The fellow was so kind, so obviously trying to put us back on our feet, that we didn’t have the heart to refuse. We permitted him to fill a big valise, accepted the money he offered us for a taxi home, and said good-bye. On the way home I grew thoroughly excited over the prospect. Nothing for it but to start out fresh, the next morning, right in our own neighborhood. Mona, I observed, wasn’t nearly as elated as I, but she was game to try it. During the night, I confess, my ardor cooled off a bit.
(Fortunately, O’Mara was away for a few days, visiting an old friend. He would have ridiculed the idea mercilessly.)
The next day, at noon, we met to compare notes. Mona was already home when I arrived. She didn’t appear very enthusiastic about her morning. She had sold a few boxes, yes, but it had been hard work. Our neighbors, according to her, weren’t a very hospitable sort. (I, of course, hadn’t sold a single box. I was already through, in my mind, with door to door canvassing. In fact, I was almost ready to take a job.)
There was a better way, Mona thought, to go about the business. To-morrow she would tackle the office buildings where she would have to do with men, not housewives and servants. That failing, she would try the night clubs in the Village, and possibly the cafes along Second Avenue. (The cafes appealed to me; I thought I might tackle them myself, on my own.)
The office buildings proved somewhat better than residences, but not much better. It was hard to get to the man behind the desk, particularly when it was candies you had to offer. And then there were all kinds of filthy propositions to put up with. One or two individuals, the better sort, had bought a half-dozen boxes at once. Out of pity, clearly. One of these was a very fine chap indeed. She was going to see him again soon. Apparently he had done his best to persuade her to abandon the racket. I’ll tell you more about him later, she said.
I’ll never forget my first night as a peddler. I had chosen the Cafe Royal as my starting point because it was a familiar haunt. (It was my hope that I would run into some one I knew who would start me off on the right foot.) People were still loitering over dinner when I sailed in with my little suitcase filled with candy boxes. I took a quick glance about but saw no one I knew. Presently I caught sight of a group of merrymakers seated at a long table. I decided they were the ones to tackle first.
Unfortunately they were a little to gay. Imported candies, no less! jeered one jolly fellow. Why not imported silks? The man next to him wanted to inspect the candies, wanted to make sure they were imported and not domestic. He took a few boxes and passed them around. Seeing the women nibbling away I assumed everything was in order. I circulated round the table, coming finally to the man who appeared to be the master of ceremonies. He was full of talk, a wise-cracker. Candies, hum! A new racket. Well dressed and speaks a good English. Probably working his way through college … Et patati et potata. He bit into a few, then passed the box around in the other direction, still making running comments, a monologue which kept the others in stitches. I was left to stand there like a stick. No one had as yet asked me the price of a box. Neither had any one said he would take a box. Like a game of parchesi, it was. Then, after they had all sampled the candy to their heart’s content, after they had nibbled and joked at my expense, they began talking of other matters, about all sorts of things but not a word about candy, not a word about the young man, yours truly, who was standing there waiting for some one to speak up.
I stood there quite a time, wondering just how far these convivial souls intended to push their little joke. I made no effort to collect the boxes which were scattered about. Nor did I open my mouth to say a word. I just stood there and looked from one to the other questioningly, my gaze gradually changing to a glare. I could feel a wave of embarrassment pass from one to the other. Finally the man who was the jolly host, and at whose elbow I was standing mutely, sensed that something untoward was taking place. He turned half-way round, looked up at me for the first time, then, as if to brush me away, remarked: What, you still here? We don’t want any candy. Away with it! Still I said nothing, just scowled. My fingers were twitching nervously; I was itching to grab him by the throat. I still couldn’t believe he intended to play that sort of trick on me—not me, a born white American, an artist to boot, and all the other grand things I credited myself with in a moment of wounded pride. Suddenly I recalled the scene I had put on for the amusement of my friends in this same cafe, when I had made such abominable sport of the poor old Jew. Suddenly I realized the irony of my situation.
Now I was the poor helpless individual. The butt of the evening. It was grand sport. Grand indeed, if you happened to be seated at the table and not standing on your hind legs like a dog begging for a few crumbs. I went hot and cold. I was so ashamed of myself, so damned sorry for myself at the same time, that I was ready to murder the man who was baiting me. Far better to land in jail than tolerate further humiliation. Better to start a rumpus and break the deadlock.
Fortunately the man must have sensed what was passing through my head. However, he didn’t quite know how to pass it off, his little joke. I heard him, in a rather conciliatory voice, say—What’s the matter? Then for a few minutes I heard nothing, nothing but the sound of my own voice. What I was yelling I don’t know. I know only that I was ranting like a madman. I might have continued indefinitely had not the waiters rushed up to bundle me off. Their arms about me, I they were just about to throw me out bodily, when the man who had been baiting me begged them to let me go. Springing to his feet, he put his hand on my shoulder. I’m so sorry, he said, I had no idea I was causing you such anguish. Sit down a moment, won’t you? He reached for a bottle and poured out a glass of wine. I was flushed and still glowering. My hands were trembling violently. The whole company now stared at me; it seemed as if they formed one huge animal with many pairs of eyes. People at the other tables were also staring at me.
I felt the man’s warm hand resting on mine; he was urging me in a soothing voice to take a drink. I raised the glass and swallowed it down. He refilled it and raised his own to his lips. To your health! he said, and the other members of his party followed suit. Then he said: My name is Spielberg. What is yours, if I may ask? I gave him my right name, which sounded intensely strange to my ears, and we clinked glasses. In a moment they were all talking at once, all trying desperately to prove to me how sorry they were for their rude behavior. Won’t you have some chicken? begged a sweet young woman opposite me. She raised the platter and handed it to me. I couldn’t very well refuse. The waiter was summoned. Wouldn’t I like something else? Coffee, surely, and perhaps a little schnapps? I consented. I hadn’t yet said a word, other than to give my name. (What is Henry Miller doing here? I kept repeating to myself. Henry Miller … Henry Miller.)
Out of the jumble of words which assaulted my ears I finally made out the following—What on earth are you doing here? Is this an experiment? By this time I was able to draw a smile. Yes, I said feebly, in a way.
It was my would-be tormentor who was now endeavoring to talk to me in earnest. What are you really? he said. I mean, what do you do ordinarily?
I told
