We went slowly, it being very hot, chatting about this and that and, almost before we knew it, a car stopped and the driver was asking did we want a lift. Zock asked him where to and he said Chicago so we got in the back seat and began giggling, because everything was working out so well.
The driver was a little man with hairless arms. “You seem like nice boys,” he said.
“Oh yes,” Zock told him. “We’re very nice.”
He kept staring at the two of us through the rearview mirror and after a while, he didn’t bother with Zock any more, but only me. I wasn’t saying much seeing as Zock could do it better. And right then he was talking a blue streak.
“Why doesn’t your friend say something?” the man asked.
“I don’t think he’s too bright,” Zock answered. “A very backward boy who was seven before he could crawl.” At which I laughed.
“He has a nice smile,” the man said.
“Oh, he’s a beauty,” Zock agreed.
“Why don’t you say something?” the man asked me. “Why don’t you come up here and say something?”
“O.K.,” I said, jumping over into the front seat.
“That’s better,” the man said. He patted me on the head. Then he felt my arm. “Strong,” he said. “Very strong for a blond boy.”
“He’s hard as nails,” Zock told him. “And a terror when aroused.”
“You don’t say,” the man answered. He put his hand on my shoulder, keeping it there, driving slow.
Right then Zock started gagging in the back seat, making horrible sounds, doubled up, his face red.
“What is it?” the man asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Phone,” Zock gasped. “Get...to...phone.” The man sped up, turned onto the main road, stopping when we got to a gas station.
I jumped out, and so, to my surprise, did Zock. “You all right?” I asked him.
“I better wait here and see,” he said. “You go on,” he told the man. “Thanks.” The man didn’t say a word but just roared off down the road.
“You got him mad,” I said. “What for?”
“A whim,” Zock answered, feeling my arm. “Very strong for a blond boy,” he laughed. “My, my, my.”
“Why did you get him mad?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when you’re older,” he said, and by then we both were laughing, walking down the highway to Chicago.
Getting picked up a little later by a traveling salesman from Milwaukee who was very fat and jovial and who twice bought us ice cream along the way. His name was Mr. Hardecker and he never stopped laughing. He had eight children and a wife who weighed more than he did, but he still never stopped laughing. And, in the years that have passed since then, I have often thought of trying to locate him again to talk to, because I think Mr. Hardecker had found the handle. But you can never be sure.
When we got to the Loop he let us out, said good-by, and drove away. So there we were. Right smack in the middle of the Loop along with millions of other people. Except that they all knew where they were going. I got scared. Zock was walking down the street and for a minute I lost him in the crowd, but I started running, ducking in and out, finally catching up and grabbing hold.
“Zock,” I said. “There’s something I got to tell you. I lied before. I’ve never run away.”
“That’s all right,” he told me. “I have.”
So I began to relax and enjoy it.
What we did mostly was look at people and look at movies. In shifts. We’d range around the Loop awhile and when we got tired of that, we’d find a movie to go to. All in all, we saw five movies.
Three of which were Gunga Din and to this day it’s still my favorite. We sat through it three times straight, which took up all evening. We were pretty tired from the walking we’d done, but Gunga Din was tiring too. Because we cried so much, both of us. At the ending.
You see, Gunga Din is a water carrier and, at the end the British troops are about to get ambushed by some natives. And he’s wounded very bad in the belly to start with, but even so, he takes a bugle and starts to climb this temple of gold. Inch by inch he makes his way, his pain something awful, the British troops coming closer and closer to getting massacred. But finally he makes it and there he is, high up, standing on the top of the temple of gold. And when he gets there he blows his bugle, warning all the British troops who then mop up the natives in fine style. He stays up there, old Gunga Din does, blowing that bugle until the natives shoot him dead. Now, nobody wants to die, but he knew when he started that climb that he was going to get his, just as sure as God made green apples. But he did it anyway. He didn’t have to. He wasn’t even a soldier, but only a water carrier. Still, he made that climb and when he started inching his way up I started bawling and so did Zock, not stopping until after the picture was over. All three times we did the same thing. Gunga Din on the temple of gold. It was beautiful.
When the movie house closed, we went out in the street. Neither of us felt much like talking so we didn’t, but started moving instead, scuffing our way through the Loop and beyond, heading east toward Lake Michigan. We sacked out, curled up against some big square rocks which aren’t hard to sleep on if you’re really tired. We were. I yawned a couple of times, looking straight up at the sky full of stars, listening to the sound the waves made.” ‘Night,” I said.
“ ’Night, Euripides,” Zock mumbled.
We were quiet for a while. Then I spoke up. “It’s a shame he had to die,” I said. “Gunga Din. I wish he’d lived longer.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Zock said, very soft. I pushed up on one elbow, looking at him. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped behind his head. “Nothing matters when you know it all. All the answers.”
I lay back down and thought for a long time, going over and over what he said. Then I pushed up on one elbow again. “What do you mean?” I asked.
He didn’t answer me, didn’t even hear; he was asleep. So I thought about it some more, staring at those stars, trying to stay awake. But pretty soon my eyes closed and the last thing I remember was the sound of the waves, slap, slap, slap, against the rocks, and then I was out.
The sun woke us. When we took stock we found we had exactly twenty-six cents between us and nothing to do, so we tried sleeping some more, but now the rocks were hard. After a while, we started walking. Except we were both pretty stiff and sore, and you can’t go far when you’re like that. Finally, we came to a bench in front of a bus stop. “Pretend you’re taking the bus,” Zock said, and we did, sitting there, slumped over, peeking up every once in a while just in case anyone, such as a policeman, should wander by.
But it was no policeman who found us on that bench. Instead, it was Kavanaugh. Neither of us heard him coming, though we knew somebody was around because of the smell, probably the worst liquor smell I’ve ever come in contact with. And it all belonged to Kavanaugh, who was no pleasure to be near the first few minutes. After a while, though, you got used to it, and accepted it, as if it was a part of him.
He sprawled down on the edge of the bench close to me, his head in his hands, moaning and groaning as if he was about to die. Zock and I just looked at each other, too tired to move. But Kavanaugh moved. He got to his feet, staggered to the curb, and threw up all over. Then, when he was finished, he turned to face us. “Thank the Lord I got a weak stomach,” he said. And, in the same breath: “The name is Kavanaugh.”
Long before, he must have been handsome. Now he was old, fifty or more, and his face was wrinkled. He needed a shave and his clothes were filthy dirty, but his smile was fine, his eyes bright.
He came back to the bench where we shook hands all around, told him who we were, and right away he started talking. In all my life, I have never met or heard a man who could talk as well as Kavanaugh; not my father; not even Zock when he got older. It was as if talk was his religion and he was spreading the gospel.
He asked where we were from and then he tol
d us where he was from, Ireland, where things are more beautiful than any place else in the world. The water shines like green gold, the skies are as blue as the eyes of your mother, and so on. Then he asked what we did. We said we went to school, and that started him off on education. Which is also better in Ireland than anywhere else, although it is a good thing no matter where you find it. Kavanaugh was self-educated and loved Shakespeare more than he loved his dear dead father, in spite of the fact that Shakespeare was English. Finally, he began to quote. From Hamlet; from Romeo and Juliet; and on. He had a fine voice, Kavanaugh did, deep and rich, and his words echoed down along the empty street.
But right in the middle of Shylock’s speech about “Hath not a Jew hands, eyes, etc.” his voice dropped. Gradually at first, then more and more. His eyes got dull, his body sagged; he slumped against the bench, his arms dangling loosely at his sides.
We waited, not knowing what to do. When he began to talk again, everything was different. “If I was half a man,” he whispered, “just half a man, I’d kill myself.” Which sent shivers up me because not ten minutes earlier he had been so obviously in love with life you almost wanted to cry. “I’m an old man, boys,” he went on. “With nothing to live for. So you’d be doing me a favor if you’d do the job for me.”
“Stop that,” I said.
“It’s the truth,” Kavanaugh whispered. “There was an epidemic in my village when I was a boy. It caught my mother and it caught my sister and I would to God it had caught me too. For there’s nothing to this life but suffering and getting old and it’s better to be done before it starts.”
“Stop,” I said again.
“There’ll come a day when you’ll bless me for what I’m telling you,” he said, and we had to strain to hear. “You’ll see.”
Right then, Zock took over.
Reaching across me, he grabbed Kavanaugh by the shoulder. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Could you use something to eat?” After a minute, Kavanaugh nodded. Zock stood. “We’ve got twenty-six cents,” he said. “And you’re welcome to it.” He lifted Kavanaugh, me helping, and carried him along until we found a coffee place. Putting him at a stool by the counter, Zock bought him twenty-six cents worth of food. By the time he was through eating, he was quoting Shakespeare again.
Out on the street, we shook hands. “My mother in heaven will pray for you every night,” he said.
“Thank you,” Zock said. “We can use it. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” I echoed.
“Fine lads the both of you,” Kavanaugh said, walking away.
“People like that,” Zock said. “Just give them a loaf of bread and the sun is shining.” The last we saw of him, he was staggering along the street, waving his arms for balance, bowing to each and every person who passed by.
Leaving us stuck in Chicago, hungry, thirsty, and broke. We tried walking, but pretty soon Zock gave out. “I’ve had enough,” he said. “What about you?”
“I suppose.”
“Well, then drag me to a telephone.”
“Home?”
Zock shook his head. “I’ve got cousins in Chicago,” he answered. We found a phone where he made a call, coming out smiling. “She’ll be right down, Euripides.”
“Who will?”
“My cousin Sadie,” he said. So we sat down on the curb to wait for her.
Even if I could talk like Kavanaugh, I couldn’t come close to describing her. Sadie Griffin. That was her name and she came roaring up a little later, driving a white convertible with the top down. Zock waved to her. I was about to do the same, but when I saw her close up, I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but stare.
I have never seen, either on the street or in the movies or any place else, a girl as beautiful as Sadie Griffin. She had long golden hair and from just looking at her you knew that if she’d been around when Paris was fiddling with the Golden Apples, then Helen would have stayed home with Menelaus and there never would have been a Trojan War.
She lived with her folks in a big apartment overlooking Lake Michigan. They fed us, first calling up Athens, and after a while, Sadie Griffin drove us home. I stared at her all the way, hardly ever talking. Toward the end of the trip she began teasing me about it, which only made me clam up more. She was eighteen years old that summer and getting ready to start college. Just eighteen years old, just five more than me, but I couldn’t have been more tongue-tied talking to God Almighty Himself.
Back home there was the usual scolding together with some minor punishment, none of which proved too troublesome. And the summer went fast afterward, seeing as we had so much to talk about. There was Kavanaugh and Mr. Hardecker and sometimes Sadie Griffin. But most of all there was Gunga Din, the poor old water carrier who saved the British troops by blowing that bugle from right on top of the temple of gold.
And besides helping the summer to pass, that trip also made us the leaders of the eighth grade. News of it spread, naturally, which we really couldn’t object to, since we did most of the spreading ourselves. And when people came for more details, they got them from the both of us, together. We were always together, me and Zock. We were our own gang. We were a foundation and the others were alone. And when you’re alone you look for something to be with, something solid. So they all came to us. Zock was a sort of silent partner, because things worked out better that way, him not being much good at sports, whereas I was. And I already described how he looked, being ugly, while I was more the All-American-boy type—good build, blue eyes, nice smile. Even Zock’s smile was crooked, and I often thought that God should have given him something decent looking on the outside, instead of putting it all in, hiding it, so that nobody could ever see it at first glance.
But make no mistake, we were the head, the two of us, walking side by side. And behind us came “Buttons” Dooley, a very nice kid and so called because one day he came to school unbuttoned in exactly the wrong place, which was pretty funny at the time. And Johnny Hunkley, the strongest boy in school but such a slob that nobody cared. Plus nine or ten others. We did the things gangs usually do, such as switching street signs or scaring Miss Blaul, the old virgin librarian, by hooting outside her window at night. And other juvenile activities which I am not particularly proud of but which did nobody any lasting harm that I can see.
So eighth grade went by, as did the summer following, and when it was almost gone, Zock took to acting funny for a while, and I didn’t see him much. I went swimming with the gang, horsing around, the bunch of us just killing time until the shift into high.
Then one evening, right after supper, I was sitting on the front porch reading a magazine when Zock sauntered over. “Have we met?” I asked him as he came. “Your face certainly looks familiar, because nobody could forget a face like that. Do you have a name? What do people call you?” And I chattered on and on. He didn’t answer, but just sat down in a rocker and began going back and forth, back and forth. “Cat got your tongue?” I asked, using one of his mother’s favorite expressions.
He looked at me. “Want to read a poem?” When I said sure, he handed me a sheet of paper. “Let me know what you think,” he said. “Come right over when you’re done.” Then he ran off.
I opened the paper. It read:
So seize the moment
While there is a moment yet to seize.
Take it now.
Else faceless Time
Creep in on little cat’s feet
To take it.
While I love you; while my love falls
Like love shaken from a petal.
Take me now.
I must have read that poem over about twenty times right then, I thought it was so beautiful. I studied every word until I knew what the whole thing meant. After which I tore over to his house. He was sitting in his room.
“Well?” he said.
“What the hell is it?” I asked, very serious.
“It’s supposed to be a poem.”
“I know that. But what’s it mean? Exa
ctly.”
“Whatever you want it to mean. That’s the wonderful thing about poetry.”
“Who do you want to take you, Zock? Who are you in love with?”
“Jesus,” he said. “I’m not in love. It’s a poem.”
“And what about those cat’s feet?”
“I stole that,” he admitted.
“What for?”
“It’s legal. In poetry it’s legal. Everybody does it.”
“And what about this ‘love falling like love’ part? Is that what you meant? Shouldn’t it be love falling like water? Or dew. How about dew?”
“It’s an image,” Zock yelled and I saw I’d gone too far, so I stopped. But it was too late. He snatched the paper out of my hand, ripping it. “Goddam you,” he shouted. “Goddam you to hell!” And then he swung on me, something he hadn’t done since that very first day.
I ducked easy enough and dove at him, pinning his arm behind him, yelling right back. “I-loved-that-poem! I-was-only-kidding. I-loved-it. I-think-it’s-beautiful. Honest-but-I-think-it’s-the-prettiest-goddam-poem-I-ever-read. Now-will-you-stop?” He was swearing at me but my voice was louder so that he had to listen. And he knew I meant it. Every word.
“You do?” he said. “You really do?”
I nodded, letting him go.
“Euripides,” he said. “You are the smartest guy and the best critic in the whole world.”
“Naturally,” I said. “But let’s cut out this fol-de-rol and go do something useful. Let’s so scare Miss Blaul.”
Now I’m not the smartest guy or the best critic in the whole world, and I’m the first to admit it. But just the same, Zock showed me every poem he ever wrote after that. They got better all the time, except I still liked that first one best, with love dropping like love. I know they got better because when Zock was sixteen, he won a national poetry contest and by the time he was seventeen, he’d had several poems published. He would have been a fine poet, maybe even a great one, if only I’d given him the chance.
The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold Page 120