I think you overlook the fact that I am a college graduate who majored in chemistry and it’s not that I’m trying to blow my own horn but you ought to remember that I’ve got more brains than your whole family of farmers. You sent for them, not me. If it were to have been a little family chat that’s all right, but to be beaten up in my own house that’s another thing. Something worse could have happened than a mere broken hip. What was I expected to do against three, especially when they had your key and planned to get me in bed, defenceless. Putting vaseline over the floor was not the act of a coward but a strategist. Admittedly I never dreamed it would work so well.
Right, so they’re going to sue me for damages but I want to know how your father is going to explain coming into the apartment with a hay rake, fifty miles from the nearest field. Rake up the grass in our window boxes? So you see I’m not in the least worried. And remember this, when your brother slipped and broke his hip, the red bowl you bought last year in the village had just left his hand, which he claimed, rather prematurely I thought, was the arm that pitched eight no hit games for Erasmus High and of course he promptly pitched on his backside courtesy my vaseline. It was only his screams of agony which prevented your brother Tim and father from beating me up although with greasy feet they too might have ended up in the hospital.
And don’t forget to tell your father’s lawyer that I, as the occupier of 4-F, don’t have to warn parties who are trying to murder me in my bed that they are open to risks inside my door. Which makes me call to mind the nasty references that were made to the number of my apartment during the war. To imply that I was classified as 4-F and unfit for service is a slander on my physical health which has always been, if I do say so myself, superb. I was prevented from active duty by the nature of my work at college and I don’t care if you never believe me. There were some people who did more to win the war back in the States than a thousand like your brothers who as far as I can gather were charging every bush and stump in Hawaii with fixed bayonets which in the end were used only to open beer cans.
But this is not a letter of recrimination. Far from it. I just want you to get the facts straight and understand my side of it. I’ve never held anything against your family except that remark about my parents being ignorant immigrants. They were hard working, clean living, good people who saw to it that I got the opportunities they never had and slaved and sacrificed so I could be what I am today. Even so, sometimes my dear Sylvia, I can’t help feeling a little relieved that I’ve only been one generation in this great land.
But as I’ve said, this is not a letter of recrimination. Although your constant accusations that I was cheap, tightwad and the rest never helped matters. This business of the sun shade for the car is a fad and just because I don’t want to get one doesn’t mean that I’m a tightwad. You ought to realise that people who really have something don’t go around advertising it to everybody. Sure, laugh at those old guys riding bicycles around Boston but every time you make a telephone call that rings up a little something on their dividends.
And this is something I really mean. I’d like to be friends with your brothers and it’s not because I’m scared of them. I studied jujitsu in a course at college and was recommended for further training. But for my part I’d like to forget everything. However, none of this would have happened if your mother had minded her own business in the beginning. Offering me a job feeding pigs is no way to talk to someone who was in the top half of his class right through college. And then to come into our apartment and call me a red because of the color of the curtains is going too far.
I’ve had my say and have set out the facts in a broad-minded way and as far as I’m concerned the whole incident is a thing of the past. If you want I’ll meet you at Grand Central, seven, Sunday and we could have meat balls and spaghetti at Joe’s. Alone.
Your loving husband,
Hugo
Dear Hugo
I hope this letter finds you as sick as your letter made me. You’re so smart aren’t you? No one can tell you, can they? I wish you could find something new to brag about because I’m getting tired hearing you were in the first half of your class right through college. I guess that’s where you learned to hit women and to beat a fast retreat when someone your own size comes along. And don’t give me that foolishness that my mother tried to attack you with a lethal weapon. Ever since we’ve been married you’ve tried to make trouble over her. She’s my mother and has a perfect right to come and see me when she wants and to comment on the curtains.
But don’t you go around trying to paint yourself as my brave husband because I heard a different story. When my father and brothers came in the door to get you, as you put it, they said you went to get under the bed and even after Joe slipped and broke his hip. Putting vaseline on the floor wasn’t the work of a coward but a strategist? What a laugh, it’s killing me. That’s how brave you are. Why couldn’t you take your beating like a man instead of trying some dirty trick like that. Just the type of thing I’d expect too. And boy how you exaggerate. My father’s hay rake was in the back of the truck all the time and don’t worry he wouldn’t need the help of a hay rake to take you on, you can be sure of that. And just one item you overlooked, it was you who threw the red bowl because the janitor was just putting out the garbage and he heard you screaming, “And you can take your sister’s red bowl too, right in the head.” So think that over before you dream up any more for your action of assault.
And you don’t know how wonderful it is to get a letter from you in which you’re so eager to get the facts straight and to set them out in a broadminded way. I’m sure your head must be at least two feet between the ears, remind me to measure it sometime.
And no one ever said anything about your parents being ignorant immigrants, I just said they were immigrants and hadn’t caught on yet which is only natural seeing as they came from a pretty backward country which, of course, I’m not saying is their fault. But just like you to give me that stuff you’re relieved to be only one generation here and if that’s so I don’t see you breaking a leg to get the boat back. But maybe that’s your mission in life to go back there with your chemistry degree and show them how to smarten up. I notice you always have a lot of bright ideas how we can modernize the apartment and that great invention of yours for drying hair which almost electrocuted me which maybe was what you were trying to do. Anyway we all know what a big time genius you are, especially the smooth way you wash dishes.
But I love that, your family slaved and sacrificed so that you could be what you are today—pardon me while I mail them a medal. What do you call fooling round with a lot of smelly little explosions for eighty dollars a week that my father and brothers make selling a few hogs. And you were insulted because they offered you a job feeding them and only because they wanted to give you a break and didn’t want to see me cooped up in that sweat box. And I might add it would have been the highest paid job you’ve ever had.
Honestly you make me tired. And that is something that better be understood before I come back. You’ve spent the last five dollars you’re going to, having your accent lifted by that red bearded maniac. The way he comes bouncing in with that stupid tape recorder reciting his high brow poems sounding like a Boston over-baked bean. Who do you think it impresses? He’s the one who’s put all these crazy ideas in your head and all that accent will get you is a sock on the jaw and maybe a few days in jail. All of which might do you some good. But you’re not pulling these old fashioned ideas on me, the housework is fifty fifty and that’s final.
So I’ve had my say too and am willing to forget the incident as well. But if I meet you at Grand Central on Sunday, I’m certainly not going to Joe’s for spaghetti and meat balls, you don’t buy me off with a cheap manoeuvre like that. Otherwise I take the train straight back—alone.
Your loving wife,
Sylvia
Party on Saturday Afternoon
He had a tin can on the end of a string, swinging it around h
is dark skull, bored. The other kids were throwing a ball against a high wall, scattering after it, a melody of dirty words. Israel’s dark brown backside was sticking out of his short pants. He was the thinnest in the gang. Then there was Rinso. Rinso could run like a deer. He had big dark eyes that opened like an owl’s when someone described strawberry shortcake to him. A.K., one eyed A.K., the only white boy in the gang, was the one who was always telling Rinso luscious stories about strawberry shortcake. A.K. loved to watch the thin dark boy’s eyes grow big, his big mouth open like elevator doors, while telling him about the great cake his mother was going to have ready that night, Saturday night. A.K. knew he was telling a big lie, and that the cakes he described were only pictures in a magazine. But he liked his friend Rinso so much that he wouldn’t disappoint him when he begged A.K. to tell him about the dessert his mother was going to have that night.
“Cum mon dere, A.K., you all tell dis boy what youh mammy done gonna fill your belly wit ta’night.”
“No,” A.K. answered, with downcast eyes, kicking a tin can, feeling all the misery of being dishonest with his best friend.
“Cum on, A.K., what yuh all stallin’ fouh? I is just gettin’ mah mouth ready for this dream meal.”
“No. No more, I’m not gonna tell you any more. For reasons.—For personal reasons.”
“Well, den, A.K., I guess maybe yuh all don’t wanna come to dis here party Measles’ given in his house dis very afternoon.”
A.K. looked up suddenly, suspiciously.
“What party? I ain’t heard of any party of Measles’. You can’t kid me. There’s no party.”
“Well, iffen youh don’t believe me, youh don’t have to. You’re not even supposed to know about dis here party.”
A.K. was eager now. His eyes fastened upon Rinso in a stare. Rinso did not waver, and A.K. knew he was telling the truth.
“But listen, A.K., don’t tell anyone I done told you.”
A.K. interrupted. “But why didn’t Measles ask me if he asked everyone else?”
“Don’t ask me,” Rinso shrugged, “all I know is dat youh done got to bring a present. Maybe Measles forgot ta ask you—you know how dumb Measles is sometimes.”
A.K. looked around the lot. “Where’s Measles?” he yelled.
“He’s gone home,” someone shouted.
A.K. hastened away down the street, with visions of Measles’ party that afternoon. He could see the table laden with chocolate cake, pop corn and jelly beans. What would he bring for a present. He remembered the four store bottles on the back porch. That was 12 cents. He would go to Woolworth’s five and dime after lunch and find something special.
In Woolworth’s he looked all over the toy and gun counter. He could find nothing. Then on the stationery counter he spied a ten cent globe of the world. Just the thing. He began to see Measles’ eyes getting big. His would be the best present there. He thought of the table, chocolate cake, jelly beans and pop corn.
He looked at the clock. Ten minutes after two. The party would be started by now, he’d better hurry. He ran a hundred yards, walked a hundred yards, as he had been taught in the Boy Scouts.
As he rang the bell he could see dark figures moving behind the curtains. He felt his heart beating more quickly. He wondered what he’d say if Measles’ mother opened the door. They were taking a long time. He held the globe behind his back. Through the curtains, he could make out Rinso’s face looking out. The door began to open. It was Israel.
“A.K., you can’t come in here.”
“Why not.”
“A.K., you’re white, you know dat.”
A.K. retreated down the steps. Inside, he could see Rinso’s face turn away.
Whither Wigwams
I have had some sad times in this country. But I have grown accustomed to the routine. I would like the public houses to be open all the time and for the smoke to be abated. Last night I was dreaming of escape. With several nationalities after me, and various types. I can’t quite remember if any of these were British. On the other hand, the British are always after you. In their quiet persistent way. Old women to see if you beat your children. The entire middle class to catch you cheating on the train. The aristocracy, God bless and keep them always, mind their own business. Otherwise, living in England is very cosy indeed.
I am located in Fulham, down an upper working class street, living as honourably as anyone can in this naughty world. I’ve shouted loudly once or twice at the neighbours, remonstrating with them for giving some rather sneaky abuse to my children. I am glad to say my kids now play freely in front of the house. My hard eye is suspicious of the disreputable and reputable alike. This is the behaviour of a New Yorker, which I am. But I am shy and thrive on people being nice to me and with friends I am found to be open, honest, warm, to the point of sheer insanity at times.
Now for the embarrassing statement, resented by the human and inhuman alike. I write for a living. I used to think in my early and generous days that anyone could do this. But they can’t. And how I have managed for these last ten or so years I will never know, but about six of them I have spent variously in Britain. Where they have mostly heard of me under counters and behind doors until recently. And of course, some are shocked to see me, full of friendliness and nearly wracked with humility, reluctantly accepted as a writer. Regrettably there seems to be no category for me, and the situation is rather awkward. Type after type presents himself splay footed, looking me up and down for any frayed cuff, to ask how much money I make and is it enough to live on. It is this materialism which makes me so sad. There is no romance, no glory that you as a writer sat down and bravely sweated on the white sheets. Of paper. To create something.
This is where Ireland comes in handy. I feel that there they look into your eyes. It may take three hours and ten pints but finally they look into your eyes, put a hand over the bar, shake the head and say, a grand book. And then it’s my chance to say, I’m glad I wrote it. And then they say just as quickly, Ah well, then I’m glad I read it. Now this is pleasant. And money is never mentioned. So long as you buy the next round. O beautiful Irish days in Dublin. Which I was sorry to recently hear is sinking at the rate of a foot a year into the sea. Sad news for me, especially with the people so devout.
In this London city I frequently go to Harrods. Where I tread the nice carpets and stand perusing in the various departments, especially that of the meat, fish and poultry. Here I ridiculously lurk for hours. And it is a tribute to those chaps behind the counter who may whisper about me but tolerate my long presence absolutely. A harmless occupation looking at the crabs, lobster, salmon, game and beef. It’s almost as if the fields, rivers and shores where these creatures were killed were there and one sniffs a wild rural breeze.
I confess to looking over the customers as well. From here I almost invariably go to the glass department, being a modest collector of the hand blown quality and order a few. Then to the music department for an eyeful of soothing harpsichords. Hovering over the brown veneer, perhaps a finger tenderly touching an ivory key. And a world opens up, the summer evening, the lily smell, the garden and tinkle of the village church bell as I sit playing obscurely.
How I love romance and vines and vintage. But wait. My ear catches an altercation. I hear several clipped indignant words. What a pity to come back into the clash of egos being shaped, bolstered, misshapen, crushed, kicked, stepped on, trammelled. I take mine, which is so vulnerable, away to the marble waiting hall and there sit in one of the green leather chairs, legs crossed, socks pulled up, waiting. I sometimes think that someone will smile and come and meet me. But no. Curiosities stroll by, starlets carrying dogs, dowagers with canes and sometimes a naughty looking solicitor. And the afternoon is closing. The sales staff get that inspired vigour which comes with locking up and go sprightly to and fro. I am always mesmerised by this display of enthusiasm at this time of day. Jauntily I go on the streets again, walking in random directions. Watch the lonely respectable people come back
to their dark bed sitters and stare into the basements, up at roofs and through any open door.
In the mostly grey of London I wake up in the morning in the front bedroom, usually at six because two women go by on their way to work at the laundry at the end of the road. If I’m lucky I go back to sleep again and my breakfast comes to me with the mail at nine. Most mail leaves me staring at my walls and out the window and at the chimneys of the bakery across the street. My thoughts are sometimes of the past, of Ireland and Dublin, of the windswept drunken nights on the various country roads. Of the jaws one tried to hit as they flashed by and a defenceless woman caught it instead, collapsing in a moaning heap twenty yards away. With the knowing whispers of the crowd, ah it was an accident but didn’t she deserve it and have it coming, ah the hand of God comes out of the night itself and plays havoc with those who need teaching a good lesson. The mad parties, the like of which had never been seen before and not since. Of two types. One where the evening was jolly and ended up with the wielding of bottles. The other where it was sad and ended up with the wielding of bottles.
Then I think of my own culture and America. Of the open wild greenery. The trees. Of the sad lives of my childhood friends as they grew up in that land of opportunity. And found you grow as your parents. That dad was not God or even a good salesman, but a trembling, terrified man in a nightmare. The neighbours fighting their own little wars out of sight in the kitchen over the crumb cake and container of milk. As the sons said, I’m going to make a million, mom. Goodness, the beer quaffed on these occasions. For myself I never guaranteed making more than fifty thousand. But over the kitchen table and dining room I grew up. But lived in a musical world alone in my bedroom. The boyhood plots laid in sweltering summer attics, digging through cheap heirlooms. Never hunger, rarely sorrow or any death. Just lawns, lakes and tennis. I liked it. I loved it. An exquisite dream. Spruce trees growing their blue tips to touch windows and little hills and mountains for miles around and lakes clear and magic. But maybe I knew I would leave this little community and perhaps not inherit the cars, highways, tinkling ice and tastes of beer. And on a whim one summer day I left to go to a university in Europe. Into a moral shock. Where sin was a test of natural aristocracy. Naturally I passed.
Meet My Maker the Mad Molecule Page 6