The Rosy Crucifixion 2 - Plexus

by Henry Miller

  After this tragic incident Mona couldn’t look at Remo’s. For a while she made no attempt to do anything. To make her feel easier, also to prove to her that I could do a little gold-digging myself when I had a mind to, I sallied forth each day to make a few touches here and there. It wasn’t that we were desperate; I did it to get my hand in, and—to convince her that if we really had to carry on like sharks I was almost as good at it as she. Naturally, I tackled the sure-fire ones first. My cousin, the one who owned my beautiful racing wheel, was number one on my list. I got a ten spot from him. He handed it to me grudgingly, not because he was a tight-wad but because he disapproved of borrowing and lending. When I inquired about the bike he informed me that he had never ridden it, that he had sold it to a chum of his, a Syrian. I went immediately to the Syrian’s home—it was only a few blocks away—and made such an impression on him, talking about bike races, prize fights, football and so on, that when we parted he slipped me a ten dollar bill. He even urged me to bring my wife some night and have dinner with the family.

  From Zabrowskie, my old friend the ticker-tapper at the telegraph office near Times Square, I got another ten spot and a new hat. An excellent lunch too. The usual conversation, of course. All about the horses, about working too hard, about looking out for a rainy day. Eager to have me promise that I would accompany him some night when there was a good fight on.

  When I finally let out that I expected to write a column for the Hearst papers he looked at me goggle-eyed. As I say, he had already given me the ten spot. Now he began talking in earnest. I was to remember, if I needed any more between now and then—then meaning when I was in full swing as a columnist—I was to call on him. Maybe you’d better take twenty instead of ten, he said. I handed him back the bill and received a twenty. At the corner we had to stop at a cigar store where he filled my breast pocket with fat cigars. It was then he noticed that the last hat he had bought for me looked rather seedy. We stopped at a haberdasher’s, on the way back to the telegraph office, where he bought me another hat, a Borsalino no less. One has to look right, he counseled. Never let them know you’re poor. He looked so happy when we parted you would have thought I was the one who had done the favors. Don’t forget! was his last shot, and he rattled the keys in his trousers pocket.

  I felt pretty good with forty dollars in my pocket. It was a Saturday and I thought I might just as well keep up the good work. Maybe I’d bump into an old friend and shake down some more jack—just like that. Running my hands through my pockets, I realized I didn’t have any small change on me. I didn’t want to break a bill—a clean forty bucks or nothing.

  I said I had nothing in change; I was mistaken, for in my vest pocket I found two ancient-looking pennies, white pennies. Had probably kept them for good luck.

  Up on Park Avenue I came upon the showrooms of the Minerva Motor Company. A handsome car, the Minerva. Almost as good as the Rolls-Royce. I wondered if by chance my old friend Otto Kunst, who had once been a bookkeeper for them, was still there. Hadn’t seen Otto for years—almost since the dissolution of our old club.

  I stepped inside the swanky showroom and there was Otto, as sombre and sedate as an undertaker. He was sales manager now. Smoking Murads, as of yore. Had a couple of good-looking rocks on his fingers too.

  He was glad to see me again, but in that restrained way which always irritated me.

  You’re sitting pretty, I said.

  And what are you doing? He flung this at me as if to say—what is it this time?

  I told him I was taking over a column for a newspaper shortly.

  Well! He arched his eyebrows. Hmmm!

  I thought I might just as well try him for a ten spot—to make it an even fifty. After all, sales manager, old friend … Why not?

  I got a curt refusal. Didn’t even bother to explain why he couldn’t. It was out of the question, that was all. Impossible. I knew it was useless to prod him but I did, just to irritate him. Damn it, even though I didn’t need o it, he had no right to refuse. He should do it for old time’s sake. Otto twiddled his watch chain as he listened. Cool as a cucumber, mind you. No embarrassment whatever. No sympathy either.

  God, you’re a tightwad! I concluded.

  He smiled unperturbedly. I never ask a favor and I never give any, he responded blandly. Smug as a bug in a rug, he was. As though he’d always be a sales manager—or something even more important. Didn’t think, did he, that only a few years later he’d be trying to sell apples on Fifth Avenue. (Even millionaires couldn’t afford Minervas during the depression.)

  Well, forget about it, I said. The truth is, I’ve got a wad on me. I was just testing you out. I hauled out the bills and flashed them before his eyes.. He looked puzzled, then frowned. Before he could say a word I added, as I extracted the two white pennies: What I really dropped in for was to ask you a favor. Could you lend me three cents to make up the nickel for the subway? I’ll pay you back the next time I

  pass this way.

  His face brightened immediately. I could almost feel the sigh of relief he let drop.

  Sure I can do that, he said. And rather solemnly he fished out three pennies.

  It’s mighty white of you, I said, and shook his hand with extra fervor, as if I were indeed grateful.

  It’s nothing, he said, quite seriously, and you don’t need to give it back.

  You’re sure? I said. At last he began to realize I was rubbing it in.

  I can always lend you a few pennies, he said sourly, but not ten bucks. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. When I sell a man a car I sweat for it. Besides, I haven’t sold a car now for over two months.

  That’s really tough, isn’t it? You know, you almost make me feel sorry for you. Well, remember me to the wife and kids.

  He ushered me to the door the way he would a customer. Drop in again some time, he said, as we parted.

  Next time I’ll buy a car—just the chassis.

  He gave me a mirthless grin. As I walked towards the subway I cursed him up and down for a mean, stingy, heartless son of a bitch. And to think we had been bosom pals when we were boys! I couldn’t get over it. The strange thing was, I couldn’t help but reflect, that he had grown to be like his old man whom he had always detested. A mean, stingy, hard-hearted, pigheaded old Dutchman! he used to call him.

  Well, that was one friend I could wipe off my list. I did then and there, and with such a will that years later, when we encountered one another on Fifth Avenue, I was unable to recall who he was. I took him for a detective, no less! I can hear him now repeating asininely: What, you don’t remember me?

  No, I don’t, I said. Really, I don’t. Who are you?

  The poor bugger had to give his name before I could place him.

  Otto Kunst had been my closest chum in that street of early sorrows. After I left America the only boys I ever thought of were the ones I had had the least to do with. For example—the group that lived in the old farm house up the street. This was the only house in the whole wide neighborhood which had seen other days, days when our street had been a country lane named after a Dutch settler, Van Voorhees. Anyway, in this ramshackle, tumble-down habitation lived three families. The Vosslers, made up exclusively of oafs and curmudgeons, dealt in coal, wood, ice and manure; the Laskis comprised a father who was a pharmacist, two brothers who were pugilists, and a grown-up daughter who was just a chunk of beef; the Newton family consisted of a mother, and a son whom I seldom spoke to but for whom I had a singular reverence. Ed Vossler, who was about my own age, strong as an ox and slightly demented, had a hare lip and stuttered woefully. We never had any prolonged conversations but we were friends, if not chums. Ed worked from morning till night; it was hard work, too, and because of this he seemed older than the rest of us who did nothing but play after school. As a boy I never thought of him except as a walking utility; we had only to offer him a few cents and he would perform the tasks we despised. We teased him a good deal, as boys will. It was when I got to Europe, cur
iously enough, that I found myself thinking occasionally about this queer oaf, Ed Vossler. I must say I always thought of him with affection. I had learned by this time how almost microscopic is that world of mortals of whom one can say: He’s a man you can count on. Now and then I sent him a picture post-card but of course I never heard from him. For all I knew he may have been dead.

  Ed Vossler enjoyed a certain protection from his second cousins, the Laskis. Especially from Eddie Laski, who was a little older than us and a most unpleasant fellow too. His brother Tom, whom Eddie aped in every way, was rather a sweet person and already on the way to becoming a figure in the world of fisticuffs. This Tom was about twenty-two or three, quiet, well-behaved, neat in appearance, and rather handsome. He wore long spitcurls, after the manner of Terry McGovern. One would hardly have suspected that he was such a fighter had not Eddie, his brother, boasted so much about him. Now and then we had the pleasure of watching the two of them spar in the backyard where the manure pile stood.

  But Eddie Laski—it was difficult to keep out of his range. As soon as he saw you coming he would block the path, his mouth spread in a wide, nasty grin which bared his big yellow teeth; pretending to shake hands he would make a few passes—like lightning!—and give you a tremendous jab in the ribs or else what he called a playful poke in the jaw. The damned fool was always practising the old one-two. It was positive torture to extricate oneself from his clothes. We were all agreed that he would never make his mark in the ring. Some day he’ll meet up with the wrong guy! That was our unanimous verdict.

  Jimmy Newton, who was vaguely related to the Vosslers and the Laskis, was a complete anomaly in their midst. Nobody could have been more silent than he, nor more well-behaved, nor more sincere and genuine. What he worked at no one knew. We saw him rarely and spoke to him even more rarely. He was the sort of fellow, however, who had only to say Good morning! and you felt better. His good-morning was like a blessing. What intrigued us about him was the undefinable and ineradicable air of melancholy which he wore. It suited one who had experienced some deep, unmentionable tragedy. We suspected that his sorrow had to do with his mother whom we never saw. Was she an invalid perhaps? Was she insane? Or was she a horrible cripple? As for his father, we never knew whether he was dead or had deserted them.

  To us healthy, care-free youngsters, this Laski menage was enveloped in mystery. Punctually every morning at seven-thirty the elder Mr. Laski, who was blind, left the house with his dog, tapping the way with a stout cane. This in itself had a queer effect upon us. But the house itself looked crazy. Certain windows, for example, were never opened, the shades always down. At one of the other windows sat Mollie, the Laski daughter, usually with a can of beer beside her. She was there, as in a show, from the moment the curtain rose. Having absolutely nothing to do, having no desire moreover to do anything, she simply sat there the whole day long gathering up the gossip. She had the low-down on everything that went on in the neighborhood. Now and then her figure ripened, as if she were about to have a child, but there never were any births or deaths. She simply changed with the seasons. Lazy slut that she was, we liked her. She was too lazy to even walk to the corner grocer’s; she’d flip us a quarter or half dollar from the window, which was on the street level, and tell us to keep the change. Sometimes she forgot what she had sent us for and told us to keep the damned stuff.

  Old man Vossler, who also ran a trucking business, was a big brute of a man who did nothing but curse and swear when you ran into him. He could lift enormous weights with ease, whether drunk or sober. Naturally we stood in awe of him. But it made our blood curl to see the way he booted his son around—he could fairly lift him from the ground with his big toe. And the way he lashed him with the horse whip! Though we didn’t dare to play any tricks on the old man we often held prolonged conferences in the open lot at the corner as to how we might retaliate. It was disgraceful to see how Ed Vossler put his hand over his head and crouched when he saw his old man coming. In desperation once we summoned Ed to confer with us, but the moment he got the drift of our talk he ran off with his tail between his legs.

  Curious how often these figures out of my boyhood reverted to memory. The ones I speak of, belonged more to that old neighborhood, the 14 th Ward, which I was so fond of. In the street of early sorrows they were anomalies. As a mere lad—in the old neighborhood—I had been accustomed to mixing with half-wits, incipient gangsters, petty crooks, would-be prize fighters, epileptics, drunks and sluts. Every one in that dear ancient world was a character. But in the new neighborhood to which I had been transferred every one was normal, matter of fact, non-spectacular. There was only one exception, apart from the members of the weird tribe inhabiting the farm house. I can no longer remember the name of this chap, but his personality is engraved in my memory. He was a newcomer to the neighborhood, somewhat older than the rest of us, and distinctly different. One day, as we were shooting marbles, I dropped an expression which made him look up in astonishment. Where do you hail from? he asked. From Driggs Avenue originally, I said. At once he was off his knees and literally hugging me. Why didn’t you tell me that before? he cried. I’m from Wythe Avenue, corner of North Seventh.

  It was like two Masonic brothers exchanging pass words. At once a bond was established between us. Whatever game we played he was always on my side. If one of the older boys threatened to go for me he interposed himself. If he had anything important to confide he’d employ the jargon of the 14th Ward.

  One day he introduced me to his sister, who was a trifle younger than I. It was almost love at first sight. She wasn’t so beautiful, even to my youthful eyes, but she had a way about her which I associated with the behavior of the girls I had admired in the old neighborhood.

  One night a surprise party was given me. Every youngster in the neighborhood was there—except this new-found friend of mine and his little sister. I was heart-broken. When I asked why they hadn’t been invited I was told that they didn’t belong. That settled it for me. At once I sneaked out of the house and went in search of them. I quickly explained to their mother that there had been a mistake, that it was a pure oversight, and that every one was waiting for her son and daughter to appear. She patted me on the head with a knowing smile and told me what a good boy I was. She tanked me so profusely, indeed, that I blushed.

  I escorted my two friends to the party in triumph, only to perceive, however, that I had made a grave blunder. On all sides they were given the cold shoulder. I did my best to dissipate the atmosphere of hostility but in vain. Finally I could bear it no longer. Either you make friends with my friends, I announced boldly, holding the latter by the arms, or you can all go home. This is my party and I want my own friends here.

  For this piece of bravado I got a sound slap in the face from my mother. I winced but stood my ground.

  It isn’t fair! I bellowed, almost on the point of tears now.

  All at once they gave way. It was almost a miracle the way the ice broke up. In no time we were all laughing, shouting, singing. I couldn’t understand why it had happened so suddenly.

  During the course of the evening the girl, whose name was Sadie, got me in a corner to express her thanks for what I had done. It was wonderful of you, Henry. she said, to which I blushed deeply. It was nothing at all, I mumbled, feeling silly and heroic at the same time. Sadie looked around to see if any one were observing us, then boldly kissed me on the lips. This time I blushed even more deeply.

  My mother would like you to come for dinner some evening, she whispered. Will you come?

  I squeezed her little hand and said Sure.

  It was in the flats across the street where Sadie and her brother lived. I had never been inside a house on that side of the street. I wondered what their home was like. In calling for them I was too flustered to notice a thing. All I could recall was that it had a distinctly Catholic odor. Nearly all the people, incidentally, who lived in the flats—railroad flats they were—were members of the Roman Church. This was e
nough in itself to alienate them from the other people in the street.

  The first discovery I made, on visiting my two friends, was that they were very very poor. The father, who had been a locomotive engineer, was dead; the mother, who was suffering from some grave malady, was unable to leave the house. They were Catholics all right. Devout ones. That was obvious at once. In every room, it seemed to me, there were rosaries and crucifixes, votive candles, chromos of the Madonna and Child or of Jesus on the Cross. Though I had seen these evidences of the faith in other homes, nevertheless each time it happened I got the creeps. My dislike of these sacred relics—if one could call them that—was purely and simply because of their morbidity. True, I didn’t know the word morbid then but the feeling was definitely that. When I had first glimpsed these relics in the homes of my other little friends I remember that I had mocked and jeered. It was my mother, oddly enough, my mother who despised Catholics almost as much as drunkards and criminals, who had cured me of this attitude. To make me more tolerant she would force me to go to mass occasionally with my Catholic friends.

  Now, however, when I described in detail the conditions in the home of my two friends, she showed little sympathy. She repeated that she didn’t think it was good for me to see so much of them. Why? I wanted to know. She refused to answer me directly. When I suggested that she permit me to bring them fruit and candy from our sideboard, which was always overflowing with good things, she frowned. Sensing that there was no good reason behind her refusals, I decided to pinch the edibles and smuggle them over to my friends. Now and then I stole a few pennies from her pocketbook and handed them to Sadie or her brother. Always as if my mother had requested me to do so.