Touch and Go

by Studs Terkel

  I had in the past made advances to the pair. There was not even a lack of response; nobody was there. They may or may not have been aware of a pestiferous old goofball.

  On this one morning, the bus was late. I saw my opportunity. “Labor Day is coming up.” It seemed to be the phrase to do the trick.

  He slowly, deliberately turned toward me as though seeing me for the first time. His face was unchanged, his manner fashionably cool. “We despise unions.”

  Oh, wow. I had a pigeon here. The bus had yet to make an appearance. He looked at me as Noël Coward might have looked upon a tiny bug he was flicking off the sleeve of his tailor-made shirt cuff. He turned away.

  My self-esteem, as well as my ego, had been bruised. I took a step toward him. Looked back once more, no bus. Oh, goodie. I touched his back. He turned around. I was now the Ancient Mariner fixing him with my glittering eye. He was for this flick of a moment transfixed. “How many hours a day do you work?”

  “Eight,” he replied reflexively.

  “How come you don’t work fourteen hours a day? Your great-great-grandparents did. How come you only work the eight-hour day? Four guys got hanged fighting for the eight-hour day for you.”

  Unsettled as any young man on the make would be under such singular circumstances, he stepped back and bumped into the mailbox. I’d got him trapped. (The bus was still tardy. I thought: I must remember that driver come Christmas day.) She, the stunner, tremulously dropped her Vanity Fair . I courteously bent (ouch!) and handed it to her. No—no bus yet. God was in his heaven. Kismet was with me. I said, with some delightful malice I must admit, having pinned him against the metallic box, “There was something called the Haymarket Affair, and the hangings that resulted made your life so much easier.” I’d had captive audiences before, but never one so anxious.

  The bus was now in the distance but coming on fast. When it arrived, they scrambled onto it. I never saw them again. But I’ll bet you that each morning she’d look out of the window of the twenty-second floor of their condominium. I just knew it faced the great lake and the small bus stop. After a moment, he’d call out: “Is that old nut still out there?”

  I did not blame young Lochinvar and his bride for their ignorance of our history. Why should they be an exception? Yet I think the truth may be a bit more serious: The big A, Alzheimer, has taken over my own generation, or, for that matter, that of our sons and daughters. “What past? What happened yesterday? You know what happened yesterday, grandma, daughter, sonny boy? You mean you’ve forgotten that Tank Johnson was forgiven and taken back by the Bears? Tank’s been on the front page of the papers all week and you’ve already forgotten?”17

  As for me, my change from observer to activist is attributable to my Wells-Grand Hotel days. It was those loners—argumentative ones, deceptively quiet ones, the talkers and the walkers—who, always engaged in something outside themselves, unintentionally became my mentors. True, I did attend the University of Chicago law school, but whatever I am, for better or for worse, I owe to Ed Sprague, Teddy Tils, Bill Brewer, and even Civilization, Bughouse Square, and Polly Fletcher.

  7

  A Good Citizen18

  As Glenn and Betty Stauffer approach the hotel desk, I sense trouble. I’m not sure why. It has something to do with her, I believe. The way she smiles and frowns and glances about. Her bobbed hair is Clara Bow. Why did they have to choose our place? There are others in the neighborhood. Damn.

  Glenn Stauffer is a frail, small-boned, mild-mannered man. Come each Saturday, he pays his rent. My mother is delighted. Theirs is one of our few light-housekeeping rooms, and the most expensive. Eight dollars a week. With the early evening Three-Star under his arm, he offers no more than a brief comment about the weather as he urges the rent across the desk. Each morning at eight, he walks down the stairs. Each evening at six, he walks up the stairs. He never appears in the lobby. He is no trouble. Betty Stauffer is something else.

  She is always in the lobby. She works but two days a week as a part-time waitress at the Victoria down below. Otherwise, time hangs heavy on her hands. The pensioners, busy at cribbage, pinochle, hearts, and the perusal of obituaries, pay her little attention.

  I’m playing cribbage with John Barkie. Usually, I’m quite nimble at this game. Not this day. For some reason I’m having trouble.

  Damn. Why does she have to cross her legs in that manner? True, I’m a hotelier and it’s really none of my business. Still. The turn of her calf is interfering with the turn of my card. How can a boy who has just turned sweet sixteen play a good game of cribbage under these circumstances? Damn this daughter of Eve.

  I look up from my cards. Betty has gone. Uh-oh. Suppose Glenn Stauffer comes home unexpectedly. Ben, who should know, says, “Watch out for those little guys. The quiet ones. Don’t ever cross a jockey. Murder.” That’s why Ben has never fooled around with Betty Stauffer. God knows she’s made fat eyes at him often enough. Oh, yeah,I notice these things. And it doesn’t help my cribbage game at all.

  I toss in my cards. Mr. Barkie is surprised. I’ve never done that before, especially a sixteen hand. “I guess I’ll go upstairs and study my catechism,” I say. It’s one of Horace Bane’s catchphrases. He’s full of such folksay. Another: “I guess I’ll go get my ashes hauled.” That’s on Sunday morning, when he visits the girls on Orleans Street. Horace Bane is always bragging.

  I find myself in the darkened corridor, near Glenn Stauffer’s room. It’s Betty’s room, too. (I’ve never been an anti-feminist.) I rap, tentatively, on the door of the adjacent room. “Lucille, Lucille.”

  Our chambermaid, Lucille Henry, had earlier in the day asked for some fresh linen. On my arm are a Turkish towel, two pillowcases, and a sheet, all freshly laundered.

  No response.

  I pause before the Stauffer door. I call softly into the dark, “Lucille.” Is that a bed squeak I hear? I have been blessed—or cursed—with keen hearing. Uh-oh. Suppose Glenn Stauffer appears at the head of the stairs. As Lord Arling did at the head of the bed. Returning unexpectedly from Henry VIII’s coronation, he discovered his new-wedded wife under the sheets with Mattie Groves.

  Oh, he took his wife by the lily-white hand

  He led her through the hall

  And he cut off her head with his bitter sword

  And he stove it against the wall . . .19

  Ben thought that was going a bit too far. Nonetheless, Betty, to him, was out of bounds.

  How often have we read of mild little men who, on discovering betrayal, commit murder? Theirs is a sudden and gloriously gory transformation from bloodless vassal to bloody nobleman. In any event, Lucille did ask for fresh linen. Once again, I call out her name. My voice sounds so small and tight and far away.

  I open the door. She looks up. Her face is sad. I stare at her. Imperceptibly, a slight smile appears. My Adam’s apple is bobbing wildly. “If you happen to see Lucille . . .”

  My voice trails off. I walk away from the open door toward the other end of the corridor, bawling out, louder than need be, the name of our chambermaid.

  Betty hardly comes into the lobby any more. I barely glimpse her white dress as she flits up and down the staircase.

  The following day, Ben appears to be in good spirits. I feel so much better.

  “How you feelin’, kid?”

  “Fine,” I say, feeling far from fine. Something tells me Betty Stauffer has a good deal to do with it. Daughter of Eve.

  Years later, on hearing Cherubino’s plaint, Voi che sapete, I get the drift. Cherubino, pageboy of the lovely countess, has that feeling. He’s about sixteen, my age. No wonder it’s my favorite of all Mozart arias. But if you think for one moment that I’ll run Cherubino’s risks, you’re out of your mind. Imagine hiding in the closet of the countess’s boudoir as the master returns. Okay, Count Alma-viva, a dim-witted baritone, doesn’t have too much to complain about, tomcatting around as he does. But suppose it were Lord Arling or, more to the point, Glenn Stauffer.
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  Ben is all business. “Kid,” he says, “it’s time we visited Orleans Street.” He speaks glowingly of a girl named Laura. She’s not too pretty but, he emphasizes, she’s very understanding. Especially with novitiates. I have no idea what he’s talking about, I tell him. All I want, as a young hotelier, is the avoidance of trouble. Ben insists on singing Laura’s virtues. Who is Laura, I wonder, what is she, that all the swains commend her? Domestic tranquility is all I seek. Peace on the premises.

  SOLLY WARD, the Dutch comic, is at the Star & Garter. It is one of our better burlesque houses. Was it 1926? ’27? A sketch. He knocks on the door. The talking lady says, “Come in.” She singsongs it. Solly enters. They embrace. Another knock on the door. “My husband!” she cries. Solly hides in the clothes closet. A man enters. He and the talking lady embrace. Another knock on the door. “My husband!” she cries. The man hides under the bed. Husband enters, a gun in his hand. “Where is he?” demands the outraged spouse. He discovers the man under the bed. They fire at one another. The talking lady screams. Blackout. Lights come on. Silence. The talking lady, as Fay Wray does in King Kong, trembles. Slowly, the door of the clothes closet opens. Solly Ward emerges. He sees the two dead men. He sees the terrified beauty. He studies the scene. At last, he says, “Iss ze var over? Goot. Now ve vill haff a little peace.” Hands outstretched, he moves toward the talking lady. Blackout.

  LUCILLE HENRY is laughing, too, as she makes the beds. My mother hired her six months ago. She and Bob Warner and Horace Bane and Ben are always laughing about something. I can guess. She’s singing that dirty blues again.

  What is it smell like gravy

  Good if you really wanna know

  Well it ain’t no puddin’ an’ it ain’t no pie

  It ain’t nothin’ you don’t have to buy . . .

  Lucille descends the staircase and approaches the clerk’s cage in which I sit. I pretend she’s not there.

  “Honey dripper.”

  Why does she call me that? She knows my name. As though I haven’t troubles enough. I had rejected Ben’s invitation. I shall never know what Laura looks like, let alone her charm. I court Lady Five Fingers rather than run the risk of Spanish ring. And now Lucille’s laughter. Is there no right to privacy in these matters? They don’t even have a warrant. Whatever happened to the Fourth Amendment of the Bill of Rights?

  “She wants you to fix her radiator.”

  “Who?” As if I didn’t know.

  “The cute li’l girl. She says it’s too hot.”

  “Why doesn’t she turn it off?”

  “Can’t. Needs a wrench. Said for me to tell you to come up right away. She’s meltin’.”

  I reach into the drawer and fumble for the proper tool. There is no need to hurry. I deliberately dawdle, determined not to be bullied by a chambermaid. Or a troublesome guest. Or Ben or Bob Warner or Horace Bane. I suspect they’re all in on it. A conspiracy.

  I tap on the door ever so lightly.

  “Come in.” Hers is the singsong of the talking lady at the Star & Garter. Am I Solly Ward?

  She is in the middle of the double bed. Her knees are scrunched up against her chin. Her hands clasp her ankles, much in the manner of a little girl. She is smiling at me. I knew there’d be trouble the moment Glenn and Betty Stauffer mounted those stairs.

  “Lucille said something about your radiator.”

  “Won’t you turn it off for me? Please.”

  I turn off the radiator. There’s no need for a wrench. A baby could do it. I show her. “It turns easily. See?”

  As I walk toward the door, she shifts her position. Her legs are stretched out toward the edge of the bed. Her stockings are sheer, flesh-colored. There is a slave bracelet on her left ankle. There flashes through my mind the whispered innuendoes of Joe the Barber concerning women who wear slave bracelets. Ow! The wrench is cutting into the flesh of my hand. I’m gripping it too hard.

  “Is this bandage too tight?”

  She runs her hand down toward her right ankle, where a piece of adhesive tape is visible.

  “Did you sprain it?” My voice is of a lower register than usual. Rather this than the high squeak, which might be forthcoming, considering the dryness of my throat. Oh, for a Dr Pepper. She nods.

  “Feel it.”

  I move one small step toward her. I stretch out my hand, but I cannot quite reach her ankle. She pulls me toward her. The awkwardness of my position causes me to drop the wrench and tumble onto the bed. She slowly runs my hand against her injured ankle and up toward her thigh.

  I abruptly draw my hand away and lean backward. In so doing, I lose my balance and topple heavily onto the floor. Ow! I have fallen onto the open jaws of the wrench. I spring up, fumble my way toward the door. I shout at it. “Radiator’s shut off.”

  I slam the door behind me and stumble down the murky corridor. In the Mazda brightness of the staircase, I gently massage my wretched buttock.

  In any case, I have retained my Parsifalian purity, but my wound, my wound, the indelicate imprint of the monkey wrench remains. The grail that Parsifal could not find is on my left buttock.

  That night, I notice a wild strawberry, a flaming red, to which I apply an ointment. It lasts about a week, as scarlet as the letter she deserves. To think that poor, gentle Hester Prynne had sinned so little and suffered so much. Would Hester have enticed an innocent sixteen-year-old boy onto her bed or under the elm? A boy so burdened with the troubles of the world? Yet, why do I bear the mark, and in so unlikely a place, rather than this wanton daughter of Eve? God is so perverse at times. Which side is he really on?

  My wrestling with angel and devil is doing little good for my cribbage game and less for my sleep. If I did the right thing, why am I not sleeping the sleep of the righteous? The puritan in me is having a hard time of it. For that matter, so is the pimp in me. And so is the Cherubino. As I struggle for peace of mind, the truth appears out of the blue.

  It is Glenn Stauffer whom I’ve done it for. That’s it, of course. Our hotel is his home. It is his castle. Man’s castle is not a steer’s barn. If Glenn Stauffer is to wear horns, let it be elsewhere. Oh, joy, I am liberated.

  On a Saturday afternoon, two large men lumber up the stairs. They wear fedoras. One is silent. The other speaks in a flat voice. “Let’s see the register, son.”

  I hesitate. The spokesman flashes an open wallet at me. I see a police badge.

  “We’re from headquarters.”

  I push the long black book across the counter. The man shoves a yellow sheet of paper at me. “Came over the wire last night.”

  I read it: “George Simmons, using the alias Glenn Stauffer. Bank robbery. Kansas City. With woman. Brunette. Information leads us to believe Chicago. Near North. May be armed. Caution advised.”

  “Anyone here by that name?” I nod.

  “Is he in?”

  Again, I nod. I had seen him go upstairs about half an hour earlier, with the Saturday Three-Star tucked under his arm. After paying his rent, he’d made a brief comment on the weather. Yes, she is upstairs too. The brunette.

  “Got a key?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lead the way, son.”

  I take the ring of keys off the hook. The men are close behind me as I mount the stairs and walk down the corridor toward the room. I am fingering the passkey. We pause in front of the door. We have arrived soundlessly. I hear a faint conversation inside. The crackle of a fresh newspaper being turned. Sounds of domesticity. Man’s castle.

  Shall I knock? My knuckles are poised. One of the men shakes his head, his fingers to his lips. He points to the keys in my hand. Very carefully, very slowly, soundlessly, I insert the key in the lock, turn the knob, and let the door float open. The men rush in.

  Glenn Stauffer is reclining comfortably on the bed. He is in his polka-dot shorts. The Three-Star is spread out about him. The comics section is still in his hands as he is lifted off the bed by one of the men. He is held high, as a baby hois
ted by a father. Like those of a frightened child, Glenn Stauffer’s lips pucker, as though he is about to cry. How tiny and helpless he looks. The other man quickly frisks the bed, flipping away the punched-in pillow and turning over the mattress. Betty Stauffer, against the wall, covers her face.

  Glenn Stauffer, in stocking feet and polka-dot shorts, is shoved against the bedstead by the other, who towers over him.

  “You George Simmons?”

  “My name is Glenn Stauffer.”

  His voice quavers. The other speaks softly now.

  “Make it easy on yourself, George. Get dressed.”

  She rushes toward him. She is sobbing. He gently embraces her. The three of us look on—the three of us, for I am one of them. They are blubbering incoherently at one another. Betty is half a head taller than Glenn when he is fully dressed. Now, they both appear to be lost little orphans. He is blurting out brokenly.

  “She don’t know nothin’ about this, honest. I picked her up—we met in a taxi dance hall. K. C. I been workin’ here in the auto plant, Ford. Honest. You can check with my boss.” He looks toward me. He is in tears. “Have I given you any trouble?”

  I shake my head. I feel funny. A hard knot in my stomach. A cramp. My throat hurts. Do I have a fever? I’m in a cold sweat.

  She is mumbling at him, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Her wet cheek is pressed hard against his. One of the others gently suggests she let him get dressed.

  I ask if I might be excused. There is nobody downstairs minding the place.

  “Sure,” says one of the men. “Thanks, son. You’re good. You opened the door so quick, you almost caught us with our pants down.” He chuckles appreciatively. Obviously, I’ve done well. I race down the stairs, hang the keys back on the hook, and rush blindly toward the toilet. I make sure the door is bolted. I try to throw up. I am unsuccessful.

  I am back in the clerk’s cage. Too soon. The two men and Glenn Stauffer or George Simmons are at the landing. He waves at me. So-long. I wave back. We are both embarrassed. I mumble something about good luck, but he doesn’t hear me.