9:41

by Iannuzzi, John Nicholas;

  I’d known Chris for years; he had been at that window before I was born, so I’ve heard, and as I grew older Chris was an integral part of my life. Not that I would be with him too often, but he was always near during the early years of my youth, sitting in front of his window to witness the games that we played, the fellows of my youth and myself. He watched us all sprout and grow older and perhaps wiser. He himself was very wise, I knew, for every so often, I, being the most intrepid of my fellows, was friendly with him; a feat which was not unheralded in the gossip of my neighborhood. For Chris was not the most gregarious of human beings, and people feared him as much as they respected him. This friendliness with Chris brought no end of inquiries from all of the people of the neighborhood from time to time. What was he like? Why did he always sit in the window? Who was he? Was he an artist or an exile? Was he insane? Or, as it finally would boil down, just what was this Chris that everyone feared unknowingly.

  During my few visits to Chris’s home, I was treated most cordially, treatment which at first surprised me emanating from the ogre that lived all by himself and stared out at people that passed by. He lived in a small apartment, inexpensively but neatly furnished. As you entered you saw a couch in the corner, well worn, and covered in a rust colored slip cover that Chris had probably made. The couch was the most prominent feature of the entire room, and upon entering it captured your attention immediately. It lay hung in an almost exotic space, emitting a strange, luxurious aroma, that seemed to permeate the entire room. It was shrouded in shadow, and surrounded by shelves and bookcases filled with books, so dusty as not to have been used in a hundred years. It was the focal point of the room, for nowhere was there a space from which the couch was not completely visible. There were no lights near the couch, and yet it was worn so, that one could almost see the outline of Chris’s body lying on it hour after hour. It was a low couch, without arm rests, just a slab, tilted up on one end so that when one was supine on it, his head was raised. Chris would lie on the couch when I went to see him, and I would be granted the special privilege of resting my humble body in that grand exalted place, the place from which so much terror had been hurtled, the chair in front of the window. The sun would stream in the window directly, brightly, and would cut a rectangular spot of white out of the dark, brownish rug, I, sitting with my back to the window would gaze fixedly at this spot of whiteness, with my shadow outlined in the middle of it. Chris would rest in his dark mysterious spot, almost invisible to the sun struck eye gazing at him from across the room. His voice was strong, and vibrant, and deep, and would float and dance around the room until its resonance made the sun spot lift from the floor with me on top of it and soar into the upper reaches of the atmosphere, only to suddenly descend, rest on water, whereupon, I would alight on the shores of some southern isle, with the water cuddling my feet, and the footprints that I left being washed away by the succeeding waves.

  Chris was a marvelous story teller, and I would sit entranced for hours on end. His stories were glorious and fascinating, and brave and bold, and teaching. He told me of many things, and of people, and of things far beyond my imagination. He told me of his youth—in the very cold wastes of a foreign country, where it was necessary for him to sleep fully dressed so as not to freeze. When it would be time for me to go, he would get up slowly, and make his way to the door. He would send me off with a “Goodbye sonny, be a good little fellow now, won’t you.

  Chris was wonderful, and I looked forward with great anticipation to every meeting. As time grew on, his talks became less fanciful and more full of poignance. He would recite from his memory passages of the great authors, Chris loved literature, and would explain the authors meaning, their method. He taught me truth as I had never known before. But soon I left and went away for school. When I would return on semester breaks there would be Chris, faithful guardian, and I would talk to him briefly, but time was so short and had to do so many things. I just never had an opportunity to go in and spend any time with Chris. The closeness that I had had with Chris as a boy was never recaptured, but none the less, I always saw him sitting in his spot, and would greet him. His face would beam as it very rarely did, and an indication of a smile would transmit itself through his full beard. “How are you, sonny”, he would say. “Fine Chris, how are you?” “Oh I’m quite well, thank you, what are you doing these days?” he’d ask. And I would tell him “I’m writing”. The smile in the beard would deepen. He really loved art and beauty, though much of my work couldn’t be called that. He would always ask me to come to his place sometime and read one of my stories for him, and he would say how he knew I would be an author of worth, and how happy he was for me. I would tell him I’d come sometime, but as it happens I have never yet been able to see him. Well one of these days, I’d tell myself, I’ll get a moment and then I’ll bring one of my stories to Chris.

  These thoughts were going through my head as I undressed for the night, and rested from the overtiring world of the outside. As I lay in bed, which was near a window left purposely uncovered so as to see the night above me, I kept thinking of my youth, and of Chris, and the things that he told me, and … suddenly a deafening sound had violated the quiet night air and was echoing from the buildings on the street. I bounded from the bed and rubbed a clean spot from the grimy window so I could see out. Below me was a scene of human carnage, a woman lay bleeding in the street, from her middle came blood in spurts, in gushes, in streams, being pumped out of her body with every beat of her heart. Life was slowly being pumped away, and she lay there writhing in a pool of her own blood—policemen came running down the street, and stopped in front of her, trying to make her more comfortable, and less in danger of dying. One of the policemen ran to a call-box on a lamppost near the corner to report to the station house. The other was looking at her, trying to make her more comfortable and, at the same time, was furtively glancing around for some sign of the actor of the act of violence. He was bent over her, now crouching over her, trying to comfort and yet talk to her, his eyes were darting back and forth over the faces of the buildings, now covered with little squares of white on the shadows, and re-shadowed with the forms of people. People swarmed to their windows to see what was the matter, what was down in the street, to see a scene so base and yet so profound taking place.

  Ever searching the policeman’s eye came to rest on a little black space of window, unlit by a curious square of light, and there in the window was Chris.

  Never moving, Chris was still sitting there silently, and yet very aware of what was happening in front of him. The ambulance from Columbus Hospital, which was only down the street, droned its way to the spot on which the woman was dying. The attendants came to help the woman, and as they did, the policeman who had been staring at the little spot where the white beard showed forth from the reflection of the moon, rose and approached the window. Chris, unflinching, sat there to greet him. I opened my window to hear if I could what was going on.

  The police were asking him the routine questions as to his name, and if he lived there, and had he seen anything happen outside. He said he hadn’t. “Have you been sitting here all the while?”, the policeman said. He had, answered Chris. But then you must have seen what was happening, was the woman alone? Was she walking with any one? Chris reiterated that he had seen nothing.

  The police were baffled by his insistence of innocence, and became very irate at the unreasonable resistance of this crazy old coot who sat at his window and minded everyone else’s business, but didn’t know a damn thing when he should. Another squad car came up as the ambulance with the woman inside pulled away. One of the policemen who was questioning Chris went over to talk to the police that were inside the car. After a short talk, the police in the car came out and walked over to Chris, they talked to him and then told him that he would have to come to the station house for more questioning. He agreed to go and to help out as much as he could.

  I ran from the window, dressed hurriedly and ran down to help Ch
ris in any way that I could. Being the only friend he had, I felt I should. I arrived just as the door of the apartment building was opening, and Chris was coming out. The people who had gathered at their windows were almost reaching a fury pitch, for this was the first time that any of them had ever seen more than the hairy apparition at the window. He walked out and said he was ready to go, I called to him and my presence seemed to make him more calm, although to others, he outwardly looked as composed as ever. He put his arm out to me and I held him and walked with him toward the police car. The police were walking on either side of us. He was telling me that he had seen nothing. He said he heard nothing but footsteps and a shot, but had seen none of it.

  As we approached the police car, his body lurched forward, as the violating sound returned to haunt the silently watching buildings. His body pulled against my arm with a tautness and a jerking that threw me off balance. He became limp in my arms, which I spread to support him. The police began to run for cover, looking for the assassin. I was in the middle of the street trying to support Chris’s sagging body, and lower his inert form as slowly as I could to the ground. Chris was dead, never could he tell of the spectacle he had seen, of the murder, or of the murderer, nor could he ever, thought I, poor Chris, poor wonderful, blind, Chris.

  CONNIE

  A woman walked towards us; not an old woman, but one who looked as if she already had 60,000 miles on her. About her there was an appearance of fading beauty. Her clothes were frilly and garish. You could tell she was high, not much, but just enough to free her from her mortal bonds. As Ed and I approached, she looked at Ed in an obviously coy way, and said,

  “Got a light, honey?”

  Ed lit her cigarette, and as we continued walking, Ed said: “Hot stuff, eh, pal? Want a little company, probably only cost a couple of drinks”.

  “It’s not quite as funny as all that, Ed,” I said. “I happen to know that tramp. I knew her real well, as a matter of fact … we were going to be married”.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah … that’s Connie. She had quite a body then, and a face—wow. Would drive me crazy every time I saw her. Really a fabulous girl”.

  I was talking to Ed Sawyer, a fellow I had met at the new job I recently began at Franklin Johnson, an importer on Vine Street. Ed and I became quite friendly, sort of buddies at work. We had just started out on a lunch break when we saw Connie. This was the first time I had seen her in about five years, and she sure had changed. The last time I saw her, she was the girl I wanted to marry, and … well, it never worked out. Ed and I walked into a drug store and sat down at the lunch counter. Ed began to ask all sorts of questions, and seeing her again like that after all these years, put me in a very melancholic mood. Words began to spew out, seemingly without any effort on my part.

  “She and I became friendly about nine months after I came to California”, I mused, “that was about seven years ago. She was a tremendously attractive girl then, about five foot two, with a body that was round, soft and fleshy. One that filled out clothes so excitingly. The kind of body that undulated all over when she walked, and made you feel you were going cross-eyed if you watched her from behind. Her face was cute, not beautiful, but real cute. Dark, warm, passionate eyes showed beneath long, thin eyebrows, etched on white, white skin. Her nose was short and straight, and her mouth was small and thin lipped, and felt good when you kissed it. She wore her naturally brown hair long, but tinted a different color to match her moods. She looked good in every color too!

  “She was an aspiring actress, you know the bit. This damn town is full of people who are making a name for themselves, or sliding down, or making a comeback, or something. Everybody wants to be a star. Well, Connie wanted to act, to make the big time, she was to be the great new light of the movies. She was so new, the movie makers didn’t know her, not yet. We met one day at a little lunch place, something like this. I noticed this fine looking girl sitting at the counter alone. At first I only noticed how zaftig she was, if you know what I mean. Then I noticed the way she was skimping over a burger and Coke, and, well, I don’t know how I saw it, but you know how you feel when you think a person doesn’t have enough cash to buy a good meal? That’s the way I felt. I figured she hadn’t eaten since the burger and Coke she had the day before. And, I was right, she told me, after I chivalrously asked her to join me for lunch. I told her I was a stranger to this section of town, and I never liked to eat lunch alone. Since my youth, I told her, I always ate lunch with a maiden aunt, and after her death I left the old ranch in Colorado, came to California, and since haven’t been able to enjoy a single luncheon. I didn’t want her to feel I was buying her lunch because she looked broke, and I thought my maiden aunt story might cheer her up a bit. She smiled and said she’d love to keep me company”.

  Ed’s nod urged more.

  “We talked some during lunch and she told me she was trying to become an actress. She was looking for her first break, and since funds were pretty low, she was glad I had asked her to have lunch with me. I told her I was doubly glad, first because I had done a good deed, and secondly, because in looking more closely at her, she appeared to be prettier than my aunt. We laughed a lot and had a good time, so I asked her to the movies that night. She accepted, and we had a wonderful evening together. I never had a better time with anyone in my life”.

  “After that we began to see quite a bit of each other. I was working in a public relations place over on Sunset at the time, we would meet after I finished work. She was almost always free. She would spend her day going to a few studios in the morning trying to get some work, or she’d meet someone who might be able to help her, or she’d just see some of her friends, then she’d go to the little rooming house where she was staying and work the switchboard for two hours a day to earn her room rent. That would just about leave her with enough time to make herself beautiful and come to meet me at a little spaghetti joint on Maple Street. We would have dinner, and then go for a walk, or talk, or see a movie. We really had great times those days, and I was glad to have met such a wonderful girl. I was so happy I could hardly concentrate on my work during the day”.

  “Once in a while, after dinner, she would come over to my place, and I would change, then we’d go out, after which I always took her home. One night, though, she stayed with me at my place. I held her in my arms all night, and when morning came I couldn’t bear to let her go. And, well, she never stayed at the boarding house again, not while we were going out together, anyway”.

  “Go on”, said Ed. “What happened?”

  “She moved her things to my place, and we became inseparable, almost. We decided we’d get married real soon. This was something new and different for me. I had been with a lot of women before, but I didn’t give a damn about any of them. This time I was flipping out, and I wanted to get married. We were going to get the benefit of a J.P. as soon as it could be arranged”.

  “As I said, she’d go around trying to land parts and seeing agents that were going to help her. You know from what you read you’d never think there were any nice girls trying to make it in this business. I only mention this so you don’t get the wrong impression of Connie. She was a fine woman, a real woman, and she loved me … me alone, forever”.

  “Anyhow, one night she wasn’t at the place when I got there, so I just put a couple of records on the turntable, mixed up a batch of drinks, sat down with a magazine, and waited for her. She had gotten a couple of bit parts lately, so I figured she was working a little late this night. After a couple of hours you might be able to figure I was not only a little worried, but a trifle annoyed. I began to imagine all sorts of things, and my nerves started to give. I mixed another batch of drinks and just sat watching the clock and drinking with determination. Finally, about ten-thirty, the key turning in the lock glued me to my seat. She came into the apartment, and as I turned to see her, I thought someone had just put their hand on my head and began pushing downward. I was numbed. She looked a
t me through bleak eyes. She looked haggard. She looked as I feared she might. Putting herself down in a chair, she began to cry hysterically. ‘Oh, baby, baby,’ she screamed. I grabbed her by the shoulders and snapped her head back to look at her face. She had been drinking, you could see it, you could smell it. ‘Where in hell have you been? What’s the matter?’, I demanded. She hung in my arms, lifeless, except for the crying. I was starting to crack. What was it, I begged. She gathered up all the energy she had, and looking away, blurted …

  “‘I went for a drink down at Ciro’s with an agent’, she said. ‘You know, the one I said got me the part in that picture yesterday’.

  “‘Yeah, yeah’.

  “‘Well, I had one, two, maybe three drinks, and then everything is blank. I don’t remember anything except those three drinks, and … and … oh, baby’, she started crying violently.