NEXUS

7

The thought that they could leave me behind like a dog while they explored Europe on their own ate into me, made me irritable, more erratic than ever, and sometimes downright diabolical in my behavior. One day I would go out to search of a job, determined to stand on my own two feet, and the next I would stay home and struggle with the play. Nights, when we gathered around the gut table, I would make notes of their conversation.

What are you doing that for? they would ask.

To check your lies, I might answer. Or—Some of this I may use in the play.

These remarks served to put spice into their dialogues. They did everything to put me off the track. Sometimes they talked like Strindberg, sometimes like Maxwell Bodenheim. To add to the confusion I would read them disturbing bits from the notebook which I now carried with me on my peregrinations in the Village. Sometimes it was a conversation (verbatim) that I had overheard outside a cafeteria or a night club, sometimes it was a descriptive account of the goings on that took place in these dives. Cleverly interspersed would be fragmentary remarks I had overheard, or pretended to have overheard, about the two of them. They were usually imaginary, but they were also real enough to cause them concern or make them blurt out the truth, which is exactly what I was gunning for.

Whenever they lost their self-control they contradicted one another and revealed things I was not supposed to hear about. Finally I pretended to be really absorbed in the writing of the play and begged them to take dictation from me: I had decided, I said, to write the last act first—it would be easier. My true motive, of course, was to show them how this manage a trois would end. It meant a bit of acting on my part, and quick thinking.

Stasia had decided that she would take notes while Mona listened and made’ suggestions. The better to act the dramaturge, I paced the floor, puffed endless cigarettes, took a swig of the bottle now and then, while gesticulating like a movie director, acting out the parts, imitating them by turns and of course throwing them into hysterics, particularly when I touched on pseudo-amorous scenes in which I depicted them as only pretending to be in love with each other. I would come to an abrupt stop occasionally to inquire if they thought these scenes too unreal, too far-fetched, and so on. Sometimes they would stop me to comment on the accuracy of my portrayals or my dialogue, whereupon they would vie with one another to furnish me with further hints, clues, suggestions, all of us talking at once and acting out our parts, each in his own fashion, and nobody taking notes, no one able to remember, when we had calmed down, what the other had said or done, what came first and what last. As we progressed I gradually introduced more and more truth, more and more reality, cunningly recreating scenes at which I had never been present, stupefying them with their own admissions, their own clandestine behavior. Some of these shots in the dark so confounded and bewildered them, I observed, that they had no recourse but to accuse one another of betrayal. Sometimes, unaware of the implication of their words, they accused me of spying on them, of putting my ear to the key-hole, and so on. At other times they looked blankly at each other, unable to decide whether they had really said and done what I imputed to them or not. But, regardless of how much they detested my interpretation of their doings, they were excited, they wanted more, more. It was as if they saw themselves on the stage enacting their true roles. It was irresistible.

At the boil I would deliberately let them down, pretending a head-ache or that I had run out of ideas or else that the damned thing was no good, that it was futile to waste further time on it. This would really put them in a dither. To soften me up they would come home loaded with good things to eat and drink. They would even bring me Havana cigars.

To vary the torment, I would pretend, just as we had started work, that I had met with some extraordinary experience earlier that day and, as if absent-minded, I would digress into an elaborate account of a mythical adventure. One night I informed them that we would have to postpone work on the play for a while because I had taken a job as an usher in a burlesque house. They were outraged. A few days later I informed them that I had given up that job to become an elevator operator. That disgusted them.

One morning I awoke with the firm intention of gunning for a job, a big job. I had no clear idea what kind of job, only that it must be something worth while, something important. While shaving I got the notion that I would pay a visit to the head of a chain store organization, ask him to make a place for me. I would say nothing about previous employments; I would dwell on the fact that I was a writer, a free lance writer, who desired to put his talents at their disposal. A much traveled young man, weary of spreading himself all over the lot; eager to make a place for himself, a permanent one, with an up and coming organization such as theirs. (The chain stores were only in their infancy.) Given the chance, I might demonstrate ... here I allowed my imagination free fancy.

While dressing I embellished the speech I intended to make to Mr. W. H. Higginbotham, president of the Hobson and Holbein Chain Stores. (I prayed that he wouldn't turn out to be deaf!)

I got off to a late start, but full of optimism and never more spruce and spry. I armed myself with a brief case belonging to Stasia, not bothering to examine the contents of it. Anything to look business like.

It was a bitter cold day and the head office was in a warehouse not far from the Gowanus Canal. It took ages to get there and, on descending the trolley, I took it on the run. I arrived at the entrance to the building with rosy cheeks and frosty breath. As I glided through the grim entrance hall I noticed a huge sign over the directory board saying: Employment Office closes at 9:30 A.M. It was already eleven o'clock. Scanning the board I noticed that the elevator runner was eyeing me peculiarly. On entering the lift he nodded toward the sign and said: Did you read that?

I'm not looking for a job, I said. I have an appointment with Mr. Higginbotham's secretary.

He gave me a searching look, but said no more. He slammed the gate to and the lift slowly ascended.

The eighth floor, please!

You don't have to tell me! What's your errand?

The elevator, which was inching upward, groaned and squealed like a sow in labor. I had the impression that he had deliberately slowed it up.

He was glaring at me now, waiting for my reply. What's eating him? I asked myself. Was it simply that he didn't like my looks?

It's difficult, I began, to explain my errand in a few words. Terrified by the horrible scowl he was giving me, I pulled myself up short. I did my best to return his gaze without flinching. Yes, I resumed, it's rather dif...

Stop it! he yelled, bringing the lift to a halt—between two floors. If you say another word ... He raised a hand as if to say—I'll throttle you!

Convinced that I had a maniac to deal with, I kept my mouth shut.

You talk too much, said he. He gave the lever a jerk and the lift started upward again, shuddering.

I kept quiet and looked straight ahead. At the eighth floor he opened the gate and out I stepped, gingerly too, as if expecting a kick in the pants.

Fortunately the door facing me was the one I sought. As I lay my hand on the knob I was aware that he was observing me. I had the uncomfortable presentiment that he would be there to catch me when they threw me out like an empty bucket. I opened the door and walked in. I came face to face with a girl standing in a cage who received me smilingly.

I came to see Mr. Higginbotham, I said. By now my speech had flown and my thoughts were knocking about like bowling pins.

To my amazement she asked no questions. She simply picked up the telephone and spoke a few inaudible words into the mouthpiece. When she put the receiver down she turned and, in a voice all honey, said: Mr. Higginbotham's secretary will see you in a moment.

In a moment the secretary appeared. He was a middle-aged man of pleasant mien, courteous, affable. I gave him my name and followed him to his desk which was at the end of a long room studded with desks and machines of all kinds. He took a seat behind a large, polished table which was almost bare and indicated a comfortable chair opposite him into which I dropped with a momentary feeling of relief.

Mr. Higginbotham is in Africa, he began. He won't be back for several months.

I see, said I, thinking to myself this is my way out, can't confide in any one but Mr. Higginbotham himself. Even as I did so I realized that it would be unwise to exit so quickly—the elevator runner would be expecting precisely such an eventuality.

He's on a big game hunt, added the secretary, sizing me up all the while and wondering, no doubt, whether to make short shrift of me or feel the ground further. Still affable, however, and obviously waiting for me to spill the beans.

I see, I repeated. That's too bad. Perhaps I should wait until he returns...

No, not at all—unless it's something very confidential you have to tell him. Even if he were here you would have to deal first with me. Mr. Higginbotham has many irons in the fire; this is only one of his interests. Let me assure you that anything you wish conveyed to him will receive my earnest attention and consideration.

He stopped short. It was my move.

Well sir, I began hesitatingly, but breathing a little more freely, it's not altogether easy to explain the purpose of my visit.

Excuse me, he put in, but may I ask what firm it is you represent?

He leaned forward as if expecting me to drop a card in his hand.

I'm representing myself ... Mr. Larrabee, was it? I'm a writer ... a free lance writer. I hope that doesn't put you off?

Not at all, not at all! he replied.

(Think fast now! Something original!)

You didn't have in mind an advertising campaign, did you? We really...

Oh no! I replied. Not that! I know you have plenty of capable men for that. I smiled weakly. No, it was something more general ... more experimental, shall I say?

I lingered a moment, like a bird in flight hovering over a dubious perch. Mr. Larrabee leaned forward, ears cocked to catch this something of moment.

It's like this, I said, wondering what the hell I would say next. In the course of my career I've come in contact with all manner of men, all manner of ideas. Now and then, as I move about, an idea seizes me ... I don't need to tell you that writers sometimes get ideas which practical minded individuals regards as chimerical. That is, they seem chimerical, until they have been tested.

Quite true, said Mr. Larrabee, his bland countenance open to receive the impress of my idea, whether chimerical or practicable.

It was impossible to continue the delaying tactics any longer. Out with it! I commanded myself. But out with what?

At this point, most fortunately, a man appeared from an adjoining office, holding a batch of letters in his hand. I beg pardon, he said, abut I'm afraid you'll have to stop a moment and sign these. Quite important.

Mr. Larrabee took the letters, then presented me to the man. Mr. Miller is a writer. He has a plan to present to Mr. Higginbotham.

We shook hands while Mr. Larrabee proceeded to bury his nose in the file of correspondence.

Well, said the man—his name was McAuliffe, I believe—well, sir, I must say we don't see many writers round these parts. He pulled out a cigarette case and offered me a Benson and Hedges. Thank you, I said, permitting him to light the cigarette for me. Sit down, won't you? he said. You don't mind if I chat with you a moment, I hope? One doesn't get a chance to meet a writer every day.

A few more polite parries and then he asked: Do you write books or are you a newspaper correspondent by chance?

I pretended to have done a little of everything. I put it that way as if modesty compelled it.

I see, I see, said he. How about novels?

Pause. I could see he wanted more.

I nodded. Even detective stories occasionally.

My specialty, I added, is travel and research.

His spine suddenly straightened up. Travel! Ah, I'd give my right arm to have a year off, a year to go places. Tahiti! That's the place I want to see! Ever been there?

As a matter of fact, yes, I replied. Though not for long. A few weeks, that's all. I was on my way back from the Carolines.

The Carolines? He seemed electrified now. What were you doing there, may I ask?

A rather fruitless mission, I'm afraid. I went on to explain how I had been cajoled into joining an anthropological expedition. Not that I was in any way qualified. But it was an old friend of mine—an old class-mate—who was in charge of the expedition and he had persuaded me to go along. I was to do as I pleased. If there was a book in it, fine. If not ... and so on.

Yes, yes! And what happened?

In a few weeks we were all taken violently ill. I spent the rest of my time in the hospital.

The phone on Mr. Larrabee's desk rang imperiously. Excuse me, said Mr. Larrabee, picking up the receiver. We waited in silence while he carried on a lengthly conversation about imported teas. The conversation finished, he jumped to his feet, handed Mr. McAuliffe the signed correspondence and, as if charged with an injection, said:

Now then, Mr. Miller, about your plan...

I rose to shake hands with the departing Mr. McAuliffe, sat down again, and without more ado launched into one of my extravaganzas. Only this time I was bent on telling the truth. I would tell the truth, nothing but the truth, then good-bye.

Rapid and condensed as was this narrative of my earthly adventures and tribulations, I realized nevertheless that I was genuinely imposing on Mr. Larrabee's time, not to mention his patience. It was the way he listened, all agog, like a frog peering at you from the mossy edge of a pond, that urged me on. All about us the clerks had vanished; it was well into the lunch hour. I halted a moment to inquire if I wasn't preventing him from lunching. He waved the question aside. Go on, he begged, I'm completely yours.

And so, after I had brought him up to date, I proceeded to make confession. Not even if Mr. Higginbotham had suddenly and unexpectedly come back from Africa could I stop now.

There's absolutely no excuse for having wasted your time, I began. I really have no plan, no project to propose. However, it wasn't to make a fool of myself that I barged in here. There come times when you simply must obey your impulses. Even if it sounds strange to you ... after all I've told you about my life ... I nevertheless believe that there must be a place for one like me in this world of industry. The usual procedure, when one tries to break down the barrier, is to ask for a place at the bottom. It's my thought, however, to begin near the top. I've explored the bottom—it leads nowhere. I'm talking to you, Mr. Larrabee, as if I were talking to Mr. Higginbotham himself. I'm certain I could be of genuine service to this organization, but in what capacity I can't say. All I have to offer, I suppose, is my imagination—and my energy, which is inexhaustible. It's not a matter of a job altogether, it's an opportunity to solve my immediate problem, a problem which is purely personal, I grant you, but of desperate importance to me. I could throw myself into anything, particularly if it made demands on my ingenuity. This checkered career, which I've briefly outlined, I feel it must have been to some purpose. I'm not an aimless individual, nor am I unstable. Quixotic perhaps, and rash at times, but a born worker. And I work best when in harness. What I'm trying to convey to you, Mr. Larrabee, is that whoever created a place for me would never regret it. This is a tremendous organization, with wheels within wheels. As a cog in a machine I'd be worthless. But why make me part of a machine? Why not let me inspire the machine? Even if I have no plan to submit, as I fully admit, that is not to say that tomorrow I might not come up with one. Believe me, it's of the utmost importance that at this juncture some one should put a show of confidence in me. I've never betrayed a trust, take my word for it. I don't ask you to hire me on the spot, I merely suggest that you hold out a little hope, that you promise to give me a chance, if it is at all possible, to prove to you that all I say is not mere words.

I had said all I wanted to say. Rising to my feet, I extended my hand. It was most kind of you, I said.

Hold on, said Mr. Larrabee. Let me catch up with you.

He gazed out the window a good full moment, then turned to me.

You know, he said, not one man in ten thousand would have had the courage, or the effrontery, to engage me in such a proposition. I don't know whether to admire you or—. Look here, vague as it all is, I promise you I will give thought to your request. Naturally, I can't do a thing until Mr. Higginbotham returns. Only he could create a place for you...

He hesitated before resuming. But I want to tell you this, for my own part. I know little about writers or writing, but it strikes me that only a writer could have spoken as you did. Only an exceptional individual, I will add, would have had the audacity to take a man in my position into his confidence. I feel indebted to you; you make me feel that I'm bigger and better than I thought myself to be. You may be desperate, as you say, but you're certainly not lacking in resourcefulness. A person like you can't go under. I'm not going to forget you easily. Whatever happens,! hope you will regard me as a friend. A. week from now I suspect that this interview will be ancient history to you.

I was blushing to the roots of my hair. To get such a response suited me far better than finding a niche in the Hobson and Holbein enterprises.

Would you do me a last favor? I asked. Do you mind escorting me to the elevator?

Did you have trouble with Jim?

So you know, then?

He took me by the arm. He has no business running that elevator. He's absolutely unpredictable. But the boss insists on keeping him. He's a war veteran and distantly related to the family, I believe. A real menace, though.

He pressed the button and the lift slowly ascended. Jim, as he called the maniac, seemed surprised to see the two of us standing there. As I stepped into the lift Mr. Larrabee extended his hand once again and said, obviously for Jim's benefit—Don't forget, if you're ever—and he stressed the ever—in this neighborhood again, stop in to see me. Maybe next time we can have lunch together. Oh yes, I'll be writing Mr. Higginbotham this evening. I'm sure he'll be deeply interested. Good-bye now!

Good-bye, I said, and all my thanks!

As the lift made its weary descent I kept my eyes riveted straight ahead. I had a look on my face as if rapt in thought. There was only one thought in my mind, however, and that was—when will he explode? I had a hunch that he was even more venomous toward me now—because I had been so cunning. I was as wary and alert as a cat. What, I wondered, would I do ... what could I do ... if suddenly, between floors, he shut the power off and turned on me? Not a peep, not a stir, out of him. We reached bottom, the gate slid open, and out I stepped ... a Pinocchio with both legs burned off.

The hallway was deserted, I noticed. I made for the door, some yards away. Jim remained at his post, as if nothing had ever happened. At least, I felt that that was his attitude. Half-way to the door I turned, on the impulse, and headed back. The inscrutable expression on Jim's face told me that he had expected me to do just that. Coming closer I saw that his face was truly a blank. Had he retired into his stone-like self—or was he lying in ambush?

Why do you hate me? I said, and I looked him square in the eye.

I don't hate anybody, was the unexpected answer. Nothing but the muscles of his mouth had moved; even his eyeballs were fixed.

I'm sorry, I said, and made a half turn as if to march away.

I don't hate you, he said, suddenly coming to life. I pity you! You don't fool me. Nobody does.

An inner terror gripped me. How do you mean? I stammered.

Don't give me words, he said. You know what I mean.

A cold shiver now ran up and down my spine. It was as if he had said: I have second sight, I can read your mind like a book.

So what? I said, amazed at my impudence.

Go home and put your mind in order, that's what!

I was stunned. But what followed, as Mr. Larrabee had put it, was absolutely unpredictable.

Hypnotized, I watched him pull up his sleeve to reveal a horrible scar; he pulled up his pant's leg and there were more horrible scars; then he unbuttoned his shirt. At the sight of his chest I almost fainted.

It took all that, he said, to open my eyes. Go home and set your mind straight. Go, before I strike you dead!

I turned at once and started for the door. It took all my courage not to break into a run. Some one was coming from the street. He wouldn't strike me now—or would he? I moved at the same pace, quickening it as I neared the door.

Whew! Outside I dropped the brief case and lit myself a cig. The sweat was oozing from all pores. I debated what to do. It was cowardly to run off with my tail between my legs. And it was suicidal to return. Veteran or not, crazy or not, he meant what he said. What's more, he had my number. That's what burned me up. I moved away, mumbling to myself as I trudged along. Yeah, he had me dead to rights: a time waster, a faker, a glib talker, a no good son of a bitch. No one had ever brought me so low. I felt like writing Mr. Larrabee a letter telling him that no matter how my words had impressed him everything about me was false, dishonest, worthless. I became so indignant with myself that my whole body broke out in a rash. Had a worm appeared before me and repeated Jim's words, I would have bowed my head in shame and said: You're absolutely right, Mr. Worm. Let me get down beside you and grovel in the earth.

At Borough Hall I grabbed a coffee and sandwich, then made instinctively for The Star, an old time burlesque house that had seen better days. The show had already started but no matter: there was never anything new either in the way of jokes or in the way of ass. As I entered the theatre the memory of my first visit to it came back. My old friend Al Burger and his bosom pal, Frank Schofield, had invited me to go with them. We must have been nineteen or twenty at the time. What I particularly recollected was the warmth of friendship which this Frank Schofield exuded. I had met him only two or three limes before. To Frank I was something very very special. He loved to hear me talk, hung on every word I uttered. In fact, everything I said fascinated him for some reason. As for Frank, he was one of the world's most ordinary fellows, but brimming with affection. He had a mammoth figure—weighed then almost three hundred pounds—drank like a fish and was never without a cigar in his mouth. He laughed easily, and when he did his stomach shook like jello. Why don't you come and live with us? he used to say. We'll take care of you. It makes me feel good just to look at you. Simple words, but honest and sincere. Not one of my boon companions at that time possessed his homely qualities. No worm had eaten into his soul yet. He was innocent, tender, generous to a fault.

But why was he so fond of me? That's what I asked myself as I groped my way to a seat in the pit. Rapidly I went over the roster of my bosom friends, asking myself what each and every one of them really thought of me. And then I thought of a school mate, Lester Faber, whose lips would curl into a sneer each time we met, which was every day. No one in the class liked him, nor the teachers either. He was born sour. Fuck him! I thought. Wonder what he does for a living now? And Lester Prink, what had become of him? Suddenly I saw the whole class, as we looked in that photo taken on graduation day. I could recall every one of them, their names, height, weight, standing, where they lived, how they spoke, everything about them. Strange that I never ran into any of them...

The show was frightful; I almost fell asleep in the middle of it. But it was warm and cosy. Besides, I was in no hurry to get anywhere. There were seven, eight or nine hours to kill before the two of them would return.

The cold had moderated when I stepped out of the theatre. A light flurry of snow was falling. Some inexplicable urge directed my steps toward a gun shop up the street. There was one revolver in the window which I invariably stopped to look at when passing. It was a thoroughly murderous looking weapon.

In customary fashion I stopped and pressed my nose against the show window. A hearty slap on the back made me jump. I thought a gun had gone off. As I turned round a hearty voice exclaimed: What in the devil are you. doing here? Henry, my boy, how are you?

It was Tony Marella. He had a long extinct cigar in his mouth, his soft hat was jauntily pitched, and his small beady eyes were twinkling as of old.

Well, well, and all that. The usual exchanges, a few tender reminiscences, then the question: And what are you doing now?

In a few words I emptied my bag of woes.

That's too bad, Henry. Jesus, I never suspected you were up against it. Why didn't you let me know? I'm always good for a touch, you know. He put an arm around me. What do you say we have a little drink? Maybe I can be of help.

I tried to tell him that I was beyond helping. You'd only be wasting your time, I said.

Come, come, don't give me that, said he. I know you from way back. Don't you know that I always admired you—and envied you? We all have our ups and downs. Here, here's a friendly little joint. Let's go in and get something to eat and drink.

It was a bar (hidden from the street) where he was evidently well known and in good standing. I had to be introduced all around, even to the shoeshine boy. An old school-mate, he said, as he presented me to one after another. A writer, by God! What do you know? He hands me a champagne cocktail. Here, let's drink on it! Joe, what about a nice roastbeef sandwich, with lots of gravy ... and some raw onions. How does that sound, Henry? Christ, you don't know how glad I am to see you again. I've often wondered about you, what you were doing. Thought maybe you had skipped to Europe. Funny, eh? And you've been hiding out right under my nose.

He went on like this, happy as a lark, passing out more drinks, buying cigars, inquiring about the racing results, greeting newcomers and introducing me afresh, borrowing cash of the bartender, making telephone calls, and so on. A little dynamo. A good egg, any one could see that at a glance. The friend of every man, and bubbling over with joy and kindness.

Presently, with one elbow on the bar and an arm around my shoulder, he said, dropping his voice: Listen, Henry, let's get down to brass tacks. I've got a cushy job now. If you like, I could make a place for you. It's nothing to get steamed up about but it may do to tide you over. Till you find something better,! mean. What do you say?

Sure, I said. What is it?

A job in the Park Department, he explained. He was secretary to the Commissioner. Which meant that he, Tony, took care of the routine while the big shot made the rounds. Politics. A dirty game, he confided. Some one always waiting to stab you in the back.

It won't be to-morrow or the next day, he continued. I have to play the game, you know. But I'll put you on the list immediately. It may take a month before I send for you. Can you hold out that long?

I think so, said I.

Don't worry about money, he said. I can lend you whatever you need till then.

Don't! I said. I'll manage all right...

You're a funny guy, he said, squeezing my arm. You don't have to be shy with me. With me it comes and goes ... like that! In this racket you've got be well heeled. There are no poor politicians, you know that. How we get it, that's another matter. So far, I've been on the level. Not easy, either ... Okay, then. If you won't take anything now you know where I am when you want it. Any time, remember that!

I grasped his hand.

How about another drink before we go?

I nodded.

Oh, there's something I overlooked. I may have to put you down as a grave-digger ... to begin with. Do you mind? Just for a week or so. You won't have to break your back, I'll see to that. Then I'll move you into the office. You'll take a load off my back. Say, but won't I be able to make good use of you! You're a born letter writer—and that's half my job.

On the way out ... Stick to the writing, Henry. You were born to it. I'd never be in this racket if I had your talent. I had to fight for everything I got. You know, ‘the little dago'.

We're shaking hands ... You won't let me down now? Promise! And say hello to your dad for me. So long now!

So long, Tony!

I watched him hail a cab and hop in. I waved again.

What luck! Tony Marella, no less. An just when I though the earth was ready to receive me!