The New York Stories

by John O'Hara

  But that did not keep Mr. Hart from having an increasingly bad time from the fifth inning on. And Booker didn’t help him to forget. Booker leaned forward and he followed the game all right but never said anything much. He seemed to know the game and to recognize the players, but never talked. He got up and yelled in the fifth inning when the Yanks were making their runs, but so did everybody else. Mr. Hart wished the game was over.

  DiMaggio came to bat. Ball one. Strike one, called. Ball two. Mr. Hart wasn’t watching with his heart in it. He had his eyes on DiMaggio, but it was the crack of the bat that made Mr. Hart realize that DiMaggio had taken a poke at one, and the ball was in the air, high in the air. Everybody around Mr. Hart stood up and tried to watch the ball. Mr. Hart stood up too. Booker sort of got up off the seat, watching the ball but not standing up. The ball hung in the air and then began to drop. Mr. Hart was judging it and could tell it was going to hit about four rows behind him. Then it did hit, falling the last few yards as though it had been thrown down from the sky, and smacko! it hit the seats four rows behind the Harts, bounced high but sort of crooked, and dropped again to the row directly behind Mr. Hart and Booker.

  There was a scramble of men and kids, men hitting kids and kids darting and shoving men out of the way, trying to get the ball. Mr. Hart drew away, not wanting any trouble, and then he remembered Booker. He turned to look at Booker, and Booker was sitting hunched up, holding his arms so’s to protect his head and face.

  “Where the hell’s the ball? Where’s the ball?” Men and kids were yelling and cursing, pushing and kicking each other, but nobody could find the ball. Two boys began to fight because one accused the other of pushing him when he almost had his hand on the ball. The fuss lasted until the end of the inning. Mr. Hart was nervous. He didn’t want any trouble, so he concentrated on the game again. Booker had the right idea. He was concentrating on the game. They both concentrated like hell. All they could hear was a mystified murmur among the men and kids. “Well, somebody must of got the god-damn thing.” In two minutes the Yanks retired the side and the ball game was over.

  “Let’s wait till the crowd gets started going, Pop,” said Booker.

  “O.K.,” said Mr. Hart. He was in no hurry to get home, with the things he had on his mind and how sore Lolly would be. He’d give her what was left of the ten bucks, but she’d be sore anyhow. He lit a cigarette and let it hang on his lip. He didn’t feel so good sitting there with his elbow on his knee, his chin on his fist.

  “Hey, Pop,” said Booker.

  “Huh?”

  “Here,” said Booker.

  “What?” said Mr. Hart. He looked at his son. His son reached inside his shirt, looked back of him, and then from the inside of the shirt he brought out the ball. “Present for you,” said Booker.

  Mr. Hart looked down at it. “Lemme see that!” he said. He did not reach for it. Booker handed it to him.

  “Go ahead, take it. It’s a present for you,” said Booker.

  Suddenly Mr. Hart threw back his head and laughed. “I’ll be god-damn holy son of a bitch. You got it? The ball?”

  “Sure. It’s for you,” said Booker.

  Mr. Hart threw back his head again and slapped his knees. “I’ll be damn—boy, some Booker!” He put his arm around his son’s shoulders and hugged him. “Boy, some Booker, huh? You givin’ it to me? Some Booker!”

  (1939)

  CALL ME, CALL ME

  Her short steps, that had always called attention to her small stature, now served to conceal the fact that her walk was slower. Now, finally, there was nothing left of the youth that had lasted so long, so well into her middle age. Her hat was small and black, a cut-down modified turban that made only the difference between being hatted and hatless but called no attention to the wearer, did not with spirit of defiance or gaiety proclaim the wearer to be Joan Hamford. Her Persian lamb, a good one bought in prosperous days, was now a serviceable, sensible garment that kept her warm and nothing more. She wore shoes that she called—echoing her mother’s designation—“ties.” They were very comfortable and they gave her good support.

  The greeting by the doorman was precisely accorded. No “Good morning,” but “You’ll have a taxi, Miss Hamford?” If she wanted a taxi, he was there to get her a taxi; that was one of the things he was paid for; but he could expect no tip now and she gave him little enough at Christmas. She was one of the permanent guests of the hotel, those whom he classified as salary people because he was paid a salary for providing certain services. Salary people. Bread-and-butter people. Not tip people, not big-gravy, expense-account people. Salary people. Budget people. Instant-coffee-and-half-a-pint-of-cream-from-the-delicatessen people. Five-dollars-in-an-envelope-with-his-name-on-it-at-Christmas people. The hotel was coming down in another year, and the hotel that was going up in its place would have no room for salary people. Only expense-account people.

  “Taxi? Yes, please, Roy. Or I’d make just as good time walking, wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Hamford. I don’t know where you’re going.”

  “It is a little far,” said Joan Hamford. “Yes, a taxi. There’s one!”

  She always did that. She always spotted a taxi, so that it would seem that she had really found it herself, unaided, and really owed him nothing. He was wise to that one. He was wise to all her little tricks and dodges, her ways of saving quarters, her half pints of cream from the delicatessen. She must be on her way to a manager’s office today. Most days she would not take a taxi. “Such a nice day, I think a stroll,” she would say, and then stroll exactly one block to the bus stop. But today it was a taxi, because she didn’t want to be worn out when she applied for a job. Yes, today was a job day; she was wearing her diamond earrings and her pearls, which were usually kept in the hotel safe.

  “Six-thirty Fifth Avenue, will you tell him, please, Roy?”

  “Six-thirty Fifth,” he said to the taxi driver. She could have given the address herself, but this was a cheap way of queening it. He closed the door behind her and stepped back to the curb.

  “Number Six Hundred and Thirty, Avenue Five,” said the driver, starting the meter. “Well, you got anything to read, lady, because the traffic on Madison and Fifth, I can’t promise you nothing speed-wise. You wanta try Park, we’ll make better time going down Park, but I won’t guarantee you going west.”

  “How long will it take us if we go down Fifth?”

  “Fifth? You wanta go down Fifth? I give you an honest estimate of between twenty and twenty-five minutes. Them buses, you know. You ever go to the circus and take notice to the elephants, the one holds on to the-one-in-front-of-him’s tail with his trunk. That’s the way the buses operate. Never no less than four together at the one time, and what they do to congest up the traffic! You see they could straighten that out in two hours if they just handed out a bunch of summonses, but then the union would pull the men off the buses and the merchants would holler to the powers-that-be, City Hall. I’m getting out of this city . . . We’ll try Fifth . . . It’s Miss Joan Hamford, isn’t it?”

  “Why, yes. How nice of you.”

  “Oh, I rode you before. You remember when you used to live over near the River? Four-what-is-it? Four-fifty East Fifty-second?”

  “Oh, heavens, that long ago?”

  “Yeah, I had one of them big Paramounts, twice the size of this little crate. You don’t remember Louis?”

  “Louis?”

  “Me. Louis Jaffee. I used to ride you four-five times a week regular, your apartment to the Henry Miller on Forty-third, east of Broadway. Fifteen-and-five in those days, but you were good for a buck every night. Well, I’m still hacking, but you been in movies and TV and now I guess you’re on your way to make another big deal for TV.”

  “No, as a matter of fact, a play. On Broadway. I’m afraid I can’t tell you just what play, but it isn’t television. Still a secr
et, you know.”

  “Oh, sure. Then you was out in Hollywood all that time I remember.”

  “Yes, and I did a few plays in London.”

  “That I didn’t know about. I just remember you rode out the bonnom of the depression in Hollywood. The bonnom of the depression for me, but not for you. You must of made a killing out there. What does it feel like to see some of them pictures now, on TV? You don’t get any royalties on them pictures, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Now they all go in for percentages I understand. Be nice to have a percentage of some of them oldies. Is Charles J. Hall still alive?”

  “No, poor Charles passed on several years ago.”

  “You always heard how he was suppose to be a terrific boozer, but I seen him the other night on TV. You were his wife, where you were trying to urge him to give up the Navy and head up this big shipbuilding company.”

  “Glory in Blue.”

  “Glory in Blue, that’s the one. How old was Charles J. Hall when you made that picture, do you remember?”

  “How old? I should think Charles was in his early forties then.”

  “Christ! He’d be in his seventies.”

  “Yes, he would.”

  “I’m over the sixty mark myself, but I can’t picture Charles J. Hall in his seventies.”

  “Well, he never quite reached them, poor dear.”

  “Booze, was it?”

  “Oh, I don’t like to say that.”

  “There’s a lot worse you could say about some of those jerks they got out there now. Male and female. What they need out there is another Fatty Arbuckle case, only the trouble is the public is got so used to scandal.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “You know I was just thinking, I wonder how I missed it when Charles J. Hall passed away. Was it during the summer? I go away in the summer and I don’t see a paper for two weeks.”

  “Yes, I think it was.”

  “They would have had something in.”

  “They didn’t have very much, not as much as he deserved, considering what a really big star he was.”

  “But there was a long time when he wasn’t in anything. That’s when I understood he was hitting the booze so bad. Where was he living during that time?”

  “In Hollywood. He stayed right there.”

  “Wouldn’t take anything but big parts, I guess. That’s where you were smart, Miss Hamford.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, they forgot all about Charles J. Hall. Like my daughter didn’t know who the hell he was last week. But she’d know you. She’d know you right away, because from TV, when you were that lady doctor two years ago, that serial.”

  “Unfortunately only lasted twenty-six weeks.”

  “I don’t care. Your face is still familiar to the new generation. I don’t know what any actress fools around with Broadway for.”

  “Some of us love the theater.”

  “Sure, there’s that, but I’m speaking as a member of the public. You could be in My Fair Lady and there wouldn’t be as many people see you as if you went in one big spectacular. When I see my daughter tomorrow night, when she comes for supper, I’m gunna tell her I rode Joan Hamford. And right away she’s gunna say ‘Doctor McAllister? Doctor Virginia McAllister?’ So they took it off after twenty-six weeks, but just think of how many million people saw you before they took it off. Up there in the millions. The so-called Broadway theater, that’s gettin’ to be for amateurs and those that, let’s face it, can’t get a job in TV.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t say that.”

  “Well, I’m only telling you what the public thinks, basing it on my own conclusions. Here you are, Six-three-oh. Eighty-five on the clock.”

  “Here, Louis. I want you to have this.”

  “The five?”

  “For old times’ sake.”

  “Well, thanks. Thanks a lot, Miss Hamford. The best to you, but TV is where you ought to be.”

  She hoarded her strength during the walk to the elevator, and she smiled brightly at the receptionist in the office of Ralph Sanderson–Otto B. Kolber. “Mr. Sanderson is expecting you, Miss Hamford. Go right in.”

  “Good morning, Ralph,” said Joan Hamford.

  Sanderson rose. “Good morning, Joan. Nice of you to come down at this hour, but unfortunately it was the only absolutely only time I had. You know anything about this play?”

  “Only what I’ve read about it.”

  “Well, then you probably don’t know anything about the part.”

  “No, not really. I read the book, the novel, but I understand that’s been changed.”

  “Oh, hell, the novel. We only kept the boy and his uncle, from the novel.”

  “The boy’s aunt? She’s not in the play? Then what is there for me, Ralph? Or would you rather have me read the play instead of you telling me?”

  “No, I’d just as soon tell you. Do you remember the schoolteacher?”

  “The schoolteacher? Let me think. There was a schoolteacher in one of the early chapters, but I don’t think she had a name.”

  “In the novel she didn’t. But she has in the play.”

  “You really must have changed the novel. How does the part develop?”

  “Well, frankly it doesn’t. We only keep the teacher for one scene in the first act.”

  “Oh, well, Ralph, you didn’t bring me down here for that. That isn’t like you. Good heavens, even if I’d never done anything else, I was Dr. Virginia McAllister to God knows how many million people, and I got twenty-two-fifty for that.”

  “Three years ago, Joan, and you haven’t had much to do since. That’s why I thought of you for the teacher. I’d rather give it to you than someone I don’t know. I’ll pay three-fifty.”

  “What for? You can’t bill me over the others, the part isn’t big enough to do that.”

  “I couldn’t anyway. The boy gets top billing, and Michael Ware is co-star. Tom Ruffo in Illinois Sonata with Michael Ware. But I admit you’d lead the list of featured players.”

  “You know how these things are, Ralph. Not a manager in town but will know I’m working for three-fifty.”

  “But working, and I’ll take care of you publicity-wise. The theater doesn’t pay movie or TV salaries, you know that.”

  “I understand Jackie Gleason got six thousand.”

  “He may have got more, but Virginia McAllister wasn’t Ralph Kramden. I wish you’d think about this, Joan. It’s not physically very demanding. You don’t have to stand around or do any acrobatics.”

  “Or act, either, I suppose. No, I’m afraid not, Ralph, and I really think you were rather naughty to bring me down here.”

  “Joan, this is a fine play and with this boy Ruffo we’re going to run ten months, and maybe a lot longer. For you it would be like a vacation with pay, and you’d be back in the theater. Stop being a stubborn bitch, and think back to times when I paid you sixty dollars a week for more work.”

  “In that respect you haven’t changed, Ralph.”

  “Four hundred.”

  “Take-home that’s still only a little over three hundred. No, I’m going right on being a stubborn bitch.”

  “I’ll give you four hundred, and I’ll release you any time after the first six months that you find a better part.”

  “Can you write me into the second and third acts?”

  “Impossible. The locale changes, and anyway, I know the author wouldn’t do it. And frankly I wouldn’t ask him to. No more tinkering with this play till we open in Boston.”

  “Well—still friends, Ralph. You tried.”

  “Yes, I certainly tried.”

  She reached out her hand. “Give me five dollars for the taxi.”

  “Joan, are you that broke?”

  “No, I�
��m not broke, but that’s what it cost me to come here.”

  Sanderson pulled a bill from a money-clip. “If it cost you five to get here it’ll cost you another five to get home. Here’s a sawbuck.”

  “I only wanted five, but of course I’ll take the ten. In the old days you would have spent more than that on taking me to lunch.”

  “Considering where we usually ended up after lunch, the price wasn’t high.”

  “I guess that’s a compliment.”

  “You know, you have delusions of Laurette Taylor in Menagerie. All you senior girls have that.”

  “Senior girls. That sounds so Camp Fire-y.”

  “You’re going to be sore as hell when you see who gets this part. I don’t know who it’ll be, but I’m going to pick somebody you hate.”

  “Good. Don’t pick anybody I like, because I’ll hate her if the play runs.”

  “And yourself.”

  “Oh—well, I hate myself already. Do you think I like going back to that hotel, feeling sure you have a hit, hoping you have a hit, and stuck with my own stubborn pride? But you know I can’t take this job, Ralph.”

  “Yes, I guess I do.”

  “You wouldn’t stretch a point and take me to lunch, would you?”

  “No, I can’t, Joan.”

  “Then—will you give me a kiss?”

  “Any time.” He came around from behind his desk and put his arms around her.

  “On the lips,” she said.

  He bent down, she stood on tiptoe, and his mouth pressed on hers. “Thank you, dear,” she said. “Call me, call me.”

  “I hope so,” he said, as she went out.

  (1961)

  CAN I STAY HERE?

  The famous actress went to the window and gazed down at the snow-covered Park. The morning radio had said there would be snow, and there it was, an inch of it settled on trees and ground, and making her warm apartment so comfortable and secure. She would not have to go out all day. John Blackwell’s twenty-one-year-old daughter was coming for lunch, and would probably stay an hour and a half; then there would be nothing to do until Alfredo Pastorelli’s cocktail party, and the weather had provided an excuse for ducking that. As for dinner at Maude Long’s, any minute now there would be a telephone call from Maude. Any minute—and this was the minute.