“Does he know that?”
“Who?”
“Quayle. Your Vice President. God dammit, Mr. President, where the hell did you find that guy anyway?”
“Please call me George. Look, you guys control the Congress. If you’re all so worried, why don’t you just stop him from doing anything? And then impeach him.”
“For what?”
“For not doing anything.”
“Couldn’t you at least persuade him to resign before you do?”
“Resign? Of course. I could do that in a minute. But who would replace me if he resigns first?”
“Does it matter?”
“Politics stops at the water’s edge.”
“Consider it accomplished.” Nobly, and with a condescending air of self-satisfaction, he moved to his desk and flipped the switch on his intercom. “Primrose?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Get me Little Prince. I want to talk to him.”
“On the telephone, sir?”
“Of course on the telephone! Do you think I want him here? I’ll take it inside. Excuse me, fellas. He’ll be gone before you know it.” With the wave and the over-the-shoulder smile familiar to news photographers, he exited, closing the door behind him on a room relaxed into silence.
“See, Jim? I promised he’d do the right thing, didn’t I?”
“Thanks, Jim. He’s a real George, isn’t he?”
“In England they would call him a Charlie,” said the Secretary of State, who by then had been there.
“It’s one of the reasons he remains so popular.”
“Give me another.”
“No one dislikes him.”
“No one disliked Reagan either.”
“Except George.”
“What about Quayle, Jim? You’re the one who checked him out, weren’t you?”
“Don’t ask me that.”
“He’ll scream too.”
“Thank you, Charlie. He swore to me on everything holy to him, and there seems to be a lot, that there was not a single thing in his entire background that could ever prove embarrassing. That should have made me suspicious. When that National Guard draft-dodging scam unraveled I hit the ceiling. By then George had to keep him, but he almost dumped me.”
“Why won’t he tell us why he picked him?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Do you?”
“He wanted a running mate who’d look worse than he does. Quayle was the only name the computer would give.”
“I miss Richard Nixon.”
“So do we.”
They froze at the turn of the doorknob and all turned with expectation to face in that direction. The man who had sauntered away confidently came ambling back in with an appearance of amused bewilderment, moving his head moderately from side to side and chuckling to himself rhythmically.
“Well, guys, guess what—I think you’re all out of luck,” he announced, laughing, as though releasing good news. “The Little Prince refuses to resign. He says he’s very happy where he is right now.”
“There’s nothing funny about that.”
“I think there is. I may have caught him at a bad time. I think he was playing a video game. ‘Varoom, varoom, varoom’ was the first thing he said. He tells me he can’t imagine a better spot than the one he’s got right now. He also tells me he’s just a heartbeat away from the presidency.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Does he mean your heartbeat or his?”
“I forgot to ask. The way he puts it, if he wasn’t the Vice President he might have to go back to welding or writing press releases, and he fears he may have lost his magic. He doesn’t know if there’s anything else he could be much good at but leading the free world and being head of the greatest industrial nation on earth. I didn’t think we were still the greatest industrial nation, but he might know more than I do. And as Vice President, he says, he would be first in line to succeed me when I leave tomorrow.”
“How the hell did he find that out?”
“Somebody must have told him!”
“Maybe he read my lips.”
“He doesn’t like to read.”
“I knew it was a mistake, I told you it was a mistake!” howled the Secretary of State in a wail of piercing anguish. “We should never have given him that money for a tutor!”
The President’s last official act in public was to wrap himself in the flag once more and pledge allegiance to it.
“That was disgraceful, George,” said Charlie Stubbs frankly. “You degraded yourself and you desecrated the flag.”
“Thank you, Charlie.”
TO LAUGH IN THE MORNING*
In New York they sometimes gave you the cold turkey treatment, that is they locked you in a cell with your panic and left you to suffer alone, not caring if you tore your eyes out in the cry for sleep or went insane in that awful, aching misery of slowly coming awake and realizing where you were and what it was you wanted. They brought you your meals and if you made too much noise they gave you a sedative that didn’t do much good, but nobody really cared, and when they let you out it wasn’t a doctor who examined you but a burly, beef-eating sergeant who looked at you with contempt and didn’t care if you fell dead before him the minute after he had signed you out. That was why he had gone to Kentucky. At least there they tapered you off so that the dry agony was minimized and delayed and, if nothing else, there were the free shots every day that insured the trip against being completely abortive. Someone from the neighborhood was always going to Kentucky. One or two actually hoped to be cured, but most went for the laughs—it was like going away on vacation—or because they were broke and there were always the free shots.
He had gone to be cured.
Coming back there was a three-hour wait in Washington. He stood uncertainly in the bus terminal, made uncomfortable by all the activity there and by the fact that he was alone. He car ried his belongings in a barracks bag and he wore the green flying jacket he had brought home with him from the army. He had been a gunner. He eyed himself furtively in the mirror over a vending machine. His skin was poor and his wide face was tired and without flesh. He turned from the mirror quickly, embarrassed by the thought that someone might observe him studying himself. He checked his bag and left the terminal.
Outside he began to sweat. It was winter and the air was cold with a frosty wind, but the perspiration poured from his face. He had been wondering about that for a long time, this sweating on the coldest days, but each time he thought about it he felt that it had always been happening, that he had always been this way. In his pocket was a list of doctors who would usually give you a prescription for the price of a visit. The inmates exchanged this information, and there was a sour irony in the fact that twelve names were listed within fifty miles of the hospital itself. He had three hours to spend, and he decided to check one of the names on the list, not because he needed or wanted anything but only because it would kill time. He didn’t like being alone in a strange city, even in New York he didn’t like being alone. It was most painful in restaurants. Sometimes he could barely eat.
The doctor’s offices were on the first floor of an old brown-stone building. There were lemon curtains in the windows and a card with his name and office hours. As soon as the nurse appeared Nat was sorry that he had come. He had composed a conversation, but it was all suddenly forgotten in the feeling of guilt and shame that came when she looked at him.
“I—I’d like to see the doctor,” he murmured.
The nurse led him inside. She was a thin, middle-aged woman with coarse, graying hair and a desiccated expression that seemed incapable of joy or sympathy. She sat down at her desk and turned to him.
“Do you have an appointment?”
He shook his head.
“Are you a regular patient of his?”
He shook his head again. The nurse reached for a card and asked his name.
“Nathan Scholl,” he said, and then
realized that she would ask more questions. He stepped forward nervously. “I—I don’t live in Washington. I was passing by and saw his sign. Can’t I talk to him about it? It—it’s kind of personal.”
The nurse rose and went inside. As soon as she was gone he wanted to leave. He took a step toward the door, then stopped abruptly with the fear that she might return as he was going and call him back. He waited helplessly. The nurse returned finally and sent him inside.
The inner office was filled with a musty gloom. The heavy chairs were upholstered in brown leather, the cabinets were of brown wood. The doctor wore a brown suit. He was a short, balding man with very sharp, dark eyes. He studied Nat piercingly as he waited for him to speak.
“I,” Nat began uncertainly, “I’ve just come from Kentucky. They told me that if I needed anything I could come to you for a prescription.”
The doctor grew suspicious. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
“I was taking the cure there,” Nat said. He knew that the doctor wanted time to analyze him. “Someone gave me your name. They said you’d take care of me if I—if I needed a shot.”
The doctor studied him carefully, trying to determine if there was any subterfuge. He saw an asthenic, self-conscious boy of about twenty-five with sallow skin and a wide frame that should have packed a great deal of weight but didn’t, a boy of obviously impecunious means who had forgotten most of what education he had ever received. He reached for a prescription pad and began writing.
“What’s your name?”
“Nathan Scholl.”
The doctor had him spell it.
“What do you want?”
“Heroin.”
The doctor wrote rapidly. When he finished he tore the slip from the pad and pushed it forward. Nat reached for it slowly.
“How much is that?”
“Ten dollars.”
“I—I don’t have ten dollars,” Nat confessed shamefully.
“How much do you have?”
Nat put his hand in his pocket. He knew exactly what he had, but he pretended to be counting. His bus ticket was paid for, and he had a five and two singles and about a dollar in change. That was all the money he had in the world and he didn’t want to part with any of it. He had not meant to take the prescription. At this point he had intended laughing aloud and strolling from the office, but his resolution faded beneath the steady scrutiny of the doctor. He had always felt uncomfortable with doctors.
“I’ve got six dollars,” he said.
“Let me have it.”
Nat gave him the money. The doctor straightened the two bills on his desk and stared at them intently. He put the five in his pocket and pushed the single toward Nat.
“Take this,” he said dryly. “You’ll need it for the prescription. It will cost more than a dollar, but I’m quite certain you have the rest in your pocket.”
Nat hesitated, feeling his face turn red. He snatched the dollar and fled from the office. Outside he tore up the prescription, doing it very deliberately so that the pieces were tiny. When that was done he felt better.
He reached New York in the afternoon and took the subway to the last stop and then a bus to the street on which he lived. The day was damp and dreary. A few strangers moved along the sidewalks. He did not know many people there, although he had lived in the same house all his life. It was not the kind of neigh borhood where people generally remained long. Families came, stayed a few months, and then moved on. Only his family had taken root there. He felt a quiet conflict of emotions as he entered the house. He was glad to be home, yet it was with a sense of depression that he mounted the steps.
He found his sister in the kitchen. He liked May. She was almost thirty, a pleasant-faced girl, and she was astonished when he appeared.
“My God!” she said excitedly, as they moved into the front room. “We weren’t expecting you for months. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”
Nat shrugged, still grinning at her. He moved awkwardly to a chair and sat down, placing the barracks bag between his legs. “Where’s Mom?”
“Out shopping. Why didn’t you ever write? She’s been worried sick about you.”
Nat shrugged again, smiling at her uneasily. “I sent you a card from Kentucky on the way down. Didn’t you get it?”
“Yes, but—” May laughed. “Well you weren’t really gone long. Didn’t you like Florida?”
Nat looked down at the flowering pattern of the linoleum. “It was all right,” he said.
“You must have worked hard. Look how pale you are.”
“Yeah,” he said, grateful for the lead she had supplied. “I was inside all day. It wasn’t much of a job, just knocking around. That’s why I came back. I’d like to find something steady.” The palms of his hands were wet and he wiped them on his thighs. “Where’s the kid?”
“Dick? Don’t tell me you missed him.”
“I guess I did,” Nat said grudgingly. May had two children, an infant of less than a year and Dick, who was about nine. “I brought him a present.”
He searched inside the barracks bag until he found a package. Inside was a pair of learner’s skates that he had purchased on the way down. The knot was tight and he tore the string impatiently. “Learner’s skates,” he said, displaying them with bashful pride.
May smiled sadly. “Nat, he’s too old for them,” she said softly. “He’s been using regular skates for a few weeks now.”
Nat was silent. The skates were suddenly very heavy in his hand. “Well,” he said uncomfortably, “it seemed like a good idea.”
“It was,” May answered quickly. “Why, the princess will soon be ready for them. She’s probably calling for them now.”
The baby had started crying. May stood up and left the room. Nat toyed with the skates for a minute and then placed them carefully back in the box. He was still staring at them when May returned.
“Nat,” she said. “Did you really mean that about finding something steady?”
He nodded, looking at her dejectedly and speaking in an unhappy voice. “I don’t like to knock around, May, you know that. It’s just that there isn’t anything I can do.”
“What would you like to do?”
“I’d like to learn a trade, something steady, maybe even go to college.” He sat up suddenly. The idea excited him and he went on eagerly. “You know, I could go to college. The government would pay for it. I used to write pretty good compositions in school. Maybe I could do something there, newspaper work or something like that.” There was a silence when he stopped, and he looked down at the floor as his unnatural optimism gave way to a conviction of futility. “H—how is Fred?” he asked, in a lower voice.
“He’s fine. Did I tell you we found an apartment?”
Nat shook his head. He was very happy for her. “When will you be moving?”
“I don’t know if we’re going to take it,” May said. Her face filled with distress. “I don’t feel right about leaving Mom here alone.”
“She won’t be alone,” said Nat. “I’ll be here.”
“Yes, but you’re never home. Oh, nobody’s blaming you, Nat. We don’t expect you to stay home much at your age. But there’s still Mom. We haven’t even told her. She’d make us take it if she knew.”
Nat sat perfectly still, feeling hideous with a dreadful sense of shame. He rose after a moment and crossed the room slowly until he stood above her. “Take the apartment, May,” he said. “I’ll look after Mom.”
May was silent.
“I mean it,” he said.
“I know you do.” May smiled into his eyes for a moment and then reached for a cigarette. “We’ll talk about it when Fred comes home. Do you want to shower? The baby’s things are there, but I can get them out in a moment.”
“No. I think I’ll go out for a while.”
May walked with him to the door. “Nat,” she said. “Be home early. Mom will want to see you.”
“Sure, May, of course.”
She caught his elbow as he was leaving. “Do you need any money?” she asked gently.
Nat hesitated awkwardly. He felt that same degraded uncertainty he had experienced in the doctor’s office. He didn’t want to take money from her, but he only had a few dollars and there was no telling how long that would last. “Can you spare a buck or two?” he asked, without looking at her.
May nodded and went for her purse. She came back with a five dollar bill. He thanked her and turned to go. Once more she stopped him. Her manner was anxious.
“Nat, you’ll be home for dinner, won’t you?”
He assured her that he would.
Outside he paused to look back at the house. It was one of a long row, all crammed together without an inch of daylight between them and identical in appearance with a drab monotony that extended to the last, dusty, old yellow brick and the black ash cans outside spinning their cinders into the air. Some boys were playing association, a game of passing that was played with a football. He remembered how he had been good at association. He had been good at other sports too, punchball, hockey, football, but all that was at a time when being good at sports was all that was necessary. Then he had gone to high school where he suddenly found himself among people with different interests and personalities, and into his confusion had come the creeping realization that his own neighborhood was a bad one, that his family was poor, that he was clumsy, uncouth, and something of a roughneck. He had been good at sports but not good enough to make the school teams, and suddenly he was lost in a swarm of familiar faces with nothing to do and no place to turn.
He walked to the avenue and looked around. Two blocks to his left was the luncheonette which served as a gathering place for everyone he knew. Past that was the poolroom. He did not want to go there, either to the luncheonette or the poolroom, but there was nothing to turn him elsewhere.
A number of people moved around in the cold outside the luncheonette, a bookmaker, some gamblers, two hoodlums, and, in a group of their own, some kids who had grown up too fast. Nat went inside and ordered a sandwich and coffee. He ate very slowly. Each time the door opened he looked up, hoping to see someone he knew, yet feeling an inner relief when the person was a stranger. He finished eating and walked outside. He paused a moment and then went to the poolroom.
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