I knew very well what he meant. He was one of my oldest friends and one of the most cantankerous bastards I ever knew. Stubborn wasn’t the word for it. He was like a mule – a pigheaded Scotchman. And his old man was even worse. When the two of them got into a rage it was a pretty sight. The old man used to dance positively dance with rage. If the old lady got between she’d get a sock in the eye. They used to put him out of the house regularly. Out he’d go, with all his belongings, including the furniture, including the piano too. In a month or so he’d be back again – because they always gave him credit at home. And then he’d come home drunk some night with a woman he’d picked up somewhere and the rumpus would start all over again. It seems they didn’t mind so much his coming home with a girl and keeping her all night, but what they did object to was the cheek of him asking his mother to serve them breakfast in bed. If his mother tried to bawl him out he’d shut her up by saying – “What are you trying to tell me? You wouldn’t have been married yet if you hadn’t been knocked up.” The old lady would wring her hands and say – “What a son! What a son! God help me, what have I done to deserve this?” To which he’d remark, “Aw forget it!
You’re just an old prune!” Often as not his sister would come up to try and smooth matters out. “Jesus, Wallie,” she’d say, “it’s none of my business what you do, but can’t you talk to your mother more respectfully?” Whereupon MacGregor would make his sister sit on the bed and start coaxing her to bring up the breakfast. Usually he’d have to ask his bed-mate what her name was in order to present her to his sister. “She’s not a bad kid,” he’d say, referring to his sister. “She’s the only decent one in the family … Now listen, sis, bring up some grub, will yer? Some nice bacon and eggs, eh, what do you say? Listen, is the old man around? What’s his mood to-day? I’d like to borrow a couple of bucks. You try to worm it out of him, will you? I’ll get you something nice for Christmas.” Then, as though everything were settled, he’d pull back the covers to expose the wench beside him. “Look at her, sis, ain’t she beautiful? Look at that leg! Listen, you ought to get yourself a man . . . you’re too skinny. Patsy here, I bet she doesn’t go begging for it, eh Patsy?” and with that a sound slap on the rump for Patsy. “Now scram, sis, I want some coffee . . . and don’t forget, make the bacon crisp! Don’t get any of that lousy store bacon … get something extra. And be quick about it!”
What I liked about him were his weaknesses; like all men who practise will-power he was absolutely flabby inside. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do – out of weakness. He was always very busy and he was never really doing anything. And always boning up on something, always trying to improve his mind. For example, he would take the unabridged dictionary and, tearing out a page each day, would read it through religiously on his way back and forth from the office. He was full of facts, and the more absurd and incongruous the facts, the more pleasure he derived from them. He seemed to be bent on proving to all and sundry that life was a farce, that it wasn’t worth the game, that one thing cancelled out another, and so on. He was brought up on the North Side, not very far from the neighbourhood in which I had spent my childhood. He was very much a product of the North Side, too, and that was one of the reasons why I liked him. The way he talked, out of the comer of his mouth, for instance, the tough air he put on when talking to a cop, the way he spat in disgust, the peculiar curse words he used, the sentimentality, the limited horizon, the passion for playing pool or shooting crap, the staying up all night swapping yams, the contempt for the rich, the hobnobbing with politicians, the curiosity about worthless things, the respect for learning, the fascination of the dance hall, the saloon, the burlesque, talking about seeing the world and never budging out of the city, idolizing no matter whom so long as the person showed “spunk”, a thousand and one little traits or peculiarities of this sort endeared him to me because it was precisely such idiosyncrasies which marked the fellows I had known as a child.
The neighbourhood was composed of nothing, it seemed, but lovable failures. The grown-ups behaved like children and the children were incorrigible. Nobody could rise very far above his neighbour or he’d be lynched. It was amazing that any one ever became a doctor or a lawyer. Even so, he had to be a good fellow, had to pretend to talk like every one else, and he had to vote the Democratic ticket. To hear MacGregor talk about Plato or Nietzsche, for instance, to his buddies was something to remember. In the first place, to even get permission to talk about such things as Plato or Nietzsche to his companions, he had to pretend that it was only by accident that he had run across their names; or perhaps he’d say that he had met an interesting drunk one night in the back room of a saloon and this drunk had started talking about these guys Nietzsche and Plato. He would even pretend he didn’t quite know how the names were pronounced. Plato wasn’t such a dumb bastard, he would say apologetically. Plato had an idea or two in his bean, yes sir, yes siree. He’d like to see one of those dumb politicians at Washington trying to lock horns with a guy like Plato. And he’d go on, in this roundabout, matter of fact fashion to explain to his crap-shooting friends just what kind of a bright bird Plato was in his time and how he measured up against other men in other times. Of course, he was probably a eunuch, he would add, by way of throwing a little cold water on all this erudition. In those days, as he nimbly explained, the big guys, the philosophers, often had their nuts cut off – a fact! – so as to be out of all temptation. The other guy, Nietzsche, he was a real case, a case for the bug-house.
He was supposed to be in love with his sister. Hypersensitive like. Had to live in a special climate – in Nice, he thought it was. As a rule he didn’t care much for the Germans, but this guy Nietzsche was different. As a matter of fact, he hated the Germans, this Nietzsche. He claimed he was a Pole or something like that. He had them dead right, too. He said they were stupid and swinish, and by God, he knew what he was talking about. Anyway he showed them up. He said they were full of shit, to make it brief, and by God, wasn’t he right though? Did you see the way those bastards turned tail when they got a dose of their own medicine? “Listen, I know a guy who cleaned out a nestful of them in the Argonne region – he said they were so god-damned low he wouldn’t shit on them. He said he wouldn’t even waste a bullet on them – he just bashed their brains in with a dub. I forget this guy’s name now, but anyway he told me he saw aplenty in the few months he was there. He said the best fun he got out of the whole fucking business was to pop off his own major. Not that he had any special grievance against him – he just didn’t like his mug. He didn’t like the way the guy gave orders. Most of the officers that were killed got it in the back, he said. Served them right, too, the pricks! He was just a lad from the North Side. I think he runs a pool room now down near Wallabout Market. A quiet fellow, minds his own business. But if you start talking to him about the war he goes off the handle. He says he’d assassinate the President of the United States if they ever tried to start another war. Yeah, and he’d do it too, I’m telling you … But shit, what was that I wanted to tell you about Plato? Oh yeah . ..”
When the others were gone he’d suddenly shift gears. “You don’t believe in talking like that, do you?” he’d begin. I had to admit I didn’t. “You’re wrong,” he’d continue. “You’ve got to keep in with people, you don’t know when you may need one of these guys. You act on the assumption that you’re free, independent! You act as though you were superior to these people. Well, that’s where you make a big mistake. How do you know where you’ll be five years from now, or
