The Franchiser

by Stanley Elkin

  Well, that was good.

  “Remission.” If he could think radio, they could think remission.

  “Really?”

  “Knock wood, yes.”

  Well, that really was good.

  TV. Jesus, he could have sworn radio. Two and a half million for television. “What’s the market?”

  “A quarter million.”

  Ten bucks a head?

  Something like that, yes.

  Gee, he’d thought radio.

  They took him to lunch and shook hands and he went back to his hotel.

  Well, not his fiscal year, his geophysical one, his minute rounds. He patrolled America. In a way Nate was right. He should fly more. He recalled how astonished he had always been watching through the oval windows of airplanes the gradual dissolving of the clouds, America appearing like an image in a crystal ball, and he could look down and see the land, the straight furrows in the plowed ground like justified print, the hard-edged Euclidian geometry of survey and civilization. From his Cadillac he could get just the barest sense of this, a ground-level geophysician.

  Mr. Flesh stands tux’d, his formal pants and jacket glowing like a black comb, his patent-leather shoes vaulted smooth and tensionless as perfect architecture. He might be standing in the skin of a ripe bright black apple. He feels, in the inky clothes, showered, springy, bouncy, knows in remissioned tactility around his shins, his clean twin sheathing of tall silk hose, can almost feel the condition of his soles, their shade like Negroes’ palms. He is accessoried.

  In his old-fashioned white dress shirt his delicious burgundy studs are as latent with color as the warning lights on a dashboard. Onyx links, round and flat as elevator buttons, seal his cuffs, and dark suspenders lie on him with an increment of weight that suggests the thin holsters of G-men, and indeed there is something governmental in his dress, something maritime, chief-of-staff. The golden fasteners beneath his jacket could be captain’s bars. A black bow tie lies across his throat like a propeller.

  The studio is in the Great Northern Building on Randolph Street, in a loft. (Or this is how it seems. He knows there are floors above this one.) He remembers the days when the seventh-floor corridor had been flanked with the branch offices of costume jewelry and watchband firms, a barber shop, lawyers’ offices, his father’s theatrical costume business. Now, except for the barber shop, there is only the studio ballroom and the rooms for private instruction made over from the old lawyers’ suites. A sort of stage is at one end of the large room. He knows it is only his father’s long old cutting tables shoved close together—nailed and covered over with Armstrong vinyl asbestos Chem-tile. He knows that the waterfall of velvet that flows over the lip of the “stage” conceals only the carpenter’s reinforcing scaffold, scaffold like a wine rack; that the flats, flies, tormentors, teasers, and borders that ornament the stage with perspective are only a plywood contact paper studded with a kind of gritty sheen like the surface of a ping-pong paddle.

  He knows it is a losing proposition. Yet feels good anyway. Reassured by Randolph Street invisible at his back behind the opaque drapes, by the restaurant, a Henrici’s he can almost feel, the Woods Theater, the Oriental, the novelty jokes and tricks shop he remembers from his youth across the street, the out-of-town-paper stand on the corner, the proliferating porno bookstores he finds so appealing, as all muted lust is appealing to him, bringing out qualities of shyness and the awkward, the peremptory imposition of respected distances, boundaries, the territorial waters of self. Like his students. Wallflowers who bought their courage with their lessons, who came out—as if it were an accredited finishing school—at the parties and balls and galas they threw themselves every few weeks at the end of one session or the getting-to-know-you beginning of the next. Getting to know again and again—the turnover never as great as the recidivism—those they knew from before. He had seen them, expansive as the fathers of brides at the punch table, or stopping the hors d’oeuvres tray as it went past carried by an instructor, demanding that their guests, themselves hosts, eat, drink, at last forcing the instructors themselves into accepting a hospitality that was by its very nature communal, and disguising this by a boisterous, reflexive generosity. Ballroom dancing? They had taught themselves to solo.

  Clara was with a private student. She had said that she would turn the student over to Jenny or Hope, but Flesh insisted that she finish the hour. He had left the Office of Admissions and come into the ballroom. He sat down in a straight-back chair—a chair like a chair at a dinner table—near one of the staggered, tall, smoked mirrors that offered the room the illusion of several entrances.

  He had not looked at the books but had a pretty good notion of how things were. He could tell from the music—or lack of it—that business was bad. In the old days he could stand in the Office of Admissions and hear fox-trot, bossa nova, cha-cha, waltz, polka, rhumba, and tango rhythms coming from record players in the private instruction studios. It had been like being in a bazaar where many tongues were spoken. Now only the “Carousel Waltz” wafted through the thin wallboard of one of the private instruction studios. After sitting a moment he got up and went back into the Office of Admissions.

  “For God’s sake,” he told Luis, his Latin rhythms instructor, who was working the switchboard, “it’s like a morgue in there. Why isn’t there any music in the ballroom?”

  “Overhead.”

  “Suppose the phone rings? If there were music the caller would hear it in the background. He might think something’s happening here.”

  “I got that FM you brung last time. It’s tuned to this all-music station, just like you said. If the phone rings I turn it on.”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t a good idea. Suppose there’s a commercial? I think we should go back to the old system.”

  “Sure, Mr. Flesh. What do you want to hear?”

  “What is it, you do requests? I don’t care. It’s too quiet. Turn on the stereo. Where’s Clara?”

  “Clara’s still back there with the waltzer.”

  “And Hope and Jenny? Where’s Al?” Al was his other male instructor.

  “Jenny and Hope are around somewhere. I think they’re doing each other’s hair for the gala. You want me to get them?”

  “No, the phone might ring. How many do we expect at the gala tonight?”

  “Gee, Mr. Flesh, I can’t say. There’s the Fishers, they’ll be here. Runley said he was coming. Johnson and—”

  “You can name them? My God, you can name them? It’s bad as that? That’s terrible.”

  Luis nodded.

  “Where’s Al?”

  “Al went to get cookies for the gala.”

  “Cookies.”

  “It’s pretty quiet, Mr. Flesh. The old people stay in their condominiums. Those buildings got social directors who teach them the steps. A lot are afraid to come downtown. It’s different times, Mr. Flesh.”

  Flesh nodded. “Here,” he said. He took his Diners Club card out of his wallet. “Run down to Fritzel’s. Have them make up a tray of sliced turkey. Get roast beef, too. Rare. Tell them rare. Make it so we can serve at least fifty people.”

  “There won’t be no fifty people, Mr. Flesh,” Luis said.

  “They can take what’s left over in fucking doggy bags!” Flesh roared. “I’m feeding fifty people! The gala’s at nine, right?”

  “Nine, yes, sir. Nine.”

  “It’s not yet eight. All right, give the guy ten bucks. Let him bring the stuff over and set it up for us. When you’re through at Fritzel’s, cross over to Don the Beachcomber and have them do us some hot hors d’oeuvres. They deliver?”

  “No, sir, and Don the Beachcomber ain’t no take-out joint either, Mr. Flesh.”

  “Luis,” Flesh said, “I got five people working for me—you, Clara, Al, Jenny, and Hope. One is off somewhere buying cookies and two are having their hair done. Now if a busy guy like me with a hot commercial property like the Fred Astaire Dance Studio can let his personnel crap around on com
pany time, Mr. Beachcomber can send someone in a rickshaw with the hors d’oeuvres. Here, give him twenty bucks. I want the stuff at nine-thirty. Liquor, what about liquor?”

  “We ain’t licensed, Mr. Flesh.”

  “I ain’t selling, Trini, I’m giving it away. Martinis. Scotch. Bourbon. And plenty of ice. I don’t want to run out of ice.”

  “Jesus,” Luis said. “Holy shit.”

  “Goddamn,” said Flesh, “that’s brilliant, Babaloo. Can you lay your hands on some pot?”

  “Pot?”

  “Pot, yes, some nice good grass. For me. And good stuff. Go into a head shop and have them roll it. Custom. Stitches were taken here once. They followed each other like teeth in zippers.”

  “Yeah, well, but like those cats don’t take Diners Club.”

  Ben peeled off about a hundred dollars and shoved it into Luis’s hand. He had not been this excited in a long while. “Here, take this. If anything else looks good to you. We’re going first class.”

  “First class?”

  “All right, I won’t mince words. We’re going down first class. Go now, Desi. Run, boy. Fetch the goose. If you see Al, send him up with the cookies. If they’re stale I’ll have him grind them up on the stage for a sand dance. Is that in our curriculum, Pancho? Can you tell me that, Niña, Pinta, and Santa Maria? Wait, before you go—the sound system. Turn on the bubble machine. Hit the lights, please, Cisco.”

  Luis went into the ballroom and turned on their big Wurlitzer equipment. Music poured from the ballroom like an element. Flesh rubbed his hands and went to the small room where Clara was giving her student private instruction in the waltz. He rapped on the door. “Five minutes, Miss Clara,” he said softly, and opened the door. “The Blue Danube” was playing on the portable phonograph. A black man only a little younger than himself held Clara in his arms. One hand was up her behind.

  “Hoy,” Flesh said.

  “Who the dude?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Clara said.

  “Who the dude?”

  Flesh pointed his finger at the man. “I am your preceptor. Fred Astaire sent me. I give the Waltz Exam.” He lifted the tone arm off the record and set it down at the beginning. “Ready, begin—da da da da da, da da!”

  “What’s this shit going down?”

  “Waltz!” Flesh commanded.

  “Hey, fuck, you crazy?”

  “You, Bojangles, waltz!”

  “Please, Mr. Flesh,” Clara said.

  “I want to see turns and rolls,” Flesh said. “I want to see three-quarter time with a strong accent on the first beat.”

  “Beat? I’ll beat your ass, cocksuck.”

  “I’m telling Fred.”

  “Mr. Flesh.”

  “No, Clara, Fred has to know these things.” He turned off the record player. “Listen, boy,” he said to the black man, “I understand. Miss Clara tried to bring you along too fast. These things take time. She had you dancing above your station. Miss Clara, dear, get Tom the tom-tom.”

  “I’ll kill this honky turd,” the man said quietly.

  Flesh turned to Clara. “What is it here, a massage parlor?”

  “You don’t understand, Mr. Flesh.”

  “I understand, I understand. They’ve taken up shuffleboard, nine-hole golf. My dancers sit on seats like catchers’ mitts on big tricycles in St. Petersburg, Florida. They swim laps and play bridge in the clubhouse. They’re into macramé and decoupage and they fold paper to make yellow-bellied sapsuckers and even the ladies have fishing licenses. I understand. Where are you going?” He had turned to the Negro.

  “I want my money back.”

  Flesh nodded and moved toward Clara. He reached his hand down into her brassiere and plucked out two five-dollar bills. He handed the man the cash. “She cheated you,” he said. “You’ll stay for the gala.”

  “Suck my comb, honky.”

  “Doesn’t he know about the gala?”

  “It’s a party,” Clara said. “It’s for the students enrolled in the public session.”

  “I don’t need no funky party.”

  “It’s on the house. Five dollars a tit? Good God, man, are you nuts?” Ben shook his head.

  “They white tits,” the man said.

  “Like hell,” Flesh said, “they’re black and blue.”

  Clara was crying. Flesh put his arm around her. “The gala,” he said softly. “Get yourself ready. If I’m not back by nine, start without me.”

  He stood by the Oriental when the show broke. He spoke softly to people as they came out of the theater, careful not to frighten them. He wrote the time and address down for them on slips of paper and folded the slips gently into their hands. He made it sound as reasonable as he could, hinting, though not stating outright, that it was a business proposition. If people thought it would cost them a dollar or two, they were more likely to trust you. He was very careful about whom he approached. Some he asked to go on ahead and others he asked to wait with him, telling them he would be fifteen more minutes at most.

  They came into the lobby of the Great Northern. They held their shopping bags from Stop and Shop and their green parcels from Marshall Field’s.

  “You let in the ones with the slips, didn’t you, Henry?” he asked the night man.

  “Yes, sir,” Henry said.

  “Good,” Flesh said. “I’ll be responsible for these folks,” he told the man. He turned to his group. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I think we’re going to have to use all three elevators tonight. Henry, would you unlock the other two, please?”

  Henry did as he was asked and Ben carefully directed people to specific elevators. “I’ll ride up,” he said to those he had not assigned an elevator, “with you people.” He was the last one in. “That’s all right,” he said, “smoke if you got ’em.”

  The people from the other elevators were waiting for him on the seventh floor. “Good,” he said, greeting them. “Can you hear it? It’s just as I said.” He cocked his head down the corridor in the direction of the ballroom. “Please,” he said, “follow me.” They went in single file toward the music. “Already,” he said, calling back to them over his shoulder as they passed the barber shop, “we’re a sort of conga line. That’s the spirit.” He kicked back with his right leg. He held the ballroom doors open for them.

  The spherical chandelier with its adhesive strips of seamed mirrors spun slow as a device in a planetarium, throwing its romantic galaxies against the walls and ceiling and on the seven or eight pairs of dancers on the big dance floor—focusing purples, greens, yellows, blues, and reds, sliding across shoes, jackets, gowns, and arms, and dilating to wider, indescribable colors. Revolving discs of light around the room lasered the chandelier. Clara danced with a serviceman, Al, Hope, and Jenny with regulars Flesh remembered from his last visit. Three older couples moved expertly to “The Night Was Made for Love.” They were like the surprisingly graceful, aged ice skaters one sees on public rinks. He wondered if they had learned their stuff here. Several people sat along the walls in chairs near the high columns of smoked mirrors. Luis and the Fritzel’s and Don the Beachcomber men were fussing over the meats and hors d’oeuvres at a long linen-covered table. A man Flesh could not account for tended bar.

  The song ended and Clara turned toward the stage, where the sound system was, and led the applause. “Very good,” she said over the applause. “It may seem ridiculous to applaud a recording, but I want you all to get into the habit of clapping for the band, so that when we go on our outings to Pewaukee or the Café of Tomorrow and a real band is playing, you’ll just do it automatically. It’s very important actually. Musicians are human and if they know you appreciate what they’re doing, they’ll put that much more liveliness and effort into their playing. Remember, people, a dancer is only as good as his accompaniment. You people on the chairs,” she said, “now even though you sat out the last dance I want to hear you applaud also.”

  “Why’s that?” one of the seated women asked.
/>
  “That’s a very good question, Mrs. Gringer,” Clara said. “Do any of you students know the answer to that? Mr. Clone?”

  “To show you’re polite?”

  “Well,” Clara said, “it shows that, too, of course, but there’s an even more important reason—Mrs. Lamboso?”

  “Well, if you’re sitting down while everyone else is dancing, they might think you’re a wallflower or too shy when maybe all it is is that nobody has asked you. This way, if you applaud, prospective partners will see that you take an interest and maybe you’ll get asked to dance.”

  “Very good,” Clara said.

  “It is very good,” Flesh said, “but I thought Mr. Clone had a good point.”

  “Oh, Mr. Flesh; ladies and gentlemen, this gentleman is our host for tonight’s very special gala—Mr. Ben Flesh.”

  They applauded and Ben nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ve brought some guests to join us tonight.” He turned to his group. “The food and drink is over there. Why don’t you all put your parcels on the stage where they’ll be safe. Then you can join the festivities.”

  “Maestro,” Clara said. Jenny left her partner, came to the stage, and put on more records. She played “Night and Day,” “I Hadn’t Anyone Till You,” “September Song,” “Two Sleepy People,” “Falling in Love with Love,” “Get Out of Town,” “My Heart Belongs to Daddy,” “Blue Moon,” “Let’s Take a Walk Around the Block,” “Love Thy Neighbor,” “Moonglow,” “What Is This Thing Called Love?” and “You Brought a New Kind of Love to Me.”

  Flesh smoked the joint Luis had brought him and listened to the beautiful music. The last tingling left his hand. He was suddenly caught up in a complex and true and magnificent idea. He would have to tell them, but could not bear to break into the music or the gorgeous motions of the dancers. One of the people he had brought with him—a woman in her mid-fifties—was dancing with a golden-ager. Her left hand lay gently on his right shoulder. Flesh was touched by the shopping bag she still carried. In her dreamy mood she held the bag by only one beautiful handle and a bottle of ketchup dropped from it, making a lovely splash on the floor. Their shoes looked so vulnerable as the dancers guided each other through the sticky stuff that Ben wanted to cry. Lai-op, lai-op, lai-op. They smeared the ballroom floor with a jelly of ketchup. It was beautiful, the pasty, tomato-y brushstrokes like single-hued rainbows. The high heels of the women smashed explosively against the broken glass adding to the percussive effect of the music. Everything was rhythm. He climbed on the stage and gulped when he looked down and saw the splendid red evidence of the dance. Studying the floor, he perceived from the various footprints, the rough male rectangles and female exclamation points, where each couple had been, their progress, where they had occupied space others had occupied before them, the intensity of color recapturing the actual measure, the music made visible. From these and other signals he felt he understood why what they did was called the “conversation step.” It was a conversation of spatial displacement, the ebb and flow of presence, invasions, and polite withdrawals as each couple moved in to take the place other couples had abandoned. A minuet of hitherings and yonnings, the lovely close-order drill of ordinary life. So civilized. So gentle were men. He explained this to them over the loudspeaker, explained how it was possible to re-create from the ordinary shmutz of a broken ketchup bottle, not just where the dancers had stood, but where they had stood in time, that movement was nothing more than multiple exposure. Perhaps, were he musical—he felt musical, as musical as Terpsichore; wasn’t she the Goddess of Dance? who would be the Muse of Song? muse, music, ah yes, music; there were no accidents, idiom was fundamental as gravity; who would be the Goddess of Song? it was on the tip of his tongue; oh yes, it had to be…it had to be—Orchestra!—he could, by reading their glide, even have told them the song that had been playing at the time. There was more. As he studied the dancers he realized that not only—if you knew how to read the signs—did movement remain, a testimony lingering like scent that men had been by, but that it was impossible to teach what all already knew. Everyone could dance. Every motion snuggled to every rhythm, to any rhythm. It had something to do, he explained, with the tides, with the universal alphas, with pulse itself. And he tied in menstruation and the throbs and ripples of orgasm. It was beautiful, but they weren’t listening.