Again I should not have thought. Chickened out, naturally. Gave a little cough to choke back my laughter, excused myself politely for the cough, then filled up her glass and not her navel. A missed opportunity on a day of missed opportunities. Too bad. The first time I hated a customer, because I let myself get stuck. There are plenty of bad apples and nasties in here, but I ignore them and do my job. Why let them get to you?
It’s the curse of the Jews, I think. A Jew is a good boy. He knows what it takes to be bad, knows how it is done—just not how to do it. It’s something the other guy can be counted on to do, while the Jew must do the right thing. He is living inside a strait-jacket from birth, even a profligate like Carnovsky.
Rough morning all around. Began at Bulkitis’ where I found no one at home. My friend sells the numbers, of course, so once in a blue moon they make him stroll up the courthouse and genuflect. It could be that, because he was in the pink yesterday and it’s not the time of year for a nose cold. But no Telegraph.
I accept this defeat and cross over to Wing Wang, where I present my slip of paper and instead of bowing me my nice brown package he says to me, “No shirts.”
“You mean No problem.”
“No shirts,” he repeats, clear as a parrot.
“Three shirts,” I come back, jabbing my receipt at him.
“No shirts.”
Very firm is my friend, and happy with his new syllable too. Rests his case. I gave him my side of it, but as soon talk Greek to a Negro baby. This little fellow doesn’t make mistakes. He takes it in, washes and folds, adds it up right. He doesn’t speak the language but he knows his business and the result is he gets me wondering. Did I give him those shirts? I thought so, and here is the receipt, yet if he says No shirts then it must be somehow my mistake.
And that is where our discussion ended up. All I could say by way of winding up negotiations, still wishing to part on good terms, was, “Okay, no problem.” It’s the low common denominator, I am dragged down to it, and shirtless to boot.
I caught a gimpy train-car out which stopped to catch its breath three times in the middle of nowhere, till all the hard-knockers were using body english to push it home. The morning was gone and it was raining, much worse out there than in Manhattan. I never got down to see Caddy Moore and then had to take it on the chin from Bert for wearing a wrinkled shirt. So much for No problem, Wing Wang.
The goddamn shirt does not even show, of course, once you are in full house livery. Bert sees the manager’s job this way: if a man does something correctly, no need to notice, or praise, since he is only doing his job. But if he does it wrong, right down to his manicured pinkie, spot it every time on the basement radar. He will never pass up a chance to fan the winds of criticism.
Wiley puts this one to rest. Cruises past with a big wink and says, “You two ironing out your difficulties?” and that gets it done. It adds up to this. When you need the manager, he is “not available.” When you are hoping he’s out of range, because you just broke a plate, forget it—he watched the thing crack on radar and will arrive in time to witness the burial.
Another big approach. The ladies’ man swings into action with a line I dreamed up and rehearsed like Shakespeare. My stage debut, I trained for, but very casual the stance and very casual the voice—
“Will you be traveling up to Saratoga Springs next week?”
“Hello. No, I’m afraid I won’t. How about you?”
The girl is such a beauty that the blue sky, the universe, is just a background for viewing her lovely face. The more I see it, the more I want to see it, the way eating one piece of candy makes you eat another. And this time she will talk. Discusses the ins and outs of waiting on table as though the fate of the economy turns on it: she is aiming to be a democrat too. And makes mention of Jimmy Myers. We are small-talking. You will be back at Belmont in September? Yes, but only for a couple of weeks. I bet you go to college. You win the bet.
She blushes at the college, dislikes confessing to intelligence. She would prefer to be the tomboy who can pop a bicep, the stockyard hand, workingclass hero. And she is for the rights of women.
“I’m always glad to see a kid come around the stables. They are the only ones who aren’t surprised to find me there. They don’t know enough to be prejudiced yet.”
“I agree. They should run the country, for that very reason.”
She studies me now, closely and without the least embarrassment, studies my eyes until my face heats up. Something is coming.
“You weren’t always a waiter.”
“At your age I was. In between I took thirty years off for good behavior.”
“And then misbehaved? But during the thirty years, what did you do then?”
“What would you guess?”
“Something interesting. You have a look, like you’re wanted by the F.B.I. or something.”
“No. Nobody wants me.”
“No, really. Who did you kill?”
She has the nerve, and the personality, to sass me.
“No one you know.”
“Spill the beans.” And she is grinning at me. She is curious after all, just as I am. Put a priest and a prostitute together in the elevator and they will be the same way too—human. But give credit where it’s due, she sees something and it is the truth I have a mystery. It just doesn’t happen to be very interesting. It’s only myself I killed, I am the skeleton in my own closet, although even that much might be interesting to a co-ed.
Mainly she is teasing me, I understand this. She’s being friendly. Feeling sorry for the old guy with the crush, instead of afraid, and so she cheers him along. This much I know: I am a few generations her senior yet am willing to rely upon her wisdom and experience.
“No Caddy,” I say and she looks up startled to hear her name issue from my lips. “I’m no one special, believe me. It is my great self-discovery, in fact, I’m Oscar Everyman.”
“No you’re not,” she tells me, and that’s flat. She isn’t laughing or crying about anything, just has an idea in her head about me, God knows what it could be. She thinks I’m Pretty Boy Floyd or someone.
It is a danger just to live in this world, where you can get your brains beat out for nothing. You go stand around the stables looking out for a horse with diarrhea and what happens but you fall in love. The stone in the belly.
A couple of weeks back I rejoiced to be heading north. Let’s beat the heat, grab a vacation, and enjoy the show-place of thoroughbred racing in America. Etc. etc. Now Saratoga is only a place she will not be.
The bug has bitten Jimmy too. Imagine not being safe at the age of nine! It is since the day we went to Belmont that he has acted funny, however, ever since the very day I scribbled down how close we were. And now we aren’t. Now he is polite to me, that’s the word for it.
“Thanks, Oscar, that’s nice, but I’m busy,” he tells me, after I journeyed all the way to the library and back for Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar—at his request. The cold shoulder, and though nothing is spoken I conclude from the timing that it has to do with Caddy Moore. Jimmy’s lovesick too.
It is the same as with Tanya. I thought it was impossible to feel such a way at my age, that I did not because I could not. But I can. It is convincing, this business, an emotion like this erases everything else. Here is my theory:
For each man in this world there are a few women he can not resist. That he will go for in spite of anything, perhaps even if it was criminal to do so. You might find them and you might not. You know right away if you do. What happens if you meet two such on the same day? What then? I don’t know the answer. It might not be possible, especially if chemicals are the cause. And I’m sure you stand a better chance of meeting none in your entire life than two on the same day.
For me it will be a woman who belongs very much to herself. She is strong and calm within her skin. Pretty yes, but something larger than looks with the irresistibles—a woman who owns herself and might let you have a part. You ca
nnot earn it or win it by an effort, cannot deserve it: she will either give it to you or she won’t, your heart is in her hands. Tough luck.
Of course with Tanya I knew I had a shot. It was her decision and yet I expected her to make it in my favor. I knew she liked me, I fit the bill, plus we had friends in common, a background. Whereas with this young one I am a case she might study me in college. She thinks I don’t sound like a waiter. So what does a waiter sound like? And if I sound like someone else, then who? She is just out to solve a riddle, have a little fun in life.
She could truly believe I am a killer, or stole the crown jewels. Crime might seem romantic to a silver-spoon girl. Wiley says “You can love an outlaw more easily than an in-law” because from your own set you might rebel. That’s what she’s doing down here in the first place. To be debutante of the backstretch makes her special, something different from her friends at school. Which is not to say she lacks a sincere talent with the horses, or that she shouldn’t indulge. On the contrary, may she own it.
If she is slumming, though, muckraking the streets, she might guess I am slumming too. And if such is the case she will be disappointed to know me better—there’s nothing much to know.
Getaway day at Belmont Park. A hard warm rain since morning, that is still coming down now (eight p.m.). I had a speech rehearsed and might have delivered it, might not have. No opportunity to find out what I would do, since Caddy stayed away, just as the sunshine did—and these events seemed to me connected. No Caddy, no sun, no speech. Just a sinking sunken emotion, stone in the belly.
The backstretch was a ghost-town, with most already gone north yesterday or very early today. Smallest handle of the meet, between the wet and the funeral feeling. See You in September, Wiley sings me in his nice baritone. I’ll miss him too.
Some packing to do yet, here tonight, and a little cleaning up. Note the purchase of three brand new shirts. A goodbye to Bulkitis. Made another attempt to patch up with Jimmy but the squirt was having none.
Stubborn, but why? What is he stubborn about? I don’t know why or what. I know that Jewels of Opar must wait, however, as I am gone bright and early tomorrow, placing my life in the hands of Mickey Klutz who according to Wiley is the Pete Reiser of driving. Early Pete or late Pete, I say, wondering if he’s on the ball or off the wall. Both, says my sachem.
I would never have dragged myself to the bus station, I was ready to kiss my chains and stay, broil the rest of the month in Battersea Street. What I felt was, Don’t send me summer-camp I’m too young to leave home. But I’m sent, because Mickey Klutz was counting on me for half the gas money.
Not until the last possible second, of course, does Wiley make mention how tough it is finding an accommodation in the town of Saratoga. The place is over-run, he tells me, what did you think? I think he put in the fix, why not? He’s my sugarplum fairy, ain’t he, on the job around the clock.
I was not good company, sitting next to Mickey as silent as a heap of beans. Dazed I was, a displaced person. To me (yesterday morning in the drizzle) the Taconic State was nothing but a long gray river floating me farther and farther in the wrong direction—like a slave sold downstream. Soon as we docked I was obliged to set Mickey free. (He’s up here for fun and I am existing in a state of bereavement.) But then the rain came down in sheets. You couldn’t see through it and I’m going door to door like the old boll weevil.
I could hear my feet squeak every step of the way and my suitcase was putting on weight like a sponge. I went through a pocketful of coins in the telephone—hotel, motel, 22.50, 32.50, 42.50, the sky’s the limit. Or else, Nothing till the Fall, sorry no vacancy, sorry sorry sorry.
I’m sorry too. I can’t muster thirty bucks a night just to put my head on a pillow. All I’m assured is fourteen dollars a day (plus tips of course, but assured) and I don’t even start until the weekend. So what do you do? You drop down, go a peg lower on the ladder and curl up for the night in the Greyhound terminus. Talk about dignity. You camp out on a grimy bench, dine on candy bars and tapwater coffee from a rusty gizmo, and you room with strays, bad characters. You get a stiff neck to end all stiff necks and a tongue like pressed shoddy, and you learn what it’s like to visit the bottom. It’s why you work.
But I awoke a new man, Oscar the optimist, who welcomes the dawn with a positive attitude—thirty bucks to the good, having saved on rent. Sunshine is the trick. The same streets I waded down last night look lovely to me from a restaurant window this morning. You discover oil in every puddle, the rainbow after the storm. Wasn’t twenty minutes after I put a big tip on the table and walked outside, that I found myself choosing new lodgings off a list at the Chamber of Commerce. A room in someone’s house, family of three, at a good location off Circular Street.
The hotels up here have no sense of shame. To them it’s a simple case of supply and demand, but these are people. They advertise “By the Week Only, $50” and yet when I took it for the month they lowered the weekly rate by ten dollars. Discourages the riff-raff, they relate—we are happy to have you and don’t intend to squeeze you dry. Nice to know I’m not riff-raff, also nice they don’t look down on Jews.
I have my own private entry off the back porch, cherry trees and a white picket fence, plus a big window in which the moon is rising right this minute. Couldn’t be better if they put me on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. Convenient to everything—to the downtown, the racetrack, the Wagon Wheel on South Broadway—and by convenient I mean a perfect distance for someone addicted to foot-travel, exactly one mile from anything you can name. I got to stay in shape now, I can’t afford a new wardrobe.
For a few bucks extra I can also join them at breakfast, instead of munch a doughnut in my room. Pleasant people. A factory man who drives to Glens Falls (north of here) and cuts dies, and his Mrs., plump smiling housekeeper. Plus one daughter, sixteen, whom I have yet to meet.
This a.m. I met the daughter at the breakfast table and I can’t be dining with this daughter. An astonishing sight, her mouth. It won’t close and there are metal braces, scrambled egg, and chewing gum inside it. Don’t ask me how she manages to swallow her egg and retain the gum, it’s just a talent, as is her ability to prevent the whole package from falling out the front window. But a terrifying experience. I’m sure it is a small matter, the business of table manners, yet we all must draw the line somewhere.
Incredible to me also that this vulgar infant can be so close in age to my golden girl of the walking-ring. The calendar gives you even less information than the newspapers, that’s all I can conclude.
Explored the village on foot, including a duck-in hello at my place of employment. Groundskeepers are at work on the turf course and hammering away on the concession stands and turnstiles. An impressive set-up here, with the backstretch spilling across the street in a world unto itself, outside the grounds. The horses cross the road, stroll right in through the main gate, then saddle up under the big trees before entering the paddock ring. They’ve got the space and all the graces.
In the afternoon I sought out the Duke of Kent to show him I am not a corpse, contrary to what he saw with his own eyes. He was on the town, so I left greetings for him at the Van Dam desk. Had a glass of beer to celebrate my being alive and then made the mistake of sampling the famous waters in Congress Park. That’s a chaser for you. The mineral springs started it all here of course and they still have the reputation. (Not only that but they give it away free, the fabled elixir, at fountains in the park and one on the saddling lawn over at the racecourse.) So Oscar the adventurer had to take a taste and discover for himself he was tasting sewerage. The stuff is poisonous. You could never get down an entire cupful without throwing up on your shoes. At least I found out why it’s free, since what it’s worth is less than nothing.
Never made it out to the Spa (on the other side of town) and they closed the Casino a few years back, but I will have plenty of time to explore in weeks to come. As it was I walked till my shoes came loose, and e
nough is enough. A pleasant day in a nice place and if I thought of Caddy as I walked then my thoughts were not the least bit gloomy. The opposite in fact, though I miss seeing her.
Not gloomy until dark, in my little room here, where the exact same thoughts—just mental pictures, really—make me lonely. It is not being alone that makes you lonely either, in my opinion, what does it is love unreturned. If you do not happen to be in love, you will be doing just fine on your own. Why not? Everything comes easily and the pressure is off. But if your heart aches for a girl it spreads through your system and won’t leave you alone, and nights are the toughest.
The Wagon Wheel Restaurant. Consists of three big rooms—The Ranch, The Barn, and The Bunkhouse. I am stationed in The Bunkhouse but no one is snoozing in there, believe me, just munching. Same exact menu in all three rooms, steak and baked potato, but they help to break up the hall. This is for more “intimate dining,” as in the Times-Union advertisement. So instead of three hundred sitting to chew, you have only one hundred in The Bunk. Which is still a fair-sized herd grazing, and makes a substantial racket, chewing through the tougher cuts like a chorus.
Takes five of us to serve them all. Myself, a swish named Owen, and three old ladies who lick their pencils and dye their hair—two blue, one gold. The triplets, Owen calls them. Tips are on the low side, percentage-wise, but we make out because the bill is so high, plus we turn over three full seatings, sometimes four. The people begin chewing right after the last post and are still at it when doors close at ten, so even at ten percent it adds up. First night I took home $40 in cash and of course you eat a free meal of roast chicken and vegetables etc. No steak for the help, fine by me.
It’s hard work. It’s a factory compared to our little club at Belmont, and it never slows down, but there is a cameraderie in the kitchen and right this week it suits me to be working hard. I expect it to be my great salvation. Work the track from breakfast through the eighth race, then hustle down South Broadway and work The Bunk until eleven. That ought to do it.
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