Sweet Thursday (22 page)

Joe Elegant came cautiously back from his journey ready to take another one at a moment's notice. He expected reprisals for Hazel's costume, and there were no reprisals. In gratitude he made popovers at the Bear Flag three evenings in a row—and the girls didn't even know what they were eating. He wanted to know what had happened but he was afraid to ask. Thus Joe Elegant was glad when Hazel called on him in his little lean-to in the rear of the Bear Flag.

“Sit here,” he said. “I'll get you a piece of cake.”

While he was gone Hazel regarded the works of Henri the artist on the wall—one from the chicken-feather period and one from the later nutshell time. And he looked at the card table on which Joe Elegant worked at a portable typewriter. There was a neat pile of manuscript on the table, green paper typed with a green ribbon. A sheet of paper was in the machine. It began: “My dear Anthony West, It was sweet of you—”

Joe came back with a wedge of cake and a glass of milk for Hazel, and while Hazel munched and drank, Joe's large damp eyes bracketed him but never hit him.

“How'd it go?” he asked.

“What?”

“Why, your costume?”

“Fine, fine. Everybody was real surprised.”

“I'll bet they were. Did Mack say anything?”

“He said I done fine. He almost cried.”

Joe Elegant smiled with quiet malice.

Hazel asked vacuously, “Say, what would you think was the matter with Doc?”

Joe crossed his legs professionally and his fingers rippled through the green-typed green pages. “It's the whole and the part and the part is the whole,” he said.

“Come again?”

“It's many things and one thing. Doc's libido is driving him one way and his conscience is pulling him another. His myth is the sea, the wind, and the tide, and he relates to it by collecting animals. He carries his treasures to his laboratory. He wants to hide them and perhaps to place the dragon Fafnir on guard.”

Hazel nearly said, “He sells them,” but that would have given him away as listening. “I knew a dame named Fafnir,” he said. “Bertha Fafnir. Third grade. Used to do pitchers of turkeys on the blackboard Thanksgiving. Had starched underskirts, they rustled kind of.”

Joe Elegant scowled faintly at the interruption. “Distill the myth and you get the symbol,” he went on. “The symbol is the paper he wants to write, but that in itself has impurities, needs distillation. Why? Because it is a substitute, that's why. His symbol is false. That's why he can't write his paper. Frustration! He has taken the wrong path. And so he brings in false solutions. ‘I need a microscope,' he says. ‘I need to go to La Jolla for the spring tides.' He will not go to La Jolla. He will never write his paper.”

“Why not?”

“Wrong symbol. We must go back to the myth, the sea. The sea is his mother. His mother is dead but she is living. He is carrying treasures from his mother's womb and trying to save them. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” said Hazel listlessly.

“He needs love. He needs understanding,” said Joe Elegant.

“Who don't?” Hazel asked.

“I feel that I could help him if he would let me.”

“I kind of thought he'd took a shine to Suzy,” said Hazel.

Joe Elegant let a shadow of distaste tighten his mouth. “That would only be a new false path, a new frustration.”

Hazel observed, “Some people like one thing, some another.”

“Very original!” said Joe Elegant.

It was only a few steps from Joe Elegant's lean-to through the kitchen to the Ready Room. In the Ready Room sat Becky with her feet up, reading her mail. Becky subscribed to “Pen Pals” and had a lively correspondence all over the world. The sheet of rice paper in her hands was from Japan. “Dear Pen Pal,” it began, “Your interest missive receipt. How gondola the Goldy State. Japan girl do hair-kink likewise, but not using blitch. My friend, Mitzi Mitzuki very West in minded. Would try if you mailing small little container hydrogen peroxide double pressure.”

“Hi!” said Hazel.

Becky laid down her letter. “Ever been to Japan?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither. How's Mack?”

“Fine. Say, Becky, what would you say was the matter with Doc?”

“Love,” said Becky. “Doc's aching away. Or if he ain't, he ought to be. Nice fella like that.”

“He sets like he been pole-axed.”

“That'll do it. Poor fella! If it was me, why, I'd go to him and I'd put my cool hand on his brow and I'd say, ‘Doc—'”

The door of Fauna's room opened. “I thought I heard voices. Hello, Hazel. Ain't none of the other girls around? Becky's poorly.”

“I come to ask you something,” said Hazel.

“Well, come on in here. Set down. Want a snort? Is it private? I'll shut the door.”

“Yes,” said Hazel, and that covered all the questions.

The snort brightened his eye. “What would you say was wrong with Doc?”

“I wouldn't of said it a while ago,” said Fauna, “but when he put on that tie—and then, the other night—”

“Hell, he was drunk,” said Hazel. “A guy will say anything when he's drunk.”

“No, he will not,” said Fauna.

“You think it's Suzy?”

“Yes, sir! And if she wasn't nuts, she could go to La Jolla with him and help him work. Why, hell! She'd be in.”

“He's trying to write his paper.”

“He got himself all bollixed up,” said Fauna. “I bet he ain't even thinking about his paper.”

“He ain't thinking about nothing.”

“That's what I mean. If he could stop not thinking about Suzy, why, he could start thinking about his paper. That's my opinion anyway.”

“You think if she went to La Jolla—?”

“I do. But she won't go.”

“He wouldn't take her,” said Hazel.

“If everybody wasn't such damn fools he wouldn't get asked,” said Fauna. “I don't know what we're coming to. Have one more snort?”

“I can't,” said Hazel, “I got to see a guy.”

It was only a coincidence that Joseph and Mary Rivas was also reading a letter when Hazel entered the grocery. Joseph and Mary was reading and cursing at the same time, cursing in obscure Spanish. The letter was from James Petrillo, and it spoke in no uncertain terms. If the threat in the letter could be carried out, it looked as though what the U.S. government could not do in keeping wetbacks out, the musicians' union could. The Patrón was in a stew. Ordinarily what he could not eliminate he joined. But Petrillo did not give him that choice. Joseph and Mary's mind strayed toward assassination.

Hazel said, “How're you?”

“Lousy!” said the Patrón.

“Ain't nobody feeling too good,” Hazel observed. “Doc's setting over there like he's punch-drunk. What you think's the matter with him?”

“Christ knows!” said the Patrón. “I got troubles of my own. Funny thing,” he said, “you know, last night I was coming home from Monterey, late, and there was a shadow up in the vacant lot. It moved into that bright spot the street light throws up by the boiler, and I swear to God it was Doc sneaking around up there.”

“No!” said Hazel.

“I say yes.” The Patrón looked over the vegetables and the piled canned goods and his eyes dwelt on the cardboard Coca-Cola girl in a swing. “Know something?” he said speculatively. “Before the party I would have said she was just one more tramp. Then she belted loose and moved into the boiler. And then, well—it looks like Doc seen something there. Maybe Suzy's got something I missed. I been thinking I might just take a whack at her.”

“You can't,” said Hazel. “She's Doc's.”

“Hell,” said the Patrón, “dames don't belong to nobody. I might just whistle under her window.”

“She ain't got no windows,” said Hazel.

The Patrón smiled. Petrillo's poison was going out of him. “Yes, sir!” he said. “Maybe I missed something.”

“You stay away from her,” said Hazel.

Joseph and Mary drooped his eyes, and an Indian looked out for a second. Then he smiled again. “Have it your own way,” he said lightly. “I hear she's got a job.”

This was the Golden Poppy: long, narrow, high-ceilinged; small octagonal tile on the floor; dark wood counter with small round stools; units at intervals on the counter—jukebox slot, paper-napkin holder, salt, pepper, sugar, mustard, catsup; rear door to the kitchen with window and ser vice shelf; cash register at the front, cigarette machine beside the door; long mirror behind the counter fronted by coffeemaker, griddle, toasters, covered cakes and pies, stacked breakfast foods, doughnuts, rack of canned soup and soup heater, fight cards, movie schedule, bus timetable.

There was nothing to be done about the Golden Poppy. It was a dour and gloomy place dedicated to good coffee and sad, soggy food. It could not compete with the gay and phony little restaurants springing up in Monterey, with their checked tablecloths, showcard murals, low ceilings, and candles in cork floats.

The Golden Poppy did not try. There were many people who preferred it to the newcomers—customers who liked cold, damp doughnuts, stringy stews, and canned soup. These diners distrusted fishnets on the walls and jokes on the menu. To them food was a necessary but solemn sacrament about which there should be no nonsense.

The rush hours were seven to eight-thirty, breakfast; eleven-thirty to one-thirty, lunch; six to eight, dinner. In between these hours there were the coffee customers, the sandwich and doughnut people. In the evening came two rush times: at nine-thirty when the early movie let out, and at eleven-thirty when the second show broke. At twelve-thirty the Golden Poppy curled its petals, except on Saturday nights, when it stayed open until two for the early drunks.

The coming of Suzy to the Golden Poppy had a curious but reasonable effect on Ella. She had, over the years, maintained an iron interdict against weariness and pain. If she had allowed herself to realize how miserable she was she would have cut her throat.

Suzy did more than help, she took over: joked with the salesmen, whistled over the sandwich toaster, remembered that Mr. Garrigas like cream of celery soup and remembered his name too.

For a day or so Ella had watched Suzy and refused acidly when Suzy suggested that she go home and lie down for a couple of hours. Then her interdict cracked, and the crack widened. Abysmal fatigue, aching legs, and abdominal pains crept through. Ella was an exhausted woman when she came at last to admit it. Going home to lie down for an hour was first a sin, and then a luxury, and finally a drug.

Now when Suzy said after the nine-thirty rush, “Go on home and get a good night's sleep,” it seemed perfectly natural. Not only could Suzy hold the fort, but her terse, professional gaiety was drawing in new customers.

At eleven-fifteen Suzy had the four Silexes filled with fresh coffee, the hamburgers between waxed paper in the icebox, the tomatoes sliced, and the sandwich bread in the drawer below the griddle. At eleven-thirty the customers came in a rush from the second show.

Suzy grew six extra hands: club sandwiches, melted cheese sandwiches, cheeseburgers, and coffee, coffee, coffee! The cash register jangled and the change appeared standing up between the tits of the rubber mat.

“How's about a date Saturday?”

“Sure! Love to.”

“Is it a date?”

“Can my husband come?”

“You married?”

“I won't be if I keep that date.”

“You're a swell-looking kid.”

“You're kind of pretty yourself. Here's your change.”

“Keep it.”

“Thanks. Cheeseburger coming up. Sorry, eighty-six on the tuna fish sandwiches.”

In the seconds between orders, three of her extra hands carried dishes into the soapy water, rinsed and dried them.

“Hey! Mr. Gelthain, you forgot your umbrella!”

“So I did. Thank you.” That would be another quarter tip, and the quarter went into a slotted can marked “Joe.”

Every morning when Joe Blaikey came in for his coffee a little pile of silver was put before him and checked in the account book. It was amazing how it added up.

At five minutes of twelve Hazel came in and waited against the wall until a stool was vacant.

“Hi, Hazel. What'll it be?”

“Cup of coffee.”

“It's on the house, Hazel. How you been?”

“Okay.”

Gradually the customers thinned out and then were gone. Suzy's flashing hands put the Golden Poppy to bed: scrubbed the grill, washed down the counter, wiped the necks of the catsup bottles. She looked up to see Hazel sweeping out.

“Say, what the hell are you doing?”