Much as I liked Tony Marella, it always sickened me to hear the way my folks raved about him. I had known Tony from grammar school; we were always in the same class and we graduated together at the head of the class. Tony had to struggle for everything, whereas for me it was the contrary. He was a tough, rebellious kid whose animal spirits drove the teachers crazy. With the boys he was a born leader. For years I lost track of him completely. Never even gave him a thought. One winter’s evening, tramping through the snow, I ran into him. He was on his way to a political meeting, and I, I was keeping a date with some dizzy-blonde. Tony tried to get me to accompany him to the meeting, said it would do me good. I laughed in his face. A bit peeved, he began talking politics to me, told me he was out to reform the Democratic party of our district, our old home district. Again I laughed, his time almost insultingly. To this Tony cried: You’ll be voting for me in a couple of years, wait and see. They need men like me in the Party.
Tony, I said, I’ve never voted yet and I don’t think I ever will. But if you’re running for office I may make an exception. I’d like nothing better than to see you become President of the United States. You’d be a credit to the White House. He thought I was kidding him, but I was dead serious.
In the midst of this talk Tony mentioned the name of his possible rival, Martin Malone. Martin Malone! I exclaimed. Not our Martin Malone? The very one, he assured me. Now the coming figure in the Republican Party. I was that surprised you could have knocked me over with a feather. That blockhead! How had he ever come into such prominence? Tony explained that it was the father’s influence. I remembered old man Malone well; he was a good man and an honest politician, rare thing. But his son! Why, Martin, who was four years older than us, was always at the foot of the class. He stuttered badly too, or he did as a boy. And this dunce was now a leading figure in local politics. You see why I’m not interested in politics, I said. There’s where you’re wrong, Henry, said Tony vehemently. Would you want to see Martin Malone become a Congressman?
Frankly, said I, I don’t give a damn who becomes Congressman of this district, or any district. It doesn’t matter in the slightest. It doesn’t even matter who’s President. Nothing matters. The country isn’t run by these shits. Tony shook his head in thorough disapproval. Henry, you’re lost, he said. You’re an out-and-out anarchist. And on this we parted, not to meet again for a number of years.
The old man never ceased harping on Tony’s virtues. I knew, of course, that my father was only trying to put some life in me. I knew that after he had done talking about Tony Marella he would ask how the writing business was coming along, had I sold anything yet, and so on. And if I said that nothing of importance had happened yet, my mother would then give me one of those sad, sidelong looks, as if to pity me for the ignorance of my ways, perhaps adding aloud that I had always been the brightest boy in the class, that I had had every opportunity, yet here I was trying to become a foolish thing like a writer. If you could only write something for the Saturday Evening Post! she would say. Or, to make my position even more ludicrous, this: Maybe
The Chat would take one of your stories! (Everything I wrote, incidentally, she called a story, though I had explained to her a dozen or more times that I didn’t write stories. Well, whatever they are, then, was always her final word.)
In parting I would always say to her: You’re sure now there are none of my old things left? The answer always was—Forget it! In the street, as she stood at the fence to wave good-bye, there’d be this Parthian shot from her: Don’t you think you’d better give up that writing and find a job? You’re not getting any younger, you know. You may be and old man before you’re famous.
I would leave filled with remorse that I hadn’t made their evening more entertaining. On the way to the elevated station I had to pass Tony Marella’s old home. His father still ran a cobbler’s shop on the street front. Tony had blossomed right out of that hovel in which he was raised. The edifice itself had undergone no changes in the generation which had passed. Only Tony had changed, had evolved, in keeping with the times. I felt certain he still spoke Italian to his parents, still kissed his father affectionately when greeting him, was still providing for the family out of his meagre salary. What a different atmosphere reigned in that household! What a joy it must have been to his parents to see Tony making his way in the world! When he made his grand speeches they were unable to understand a word; he said. But they knew he was saying the right thing.’ Everything he did was right in their eyes. He was indeed a good son. And, if he ever made the grade, he would be a damned good President.
As I rehearsed all this I recalled how my mother used to speak of my father, of the pride and joy he was to his parents. I was the thorn in their side. I brought nothing but problems. Who could say, though? One day it might all turn out different. One day, by a single stroke, perhaps I might alter the whole set-up. I might yet prove that I was not completely hopeless. But when? And how?
5
It was of a sunny day in the first rush of Spring that we found ourselves on Second Avenue. The Mezzotint racket was on its last legs and there was nothing new on the horizon. We had come to the East Side to make a touch but nothing had come of it. Weary and thirsty from tramping about in the blazing sun, we were wondering how to get a cool drink on no money. Passing a candy store with an inviting soda fountain we decided, on a mutual impulse, to go in, have our drink, and then pretend we had lost our money.
The owner, a homely, friendly sort of Jew, waited on us himself. His manner indicated that we obviously hailed from another world. We dawdled over the drink, drawing him into conversation in order to prepare him for the sad news. He seemed flattered that we took such notice of him. When it came time I fumbled around for change and, not finding any, asked Mona in a loud voice to look through her bag, saying that I must have left my money at home. She of course couldn’t dig up a red cent. I suggested to the man, who was calmly observing this performance, that, if he didn’t mind, we would pay the next time we were in the neighborhood. Quite affably he said that we could forget about it if we liked. Then he politely inquired what part of the city we came from. To our surprise we discovered that he knew intimately the very street we were living on. At this point he invited us to have another drink and with the drink he offered us some delicious cakes. It was plain he was curious to know more about us. Since we had nothing to lose, I decided to make a clean breast of it.
So we were broke? He had suspected that we were but he was dumbfounded, nevertheless, that two people so intelligent, speaking such beautiful English, born Americans to boot, should find it difficult to make a living in a city like New York. I of course pretended that I would welcome a job if I could find one. I hinted that it wasn’t easy for me to find work because I was really incapable of doing anything but push the pen, adding that I was probably not very good at this either. He was of a different mind. Had he been able to read and write English, he informed us, he would now be living on Park Avenue. His story, a fairly common one, was that some eight years ago he had come to America with just a few dollars in his pocket. He had immediately accepted a job in a marble quarry, in Vermont.
Brutal work But it has enabled him to save up a few hundred dollars. With this money he had bought some odds and ends, put them in a sack, and set out on the road as a peddler. In less than no time (it almost sounded like an Horatio Alger story) he had acquired a pushcart, then a horse and wagon. His mind had always been set on coming to New York where he longed to open a shop of some sort. By
