by Henry Miller
George groaned. Let’s go down to the river. I think I’ve got blood all over me.
Oi yoi! I whistled. So that’s it! Now you’re really in for it.
Guess we’ll have to go hack to the city soon, said George.
What? Are you going to leave her in the ditch?
She won’t tell on me. I made her promise.
I’m not thinking of you, you bastard, I’m thinking of her
Oh, we can fix it up when she comes to the city, said George. I know a medical student who’ll do the trick.
Supposing she gets a hemorrhage?
She won’t, said George. She’s too healthy. We didn’t speak for a while.
About Una, says George suddenly. I’ve been thinking it over, Hen. I think the best thing is for you to see her yourself. I might only make a mess of it.
You bastard! Another streak of silence.
I think I’ll leave in a day or two, I said, as we neared the house.
Might be a good idea, said George. You don’t want to wear out your welcome.
I’d like to pay something for my board, I said.
You can’t to that, Hen, they’d be insulted.
Well, I’ll buy them something, then.
O.K., said George.
After a pause, he added:
Don’t think I’m not grateful for all you’ve done.
It was nothing, I said. Some day you can take care of me.
I’m sorry about Una … I really don’t…
I cut him short. Forget it!
It would be a shame to lose her, Hen.
Don’t let that worry you. I’m not giving her up.
This Carnahan … she’s engaged to him, you know.
What? Why didn’t you tell me that before?
I didn’t want to hurt you, said George.
So that’s it? Listen, I’m leaving tomorrow by the first train.
Don’t get panicky, Hen! They’ve been engaged for three months now.
What? Jesus, it beats me how you could keep such a thing quiet.
I thought it would blow over. I’m sure she’s not in love with him.
But she might marry him just to spite me, I retorted.
That’s true … But she’d regret it for the rest of her life, if she did.
And what good would that do me? Listen, you’re a chump, do you know that?
Don’t get sore, Hen. What could I do? If I had told you, you’d have been miserable. Besides, we hadn’t seen one another for a long while.
Why not be honest about it? You simply don’t give a shit one way or the other, isn’t that it?
Come on now, don’t be foolish!
George, I said, I like you just as much as ever, I can’t help liking you, we’ve been so close all these years. But I’ll never trust you again. You had a right to let me know.
All right, Hen, have it your own way.
We said no more. We went to bed in silence—after George had washed himself thoroughly. I half hoped he’d get a good dose of clap.
In the morning I said good-bye to everyone. When I got to New York I stopped at a shop and sent the folks a huge box of chocolates, not knowing what the hell would please them.
From then on, George Marshall was no longer my twin brother…
So that’s how you lost Una? said MacGregor.
Yep! When I got back I found that she was married. Had married just three days before.
Well, Hen, it was all for the best, I guess.
That sounds just like George.
No, seriously, why try to buck Fate? Supposing you had married her? In a year or two you’d have separated—if I know you,
Better to separate than never to marry.
Hen, you’re a chump! To hear you, I’d say you were still in love with her.
Maybe I am.
You’re nuts. If you were to run into her tomorrow, in the street, you’d probably run away from her.
Maybe I would. But that has nothing to do with it.
You’re hopeless, Hen. He turned to Trix. Did you ever hear the like of it? And he calls himself a writer! Wants to write about life but doesn’t know human nature. He turned square around. When you get ready to write the great American novel, Hen, see me! I’ll give you a few facts of life to set you straight.
I laughed outright.
All right, wise guy, go ahead and laugh. When your smoke dreams clear away, come to me and I’ll untangle the mess for you. I’ll give you two more years with this … this what’s her name … yeah, Mono.. Mona, Una … sort of go together, don’t they? Why don’t you choose a gal with an ordinary name, like Mary, Jane or Sal?
Having delivered himself of this, MacGregor felt a little mellower. Hen, he began, we’re all saps. You’re not the worst guy in the world, not by a long shot. The trouble is, we all had big ideals. But once your eyes are opened you realize that you can never change the set-up. Sure, you can make minor changes—revolutions and all that—but they don’t mean a thing. People remain what they are, whether Royalists, Communists, or just plain Democrats. Everyone for himself, that’s the game. When you’re young, it’s disheartening. You can’t quite believe it. The more faith you have, the greater the disillusionment. It’ll take another fifty thousand years—or more!—before there’s any fundamental change in humanity. Meanwhile we’ve got to make the best of it, isn’t that so?
You talk exactly like your old man.
That’s true enough, Henry.
He said it soberly. Shows you that we’re not as original as we thought we were. We’re getting old, do you realize that?
You may be—I’m not! I said bluntly.
Even Trix had to laugh at this. You’re just kids, the two of you, she said.
Don’t fool yourself, sister, said MacGregor, going over to her and fondling her. Because I still have a pair of balls doesn’t make me a youngster. I’m a disillusioned old man, believe it or not.
Then why do you want to marry me?
Oh, I don’t know, said MacGregor wearily. ‘Maybe just to have a change.
I like that, said Trix, slightly offended. You know what I mean, said MacGregor. Jesus, do we have to become romantic—just to please this guy? I want a home, a real home, that’s what! I’m sick of running around.
Trix looked at me dumbly. She shook her head. Don’t take him seriously, said I comfortingly. He always puts things in the worst light.
That’s it, chirped MacGregor. Now let me hear you say something nice about me. Tell her not to worry, I’ll settle down soon enough. Prove to her what a good husband I’ll make … No, hold on! Better not say anything. You have the god-damndest way of gumming things up.
Let him talk! said Trix. I’m curious to know what your friend Henry really thinks of you.
You don’t think he’d tell you the truth, do you? That guy’s as slippery as an eel. He talks of George Marshall but … well, if I didn’t know him so long and so well I’d have dropped him ages ago.
Henry, said Trix, do you really think I should marry him?
Don’t ask me to answer that, please. I tried to laugh it off.
You see, said MacGregor. He couldn’t say yes or no, just like that. Now what do you mean, Henry? Is it Yes or No?
I held my tongue.
That means no, said MacGregor.
Don’t be so quick! said Trix.
Well, Henry, nothing like being honest, said MacGregor. I guess you know me too well.
I haven’t said one thing or another, said I. Why jump to conclusions? By the way, what time is it?
There you are! Now he wants to know the time. That’s Henry to a T.
It’s only two-thirty, said Trix. Let me fix you some coffee before you go.
Fine, said I. And is there any cake left?
See, now he’s all alert. Always wide awake when you mention food. Jesus, Hen, you’ll never change. I guess maybe that’s what I like about you—you’re incorrigible. He sat down close beside me, flicked the ash off his cigar, and proceeded to u
nburden himself. Tess has all sorts of connections, you know. She’d like to see me on the bench. The thing is, I can’t run for judge and start divorce proceedings—see. what I mean? Besides, I’m not so sure I want to be a judge. Even on the bench you cant’ keep your skirts clear, you know that. Still, I’m not much good as a lawyer, to be frank with you. Can’t work up any enthusiasm…
Why don’t you pull out and try something else?
Like what—selling tires? What can you do, Henry? One job’s as bad as another.
But isn’t there anything you’re keen about?
Frankly, Hen, no! I’m just a lazy bugger at heart. I want to float along with the least effort.
Then float! I said.
That’s no answer. Now, if I had a hankering to write, it would be different. But I don’t. I’m not. an artist. And I’m not a politician. I’m not a ball of fire either.
Then you’re licked, I said.
I don’t know, Hen, I wouldn’t say that. There must be lots of things a fellow can do without getting all heated up.
The trouble with you is, I said, you always want someone to make up your mind for you.
Now you’re talking, said MacGregor, suddenly more cheerful, though why, I couldn’t understand. That’s why I want to marry Trix. ‘I need someone to steady me. Tess is like a wet sponge. Instead of putting some back-bone in me, she lets me fall apart.
When are you going to grow up? said I.
Come on now, Henry, don’t hand met that line. You’re just a big boy yourself. Running a speakeasy, think of it! And you were going to set the world on fire. Ho ho! Ho ho!
Give me time. I may fool you yet. At least, I know what I’d like to do. That’s something.
Con. you do it? That’s the question.
That remains to be seen.
Henry, you’ve been trying to write ever since I knew you. Other writers your age have had at least a half-dozen books published already. You haven’t even finished your first book—or have you? Come, come, get wise to yourself!
Maybe I won’t begin till I’m forty-five, I said jokingly.
Make it sixty, Henry. By the way, who was that English writer who began at seventy?
I couldn’t remember his name either at the moment.
Trix appeared with the coffee and cake. We moved back to the table.
Well, Hen, he began again, helping himself to a huge slice of cake, all I’ve got to say is—don’t weaken! You may yet be a writer. Whether you’ll be a great one, I can’t predict. You’ve got a hell of a lot to learn.
Don’t pay any attention to him, said Trix.
Nothing bothers him, said MacGregor. He’s even more obstinate than I am, and that’s saying a lot. The truth is, it hurts me to see him wasting his time.
Wasting his time? echoed Trix. And what about you?
Me? I’m lazy. That’s different. He gave her a broad grin.
If you’re thinking to marry me, she rejoined, you’ll have to get on your toes. You don’t think I’m going to support you, do you?
Will you listen to that, Henry, howled MacGregor, chuckling as if it were a great joke. Now who said anything about wanting to be supported?
Well, how will we live? Not on what you earn, I’m sure.
Tush tush! said MacGregor. Honey, I haven’t begun to work yet. Just wait till the divorce is granted, then I’ll get down to brass tacks.
I’m not so sure I want to marry you, said Trix. This in dead seriousness.
Now, do you hear that? said MacGregor. How do you like that? Well, honey, it’s your loss. In ten years I may be sitting on the Supreme Court bench.
But in the meantime?
Don’t cross any bridges before you come to them, that’s my motto.
He can always make a living as a public stenographer, said I.
And a damned good living at that, said MacGregor.
I don’t want to marry a public stenographer.
You’re marrying me, said MacGregor. Who knows what I am?
Right now you’re just a misfit, said Trix.
That’s true, honey, said MacGregor lightly, but so were lots of men before they climbed to the top of the ladder.
But you’re not a climber.!
Right again, said MacGregor. I was only using a figure of speech. Look, you two, you don’t honestly think I’m a failure, do you? I’m only working on two cylinders now. I need inspiration. I need a good wife, a home, and one or two real friends. Like this bloke, for example. How about it, Henry, am I talking sense?
Without waiting for a reply, he continued: You see. Trix, guys like Henry and me are out of the common run. We’ve got quality. If you get me for a husband, you’re getting a jewel. I’m the most tolerant guy in the world. Henry will vouch for that. I can work as hard as anyone … if I have to! Only I don’t see the sense of killing myself. It’s stupid. Now, I haven’t told you anything about this, but I’ve got several bright schemes up my sleeve. More than that—I’m actually carrying them out. I didn’t want to tell you until they panned out successfully. If only one of them comes through, we can sit back and breathe easy for the next ten years.
How does that strike you?
You’re a dear, said Trix, suddenly melting.
I don’t think she believed in his schemes one bit, but she was eager to clutch at any straw.
There! said MacGregor, beaming, you see how simple it is?
On my way home, an hour or so later, I got to thinking of all the wild projects he had hatched, beginning from the time I first knew him—when he was still going to prep school. How he had always complicated his life trying to make things easier for himself. I thought of the hours he had spent doing drudge work, so that later he might be free to do as he pleased, though he never did know precisely what it was he would do when he would be able to do only what he pleased. To do nothing at all, which he always pretended was the summum bonum, was thoroughly out of the question. If we went to the beach for a holiday he was sure to bring his note-book along, and a law-book or two, or even a few pages from the unabridged dictionary which he had been reading, a page at a time, for years. If we flung ourselves into the water he would have to race someone to the raft or propose that we—swim around the point or suggest we play water polo. Anything but float quietly on our backs. If we stretched out in the sand he would suggest we shoot craps or play cards. If we started a pleasant conversation he would turn it into an argument. He was never able to do anything in peace or contentment. His mind was always on the next thing, the next move.
Another peculiar thing I remembered about him was that he . always had a bad cold—a chest cold, as he put it. Winter or summer, it made no difference. A summer cold was worse, as he always said. With the colds he often got hay fever. In short, he was usually in a miserable condition, always ailing, griping, sneezing, and always blaming it on the cigarettes which he swore he would cut out next week or next month, and which sometimes he did do, to my great amazement, but only to go back to them, only to smoke more heavily. Sometimes it was the drinking which he felt was putting him on the bum, and he would lay off the stuff for a while, maybe six or eight months, but only to return to it, only to drink still more heavily. He did everything in this on-and-off fashion. When he studied he studied for eighteen and twenty hours a day, until he almost got congestion of the brain. He might break the study routine by playing cards with the boys, which he considered relaxation. But he played cards in the same way he studied, smoked and drank—always to excess. He was a bad loser, moreover. As for the women—if he was chasing a girl he would keep after her, no matter how many times she refused him, until he almost drove her crazy. The moment she relented, or succumbed, he was through with her. Then no more women for a period. Taboo. Absolutely. It was better to live without women: it was saner and healthier: he ate better, slept better, felt better: he’d rather have a good shit than a good fuck. And so on—to ninety-six decimal places. Until he ran into another girl, someone simply too irresistible for words. Then
it would be another long goose chase, night and day, week after week, until he got his end in, and then she was just like all the rest, not a bit better, not a bit worse. Just cunt, Hen … just cunt!
There were always twenty or more hefty tomes stacked up on his desk: he would read them as soon as he could get round to it. Often years went by before he ever opened one, and by then of course the book had lost all its flavor. He would try to sell me them at half price; if I refused he would reluctantly make me a present of them. But you’ve got to promise you’ll read them! he would say. He had copies of magazines ten and fifteen years old, and newspapers too, which were treated in the same manner. Occasionally he would take a batch of these with him, open them up on the trolley or the train, skim through them rapidly, then fling them out the window. That’s that! he would say, smiling ruefully. He had cleared his conscience.
Now and then, meeting me accidentally, he’d say: Why don’t we go to the theatre? I hear there’s a good play on at the Orpheum. We’d get to the theatre a half-hour late, stay a few minutes, then rush out as if the very atmosphere were poisonous. That’s five bucks gone to hell, he’d say. Yow much have you on you, Hen? Oh shit, don’t bother to look, I know the answer. When will you ever have any money in your pocket? Then he’d steer me to a bar up some dismal side street, a bar where he knew the proprietor or the waiter or someone, and he’d try to borrow a few dollars; if he couldn’t get the money he’d make them stand us treat for a few rounds. Have you got a nickel at least? he’d ask petulantly. I want to phone that little bastard Woodruff—he owes me a few bucks. I don’t care if he’s in bed or not. We’ll take a taxi and make him pay for it, what say? He’d make one telephone call after another. Finally he’d think of some girl he had thrown over years ago, some good-natured slob, as he put it, who would be only too glad to see him again. We’ll have a few drinks and beat it. Maybe I can make a touch. But don’t start any funny work—she’s always getting over the clap. Thus the night would pass, running from place to place, getting nowhere, getting tired, getting crotchety, getting disgusted. Eventually we would wind up in Greenpoint, at his parents’ home, where there was sure to be some beer on the ice. It had to be filched stealthily, noiselessly, because he was always on the outs with his old man, or else with his ma, sometimes with the whole family. They don’t have much love for you, Henry, I don’t mind telling you. I don’t know why it is, but they’ve got it in for you. I guess that business with the widow was just too much for them. To say nothing of that dose of clap you used to brag about.