‘Me, too,’ I said.
Then Berliner began quietly humming. I looked at him and saw that he’d shut his eyes. His humming flowed into words: ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow…’
I know I would have laughed, but Cavanaugh stopped me by joining Berliner, singing in slow, quiet tones, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow.’ Together they were irresistible and all of us began doing it, singing in the flowery piney dark outside Kramer’s house. When we reached the last line, fourth or fifth time around, ‘Which nobody can deny’, it seemed awesomely true, maybe because of the trees, parked cars, hedges and houses. These dumb ministers of the street denied nothing and there was no denial even from Kramer’s house, though I expected it very much, a shout, a scream, or something worse. We stopped singing. A sudden deep drop to silence. The earth pressed up against my feet.
Cavanaugh looked at Kramer’s house, as if for the effect of our voices, but quietude had resumed, cool dark air resumed. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he whispered, not going, and then he raised his voice, ‘But I’m not sleepy. Man, I don’t even want to sleep. I’m going for a drive.’
Terry said, ‘I’m not sleepy either.’
Berliner, tentatively, almost shyly, said, ‘Me neither. I know a breakfast place in San Francisco.’
Canterbury said, ‘Let me buy breakfast for you fellows.’ He tried to restrain himself, not show us how much he wanted to buy us breakfast, but his voice jumped with enthusiasm and hope, spoiling the idea a little.
I said, ‘Well, I don’t know.’
Paul dragged on his marijuana, finishing it, building towards action, and then said, ‘Let’s go in Cavanaugh’s pickup,’ as if the decision to go had been made.
Nobody moved. Berliner checked our faces for objections. Nobody said no. Terry moaned, ‘I’ve got to work tomorrow,’ but that wasn’t no. In fact, it was a sort of yes. Berliner nudged Cavanaugh and they took off together, as if with the same place in mind, a great big man and a man with white hair striding together up the street. I lingered, but only until Paul grabbed my arm, pulling me after him. I didn’t resist. Terry and Canterbury followed, everyone walking quickly.
The bed of Cavanaugh’s pickup was hard on my ass. Also cold to the touch. It rumbled and jounced. Terry and Paul huddled against the back of the cab, talking and laughing. I heard Terry shout, against the noise of the pickup, ‘I said to her “I love you,”’ and Paul laughed and looked at me. Though I’d missed the story, I laughed, and then, with the pickup building speed along the avenue to the freeway, I couldn’t hear a word they were saying. But I laughed and the wind ripped my face; numbing, loud. First light lay along the shore and out along the mud flats of the bay, a cottony glow gathering against black resistance in the morning sky. Cavanaugh pushed hard, ninety or better, going through Emeryville. I could feel his happiness in the speed. Like the new day, despite resistance, being born. ‘Where are we going?’ I screamed. Not for answer; just to scream. The wind ate my question. Terry’s bald head dipped towards me. Pale ceramic bulb; it must have been freezing in the wind. He winked. Canterbury’s face popped up in the back window of the cab and I noticed, in the exaggerated motion of his lips, he was singing, nodding his head to the beat. As we approached the toll booth to the Bay Bridge, Cavanaugh had to slow down. I could hear them singing inside the cab. Paul and Terry joined in and so did I. We pulled away from the toll booth towards high steel pylons and great sweeping loops of cable, all of us singing of Kramer, jolly good fellow we’d left in his dining room, peering after us, waving goodbye. Jolly good fellow. Which nobody should deny.
Daunt Books
Founded in 2010, the Daunt Books imprint is dedicated to discovering brilliant works by talented authors from around the world. Whether reissuing beautiful new editions of lost classics or introducing fresh literary voices, we’re drawn to writing that evokes a strong sense of place – novels, short fiction, memoirs, travel accounts, and translations with a lingering atmosphere, a thrilling story, and a distinctive style. With our roots as a travel bookshop, the titles we publish are inspired by the Daunt shops themselves, and the exciting atmosphere of discovery to be found in a good bookshop.
For more information, please visit
www.dauntbookspublishing.co.uk
About the Author
Leonard Michaels (1933-2003) was one of the most admired and influential American writers of the last half century. He was the author of five collections of short stories, and two novels: Sylvia (1993), and The Men’s Club (1981), as well as numerous essays and screenplays.
Copyright
This electronic edition first published in Great Britain in 2016 by
Daunt Books
83 Marylebone High Street
London W1U 4QW
First published in 1978 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, NY
Copyright © 1978, 1981 Leonard Michaels
The right of Leonard Michaels to be identified as the author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from Daunt Books, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781907970856
www.dauntbookspublishing.co.uk
The Men's Club Page 12