The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

I found no discernible address on the brownstone edifice that I eventually surveyed. Yet for reasons I didn’t yet organize into any useful diagram of thought, I entered this rather austere building and ascended a staircase to its second floor. The colorless interior was faintly illuminated by a skylight, but not with any pretentious flair. Before crossing a stark corridor, I made my way to a hazy glass window and stared outward into a picture that no longer existed in my time. This region was certainly a metropolitan environment, but blandly out of phase by the standards of cities of a more modern era. Rather than bustling with the sounds of horns and toxic plumes of vehicle exhaust, this street was clogged with horse-drawn omnibuses and a pedestrian climate that appeared speckled with an assortment of sable derbies and long coats. If there was a woman afoot among those scuttling between the taxis and storefronts, I couldn’t have claimed to perceive a single one.

  When the dust settled from a line of carriages strewn with visages oozing thickly with indifference and edginess, I realized that I had ventured upon a populated region of Manhattan. A prompt gander at a shingle posted above a vendor’s fruit cart confirmed my suspicion. I had somehow found my way to Wall Street, but only as a fiscal empire in its infancy. A faint pulse of greed may have already primed these streets with frenzied dreams, but not yet with the resounding echoes of what would’ve soon become the economic heartbeat of the western world. I speculated that at least a hundred years separated this version of Wall Street from its current model.

  Based on its dearth of color, the corridor I presently stood in appeared to belong to a hospital. Apparently, a rather heedless tradesman had whitewashed the plaster walls and even the woodwork around a configuration of doorframes, leaving only a partial elegance to the chestnut and mahogany trim that I expected from nineteenth century carpentry. I then proceeded up the narrow hallway, passing a few professionally groomed dandies who reeked of tobacco and fusty cologne. They nodded at me cordially without offering any verbal salutation. Eventually, I trained my eye on a windowed door at the corridor’s far end. A tarnished brass plate on the door’s exterior read ‘Law Offices.’

  Without yet realizing the purpose of this visitation, I entered the office in a casual manner that belied my curiosity. Although there was adequate space across the hardwood floors for six or seven workstations, I counted only three desks, one of which was barren of any signs of steady occupation. For an office’s interior of this era, the sparse décor didn’t offer any revelations, but I was slightly taken aback by the amount of barren white space on the walls. Apparently, the proprietor of this establishment was not keen to artistic distractions.

  Surprisingly, no one greeted me upon entering, causing me to cogitate that I had inadvertently utilized a method of invisibility. Then, stationed to the room’s left side, I witnessed one corpulent gentleman snoring at his desk. A jar of ink had tipped over on a pile of paperwork set before him. I assumed the man must’ve been accustomed to this unproductive posture, for he didn’t even flinch when I attempted to rouse him from his slumber. Perhaps a faint odor of booze should’ve enlightened me to the gravity of his situation.

  Beyond this point I came across another man, considerably younger than me, dutifully devoting his hand to a writing task at his desk. This fellow was comparatively thinner than the other loafer, and certainly busied himself in a fashion that made me wonder if he ever lifted his head from his legal drafts. I soon contended that every man, no matter how industrious in appearance, experienced momentary lapses of concentration. For this worker, I suspected that his source of delight was traceable to a silver platter. As I neared his desk, I noticed at least two spicy-scented cookies and sweet cakes positioned strategically next to his paperwork. The crumbs of these delicacies desecrated his surroundings like rat droppings.

  I couldn’t determine if he derived any satisfaction from his workload, but his compulsion toward this particular food seemed as palpable as the baked remnants strewn in his whiskers. He forwarded no opinion to me on this matter, however, and only nodded guardedly as I sidled by his station. I might’ve stopped and chatted with this fellow had it not been for an alternative commotion. From the corner of the room, near a glass double-door separating this area from another, I glimpsed at an elfish boy flitting about like a wingless sparrow as if he had some business of momentous consequence to attend.

  Unlike the duo of occupants, this lad made no attempt to showcase his relevance by wearing appropriate attire for his surroundings. He appeared quite commonplace in many respects, mimicking the dress typical of impoverished twelve-year-old boys from the later 1800’s. Tattered suspenders hiked up a pair of short pants that appeared borrowed from his older brother or cousin. But despite his slovenly style, the boy was well received by the others in company. I soon ascertained that this admiration was directly attributed to a tray of scrumptious cakes and red apples he routinely delivered throughout the premises. To the boy, my presence in the office must’ve seemed bewildering, too, but he approached me without any qualms of my intent. Rather than ignore me, he scurried up with a tray in hand like a well-tipped waiter and displayed his wares conspicuously beneath my nose.

  “Would you prefer a ginger cake or apple?” he offered sprightly. I gathered that he hadn’t been refused on many occasions. I noticed that those who confirmed this point had already greedily snatched several cookies from the tray.

  “No, thank you,” I responded. But then remarked, “By the way, what kind of business goes on here?”

  The boy smiled ingenuously, which hinted that he probably didn’t serve any further function than what I presently observed.

  “I’m just an errand boy,” he admitted. “The boss likes me to keep Nippers and Turkey happy.” He then motioned to the other two men I previously encountered, both whom were momentarily distracted by an alluring aroma permeating the office space.

  “They both work better with sweets,” the lad added.

  “Yes, especially your spicy cakes,” I declared. Before finishing this thought, I realized that I hadn’t simply stumbled upon any law office on Wall Street in the nineteenth century. If my calculations proved accurate, this was the existing occupancy of a rather unfortunate character. The one I now conversed with, of course, was not that person.

  “You must be Ginger Nut,” I surmised. The lad was obviously startled by my seemingly prophetic skill to foretell his name without an introduction.

  “That’s what they call me around here,” he said. “But I’ve never seen you in this building before, mister. My boss must’ve just hired you, am I right?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Ginger Nut immediately referenced my clothing. I hadn’t yet realized how unintentionally outlandish my modern-day shirt and trousers must have appeared to even this callow observer.

  “You don’t look like you’re from around this city,” he noted.

  Rather than entertain Ginger Nut’s notion, I simply attempted to avert the topic by moving onto something more pertinent. “Let’s talk about your boss,” I inquired pensively. “I believe he’s a lawyer. Is that correct?”

  The mild-eyed child nodded his chin as he adjusted the treats on his tray. Admittedly, the cakes’ sugary fragrance enticed me to a point where I sought to taste one out of curiosity. But I resisted long enough to ask Ginger Nut a more essential question. “How many men does your boss currently having you running sweet cakes to?”

  “Mostly those two,” he said while motioning to the office’s only visible occupants.

  “Turkey and Nippers?”

  “Yep.”

  “Anyone else?”

  The boy hesitated, almost as if empowered by his own reluctance. “If you’re not working here already,” he finally mentioned, “then why do you care to know?”

  “Let’s just say I might be looking to obtain work here,” I fibbed. “Do you like my chances of being hired by your boss?”

  Ginger Nut gnawed on his bottom lip before attempting a response. “My boss is a pr
etty swell fellow, and the guys do seem rather busy around here lately.”

  “So an extra pair of hands might be beneficial. Is that fair to assume?”

  My persistence prompted another expression of uncertainty from the errand boy. “My boss already thought of that idea,” he announced. “A couple of weeks back he hired a new guy, but he doesn’t keep his desk out here with the others.”

  “Oh,” I remarked, staring toward the double-glass doors before Ginger Nut impelled me to do so. “So you’re now providing three men with cookies and apples?”

  “Not really.”

  “But you just said there’s another man here besides Nippers and Turkey.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Doesn’t the third man like sweets, too?”

  “Sometimes,” Ginger Nut huffed, “but lately it seems he doesn’t prefer much of anything.”

  I smiled tentatively before reaching my hand down and extracting one cookie from Ginger Nut’s tray. “I think I’ll try one of your treats after all,” I said, compliantly.

  “Take as many as you wish, mister.”

  “One will suffice, Ginger Nut.” I then lifted a treat from the tin tray. It still felt relatively moist between my fingers. The diminutive child’s eyes ignited with anticipation as he watched me break off a corner of the cake and pop it in my mouth. It was much spicier than I imagined or hoped, but edible just the same.

  “Aren’t you gonna eat it all?” he inquired eagerly.

  “In time,” I said. I proceeded to stuff the remaining piece of cookie in my pant’s pocket before saying, “I’ll have more of an appetite after I speak with your boss. Is he in the office now?”

  Ginger Nut conscientiously escorted me to the double glass doors at the room’s far end. These doors remained half open, affording the adjacent room’s occupants audible access to the activities of Nippers and Turkey. Before the errand boy rushed off to other chores, he told me to search for the oldest gentleman in the office. It didn’t take me long to do so. As I passed between the double glass doors, I immediately noticed an elderly and partially sheepish man milling through the drawers of a filing cabinet. Although we had never officially encountered one another, I felt I already had an advantage in our forthcoming communications.

  I expected those who lived for more than six decades to move a tad slothfully on occasion, but there was something deliberately morose in this elderly man’s gait. He seemed to have lost his moxie for the day’s general routine. Honestly, I perceived this attorney’s demeanor as almost as dog-eared as the pewter-colored suit clinging on his frail frame. To his credit, however, I espied nothing resembling haughtiness in his mannerisms, which typically infected those associated with this profession. As I stood on the threshold of his office, he acknowledged me by clearing his throat. I waited until he plopped his misshapen body into a leather-upholstered chair behind his desk.

  “Well, sir,” he remarked tolerantly. “Do you have some legal business that you would like attended?”

  At this moment I wasn’t quite sure if I fully comprehended the relevance of this interaction, but I pretended otherwise. “I’m looking for a gentleman,” I declared.

  The attorney’s face remained fixated in a frown as he rifled through a stack of legal documents. Until this point, he hadn’t insisted upon knowing my name or the nature of this conference. His desire to show leniency toward my intrusion impressed me, as it must have done to others at various times.

  “There’s a short supply of gentlemen in this corner of the world,” the elder announced cheerlessly. This lawyer’s indisputable lack of enthusiasm might’ve struck me as farcical if I didn’t suspect the nature of his malaise. At present, he revealed nothing to underline the rigidity sometimes required from his unscrupulous trade. I stepped into his office without the slightest indication that he’d do anything to stop me. Even so, he deserved fair treatment.

  “I just spoke with your office boy,” I explained. “He told me that you currently have three men working here besides yourself.”

  The oldster then assumed a standing position, or at least he stood as upright as his hunched spine permitted. He then held forth a skeletal hand that quivered like a sapling’s branch in a windstorm. “Excuse me, sir,” he said contritely, “are you from the Census Bureau?”

  “No, sir. I’m just a curious passerby.”

  The lawyer withdrew his hand before I fully extended my own. “I am not in the business of entertaining curiosities,” he censured me. “Now, apart from prying, sir, what is your precise business in my chamber?”

  In this instance, resorting to a temperate lie registered as a reasonable tactic to advance our discourse. But since I didn’t yet understand my objective, the prospect of being plainspoken seemed like a pleasant alternative.

  “My name is Corbin Cobbs,” I proclaimed. “Honestly, I was strolling around the city and sort of just ended up here in your office, sir.”

  The lawyer immediately dipped his angular chin toward a pad of legal paper and scratched a note with his fountain pen. After casting a hasty glance at his desk calendar, he appeared increasingly agitated by my shortsighted explanation.

  “It is not my practice to partake in rudeness, sir, but I’m a very busy man and I don’t have time to interview men who just happen to show up at my workplace in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “Oh, I’m not here for an interview,” I clarified. “In fact, now that I think about it, I don’t even think I’ve come here to speak with you at all.”

  Naturally, my vague responses caused the lawyer to appear duly perplexed. But he continued to exhibit a remarkable restraint in regard to my trespass. “Perhaps we should start over,” he suggested. “Unless you count the errand boy as my fourth employee to earn a wage here, the number currently stands at three. I suspect that it shouldn’t be too strenuous for us to determine the person you’ve come to find.”

  I didn’t aim for the old attorney’s direction more so than his approval. This office simply wasn’t spacious enough to get lost in, and I already calculated the approximate location of the man I sought. Still, because the lawyer merited some respect for the friction he endured before my arrival, I elected to procure his authorization.

  “I’m looking for a fellow by the name of Bartleby,” I said. The lawyer’s expression suddenly soured as if he had consumed a stale morsel of Ginger Nut’s sweet cakes. Considering what I presently surmised about the man in question, the lawyer’s flustered reaction didn’t astonish me.

  The oldster sighed disconsolately and said, “Ah, Bartleby.” The frustration bottled within this attorney’s body must have compounded for weeks. When he spoke again, I heard the angst swelling in his voice like an untamed squall. “What ever on this earth could you possibly want from that obstinate man?”

  “Then he does still work here?”

  “It’s more accurate to proclaim that he’s still here,” the lawyer corrected. “It’s too generous of an assessment to allege that he does anything resembling work on these premises.”

  “But you hired him as a legal copyist, sir, and you know that he’s not presently fulfilling the obligations of his employment.”

  “Indeed,” the lawyer remarked.

  “If this is the situation, why don’t you simply terminate him?”

  The oldster paused to reflect upon what many perceived as his overriding infirmity as a manager. His explanation brought me no closer to understanding Bartleby’s undeclared motivation.

  “As you may or may not know, Mr. Cobbs,” the lawyer expostulated. “Scriveners aren’t common to come across in any economy. I’ve done my best to grasp the source of Bartleby’s rather peculiar disposition, but I’m afraid my efforts have become counterproductive.”

  “Would you mind if I tried talking to the man?” I asked. “Maybe he needs an arbitrary voice for his troubles.”

  Had I been in the company of any other employer, my request would’ve been readily dismissed. But this lawyer harb
ored a benevolence that defied reasonable charity. Besides, I already knew that the attorney’s scruples had unwillingly obstructed common sense. His eyes agreed with my proposal before his lips parted a predictable admonition.

  “Mr. Cobbs, I don’t see how your input could possibly influence Bartleby. You should know that he started out as a proficient addition to my staff. But suddenly, for reasons only recognizable to him, he refuses to work in exchange for the space and salary I so graciously provide.”

  “I’m aware of his state of mind,” I said.

  “Then you’re formally acquainted with Bartleby?”

  “In a very indirect way, sir.”

  The lawyer, still bemused by my artful phrasing, shrugged his rounded shoulders and announced submissively, “I don’t suppose you can inflict any more damage than his idleness has already done to my bottom line.”

  “I won’t make any promises, but I will assure you that my efforts to rehabilitate your third scrivener will be sincere.”

  “Then go to it, Mr. Cobbs,” the lawyer instructed. “You’ll find him just beyond the double glass doors. Look for a green canopy separating his space from this one. As certain as Swiss clockwork, you’ll see Bartleby hunkered listlessly behind his desk, waiting for something he only understands.”

  After thanking the attorney for his hospitality I followed his direction to the room’s opposite corner and discovered the makeshift barrier. A nearly transparent tarpaulin suspended from the ceiling hardly served as an efficient form of privacy, but it apparently proved functional in Bartleby’s mind. Just as the lawyer stated, the scrivener squatted in his hermitage with a forlorn gaze, barely flinching as I peeked around the canopy to make my presence known. One window remained in view of the indolent scrivener’s desk, but its vista offered nothing more riveting than a neighboring alley’s brick wall. Had I not known differently, I would’ve diagnosed Bartleby’s disorder as being chronically immobilized.

  Until this moment I rarely envisioned the emergence of apathy in the flesh, but Bartleby’s countenance was far more disturbing than I dared to imagine. This emaciated character still hadn’t shifted in his chair behind the green screen as I approached. No hue of health occupied his concaved cheeks or lips, so much to a degree where I almost felt inclined to monitor his pulse for an indication of life. Since he was not yet clinically dead, I felt he deserved little pity for his lackadaisical disposition. Of course, I was willing to permit him to offer an explanation for his insistence on doing nothing more than occupy space.

  I remembered that the lawyer often needed to coax Bartleby from his state of muteness, and this quandary apparently hadn’t improved since my arrival. Rather than attempt to concoct some clever excuse for my interruption, I simply addressed my business straightforwardly.

  “Your boss told me that I could talk to you for a few minutes,” I said while edging closer to his station. My proximity to him now caused our shadows to commingle against the lime-colored canopy draped beside us. The copyist kept his hands folded on the desktop, which was empty save for a small lamp at its center. I initially suspected that he was engaged in a prayer, but this action would’ve required him to express faith in something beyond the moment. It was also irrefutable that his lack of enthusiasm had worn down most proponents of dialogue in the past. Unfortunately for Bartleby, I had demonstrated my own brand of stubbornness on occasion.

  “I’m not going to leave until you talk to me,” I averred. At first, my statement spawned no perceptible reaction from the defiant clerk. But after a few seconds, he tilted his wiry neck just far enough to acknowledge me.

  “I would prefer no company,” he declared, morosely.

  I should’ve anticipated as much. But rather than allow him to persist in his despondency without criticism, I continued to make a nuisance out of myself. “From what I’ve been told, Bartleby, you don’t seem to be in the mood for much anything lately.”

  The scrivener resumed his unanimated posture, while simultaneously fixating his stare on a vacant portion of the wall adjacent to us. He delayed long enough for me to recall that I still had a piece of sweet cake stashed in my pocket. Since Bartleby looked as if he was famished for more than inspiration, I retrieved the spicy treat from my pants and placed it in a halo of light illuminating his desktop. Admittedly, it was rather inelegant of me to present a half-nibbled cookie to a stranger, but I really wanted to test his resistance.

  “Ginger Nut gave this to me,” I said. “It’s yours if you want it.”

  “I would prefer not to eat,” the disagreeable scrivener snorted.

  “How original,” I thought aloud. The unflustered copyist continued to avert my eyes as if I possessed some clandestine knowledge that he didn’t want exposed. In truth, I had a distinct advantage in our discourse because I had studied his demeanor prior to this meeting, but I wished not to resort to any underhanded methods to achieve my objective.

  “Maybe it would help if I introduced myself,” I then suggested. At the very least, I hoped to espy some relevant humanity in his mannerisms. Rather than further monitor the dour clerk’s reaction, I simply stated my name and let him ponder what he preferred, which of course was nothing. Bartleby the scrivener was a predominantly unscripted soul, a page yet to be scrawled with legible words. Or maybe it was more accurate to label him as one whose identity had been entirely erased from the journal of life. Either way, he wasn’t resigned to let me infiltrate the fortress in which he so methodically insulated his thoughts.

  “I think we both already know that it’s senseless for me to stand here and try to convince you to have a conversation,” I acknowledged. Unsurprisingly, Bartleby treated my words in the same lackluster manner as he did everything else. Only my prior familiarity of his mulish habits prevented an outburst from me now.

  “I’m not here to change you,” I told him without visible pretense.

  “Since it’s my preference not to change, I’m glad to hear of it,” he replied, sternly maintaining his outlook.

  “But the purpose of my being here today does involve you,” I added. If my abrupt confession affected his dreary temperament, I failed to glimpse it. My words weren’t completely candid, however, since I couldn’t really abandon this man’s plight so impulsively. Yet through the mechanisms of comprehending his problems, perhaps I was primed to examine my own miscalculations of judgment.

  “I know that every man believes that he has a story worth telling,” I continued, while being unprovoked to enunciate my opinions. “I won’t judge you on how you conduct yourself, Bartleby, but sometimes you meet people who offer good advice. When someone does this, you should at least have the courtesy to listen.”

  “I would prefer not to listen.”

  “Life might not go well for you if you continue to reject all the information that comes your way.”

  My backhanded caveat did nothing to alter the scrivener’s mindset. Strangely, the longer I remained in his company, the more adamant I became at uncovering the source of his lethargy. In order to validate my persistence, I grabbed the nearest chair and positioned it beside Bartleby’s desk. After I sat down, I enlaced my fingers and leaned back in the seat, mimicking his posture as closely as possible. His pokerfaced expression still hadn’t changed. Despite his snub, I proceeded with this thus far one-sided dialogue.

  “You may not believe me, but I know what you’re going through,” I told him. “What if I admitted to you that I also struggle with feelings of futility? I suppose most men have unrealized dreams, so if you think about it, we’re not so very different.”

  “I would prefer not to compare myself to you,” he replied in monotone.

  The clerk’s vapid gaze provided me with little hope that I had the intellectual prowess to modify his ennui. I couldn’t deny an impulsive urge to grapple this listless ingrate by his shoulders and jostle some much-needed vigor into body. What was it about Bartleby that filled me with such spontaneous rancor? Was it merely the resemblance of myself through his ja
dedness that triggered this hostility? In order to maintain a measure of civility to our discourse, however, I avoided any brusque tactics.

  “Nobody around here knows who you are,” I specified, “and you’ve exhausted your capabilities to keep it that way.”

  “I would prefer not to disclose personal information,” he said.

  “That’s reasonable. But how do you justify your refusal of everything asked of you? It’s not an exaggeration to suggest that you’ve gone out of your way to detach yourself from your surroundings.”

  “I prefer not to speculate on the matter.”

  “Your boss has tried in vain to understand your bitterness. In fact, I’d say you’re squandering the last chance to improve your life.”

  After my grim prediction failed to persuade any detectable response from the scrivener, I resorted to an introspective strategy. “You know, there are moments in my own life where I want to lock the world out, too. When a man’s not happy with his position in society, he has a tendency to dwell on his shortcomings.”

  This ever-inflexible copyist still refused to grant any compassion or interest toward my confession. I realized that I needed to gain his confidence by imparting information that he had intentionally hidden from everyone.

  “Before you came to this law office,” I said, “your place of employment was in Washington.”

  At last, the clerk reacted to my words. His spindly eyebrows twitched unevenly, before ascending his forehead like a pair of cobras charmed from a basket. It was a subtle expression of inquisitiveness on his behalf, but a tangible response nonetheless.

  “Apparently, the office of dead letters no longer required your services,” I continued. “I can imagine how isolated and depressed you must’ve felt while holding down a job like that.”

  The scrivener remained mute as I pondered the impact of my observation and how such mundane errands influenced my own existence as well. I then evoked thoughts of how I spent most of my time over the years. I certainly devoted a vast portion of my life to writing, and now I often wondered why these efforts hadn’t generated any more attention than the letters once handled by bleak-minded Bartleby. In a sense, I had contributed to the dead letters of the world, and this seemed like the most humbling aspect to our meeting.

  If I expected to conjure any compassion from the clerk by bending his ear with tales of my own misgivings, then I was truly unwise. Bartleby resumed in his silent rejection, while continuing to fixate on the blanched wall as if never expecting anything fascinating to occur outside the frame of his eye sockets.

  “Maybe I’ve said too much already,” I contended. “I know what it’s like to have a voice unheard. But it’s too easy to give up. I feel that you already have.”

  Bartleby fidgeted in his chair as if he perched upon a tack. Then, unexpectedly, the scrivener’s gray eyes shifted to the sweet cake I had placed on his desk a few minutes earlier. His intertwined fingers twitched spasmodically, almost as if he briefly contemplated an idea of accepting the offering. Obviously, this was a pivotal struggle against his stubbornness. I watched Bartleby’s crooked fingers clutch the ginger nut as if it was just drawn from a hot oven. In this instance, I fully believed that the clerk wanted to defy his own nature and finally prefer to do something asked of him.

  “Go on,” I goaded the sheepish clerk. “Take it.”

  This contest of willpower went on for several seconds, but much to my dismay, Bartleby eventually withdrew his hand minus the sweet cake. He then knotted his fingers insolently and focused on a void somewhere behind his eyelids. The scrivener’s refusal unnerved me because I already knew that he had primarily snacked on these treats prior to my visitation. But alas, I was the one who ultimately put the sweet cake back into my own pocket.

  “I would prefer not to eat it at this time,” he said.

  “If not this time, then when would it be agreeable to you?”

  “I would prefer not to commit to a time.”

  “But why, Bartleby?”

  “I would prefer not to answer any further questions.”

  By now, I had thoroughly exhausted my efforts to extract something constructive from this feeble man. What else could be done to oppose such a sorrowful disposition? Perhaps he was as utterly lost to this world as the unopened letters of his former occupation. Bartleby had apparently already decided to die with a disheartened belief that his existence was inconsequential. Unquestionably, his fear of rejection only hastened his demise.

  As I stood up from the chair, I took a moment to compose my thoughts. Bartleby continued to concentrate on the space of nothingness set before his eyes. Any semblance of emotion had withered from his expression long before my arrival. Those who observed me leaving this office on Wall Street might’ve guessed that I had failed in my endeavor to transform the melancholy scrivener into something other than what he wanted to become. I supposed that even the most competent teachers from this time until my own toiled with that embedded truth on a regular basis.

  Chapter 5

  5:57 A.M.