The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (44 page)

I wish you luck! I grasped his hand and shook it. Here’s where I take leave of you.

Have a coffee with me! Come on!

Nope. Back to work. As Krishna said to Arjuna: ‘If I stopped work for a moment, the whole universe would…

Would what?

Fall apart, I think he said.

Okay, Hen. He wheeled around and, without another word, went off in the opposite direction.

I had only gone a few steps when I heard him shouting.

Hey Hen!

What?

I’ll see you in Paris, if not before. So long!

See you in Hell, I thought to myself. But as I resumed my walk I felt a twinge of remorse. You shouldn’t treat any one like that, not even your best friend, I said to myself.

All the way home I kept carrying on a monologue. It went something like this…

So what if he is a pain in the ass? Sure, every one has to solve his own problems, but—is that a reason to turn a man down? You’re not a Vivekananda. Besides, would Vivekananda have acted that way? You don’t snub a man who’s in distress. Nor do you have to let him puke over you either. Supposing he is acting like a child, what of it? Is your behavior always that of an adult? And wasn’t that a lot of shit, about not having anything in common any more? He should have walked away from you then and there. What you have in common, my fine Swami, is plain ordinary human weakness. Maybe he did stop growing long ago. Is that a crime? No matter at what point along the road he is, he’s still a human being. Move on, if you like … keep your eyes straight ahead … but don’t refuse a laggard a helping hand. Where would you be if you had had to go it alone? Are you standing on your own two feet? What about all those nobodies, those nincompoops, who emptied their pockets for you when you were in need? Are they worthless, now that you no longer have need of them?

No, but…

So you have no answer! You’re pretending to be something which you’re not. You’re afraid of falling back into your old ways. You flatter yourself that you’re different, but the fact is you’re only too much like the others whom you glibly condemn. That crazy elevator runner was on to you. He saw right through you, didn’t he? Frankly, what have you accomplished with your own two hands, or with that intellect you seem so proud of? At twenty-one Alexander started out to conquer the world, and at thirty he had the world in his two hands. I know you’re not aiming to conquer the world—but you’d like to make a dent in it, wouldn’t you? You want to be recognized as a writer. Well, who’s stopping you? Not poor MacGregor, certainly. Yes, there is only one sin, as Vivekananda said. And that is weakness. Take it to heart, old man … take it to heart! Come down off your high horse! Come out of your ivory tower and join the ranks! Maybe there’s something more to life than writing books. And what have you got to say that’s so very important? Are you another Nietzsche? You’re not even you yet, do you realize that?

By the time I reached the corner of our street I had beaten myself to a pulp. I had about as much spunk left in me as a stoat. To make it worse, Sid Essen was waiting for me at the foot of the steps. He was wreathed in smiles. Miller, he said, I’m not going to take up your valuable time. I couldn’t keep this in my pocket another minute.

He pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. What’s this? I said.

A little token from your friends. Those darkies think the world of you. You’re to buy something with it for the Missus. It’s a little collection they made among themselves.

In my crestfallen state I was on the verge of tears. Miller, Miller, said Reb, throwing his arms around me, what are we ever going to do without you?

It’ll only be a few months, I said, blushing like a fool.

I know, I know, but we’re going to miss you. Have a coffee with me, won’t you? I won’t keep you. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.

I walked back to the corner with him, to the candy and stationery shop where we had first met.

You know, he said, as we took a seat at the counter, I’ve almost a mind to join you. Only I know that I’d be in the way.

Somewhat embarrassed, I replied: Guess most everybody would love to go to Paris for a vacation. They will too, one day…

I meant, Miller, that I’d love to see it through your eyes. He gave me a look that melted me.

Yes, I said, disregarding his words, one day it won’t be necessary to take a boat or a plane to get to Europe.

All we need to learn now is how to overcome the force of gravitation. Just stay put and let the earth spin round under your feet. It travels fast, this old earth. I went on in this vein, trying to overcome my embarrassment. Engines, turbines, motors … Leonardo da Vinci. And we’re moving like snails, I said. We haven’t even begun to use the magnetic forces which envelop us. We’re cave men still, with motors up our bung holes…

Poor Reb didn’t know what to make of it. He was itching to say something, but he didn’t want to be impolite and head me off. So I rattled on.

Simplification, that’s what we need. Look at the stars—they have no motors. Have you ever thought what it is that keeps this earth of ours spinning like a ball? Nikola Tesla gave a lot of thought to it, and Marconi too. No one has yet come up with the final answer.

He looked at me in utter perplexity. I knew that whatever it was that was on his mind it wasn’t electromagnetism.

I’m sorry, I said. You wanted to tell me something, didn’t you?

Yes, he said, but I don’t want to…

I was only thinking out loud.

Well, then … He cleared his throat. All I wanted to tell you was this … if you should get stranded over there, don’t hesitate to cable me. Or if you want to prolong your stay. You know where to reach me. He blushed and turned his head away.

Reb, I said, nudging him with my elbow, you’re just too damned good to me. And you hardly know me. I mean, you’ve known me only a short time. None of my so-called friends would do as much, that’s a bet.

To this he replied—You don’t know what your friends are capable of doing for you, I’m afraid. You’ve never given them a chance.

I fairly exploded. I haven’t, eh? Man, I’ve given them so many chances they don’t even want to hear my name.

Aren’t you a bit hard on them? Maybe they didn’t have what to give.

That’s exactly what they said, all of them. But it’s not true. If you don’t have you can borrow—for a friend. Right? Abraham offered up his son, didn’t he?

That was to Jehovah.

I wasn’t asking them to make sacrifices. All I asked for was chicken feed—cigarettes, a meal, old clothes. Wait a minute, I want to modify what I said. There were exceptions. There was one lad I remember, one of my messengers … this was after I had quit the telegraph company … when he learned that I was up against it he went and stole for me. He’d bring us a chicken or a few vegetables … sometimes only a candy bar, if that was all he could lay hands on. There were others too, poor like him, or nuts. They didn’t turn their pockets inside out to show me they had nothing. The guys I traveled with had no right to refuse me. None of them had ever starved. We weren’t poor white trash. We all came from decent, comfortable homes. No, maybe it’s the Jew in you that makes you so kind and thoughtful, pardon the way I put it. When a Jew sees a man in distress, hungry, abused, despised, he sees himself. He identifies immediately with the other fellow. Not us. We haven’t tasted enough poverty, misfortune, disgrace, humiliation. We’ve never been pariahs. We’re sitting pretty, we are, lording it over the rest of the world.

Miller, he said, you must have taken a lot of punishment. No matter what I may think of my own people—they’ve got their faults too, you know—I could never talk about them the way you do about yours. It makes me all the more happy to think you’re going to enjoy yourself for a while. It’s coming to you. But you’ve got to bury the past!

I’ve got to stop feeling sorry for myself, you mean. I threw him a tender smile. You know, Reb, I really don’t feel this way all the time. Deep down it still rankles, but on the surface I take people pretty much as they come. What I can’t get over, I guess, is that I had to worm it out of them, everything I got. And what did I get? Crumbs. I exaggerate, of course. Not every one turned me down cold. And those who did probably had a right to act as they did. It was like the pitcher you bring once too often to the well. I sure knew how to make a nuisance of myself. And for a man who’s willing to eat humble pie I was too arrogant. I had a way of rubbing people the wrong way. Especially when asking for help. You see, I’m one of those fools who think that people, friends anyway, ought to divine the fact that one is in need. When you come across a poor, filthy beggar, does he have to make your heart bleed before you toss him a coin? Not if you’re a decent, sensitive being. When you see him with head down, searching the gutter for a discarded butt or a piece of yesterday’s sandwich, you lift up his head, you put your arms around him, especially if he’s crawling with lice, and you say: ‘What is it, friend? Can I be of any help?’ You don’t pass him up with one eye fastened on a bird sitting on a telegraph wire. You don’t make him run after you with hands outstretched. That’s my point. No wonder so many people refuse a beggar when he accosts them. It’s humiliating to be approached that way: it makes you feel guilty. We’re all generous, in our own way. But the moment some one begs something of us our hearts close up.

Miller, said Reb, visibly moved by this outburst, you’re what I’d call a good Jew.

Another Jesus, eh?

Yeah, why not? Jesus was a good Jew, even though we’ve had to suffer for two thousand years because of him.

The moral is—don’t work too hard at it! Don’t try to be too good.

One can never do too much, said Reb heatedly.

Oh yes he can. Do what needs doing, that’s good enough.

Isn’t it the same thing?

Almost. The point is that God looks after the world. We should look after one another. If the good Lord had seeded help to run this world He would have given us bigger hearts. Hearts, not brains.

Jesus, said Reb, but you do talk like a Jew. You remind me of certain scholars I listened to when I was a kid and they were expounding the law. They could jump from one side of the fence to the other, like goats. When you were cold they blew hot, and vice versa. You never knew where you stood with them. Here’s what I mean … Passionate as they were, they always preached moderation. The prophets were the wild men; they were in a class apart. The holy men didn’t rant and rave. They were pure, that’s why. And you’re pure too. I know you are.

What was there to answer? He was simple, Reb, and in need of a friend. No matter what I said, no matter how I treated him, he acted as if I had enriched him. I was his friend. And he would remain my friend, no matter what.

Walking back to the house I resumed the inner monologue. You see, it’s as simple as that, friendship. What’s the old adage? To have a friend you must be a friend.

It was hard to see, though, in what way I had been a friend to Reb—or to anybody, for that matter. All I could see was that I was my own best friend—and my own worst enemy.

Pushing the door open, I had to remark to myself—If you know that much, old fella, you know a lot.

I took my accustomed place before the machine. Now, said I to myself, you’re back in your own little kingdom. Now you can play God again.

The drollery of addressing myself thus stopped me. God! As if it were only yesterday that I had left off communing with Him, I found myself conversing with Him as of yore. For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten Son … And how little we had given in return. What can we offer thee, O Heavenly Father, in return for thy blessings? My heart spoke out, as if, veriest nothing that I was, I had an inkling of the problems which confronted the Creator of the universe. Nor was I ashamed to be thus intimate with my Maker. Was I not part of that immense all which He had made manifest expressly, perhaps, to realize the unlimited bounds of his Being?

It was ages since I had addressed Him in this intimate fashion. What a difference between those prayers wrung out of sheer despair, when I called on Him for mercy—mercy, not grace!—and the easy duos born of humble understanding! Strange, is it, this mention of earthly-heavenly discourse? It would occur most often when my spirits ran high … when there was little reason, mark this, to show any sign of spirit. Incongruous as it may sound, it was often when the cruel nature of man’s fate smote me between the eyes that my spirit soared. When, like a worm eating his way through the slime, there came the thought, crazy perhaps, that the lowest was linked to the highest. Did they not tell us, when we were young, that God noted the sparrow’s fall? Even if I never quite believed it, I was nevertheless impressed. (Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh—is there anything too hard for me?) Total awareness! Plausible or implausible, it was a great reach of thought. Sometimes, as a kid, when something truly extraordinary occurred, I would exclaim: Did you see that, God? How wonderful to think that He was there, within calling distance! He was a presence then, not a metaphysical abstraction. His spirit pervaded everything; He was of it all and above it all, at one and the same time. And then—thinking about it I assumed an almost seraphic smile—then would come times when, in order not to go stark, raving mad, one simply had to look upon it (upon the absurd, monstrous nature of things) with the eyes of the Creator, He who is responsible for it all and understands it.

Tapping away—I was on the gallop now—the thought of Creation, of the all-seeing eye, the all-embracing corn-passion, the nearness and farness of God, hung over me like a veil. What a joke to be writing a novel about imaginary characters, imaginary situations! Hadn’t the Lord of the Universe imagined everything? What a farce to lord it over this fictitious realm! Was it for this I had beseeched the Almighty to grant me the gift of words?

The utter ridiculousness of my position brought me to a halt. Why hurry to bring the book to a close? In my mind it was already finished. I had thought out the imaginary drama to its imaginary end. I could rest a moment, suspended above my ant-like being, and let a few more hairs whiten.