No, I’d rather have them come and take the things away – if I can’t pay for them, I mean…” He was fidgeting about and there was a rather glassy stare in his eye, I thought. “Excuse me,” I said, interrupting myself, “but wouldn’t you like to have a little drink – to wet the policy?” He said he thought not, but I insisted, and besides, I hadn’t signed the papers yet and my urine would have to be examined and approved of and all sorts of stamps and seals would have to be affixed -1 knew all that crap by heart – so I thought we might have a little snifter first and in that way protract the serious business, because honestly, buying insurance or buying anything was a real pleasure to me and gave me the feeling that I was just like every other citizen, a man, what! and not a monkey. So I got out a bottle of sherry (which is all that was allowed me), and I poured out a generous glassful for him, thinking to myself that it was fine to see the sherry going because maybe the next time they’d buy something better for me. “I used to sell insurance too once upon a time,” I said, raising the glass to my lips. “Sure, I can sell anything. The only thing is – I’m lazy. Take a day like to-day – isn’t it nicer to be indoors, reading a book or listening to the phonograph? Why should I go out and hustle for an insurance company? If I had been working to-day you wouldn’t have caught me in -isn’t that so? No, I think it’s better to take it easy and help people out when they come along… like with you, for instance. It’s much nicer to buy things than to sell them, don’t you think? If you have the money, of course! In this house we don’t need much money. As I was saying, the piano comes to about 39 cents a week, or forty-two maybe, and the …”
“Excuse me, Mr Miller,” he interrupted, “but don’t you think we ought to get down to signing these papers?”
“Why, of course,” I said cheerfully. “Did you bring them all with you? Which one do you think we ought to sign first? By the way, you haven’t got a fountain pen you’d like to sell me, have you?”
“Just sign right here,” he said, pretending to ignore my remarks. “And here, that’s it. Now then, Mr. Miller, I think I’ll say good day – and you’ll be hearing from the company in a few days.”
“Better make it sooner,” I remarked, leading him to the door, “because I might change my mind and commit suicide.”
“Why, of course, why yes, Mr. Miller, certainly we will. Good day now, good day!”
Of course the instalment plan breaks down eventually, even if you’re an assiduous buyer such as I was. I certainly did my best to keep the manufacturers and the advertising men of America busy, but they were disappointed in me it seems. Everybody was disappointed in me. .But there was one man in particular who was more disappointed in me than any one and that was a man who had really made an effort to befriend me and whom I had let down. I think of him and the way he took me on as his assistant – so readily and graciously – because later, when I was hiring and firing like a 42 horse calibre revolver, I was betrayed right and left myself, but by that time I had become so inoculated that it didn’t matter a damn. But this man had gone out of his way to show me that he believed in me. He was the editor of a catalogue for a great mail order house. It was an enormous compendium of horse-shit which was put out once a year and which took the whole year to make ready. I hadn’t the slightest idea what it was all about and why I dropped into his office that day I don’t know, unless it was because I wanted to get warm, as I had been knocking about the docks all day trying to get a job as a checker or some damned thing. It was cosy in his office and I made him a long speech so as to get thawed out. I didn’t know what job to ask for – just a job, I said. He was a sensitive man and very kindhearted.
He seemed to guess that I was a writer, or wanted to be a writer, because soon he was asking me what I liked to read and what was my opinion of this writer and that writer. It just happened that I had a list of books in my pocket – books I was searching for at the public library – and so I brought it out and showed it to him. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed, “do you really read these books?” I modestly shook my head in the affirmative, and then as often happened to me when I was touched off by some silly remark like that, I began to talk about Hamsun’s Mysteries which I had just been reading. From then on the man was like putty in my hands. When he asked me if I would like to be his assistant he apologized for offering me such a lowly position; he said I could take my time learning the ins-and-outs of the job, he was sure it would be a cach(?) for me. And then he asked me if he couldn’t lend me some money, out of his own pocket until I got paid.
Before I could say yes or no he had fished out a twenty dollar bill and thrust it in my hand. Naturally I was touched. I was ready to work like a son of a bitch for him. Assistant editor – it sounded quite good, especially to the creditors in the neighbourhood. And for a while I was so happy to be eating roast beef and chicken and tenderloins of pork that I pretended I liked the job. Actually it was difficult for me to keep awake. What I had to learn I had learned in a week’s time. And after that? After that I saw myself doing penal servitude for life. In order to make the best of it I whiled away the time writing stories and essays and long letters to my friends. Perhaps they thought I was writing up new ideas for the company, because for quite a while nobody paid any attention to me. I thought it was a wonderful job. I had almost the whole day to myself, for my writing, having learned to dispose of the company’s work in about an hour’s time.
I was so enthusiastic about my own private work that I gave orders to my underlings not to disturb me except at stipulated moments. I was sailing along like a breeze, the company paying me regularly and the slave-drivers doing the work I had mapped out for them, when one day, just when I am in the midst of an important essay on The Anti-Christ, a man whom I had never seen before walks up to my desk, bends over my shoulder, and in a sarcastic tone of voice begins to read aloud what I had just written. I didn’t need to inquire who he was or what he was up to – the only thought in my head was, and that I repeated to myself frantically – Will I get an extra week’s pay ? When it came time to bid good-bye to my benefactor I felt a little ashamed of myself, particularly when he said, right off the bat like – “I tried to get you an extra week’s pay but they wouldn’t hear of it. I wish there was something I could do for you – you’re only standing in your own way, you know. To tell the truth, I still have the greatest faith in you – but I’m afraid you’re going to have a hard time of it, for a while. You don’t fit in anywhere. Some day you’ll make a great writer, I feel sure of it. Well, excuse me,” he added, shaking hands with me warmly, “I’ve got to see the boss. Good luck to you!”
I felt a bit cut up about the incident. I.wished it had been possible to prove to him then and there that his faith was justified. I
