Pick-Up

by Charles Willeford

  “That’s my magazine!” I turned in the direction of the high, reedy voice, verging on hysteria. A slight blond man stood by the table, clutching The Modern Artist to his pigeon breast. His face was flushed an angry red and his watery blue eyes were tortured with an inner pain.

  “Sure,” I said noncommittally, “I was just looking at it.”

  “I’ll stick your arm in boiling water!” he informed me shrilly.

  “No you won’t.” I didn’t know what else to say to the man.

  “I’ll stick your arm in boiling water! I’ll stick your arm in boiling water! I’ll stick your arm in—” He kept repeating it over and over, his voice growing louder and higher, until Conrad was attracted from the end of the ward. Conrad covered the floor in quick strides, took the little man by the arm and led him away from the table.

  “I want to show you something,” Conrad told the man secretly.

  “What are you going to show me?” The feverish face relaxed somewhat and he followed Conrad down the ward to his bed. Conrad showed him his chair and the man sat down wearily and buried his face in his hands. On the walk to his bed and chair, the magazine was forgotten, and it fell to the floor. On his way back to the table, Conrad picked up the magazine, slapped it on the table in front of me, and returned to his desk without a word of explanation. A man who had been watching the scene from the door of the latrine crossed to the table and sat down opposite me.

  “Don’t worry about him,” he said. “He’s a Schitzo.”

  “A what?”

  “Schitzo. That’s short for schizophrenic. In addition to that, he’s a paranoid.”

  I looked the patient over carefully who was talking to me. Unlike the rest of us, he wore a pair of yellow silk pajamas, and an expensive vermillion brocade robe. His face was lined with crinkly crescents about his eyes and mouth and a lightning blaze of white shot through his russet hair above each ear. He was smiling broadly; the little scene had amused him.

  “My name is Mr. Haas,” he told me, reaching out to shake hands.

  “Harry Jordan,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “After a few years,” he offered, “you get so you can tell. I’ve been in and out of these places ever since the war. I’m a Schitzo myself and also paranoid. ‘What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing,” I said defensively.

  “You’re lucky then. Why are your wrists bandaged?”

  “I tried suicide, but it didn’t work.”

  “You’re a manic-depressive then.”

  “No, I’m not,” I said indignantly. “I’m nothing at all.”

  “Don’t fight it, Jordan.” Mr. Haas had a kind, pleasant voice. “It’s only a label. It doesn’t mean anything. Take my case for instance. I tried to kill my wife this time, and she had me committed. I won’t be in here long, I’m being transferred to a V.A. hospital, and this time for good. It isn’t so bad being a Schitzo; there are many compensations. Did you ever have hallucinations?”

  “No. Never.”

  “I have them all the time, and the best kind. Most of us hear voices, but my little hallucination comes to me in the night and I can hear him, smell him and feel him. He feels like a rubber balloon filled with warm water, and he smells like Chanel Number Five. We carry on some of the damndest conversations you’ve ever heard.”

  “What does he look like?” I was interested.

  “The hell with you, Jordan. Get your own hallucination. How about some chess?”

  “I haven’t played in a long time,” I said.

  “Neither have I. I’ll get my board and chessmen.”

  For the rest of the day I played chess with Mr. Haas. I didn’t win a game.

  By supper that night I was my old self again. Playing chess had made me forget the magazine article temporarily. After a supper of liver and new potatoes I crawled into bed. I was a failure and I knew it. The false hopes of the early afternoon were gone. The portrait of Helen was nothing but a lucky accident. My old orange-and-brown abstracts were nothing but experiments. Picasso’s Blue period. Jordan’s Orange-and-Brown period. They hadn’t sold at my asking price and I’d destroyed them years ago. My name being mentioned, along with a dozen other painters, was no cause for emotion or elation. It was all padding. The prof. had to pad his article some way, and he had probably wracked his brain for enough names to make his point. But seeing my name in The Modern Artist had ruined my day.

  It took me a long time to fall asleep.

  The next morning I awoke with a slight headache and a sharp pain behind my eyeballs. I wasn’t hungry, my hands were trembling slightly and my heart had a dull, dead ache. I felt terrible and even the hot water of the shower didn’t relieve my depression.

  I was back to normal.

  At nine-thirty Conrad told me the doctor wanted to see me. He led the way and I sluffed along behind him in my slippers. Dr. Davidson’s office was a small bare room, without a window, and lighted by fluorescent tubing the length of the ceiling. Two wooden chairs and a metal desk. The desk was stacked with patients’ charts in aluminum covers. I sat down across from Dr. Davidson and Conrad closed the door, leaving us alone.

  “Did you think I’d forgotten about you, Jordan?” The doctor tried a thin-lipped smile.

  “No, sir.” My fists were tightly clenched and I kept my eyes on my bandaged wrists.

  “You forgot to fill in the forms I gave you.”

  “No, I didn’t. I read the questions and that was enough.”

  “We need that information in order to admit you, Jordan.”

  “You won’t get it from me. I’m ready to leave anyway.” I got to my feet and half-way to the door.

  “Sit down, Jordan.” I sat down again. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to tell me about it?”

  “Not particularly. It all seems silly now. Although it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Nothing is silly here,” he said convincingly, “or strange, or secret. I’d like to hear about it.”

  “There’s nothing really to tell. I was depressed, as I usually am, and I passed my depression on to Helen—Mrs. Meredith. We cut our wrists.”

  “But why are you depressed?”

  “Because I’m a failure. I don’t know how else to say it.”

  “How long had you been drinking?”

  “Off and on. Mostly on. Helen drinks more than I do. I don’t consider myself an alcoholic, but I suppose she is, or close to it.”

  “How long have you been drinking?”

  “About five years.”

  “I mean you and Mrs. Meredith.”

  “Since we’ve been together. Three weeks, a month. Something like that.”

  “What have you used for money? Are you employed?”

  “Not now. She had a couple of hundred dollars. It’s gone

  now. That’s part of this.” I held up my arms. “No money.”

  “What kind of work do you do when you work?”

  “Counterman, fry cook, dishwasher.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I used to teach. Painting, drawing and so on. Fine arts.”

  “Why did you give it up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “By that you mean you won’t say.”

  “Take it any way you want.”

  “How were your carnal relations with Mrs. Meredith?”

  “Carnal? That’s a hell of a word to use, and it’s none of your business!” I was as high-keyed and ill-strung as a Chinese musical instrument.

  “Perhaps the word was unfortunate. How was your sex life, then?”

  “How is any sex life? What kind of an answer do you want?”

  “As a painter—you did paint, didn’t you?” I nodded. “You should have a sharp notice for sensation, then. Where did it feel the best? The tip, the shaft, where?” He held his pencil poised over a sheet of yellow paper.

  “I don’t remember and it’s none of your business!”

  “You aren’t making it easy for me to hel
p you, Jordan,” he said patiently.

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “You asked for help when you entered the hospital.”

  “That was my mistake. I don’t need any help. I’m sorry I wasted your time. Just let me out and I’ll be all right.”

  “All right, Jordan. I’ll have you released in the morning.” I stood up, anxious to get away from him. “Thanks, Doctor. I’m sorry—”

  “Sit down!” I sat down again. “I’ve already talked to Mrs. Meredith, but I wanted to check with you. Is Mrs. Meredith colored?”

  “Helen?” My laugh was hard and brittle. “Of course not. What made you ask that?”

  He hesitated for a moment before he answered. “Her expression and eyes, the bone structure of her face. She denied it too, but I thought I’d check with you.”

  “No,” I said emphatically. “She definitely isn’t colored.”

  “I’m going to tell you something, Jordan. I think you need help. As a rule, I don’t give advice; people don’t take it and it’s a waste of time. But in your case I want to mention a thing or two. My own personal opinion. I don’t think you and Mrs. Meredith are good for each other. All I can see ahead for you both is tragedy. That is, if you continue to live together.”

  “Thanks for your opinion. Can I go now?”

  “Yes, you can go.”

  “Will you release Helen tomorrow too?”

  “In a few more days.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It would be best for her not to have any visitors for the next few days.”

  “If you’ll call Big Mike’s Bar and Grill and ask for me, I’ll pick her up when you release her.”

  “All right.” He wrote the address on the sheet of yellow paper. “You can go back to your ward.”

  Conrad met me outside the office and took me back to the ward. For the rest of the day I played chess with Mr. Haas. I didn’t win any games, but my skill improved. I couldn’t sleep that night, and finally I got out of bed at eleven and asked the nurse to give me something. She gave me a sleeping pill that worked and I didn’t awaken until morning. As soon as breakfast was over with my clothes were brought to me and I put them on. Mr. Haas talked with me while I was dressing.

  “I’m sorry to see you leave so soon, Jordan. In another day or so you might have won a game.” He laughed pleasantly. “And then I would have killed you.” I didn’t know whether he was kidding or not. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?” he added. We shook hands and I started toward the door. “I’ll be seeing you!” He called after me, and laughed again. This time rather unpleasantly, I thought. Conrad took me to the elevator and told me to stop at the desk in the lobby. At the desk downstairs, the nurse on duty gave me three pieces of paper to sign, and in a moment I was out on the street.

  There wasn’t any sun and the fog had closed down heavily over the city. I walked through the damp mist, up and down the hills, alone in my own little pocket of isolation. I walked slowly, but in what seemed like a short length of time I found myself in front of Big Mike’s. I pushed through the swinging door, sat down at the bar and put my shaving kit on the seat beside me.

  “Hello, Harry,” Mike said jovially. “Where you been keeping yourself?”

  “Little trip.”

  “Drink?”

  I shook my head. “Mike, I need some money. No, I don’t want a loan,” I said when he reached for his hip pocket. “I want a job. Can you use me for a few days as a busboy or dishwasher?”

  “I’ve got a dishwasher.” Mike rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But I don’t have a busboy. Maybe the waiters would appreciate a man hustling dishes at noon and dinner. That’s a busy time. But I can’t pay you anything, Harry—dollar an hour.”

  “That’s plenty. It would really help out while I look for a job.”

  “Want to start now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pick up a white jacket in the kitchen.”

  I started to work, grateful for the opportunity. The waiters were glad to have me clearing dishes and carrying them to the kitchen. I’m a fast worker and I kept the tables cleared for them all through the lunch hour, hot-footing it back and forth to the kitchen with a tray in each hand. By two-thirty the lunch crowd had slowed to a dribble and I was off until five. I took the time to go to my roominghouse for a shower. I straightened the room, dumped trash and beer bottles into the can in the backyard, returned to Mike’s. I worked until ten that evening, returned to my room.

  I found it was impossible to get to sleep. I quit trying to force it, dressed and went outside. I walked for a while and suddenly started to run. I ran around the block three times and was soon gasping for breath. I kept running. My heart thumped so hard I could feel it beating through my shirt. Bright stars danced in front of my eyes, turned gray, black. I had to stop. I leaned against a building, gasping until I got my breath back. My muscles twitched and ached as I slowly made my way back home. I took a shower and threw myself across the bed. Now I could sleep, and I did until ten the next morning.

  It was three days before Dr. Davidson called me. It was in the middle of the noon rush and I was dripping wet when Mike called me to the telephone at the end of the bar. I didn’t say anything, but held my hand over the mouthpiece until he walked away.

  “Jordan here,” I said into the phone.

  “This is Doctor Davidson, Jordan. We’ve decided to release Mrs. Meredith in your custody. As her common-law husband you’ll be responsible for her. Do you understand that?”

  “What time?” I asked impatiently.

  “About three this afternoon. You’ll have to sign for her to take her out. Sure you want to do it?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.” I racked the phone.

  Big Mike was in the kitchen eating a salami sandwich and talking with the chef. The chef was complaining about the quality of the pork loin he was getting lately. I broke into the monologue.

  “Mike, I have to quit.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I have my money?”

  “Okay.” He took a roll of bills out of his hip pocket, peeled six ones and handed them to me.

  “Only six bucks?”

  “I took out for your tab, Harry, but I didn’t charge your meals.”

  “Thanks, Mike. I don’t like to leave you in the middle of a rush like this—” I began to apologize.

  He waved me away impatiently, bit into his sandwich. “Forget it.”

  I hung the white mess jacket in the closet and slipped into my corduroy jacket. At the rooming house I showered and shaved for the second time that day. I rubbed my worn shoes with a towel but they were in such bad shape they didn’t shine a bit. I caught a trolley, transferred to a bus, transferred to another trolley. It was one-thirty when I reached the entrance to the hospital. I sat down on a bench in the little park and watched the minute hand in the electric clock bounce to each mark, rarely taking my eyes away from it. The clock was set into the center of a Coca-Cola sign above the door of a drug store in the shopping center across the street. At three, on the head, I entered the hospital lobby. Helen was waiting for me by the circular counter, her lower lip quivering. As soon as she saw me she began to cry. I held her tight and kissed her, to the annoyance of the nurse.

  “Hey,” I said softly. “Cut that out. Everything’s going to be all right.” Her crying stopped as suddenly as it started. I signed the papers the nurse had ready, picked up Helen’s bag and we went outside. We sat down on the bench in the little park.

  “How’d they treat you, sweetheart?” I asked her.

  “Terrible.” Helen shuddered. “Simply terrible, and it was boring as hell.”

  “What did Dr. Davidson say to you? Anything?”

  “He said I should quit drinking. That’s about all.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A lot of personal questions. He’s got a filthy mind.” “Are you going to quit drinking?”

  “Why should I? For him? That bastard!�
��

  “Do you want a drink now?”

  “It’s all I’ve thought about all week, Harry,” she said sincerely.

  “Come on.” I took her arm, helping her to her feet. “Let’s go across the street.”

  A few doors down the street from the shopping center we found a small neighborhood bar. We entered and sat down in the last booth. I saved out enough money for carfare and we drank the rest of the six dollars. Helen was unusually quiet and drank nothing but straight shots, holding the glass in both hands, like a child holding a mug. Once in awhile she would almost cry, and then she would smile instead. We didn’t talk; there was nothing to talk about. We left the bar and made the long, wearisome trip back to Big Mike’s. We sat down in our old seats at the bar and started to drink on a new tab. Mike was glad to see Helen again and he saw that we always had a fresh, full glass in front of us. By midnight Helen was glassy-eyed drunk and I took her home and put her to bed. Despite the many drinks I had had, I was comparatively sober. Before going to bed myself I smoked a cigarette, crushed it savagely in the ashtray.

  As far as I could tell, we were no better off than before.

  TEN

  Mother Love

  NEXT MORNING I got out of bed early, and without waking Helen, took a long hot shower and dressed. Helen slept soundly, her lips slightly parted. I raised the blind and the room flooded with bright sunlight. A beautiful day. I shook Helen gently by the shoulder and she opened her eyes quickly, blinked them against the brightness. She was wide awake.