The Hanging on Union Square
Page 6
And the blood of the colored race and the blood of the white race that fell on the cement pavement were of one color.
Nut realized also that Communists were not necessarily bad people who started trouble and then stepped to a safety zone and let other fellows take the consequences.
* * *
—
Thus Mr. Nut got out—out in a no-way-out way.
ACT II
XI:
HE WAS POETIZING
. . . Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Things give heat,
Things keep warmth.
Packed warehouse,
Crowded shop window.
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?
Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Plenty of wheat,
Plenty of cotton.
Rich men’s joy,
Farmers’ woe.
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?
Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Street links with avenue,
Avenue links with highway,
Leads near! Leads far!
Buffalo,
Chicago,
San Diego.
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?
Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Rich men are yachting,
To and fro.
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?
Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Apartment high,
Apartment low.
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?
Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Your parrot’s a pet,
And it can speak—
And I can smile.
Let me share its room!
A dog’s a pet
That can stand up
As stands a man.
But always I
Walk like a man.
Let me share its home!
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?
Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Fiddles are played
By blind men who
For pennies beg
In city streets.
God in Heaven,
Take out my eyes.
With eyes I can see.
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?
Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Pencils are sold
By cripples who
For pennies beg
In city streets.
God in Heaven,
Chop off my legs!
With legs I can walk.
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?
Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Mother, sent me out
Of your womb.
Now please take me back
Into your tomb!
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?
Heaven is above,
Hell below.
You earthquake,
You volcano,
Come near!
Come soon!
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?
It’s under this system!
It’s under this system!
Mr. System
Beware:
The Hanging
On
Union Square! . . .
XII:
BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF AN AMBULANCE
“Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?”
It was Mr. Nut poetizing.
* * *
—
One o’clock.
* * *
—
At the corner of Fourteenth Street and First Avenue, Mr. Nut saw a garbage-can standing in front of another cafeteria.
He stopped.
He looked in.
He put his right hand in.
To see if there was anything inside.
An old man came running towards him. He yelled:
“Get away from here! This is my station. I’ve got a sick wife to feed. You’re a young fellow: why don’t you go to the Relief Building?1 You have the strength. They have to feed you! They are afraid that you will make trouble.”
The old man covered the garbage-can with his whole body to keep it from Mr. Nut. Picking! Eating! And murmuring!
Nut moved to the other side of the can.
“Don’t touch this can!” continued the old man. “This is my station!”
“What do you mean,” asked Nut, “your station?”
“You heard me! Can’t you understand English? I have been living by this can for three months now.”
Nut moved back a few steps. Still looking on.
The snow whitened the pavement.
And the melting snow washed away all the dirt from the old man’s bony hands. They were as pale and bloodless as wax.
While the old man kept on digging, a tin box of Drainpipe Solvent appeared, alongside of a piece of rotten apple-pie. The old man picked up the pie with joy, and was ready to swallow it.
Nut dashed forward and grabbed the old man’s hand. He dropped the pie on the ground.
“You bastard! You take the food from an old man’s mouth! You damned hero!”
“Now look here. This pie, with that white powder on, is poison! It can put your stomach and lungs out of commission. It will kill you!”
“Is that so?” said the disappointed old man. “Now you, young fellow, you have spoiled my opportunity. I’m sick. I’m tired. I’m a coward and can’t kill myself. I’ve prayed that some day I will die just in the way you tell me, and so get rid of my misery. Now you have delayed my voyage to Heaven.”
Nut was hungry.
Nut had to move.
* * *
—
He went back to Third Avenue and from Fourteenth Street he followed the Third Avenue Elevated towards downtown.
He reached Thirteenth Street.
A half-drunk and half-awake bum approached him and asked for a cigarette.
“Who the hell wants to work?” the fellow began talking. “I ain’t no sap. It’s snowing so I’ll have good business tomorrow. I’ll make lots of nickels and pennies! Who wants to work? The big shots do nothing but enjoy everything. They drink champagne, I drink wood alcohol! Poison. They are yachting! Me? Around Third Avenue! Tell me, ain’t that justice? For heaven’s sake, give me a cigarette!”
Nut had no cigarette to give.
* * *
—
He walked from Twelfth Street to Eleventh.
A middle-aged fellow with a Southern accent approached Nut and asked him if he could spare a penny so that he would have thirty-five cents with which to go to a cheap hotel on the Bowery.2 He was a farmer. He had come from the South to this city and tried to find a job here. And he hadn’t slept for two nights. He already had thirty-four cents.
Nut had no penny to spare.
* * *
—
Nut walked on from Eleventh Street to Tenth Street.
Another fellow came to him and asked him if he had a match.
Mr. Nut stopped. Searched.
In addition to a match, which Nut gave to the fellow, he felt something small, round and solid in the corner of his vest-pocket.
Before using his eyes to see it, Nut prayed: “Let it not be a button. I have lots of buttons. Let it be a dime
.”
If it were a dime, Nut would be able to have a bowl of soup together with a piece of butter, and two Big, Big Rolls!
For Heaven’s sake! It was a penny.
* * *
—
Nut went back a block.
He found the Southern fellow standing there, shivering.
‘‘I’ve just found a penny in my pocket. Take it and go to sleep.”
“Thanks a lot,” the fellow smiled gratefully.
“Don’t mention it. One penny will do me no good anyhow.”
“God bless J. P. Morgan,” said the Southern fellow, “last year he made a speech on the radio. This is real Block Aid!”3
* * *
—
Snow was falling, heavier and heavier.
Snow was falling, faster and faster.
Nut followed the Third Avenue El again, walking back in the downtown direction.
He saw a woman about fifty who walked as if one of her legs were long and one short.
She called out to him:
“Say, whaddaya say?”
Nut had nothing to say.
* * *
—
At the corner of Ninth Street, he turned west to Fourth Avenue.
On his way he saw many people crowded in a hallway. At the place where the street was darker, he saw many people lying on the stone floors of a hallway. They were covered with newspapers and were sleeping.
Nut walked and walked.
He reached Washington Square and Fifth Avenue.
He saw a fellow rather well-dressed, lying on the sidewalk.
His body was stiff, the two legs straight, the two feet parted. The two hands coming from his overcoat sleeves had their palms upward. His face was half-covered with his hat. His mouth was open. The man wasn’t breathing. His body was very stiff.
“Complete, dignified funeral for $150, with ornamented casket.
As inexpensive as required and as impressive as desired.”
Nut would like to know, Who, how, and why? A policeman stood nearby and smiled at him and said icily, “Starvation! Take a walk, it’s none of your business! Or I’ll hang you!”
For, if Nut remained before the arrival of an ambulance there wouldn’t be enough time for the cop to pick something out of the starved, unemployed man’s pocket.
XIII:
A WILLOW IN A WINDY SPRING
“Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Nothing in pocket.
Where to go?”
It was two o’clock.
Nut moved on.
* * *
—
Near the corner of Eighth Street and Sixth Avenue, there was a young fellow with long hair and no hat on. His hair was different from that of the men on Third Avenue. It was long but it was richly oiled and it was carefully scissored along his neck. And the muffler which he took out from a pocket of his overcoat was beautifully colored. His eyebrows were poetically arranged, and they resembled those of Miss Digger. Whether his face was powdered or was just affected by the street light, Nut could not tell. But he could tell that the lips of that young fellow were painted and his tongue went out just a little bit and made his tiny mouth more noticeable. As he walked, his body waved to and fro, his hips swayed left and right. It reminded Nut of a willow in a windy spring.
* * *
—
“Haven’t we met somewhere before? Oh, gracious, I am so glad to see you again. And this is just the moment!” said the young fellow, welcomingly. He looked at Mr. Nut very pleasedly, and one of his hands had already been put under the arm of Mr. Nut.
“I never saw you before. You are mistaken,” said Mr. Nut coldly.
“Oh, what’s the difference? Strangers this time. Acquaintances next time.”
Another fellow with some papers under his arm touched the young fellow’s back and said: “Remember that sailor last winter?” Then he ran away.
“The snow is terrible,” said the handsome young fellow. “Let us go to my studio. We’ll have a few drinks and then I’ll read you a few of my poems.”
Nut was pleased, for, in this world, there was still someone who had a good heart.
* * *
—
He followed the young fellow. They turned this way and that way. Walked on many crooked streets. Finally, they reached a building. One flight up. Two flights up. And then they came to a flat on the top floor. It had two rooms, with a kitchenette and a bathroom.
A large bed was alongside of the wall. There was a table near the window with a portable typewriter on it. And on the typewriter was a white sheet with a few short, uneven lines written on it. There were book-shelves, packed with books. On the wall there were a few pictures of men without any clothes on.
“Won’t you have a seat?” asked the young fellow.
Nut was looking on.
“Please take that sofa. It’s more comfortable.”
Nut was seated. He was hungry, but not cold any more. The room had steam heat.
“By the way, do you know where the washroom is?”
“Thanks,” answered Nut. He looked into the kitchenette.
“Excuse me just a minute.” The young fellow went into the washroom and closed the door.
The young fellow came out, with his hair rearranged and his tongue going delicately to his lips. He had a small pocket-mirror in his hand.
“For goodness sake, take your hat and coat off. You will catch cold!”
“How do you like my studio? Isn’t it nice and cute?”
“Indeed, a very nice flat,” answered Nut.
“Say, don’t say flat. It isn’t poetic. It is a studio.”
Nut was looking into the kitchenette.
The young fellow was looking at him.
The young fellow was neither looking at his head, nor at his feet. But at some place between both. That place was just midway between Nut’s head and feet.
* * *
—
Nut didn’t care where the young fellow looked at him. Nut was wondering where there was some food in the flat.
The young fellow saw the wondering in Mr. Nut’s eyes, and politely said: “I beg your pardon. I promised to read you some poetry, didn’t I?”
“No, thanks, I never liked poetry. I cannot understand it.”
“Because it is not understandable, that is why it is poetry. If you could understand it, then it wouldn’t be poetry anymore. If you want to read something as plain as Autumn air, you should go to Union Square and read some of their propaganda stuff.”4
“Haven’t you anything in your kitchenette?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon!”
The young fellow went into the kitchenette and brought out two small glasses, a bottle of gin and a package of sliced bread.
He poured one glass for Mr. Nut and one for himself.
“I don’t drink,” Mr. Nut said. “Please hand me that bread.”
It was two o’clock on Sunday afternoon when Nut had had his “coffee and.” Now it was thirty minutes past two, Monday morning.
Nut picked up two pieces, rolled them together and stuck them into his mouth. He turned his head toward the wall, and chewed them. They took too long to chew—so he just swallowed them. They stuck at the food passage and could not get in. Tears filled his eyes.
Then he took a glass of gin and poured it into his mouth. The gin greased the bread. He breathed. He coughed.
Nut took two more pieces of bread. And more and more. He finished the whole package.
Nut felt better. Much better. He wasn’t hungry any more.
Nut stood up and ran his hands up and down his chest, to help his stomach get things straightened out. Then he stretched his hands and had a little exercise. And he left the sofa and had a l
ittle walk. He went into the washroom and had a few glasses of cold water. Then everything was all right. He was a new man. He began to smile. He thanked God for his daily bread. He felt that in this world there was a certain person who had a good heart.
* * *
—
While Nut was eating, drinking, walking, the young fellow was standing alongside of a table looking at a picture of a middle-aged woman. It was inscribed: “To my dear son—from his lonely and affectionate mother.”
* * *
—
The air in the room made Nut sleepy. He lay on the sofa with his legs stretched out and his body relaxed. He slept.
As he lay sleeping, the young fellow sat on the arm of the sofa, and was running his hand through Mr. Nut’s hair. The young fellow kissed Nut’s forehead, cheeks and lips.
And because of the touching and kissing, and because of the strong perfume of that young fellow, Mr. Nut awoke.
The young fellow looked at him with his eyes mysteriously half-closed. He did not say a word.
Nut felt that something was wrong.
He stood up. Put on his hat and overcoat.
“Thanks a lot for your bread.”
The young poet was disappointed and finally sang:
“I wish your taste would be like mine—
We could just be sixty-nine.”
Nut opened the door, left the apartment and came out into the open.
XIV:
ARTIST AND UNIFORM
“Heaven is above,
Hell below.
Nothing in pocket,
Where to go?”
It was three o’clock.
* * *
—
Nut walked to where there was more light. He came to a big, big cafeteria near the subway station.
A small, old man paid his nickel check and came out.