it again.”

I emerged from my training somewhat better prepared for the professional knockabout I had engaged for. I had learned, as Sandusky put it, to fall. This is useful knowledge, as everyone knows.

For a year I wrestled everywhere — earning, curiously, different reputations in different parts of the country. I was too small-time, you see, for it to matter much. In the Southeast, for example — the Memphis-Nashville-Mobile-Birmingham-Little Rock-Jackson-Biloxi-Jacksonville-Tampa-Savannah-Atlanta circuit — I nearly always won. (Alconi explained why. I was, as Bogolub was to tell me later, clean-cut, a Protestant, Mr. Universe type, Anglo-Saxon all the way.) But in the coal mining Middle Atlantic states I always lost, for the same reasons that I was let win in the South. Elsewhere it was the same pattern. Here a winner, there a loser. I was earning a little more money now, though the fact that the instructor had to give me private lessons upped Alconi’s take a couple of per cent and I was no longer Chairman of the Board.

It went like that, as I say, for about a year. But at about the time I had the row with Bogolub in Los Angeles, Alconi suddenly died. He left no heirs, absolutely none, and my contract reverted back to myself. It was like having my salary doubled, and when Bogolub threatened to cut me off in Los Angeles, and perhaps wherever he had influence in the West, I stood to lose something for the first time in my life.

That’s why I had apologized.

Bogolub explained that if I assumed a new identity I could no longer wrestle on the West Coast as myself. “That’s all right,” I said. He looked at me narrowly. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Some guys mind.”

He wanted me to stay over in Los Angeles a few. more days to talk over plans, line up new matches (most of them with men I was already scheduled to meet), and sign new contracts. I had to cancel matches in Sacramento and Berkeley. Bogolub was so excited about launching a new career for somebody that he agreed to split the forfeit fee with me. When I saw him two days later he asked me if I had any ideas.

“About what?”

“About what? About the costume!”

I hadn’t thought about it, but I remembered something Sandusky once told me about his Wild Man of Borneo days. I used that as a base and made up the rest as I went along. I tried to seem enthusiastic. I would paint my body green, I told Bogolub, and wear a monster mask. There would be fangs, and saliva could drip down from them like stuff coming off stalactites. I could call myself “The Wolf Man” and explain my complexion by the fact that I was raised in a cave in Bavaria until I was eighteen.

Bogolub listened to me and seemed to be considering it thoughtfully, but after a while he frowned.

“It’s no good,” he said at last. “It’s too corny.”

“Gee, I liked it,” I told him.

“Nah,” Bogolub said, “what’d happen when you sweat? The green paint. It’s no good.”

“How about an executioner’s mask? I could wear an executioner’s mask that goes all the way down to my shoulders. With big holes for the eyes and the nostrils.”

“You ain’t got the body for it,” he said professionally. “You got a young body. That’s what we’ve got to start with.”

I nodded gravely.

“Sure,” he said. “We got to work on that angle of it. We can’t make you into something horrible when you ain’t.”

“You can’t make a sow’s ear out of a silk purse,” I said brightly.

Bogolub didn’t answer; he was lost in thought. After a while he smiled and patted his stomach affectionately.

“Have you got an idea?”

“I think so, I think so. How would this be? We put you in a white silk mask — like The Lone Ranger’s, only white. And you wear white trunks and a beautiful white silk cape. And white shoes. Nothing else. Very simple. You’re The Masked Playboy. You wear the mask because you’re really a millionaire’s kid and you don’t want your parents to know that you’re wrestling professional because it would break their hearts. ‘THE HIGH SOCIETY WRESTLER! WHO IS HE?’ How’s that?”

So I became The Masked Playboy. I remembered the reaction in the picture when José Iturbi played boogie-woogie. It was our instinct to applaud such acts, to wink at Carmen Miranda with Dickie Dobber when the time came. The secret handshake of the eye. Classical was only fancy, but popular was good. And when we said good we meant good, God’s good. Little was big and weak was strong and poor was rich. The ultimate, the crowning glory, was what I was to stand for, to demonstrate behind my silk mask — like The Lone Ranger’s, only white — that rich was poor, that alive will one day be dead. Applause. Cheers. Winks.

This was in the early days of the baroque wrestler and Bogolub’s maneuver was very successful. Now it was arranged for me to win fairly regularly. Bogolub explained the motivation. Why, after all, would a millionaire playboy like myself continue to wrestle if he lost? He would have to be a pretty good wrestler. Bogolub was pleased with his invention, and I began to have more and more dates on the West Coast. Once Bogolub explained to me that my masquerade was actually helping free enterprise and capitalism. There was far too much crap going around about the working classes, he said; if Americans were made to see how tough and down to earth a rich man’s son could be they would sit up and take notice and it would be good for business.

For five months I toured, climbing the country in busy, sooty eastern and central tours, a wrestler in industrial towns, a loser, comic relief for the day shift. Making the more leisurely long, low southern lope, a whipper of Wops, a Spic scourger, Hebe hitter, Polack pounder — the White Hope of God Knows What. Then the western trip. Quick — off with the horn-rimmed glasses, into the cape, the mask, the white shoes. The Capitalist’s Friend, Free Enterprise’s Prize. A Masked Playboy who didn’t need the money but beat up guys to show he was regular. Like Christ, really — who couldn’t use the death but died anyway to show he was regular.

All this was in the preliminaries, of course. Alarums and excursions without. In the anteroom of history, as it were — the man who fights the man who fights the man who fights the man who one day saves or kills the king.

Then one evening, six months after putting on the silk mask in Los Angeles, I was having dinner with a promoter in Columbus, Ohio.

“I was out with Barry Bogolub a couple of weeks ago. He came East on a scouting tour. You work for him, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, he was telling me. Seems you got this gimmick going for you in LA. Mystery Playboy or something.”

“The Masked Playboy.”

“Yeah, that’s right, he was telling me.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing. It sounds good. Next time you’re in Columbus, bring your mask.”

So, gradually, the real Boswell began to fade. Long live Boswell. I wrestled increasingly as The Masked Playboy. In hick towns there were write-ups in the paper. I gave out interviews. I’d sit in my hotel room drinking expensive Scotch, a silken ascot around my neck, my legs crossed, staring democratically at the reporter across from me.

“Yes, that’s right. Educated at Cambridge. But I told Father at the time that I shouldn’t be content with a sedentary rich man’s life. He thought it a youth’s threat, of course, and meanwhile I developed my body to what you see now.”

“Were you actually in the Four Hundred?”

“Well, not actually. There was some nasty business some years ago about an uncle in trade. If I had to place the family, I’d put it somewhere in the low Five Hundreds.”

“I see,” the reporter would say, tiredly. Then, “You’re not supporting the family now, of course — it hasn’t…”

“Fallen on harder days? No, I should think not. Otherwise I might be able to take off this damnable mask. No, no, the Van Bl— whoops, I mean the family, the family is monied.”

“They’ve got a lot of money,” he’d say, writing it down.

“Oh, Lord yes, I should say so. But a fellow likes to earn a bit of his own, you know.”

“Of course.”

Of course.

Articles began to appear about me in the magazines. There was an editorial in Ring; my sort of “showmanship” might proliferate, it warned, and bring about the further vulgarization of a once noble sport. Other magazines, the body-building books and that sort, took the story — or pretended to take it — at face value, passing it on to their readers (who were those people anyway? more boogie-woogie winkers, I suppose) so that it actually gained in translation. I wrestled, they said, only in those towns where I had factories or brokerage offices or banks.

I was bigger now, more important than I had ever been as myself, and the lesson was not lost on me. For the first time I began to take the wrestling seriously. As the months went by I gathered more and more of a reputation; there was even talk that one day I would be a serious contender for the championship. Which brings me back to St. Louis and my first appearance in a main event.

Bogolub had told me on the night he wanted to throw me out of wrestling that I might one day have been a contender, that he’d had his eye on me. Perhaps it was true. I doubt it, but perhaps it was. Probably he said it to add a fillip to my loss, to start in the young man’s mind the old man’s myth, “I could have been the champion—” We are instinctively ironists, tricky tragedians. But if it was not true when Bogolub said it, a year later it was.

I got a call from Bogolub one night when I was in Fargo, North Dakota.

“Boswell? Barry.”

“Yes, Mr. Bogolub?”

“Peter Laneer broke his leg in Philly last night. He was supposed to go against John Sallow in a main event in St. Louis Friday but there’s no chance of his making it. I want you to go down and take his place.”

“I can’t do it,” I said. “I’m fighting in Des Moines Friday.”

“Called off, Jimmy.”

“What about the forfeit fee?”

“Jimmy, you’re talking about peanuts. This is a main event in St. Louis I’m talking about. You’re big time now, Jimmy. Give me a call when you get to LA.” He started to hang up.

“Mr. Bogolub. Mr. Bogolub?”

“Come on, Jimmy, this is long distance. Fargo ain’t Fresno.”

“What about the arrangements?”

“Oh, yeah, in my excitement I forgot to tell you. You lose.”

“What’s that?”

“You lose. Routine number thirty-eight. Give them a show, you understand, you’re an important wrestler, but you lose. I can trust you.”

“Mr. Bogolub, the last time I was scheduled to meet him I was supposed to win.”

“He’s the next champion, Jimmy. Be a little patient, please. Give me a ring as soon as you get to LA.”

“Mr. Bogolub, I don’t want to fight him. I don’t want to fight him Friday.” I was talking to myself. Bogolub had hung up.

I went down to the National Guard Armory. I don’t remember who I wrestled — which is odd for me; I never. forget a name. I stumbled through the routine and it was a lousy show, even though I won. The crowd was booing me. “Hey, Masked Man, go get Tonto,” someone shouted. “Hey, Keemosavee, you stink.” “Take off the mask, Prince. The ball is over.”

In the locker room, afterward, the fellow I beat sat down next to me. “What’s wrong, Jim?” (The wrestlers, of course, knew who I was. In a way the wrestlers were wonderful. They always played to the other fellow’s costume.) “Don’t you feel good?”

“Ah, Bogolub called before the match. I fight The Reaper Friday in St. Louis.”

“That’s terrific,” he said. “That’s really great. Main eventer?”

“Yes.”

“That’s marvelous, Jim. That’s really terrific.”

“I lose.”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, that’s different. That’s too bad. That’s a tough piece of luck, Jimmy.

He thought I felt bad because I was supposed to lose. I was a comer, a contender. One day I was supposed to be strictly a main eventer: The Reaper already was. If I was scheduled to lose to him in my first appearance in a main event it probably meant that Bogolub was narrowing the field, was dumping me. I was better off winning the little matches, better off even losing some of them, than losing the big ones. It was too soon for me to go against Reaper and lose.

But I hadn’t been thinking of my career at all. This was personal. I was thinking about John Sallow. John Sallow, The Grim Reaper, was the wrestler I had been scheduled to fight in LA just before I disappeared out there as Boswell. Sallow had been fighting under one name or another for years. He had been a wrestler before I was even born. He had wrestled when the sport was a sport, before it had become an “exhibition.” At one time in his career he had beaten Strangler Lewis, had beaten The Angel, had beaten all the champions. He had fought everywhere — Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, the Americas, everywhere. It was impossible to know how many fights he’d actually had, partly because many were in days and towns when and where they did not keep records, and partly because of his many changes of name.

Sallow wasn’t very active in the thirties, though he fought some during the Depression, but he came out of his semi-retirement during World War II when many of the younger wrestlers were in the service. One day he would beat them, too, just as he had defeated the older champions. It was phenomenal to see the old man work. The crowds loved to watch him, loved to gape, fascinated, at his wily, ancient movements. He was curiously lithe; watching him, you had the impression that he was detached, that the body which moved so gracefully before you was somehow something which he merely inhabited, oddly like clothes which move always a split second after the agent inside them has already moved. This gave the impression of an almost ruthless discipline of his limbs. His face carried this even further. It was impassive, totally without expression, without the familiar landmarks of either love or hate. Nor did he fit conveniently into the traditional role of hero or villain in his matches. True, he never employed the obvious techniques, the blatant eye gougings, hair pullings, finger bendings, chokeholds, which sooner or later could bring even the most sophisticated crowd to its feet, but there was latent in his movements, always slow, always oddly prim, a sure viciousness, an indifference to consequences to bone and muscle. If he pulled a punch it was ultimately strategic, and although he submitted to the terms of his contracts, winning or losing according to some higher plan, wrestlers hated to fight him. He hurt them even when he lost. They could not account for his steady strength. Some said he was insane, but if he was his irrationality never extended to his activities in the ring. Indeed, he seemed to have a rational body. His movements were so naturally deft and logical that it was impossible to imagine him ever stubbing his toe accidentally or ripping his clothes on a nail. Outside the ring, in street clothes, he was unremarkable, a tall, pale, almost gaunt man, with preternaturally black hair. He looked like a farmer, in town perhaps to visit by a bedside in a hospital. He did not speak much (you could tell that by looking at him), but he must have had an extraordinary facility with languages. Once, when I was on a card with him, I heard him explain to two Japanese Sumo wrestlers who had come over for a special exhibition what arrangements had been made for them. The Sumos, delighted that they had found someone who could speak their language, tried to engage him in further conversation, but Sallow simply turned away.

It was a relief the year before when I discovered I would not have to fight him. I could abide the clowns, good guys and bad guys alike, but to have to struggle with Sallow’s naked dignity, to have to believe that somehow the match really was of consequence, was something I was not eager to endure. I would have fought him if I’d had to (actually I had been scheduled to win), but not to have to was much simpler for me.

In the year I had been making my reputation, Sallow had been remaking his. I heard talk of him wherever I went. Wrestlers spoke in awe of his phenomenal strength, of his ability simply to rise under the weight and pressure of any hold. He was now wrestling constantly, wrestling everywhere, winning everywhere. It was said that suddenly he had simply refused to throw any more matches. He had never been the champion, after all; perhaps now, before his career had ended (surely it was almost over; how old was he? fifty? sixty? more?), he was eager at last to have the belt. At any rate he had been winning steadily.

Knowing Bogolub (who was his manager as well as my own now), I could not believe that Sallow would do anything which did not meet with Bogolub’s approval, so I doubted the story that he won fights he had been meant to lose. Still, there was something odd in the persistence of the rumors, something odder in his quick, bright fame, the queer fascination of the crowds that came to watch him. They didn’t like him. They never cheered his victories. Indeed, his fights were quiet, almost restrained. I had been in stadiums when he fought and there was no more noise than there would have been had the crowd never gathered, had it stayed in its individual homes, watching its individual television sets in its individual silences. They came to watch age beat youth, not to see it, to watch it, to be there when it happened if it had to happen, witnesses at some awful accident, not personal, not human, a disturbance in nature itself, some lush imbalance of nature. Even old people in the crowds watched with distaste his effortless lifts of men twice his size and half his age. He was not their hope, as in the South I had been; they wanted nothing to do with his victories. They refused to be cozened with immortality. Yet, oddest of all, though they never cheered Sallow, neither did they cheer his opponents. Again, they simply watched, as one watches any inevitable struggle — a fox against a chicken, say— fascinated and a little afraid.

The papers, of course, enjoyed it all tremendously. They never let the public forget the Grim Reaper theme, equating John Sallow with death itself. “Last night, before a crowd of 7000 persons, in Tulsa’s Civic Auditorium, John Sallow, the Grimmest Reaper, danced a danse macabre with a younger, presumably stronger man. With a slow inevitability the dark visitor”—this was the journalist’s imagination; Sallow is pale—“choked all resistance from the helpless body of his opponent.” They pretended fear and made John Sallow rich.

In November, 1948, however, someone actually died while fighting John Sallow. In the very beginning of the fight Sallow lifted Seldon Faye, the Olympic champion, off the ground, slammed him down and pinned him. He was declared the winner and left the ring, but Faye did not get up. If Sallow heard the mob he gave no indication, for he went down to his dressing room, showered, dressed and was out of the town before a doctor declared Faye officially dead. It turned out that Faye had a bad heart. He shouldn’t have been wrestling at all, but after this “The Grim Reaper” ceased to be merely a catch phrase and took on the significance of an official title. Some zealous reporter dug up the information that a wrestler named Jack Shallow had killed another wrestler in Johannesburg, South Africa, in 1920. Were Sallow and Shallow the same person? In the myth, of course, they were.

I saw him as the crowd saw him, as the papers pretended to see him. I saw him as the Angel of Death.

Now I had to fight him. Bogolub wanted me to lose but I couldn’t. Fixing beyond fixing. It would be the first honest match of my career. Well, it was back to the barroom days, one against four, the old odds, the odds that make causes, that make heroes and victims out of winners and losers. That was all right. Come on, Sallow, old enemy, Boswell the Big goes against the Angel of Death to save the world. That the public would think me The Masked Playboy was fitting, too. Its heroes are never known to it, anyway. Masks beyond masks. No matter; I would save it anyway, anonymously, nom de plumely. In St. Louis I would whip old death’s old ass.

Maybe others think it strange that an overgrown man like myself can believe such things. I say only this in my defense: Why not? If God, why not the Angel of Death? Why not ghosts and dragons? If Jesus, why not Satan? Anyway this is the Angel of Death I’m talking about. Ah. You don’t believe in him? You think you’re the one that’s going to live forever? Forget it. Forget it! In the meantime don’t snicker when somebody fights your battles for you.

When I arrived in St. Louis two days before the match I went to Sandusky’s hotel.

“Is The Great Sandusky in?” I asked the clerk. He was the same fellow I had seen behind the desk two years before, probably the same man I had talked to on the phone. (I never forget a face either, but it constantly astonishes me when I recognize people in public places— to see the same waiter in a restaurant when I return to a city after five months, the same stewardess on two flights, the same woman who sells tickets in a movie, the same clerk at a desk. It astonishes me, but I know that these are the exceptions. The turnover in the world is terrific. Usually the waiter no longer waits for anything; the stewardess is grounded; the woman in the cashier’s box files no nails; usually the clerk has checked out.)

“Who?”

“The Great San — Felix. Felix Sandusky. You don’t remember me, but we’re old friends. Congratulations.”

“Felix Sandusky? He ain’t in. He’s dead.”

“Don’t be a wise guy,” I said. I started toward the elevator.

“I told you,” the clerk shouted, “he’s dead.”

“Do you want me to break your mouth?”

“Come on,” the clerk said. “You better get out of here.”

“Felix Sandusky, jerk. The Great Sandusky.”

“Yeah. Yeah. The Great Deadbeat. He owed for two months.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much did Mr. Sandusky owe you?”

The clerk went to a filing cabinet, opened it, took out a loose-leaf notebook and looked through it. “Mr. Sandusky owed us a hundred twenty dollars.” He looked up at me.

“I saw that room,” I shouted. “It was empty. It was a rathole.”

“That was 416,” the clerk said angrily. “That’s the best view in the hotel. That’s a four buck a night room, fella. Without the rate that’s a four buck a night room.”

I wrote a check and gave it to the clerk. I made it out for a hundred dollars. The clerk looked at it and smiled.

“He’s dead, Mr. Boswell,” he said.

“He’s no fourflusher.”

“No, sir.” He looked again at the signature on the check. “Didn’t you used to wrestle?”

“I’m The Masked Playboy.”

“No kidding? You?”

“I said I was.” I dug into my pocket and took out the pass I had meant to give Sandusky. “Here,” I said, thrusting it at him.

“What’s that for?”

“It’s a pass. Friday’s matches. You be there, you understand. You knew Sandusky — you be there. I want you to see what I do to John Sallow. You knew Sandusky.”

I walked back to my hotel. I read the medallion on the building: ‘“Hotel Missouri — Transients.” You said it, I thought. That’s telling them, innkeeper. There should be signs all over — in banks, on movie seats, on beds in brothels, in churches. That would change the world. Felix Sandusky lies amoldering in his grave. Felix Sandusky lies acrumbling in his grave. Even on coffin lids: transients! Put it to them straight. No loitering! Not a command, a warning. Official, brass-plated Dutch unclery.

I took the key from the desk clerk and went up to my room. By some coincidence my elevator had been inspected by H. R. Fox that very day. I was safe. H. R. Fox said so. Stay in the elevator. It wasn’t bad advice, but there too I was a transient. Sic transient.

I called room service.

“Yes, sir?”

“This is the transient in 814.” (Jerk, I thought, it adds up to thirteen. How come you didn’t realize that?) “Send me dinner.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Send me dinner.”

“What would you like, sir?”

“What difference does it make?”

I hung up.

In a moment the phone rang. It was room service, a different voice than the one I had just spoken to. Already, I thought. The turnover, the turnover. “Is this the gentleman in 814 who just called about his dinner?”

“Yes,” I said. “Send it up as soon as it’s ready, please.”

“Would the gentleman care for some chateaubriand?”

“Is that expensive?” I asked.

“Well—” the voice said.

“Is it?”

“It’s our specialty, sir.”

“Fine.”

“Very well then, chateaubriand. And a wine? Should you like to see our wine list?”

“No,” I said. “Send up your best wine. Two bottles.”

“Certainly, sir. Is the gentleman, is the gentleman—”

“Yes?”

“Is the gentleman entertaining?”

“Only himself, buddy.”

“I see, sir. Very good sir.”

“Oh, and, buddy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You can’t take it with you.”

I hung up. The meal would cost a lot of money. Good, good it would cost a lot of money. Maybe it would make up for my meanness earlier. By this time the significance of Sandusky’s death had gotten mixed up with the twenty dollars I had held back from the clerk at Sandusky’s hotel. Suddenly my pettiness seemed as inexcusable as Sandusky’s death. In a kind of way both were petty. It was for just such inexplicable actions, perhaps, that we were made to die. Our punishment fit our crimes, all right, but that didn’t make me feel any better.

My dinner came and I ate it without enjoyment and drank the two bottles of wine sullenly.

I called the desk. “This is the transient in 814. That adds up to thirteen, did you know that?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I was in your elevator some while ago,” I said, “looking at the control panel.”

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“You can drop the sir, buddy. We’re all of us transients, you know.”

“Sir?”

“Have it your way,” I said. “There’s no thirteenth floor.”

“Sir?”

“There’s no thirteenth floor. There’s a twelfth floor and a fourteenth floor, but there’s no thirteenth floor.”

“Sir,” the clerk said, humoring the drunken transient from out of town, “that’s standard hotel policy. Many of our guests are superstitious and feel—”

“I know all about it,” I interrupted him, “but that’s the most important floor of all.”

The clerk smiled over the telephone.

“Get it back, do you understand?”

“I’ll see about it, sir.”

“Thank you,” I said politely, “I thought you should know.” I hung up and immediately remembered something I had forgotten. I called the desk clerk again.

“Transient in 814,” I said.

“Yes sir,” the clerk said. He was getting a little tired

of me. Fun was fun, but there was a convention in town.

“Has John Sallow checked into this hotel?”

The clerk brightened over the telephone. “Just one moment, sir, I’ll check that for you.”

The line went dead.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the clerk said in a moment, “no such party is registered at the Missouri.”

“Standard hotel policy, I suppose, like the foolishness about the thirteenth floor. Superstitious guests, I suppose.”

“Shall I check my reservations, sir?” the clerk asked coldly.

* “No,” I said. “If he shows up, have him get in touch with the transient in 814.” I hung up.

I found a Yellow Pages in the night stand by the telephone, opened it to Hotels and called them all alphabetically. Sallow was nowhere. Sure, I thought, what do you think, the Angel of Death needs a room? How would he sign the register? He’s no transient.

I went to bed.

In the gym at eleven o’clock the next morning I went up to Lee Lee Meadows, the promoter. Lee Lee was wrapped in a big orange camel’s hair coat and was talking to a reporter. “Lee Lee, is it true you can go fourteen days without water?” the reporter was asking.

“Lee Lee,” I said, “I’ve got to speak to you.”

“I’m talking to the press here,” Lee Lee said.

The reporter caught the eye of one of the wrestlers and walked over to him. Lee Lee raised his hand to object, but the reporter smiled and waved back. Lee Lee turned to me. “Yeah, well, what’s so important?”

“Is Sallow in town yet? I tried all the hotels.”

Lee Lee frowned. “He’ll be when he’ll be,” he said.

“I’ve got to see him before the match.”

Lee Lee looked at me suspiciously. “Hey, you,” he said, “what’s the excitement?”

“I just have to see him.”

“Yeah? Bogolub called me about you. He said you ain’t too anxious to fight The Reaper. That you don’t want to lose.”

“No,” I said, “I want to fight him.”

“Because I got five tankers wild to be whipped by The Reaper.”

“No, no, Bogolub misunderstood,” I said. “I want to fight him.”

“The Reaper pulls here. You’re nothing.”

“Of course,” I said. “I want to see him because I thought of a new routine.”

“He’ll be when he’ll be.”

“He’s not in town?”

“How do I know where he is? He could be with a floozy on Market Street. What do I know if he’s in town? That old man. That’s some old man.”

“Lee Lee?”

“What?”

“This shit about The Grim Reaper, what do you think about it?”

“A terrific idea. Brilliant.”

“Then you don’t believe any of it?”

“Come on,” Lee Lee said.

“It’s just a stunt,” I said, “like The Masked Playboy?”

“Well, that I don’t know. I’ll say this. I been promoting matches in Louis since 1934. Reaper was one of my first fighters.”

“That’s only sixteen years,” I said.

“Kid,” he said. “Kid, he was an old man then!”

I worked out listlessly with some of the other wrestlers on Friday’s card and at two o’clock I went back to my hotel.

I called all the hotels again. It took me an hour and a half. I left messages with all the clerks. Then I slept. I dreamt fitfully of John Sallow and awoke at ten with a headache. I wondered if I had been awakened by the telephone. I had to talk to him. Oddly, I realized, I was no longer worried about the fight. It was Sallow himself that interested me. I was curious about him. Oh, Herlitz, I thought wearily, I thought all that was over. But then I thought, no, that business wasn’t behind me yet. It never would be. The Masked Playboy unmasked. It was all true about me, as true as it may have been about Sallow. These things were no accidents. Gorgeous George is gorgeous. We were like movie stars playing ourselves. I was, spiritually at least, a rich man’s son, a bored darling of no means, of no means at all. The last two years had been nothing more than an extended vacation from myself. But Sallow had suddenly changed all that. I was too interested in his curious achievement. I was a little ashamed, but there it was. Was I, after all, a mere seeker of the picturesque? That’s what my sloppy concern with greatness boiled down to. Now my morbidness had led me back to myself. Transients within transients. Okay, I thought, here is where I live. Now just let him call.

I didn’t leave my room for fear I would miss his call. Again I had room service bring my dinner. I had them send up the papers, too, and I pored hungrily over the society pages and gossip columns. Where I lived, I thought. St. Louis was an old town. It had an aristocracy. Even after two years, their names were still familiar to me. I saw a photograph of Virginia Pale Luddy, the daughter of Roger and Eleanor Pale Luddy. I called Information, but it was an unlisted number. I asked Information to speak to her supervisor. I lied, I hinted at emergencies, but she wouldn’t give me the number.

“May I speak to your supervisor, please?” I said icily.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s after midnight. If you’ll call back in the morning you can speak to Mr. Plouchett.”

“How do you spell that?” I demanded.

Of course I didn’t call Mr. Plouchett in the morning. It was just a threat. To get in shape. I was out of condition; all that was working for me was my will. I couldn’t even generate any of my old belief that something would happen. Almost fondly I remembered that old foolishness, a faith in the thermodynamics of forever ripening conditions. But that was in another physics. Now I could not even seduce a supervisor into revealing an unlisted number. What I might have said to Virginia Pale Luddy had I actually reached her I could not even think about. That was a luxury which was beyond the hope of any merely masked playboy. At least, I consoled myself, I knew where I stood, and, more vaguely, what I stood for. I could take it up again soon.

I waited for The Reaper’s call. It did not come. I fell asleep.

That night as I lay fully clothed upon my bed, dressed in newer versions of the clothes I had worn in the schoolyard all those years before, Herlitz appeared to me in a dream.

It was the oddest dream. I could see just his face. It never moved; it hung, suspended, on its dream horizon and I could not tell whether it was only a picture of Herlitz’s face or the face itself. It did not move, but there was an astonishing depth to it. I could make out the shadowed interior of wrinkles, almost feel the oily film inside the ancient creases of the yellowing face. The expression was complex, but it seemed impatient, vaguely disappointed. Clearly it felt I was responsible for its displeasure, but when I addressed the face to plead my innocence it did not change. Suddenly I shifted. I accepted everything, all that it could possibly accuse me of had it spoken. I eagerly assented, heaping guilt upon myself as one rubs precious oils into his skin. I proposed charges and agreed to them, my remissness, my drifting, my lack of care. I promised that I would work again on my files, my journals, that I would go through them ruthlessly, excising all reference to the merely mediocre, that they would be updated. I confessed solemnly as I gazed at Herlitz through tears, as I spoke to him through a sob- choked throat, that I had been disloyal to his spirit and I promised to change. Still the face remained the same. Then I shifted a second time. I told the face to forget about me, to go about its more important business. What was I, anyway, I demanded. A mistake, an experiment gone sour — all scientists had them, I reassured it. Let it cut its losses and be at peace. It had Schmerler, the German army, the famous Harvard classes of 1937 through 1945, the man in monorails. What did it need Boswell for? I answered my own argument. It wasn’t true about the one sheep out of the ninety, nine that went astray. That was lousy shepherdry, I insisted, God’s awful agriculture; returns diminished, I reminded it. The face remained unchanged. It hung above me like a clouded moon, still eternal, in suggestive incoherent depths. All right, I said at last, tomorrow was Friday. I would fight the Angel of Death for it. How was that? It wasn’t what we had agreed upon. I knew that, I said, but things change, conditions ripen. I hadn’t forgotten that I wasn’t a great man, I told it. Sandusky had taught me that much. (And, incidentally, how was Sandusky? Was he getting on? Was there a gymnasium for him, I asked slyly.) And anyway, I would probably lose. If I did lose, that would take care of the question of my greatness permanently, right? The face did not respond. Of course, I realized, it’s a picture after all. How could a picture respond? Just my guilty imagination groveling before a graven image. Right? Right? God damn it, right? Well, shine on, harvest moon, I said, and go screw yourself. It was useless to plead with a madman, I told it, and resolved to wake up.

I struggled out of my sleep like a person trying to move one particular finger on a hand that has gone numb. The strings are cut, I thought. Someone’s cut my strings. I looked quickly up at the face; I was positive I would catch it in a smirk. It had not changed, and I returned sadly to the job of loosening myself, and finally found myself and floated up to myself as sad in wakefulness as I had been in sleep. Instantly I knew the meaning of the dream.

Conditions do not ripen. Things do not happen. Nothing happens. We are like poor people on Sunday. We’re all dressed up but we have no place to go.

I chose my clothes slowly, ceremonially, changing from one pair of seven-ninety-five slacks to another pair of seven-ninety-five slacks, like a matador into his suit of lights.

I called the desk. “Are there any messages for me?”

“Who is this, sir?”

“Boswell. Eight-fourteen.”

“We would have called you if there were, sir.”

“Of course,” I said, “thank you.”

I could not eat breakfast. I went to the gymnasium.

“Is Sallow in the city yet?” I asked Lee Lee Meadows.

“As a matter of fact, yeah,” he said.

“Did you tell him I wanted to see him?”

“He said he’d see you tonight.”

“Where is he staying?”

“Ah, come on, Boswell. I don’t know. How should I know where that old man stays?”

“You knew I was looking for him,” I said.

“Tonight he’ll be in the Arena. Conduct your business there.”

When I went back to the hotel it had begun to rain. From my room I called all the hotels again. He wasn’t registered.

“That’s impossible,” I yelled at the desk clerk when I came to the last hotel on my list.

At five o’clock the phone rang. I grabbed it eagerly. “Sallow?” I shouted into it.

“This is the room clerk, sir. There are some people down here to see you.”

“John Sallow? Is John Sallow there?”

The clerk put his hand over the mouthpiece. “No, sir,” he said at last. “It’s a man and a woman and a little boy.”

“No,” I said impatiently. “I never heard of them.” I slammed the phone back.

It was six o’clock and I had not eaten. I had better eat, I told myself. I went downstairs.

I had two steaks for strength. I chewed the meat slowly, the juices and fats filming my lips. I broke the bones and gnawed at the marrow inside. The waiter watched me, his disgust insufficiently masked by a thin indifference.

When I had finished my meat he came to stand beside my plate. “Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked.

“Bring me bread,” I told him.

“Bring me red tomatoes,” I said when I had chewed and swallowed the bread.

“Bring me ice cream in a soup bowl,” I said when I had sucked the tomatoes.

I went upstairs and lay down to wait while the food was being digested. At eight o’clock I took my white silk cape, mask, tights and shoes, wrapped them in newspaper, and went downstairs.

The doorman could not get me a cab in the rain. He held an umbrella over me and walked beside me to the corner, where I waited for a streetcar.

“I’m going to the Arena.” I told the conductor.

He saw the silk cape through a rent in the newspaper and nodded indifferently. I sat on the wide, matted straw seat, my shoes damp, their thin soles in shallow, steamy dirty puddles on the floor. Useless pink streetcar transfers, their cryptic holes curiously clotted with syrupy muck, floated like suicides. Colored round bits from the conductor’s punch made a dirty, cheerless confetti on the floor of the car. I read the car ads, depressed by the products of the poor, their salves for pimples, their chewing gum, their sad, lackluster wedding rings. A pale, fleshless nurse, a thick red cross exactly the color of dried blood on her cap, held up a finger in warning: “VD Can Kill!” spoke the balloon above her. To the side a legend told of cures, of four licensed doctors constantly in attendance, of convenient evening hours that enabled people not to lose a day’s pay, of treatments handled in the strictest confidence. There was a phone number and an address, the numerals and letters as thick and black as a scare headline. Above the address, floating on it like a ship tossing on heavy seas, was a drawing of a low gray building which looked like nothing so much as a factory where thin, underpaid girls turned out cheap plastic toys. Across the facade was the name: The St. Louis Institute for the Research and Treatment of Social Diseases and General Skin Disorders, Licensed 1928. Though I had never seen it, the advertisement seemed wearily familiar. Soon it was as if I had never not seen it. I closed my eyes and saw it on my lids.

Everyone looked shabby, fatigued, their heavy florid faces empty of everything save a kind of dull ache. Those who were not returning from menial jobs were going toward them, to wash down office buildings, tend lonely warehouses, stand outside lavatories in theaters and nightclubs. Almost everyone carried some worthless thing in some unimportant package — brown paper bags which once contained cheap fruit and now held rolled-up stockings, extra rags, soiled aprons, torn trousers, stale sandwiches and waxy pints of warm milk for two-thirty in the morning. Only some teen-age boys standing at the back of the car looked as though they could still be interested in their lives, and even they seemed, despite their youth, as disreputable as the others, romanceless in their shiny jackets and billed motorcycle caps.

Outside, the rain clung listlessly to the barred windows of the streetcar. The ride was interminable. No one ever seemed to get off. The car would stop and more would climb on, crowding steamily, smelling of wet wool and poverty and dirt, into the overheated, feverish brightness of the car. They swayed dreamily against the poles and left greasy smudges on the chipped milkish porcelain.

A colored woman as big as myself sat down heavily next to me. Her knees, spread wide, bounced comfortably against my thigh. Her skirt was pulled up so high that I could see the rolled tops of her stockings, oddly light and obscenely pink against the dark insides of her legs. They looked like the massive, protective lips of some brutish sexual organ. Across the way an old man in a winter overcoat too large for him stared openly at the woman’s crotch. Too large and too tired to close her legs, she sighed and turned away her enormous head, her teeth like the decayed blunt stubs in the mouth of a hippopotamus.

I had been glancing repeatedly at the conductor, as much to identify myself as a stranger and thus isolate myself as to proclaim my unfamiliarity with the route. He stared back without recognition. “The Arena,” I mouthed across the colored woman’s breasts. He flicked his eyes away impatiently. I closed my eyes and saw again The St. Louis Institute for the Research and Treatment of Social Diseases and General Skin Disorders. In the dark the streetcar slogged forward with a ponderous inevitability.

I thought of the fight. What was the old man’s strategy? Did I have any strategy? Was he really the Angel of Death? Would I be able to talk to him beforehand?

An arm shook me. “You dropped your mask,” someone said sullenly.

“What’s that?”

“Here’s your mask you dropped,” the colored woman said. It seemed ridiculously white and silken in her big brown hand, like some intimate undergarment.

“Thank you,” I said, embarrassed.

I glanced down at my lap. The clumsy bundle had come loose. One end of the silk cape dragged in a puddle. The old man across the aisle, leaning so far forward in his seat I thought he would fall, retrieved the cape for me.

“Thank you,” I said, and looked nervously toward the conductor. He held up two fingers to indicate that it would be two more stops. I stood up. “Have a nice party,” the old man said in a throaty voice. When the car stopped I got off, though I knew I had moved prematurely. “Hey,” the conductor called as I stepped down. I pretended not to hear him and walked to the Arena in the rain.

In the locker room I could hear above me the thin crowd (the rain had held it down) shouting at the referee. It was an unmistakable sound; they thought they saw some infraction he had missed. A strange sound of massed outrage, insular and safe, self-conscious in its anonymity and lack of consequence. If commitment always cost so little, which of us would not be a saint?

I dressed quickly, squeezing uncomfortably and awkwardly into the damp trunks. I laced the high-top silk shoes, fit the mask securely over my head, and buckled the clasp of the heavy silk cape around my throat. Down a row of lockers a couple of college wrestlers I didn’t know and who had already fought were rubbing each other with liniment. I went over to them.

“Excuse me, did you see John Sallow?” I asked.

They looked at me and then at each other.

“It’s a masked man,” one of them said. “Ask him what he wants, Tom.”

Tom pretended to hitch up his chaps. “What do you want, masked man?”

“Do you know John Sallow? The wrestler? He’s on the card tonight. Have you seen him?”

“He went thataway, masked man,” the other said.

I walked away and went into the toilet and urinated. One of the college boys came in. “Hey, Tom,” he called. “There’s a masked man in a white cape in here peeing.”

“Knock it off,” I said.

“It’s all so corny,” the kid said.

“Knock it off,” I said again.

“Okay, champ.”

“Knock it off.”

I went back to my locker. John Sallow was there, one gray leg up on the wooden bench.

“Bogolub tells me you may try to give me some trouble night,” he said.

“This is my last match,” I said. “I’m quitting after tonight.” It was true. I hadn’t known it was true until I said it. Too often it rained; too often I had to take the streetcar; too often I sat too close to the steamy, seedy poor. I could still see the nurse. I never forgive a face.

There were excited screams and a prolonged burst of applause above us. Sallow looked up significantly. “Upstairs,” he said. “You’ll be introduced first. I’m the favorite.”

“Look,” I said, “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Upstairs,” he said. “Talk upstairs.”

I took my place behind two blue uniformed ushers at gate DD. Some boys just to the right of the entrance kept turning around to look at me. They laughed and pointed and whispered to each other. The ring announcer, in a tuxedo, was climbing through the ropes far in front of me. He walked importantly to the center of the ring, stopping every few steps to turn and pull a microphone wire in snappy, snaking arcs along the surface of the canvas. He tapped the microphone with his fingernail and sent a piercing metal thunk throughout the arena. Then, shooting his cuffs and clearing his throat, he paused expectantly. The crowd watched with mild interest. “First I have some announcements,” he said. He told them of future matches, reading the names of the wrestlers from a card concealed in his palm. He spoke each wrestler’s name with a calm aplomb and familiarity so that their grotesque titles — The Butcher and Mad Russian and Wildman — sounded almost like real names.

Then there was a pause. Jerking more microphone cord into the ring as though he needed all he could get for what he would say next, the announcer began again. “Ladies and gentlemen — In the main event this evening… two tough… wrestlers… both important contenders for the heavyweight champeenship of the world. The first… that rich man’s disguised son… who has danced with debutantes and who trains on champagne… the muscled millionaire and eligible bachelor… who’d rather rough and tumble than ride to the hounds… from Nob Hill and Back Bay… from Wall Street and the French Riviera… from Newport and the fabled courts of the eastern potentates… weighing two hundred thirty-five pounds without the cape but in the mask… the one… the only… Masked Playboy!”

I pushed the ushers out of the way and bounced down the long aisle toward the ring. To everyone but the kids who had spotted me earlier it must have looked as though I had run across all the turnpikes from Wall Street, over the bridge across the Mississippi, and through the town to the Arena. Modest but good-natured applause paralleled my course down the aisle, as though I were somehow tripping it off automatically as I came abreast of each row. I leaped up the three steps leading to the ring, hurled over the ropes, unclasped the cape and, arching my shoulders, let it fall behind me in a heap. Then swelling my chest and stretching my long body, I stood on the tips of my high-top silk shoes, seemingly hatched from the cape itself, now a crumpled silken eggshell. The crowd cheered. I nodded, lifted the cape with the point of one shoe, slapped it sharply across one arm and then the other, and then tossed it casually to an attendant beneath me. I grabbed the thick ropes where they angled at the ring post. Without moving my legs I pushed, head down, against the ropes. Snapping my head up quickly I pulled against them. I could feel the muscles climbing my back. I looked like a man rowing in place. I let go of the ropes, dropped my weight solidly on my feet and did deep knee bends. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the ring announcer waiting a little impatiently, but the crowd applauded cheerfully. Suddenly I made a precise military right-face and sprang up onto the ropes, catching the upper rope neatly along my left thigh. I hooked my right foot under the lower rope for balance and folded my arms calmly. I looked like someone on a trapeze — or perhaps like a young, masked sales executive perched casually along the edge of his desk.

I smiled at the ring announcer and waved my arm grandly, indicating that he could continue.

He turned away from me and waited until the crowd was silent. When he began again he sounded oddly sad. “Meeting him in mortal…physical…one-fall…forty-five minute-time-limit combat tonight…is that grim gladiator, ancient athlete, stalking spectral superman, fierce-faced fighter…that plague prover…that hoary horror…that breath breaking…hope hampering…death dealing…mortality making…heart hemorrhaging…life letting—” For the last few seconds the crowd had been applauding in time with the announcer’s rhythms. In a way their applause incited him; they incited each other. Now as he paused, exhausted, there were a few last false claps and then silence.

“Widow making,” someone yelled from the crowd.

“Coffin counting,” someone else shouted.

“People pounding,” the announcer added weakly.

I slid off the rope. “MUR… DER… ING,” I shouted from the center of the ring. “All death is murder!”

Angrily the ring announcer motioned me to get back. By exercising the authority of his tuxedo, he seemed to have regained control. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began again more calmly, “in gray trunks, from the Lowlands, John Sallow… The Grim Reaper.”

With the rest of the crowd I glanced quickly toward the opposite entrance, but no one was standing there. Through the entrance gate I could see the long, low concession stand and someone calmly spooning mustard onto a hot dog. Then I heard a gasp from the other end of the arena. Sallow had been spotted. I looked around just in time to see him coming in through the same gate I had used. Of course, I thought. Of course.

Sallow walked slowly. As he came down the aisle toward the ring some people, more than I would have expected, began applauding. He has his fans, I thought sadly. Most of the people, though, particularly those near the aisle, seemed to shrink back as he passed them. Recognizing someone, he suddenly stopped, put his hand on the man’s shoulder and leaned down toward him, whispering something into his ear. When Sallow started again the person he had spoken to stood and left the auditorium. Sallow came up the three stairs, turned and bowed mockingly to the crowd. They looked at him; he smiled, shrugged, climbed through the ropes and walked to his corner. I tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at me.

“The referee will acquaint the wrestlers with the Missouri rules,” the ring announcer said.

The referee signaled for us to meet at the center of the ring. “This is a one-fall match, forty-five-minute time limit,” he said. “When I signal one of you to break I want you to break clean and break quickly. Both you men have fought in Missouri before. You’re both familiar with the rules in this state. I just want to remind you that if a man for any reason should be out of the ring and not return by the time I count twenty, that man forfeits the fight. Do both of you understand?”

Sallow nodded placidly. The referee looked at me. I nodded.

“All right. Are there any questions? Reaper? Playboy? Okay. Return to your corners and when the bell rings, come out to wrestle.”

I had just gotten back to my corner when the bell rang. I whirled around expecting to find Sallow behind me. He was across the ring. I moved toward him aegressivelv and locked my arms around his neck. Already my body was wet. Sallow was completely dry.

“Don’t you even sweat?” I whispered.

He twisted out of my neck lock and pushed me away from him.

I went toward him like a sleepwalker, inviting him to lock fingers in a test of strength. He ignored me, ducked quickly under my outstretched arms, and grabbed me around the waist. He raised me easily off the floor. It was humiliating. I felt queerly like some wooden religious idol carried in a procession. I beat at his neck and shoulders with the flats of my hands. Sallow increased the pressure of his arms around my body. Desperately I closed one hand into a fist and chopped at his ear. He squeezed me tighter. He would crack my ribs, collapse my lungs. Suddenly he dropped me. I lay on my side writhing on the canvas. I tried to get to the ropes, moving across the grainy canvas in a slow sidestroke like a swimmer lost at sea. The Reaper circled around toward my head and blocked my progress. I saw his smooth, marblish shins and tried to hook one arm around them. It was a trap; he came down quickly on my outstretched arm with all his weight.

“Please,” I said. “Please, you’ll break my arm.”

The Reaper leaned across my body and caught me around the hips. He pressed my thighs together viciously. I could feel my balls grind together sickeningly inside my jock. Raising himself to one knee and then to the other he stood up slowly, so that I hung upside down. He worked my head between his legs. Then, without freeing my head, he moved his hands quickly to my legs and pushed them away from his body, stretching my neck. I felt my legs go flying backwards and to protect my neck tried to force them again to his body. I pedaled disgustingly in the air. He grabbed my legs again.

“Please,” I screamed. “If you drop me, you’ll kill me,” I whined.

Again he forced my legs away from his body. Then suddenly he loosened his terrible grip on my head. I fell obscenely from between Death’s legs. Insanely I jerked my head up and broke my fall with my jaw. My body collapsed heavily behind me. It was like one of those clumsy auto wrecks in wet weather when cars pile uselessly up on each other. I had to get outside the ropes. I had a headache; I could not see clearly. I was gasping for air, actually shoveling it toward my mouth with my hands. Blindly I forced my body toward where I thought the ropes must be. Sallow saw my intention, of course, and kicked at me with his foot. I could not get to my knees; my only way of moving was to roll. Helplessly I curled into a ball and rolled back and forth inside the ring. Sallow stood above me like some giant goalie, feinting with his feet and grotesquely seeming to guide my rolling. The crowd laughed. Suddenly I kicked powerfully toward the ropes. One foot became entangled in them. It was enough to make the referee come between us. He started counting slowly. I crawled painfully under the ropes and onto the ring’s outer apron. “Seven,” the referee intoned. “Eight.” Sallow grinned and stepped toward me. He came through the ropes after me. The referee tried to pull him back, but he shrugged him off as I got to my feet. “Nine,” the referee said. “Ten. One for Reaper. Eleven for Playboy. Two for Reaper. Twelve for Playboy.”

The Reaper advanced toward me. I circled along the apron. He pursued me.

“Missouri rules, Missouri rules,” I said plaintively.

“Natural law, natural law,” he answered.

“Three for Reaper. Thirteen for Playboy.”

“Not by default, you bastard,” I shouted. I jumped back inside the ropes.

“Four for Reaper.”

“Famine, Flood, War, Pestilence,” I hissed.

He came through the ropes and the referee stood between us. When Sallow was standing inside the ring the referee clapped his hands and stepped back.

I held out my hands again. I was ready to bring them down powerfully on his neck should he try to go under them. He hesitated, looking at my long fingers.

“Games?” he said. “With me?”

Slowly he put one hand behind his back. He thrust the other toward me, the fingers spread wide as a net. He was challenging me to use both my hands against his one in a test of strength. The crowd giggled.

“Both,” I said, shaking my head.

He slid his arm up higher behind his back. He looked like a cripple.

I shook my head again. The crowd laughed nervously.

He bent one finger.

“No,” I said. “No.”

He tucked his thumb into his palm.

I stepped back angrily.

He brought down another finger.

“Use both hands,” I yelled. “Beat me, but don’t humiliate me.”,

He closed a fourth finger. The crowd was silent. The single finger with which he challenged my ten pointed at me. He took a step backwards. Now he was not pointing but beckoning.

“Don’t you like the odds?” someone shouted. The crowd applauded.

“You stink like shit,” I yelled at The Reaper.

“Take my hand,” he said quietly. “Try to force it down.”

I lost control and hurled myself toward Sallow’s outstretched finger. I would tear it off, I thought. He stepped back softly, like one pressing himself politely against a wall to allow someone else to pass through a door. The crowd groaned. I looked helplessly at The Reaper; his face was calm, serene, softly satisfied, like one who has spun all the combinations on a lock and can open it now at his leisure. I braced myself too late. My body, remiss, tumbled awkwardly across the ring. The Reaper had brought his fisted hand from behind his back and now smashed my unprotected ear. I fell against the rope with my mouth open. My teeth were like so many Chicklets in my mouth. I bled on the golden canvas. The Reaper stalked me. He took my head under his arm almost gently and held my bleeding ear against his chest. “I am old,” he whispered, “because I am wily. Because I take absolutely nothing for granted — not the honor of others, not their determination, not even their youth and strength.”

He would kill me. He had no concern for my life. It was all true — the legends, the myths. Until that moment I hadn’t really believed them. He had killed the man in South Africa — and how many others? In all those years how many had he maimed and murdered? He wrestled so that he could demonstrate his cruelty, show it in public, with the peculiarly desperate pride of one displaying his cancerous testicles in a medical amphitheater. His strength, his ancient power, was nothing supernatural. It was his indifference that killed us. And it had this advantage: it could not be shorn; he could not be talked out of it. Our pain was our argument. In his arms, my face turning and turning against the bristles in his armpit, I was one with all victims, an Everyman through loss and deprivation, knowing the soul’s martial law, its sad, harsh curfew. Our pain was our argument and, like all pain, it was wasted. What was terrible was his energy. He lived arrogantly, like one who you know will not give way coming toward you down a narrow sidewalk. To live was all his thought, to proliferate his strength in endless war. The vampire was the truest symbol in the give and take of the universe.

I screamed at the referee. “Get him off.”

The referee looked down at me helplessly. “It hasn’t lasted long enough,” he said. “You’ve only been at it ten minutes. You can’t quit now.”

“Get him off, God damn it!”

“These people paid for a main event. Give them a main event.”

“Get him off. The main event is my death. He means to kill me.”

“Take it easier with him, Reaper,” the referee said. “Work him toward the ropes. Let him get away a minute.”

“Sure,” the Reaper said mildly.

“No,” I shouted. “No. I quit.” I tried to turn my neck toward the crowd. “He’s killing me,” I yelled. “They won’t let me quit.” They couldn’t hear me above their own roar.

The Reaper gathered me toward him; he grabbed my body — I wasn’t even resisting now — and raised me over his head. He pushed me away like a kind of medicine ball and I dropped leadenly at the base of the ring post.

I knew my man now. To treat flesh as though it were leather or lead was his only intention. To find the common denominator in all matter. It was scientific; he was a kind of alchemist, this fellow. Of course. Faust and Mephistopheles combined. Fist! I lay still.

“Fight,” he demanded.

I didn’t answer.

“Fight!” he said savagely.

He could win any time, but he refused. This was a main event for him, too. He had thrown me away to give me a chance to organize a new resistance.

“Will you fight?” he asked dangerously.

“Not with you,” I said.

The crowd was booing me.

“All right,” he said.

He backed away. I watched him. He was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in a queer rhythm. His shoulders raised and lowered rapidly, powerfully. His arms seemed actually to lengthen. He stooped forward and came toward me slowly, swinging his balled metallic fists inches above the canvas. It was his Reaper movement, the gesture that had given him his name. I had never seen it and I watched fascinated. The crowd had stopped booing and was screaming for me to get up. The closer he got the more rapidly his fists swept the canvas, but still his pace toward me was slow, deliberate, almost tedious. He loomed above me like some ancient farmer with an invisible scythe. Now the people in the first rows were standing. They rushed toward the ring, pleading with me to get away. At last my resolution broke. I got clumsily to my knees and stumbled away from him. It was too late; his fists were everywhere. They caught me on the legs, the stomach, the neck, the back, the head, the mouth. I felt like some tiny animal — a field mouse — in tall grass, trampled by the mower. I covered my eyes with my hands and dropped to the canvas, squeezing myself flat against it. I squealed helplessly. A fist caught me first on one temple, then on the other.

I heard the referee shout “That’s enough” just before I lost consciousness.

I was unconscious for only a few seconds. Oddly, when I came to my head was clear. I could have gotten up; I could have caught one of those fists and pulled him off balance. But I didn’t choose to; I thought of one of those phrases they use for the wars — to struggle in vain. They were always praying that battle and injury and death were not in vain — as though anything purchased at some ultimate cost ought to be worth it. It was a well- meant prayer, even a wise one, but not practical. Life was economics. To be alive was to be a consumer. They made a profit on us always. There were no bargains. I saw that to struggle in vain was stupid, to be on the losing side was stupid, but there was nothing one could do. I would not get up, I thought, I would not even let them know I was conscious. I lay there, calmer than I had ever been in my life.

“He’s dead,” someone screamed after a moment. “He’s dead,” someone else shouted. They took it up, made it a chant. “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

The police rushed into the ring. They made a circle around The Reaper and moved off with him through the crowd. They were protecting him, I knew. He was not being arrested. What he did in the ring was all right. He was immune to law; law itself said he was immune, like someone with diplomatic status. What did that reduce my death to, I wondered. What did that reduce my death to if my murder was not a murder, not some terrible aberration punishable by law? Missouri rules and natural law worked hand in hand in an awful negation of whatever was precious to human beings. Oh, the dirty athletics of death!

Lying there on the canvas, in the idiotic nimbus of my blood, no longer sure I feigned unconsciousness, or even whether I still lived, one thing was sure: I would not fight — ever again. It was stupid to struggle, stupider still to struggle in vain — and that’s all struggle ever amounted to in a universe like ours, in bodies like our own. From now on I would be the guest. I would haunt the captain’s table, sweating over an etiquette of guesthood as others did over right and wrong. Herlitz knew his man, who only gradually, and after great pain, knew himself.

If only it isn’t too late, I thought; if only it isn’t too late to do me any good, I thought, just before I died.