Plexus (24 page)

(The desire to strengthen the ties which bound me to the past, to my wonderful childhood, was becoming ever stronger. The more insipid and distasteful the everyday world became, the more I glorified the golden days of childhood. I could see more and more clearly as time went on that my childhood had been one long holiday—a carnival of youth. It wasn't that I felt myself growing old, it was simply that I realized I had lost something precious.)

This theme became even more poignant when my father, thinking to revive pleasant memories, would tell me of the doings of my old playmate, Tony Marella. “I just read something about him last week in
The Chat,”
he would begin. First it used to be about Tony Marella's athletic exploits, how, for example, he had won the Marathon and almost dropped dead. Then it was about the club Tony Marella had organized, and how he was going to improve the lot of the poor boys in the neighborhod. There was always a photo of him accompanying the article. From
The Chat
, which was just a local weekly, he soon began to be talked about in the Brooklyn dailies. He was a figure to be reckoned with, he would be heard from one of these days. Yes, it wouldn't be surprising if he were to run for Alderman soon. And so on.… There was no doubt about it, Tony Marella was the new star in the firmament of the Bushwick Section. He had started from the bottom, had triumphed over all handicaps, had put himself through law school; he was a shining example of what the son of a poor immigrant could make of himself in this glorious land of opportunity.

Much as I liked Tony Marella, it always sickened me to hear the way my folks raved about him. I had known Tony from grammar school; we were always in the same class and we graduated together at the head of the class.
Tony had to struggle for everything, whereas for me it was the contrary. He was a tough, rebellious kid whose animal spirits drove the teachers crazy. With the boys he was a born leader. For years I lost track of him completely. Never even gave him a thought. One winter's evening, tramping through the snow, I ran into him. He was on his way to a political meeting, and I, I was keeping a date with some dizzy blonde. Tony tried to get me to accompany him to the meeting, said it would do me good. I laughed in his face. A bit peeved, he began talking politics to me, told me he was out to reform the Democratic party of our district, our old home district. Again I laughed, this time almost insultingly. To this Tony cried: “You'll be voting for me in a couple of years, wait and see. They need men like me in the Party.” “Tony,” I said, “I've never voted yet and I don't think I ever will. But if you're running for office I may make an exception. I'd like nothing better than to see you become President of the United States. You'd be a credit to the White House.” He thought I was kidding him, but I was dead serious.

In the midst of this talk Tony mentioned the name of his possible rival, Martin Malone.
“Martin Malone!”
I exclaimed. “Not
our
Martin Malone?” “The very one,” he assured me. Now the coming figure in the Republican Party. I was that surprised you could have knocked me over with a feather. That blockhead! How had he ever come into such prominence? Tony explained that it was the father's influence. I remembered old man Malone well; he was a good man and an honest politician, rare thing. But his son! Why, Martin, who was four years older than us, was always at the foot of the class. He stuttered badly too, or he did as a boy. And this dunce was now a leading figure in local politics. “You see why I'm not interested in politics,” I said. “There's where you're wrong, Henry,” said Tony vehemently. “Would you want to see Martin Malone become a Congressman?” “Frankly,” said I, “I don't give a damn who becomes Congressman of this
district, or any district. It doesn't matter in the slightest. It doesn't even matter who's President. Nothing matters. The country isn't run by these shits.” Tony shook his head in thorough disapproval. “Henry, you're lost,” he said. “You're an out and out anarchist.” And on this we parted, not to meet again for a number of years.

The old man never ceased harping on Tony's virtues. I knew, of course, that my father was only trying to put some life in me. I knew that after he had done talking about Tony Marella he would ask how the writing business was coming along, had I sold anything yet, and so on. And if I said that nothing of importance had happened yet, my mother would then give me one of those sad, sidelong looks, as if to pity me for the ignorance of my ways, perhaps adding aloud that I had always been the brightest boy in the class, that I had had every opportunity, yet here I was trying to become a foolish thing like a writer. “If you could only write something for the
Saturday Evening Post!”
she would say. Or, to make my position even more ludicrous, this: “Maybe
The Chat
would take one of your stories!” (Everything I wrote, incidentally, she called a story, though I had explained to her a dozen or more times that I didn't write “stories.” “Well, whatever they are, then,” was always her final word.)

In parting I would always say to her: “You're sure now there are none of my old things left?” The answer always was—“Forget it!” In the street, as she stood at the fence to wave good-bye, there'd be this Parthian shot from her: “Don't you think you'd better give up that writing and find a job? You're not getting any younger, you know. You may be an old man before you're famous.”

I would leave filled with remorse that I hadn't made their evening more entertaining. On the way to the elevated station I had to pass Tony Marella's old home. His father still ran a cobbler's shop on the street front. Tony had blossomed right out of that hovel in which he was raised. The edifice itself had undergone no changes in the generation
which had passed. Only Tony had changed, had evolved, in keeping with the times. I felt certain he still spoke Italian to his parents, still kissed his father affectionately when greeting him, was still providing for the family out of his meager salary. What a different atmosphere reigned in that household! What a joy it must have been to his parents to see Tony making his way in the world! When he made his grand speeches they were unable to understand a word he said. But they knew he was saying the right thing. Everything he did was right in their eyes. He was indeed a good son. And, if he ever made the grade, he would be a damned good President.

As I rehearsed all this I recalled how my mother used to speak of my father, of the pride and joy he was to
his
parents. I was the thorn in their side. I brought nothing but problems. Who could say, though? One day it might all turn out different. One day, by a single stroke, perhaps I might alter the whole setup. I might yet prove that I was not completely hopeless. But when? And how?

It was on a sunny day in the first rush of Spring that we found ourselves on Second Avenue. The
Mezzotint
racket was on its last legs and there was nothing new on the horizon. We had come to the East Side to make a touch but nothing had come of it. Weary and thirsty from tramping about in the blazing sun, we were wondering how to get a cool drink on no money. Passing a candy store with an inviting soda fountain we decided, on a mutual impulse, to go in, have our drink, and then pretend we had lost our money.

The owner, a homely, friendly sort of Jew, waited on us himself. His manner indicated that we obviously hailed from another world. We dawdled over the drink, drawing him into conversation in order to prepare him for the sad news. He seemed flattered that we took such notice of him. When it came time I fumbled around for change and, not finding any, asked Mona in a loud voice to look through her handbag, saying that I must have left my money at home. She of course couldn't dig up a red cent. I suggested to the man, who was calmly observing this performance, that, if he didn't mind, we would pay the next time we were in the neighborhood. Quite affably he said that we could forget about it if we liked. Then he politely inquired what part of the city we came from. To our surprise we discovered that he knew intimately the very street we were living on. At this point he invited us to have another drink and with the drink he offered us some delicious cakes. It was plain he was curious to know more about us. Since we had nothing to lose, I decided to make a clean breast of it.

So we were broke? He had suspected that we were but he was dumbfounded, nevertheless, that two people so intelligent, speaking such beautiful English, born Americans to boot, should find it difficult to make a living in a city like New York. I of course pretended that I would welcome a job if I could find one. I hinted that it wasn't easy for me to find work because I was really incapable of doing anything but push the pen, adding that I was probably not very good at this either. He was of a different mind. Had he been able to read and write English, he informed us, he would now be living on Park Avenue. His story, a fairly common one, was that some eight years ago he had come to America with just a few dollars in his pocket. He had immediately accepted a job in a marble quarry, in Vermont. Brutal work. But it had enabled him to save up a few hundred dollars. With this money he had bought some odds and ends, put them in a sack, and set
out on the road as a peddler. In less than no time (it almost sounded like a Horatio Alger story) he had acquired a pushcart, then a horse and wagon. His mind had always been set on coming to New York where he longed to open a shop of some sort. By chance he had found out that one could make a good living selling imported candies. At this junction he reached up behind him and got down an assortment of foreign candies, all in beautiful boxes. He explained rather minutely how he had peddled these candies from door to door, beginning in Columbia Heights where we now lived. He had done it successfully, speaking only a broken English. In less than a year he had put aside enough to set up shop. The Americans, he said, “loved” imported candies. They didn't mind the price. Here he began to reel off the prices of the various brands. Then he told us how much profit there was in each box. Finally he said: “If I could do it, why can't you?” And in the next breath he offered to supply us with a full valise of imported candies, on credit, if we would only try it out.

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
the 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. Tomorrow 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 cafés along Second Avenue. (The cafés 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 Café 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 too 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 wisecracker.
“Candies
, hum! A new
racket. Well-dressed and speaks a good English. Probably working his way through college.…”
Et patati et patata
. 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 someone 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 halfway 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 café, 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.