What a thing to worry about!
I suppose it’s all a matter of temperament. If it were me, I’d be miserable.
You like to feel miserable.
I guess you’re right there. I must have been born that way.
And you’ll die that way.
He coughed violently, then reached for a box of cigars. ‘What about a cigar, Hen? They’re a bit dry but they’re Havanas.
You’re mad. I’m going to sleep. Good-night!
O.K. You don’t mind if I read a while, do you? He held up a few large pages torn from the dictionary. My eyes were closed, I was almost out, but I could hear him droning away.
I’m on page 1504 now, he was saying. The unabridged. Mandelic. What a word! If I live to be another Methuselah maybe I’ll make use of a word like that sometime. Are you asleep? It’s queer, though, what you do retain out of all this shit and verbiage. Sometimes the simplest words are the strangest. A word like corpse, for instance. Cadaver is natural and easy, but corpse! Or take Easter—I’ll bet you never thought where that comes from. English is a crazy language, do you know that? Imagine words like Michaelmas and Whitsuntide—or wassail or syndrome or nautch or whangdoodle. Wait a minute, here’s a funnier one—prepollent. Or parlous—isn’t that a strange one? Or take acne or cirrhosis—it’s hard to imagine anyone inventing words like that, what? Language is sheer mystery. The more etymological I get the less I know. Are you awake? Listen, Hen, you were always a stickler for words. I’m surprised you haven’t read the dictionary through yet. Or have you? I know you tried to read the Bible through. The dictionary’s more fun, I think. It’s even crazier than the Bible … You know, just to look at some words, just to roll them around in your mouth, makes you feel good. Here’s a few off-hand—old favorites: anacoluthon, sesquipedalian, apotheosis, which, by the way, you always mispronounce. It’s apotheosis. Some mean exactly what they look like or how they sound: gimcrack, thingamajig, socdolager, gazabo, yammer. The Engles and the Jutes were responsible for the worst ones, I guess. Did you ever have a look at a Swedish book? There’s a mad language for you! And to think we once talked that way … Listen, I don’t want to keep you awake all night. Forget it! I have to do this every night because I promised myself I would. It won’t get me anywhere, I know that god-damn well. But there’s one thing about this job, Hen—when I’m through I’m through. Yes sir! When I finish a page I wipe my ass with it. How do you like that? It’s like putting Finis to a book…
12
It doesn’t take long for the speakeasy to become a sort of private club and recreation center. On the kitchen wall is a long list of names. Beside the names is chalked up the sums owed us by our friends, our only steady customers.
Roberto and George Inness sometimes come to fence in the afternoon. If not, O’Mara, Ned and I play chess in the back room near the window. Should an important client, like Mathias, turn up, we duck through the window into the back-yard, hop the fence and out into the next street through a narrow lane. Occasionally Rothermel comes for a couple of hours in the late afternoon, to talk to Mona privately. He pays her ten or twenty dollars for the privilege.
If it’s an off night, we drive the paying customers out early, put the tables together, and settle down to play ping pong. We hold regular tournament bouts. Cold snacks in between of course. Always washed down with beer, gin or wine. If we run out of liquor we go to Allen Street for sacramental wine. Usually the championship matches are between Arthur Raymond and myself. We run up fantastic scores. In the end I usually throw the game to him because he’s such a hard loser … Always day-break before we turn in.
One evening Rothermel turns up with several of his bosom pals from the Jersey swamps. All judges and politicians. They order the best of everything, of course.
Everything was going smoothly until Tony Maurer turned up with a beautiful model. For some reason Rothermel instantly took a violent dislike to him, partly because his hair was cropped close, partly because, in Rothermel’s opinion, he was too glib. I happened to be serving Tony Maurer when Rothermel left his table in the backroom, determined to pick a quarrel. He was already quite crocked, to be sure. A nasty bird, even when sober. I stood to one side for a while, observing with admiration the cool way in which Tony Maurer parried Rothermel’s thrusts. But when the latter grew outrageously insulting I decided it was time to intervene. You’d better get back to your table, I said quietly and firmly.
Who are you? he snarled.
Boiling inside but outwardly cool as a cucumber,’ I said: Me? I’m the boss here.
Rothermel sniffed and snorted. I took him by the arm and turned him round, in the direction of the other room. Don’t manhandle me! he yelled.
Fortunately at this juncture his friends came to my rescue. They dragged him back to the other room, as if he were a sack of wood. Then they returned to make apologies to Tony Maurer and to Mona.
We’ll get them all out of here soon, I whispered to Tony Maurer.
Please don’t! he begged. I can handle the situation. I’m used to it, you know. He thinks I’m a Hun, that’s what bothers him. Sit down a moment, won’t you? Have a drink. You mustn’t let these things disturb you. Here he tailed off into a long anecdote about his experience during the war—first as an intelligence officer, then as a spy. As I listened to him I could hear Rothermel’s voice rising higher and shriller. It sounded as if he were having the tantrums. I signalled to Ned and O’Mara to quiet him.
Suddenly I heard him scream: Mona! Mona! Where is that bitch? I’ll fuck her yet, by Christ!
I rushed to his table and shook him, none too gently. I looked quickly at his friends to see if they I were going to make trouble. They seemed embarrassed and disconcerted.
We’ll have to get him out of here, I explained.
Certainly, said one of them. Why don’t you call a cab and send him home? He’s a disgrace.
Ned, O’Mara and myself bundled him into his overcoat and pushed him out into the street. A light sleet had fallen; it was now covered with a thin coat of snow. Rothermel was unable to stand without support. While Ned went in search of a cab, O’Mara and I half-dragged, half-shoved him towards the corner. He was fuming and cussing; he was particularly venomous towards me, naturally. In the scramble he lost his hat. You don’t need a hat, said O’Mara. We’ll use it to piss in. Rothermel was now blind with rage. He tried to unhitch his arms in order to take a swing at us, but we held him tight. Suddenly and instinctively we both let go at once. Rothermel stood swaying lightly, not daring to make a move for fear his legs would give way. We retreated a few steps and then, moved by a common impulse, we began dancing around him like goats, making faces at him, taunting him, thumbing our noses, scratching our behinds like monkeys, capering and cavorting like zanies. The poor bugger was beside himself. He was actually bellowing now. Fortunately the street was deserted. Finally he could stand it no longer. He made a lunge for us, lost his footing and slid into the gutter. We picked him up, stood him safely on the sidewalk, and repeated our antics, this time to the tune of a little ditty in which we made shameful use of his name.
The cab pulled up and we bundled him in. We told the driver that he had the D. T’s, gave him a phoney address in Hoboken, and waved good-bye. When we returned his friends thanked us and apologized all over again. He belongs in the asylum, said one of them. With that he ordered a round of drinks and insisted on buying us steak sandwiches. If you ever have any trouble with the flat-footed guys, just call on us, said the bald-headed politician. He handed me his card. Then he suggested the name of a bootlegger from whom we could get credit, if we ever needed credit. And so we had a second round and a third round, always of the best Scotch, which could have been horse piss for all I cared about it.
Shortly after they left, Arthur Raymond fell into a violent quarrel with some young chap whom I had never seen before, insisting that the latter had insulted Mona. Duffy was the lad’s name. Seemed like a decent chap, even if a little under the weather. He’ll have to apologize publicly, Arthur Raymond kept insisting. Duffy thought this a great joke. At last Arthur Raymond could stand it no longer. He got up, twisted Duffy’s arm, and threw him on the floor. Then he sat on Duffy’s chest and banged his head against the floor. Will you or won’t you? he repeated, banging the poor fellow’s head mercilessly. At last Duffy mumbled a thick apology and Arthur Raymond lifted him to his feet. There was a dead silence, an unpleasant one for Arthur Raymond. Duffy searched for his coat and hat, paid
