About Harry Towns

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  The doctor had told him to get rid of all clothing that had come into contact with the crabs and he did that, throwing away his underwear. He was reminded of a fellow at college who threw away suits of underwear after a single day's wear. And that was without crabs. At the time, Towns couldn't imagine anyone rich enough to toss away underwear after one use; years later, he came to the conclusion that the fellow was unhappy and was trying to catch his unloving parents' attention. Meanwhile, Towns had to figure out how to deal with his suit. He decided to hang onto it and keep his fingers crossed that a stray crab hadn't wandered onto the fabric. He carefully hid the medicine bottle so that the boy wouldn't accidentally come across it and ask what it was. Then he got into a pair of fresh pajamas and slid into bed; the boy was sleeping, and it seemed to Towns that he itched more than ever and that he had roused the crabs to a fury, and sent them scurrying far and wide. He went into the bathroom and, not knowing whether he was awake or dreaming, began to shave off his pubic hair, being very cautious and tentative at first and then warming to the task and slashing it off with great verve. He took some off his stomach, too, and began his chest but then stopped and said the hell with it. He looked at himself in the mirror, standing on a chair so that he could see the shaved areas, and decided he looked very new and young and unusual. It was a little exciting. But then he realized there was no way to get the hair back on; indeed, he had no idea how quickly it would grow back or if it would grow back at all. It still itched like hell, but he knew it couldn't have been the crabs that were doing it and this was comforting. In bed, he realized that he would have to tell his Bryn Mawr girl he had them and wondered how she would react to that. It made him sick to think about it. He decided to tell her he had “body lice” but then changed his mind and went over to straight “crabs.” He would simply hit her with it—“I've got the crabs”—and if she ran away, he would get along without her, even though she was quite gentle and extraordinary. He would then have to find a girl who had these qualities and was also tough-minded enough to accept crabs.

  In the morning, the boy was dressed and ready to roll by the time Towns opened his eyes. The itching had kept him awake most of the night, leaving him tired and irritable. It seemed to Towns that getting out of bed and being easy and kind to the boy was going to be the single hardest thing he had ever done in his life. He felt inside his pajamas on the slim chance that he had only dreamed about the shaving, but he was clean as a whistle. “Do you think we can play the slots before breakfast or shall we wait till afterward?” asked the boy. When Towns reminded him that you had to be twenty-one to play them, the boy fell back in astonishment and slapped his head, saying “What?” as though Towns were giving him the information for the first time. All through their trip, the boy was to pretend it was all right for him to play the slots and fall back in amazement when Towns reminded him that he couldn't. Towns didn't know whether to be irritated or pleased by this stunt and decided finally that it was a good thing for the boy to keep trying in the face of ridiculous odds. On the way downstairs, Towns told the boy he was going to be scratching himself a lot on the trip. ‘That's because I've picked up a skin condition,” he told the boy. “It can drive you nuts.”

  “I hope it clears up, Dad,” said the boy.

  As soon as they hit the street, Towns realized there wasn't going to be much you could do with a young boy in Las Vegas. Gambling was the name of the game; Los Angeles, of course, with Disneyland, would have been the correct choice. To compensate for this, Towns made a big fuss over every little thing they did. When their breakfast eggs were served to them at a small diner, Towns said, “Well, there they are, Las Vegas eggs.” The boy went along with Towns, saying, “Las Vegas eggs, that's great.” But when they went out to the main street and Towns said, “Look at this place, isn't it something?” the boy said, “I don't see what's so wonderful about it. Maybe it is, but it's hard to tell so far.” Towns wondered if they ought to rent a car and drive to Los Angeles after all; but then he decided that the important thing was that they be together and draw very close. He put his arm around the boy's shoulders and the boy, pretending they were the same height, reached way up and got his arm around his father's shoulder. They walked lopsidedly through the main street of Las Vegas that way. The boy was something of a coin collector and when they got to a shop that sold them, Towns took twenty dollars of the money he had more or less set aside for gambling and gave it to the boy so he could buy some special ones.

  “I don't know whether I should be taking this away from you, Dad,” said the boy.

  “It's all right,” said Towns. “I want to give it to you.”

  “But I feel it will hurt you if I take it,” said the boy, looking very sad and sick.

  “You'll be making me happy,” said Towns. “My own folks made me feel guilty when they gave me things and I don't want that to happen to you.” Hearing his own words, it seemed to Towns that he was trying to be a wonderful parent in a big hurry, leaping at every opportunity to get across slices of wisdom. So he promised himself he would try to be a little more natural. Towns waited for the boy outside the coin shop, feeling restless about being that close to all the gambling and not having gotten to it quite yet. It would be obscene to make a trip to Las Vegas and not get in any gambling, but he knew he had to feed the boy a certain number of good times before he thought about the tables. The boy came out after a bit and said, “Let's get out of here, Dad. I think I just got a coin that's worth thousands and the man hasn't caught on to it yet. Is there any way he can trace us back to our hotel?”

  Towns told the boy he was kidding himself and that it was a lot harder than that to make money in life. “That man's been in the coin business for a long time,” said Towns. “He knows more about it than you and doesn't give away thousands that easily.” More wisdom. The boy said he was sure the coin was worth a fortune, but he said it with little conviction and Towns felt like digging a ditch for himself. Why couldn't he just go along with the kid and let him dream? “Maybe you're right,” he said. “Hell, I don't know much about coins.” But he said it much too late for it to do any good.

  That afternoon, Towns, desperate for young-boy activities, signed up for a bus visit to a dam that bridged two states, Nevada and Arizona. When the boy found out they were going to a dam, he said, “I'm not sure I'd love to do that,” and Towns, short with him for the first time, said, “Cut it out. We're going. You don't come all the way out here and not go to their dam.” On the bus, the itching got the best of him and he was sure he had come up with a type of crab that actually ducked down beneath the skin and couldn't be shaved off. He felt sorry for himself, an about-to-be-divorced guy, riding out to a dam with crabs and a young boy. At the dam site, the guide lectured the group about hardships involved in the building of the dam and Towns said to the boy, “They must have had some job. Imagine, coming out here, starting with nothing and having to put up a dam.”

  The boy said, “Dad, I'm not enjoying this. I just came out here because you wanted to. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I'm not having that great a time.”

  “You can't always have a great time,” said Towns. “Not every second of your life.”

  When the guide led the tour group through the bottom of the dam and into Arizona, the boy perked up considerably. “That's great,” said the boy, running around in the small area. “I'm in Arizona. It's great here and that means I've been to another state.” He kept careful track of all the states he'd been to and even counted ones he had just nicked the edges of on car rides.

  That night, Towns told the boy to dress up and he would take him to one of the big shows at a hotel on the Strip. He found out the name of one that admitted kids and when they got to it, he gave the headwaiter a huge tip to make sure they were put at a fine table. The head-waiter led them into the dining room, through a labyrinth of tables, getting closer and closer to the stage, the boy turning back to his father several times to say, “Look how close we're getting. How come he's
taking us to such a great table?” The headwaiter put them at ringside right up against the stage, and the boy said, “This is fabulous. He must think we're famous or something.” Towns smiled and said, “He must.” He didn't mention anything about the tip, but after they had eaten shrimp cocktails, he told the boy he had given the headwaiter some money, trampling on the dream again. “Oh,” said the boy, a little forlorn. There was just nothing Towns could do to control himself. On the other hand, maybe it was wise to fill the boy in on tipping behavior. Otherwise, he might wonder, later on, why he wasn't getting fabulous tables on his own hook. Towns had been to Las Vegas several years back and he remembered the women being a lot prettier. “The girls look a little hard, don't they?” he said to the boy, realizing he was trying to draw his son out on his feelings about women. “They're okay,” said the boy, who didn't seem to want to dig into the subject.

  The show was a huge, awkward one with plenty of razzle-dazzle. When it was over, the boy said it was the greatest show he had ever seen and wondered why they didn't bring a show like that to New York. “They might,” said Towns, “and you'd be able to say you'd seen it first out here.” The casino was bulging with activity, Towns feeling the lure and magnetism of it. “I wouldn't mind doing a little gambling,” he said to the boy and saw that he was asking his permission. He did that often and wondered if it was proper behavior. Once, they had gone “mountain climbing” on a giant slag heap in their town. The boy was great at it, shooting right to the top, but Towns looked back over his shoulder, got panicky, and the boy had to reach back and grab him. Were you allowed to have your son take over, even momentarily, and become your dad? Towns decided that you were, much later on, but he was getting into it a bit early.

  “What if you gambled and lost your money?” the boy asked.

  “It doesn't make any difference,” said Towns. “You just play for pleasure and never gamble more than you can afford. That way you don't feel bad if you lose.” Towns was actually the kind of gambler who fell into deep depressions when he lost a quarter and even got depressed when he won. It wasn't that wonderful for him when he broke even either. Once and for all, he had to stop telling the boy things that seemed nice but that he really didn't believe.

  “I couldn't stand it if I lost anything,” said the boy. ‘Therefore I don't think you should gamble.”

  Towns asked him if he thought he could keep busy for a while and the boy said, “Sure, Dad,” with great cheerfulness, but then he asked Towns exactly how long he would be.

  “About an hour,” said Towns.

  ‘That long, eh?” said the boy.

  He went off to roam around the lobby and Towns sat down to play blackjack with a dealer named Bunny. The dealer was slow, and Towns liked that, but he was aware of having to keep an eye on the boy and felt as though only half of him was sitting at the table. The boy would disappear and then bob up between a couple of slots or behind a plant, a duck in a shooting gallery. Towns was edgy as he made his bets, as though some tea was boiling and any second he would have to run out and turn off the gas. He told himself it didn't matter, all that counted was whether the cards came or not, but he didn't believe that for a second. He felt that the boy, running around the lobby, had a strong effect on the cards he was drawing. A dark-haired, hard-looking woman played at the seat on his right; she was attractive, although Towns felt she was just a fraction over the line and into hooker territory. He wondered whether it would be possible to dash up to a room with her and still nip back to the tables before the hour was up. That arrangement would be just fine for a Las Vegas hooker. Then he remembered the shaving and knew it wouldn't work out. Hooker or not, she would be experienced enough to know something wasn't exactly right. Towns forgot whether he was winning or losing. The boy called him away from the tables at one point and said, “Dad, I don't want to disturb your game, but a man wants to kill me.” Towns knew that the boy had a way of dramatizing routine events, but he followed him nevertheless to a Spanish busboy who leaned against the wall of the dining room and didn't back up for a second when he saw Towns coming. “You bothering the kid?” said Towns, standing very close to the man. “That's right,” said the busboy, “he spoiling the rhythm of the place.”

  “Just lay off him,” said Towns, pushing a finger up against the man's face. He had planned to do just that no matter what the man said.

  “Tell him to behave then,” said the busboy, not backing up an inch.

  “I'll take care of him and you lay off him,” said Towns, breaking away from the man, as though in victory.

  “Do you think you could have taken him?” asked the boy as they walked back to the casino.

  “I don't know,” said Towns. “I wasn't thinking about that.”

  “I've never seen you really fight a guy,” said the boy. “I think I'd like that.”

  “I've had some fights,” said Towns. “The trick is to get what you want without fighting. Any animal can fight. Any time you do, you automatically lose.”

  “I think I'd like to see you do it once,” said the boy, and Towns realized that once again he was saying things to the boy that he hated. If someone had given him the kind of advice he was passing along to the child, he would have vomited. He was feeding him stuff he felt he was expected to feed him. But who expected it?

  “Are you going to gamble some more?” asked the boy. “Your hour's up.”

  “It's a little hard when you have someone along,” said Towns.

  “Do you understand why they don't let children gamble?” the boy asked. Towns started to tell him it led to other things like missing school and crime, but then he said, “Strike that. It's garbage. I don't know why they don't let kids gamble. It would probably be all right.” Towns felt proud of his honesty, but the boy didn't seem to care for it much and said, “I thought you knew the answer to things like that.”

  It suddenly occurred to Towns that it might be a good idea for them to spend their two remaining days at the giant plush Strip hotel. On a hunch, he asked the clerk whether there were rooms available and the clerk said yes, there had been a few checkouts. Towns and the boy made a dash back to their small hotel in town where they packed quickly, the boy saying, “I don't know about this. I liked it here. And I don't want to hurt this hotel's feelings.”

  “You can't hurt a hotel's feelings,” Towns told him. They checked into an enormous, heavily gadgeted room in the Strip hotel and the boy said, “I admit this is great, but the other one was great, too.”

  The hotel was bigger and cleaner and noisier than the other one, but when you took a careful look at it there wasn't that much more for boys to do at it. Towns checked on some saddle horses the next day, but nobody knew where the stable was or how to get to it. He heard about a college nearby and made a feeble attempt to sell it to the boy, saying, “Imagine, a Las Vegas college. I wonder what it would be like,” but the boy didn't even nibble at that one. Towns knew that the swimming pool was closed, but he led the boy out to it anyway; they took off their shirts and sat in chairs alongside the empty concrete pool.

  “Is this what you want to do?” asked the boy.

  “Just for a while.”

  “What good's a suntan?”

  “They're great,” said Towns. “You've forgotten that it's cold back East. It's good to take advantage of things like this.”

  “I'll get one if you say so, Dad,” said the boy. “I don't really want one, but I'll get one.”

  They ate dinner at a Chinese restaurant that night. On the way to it, Towns took a wistful look at the casino and his son did, too. “Maybe I can play the slots at this one,” said the boy.

  “You won't quit, will you?”

  “I thought maybe since this was a big hotel on the Strip they let boys play.”

  “They don't,” said Towns. He thought of a tough friend of his who had four little girls and almost died because he didn't have a son; he had the feeling that somehow his friend would see to it, if he had a son, that the boy got to play the sl
ots. And Towns wasn't able to pull it off. At the Chinese restaurant, Towns told the boy he loved Chinese food so much that he often thought he could eat it every night of the week. The boy took hold of that, saying, “Every night? For the rest of your life?”

  “That's right,” said Towns. “I think I've had enough at the end of each meal, but the next day I'm ready to have some more.”

  “That's amazing,” said the boy, who was thoroughly pleased by the thought. “I never knew that about you.”

  The Chinese restaurant had a girl singer who did old Jerome Kern tunes. After she went offstage, Towns, who knew his boy had a singing voice, said to him, “Why don't you get up there and sing a few songs?”

  “Are you kidding,” said the boy. “Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind? I'd rather be shot dead than get up there.”

  “You're a singer, aren't you?” said Towns.

  “I sing,” said the boy, “but are you kidding? You must be crazy, Dad.”

  Towns said he had a mother who pulled that kind of stuff on him—so he was pulling a little on his son. Only his mother really meant it, whereas Harry Towns was just goofing. The boy loved hearing things about the way it had been for Towns when he was young.

  On the way back to their hotel, Towns spotted a bowling alley and he suggested they try a few games. It was midnight and he wanted to get at the gambling, but he thought it was the right thing to do and he was proud of himself for the way he was putting himself out for the child.

  “I'll bowl with you,” said the boy, “but only if you promise it's what you really want to do.”

  “I promise,” said Towns.

  The alley was a giant one, completely deserted, and Towns asked the proprietor if anybody ever bowled in Las Vegas. “Not too many,” said the proprietor. While they were selecting their balls, the boy said, “How come you just walk up to people and ask them questions?” and Towns answered, “It's a style of mine. I like to find out things. So I figure that's the best way.” “I could never do that,” said the boy. “That'll change,” Towns assured him.