Rock Wagram

by William Saroyan

  ROCK WAGRAM

  A NOVEL BY

  WILLIAM SAROYAN

  Contents

  Chapter I The Father

  Chapter II The Mother

  Chapter III The Son and The Daughter

  A Note on the Author

  Chapter I

  The Father

  Every man is a good man in a bad world. No man changes the world. Every man himself changes from good to bad or from bad to good, back and forth, all his life, and then dies. But no matter how or why or when a man changes, he remains a good man in a bad world, as he himself knows. All his life a man fights death, and then at last loses the fight, always having known he would. Loneliness is every man’s portion, and failure. The man who seeks to escape from loneliness is a lunatic. The man who does not know that all is failure is a fool. The man who does not laugh at these things is a bore. But the lunatic is a good man, and so is the fool, and so is the bore, as each of them knows. Every man is innocent, and in the end a lonely lunatic, a lonely fool, or a lonely bore.

  But there is meaning to a man. There is meaning to the life every man lives. It is a secret meaning, and pathetic if it weren’t for the lies of art.

  One day in September he found that he was in Amarillo, Texas, on his way to San Francisco in his new Cadillac, a man named Rock Wagram, thirty-three years old. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and he was up from three hours of sleep, eager to get going again but hushed in heart by the haunting of death.

  The end—the good end, the bad end, the great end, the miserable end—death—had haunted him from the beginning, and yet he had lived, he had stayed alive, he had had fun, he had been lucky with women, he had laughed a lot, he had worked, and he had done all right.

  He had been tending bar at Fat Aram’s in Fresno, twenty-five years old, when a man from Hollywood standing at the bar turned out to be the Vice-President in Charge of Production at U.S. Pictures. This man noticed only those who didn’t notice him.

  Rock Wagram (or as he was then known Arak Vagramian) was noticed by this man as Rock told jokes to the boys at the end of the bar.

  The U.S. Pictures’ man watched and listened an hour, then handed Rock his card and asked that Rock go and see him at his office at ten the following morning. Paul Key meant his office at U.S. Pictures in Hollywood, two hundred miles away. That was the way he did things. The bartender glanced at the card, at the sharp little man with the hard face, winked, almost smiled, put the card in the pocket of his white coat, and went back to the laughing boys at the end of the bar.

  Two days later a fat man named Sam Schwartz stepped up to the bar and said to Rock, “Are you the man P.K. gave his card to day before yesterday?”

  Rock didn’t even know who P.K. was.

  Even so, he and Schwartz sat in an airplane two hours later, and that night Rock had dinner with P.K. at Romanoff’s.

  “What are you?” Paul Key said.

  “I’m a bartender,” Rock said.

  “What nationality?”

  “American Indian.”

  “Are you a Turk?”

  “I’m an Armenian,” Rock said. “I hate the Turks.”

  “How much do you hate them?” Paul Key said.

  “Not enough,” Rock said. “I was born in Fresno. To hate them enough you’ve got to be born where my father and mother were born, in Armenia. All the Armenian hoodlums of Fresno call themselves American Indians.”

  “Why do you call them hoodlums?”

  “We call ourselves hoodlums.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what our parents call us in Armenian.”

  “Why do they call you that?”

  “Because that’s what we are.”

  “How do you mean?” Paul Key said.

  “We don’t hate the Turks enough,” Rock said. “We’re Americans. How can we hate them? How can we hate anybody? Most of us are dark and look like Indians anyway, so we’ve made a joke of calling ourselves American Indians. Besides, we’ve recognized a couple of pals from Fresno playing Indians in the movies. They look more like Indians in the movies than Indians do. Most of the Indians you see around Fresno are Tule and don’t look very Indian, anyway. First of all, their bodies are small, something’s the matter with their faces, and they aren’t dark the way we are. Most of our noses stand out better, too. Bull Bedikian played Chief Rapaport of the Cherokee Tribe in The Indian Fighter and was a sensation in Fresno.”

  “Rapaport?” Paul Key said.

  “Another joke,” Rock said. “I’ve forgotten the name of the Chief in the movie, and any time we forget a name we put in a funny one.”

  “Why?”

  “For the fun of it.”

  “I’m Jewish,” Paul Key said.

  “Is that so?” Rock said.

  “Are you anti-semitic?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, let me put it this way,” Paul Key said. “Do you put in a name like Rapaport because you don’t like Jews?”

  “No,” Rock said, “we put in a name like Rapaport because we think it’s a funny name. We like everybody, but especially busy people like Armenians, Syrians, and Jews. The only people we don’t like are Turks, but we don’t dislike them enough.”

  “What do you mean by busy?”

  “Funny.”

  “I don’t believe I get it,” Paul Key said.

  “Well,” Rock said, “people with a lot to do who are glad to be doing it and haven’t got time to bother too much about anything else.”

  “You like such people?”

  “They’re the people who make you laugh,” Rock said. “Jews from the big cities in the East have been coming to Fresno every summer for years and we’ve gotten to know them, working in their packing houses. I used to drive for one of the best of them, a fellow from Brooklyn who’d changed his name to Murphy.”

  “Drive?”

  “I was fifteen,” Rock said. “Drove his Cadillac all over the valley. Everything he ever said was funny. Sometimes I used to drive off the highway and stop the car, so I could get out and laugh.”

  “Jews are supposed to be the saddest people in the world,” Paul Key said.

  “Is that so?” Rock said.

  “Yes,” Paul Key said. “Being one, I believe they are.”

  “They weren’t in Fresno,” Rock said. “Not even when they went broke. Murphy went broke. They all went broke. The saddest ones were the Irish when they went broke. They were the most generous, too, but it was because they were so sad.”

  “Then, when you put in a Jewish name it’s not to belittle the Jews?” Paul Key said.

  “No,” Rock said. “There was never any politeness between the Jews from the East and the hoodlums of Fresno, but they were pals. The only time I ever saw Murphy slow down was when a polite man who was riding with us to Bakersfield, an Erie railroad man named Fickett, told Murphy he had always admired the Jews. Murphy didn’t route any of his cars over the Erie after that.”

  “Maybe the railroad man meant what he said,” Paul Key said.

  “No,” Rock said. “He was a phony.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I call tell a phony.”

  “How about you?” Paul Key said. “Are you a phony?”

  “Not on purpose,” Rock said. “If I am, I didn’t mean it to happen.”

  “Am I?” Paul Key said.

  “Why ask me?” Rock said. “You ought to know.”

  “What would you say?”

  “I’d say I don’t know.”

  “How about the business with the card?” Paul Key said.

  “A lot of guys come to Fat Aram’s and leave their cards, so I’ll know them the next time they come in,” Rock said. “Everybody likes to know a bartender.”

&nb
sp; “I didn’t leave my card so you’d know me the next time I came in,” Paul Key said. “You know that isn’t why I left it. I asked you to be at my office at ten the following morning.”

  “You were drunk,” Rock said.

  “I don’t like to be told I was drunk,” Paul Key said.

  “I don’t like to be told how to talk,” Rock said.

  The film man, a man of fifty-two who had lived a hard and bitter life, looked around the room. No one in the film-making business could speak to Paul Key as this man had just spoken to him, but then of course this man was not in the film-making business. He was a bartender at Fat Aram’s in Fresno. Was the man an imbecile? Or was it just that Paul Key had dealt with hypocrites for so long he’d become fond of them and couldn’t abide anybody who wasn’t one? There was still a great deal to find out about the bartender, and he owed it to himself and to the studio to go on, but he was not going to let the crack go without at least half a minute of critical silence.

  “Then, you don’t feel that the business with the card was phony?” Paul Key said at last.

  “I haven’t thought about it one way or another,” Rock said. “Didn’t Schwartz say your wife was coming, and a friend of hers?”

  “They’ll be along in a minute,” Paul Key said. “What’s a phony?”

  “A phony, that’s all.”

  “How can you tell one?”

  “You just know.”

  “How far did you go in school?”

  “I didn’t finish high school.”

  “Why not?”

  “Didn’t want to.”

  “What do you want?” Paul Key said. “I know you want something. You’ve given it a lot of thought. What do you want?”

  “Fun. Wife. Kids. Money,” Rock said.

  “In that order?”

  “For the time being,” Rock said. “Wife. Fun. Kids. Money. Later on.”

  “How much money?”

  “Enough.”

  “How much would be enough?”

  “What I make at Fat Aram’s.”

  “What do you make?”

  “Seventy-five a week.”

  “Tips?”

  “I don’t allow tips,” Rock said. “Most of the boys I tend bar for are pals. If somebody slides a quarter or half a buck across the bar and goes off before I can slide it back, I put it in a cup and the next day put everything in the cup on a horse.”

  “Do you win?”

  “No.”

  “Why do you bet?” Paul Key said.

  “A pal of mine runs the book,” Rock said. “He’s got a family.”

  “What else do you want?” Paul Key said.

  “I want whatever I’ve got coming,” Rock said. “I like to read, and I like to write.”

  “I don’t understand,” Paul Key said. “You say you like to read and write?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you write?”

  “Poems.”

  “What kind of poems?”

  “Well, not dirty, if that’s what you mean,” Rock said. “Funny, I guess, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m beginning to get an idea,” Paul Key said. “What made you want to write poems?”

  “My father wrote poems,” Rock said. “We took poems for granted in our family.”

  “Do you know why you’re here?” Paul Key said.

  “Schwartz said you wanted to talk to me,” Rock said.

  “But why did I want to talk to you?”

  “Because you’ve got an idea I can act.”

  “Can you?”

  “I can act natural,” Rock said. “And it’s natural for me to act a lot of different ways.”

  “Yes,” Paul Key said. “The girls will be here in a minute. Schwartz has set you up at the Beverly Wilshire. Well, I want a test made of you tomorrow morning. At ten. Come to my office. I mean, be there at half past nine, so I can tell you a few things. If nothing comes of it, you’ll be paid for your time and trouble. If something comes of it, we’ll have to do something about your name. What’s Arak mean?”

  “Swift.”

  “What’s the other name mean?”

  “Nothing. It’s just a name. Vagramian. It means me.”

  “Have you boxed?”

  “No. Just street fights.”

  “Is your nose broken?”

  “Yes, but I want it to stay that way.”

  “Why not straighten it out?” Paul Key said.

  “My father broke it when I was sixteen and thought I was big stuff,” Rock said. “I want it to stay the way it is.”

  “You mean you had a fight with your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over money?”

  “No.”

  “Girls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Arak Vagramian, is that it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did you happen to become a bartender?”

  “One of those things. A cool place in a hot town. A good place to stand and talk, pass the time, get paid for it.”

  “You don’t look like an Armenian,” Paul Key said.

  “Nobody looks like an Armenian,” Rock said.

  The girls arrived and sat down. Vida, the film-maker’s wife, was a quiet, dark woman in her middle forties who couldn’t take her eyes away from her husband. She kept waiting for him to look back at her so their eyes could embrace. The other girl was a famous actress named Selena Hope who hadn’t had a job in more than a year and was beginning to worry. She was probably in her early thirties.

  It was from her house somewhere near the ocean that Rock Wagram set out the following morning for Paul Key’s office.

  Now, the same man, seven years later, in Amarillo, Texas, sat at the counter of the hotel coffee shop and had a cup of black coffee, glancing at the morning paper. After coffee, he settled with the desk, got into his car, and began to go, but a mile from the heart of town, he saw a girl with long blonde hair walking swiftly, just up from sleep, wearing a red cotton dress. He turned the car around, drove past the girl, turned it around again, slowed down to have a last look at her, and then sent the car plunging out of town.

  No man’s life means more than another’s, as each man himself knows. The luckiest man is the one who enjoys his portion, but no man is very lucky, for every man’s portion is equally poor, and putting up with it is painful. Most of his experience cannot be enjoyed. Most of it hurts, and some of it kills, or inflicts the wound that stops him in his tracks.

  Every man is an animal. He is the animal all men are, but after that he is also his own kind of animal. He is a small and lonely thing, not unlike all of his breed, all alive at the same time.

  He is his own poor friend, his own proud stranger, his own cunning enemy, watching with sharp eyes his mother’s own son, and he knows more than he is ever able to tell. Whatever the acts of his life, his own cunning friend and his own forgiving enemy watches and mocks or comforts him, and a man lives out his time in secret, leaving behind no word of what he was or did or knew. Or leaving half a word, mixed with laughter, or half an act of dancing mixed with love, in the warm light, along the bright floor of his own mother’s kitchen when was five and she was his girl, baking bread for him.

  No man’s portion is good, there is no man unwounded, but the wounds of some heal slowly, the wounds of others never at all.

  The wounds of Paul Key never healed. He carried them all in the hard eyes that were somehow full of understanding, tenderness, and hate.

  It was not Paul Key’s habit to step into insignificant little bars in insignificant little towns, but J.B. had told him to fly to Fresno and find out what was eating the company on location: they were taking too long. Paul Key had found out that the reason they were taking so long was that they were getting the job done the only way they knew how to get it done—that is, slowly and stupidly—so before telephoning J.B., he thought he would get out of the heat, cool off at a bar, and listen to whoever might be talking in the place.

 
; The bar was on a corner, called Fat Aram’s, and it would do. There were seven dark men at the end of the bar, men somewhere between twenty and thirty, although one of them was older. The bartender was telling them a story, he had them by the tail, talking easily, taking his time, letting them know they would never guess what the prize of comedy would be this time. He glanced at Paul Key and went right on telling the story.

  The end of the story came a long time later. Perhaps it was three minutes, perhaps five. At any rate, there had been plenty of time for Paul Key to leave and go to another place. He had not done so.

  The end came in a strange language. It came clearly and cleanly, and the men received it as if they had been waiting for it all their lives, two of them falling to the floor, three of them running out the side door, the others walking around in a kind of preposterous immortality brought about by humor, while the man who was soon to become Rock Wagram stood where he was, watching them, but not even smiling.

  At last he went to where Paul Key was standing, and waited for him to speak.

  If this had happened at Romanoff’s or Chasen’s, the bartender would have been fired. Or didn’t they fire them any more? At any rate, it wouldn’t have happened. Paul Key had planned to say to the bartender, “I’m glad you and your friends are enjoying yourselves, but if you don’t mind I’d like a Pimm’s Number One.” This was just the drink for a hot day and although only the boys at 21 in New York knew how to make it and serve it, he often had it on hot days at one or another of the places in Hollywood or Beverly Hills.

  Now, however, he knew he was not going to say any such thing, and he knew he was not going to ask for any Pimms.

  “Scotch over ice with a water chaser,” he said. He would have specified Black Label, but that wouldn’t do either.

  The bartender was swift, once he decided he was ready to oblige you. He was that, at any rate. Paul Key swallowed the first one straight.

  “Another, please,” he said quickly because he was afraid the bartender would walk off and never come back. He put a fifty-dollar bill beside the water chaser, but the bartender let it lie. He poured the second drink and placed the bottle on the bar, as if to say that if he didn’t happen to get back in time to pour the third one, not to stop on that account.