Boys and Girls Together

by William Saroyan

He tried to tell her for the first time since they had met that it was so, hoping she would get it, not hear the words they had kicked around so much, but get it, know it, understand it, let it reach her. He looked into her eyes in nakedness and humility, then kissed her on the mouth, softly at first, to be the kissing of all of him, everything he was, and then slowly with pleasure, with passion, with lust, to be the kissing of his body. Her mouth was dry and sick at first, sick because she had had such a rough time, but after a moment it sweetened and seemed to smell and taste of milk, the milk of herself at peace, and glad. He loved that, and would not leave it, for he wanted her to be at peace, and glad, always, not just when it was like this, but all the time.

  ‘Let’s sit down and drink,’ the woman said.

  ‘Sure.’

  They sat at the table in the kitchen and began to drink.

  ‘I’m so excited. That’s why I want to drink. I want to get drunk. You get drunk, too.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m going to have so much fun seeing them tomorrow.’

  For a moment the man believed she meant the kids, but then he remembered her friends and knew she meant them. He swallowed everything in his glass and poured more over the ice.

  ‘Was that straight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s get really pissed.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I like you best when you’re really gone.’

  ‘Here’s to you, always.’

  ‘You’re so attractive when you’re gone. Shall we telephone somebody to come over?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ellen and Charley?’

  ‘They were here last night.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d just as soon not see anybody, but if you can think of somebody, call them.’

  ‘I could look in my book.’

  ‘O.K.’

  The woman fetched her book and began to read the names in alphabetical order. They were people who were mainly in New York and Hollywood. Every time she came to a name of somebody in San Francisco, it was somebody like Ellen and Charley, and the woman held her nose. He didn’t blame her much, either, because they weren’t very interesting. They were people they had met accidentally at the Top of the Mark, or at Vanessi’s or at The Fairmont, or at one or another of the places people in San Francisco go to when they want to celebrate, as they put it. The other people, the ones in New York and Hollywood, were mainly famous people, but they weren’t very interesting, either. They were less interesting than the people in San Francisco, as a matter of fact. Some of them were a little on the monstrous side, too.

  She came to the name of a man who had been a villain in movies for thirty years but was lately more or less retired, devoting himself to his fifth wife, a girl thirty years younger than himself, and their adopted son and daughter.

  ‘You like them, don’t you?’ the woman said.

  ‘I don’t mind them.’

  ‘We had such fun with them when we were in New York. They’re such fun and they admire you so much. Why don’t we call them and tell them to fly up for a drink? They’re not far from Eurbank and the planes leave every hour. They’d be here at one or two and we could drink until four or five. They could sleep upstairs or go to a hotel. You could drive to the airport and bring them here. I won’t be afraid. The gate’s locked. Let me call them.’

  ‘O.K.’

  The woman brought the telephone from the hall into the kitchen and set it down in front of her on the table. After a moment she was talking to the girl. It seemed that the retired villain was tired, but it also seemed that his wife might be able to win him over to the idea.

  ‘She’s asking him. I do hope they’ll do it. It’ll be such fun and we’ve got three more bottles of Scotch.’

  The retired villain didn’t think he was up to it, so then the woman mentioned that her friends in New York were flying in in the morning and they could all meet for lunch and shopping and cocktails, then dinner and a lot of drinking and talking somewhere. The wife of the retired villain took the matter up with him again, and then she said they’d telephone the airport and a hotel in San Francisco and call right back.

  ‘They’ll come,’ the woman said. ‘I know they will. I’ll wear my new dress and you shave and put on your dark suit. Don’t get too drunk to drive to the airport. Maybe you’d better start shaving now, so I can get in there and bathe. We’ll start drinking when they get here.’

  ‘O.K.’

  He finished his third drink and went into the bathroom to shave. He was in the shower when the woman said: ‘They’re coming. They’ll be at the airport at one-fifteen. If they miss that plane, they’ll be there at two-fifteen. Now hurry, so I can get in there.’

  ‘O.K.’

  Chapter 19

  He was driving to the airport to get them, shaved, in his dark suit, and just beginning to feel the three drinks he’d had before the shower and the two after. He felt pretty good.

  The way I’ll do it is this, he said, almost out loud. I’ve got the money I won this afternoon. I’ll bet half of it back tomorrow. If I lose, I’ll bet the rest of it back. If I win, I’ll stop for the day. The next day I’ll do the same. I think I’ll win. All I’ve got to do is guess right. I’ll bet them across the board, so if I don’t guess exactly right, I’ll still win, or break even. I was always lucky and I’ll be lucky tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, too. I’ll never stop being lucky. I always liked to write but I didn’t like it any more than I liked having fun. I know I ought to work harder, but why should I? I don’t feel like it. A lot of the boys who work harder but aren’t lucky don’t do as well as I do. They just work harder and get less because they’re not lucky. Most of them show it, too. They look like hell and you know they feel worse. They never have any real fun, either. They never have the time or energy to have any. They get serious about their work when they aren’t lucky and they get old fast and die without ever having any real fun. What for? So a handful of critics who aren’t lucky and probably never took a chance on anything in their lives can sit down and say their writing stinks. Not that it doesn’t. What else could it do, written by writers who aren’t lucky, who never took a chance on anything? It stinks all right, but they worked hard at it, hoping it wouldn’t stink, or maybe that it would stink so badly somebody would invent a new scheme of measurement and come to the conclusion that because it stinks so badly it is great. A writer who isn’t lucky can probably find comfort in thinking like that. Maybe the stuff will be so ungame, so dull, so tiresome, so hopeless as to be great. Any unlucky writer can ask, What’s greatness? And answer to suit himself. I’m lucky, though, and I don’t have to do that. All I’ve got to do is stop worrying about the kids. They’re hers and they’re mine and worrying isn’t going to do them any good. All worry can do is spoil my luck. It’s been spoiling it for seven years as it is, but it’s not too late. All I’ve got to do is stop worrying. Forget the kids. Forget the writing. Forget the marriage. Forget the other kids I want. I’ll have them soon enough if I stop worrying. Forget the fights. Forget everything and just be lucky. Just look at the entries, telephone Leo, make the bet, win and collect. I can’t expect Daisy to go along the way the wives of the writers who aren’t lucky do. Why should she? She’s a beautiful girl who knows by instinct what’s important and what’s not. She knows by instinct what’s phoney. Why should she try to live the way the wives of the unlucky writers do? They sit on floors and sip sherry and talk. Their husbands are always tired from overworking their small energies. Their kids have got to be psycho-analysed before they’re nine. I’ll go along with Daisy. I’ll let her be. I’ll let everything be. I’ll stop worrying and get my luck back. I got some of it back today even though I was worrying at the time. I got it back, though. I can’t get along without my luck. The only way I can get it back is not to worry.

  He found a place to park, went to the airport bar, gulped down half his drink and laughed, the way he had laughed when he had had h
is luck and never needed to believe in it.

  ‘Sierra Fox,’ he said to the bartender. ‘Is Sierra Fox running tomorrow at Bay Meadows?’

  ‘I’ll see,’ the bartender said.

  ‘Third race, I think.’

  He remembered the horse and liked the picture its name made: a fox in the Sierras, alone and laughing. He guessed that if it would be in any race it would be the third: no reason.

  ‘I don’t see it anywhere.’

  ‘Well, if he were running, and if it turned out that he was running in the third, I’d bet him. I’d bet him if it turned out that he was running in the first or fifth, too, but not so much.’

  ‘What distance?’

  ‘Any distance. Is that the one-fifteen coming in from Hollywood out there?’

  ‘Yes, I think it is.’

  ‘Give me one more quick one, then, please.’

  He gulped the second drink down and went out. He saw them and went to meet them, laughing lucky.

  They looked fine, and they said they had never seen him looking better.

  ‘Wait till you see the kids,’ he said, and then, although he was still laughing that way, there was a congestion of agony in his soul and he thought he might puke. He didn’t stop laughing, though, and didn’t let them stop, either. They laughed almost all the way back because everything was actually that funny: appearances, voices, words.

  And then they were there, home.

  Chapter 20

  The retired villain was past sixty and heavy now instead of lean and hard the way he had been when he had been most famous and had leered at and handled some of the most beautiful women in the movies.

  ‘I was always meant to be fat,’ he said. ‘It was just that I was so determined to be famous.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not fat,’ the woman said. ‘Is he?’ she said to the villain’s wife. ‘You know best.’

  The actor’s wife said: ‘He’s fat and I love it. What’s more, I’m fat, too.’

  ‘You’re not at all. I’m the one who’s fat. You’re just voluptuous. Isn’t she just voluptuous, darling?’

  ‘What?’ the man said. He’d been thinking about Sierra Fox, loping up the slope, alone and laughing. He was feeling no pain and was glad they’d come up. They were just about the nicest people in the world.

  ‘Alice,’ the woman said to her husband. ‘Alice Murphy, from hunger, no background, who married Oscar Bard for his money. I just said, Doesn’t she look horrible?’

  ‘Oh Daisy, you’ll never change,’ Alice said. ‘You’re just jealous because I live in Hollywood and have famous people to my house every day. Just because I’ve got better clothes than you have. But don’t worry, I’ve made up my mind to be more thoughtful of the needy from now on, and I’m going to send you one of my old things, a Christian Dior that I wore once. I never wear any of them more than once unless poor Oscar can’t get romantic unless I wear a certain dress, and then, of course, I wear it in the morning, I wear it at lunch, I wear it in the evening, and I wear it to bed. Don’t I, darling?’

  ‘You’ve got two dresses,’ the villain said, ‘both of them bought at May’s in Los Angeles, not counting whatever the hell that was you had in your suitcase when you came to live with me. I suppose some of those rags were supposed to be dresses.’

  They were all smiling or laughing all the time, drinking and talking and making fun of themselves because that’s the best thing for the soul there is.

  ‘They were dresses I inherited from my mother,’ Alice said. ‘You know my mother, darling. Remember when she telephoned and said: “Mr. Bard, I’d like to speak to my daughter if you don’t mind. I understand she’s studying acting with you. She’s nineteen years old, you know.” You remember Mama, don’t you, darling?’

  ‘Well, between the two of you,’ Oscar said, ‘you made it. You must have planned the whole thing very carefully. Otherwise how did she know where you were? How did she get my unlisted number? But the joke’s on you, because I couldn’t have been more delighted. I mean, to have you move in with me and be bored to death for five, ten, maybe fifteen years.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alice said. And then imitated her mother, ‘If you don’t mind.’

  She and Daisy laughed about this a long time.

  The man saw the fox stop and turn, and then lope on. The villain chuckled because the joke was on her, it was on her mother, and not on him. To be past sixty and nothing much (you had to know you weren’t much) and to have a luscious piece like that fall into your bed wasn’t anything like what you could call bad luck.

  ‘Five, ten, maybe fifteen years?’ Alice went on. ‘Five, ten, fifteen years until what. Divorce? Are you planning to unload me when I’m old? Is that it? Well, I’m not going to let you unload me. I’ve got so much on you already, you’ll never be able to unload me.’

  ‘You look absolutely gorgeous,’ the woman said to Alice. ‘Doesn’t she, darling?’

  ‘Alice? She looks as if she might very well be the best piece of tail in Hollywood.’

  ‘What’s the matter with New York?’ Alice said.

  ‘What’s the matter with Sacramento, too?’ Daisy said. She turned on the man with mock anger. ‘Don’t you dare say she’s the best.’

  ‘I said she might be.’

  ‘Anything like that you’ve got to say about anybody, say about me, and never mind the might be part, either.’

  ‘O.K.’ That Rosey—she looked just like her mother. Would she make out all right? No bawl that way, or scream, or bite her fingernails, or wonder what to do next for fun? Telephone New York or ask a casual acquaintance in the street to come over after dinner or badger an old New York girl friend to get up in the middle of the night and drag her husband to San Francisco? Would Rosey have a little better luck than her poor mama? Her poor mama must have had very bad luck somewhere along the line. Would Rosey have to tell lies and believe they were the truth, or not care that they weren’t, or would she have better luck than her poor mama?

  ‘O.K.?’ the woman said. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘What I said. The best.’

  ‘You know that’s the truth. You know you never had any better.’

  ‘No, I never did.’

  ‘I swear on my mother, it’s all the time.’

  ‘How is the old bag?’ Alice said.

  ‘She still says shite, because it’s more refined, she thinks. Remember that time you were staying with me and we’d gotten in at four in the morning and were still in bed at four in the afternoon and she came in and said it?’

  ‘“Shit, Mother, shit,” you said to her,’ Alice said. ‘“It’s affected to pronounce it shite. People will never know how refined you really are if you pronounce it that way,” you said. I’d never heard it pronounced that way before. I think she’s the only person in the world who pronounces it that way. Hasn’t she poisoned her husband yet?’

  ‘Not yet. But he ought to drop dead any day now anyway.’

  ‘Is he actually ninety-two?’

  ‘No. He justs looks ninety-two. I think he’s in his early eighties, though.’

  ‘And how old is your mother?’ the villain said.

  ‘Forty,’ the woman said.

  ‘That old?’ the villain laughed. ‘He didn’t do so good. I did a lot better than he did. Sixty-two and a wife of twenty-three isn’t so bad.

  ‘Twenty-two until day after tomorrow,’ Alice said.

  ‘Yes, but you’re young, Oscar,’ the woman said, ‘and he’s old. You know how some men are. Some are young all the time and some are old from the beginning. Well, he’s been old all the time. Old and ugly. She’s crazy about him, though. Well, anyhow, she says she is. You know how people fool themselves when they’re desperate. Don’t people fool themselves when they’re desperate, darling?’

  ‘When they’re not, too.’

  The girls laughed and the villain chuckled.

  ‘You want some coffee maybe?’ the man asked the villain.

  ‘H
ell no. I wouldn’t think of spoiling this with coffee. I haven’t felt so good in years. Seeing these two together does me good, that’s all. I was feeling rotten when you called. Sick of myself. I get sick that way quite a lot, always have. But hell, I said, why not? It’s crazy, but why the hell not? Why don’t we always do things like that? I like it here. I like sitting here and drinking and talking and watching the girls. I worked like a dog all my life. What the hell for? To be famous for twenty years as a movie villain. Never met a villain in my life. Why? Do you want some coffee?’

  ‘No, but I thought you might want some, and something to eat. There isn’t much in the house, but there are steaks and chops any time we want them. We’ve got a little bread lying around, too,’ he said and suddenly began to roar with laughter. ‘I always loved bread,’ he said quickly. ‘If I ever get rich I’m going to buy a bakery. Alice, there are steaks and chops any time you’re hungry.’

  ‘Yum yum,’ Alice said.

  ‘No,’ the villain said. ‘You can’t mean it, darling. For God’s sake, it’s only half past three. Now please don’t break this up by fooling around with steaks. You know, I haven’t been in a house like this in years. I mean, where people live. A house, not a movie set. A home. I’d like to buy a house like this in San Francisco and move into it myself.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Oscar,’ the woman said. ‘It stinks. It’s small. The front door opens right into the whole house. The living-room and the hall are stuck together. This is no house.’

  ‘It’s the best house I’ve ever been in,’ the villain said.

  ‘There was nothing else new to be had when I got out of the Army,’ the man said. ‘Daisy was pregnant and we had to have something so I figured that something out by the ocean would be fine. This was out by the ocean and almost finished: they were painting it. I had a little money then, so I paid cash for it, and we moved in. It stinks all right, but it’s not so bad. There’s a big fenced-in yard, mostly lawn, with rose bushes and other stuff around. The kids play there. Upstairs is another apartment just like this one, and I work there. If we’ve got a nurse, we both live up there and the kids and the nurse live down here, and I work in the second bedroom, the one that the kids sleep in down here, but it’s not like a bedroom any more, shelves all around and a desk. It’s a small room to begin with and after the shelves were put in it got smaller, but it’s a good place to work. I figured out by the ocean would be fine. I never cared for a place that wasn’t near the ocean.’