What Makes Sammy Run? (3 page)

A few minutes later I came face to face with that good Samaritan Samuel Glick himself.

“Nice work, Sammy,” I said.

“Oh, that’s all right, old man,” he said.

It was the first time he had ever called me anything but Mr. Manheim.

“Listen, wise guy,” I said, “if you found something wrong with my stuff, why didn’t you come and tell me? You always know where I am.”

“Sure I did,” he said, “but I didn’t think we had time.”

“But you just had time to show it to the managing editor first,” I said. “Smart boy.”

“Gee, Mr. Manheim,” he said, “I’m sorry. I just wanted to help you.”

“You helped me,” I said. “The way Flit helps flies.”

Ever since Sammy started working four or five months back he had done a fairly conscientious job of sucking around me. He hardly ever let a day go by without telling me how much he liked my column, and of course I’d be flattered and give him pointers here and there on his grammar, or what to read, or sometimes I’d slip him a couple of tickets for a show and we’d talk it over and I’d find myself listening to him give out with Glick on the Theater. Anyway, he had played me for a good thing and always treated me with as much respect as a fresh kid like that could, but right here, as I watched that face, I actually felt I could see it change. The city editor hadn’t hung a medal on his chest but he had put a glint in Sammy’s eye. You could see he was so gaga about his success that he didn’t care how sore I was. That was the beginning.

“Don’t you think it’s dangerous to drop so many verbs?” he asked. “You might hit somebody down below.”

“Listen,” I said, “tell me one thing. How the hell can you read when you’re running so fast?”

“That’s how I learned to read,” he cracked, “while I was running so fast. Errands.”

It made me sore. He was probably right. Somebody called him and he spun around and started running. What makes Sammy run? I pondered, looking after him, what makes Sammy run?

For the next couple of months Sammy and I didn’t have much to do with each other. I thought maybe by being tough I could teach him a lesson. I’d just hand him copy without looking up, and I quit trying to develop his mind. But after a while that began to seem a little silly. After all, here I was a grown-up drama editor having a peeve on a poor kid who was just trying to get along. It wasn’t dignified. So next time he stopped by I suggested that we bury the hatchet.

“Two bits says I know where you’d like to bury it,” Sammy said—“in my head.”

I had to admit that was quite a temptation, but I managed to overcome it. I guess I’ve always been a gentle soul at heart. I’ve never been able to walk past a street fight between two little newsboys out to murder each other over a three-cent controversy without trying to stop it. On off moments when I wasn’t drunk or working hard I suppose you would have to call me an idealist. I’m not boasting about this. In this world which is run with all the rules and restrictions of a rough-and-ready free-for-all, it is always a little embarrassing to find yourself still believing in such outmoded principles as the golden rule and brotherly love.

So I began piously, “Now, Sammy, after all, I’m almost old enough to be your father …”

“Don’t give me that,” Sammy said. “My old man was twice as old as you when he kicked the bucket five years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I hope you won’t mind my bringing it up. But I’ll bet I know what he’d say if he saw you today. He’d say, ‘Sammy, in the long run you’ll get further by being nice to people because then when you need them, they’ll be nice to you.’ ”

You should have seen Sammy’s face laughing at me. “Mr. Manheim,” he said, “that spiel really rings the bell on my old man. That’s what he’d be telling me, all right. Because you want to know what my old man croaked from? Dumbness.”

“That’s a fine way to talk about your father,” I said.

“Can I help it if that’s what he died of?” Sammy asked. “He didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain and he died of a disease that seems to run in my family—dumbness.”

“That diagnosis doesn’t sound exactly scientific,” I said.

“To hell with science,” he said. “All I know is that my old man kicked off because his brains were muscle-bound, and my old lady and my half-brained brother suffer from the same thing.”

I could see that all this talk was definitely a blind alley. Most Jewish families are pretty strong on filial love, but Sammy wasn’t what you’d call a loving son. So I switched to my sociological approach.

“Sammy,” I began wisely, “society isn’t just a bunch of individuals living alongside of each other. As a member of society, man is interdependent. Not
in
dependent, Sammy,
inter
dependent. Life is too complex for there to be any truth in the old slogan of every man for himself. We share the benefits of social institutions, like take hospitals, the cops and garbage collection. Why, the art of conversation itself is a social invention. We can’t live in this world like a lot of cannibals trying to swallow each other. Learn to give the other fellow a break and we’ll
all
live longer.”

I felt pretty pleased with myself after I said that because I was convinced that it was one of the most sensible things I had ever said. But I might as well have been talking to a stone wall. In fact that might have been better. At least it couldn’t talk back.

Sammy’s answer was, “If you want to save souls, try China.”

I suppose the reason Sammy was getting my goat was because he was the smartest and stupidest human being I had ever met. He had a quick intelligence, which he was able to use exclusively for the good-and-welfare of Sammy Glick. And that kind of intelligence implies stupidity, for where other people might have one
blind spot, Sammy’s mind was a mass of blind spots, with only a single ray of light focused immediately ahead.

But fat with tolerance, like a Quaker, I decided to break Sammy down with kindness. I had two for
Of Thee I Sing
, so I gave them to him and told him to take his mother or his girl.

“Girl,” he sneered, “you don’t see me with any girl.”

“That’s a terrible loss to the opposite sex,” I said.

“What good would a girl do me?” he said. “All they do is take up time and dough, and then if they happen to get knocked up they go yelling for their mothers.”

“In other words,” I said, “you’re above sex?”

“Hell, no,” he said, “I’ve got a pal who gets me fixed up every Saturday night. Gratis.”

“Isn’t it romantic?”
I sang the words of a current song. “Now that we’ve got that settled, do you still want the ducats? Take ’em home and surprise your mother.”

“My old lady at a musical show?” Sammy said. “The closest she ever got to a real show was hearing the cantor sing ‘Eli Eli.’ ”

“Then take her out and give her a treat,” I said. “About the most fun you can have in the world is showing people who aren’t used to it a good time.”

“Jesus, you’re a sentimental bastard,” Sammy said. “Most of the Hebes I know drive me nuts because they always go around trying to be so goddam kind. It ain’t natural.”

“Remember what I told you,” I said. “Don’t say ‘ain’t’ or you’ll be an office boy forever.”

“Fat chance,” Sammy said, and hurried off.

When I saw Sammy the next day he didn’t even mention the show, so I finally had to ask him.

“I didn’t expect you to thank me for those tickets,” I said, “but I thought you might tell me what you thought of it.”

“Good show,” he said.

“Good show,” I screamed. “One of the greatest American plays ever written and all you can say is, ‘good show!’ ”

“I wouldn’t mind having half of what Kaufman and Ryskind have,” he added.

That’s a little more like it, I thought. “I’d settle for half their talent myself,” I said.

“I don’t mean talent,” Sammy said. “I mean profit. That show must be cleaning up.”

“Go on, beat it,” I said. “Disappear.”

A little later I happened to meet one of the rewrite men, Osborne, at the water cooler. He was a sweet old gray-haired duck who was gradually working his way down from the hundred-a-week ace reporter he had been before the War.

“Hello, Osborne,” I said, “I thought you were going to drop around when you wanted a couple of tickets for some musical. The offer still goes.”

“Thanks, Al,” he said, “but I didn’t want to bother you, so me and the little woman just took one in ourselves. Last night as a matter of fact.”

“What did you do that for?” I said. “Two seats at the box office must have set you back plenty.”

“As a matter of fact,” Osborne said, “it isn’t as bad as it sounds. I happened to get a bargain on two seats right up in front. And since it happened to be our twenty-seventh anniversary, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to splurge.”

“Someone bootlegging in the lobby?” I said.

“No,” he said, “I bought them from one of the kids. Name’s Glick, I think. Sold me the two of ’em for four bucks.”

That made me burn. Four dollars was a lot of money to Osborne.

I didn’t wait to run into Sammy again. I sent for him as soon as I got back to my desk.

“So you thought the show last night was pretty good,” I began.

“I’ve seen worse,” Sammy said.

“I didn’t know you were such a tough critic, Mr. Glick,” I said. “You make George Jean Nathan sound like a blurb writer.”

“I just know what I like,” Sammy said.

“That’s quite a trick,” I said, “knowing what you like without even having to see it.”

“What do you mean haven’t seen?” Sammy said in a tone of injured belligerence.

“Wipe that indignation off your face, Sammy,” I said. “I mean I’ve been talking with Osborne.”

He took this without a sign of embarrassment. Ability to absorb insults and embarrassment like a sponge was turning out to be one of his greatest accomplishments.

“Oh,” he said, “I would have told you only I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Don’t be so goddam thoughtful,” I said. “If you didn’t want to see the show, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t find out until the last minute that I couldn’t go,” he explained. “So instead of wasting them I gave them to Osborne.”

“There was nothing wrong with that,” I said. “Except for one little detail. You didn’t give those tickets to Osborne. You soaked him four bucks for them.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Sammy said. “On the other hand you could say I saved him the three and a half more he’d’ve had to pay at the box office.”

“You
could say it,” I said, “but you’re the only one who could say it. Why, there’s even a law against profiteering on complimentary tickets. You could go to jail for this.”

Sammy found this threat merely amusing. “All right, mister,” he said. “Don’t shoot. I’ll come quietly.”

“You’ve taken four bucks from Osborne just as sure as if you’ve picked his pocket,” I said sternly. “Why don’t you be a good kid and pay him back? He’s having his troubles, too.”

“Sure, I’d give him his lousy four bucks back,” Sammy said. “Only it’s too late now. I spent it.”

I didn’t notice him looking down at his shoes as he spoke, but I guess he must have because I found myself staring at them too. They were brand new the way only shoes can be new, stiff and shiny and still in the window. They were a highly polished yellow-brown leather that made up in gloss what it lacked in quality, small neat shoes that came to a point too stylishly narrow for everyday use.

“So those are the shoes I gave you,” I said.

“They were on sale down at Hearns,” he said, with no hint of apology. In fact, he seemed really proud of what he had done. He looked down at his shoes, reveling in their newness and added, “You know what, Mr. Manheim, these are the first brand-new shoes I ever had. It’s about time, too. I was fed up with wearing my brother’s hand-me-downs.”

“Sammy,” I said, “for Christ’s sake, if you needed shoes that bad you could have told me. I’m not exactly Rockefeller, but I’m always good for a little touch if it means going without shoes.”

“Thanks,” Sammy said, “but you never find me going in for favors. I found out long ago that was a sucker’s trick. It leaves you wide open. This way you’re sore for a while and I don’t owe you nothing.”

“Don’t owe me anything,” I said. “When are you going to learn two negatives cancel each other? If you don’t owe me nothing that means you do owe me something.”

“O.K.,” Sammy said agreeably, “so I don’t owe you anything.”

I gave up. It was like trying to convince Capone to exchange his machine guns for water pistols. I simply became resigned. It was just as if a wildcat were loose in the office and if I happened to see it crouching on the water cooler I would say to myself that new copyreader certainly looks queer. Only Sammy Glick was a much more predatory animal than any wildcat. For a long time I thought that the phenomenon of Sammy Glick was my own little secret, but after a while I began to find that the whole office was afraid of him. I know that sounds wacky. Hardened newspapermen being afraid of a snot-nosed little office boy? But that’s really what it added up to. Even Osborne, the Christ-like rewrite man who always had a good word for everybody, confided to me one day, “I don’t know what it is about that kid, he’s a hard worker and I think he’s good to his mother but he gives me the creeps.”