As they turned into the lobby, a young man with a thin, cold, dedicated face pressed a piece of paper into Joe’s hand. It said, You are in a burning building and Jesus is the only possible fireman. He crumpled it and put it in his pocket.
“Look at this magnificent lobby!” said Townsend P. Locke.
The lobby of the Europa had become a kind of arcade for small enterprises. One corner had been partitioned off for a passport photographer, another piece had been given over to a health club, and so on; and there were a number of vending machines for candy bars, soft drinks and cigarettes. The floor was of cracked tile and had been recently scrubbed in a slapdash way, leaving streaks of dried dirt and a faint smell of ammonia in the air. The room clerk, a gray, small, not-really-there-at-all person, seemed to have been selected for his ability to project to the guests a profound lack of interest in their comings and goings.
They stepped onto a creaking, slow, self-operated elevator, and Townsend P. Locke talked all the way up to the fifth floor and kept on talking all the way down the hall “… Macy’s, the Park, the Village, the lights, the millions of strangers from every possible part of the world …” He was listing the aspects of New York that delighted him most. “… the utter and total privacy, the sort of, I don’t know, madly forward thrust of everything; do you understand that? I mean, how shall I put it? My sense of time here is completely altered. And Chicago, mind you, is no mere cow town. But here, you see, there’s this grinding forward of every second. Listen! Listen! Hear it for yourself! Time is a Colossus, and he’s marching up Broadway! Can’t you hear him coming?”
They were in Locke’s sitting room, standing at the window, looking out over 42nd Street. The sound he tried to name could be heard. It was an all-pervasive, throbbing roar, as if all the millions of machines and people on the island were united by a central rhythm and spoke with one voice and could be felt and heard as a single being of tremendous force. “You and I,” Locke said, “contribute to it. Yes! Isn’t that exciting? Think of it, your heart goes tum-te-tum-te-tum, and the projector in that theater goes clickety-clickety-click, and each one of those cars goes ggggrrrrrhhhhhoooooommmmmmmmm, and oh! Just thinking about it is more than I can stand. Would you like a drink? I’ve got some nice gin. But if you prefer something else, they’ll send it up. Maybe you drink only añejo, or Irish, or saki. Do speak up.”
“Gin’s fine.”
“And I really do find it unbearably exciting,” Locke continued, “this time thing in New York. But on the other hand, the identical awareness can hurl me straight into the abyss. I’m manic, you see, and I have these hairy depressions, and they all have to do with time. For instance, in Chicago, I often have this feeling that time really stopped about twenty years ago! And that everything that happened since is some hideous mistake. Isn’t that morbid? Par exemple, in that mood it seems to me absolutely grotesque that there should be in the world anywhere this white-haired gentleman you see before you. He doesn’t exist! There was a war, there was a young man in uniform, handsome as handsome can be, with quite black hair—and he was supposed to die in the war! But he didn’t. There was some idiot mistake in heaven, and he’s still here! Isn’t that amusing?
“All right, that’s enough about me. I am through talking for the evening. Here’s your drink. Now I want to hear all about you and conditions out West. I mean, what’s happening in cattle, for heaven sake? But first let me confess something to you: The West holds a tremendous power over me, the vastnesses there and the romance, that whole society of tumbleweed and leather. So you see, even if you weren’t an exceptionally fine person—which I know you are, I knew that at once, gifted and sensitive and unusual in many ways—but even if you weren’t all that, I would still undoubtedly have felt this, this, this …” he waved the palm of his hand back and forth over his heart as if it were a magnet that would draw out the word he wanted “… rapport!” He thrust the hand forward now as if rapport were displayed upon it. “Simply because you come from the great West. My mother shares this with me, indeed she does, she would absolutely adore you, and when she telephones—” he looked at his watch “—at about nine-thirty, I want you to get on the wire and say, ‘Hello, Estelle, I’m—’ What is your name?”
“Joe.”
“ ‘Hello, Estelle, I’m Joe. And Townsend’s being a very good boy.’—Or something, anything. I’ll introduce you, I’ll say you’re a cowboy and she’ll be so thrilled. Ninety-four years old! And a mind? Like a steel trap! May I tell you what I did for her on her birthday? Oh, listen to me! You can’t possibly care what I did for a very dear old lady you’ve never even laid eyes on on her birthday, can you?”
“Oh hell yeah,” Joe said. “I want to hear all about that.”
Joe sensed there was some advantage to himself in keeping the man talking. He needed to think. There was some sort of money connected with the man, not millions perhaps, but plenty. Joe guessed he had chosen this hotel over the better ones because it afforded him the freedom to indulge his special appetites. They were seated now, Joe on the couch, Locke in an overstuffed chair. Joe wondered how long the talking would continue, how long before the man made the inevitable trip to the couch, lowered his hand to the knee, etc., and what would be the best strategy to follow at that point. Make a straightforward business proposition? Launch into a do-me-a-favor speech? There was something likable about the man, but he tried not to notice it. Straight business was easier to manage.
“… and there stood this string quartet. Picture it, an old lady propped up in her bed, pale-blue lace coverlet, hair all in tiny curls—I do her hair myself twice a week—and the Vienna String Quartet standing at her feet playing Happy Birthday to You!”
Locke sang a chorus, ending in Happy birthday dear Es-te-ulll, Happy birthday to you. “Oh God!” There were tears in his very blue eyes. “And the night before, they’d played Beethoven to twenty-five-hundred people! That’s the kind of thing I do for her. I mean how else can you amuse a woman who’s twenty years older than time? And of course it makes my life so rich. People say, oh, you’re so good to Estelle. Nonsense, I tell them, I’m good to myself!” This was spoken with a kind of savage force. Proceeding more quietly, he leaned forward and said, “Let me explain: My mother happens to be an exceedingly rare human being of the most extraordinary sensibilities. The privilege of enjoying her company is worth any sacrifice. I don’t wish to overstate the case, but if I were to describe my mother in such a way as to do her the most meager justice, I would seem to be guilty of the grossest excesses. Therefore I am usually silent on the subject, silent as a stone, for the simple reason that the average person, having a very limited concept of the real possibilities of the human spirit, is unable to grasp … For instance, let me interrupt myself, I am often told, and even by very close friends—oh, this is so sad, and such a comment on the poverty of—you won’t believe it, but this relationship that I describe, these persons call it ‘sick.’ And do you know why? Because I haven’t married! Well, I haven’t chosen to and why in heaven’s name should I?”
This thought silenced the man. He seemed to have forgotten Joe’s presence, and he sat staring at an arm of the couch, frowning, teeth clenched. Then, suddenly aware of the drink in his hand, he raised it, so suddenly that he spilled part of it on his trousers, smiled, wiped it off, proposed “a toast to the Wild West!” and began to speak again.
“You see, I happen to be passionate on the subject, and of course we live in an age in which all passion is suspect. All the old values have these ugly little clinical names now: Loyalty is fixation, duty is guilt, and all love is some sort of a complex! You should hear Estelle, she’s so amusing on the subject! And you see, it’s rarely the psychiatrist himself who talks such nonsense, it’s your best friends! But don’t you think it takes a tiny mind to hand down such judgments on the secret heart of another? Would you be so impertinent? Of course not. Let me tell you what a real analyst says, may I? And this man is fifty dollars per hour, need I say more abou
t his qualifications? Well, he says it’s an extremely successful relationship. And why? Because it works!
“It’s all very simple: The ideal of the infant is to maintain its mother’s love—forever. I have done this. I have lived this ideal existence. The problems are relatively minor: First of all, she will predecease me. Perhaps! Oh, you see, that’s one of the marvels of my mother’s character: She won’t die!” He pounded the chair arm with his fist. “It’s true. These women of my mother’s breed, they refuse to die, they are on the side of life. They will not say yes to death. They have far too much love of life in them simply to let go of it all. That’s courage. That’s how this country was traversed in the covered-wagon days. The men were supported, cajoled, driven on by these women, and that’s how the primitive was conquered, annihilated. Do you realize—and this is not at all off the track, this is the very heart of the matter—my mother went to Minnesota in a wagon? In other words—let me interpret, let me tell you what this means—in her lifetime, this country has gone from the pioneer stage to this complete flowering that all of us enjoy today. You and I, Joe, every day we reap the harvest in this garden spot of the world. And it’s these women who planted the seeds, yes, we owe it all to them, this entire wonderful civilization of ours, every scrap of it is their making.
“And not only did they do their job, but think of the speed! My boy, there is no country in the entire history of the world that has progressed from the brute to the utterly civilized with such dispatch, such efficiency. And there’s your reason.” He pointed rather coyly to Estelle’s picture and winked at it. The old lady in the photograph appeared to be modestly accepting the compliment. “Isn’t she cute? The dead image of Queen Victoria. Our entire home is done in Victorian, pierced rosewood and red velvet, and we live in a glorious tower overlooking the lake, and with such grace and style. I take her to the theater and all the concerts in her wheelchair—when she’s up to it. Don’t I?” he said to the picture. And then he blew it a kiss and declared it was time to eat.
There followed a long telephone conversation in which the room clerk told Locke there was no restaurant in the hotel, and Locke tried assiduously to convince the room clerk that he was mistaken in this peculiar notion, there had to be a restaurant because he was hungry.
At one point he cupped his band over the mouthpiece and described the impasse to his guest. “Joe, can you believe it, this poor man’s got it into his head that there’s no restaurant in this entire hotel. And of course there’s no reasoning with these people any more. The railroads are the same way. You see why I’m forced to fly?”
At length the recalcitrant clerk “admitted” that there was a Chinese restaurant in the next block and promised to send someone for chop suey and egg rolls.
Before, during, and after this meal, and even while his large white teeth were being picked and sucked, Locke continued to spew out words. He seemed to be building something with them, one of those nightmare constructions that is constantly being undermined at a slightly greater rate of speed than one is able to achieve in the building. This one seemed to have to do with the identity of Joe Buck, for even though the conversation had little to do with him, it proceeded on the assumption that Locke’s guest was a kind of ideal and perfect being, composed of all the manliness and heroism of an early Gary Cooper with the culture and sensibility and compassion of a Ronald Colman. Locke seemed to be afraid that if his visitor were allowed to speak so much as one full sentence, the construction would topple.
Meanwhile Joe Buck found it unnecessary to listen to what was said. He merely cocked an eyebrow, set his face at a certain tilt, and whenever the speaker smiled he followed suit and nodded agreeably. Occasionally he would tune in on a phrase or two: “My mother can’t bear anything depressing!” “Of course you cattle people understand these matters far better than I, a mere paper merchant.” “Back to my thesis then: The brutes tamed the country and the women tamed the brutes, the latter of course having by far the more difficult job, and succeeding, I’d say, almost entirely, wouldn’t you agree?”
And Joe’s thoughts would return to the problem of getting the evening onto a paying basis. But he made little progress. The words of his host acted upon him with a soporific, almost paralyzing effect. He had constantly to fight against falling into an actual trance of boredom by shifting his position, rubbing his neck, cracking his knuckles, squinting.
It was after eleven when the telephone rang. Joe seized this opportunity to go into the bathroom, where he could consult himself in the mirror. As he left the room, Locke was speaking loudly and distinctly into the mouthpiece.
“Do you want to hear about a coincidence? … Mama, a co-in-cidence. Guess who we were talking about at this very mo-ment? … I said, when the phone rang, guess who was being dis-cussed. … Dis-cussed. … No, not disgusted! Dis-c-c-c-c-cussed. Talked about! … Oh, Mama! Haven’t you got it turned up? Which one are you wearing? … That one’s no good, why aren’t you wearing the Acousticon? … A-cou-sti-con! … Mama, dammit, this is im-pah-see-bull!”
In the bathroom, Joe splashed his face and neck with cold water until he felt that some blood had returned to his head. Then he leaned in very close to his own image and whispered: “Minute that sombitch gets off the telly-goddam-phone, you move into action. That’s an order!”
6
Joe looked around for something to steal. There was an electric razor on the top of the toilet, but it was too bulky for his pocket. Besides, under a palm tree, where would you plug the thing in? There was nothing worth bothering about in the medicine chest either. But he did help himself to some cologne water again: took off his boots and opened his clothing and sloshed himself good with the stuff.
Then he listened at the door. Locke’s telephone conversation showed no signs of terminating. Joe turned again to the mirror and began a rehearsal:
“Listen, mister, uh—I mean, Towny. Listen, Towny, did I mention to you my kid is sicker’n shee-it? Well, he is, and I got to get him South quick as I can. Yeah. Well, I, uh, I don’t know what all he’s got wrong. Had polio when he was teensy, and now he’s snottin’ at the nose, shivers and sweats all the time, busted leg, ever’ damn thing. So what I thought, Towny, I thought I better get him on down South quick. Now listen. Now listen. Listen to me, goddam yai—Sssssh,” he cautioned himself and then continued the rehearsal in a whisper. “Now if you’ll just listen to me, Towny. Oh, I’ve had a hell of a good time here tonight listenin’ to you for about forty-eight hours straight. Oh my yes, I’ve sure enjoyed it, ever’ goddam pissy-ass second of it. But now you listen awhile. I want some money. I got to have it quick, too, so if you want to swing on this thing, you better shut up and start in swingin’l”
In the sitting room, Townsend P. Locke sat on the edge of the couch, one hand resting on the telephone receiver, which had been placed in its cradle, and the other hand covering his mouth. His eyes were big with worry.
“Oh, Joe,” he said as his guest returned to the room. “I behaved so childishly. I shouted. I was nasty. I was impudent. Should I call her back and apologize? She despises extravagance. Luxury she adores, extravagance no. She makes these marvelous distinctions. Well, I can’t worry, can I? Shall we have a tiny?” He pointed to the gin bottle on the cocktail table.
Joe said, “Yeah, lemme pour you one, Towny.”
“Thank you, that’s very nice.”
Joe poured until the glass was half full of straight gin, then he placed it in the outstretched red hand.
Joe remained standing directly in front of Locke, his pelvis on a level with Locke’s face. There was a long silence. Gradually Locke’s attention returned from Chicago to New York and still the silence continued. The man was aware of Joe’s body standing in front of him and his face showed plainly the agitation he felt.
Joe fixed his face into a smile and looked at Locke. Locke looked up and met Joe’s eyes and gave a small laugh. Joe nodded. Then he said, “What d’you want, Towny?”
Locke raise
d his black eyebrows and said, “What?”
Joe made a loose shallow cup of his hand and let it fall near his crotch. “What you got me up here for?”
“Oh!” Locke cried out, pressing his hand against his heart. His face showed genuine pain. “It’s so difficult. So difficult. Impossible. You young people, you don’t know what you do. You, you have this, this agonizing beauty. I know you’re a splendid, truly lovely person, Joe. I knew that at once. I told you so in the street. And now you make this, this obscene gesture, and the combination, the innocence, the obscenity—there’s something so agonizing in it, so beautiful. I’m not sure I can bear it.
“I should never have asked you up. I wanted so to be decent this trip, I was going to try so hard not to disgust myself. I suppose I hoped that we could have some communion in conversation, that I, as an older person, might convey to you some of my impressions of the world. What I mean is that I hoped we could find some higher level of exchange, isn’t that ridiculous?” He took a long swallow of gin, and when he was used to having it in him, he spoke again, his voice dark and vehement: “I loathe life, I loathe every moment of it.” He started to erase these words with a laugh, but gave it up at once. “Please go now, please. Don’t make it more difficult for me. Just go, while I’ve got this scrap of strength left, the strength to ask you to.”
Midnight Cowboy Page 19