Buddwing

3

He began expecting some sort of shock the moment he left her apartment and walked down to the street. He did not know in what manner or form the shock would arrive when it did, but he felt an almost preternatural certainty that it would come — and soon. The shock expectancy did not frighten him. As a matter of fact, he felt rather gay and lightheaded as he walked again to Broadway, and then turned right and began heading downtown.

He did not know to what he should attribute his sudden sense of exhilaration. He had known extreme peace and comfort, and a vast sense of security, lying on Gloria’s bosom, had been reluctant to leave and begin his search anew. But now that he was once more embarked on his quest — and he had not the slightest idea where he was going, or where he should begin looking — he felt that odd sense of freedom again, as though he had shaken off encumbering shackles. It was only with the greatest effort that he could contain himself from running down Broadway. And yet, not five minutes before, he had not wanted to leave the security of Gloria’s apartment.

He thought about Gloria now as he walked down the almost deserted street. It was perhaps seven o’clock in the morning and most of the stores along Broadway were still closed. He spotted an all-night cafeteria and decided he ought to have breakfast, but he no longer felt very hungry; this exhilaration inside him seemed to be all-consuming, obliterating all other feeling. He passed the cafeteria by. The thing about Gloria, he supposed, was that she was really a very repulsive woman, with her fat behind and her silly little pom-pom slippers, and yet he had not found her repulsive. He suddenly wondered if she had expected him to go to bed with her. The idea somehow pleased him because he was still partially in love with this fat slob of a woman who had no mouth but who had offered him warmth and comfort when he seemed to need it most. And yet he knew without doubt that if the matter had come up at all, he would have been obliged to refuse, and this puzzled him.

He felt strange about the money she had given him, too. He knew that five dollars was a lot of money to some people, and he suspected that Gloria was one of them. At the same time, he had a feeling that he was used to handling much larger sums of money, that he counted money in terms of thousands, and that five dollars was absolute chicken feed to his normal self. But he felt rich. He had taken the bill from his breast pocket and moved it to one of his trouser pockets, and he felt richer than he ever had in his life. He remembered with a wry grin that his life had really begun in Central Park little more than an hour ago, and that he had awakened penniless and nameless. So naturally five dollars would seem like a lot of money to him. But the thing about this particular five dollars, which he could feel in his pocket brushing the ends of his long fingers, was that it not only seemed like a lot of money, it seemed like all the money there was in the world. He felt enormously rich, overwhelmingly rich, all because he was carrying Gloria’s five-dollar bill in his pocket.

That was the curious thing about Gloria, he realized. She caused him, in his present anonymous state, to accept — indeed to be delighted by — things he knew meant nothing in his ordinary life. My ordinary life, he thought. What is my ordinary life? Maybe my ordinary life does include women like Gloria who offer me their fat and fleshy bosoms like gifts to a pauper. Maybe my ordinary life is constructed around an economy that does consider five crumby dollars a fortune. What the hell is my ordinary life, and how is this new life that began this morning in Central Park any less ordinary, any more extraordinary?

His exhilarating mood was being threatened, he felt.

He began whistling, not recognizing the tune at first, and then realizing he was whistling the main theme of a very well-known symphony, but he did not know which one. He began running through the names of composers in his mind: Tchaikovsky, Berlioz, Saint-Saëns, Shostakovich, Brahms, Beethoven, and Bach, Prokofiev, Copland, Bernstein. He supposed he had coupled Bernstein and Copland only because he could remember a record with Copland’s El Salón México on one side and Bernstein’s Fancy Free on the other, a curious combination for an A and R man to hit upon, but there it was nonetheless. Then he remembered that the record had a red label, and knew instantly it was a Columbia record, and then wondered how in hell he knew what an A and R man was, and then wondered if perhaps he wasn’t in some way involved with the music business. He did not think he was, but he seemed to have been humming a symphony and he seemed to be familiar with a composer or two, and he also knew what an A and R man was, but then he supposed everyone did. He saw a man coming down the street, an old man with a grizzled beard, his hands in his pockets, staring at the sidewalk as he walked, and he went up to the man and said, “Excuse me, sir.”

The man looked up at him suspiciously.

“Do you know what an A and R man is?” he asked.

“What?” the man said.

“Do you know what an A and R man is?”

“Well, now, just a minute,” the man said. “A and R, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Aerials and Radios?” the man asked.

“No.”

“Just a second, now, just a second.” The man furrowed his brow, thinking strenuously. “Aeronautics and... uh... Rockets? Rocketry? Is that it?”

“No.”

“I’ll get it, just a minute,” the man said. “What’s this for, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is this some television show or something?” the man asked.

“No, I just wanted to know,” Buddwing said.

“Oh. Well, just a second now. A and R, huh? Just a second. Automotive and... just a second... Research? That sounds right, don’t it?”

“No,” Buddwing said.

“Oh.” The man looked disappointed. “Well, then, I’m sorry, fella. I can’t help you.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Buddwing said.

“Don’t mention it,” the man answered, and he continued walking up Broadway, his head bent, his hands in his pockets.

Buddwing looked after the man for a moment and then thought, Well, he doesn’t know what an A and R man is, so perhaps I am connected with the music business at that; or perhaps, considering the skill with which I handled the old gentleman, perhaps I am a professional survey taker. His joyous mood returned at once, powerfully, making him almost giddy. The staggering number of possibilities of things he could be — the doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs; the butchers, bakers, candlestick makers; the princes, paupers, panderers and pimps; the artists, writers, actors, agents; the truck drivers, muckrakers, groundhogs, hemstitchers; chicken pluckers, aviators, pearl divers, bandleaders; bass fiddlers, ballplayers, lobster salesmen, thieves; anything, everything — the possibilities, rather than overwhelming him and leaving him weak, instead brought on a feeling of immense power. God, what a choice! he thought. I can be anything I want to be! I can start right this minute as a professional survey taker, Sam Buddwing Research, Inc., and go down Broadway asking everyone I meet if he knows what an A and R man is! I can stand on the corner and teach a class or preach a sermon! I can buy a chisel and become a sculptor or a burglar! I can find a scrap of paper and write a play or a pamphlet! I can be a lover or a hater, a creator or a destroyer, an artist or a critic! I can be whatever I want to be and whoever I want to be! I am new, I am clean, I am born, my God I am hungry!

He quickened his pace, searching avidly for a cafeteria now, wondering if he should turn back and go to the one he had seen earlier. He walked two more blocks downtown, and then decided to cut crosstown to Amsterdam Avenue, and then instead continued walking on Broadway, and found at last another cafeteria, which he walked into quickly, pulling a ticket from the machine, and lifting a tray from the pile of brown plastic trays, and then going down the line of food, eying each separate piece of food with a delight almost unbearable. He took a glass of orange juice and a grapefruit, he took two pieces of Danish pastry and a hard roll, he took three pats of butter, he took a cup of coffee and a glass of milk, and then he went to the rear of the line again and took a glass of tomato juice. He carried all these to a table at the back of the sparsely populated cafeteria and was about to sit when a voice behind him said, “That’s my chair.”

He turned.

He was looking at a very short man of about fifty years of age, who had a twitch on the left side of his face. The twitch made the man look very evil. It twisted his face at regularly spaced intervals, the mouth curling upward, the eye blinking, as if the man were some sort of infernal machine that had been short-circuited. The man was wearing a sports jacket over a sports shirt, a gray fedora on his head. He was holding a cup of coffee in his right hand.

“Go ahead, sit down,” the man said.

“But you said it was your chair.”

“There’s four chairs at the table,” the man said. “I should deny you a lousy chair? Go ahead, take the lousy chair.”

“Well, thank you,” Buddwing said, and he pulled out the chair and sat. The man stood by the table, twitching and looking at Buddwing’s tray.

“You’re expecting someone?” he said.

“What?” Buddwing asked, looking up. “Oh. No. No, I’m not.”

“I thought perhaps you were expecting a breakfast club,” the little man said, twitching. He pulled out a chair, put his cup of coffee on the table opposite Buddwing, and then said, “Since you ain’t expecting nobody, I presume you won’t mind if I join you?”

“There are four chairs at the table,” Buddwing said, smiling. “I should deny you a lousy chair?”

“That’s very kind of you,” the little man said, twitching. “My cast bread is coming back upon the waters.” He sat and watched Buddwing as he drank his orange juice, and picked up the glass of tomato juice. ‘“You eat a hearty breakfast, don’t you?” he said, twitching.

“Well, not usually. But I’m very hungry this morning.”

“Listen, don’t be so defensive,” the man said. “You like to eat, so eat. Be healthy.” He sipped at his coffee, and watched the tomato juice disappear from Buddwing’s glass. Buddwing moved the grapefruit into place, and picked up his spoon.

“That’s a lot of citrus,” the man said. “You’re expecting maybe scurvy?”

“No, I just feel hungry.”

“Don’t get so upset,” the man said. “If you’re hungry, eat. Who’s telling you not to eat? Watch it, you almost got me in the eye with that one.”

“What?”

“The grapefruit. You’re squirting it all over the table.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, who’s complaining? You want to squirt a little grapefruit in my eye, go ahead. My name is Isadore Schwartz, what’s yours?”

“I don’t...” he started, and then stopped. “Sam Buddwing,” he said.

“Pleased to know you. You eat here all the time?”

“No,” Buddwing said. “This is the first time I’ve ever been here.”

“The food here is very good,” Schwartz said. “As a matter of fact, I would go so far as to say the food here is gourmet food, and at very reasonable prices. I didn’t think you ate here often because, to tell the truth, this is the first time I ever seen you in here.”

“Yes, it is my first time,” Buddwing said.

“That’s what I said. You should come more often. The food here is of an excellent quality, believe me. I eat here all the time. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. That’s because the food is so wonderful here.” Schwartz paused. “It’s also because I happen to own the place.”

“Oh, is that right?” Buddwing said.

“Sure, I’ve been here for twenty-five years, right on this same corner. You didn’t happen to see the name outside?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Sure, right across the front. Izzy’s Cafeteria. That’s me, Isadore Schwartz. I got good food here, ain’t that grapefruit good?”

“Yes, very good.”

“Wait till you taste the Danish. You ever been to Miami Beach?”

“I... I don’t know,” Buddwing said.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I forget.”

“How could you forget a place like Miami Beach?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t remember if I’ve ever been there or not.”

“That’s like misplacing New York City!”

“I haven’t misplaced Miami Beach, I simply don’t remember if I’ve ever been there or not.”

“Are you Jewish? If you’re Jewish, you’ve been there.”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I said I don’t know if I’m Jewish or not.”

“Well, what are you then, an Arab?”

“I don’t know,” Buddwing said, and then moved aside his finished grapefruit and picked up one of the Danish pastries.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Buddwing. Sam Buddwing.”

“All the Sams I know, they’re Jewish,” Schwartz said.

“How about Sam Adams?” Buddwing answered.

“He probably changed his name,” Schwartz said.

“So did I.”

“Ah-ha!” Schwartz said. “What did it used to be?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Why? You ashamed of being Jewish?”

“No. It’s just that...”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, a nice Jewish boy like you.”

“Well, okay, have it your own way,” Buddwing said.

“How do you like that Danish?”

“It’s delicious.”

“Sure. The reason I brought up Miami Beach is because my Danish, the Danish you get right here in this cafeteria, is better even than what Wolfie’s gives you in Miami Beach. You know Wolfie’s? On Collins Avenue?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, whether you know it or not, this is better Danish. Take my word for it. Aren’t you going to drink your milk?”

“Sure. I want to drink my coffee first.”

“How can you drink it black like that?”

“I used to drink it this way in the service,” Buddwing said, smiling.

“What branch were you in?”

“I don’t remember.”

Schwartz pursed his lips and looked at Buddwing seriously. “How can you not know what branch you were in?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you were 4-F, don’t be ashamed of it.”

“I don’t think I was.”

“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” Schwartz asked suddenly. He stared at Buddwing, his face seriously concerned.

“Nothing. I just can’t remember anything, that’s all.”

“Why don’t you go see a doctor?”

“I might do that,” Buddwing said. He finished his first piece of Danish, and then picked up the hard roll and spread the three pats of butter on it.

“You like butter, don’t you?” Schwartz said. “Go ahead, eat. It’s Grade-A creamery butter, straight from the cows.”

“It’s very good butter,” Buddwing said, biting into the roll.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Don’t you remember anything at all?”

“Well, hardly anything.”

“You remember my name?”

“Sure.”

“What’s my name?” Schwartz said, twitching, testing him.

“Isadore Schwartz.”

“That’s very good,” Schwartz said. “See? Your memory ain’t so bad, after all.”

“Oh, I can remember everything that happened since I woke up this morning,” Buddwing said.

“You think you’ll remember where this cafeteria is?”

“I think so,” Buddwing said.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d like you to come back. I like to see a man who knows good food. Where’s your ticket?”

“What ticket?”

“The one you have to give the cashier on the way—”

“Oh. There it is. On the tray.”

Schwartz picked up the ticket. “Forget it,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, forget it. This is on me, Isadore Schwartz. I like to see a man eating. Drink your milk.”

“I can pay for my breakfast,” Buddwing said.

“Don’t I see you can pay for your breakfast? Do you look like a bum? Don’t you think I got eyes? The only thing that’s wrong with you is you can’t remember anything, that’s all.”

“Well, I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Schwartz, but—”

“What gesture? This ain’t a gesture, it’s a reality, a fact. I, Isadore Schwartz, am paying for your breakfast, Sam whatever the hell you changed your name to.”

“Buddwing.”

“That’s right, Buddwing. Where’d you pick a cockamamie name like that?”

“From a beer truck.”

“It sounds like from a beer truck, believe me,” Schwartz said. “You ain’t gonna drink your milk?”

“I was just coming to it.”

“Take a bite of the cheese Danish,” Schwartz said. Buddwing picked up the Danish and bit into it. “How’s that?”

“Delicious.”

“I know it is. Drink your milk. That’s Grade-A homogenized, from the same creamery the butter comes from. Here you don’t get pyok water when you order milk. It’s some milk, ain’t it?”

“It’s delicious,” Buddwing said.

“You ought to go see a doctor, you know that?” Schwartz said. “You shouldn’t put off ailments, no matter how small they seem. I’m telling you. My brother Dave, he had an ingrown toenail, he didn’t see a doctor, it was murder, believe me. Go see a doctor.”

“Well, maybe I will.”

“Though I must admit you eat like a healthy young horse. How old are you, anyway?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t it bother you, not remembering anything?”

“Well... yes and no.”

Schwartz nodded gravely, and then twitched. “You better go see a doctor, Sam. Otherwise, twenty years from now, you’ll wake up in some small town in Minnesota, you’ll be married with four kids, and you’ll suddenly remember you ain’t Sam Buddwing at all, you’re really Max Lipschitz and you got a wife and a grown daughter up in the Bronx. That could get very complicated.”

“I guess it could.”

“Go see a doctor. They’re all lousy finks, I know, but maybe you’ll be lucky. Maybe you’ll find one who can help you.”

“Well, I thought I’d scout around a little on my own,” Buddwing said.

“Well, listen, it’s up to you. It’s your life, I’m only telling you what I would do. I’m talking to you like a father or a brother, the way I talked to Dave when he had the ingrown toenail.” Schwartz shrugged, and then twitched. “He wouldn’t listen to me, either.”

Buddwing drained his glass of milk and said, “Well, maybe I will go to a doctor.” He paused. “Listen, I wish you’d let me pay for my own—”

“Wouldn’t hear of it. Go on, you’re my guest. Can’t I have guests here? I’m here breakfast, lunch, dinner, I can’t have a guest to talk to every now and then? This is like my home. Consider yourself a guest in my home.”

“Well... thank you,” Buddwing said.

“My pleasure.” Schwartz rose. “Come back again, we’ll talk some more.” He put his hand on Buddwing’s shoulder gently, and added, “And don’t be ashamed you’re Jewish. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Some of the finest Christians, they’re Jews, believe me.”

He nodded, twitched, and then walked away from the table. Buddwing could see him at the cashier’s booth, giving the cashier the ticket, and then pointing out Buddwing, identifying him so that the cashier would let him pass through when he left. He waved at Buddwing and then went behind the steam table and through a door which presumably led to the kitchen. Buddwing suddenly wondered whether or not Schwartz was married and then, for no apparent reason, thought how nice it would be if he was not married and could meet Gloria. He basked in the idea of Gloria and Schwartz together, visualized them as husband and wife, and then suddenly frowned because he could not imagine them in bed together. The frown deepened. Rather than being unable to imagine them making love, he found that he could now imagine them all too vividly, that he could see Schwartz taking Gloria into his arms, his hands touching her breasts and her thighs, climbing onto the huge mother hulk of her, entering her. He could hear Gloria moaning as though in pain, and he wanted to shout to Schwartz to stop it, don’t you know you’re hurting her, and he was suddenly filled with an enormous hatred for the imagined image of Schwartz the lover. I could have had her if I had wanted her, he told the image of Schwartz. Leave her alone, you’re hurting her, you bastard, can’t you hear her whimpering?

He picked up his paper napkin with a harsh decisive motion and wiped it across his mouth. As he walked away from the table, he was filled with a vague fury. And yet he felt he should love this man. Schwartz had fed him, hadn’t he? Schwartz was willing to pay for his meal, wasn’t he? But the image of Schwartz grinding against his beloved Gloria, Buddwing’s own Gloria whose breast he had known — this image persisted until he reached the cashier’s booth. The cashier looked up at him, smiled, and said, “Mr. Schwartz has taken care of it.”

“How much was it?” Buddwing asked.

“A dollar thirty-five,” the cashier said.

Buddwing took the five-dollar bill from his pocket and put it on the cashier’s rubber-nippled pad. “Take it out of this,” he said.

“But Mr. Schwartz...”

“Yes, I know. I’m afraid I can’t accept his kindness.”

“But...”

“Please,” Buddwing said, and he gave the five-dollar bill a gentle nudge with his forefinger.

“Well,” the cashier said dubiously, “all right.” She took the bill and pushed some buttons on her machine, and his change came clattering down the chute, a dime, a nickel, two quarters. She opened the cash drawer and handed him three dollar bills. He pocketed the entire amount, smiled at her again, and then walked out into the street. He had three dollars and sixty-five cents; he was still rich. He began walking.

The feeling of dread started almost immediately, and he did not know what caused it until he realized he was on 92nd Street and Broadway, and that the grocery store he had worked in when he was sixteen was on the next corner. He wanted to turn back, run to Schwartz’s cafeteria, tell the cashier it was all right for Schwartz to pick up the tab, and then seek out Schwartz and talk to him some more, tell him he did not mind about him and Gloria, after all Gloria was a woman more Schwartz’s age, he understood, it was all right. But his legs kept moving him toward 91st Street, and the feeling of dread mounted. All he had to do, he knew, was walk into the grocery store and ask the owner who he was, I worked for you when I was sixteen, don’t you remember? I dropped a carton of eggs. You made me pay for them. Remember me? And the owner would look at him over the rims of his glasses, and he would nod vaguely, and then smile dimly, and then say, Why sure, I remember you. You’re

I don’t want to know, he thought. I don’t want to know, you hear me? I don’t want to know!

He walked toward 91st Street.

He knew he would go into the grocery store and ask his questions.