The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze (13 page)

But she had been telling him something . . . something amusing, something that brought back the image of the sea of his sleep, and the moments of being alive . . . this girl, he thought, it is too splendid . . . then he began to laugh quietly, looking into her face, laughing about it . . .

Tell me again what you said . . . she was a girl he had met at a cheap dance . . .

Tell me again, he said . . . I didn’t quite understand.

She began to talk again, seeming frightened, smoking a cigarette, and all he could get out of it was two months on the way, and it was his, she was sure it was his . . . she had had other men before she had known him but after that she hadn’t, would he believe her, she hadn’t, she hadn’t touched another man, over five months, she had been faithful . . . would he believe her? . . and now it was two months on the way
and she was scared . . . she couldn’t sleep . . . she just had to see him . . . what was he thinking?

You mean, he said, talking more to himself than to her, I myself, outside, in you, something growing, myself . . . is that what you mean?

Yes, yes, she said. John, please believe me . . . you will see, honest, you will see that it’s yours . . . I’ve never loved anyone but you . . . I knew you didn’t mean it to be this way . . . I didn’t either . . . it just happened . . . but it’s yours, honest, John, I’m not making this up . . .

He began to laugh again, feeling large . . . outside of himself . . . possessing all the earth. I, he said, I myself, something growing in you . . .

Then you will? she said. I could kill it . . . there are doctors and I could get it out . . . but I thought maybe you wanted to know . . .

He got up with anger and shook the girl, smiling at her after a moment. What are you talking about? he said . . . don’t talk like a chippy . . .

You will? she said.

He began to laugh with all his might . . . it’s mine, isn’t it? he said. He sat down again, smiling at her, amazed. How does it feel in you? he asked. Do you mean to tell me you’re sure . . . not one of those other things . . . do you mean to say it’s pretty large?

Yes, she said, yes, large . . . I can feel it . . . we can rent a small place . . .

It is very funny, he said . . . Don’t worry, sure, do you think I’m crazy? We’ll move to a small house . . .

You want to have it? he said . . . you’re sure?

Yes, she said . . . I want to see it . . . outside, living . . .

You mean, he said, to have it looking at things . . . standing up on earth, looking?

Yes, she said, I could go to a doctor . . .

Don’t talk that way, he said . . . how is it making you feel? I’m beginning to feel fine, he said.

I feel fine too, she said; only I was scared . . . I thought you’d give me the money to go to a doctor . . .

Shut up, he said. If you say that again, I’ll knock your teeth out . . .

But you love me . . . you love me, don’t you, John?

Sure, he said, sure I love you . . . but that’s not the point . . . tell me about it . . . do you sleep well?

I’ve been worrying, she said.

Stop worrying, he said . . . one day, one night, the earth, himself, then another, himself again, still another, and this other looking at the earth, through his eyes, seeing it, and a photograph, him holding the other, something small but of itself, and this girl . . . stop worrying, he said . . . we’ll move to a small house and wait . . . I thought you were after money . . . I didn’t quite understand what you were driving at . . . do you mean you want to see it, you yourself, outside, looking? . . let me feel where it is, he said . . .

He touched the girl, laughing with her . . . yes, he thought, I myself, outside, growing in her . . .
being the whole earth . . . you were talking so much, he said, I thought you were after money . . . I wasn’t listening . . .

Sure, he said, sure . . . we’ll move to a small house and wait . . . this is fine, he said . . . why didn’t you say it plainly . . . why didn’t you come right out with it . . . I thought you were after money . . .

He saw the earth growing in her through him, the universe falling into the boundaries of the form of man, the face, the eyes, solidity, motion, articulation, then awareness, then quiet talk, quiet communion, himself again, and yet another, to proceed through time, one day, one night, the earth, and the energy of man, and the face of man, himself . . . he began to laugh softly, touching the girl where it was growing, feeling fine.

This boy was a worldbeater. Everything he touched turned to money, and at the age of fourteen he had over six hundred dollars in the Valley Bank, money he had made by himself. He was born to sell things. At eight or nine he was ringing door bells and showing housewives beautiful colored pictures of Jesus Christ and other holy people—from the Novelty Manufacturing Company, Toledo, Ohio—fifteen cents each, four for a half dollar. “Lady,” he was saying at that early age, “this is Jesus. Look. Isn’t it a pretty picture? And only fifteen cents. This is Paul, I think. Maybe Moses. You know. From the Bible.”

He had all the houses in the foreign district full
of these pictures, and many of the houses still have them, so you can see that he exerted a pretty good influence, after all.

After a while he went around getting subscriptions for
True Stories Magazine
. He would stand on a front porch and open a copy of the magazine, showing pictures. “Here is a lady,” he would say, “who married a man thirty years older than her, and then fell in love with the man’s sixteen-year-old son. Lady, what would
you
have done in such a fix? Read what this lady did. All true stories, fifteen of them every month. Romance, mystery, passion, violent lust, everything from A to Z. Also editorials on dreams. They explain what your dreams mean, if you are going on a voyage, if money is coming to you, who you are going to marry, all true meanings, scientific. Also beauty secrets, how to look young all the time.”

In less than two months he had over sixty married women reading the magazine. Maybe he wasn’t responsible, but after a while a lot of unconventional things began to happen. One or two wives had secret love affairs with other men and were found out by their husbands, who beat them or kicked them out of their houses, and a half dozen women began to send away for eye-lash beautifiers, bath salts, cold creams and things of that sort. The whole foreign neighborhood was getting to be slightly immoral. All the ladies began to rouge their lips and powder their faces and wear silk stockings and tight sweaters.

When he was a little older, Harry began to buy used cars, Fords, Maxwells, Saxons, Chevrolets and other small cars. He used to buy them a half dozen
at a time in order to get them cheap, fifteen or twenty dollars each. He would have them slightly repaired, he would paint them red or blue or some other bright color, and he would sell them to high school boys for three and four times as much as he had paid for them. He filled the town with red and blue and green used automobiles, and the whole countryside was full of them, high school boys taking their girls to the country at night and on Sunday afternoons, and anybody knows what that means. In a way, it was a pretty good thing for the boys, only a lot of them had to get married a long time before they had found jobs for themselves, and a number of other things happened, only worse. Two or three girls had babies and didn’t know who the other parent was, because two or three fellows with used cars had been involved. In a haphazard way, though, a lot of girls got husbands for themselves.

Harry himself was too busy to fool around with girls. All he wanted was to keep on making money. By the time he was seventeen he had earned a small fortune, and he looked to be one of the best-dressed young men in town. He got his suits wholesale because he wouldn’t think of letting anyone make a profit on him. It was his business to make the profits. If a suit was marked twenty-seven fifty, Harry would offer the merchant twelve dollars.

“Don’t tell
me,”
he would say. “I know what these rags cost. At twelve dollars you will be making a clean profit of two dollars and fifty cents, and that’s enough for anybody. You can take it or leave it.”

He generally got the suit for fifteen dollars, alterations
included. He would argue an hour about the alterations. If the coat was a perfect fit and the merchant told him so, Harry would think he was being taken for a sucker, so he would insist that the sleeves were too long or that the shoulders were too loose. The only reason merchants tolerated him at all was that he had the reputation of being well-dressed, and to sell him a suit was to get a lot of good free advertising. It would bring a lot of other young fellows to the store, fellows who would buy suits at regular prices.

Otherwise, Harry was a nuisance. Not only that, the moment he made a purchase he would begin to talk about reciprocity, how it was the basis of American business, and he would begin to sell the merchant earthquake insurance or a brand new Studebaker. And most of the time he would succeed. All sorts of business people bought earthquake insurance just to stop Harry talking. He chiseled and he took for granted chiseling in others, so he always quoted chisel-proof prices, and then came down to the regular prices. It made his customers feel good. It pleased them to think that they had put one over on Harry, but he always had a quiet laugh to himself.

One year the whole San Joaquin valley was nearly ruined by a severe frost that all but wiped out a great crop of grapes and oranges. Harry got into his Studebaker and drove into the country. Frost-bitten oranges were absolutely worthless because the Board of Health wouldn’t allow them to be marketed, but Harry had an idea. He went out to the orange groves, and looked at the trees loaded with fruit that was
now worthless. He talked to the farmers and told them how sorry he was.

Then he said:

“But maybe I can help you out a little. I can use your frost-bitten oranges . . . for hog and cattle feed. Hogs don’t care if an orange is frost-bitten, and the juice is good for them the same way it’s good for people . . . vitamines. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll have the oranges picked and hauled away, and I’ll give you a check for twenty-five dollars, spot cash.”

That year he sent over twenty truck loads of frost-bitten oranges to Los Angeles for the orange-juice stands, and he cleaned up another small fortune.

Everyone said he could turn anything into money. He could figure a way of making money out of anything. When the rest of the world was down in the mouth, Harry was on his toes, working on the Los Angeles angle of disposing of bad oranges.

He never bothered about having an office. The whole town was his office, and whenever he wanted to sit down, he would go up to the eighth floor of Cory Building and sit in M. Peters’ office, and chew the rag with the attorney. He would talk along casually, but all the time he would be finding out about contracts, and how to make people come through with money, and how to attach property, and so on. A lot of people were in debt to him, and he meant to get his money.

He had sold electric refrigerators, vacuum cleaners, radios, and a lot of other modern things to people who couldn’t afford to buy them, and he had sold
these things simply by talking about them, and by showing catalogue pictures of them. The customer had to pay freight and everything else. All Harry did was talk and sell. If a man couldn’t pay cash for a radio, Harry would get five dollars down and a note for the balance, and if the man couldn’t make his payments, Harry would attach the man’s home, or his vineyard, or his automobile, or his horse, or anything else the man owned. And the amazing thing was that no one ever criticised him for his business methods. He was very smooth about attaching a man’s property, and he would calmly explain that it was the usual procedure, according to law. What was right was right.

No one could figure out what Harry wanted with so much money. He already had money in the bank, a big car, and he wasn’t interested in girls; so what was he saving up all the money for? A few of his customers sometimes asked him, and Harry would look confused a moment, as if he himself didn’t know, and then he would come out and say:

“I want to get hold of a half million dollars so I can retire.”

It was pretty funny, Harry thinking of retiring at eighteen. He had left high school in his first year because he hadn’t liked the idea of sitting in a class room listening to a lot of nonsense about starting from the bottom and working up, and so on, and ever since he had been on the go, figuring out ways to make money.

Sometimes people would ask him what he intended to do after he retired, and Harry would look puzzled
again, and finally he would say, “Oh, I guess I’ll take a trip around the world.”

“Well, if he does,” everyone thought, “he’ll sell something everywhere he goes. He’ll sell stuff on the trains and on the boats and in the foreign cities. He won’t waste a minute looking around. He’ll open a catalogue and sell them foreigners everything you can think of.”

But things happen in a funny way, and you can never tell about people, even about people like Harry. Anybody is liable to get sick. Death and sickness play no favorites; they come to all men. Presidents and kings and movie stars, they all die, they all get sick.

Even Harry got sick. Not mildly, not merely something casual like the flu that you can get over in a week, and be as good as new again. Harry got T. B. and he got it in a bad way, poor kid.

Well, the sickness got Harry, and all that money of his in the Valley Bank didn’t help him a lot. Of course he did try to rest for a while, but that was out of the question. Lying in bed, Harry would try to sell life insurance to his best friends. Harry’s cousin, Simon Gregory, told me about this. He said it wasn’t that Harry really wanted more money; it was simply that he couldn’t open his mouth unless it was to make a sales talk. He couldn’t carry on an ordinary conversation because he didn’t know the first thing about anything that didn’t have something to do with insurance, or automobiles, or real estate. If somebody tried to talk politics or maybe religion, Harry would look irritated, and he would start to make a
sales talk. He even asked Simon Gregory how old he was, and when Simon said that he was twenty-two, Harry got all excited.

“Listen, Simon,” he said, “you are my cousin, and I want to do you a favor. You haven’t a day to lose if you intend to be financially independent when you are sixty-five. I have just the policy you need. Surely you can afford to pay six dollars and twenty-seven cents a month for the next forty-three years. You won’t be able to go to many shows; but what is more important, to see a few foolish moving pictures, or to be independent when you are sixty-five?”

It almost made Simon bawl to hear Harry talking that way, sick as he was.

The doctor told Harry’s folks that Harry ought to go down to Arizona for a year or two, that it was his only hope, but when they talked the matter over with Harry, he got sore and said the doctor was trying to get him to spend his money. He said he was all right, just a cold in the chest, and he told his folks to ask the doctor to stay away. “Get some other doctor,” he said. “Why should I go down to Arizona?”

Every now and then we would see Harry in town, talking rapidly to someone, trying to sell something, but it would be for only a day or two, and then he would have to go back to bed. He kept this up for about two years, and you ought to see the change that came over that poor boy. It was really enough to make you feel rotten. To look at him you would think he was the loneliest person on earth, but the thing that hurt most was the realization that if you tried to talk to him, or tried to be friendly toward
him, he would turn around and try to sell you life insurance. That’s what burned a man up. There he was dying on his feet, and still wanting to sell healthy people life insurance. It was too sad not to be funny.

Well, one day (this was years ago) I saw Simon Gregory in town, and he looked sick. I asked him what the trouble was, and he said Harry had died and that he had been at the bedside at the time, and now he was feeling rotten. The things Harry talked about, dying. It was terrible. Insurance, straight to the end, financial independence at sixty-five.

Harry’s photograph was in
The Evening Herald
, and there was a big story about his life, how smart Harry had been, how ambitious, and all that sort of thing. That’s what it came to, but somehow there was something about that crazy jackass that none of us can forget.

He was different, there is no getting away from it. Nowadays he is almost a legend with us, and there are a lot of children in this town who were born after Harry died, and yet they know as much about him as we do, and maybe a little more. You would think he had been some great historical personage, somebody to talk to children about in order to make them ambitious or something. Of course most of the stories about him are comical, but just the same they make him out to be a really great person. Hardly anyone remembers the name of our last mayor, and there haven’t been any great men from our town, but all the kids around here know about Harry. It’s pretty
remarkable when you bear in mind that he died before he was twenty-three.

Whenever somebody fails to accomplish some unusual undertaking in our town, people say to one another, “Harry would have done it.” And everybody laughs, remembering him, the way he rushed about town, waking people up, making deals. A couple of months ago, for example, there was a tight-wire walker on the stage of the Hippodrome Theatre, and he tried to turn a somersault in the air and land on the tight-wire, but he couldn’t do it. He would touch the wire with his feet, lose his balance, and leap to the stage. Then he would try it over again, from the beginning, music and all, the drum rolling to make you feel how dangerous it was. This acrobat tried to do the trick three times and failed, and while he was losing his balance the fourth time, some young fellow away back in the gallery hollered out as loud as he could, “Get Harry. Harry is the man for the emergency.” Then everybody in the theatre busted out laughing. The poor acrobat was stunned by the laughter, and he began to swear at the audience in Spanish. He didn’t know about our town’s private joke.