by Henry Miller
I guess so.
Well then, it’s like this … You remember that joint we used to go to in the Village Saturday afternoons? The place George always haunted? It was about two months ago, I guess, when I dropped in to look things over. It hadn’t changed much … still the same sort of gals hanging out there. But I was bored. I had a couple of drinks all by myself—nobody gave me a tumble, by the way—I guess I was feeling a little sorry for myself, getting old like and all that, when suddenly I spied a girl two tables away, alone like myself.
A raving beauty, I suppose?
No, Hen. No, I wouldn’t say that. But different. Anyway, I caught her eye, asked her for a dance, and when the dance was over she came and sat with me. We didn’t dance again. Just sat and talked. Until closing time. I wanted to take her home but she refused to let me. I asked for her phone number and she refused that too. ‘Maybe I’ll see you here next Saturday?’ I said. ‘Maybe,’ she replied. And that was that … You haven’t got a drink around here, have you?
Sure I have. I went to the closet and got out a bottle.
What’s this? he said, grabbing the bottle of Vermouth.
That’s a hair tonic, I said. I suppose you want Scotch?
If you have it, yes. If not, I’ve got some in my car.
I got out a bottle of Scotch and poured him a stiff drink.
How about yourself?
Never touch it. Besides, it’s too early in the day.
That’s right. You’ve got to write that novel, don’t you?
Just as soon as you leave, I said.
I’ll make it brief, Hen. I know you’re bored. But I don’t give a damn. You’ve got to hear me out … Where was I now? Yeah, the dance hall. Well, next Saturday I was back waiting for her, but no sign of her. I sat there the whole afternoon. Didn’t have a single dance. No Guelda.
What? Guelda? Is that her name?
Yeah, what’s wrong?
A funny name, that’s all. What is she … what nationality?
Scotch-Irish, I imagine. What difference does that make?
None, none at all. Just curious.
She’s no Gypsy, if that’s what’s on your mind. But there’s something about her that gets me. I can’t stop thinking about her. I’m in love, that’s what. And I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before. Not this way, certainly.
It sure is funny to hear you say that.
! know it, Hen.. It’s more than funny. It’s tragic.
I burst out laughing.
Yes, tragic, he repeated. For the first time in my life I’ve met some one who doesn’t give a shit about me.
How do you know? I said. Did you ever meet her again?
Meet her again? Man, I’ve been dogging her steps ever since that day. Sure, I’ve seen her again. I tracked her home one night. She was getting off a bus at Borough Hall. Didn’t see me, of course. Next day I rang her up. She was furious. What did I mean telephoning her? How did I get her number? And so on. Well, a few weeks later she was at the dance hall again. This time I had to literally get down on my knees to wangle a dance out of her. She told me not to bother her, that I didn’t interest her, that I was uncouth … oh, all sorts of things. I couldn’t get her to sit with me either. A few days later I sent her a bouquet of roses. No results. I tried phoning her again, but as soon as she heard my voice she hung up.
She’s probably mad about you, I said.
I’m poison to her, that’s what.
Have you found out what she does for a living?
Yes. She’s a school teacher.
A school teacher? That beats everything. You running after a school teacher! Now I see her better—kind of big, awkward creature, very plain but not homely, hardly ever smiles, wears her hair…
You’re close, Hen, but you’re off too. Yes, she is sort of big and large, but in a good way. About her looks I can’t say. I only see her eyes—they’re china blue and they twinkle…
Like stars.
Violets, he said. Just like violets. The rest of the face doesn’t count. To be honest with you, I think she has a receding chin.
How about the legs?
Not too good. A bit on the plump side. But they’re not piano legs!
And her ass, does it wobble, when she walks?
He jumped to his feet. Hen, he said, putting an arm around me, it’s her ass that gets me. If I could just rub my hand over it—once—I’d die happy.
She’s prudish, in other words?
Untouchable.
Have you kissed her yet?
Are you crazy? Kiss her? She’d die first.
Listen, I said, don’t you think that perhaps the reason you’re so crazy about her is simply because she won’t have anything to do with you? You’ve had better girls than her, from what I gather about her looks. Forget her, that’s the best thing. It won’t break your heart. You haven’t got a heart. You’re a born Don Juan.
Not any more, Hen. I can’t look at another girl. I’m hooked.
How did you think I could help you then?
I don’t know. I was wondering if … if maybe you would try to see her for me, talk to her, tell her how serious I am … Something like that.
But how would I ever get to her—as an emissary of yours? She’d throw me out quick as look at me, wouldn’t she?
That’s true. But maybe we could find a way to have you meet without her knowing that you’re my friend. Work your way into her good graces and then…
Then spring it on her, eh?
What’s wrong with that? It’s possible, isn’t it?
Everything’s possible. Only…
Only what?
Well, did you ever think that maybe I’d fall for her myself? (I had no such fear of course, I merely wanted his reaction.)
It made him chuckle, this absurd notion. She’s not your type, Hen, don’t worry. You’re looking for the exotic. She’s Scotch-Irish, I told you. You haven’t a thing in common. But you can talk, damn it! When you want to, that is. You could have made a good lawyer, I’ve told you that before. Try to picture yourself pleading a cause … my cause. You could come down from your pedestal and do a little thing like that for an old friend, couldn’t you?
It might take a little money, I said.
Money? For what?
Spend money. Flowers, taxis, theatre, cabarets…
Come off it! he said. Flowers maybe. But don’t think of it in terms of a long-winded campaign. Just get acquainted and start talking. I don’t have to tell you how to go about it. Melt her, that’s the thing. Weep, if you have to. Christ, if I could only get into her home, see her alone, I’d prostrate myself at her feet, lick her toes, let her step on me. I’m serious, Hen. I wouldn’t have looked you up if I wasn’t desperate.
All right, I said, I’ll think it over. Give me a little time.
You’re not putting me off? You promise?
I promise nothing, I said. It needs thinking about. I’ll do my best, that’s all I can say.
Shake on it! he said, and put out his hand.
You don’t know how good it makes me feel to hear you say that, Hen. I had thought of asking George, but you know George. He’d treat it as a joke. It’s anything but a joke, you know that, don’t you? Hell, I remember when you were talking of blowing your brains out—over your what’s her name…
Mona, I said.
Yeah, Mona. You just had to have her, didn’t you? You’re happy now, I hope. Hen, I don’t even ask that—to be happy with her. All I want is to look at her, idolize her, worship her. Sounds juvenile, doesn’t it? But I mean it. I’m licked. If I don’t get her I’ll go nuts.
I poured him another drink.
I used to laugh at you, remember? Always falling in love. Remember how that widow of yours hated me? She had good reason to. By the way, what ever became of her?
I shook my head.
You were nuts about her, weren’t you? Now that I look back on it, she wasn’t such a bad sort. A little too old, maybe, a little sad looking, but at
tractive. Didn’t she have a-son about your age?
Yes, I said. He died a few years ago.
You never thought you’d get out of that entanglement, did you? Seems like a thousand years ago … And what about Una? Guess you never did get over that, eh?
Guess not, I said.
You know what, Hen? You’re lucky. God comes to your rescue every time. Look, I’m not going to keep you from your work any longer. I’ll give you a ring in a few days and see what’s cooking. Don’t let me down, that’s all I beg of you.
He picked up his hat and walked to the door. By the way, he said, grinning, and nodding toward the machine—What’s the title of the novel going to be?
The Iron Horses of Vladivostok, I replied.
No kidding.
Or maybe—This Gentile World.
That’s sure to make it a best seller, he said.
Give my best to Guelda, when you phone her again!
Think up something good now, you bastard! And give my love to…
Mona!
Yeah, Mona. Ta ta!
Later that day there came another knock at the door. This time it was Sid Essen. He seemed excited and disturbed. Apologized profusely for intruding.
I just had to see you, he began. I do hope you’ll forgive me. Chase me away, if you’re in the midst of something…
‘Sit down, sit down, I said, I’m never too busy to see you. Are you in trouble?
No, no trouble. Lonely, maybe … and disgusted with myself. Sitting there in the dark I was getting glummer and glummer. Almost suicidal. Suddenly I thought of you. I said ‘Why not see Miller? He’ll cheer you up.’ And like that I up and left. The boy is taking care of the shop … Really, I’m ashamed of myself, but I couldn’t stand it another minute.
He rose from the divan and walked over to a print hanging on the wall beside my table. It was one of Hiroshige’s, from: The Fifty-three Stages of the Tokaido.
He looked at it intently, then turned to gaze at the others. Meanwhile his expression had changed from one of anxiety and gloom to sheer joy. When he finally turned his face to me he had tears in his eyes.
Miller, Miller, what a place you have! What an atmosphere! Just to stand here in your presence, surrounded by all this beauty, makes me feel like a new man. How I wish I could change places with you! I’m a rough neck, as you know, but I do love art, every form of art. And I’m particularly fond of Oriental art. I think the Japanese are a wonderful people. Everything they do is artistic … Yes, yes, it’s good to work in a room like this. You sit there with your thoughts and you’re king of the world. Such a pure life! You know, Miller, sometimes you remind me of a Hebrew scholar. There’s something of the saint in you too. That’s why I came to see you. You give me hope and courage. Even when you don’t say anything. You don’t mind my running on like this? I have to get it off my chest. He paused, as if to summon courage. I’m a failure, there’s no getting round that. I know it and I’m reconciled to it. But what hurts is to think that my boy may think so too. I don’t want him to pity me. Despise me, yes. But not pity me.
Reb, I said, I’ve never looked upon you as a failure. You’re almost like an older brother. What’s more, you’re kind and tender, and generous to a fault.
I wish my wife could hear you say that.
Never mind what she thinks. Wives are always hard on those they love.
Love. There hasn’t been any love, not for years. She has her own world; I have mine.
There was an awkward pause.
Do you think it would do any good if I dropped out of sight?
I doubt it, Reb. What would you do? Where would you go?
Anywhere. As for making a living, to tell the truth I’d be happy shining shoes. Money means nothing to me. I like people, I like to do things for them.
He looked up at the wall again. He pointed to a drawing of Hokusai’s—from Life in the Eastern Capital.
You see all those figures, he said. Ordinary people doing ordinary everyday things. That’s what I’d like—to be one of them, to be doing something ordinary. A barrel-maker or a tinsmith—what difference? To be part of the procession, that’s the thing. Not sit in an empty store all day killing time. Damn it, I’m still good for something. What would you. do in my place?
Reb, I said, I was in exactly your position once upon a time. Yes, I used to sit all day in my father’s shop, doing nothing. I thought I’d go crazy. I loathed the place. But I didn’t know how to break loose.
How did you then?
Fate pushed me out, I guess. But I must tell you this … while I was eating my heart out I was praying too. Every day I prayed that some one—God perhaps—would show me the way. I was also thinking of writing, even that far back. But it was more a dream than a possibility. It took me years, even after I had left the tailor shop, to write a line. One should never despair…
But you were only a kid then. I’m getting to be an old man.
Even so. The years that are left you are yours. If there’s something you really want to do there’s still time.
Miller, he said, almost woefully, there’s no creative urge in me. All I ask is to get out the trap. I want to live again. I want to get back into the current. That’s all.
What’s stopping you?
Don’t say that! Please don’t say that! What’s stopping me? Everything. My wife, my kids, my obligations. Myself, most of all. I’ve got too poor an opinion of myself.
I couldn’t help smiling. Then, as if to myself, I replied:
Only we humans seem to have a low opinion of ourselves. Take a worm, for example—do you suppose a worm looks down on itself?
It’s terrible to feel guilty, he said. And for what? What have I done?
It’s what you haven’t done, isn’t it?
Yes, yes, of course.
Do you know what’s more important than doing something?
No, said Reb.
Being yourself.
But if you’re nothing?
Then be nothing. But be it absolutely.
That sounds crazy.
It is. That’s why it’s so sound.
Go on, he said, you make me feel good.
In wisdom is death, you’ve heard that, haven’t you? Isn’t it better to be a little meshuggah? Who worries about you? Only you. When you can’t sit in the store any more, why don’t you get up and take a walk? Or go to the movies? Close the shop, lock the door. A customer more or less won’t make any difference in your life, will it? Enjoy yourself! Go fishing once in a while, even if you don’t know how to fish. Or take your car and drive out into the country. Anywhere. Listen to the birds, bring home some flowers, or some, fresh oysters.
He was leaning forward, all ears, a broad smile stretched across his face.
Tell me more, he said. It sounds wonderful.
Well, remember this … the store won’t run away from you. Business won’t get any better. Nobody asks you to lock yourself in all day. You’re a free man. If by becoming more careless and negligent you grow happier, who will blame you? I’ll make a further suggestion. Instead of going off by yourself, take one of your Negro tenants with you. Show him a good time. Give him some clothing from your store. Ask him if you can lend him some money. Buy his wife a little, gift for him to take home. See what I mean?
He began to laugh. Do I see? It sounds great. That’s just what I’m going to do.
Don’t make too big a splurge all at once, I cautioned. Take it slow and easy. Follow your instincts. For instance, maybe one day you’ll feel like getting yourself a piece of tail. Don’t have a bad conscience about it. Try a piece of dark meat now and then. It’s tastier, and it costs less. Anything to make you relax, remember that. Always treat yourself well. If you feel like a worm, grovel; if you feel like a bird, fly. Don’t worry about what the neighbors may think. Don’t worry about your kids, they’ll take care of themselves. As for your wife, maybe when she sees you happy she’ll change her tune. She’s a good woman, your wife. Too conscientious, that’
s all. Needs to laugh once in a while. Did you ever try a limerick on her? Here’s one for you…
There was a young girl from Peru,
Who dreamt she was raped by a Jew,
She awoke in the night,
With a scream of delight,
To find it was perfectly true!
Good, good! he exclaimed. Do you know any more?
Yes, I said, but I’ve got to get back to work now. Feel better now, don’t you? Tomorrow we visit the darkies, eh? Maybe some day next week I’ll ride out to Bluepoint with you. How’s that?
Would you? Oh, that would be dandy, just dandy. By the way, how is the book coming along? Are you nearly finished with it? I’m dying to read it, you know. So is Mrs. Essen.
Reb, you won’t like the book at all. I must tell you that straight off.
How can you say that? He was fairly shouting.
Because it’s no good.
He looked at me as if I were out of my mind. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. Then he blurted out—Miller, you’re crazy! You couldn’t write a bad book. It’s impossible. I know you too well.
You know only a part of me, I said. You’ve never seen the other side of the moon, have you? That’s me. Terra incognita. Take it from me, I’m just a novice. Maybe ten years from now I’ll have something to show you.
But you’ve been writing for years.
Practising, you mean. Practising the scales.
You’re joking, he said. You’re over modest.
That’s where you’re mistaken, I said. I’m anything but modest. I’m a rank egotist, that’s what I am. But I’m also a realist, at least with myself.
You underrate yourself, said Reb. I’m going to hand you back your own words—don’t look down on your-self!
O.K. You win.
He was heading for the door. Suddenly I had an impulse to unburden myself.
Wait a moment, I said. There’s something I want to tell you.
He trotted back to the table and stood there, like a messenger boy. All attention. Respectful attention. I wondered what he thought I was about to tell him.
When you came in a few minutes ago, I began, I was in the middle of a sentence in the middle of a long paragraph. Would you like to hear it? I leaned over the machine and reeled it off for him. It was one of those crazy passages which I myself couldn’t make head nor tail of. I wanted a reaction, and not from Pop or Mona.