What a world! Not one of my old pals left. I used to wonder if I wouldn’t run into Tony Marella some day. His father still sat by the window mending shoes. Every time I passed the shop I greeted him. But I never had the courage to inquire about Tony. One day, however, reading the local newspaper—The Chat—I discovered that my old friend was running for alderman in another district, where he now lived. Maybe he would become President of the United States one day! That would be something, what!—a President out of our obscure little neighborhood. Already we could boast of a colonel and a rear-admiral. The Grogan brothers, no less. They had lived only a few doors away from us. Grand boys! as the neighbors all said. (A little later and, by God! one of them actually becomes a general; as for the other, the rear-admiral, blast me if he isn’t sent to Moscow on a special mission—and by none other than the President of our Holy Roller Empire. Not so bad for our little insignificant Van Voorhees Street!)
And now, thinks I to myself (de la part des voisins), we have little Henry with us. Who knows? Maybe he’ll become another O’Henry. If Tony Marella is slated to be a President one day, surely Henry, our little Henry, can become a famous writer. Dixit.
Just the same—a slightly different key now—it was too bad we hadn’t produced at least one good prizefighter. The Laski brothers had faded out. Lacked the stuff that champs are made of. No, it wasn’t the neighborhood to breed John L. Sullivans or James J. Corbetts. The old 14th Ward, to be sure, had turned out a dozen good pugilists, not to speak of politicians, bankers, and good old con men. I had the feeling that, were I back in the old neighborhood, I would be writing more vividly. If only I could say hello to chaps like Lester Reardon, Eddie Carney, Johnny Paul, I’d feel like a new man.
Shit! I said to myself, rapping my bare knuckles against the iron spike of a fence, I’m not done for yet. Not by a long shot…
And so one morning I woke up full of piss and vinegar. Decided to bust out into the world and make my presence felt. No set plan or project in mind. Tucking a sheaf of manuscripts under my arm, I made a dash for the street.
Playing a hunch, I make my way into the inner sanctum of an editorial office where I find myself face to face with one of the editors of a five cent magazine. My thought is to ask for an editorial position.
The curious thing is that the man is one of the Miller tribe. Gerald Miller, no less. A good omen!
I don’t have to exercise my charms because he’s already predisposed in my favor. No doubt about it, says he, you’re a born writer. In front of him is a slew of manuscripts; he’s glanced here and there, enough to convince himself that I have the goods.
So you would like a job on the magazine? Well, it’s just possible I can make room for you. One of the editors is leaving in a week or so; I’ll speak to the boss and see what can be done. I’m certain you could fill the bill, even if you’ve had no training for it. Follows this up with a few discerning compliments.
Then, apropos of nothing, he suddenly says: Why don’t you write something for us meanwhile? We pay well, you know. I imagine you could use a check for $250.00, couldn’t you?
Without waiting for a reply, be continues: Why don’t you write about words? I don’t have to read very far to see that you’re in love with words…
I wasn’t sure I understood what exactly he wished me to say on this subject, especially to a five cent audience.
I don’t quite know myself, he said. Use your imagination. Don’t make it too long, either. Say five thousand words. And remember, our readers are not all college professors!
We sat there a while, chinning, and then he escorted me to the elevator. See me in about a week, he said. Then, diving into his pocket, he fished out a bill and stuffed it in my fist. You might need that to hold you over. He smiled. It was a twenty dollar bill, as I discovered when I hit the street. I felt like running back and thanking him again, but then I thought no, perhaps they’re used to treating their writers that way.
The snow was softly falling all over Ireland … The words were running like a refrain through my head as I skipped lightly over the cobble-stones homeward bound. Then came another line—why, I had no idea: In my Father’s house are many mansions … They blended perfectly, the snow falling gently, softly, steadily (all over Ireland), and the jewelled mansions of bliss, of which the Father kept an infinite number. It was St. Patrick’s day for me, and no snakes in sight. For some weird reason I felt Irish to the core. A bit of Joyce, a bit of the Blarney Stone, a few shenanigans—and Erin Go Bragh; (Every time the teacher’s back was turned one of us would steal to the blackboard and scrawl out in flaming chalk: Erin Go Bragh!) It’s Brooklyn I’m walking through and the snow is softly falling. I must ask Ulric to recite the passage for me again. He’s got just the voice for it, has he. It’s a beautiful melodious voice. And that he has, Ulric!
The snow was softly falling all over Ireland…
Nimble as a goat, thin as air, wistful as a faun, I wend my way over the lovely bubbly cobble-stones.
If only I knew what to write! Two hundred and fifty dollars was not to be sneezed at. And an editorial position to boot! My, but I had risen suddenly! Mister Cohen must hear of this. (Sholem Aleichem!) Five thousand words. A cinch. Once I knew what to say I could write it at one sitting. Words, words…
Believe it or not, I can’t put a damned word to paper. My favorite subject and here I am, tongue-tied. Curious. Worse than that—depressing.
Maybe I ought to do a little research work first. After all, what do I know about the English language? Almost nothing. To use it is one thing; to write about it intelligently quite another.
I have it! Why not go straight to the source? Why not call on the editor-in-chief of the famous unabridged dictionary? Which one? Funk & Wagnall’s. (The only one I ever used.)
Next morning bright and early I’m sitting in the ante-room, waiting for Dr. Vizetelly himself to appear. (It’s like asking Jesus Christ to help you, think I to myself.) However, the cards are on the table. All I pray for is not to make a damned fool of myself, as I did years ago when I called on a famous writer and asked straight out: How does one begin to write? (The answer is: By writing. That’s exactly what he said, and that was end of the interview.)
Dr. Vizetelly is standing before me. A live, genial man, full of sparkle and verve. Puts me at ease immediately. Urges me to unburden myself. Draws up a comfortable chair for himself, listens attentively, then begins…
For a full hour or more this kind, gracious soul, to whom I shall always feel indebted, delivers himself of all that he thinks may serve me. He speaks so rapidly and fulsomely that I haven’t the chance to make a single note. My head is spinning. How will I remember even a fraction of all this exciting information? It’s as though I had put my head under a fountain.
Dr. Vizetelly, conscious of my dilemma, comes to the rescue. He orders a page to bring me folders and pamphlets. Urges me to look them over at my leisure. I’m certain you’ll write an excellent article, he says, beaming at me like a godfather. Then he asks if I will be good enough to show him what I’ve written before submitting it to the magazine.
Without warning he now puts me a few direct questions about myself: how long have I been writing? what else have I done? what books do I read? what languages do I know? One after another—tic, tac, toe. I feel like less than nobody, or as they say in Hebrew—efes efasim. What indeed have I done? What indeed do I know? Smoked out at last, what is there to do but humbly confess my sins and omissions. I do so, exactly as I would to a priest, were I a Catholic and not the miserable spawn of Calvin and Luther.
What a virile, magnetic individual, this man! Who would ever dream, meeting him in the street, that he was the editor of a dictionary? The first erudite to inspire me with confidence and admiration. This is a man. I say it over and over to myself. A man with a pair of balls as well as a think-tank. Not a mere fount of wisdom but a living, rushing, roaring cataract. Every particle of his being vibrates with an electric ardor. He not only knows every word in
