by Roddy Doyle
—This your office? he said.
I liked him, but I wasn’t going to like him too much. I didn’t need a little brother.
—He’s got a mouth on him, Beep Beep had told me. —But there’s a noodle there at the back of it. Grace needs the bacon and he’ll bring it home to her. He’s a good kid.
—So, I said. —Are you with me?
The kid threw his cap onto the roof of a passing Ford delivery truck.
—My head’s starting to bake, he said. —A man needs a hat.
I gave him three bucks and a good man’s handshake.
—See you here tomorrow, I told him. —Bring your hat and your shoulders.
—Swell.
His name was Joe, and it was the first time he’d sounded like a real kid. The job was his; he could loosen and grin. He wanted to call me something.
—Mister Glick, I said.
I was Henry Glick these days. Glic, clever, cunning, smart. An American name, invented to be remembered, and easily thrown away.
—Mister Glick, he said. —Thanks, Mister Glick.
Hettie stared out over my head.
—Can I help you, missy? she said.
—I am kinda peckish, said a woman behind me.
—I bet, said Hettie.
The woman sat beside me. She was twenty-three or four, but the age was an average. There was a lot of her that was older. The neck was a kid’s but the cheeks were spoiled by thin dark streaks where the veins had given up. Her eyes were huge, but badly stained. She was a fine big thing but a year or two off being a slob.
—You’re the guy she won’t tell me about, she said.
—There’s lots of those fellas.
—You’re he.
I looked at her broad forehead, slowly from left to right, and down to her mouth. One of her front teeth was missing a tiny chip; it did her no harm. She stayed still for me, but her mouth was getting impatient.
And I spoke to her mouth.
—The skin you love to touch.
—What ya say?
I wandered her face again, not for as long this time.
—The skin, I said. —You love to touch.
She sat up.
—I don’t get you, she said. —You talking about me?
—I’m talking about your skin.
—And you want to touch it. I heard you right.
—Not me, I said.
Hettie was putting together another sandwich. I could hear her knife sawing clean to the board.
—Not just me, I said.
She sneered, but there was curiosity clinging to the corners of her mouth.
—You’re not the first guy ever gave me the glad eye, buster.
I hadn’t expected the moment to be so neat. I put my hand into my pocket and felt for the package. In ev-ery way.
—Touch your face, I said.
—Get lost.
—Go on, I said. —Touch it.
Hettie had turned to watch us.
—Why? said the woman.
—I want you to feel it, I said.
She sneered, and lifted her hand. Her fingers touched her cheek. She seemed surprised when nothing happened.
—So? she said.
—What do you feel?
—Nothing, she said. —Just—
—Just your memory of what you used to feel whenever you felt that cheek. Am I right?
She touched her face again.
—I guess, she said, before she let her fingers drop back to her hip. She sat up, shook herself, sneered at me again.
—Men will always want to look at you, I told her. —You’re a beautiful woman.
The sneer warmed, became a question.
—You see yourself in the mirror, in the window there when you came in, and, it’s confirmed. Always. You’re beautiful. You see it in the eyes of men you pass, who sit beside you and talk to you. You see it now in my eyes. Right bang in front of you.
She waited.
—But you used to feel it.
She didn’t know it, but she nodded.
—You used to feel it when you touched your skin. You used to feel it all the time.
She smiled.
—And you know that men felt it too. When men put their fingers to your skin you could see it in their eyes. It wasn’t a broad they were feeling up. It was beauty. You could see it in their eyes, their gentleness. Adoration. Everything in life they’d ever wanted. And it was all you ever wanted.
She stared at me as my fingers touched her cheek.
—It’ll come back, I told her.
Her eyes grew dark. She blinked.
—It will come back. That touch, that feel. You know they say it; beauty is only skin-deep. You’ve heard it all your life. They used to say it to you, didn’t they? Your girlfriends said it when they saw the guys giving you the eye. Your mother used to say it.
—Not me, said Hettie.
She was Hettie’s daughter; I didn’t blink, I didn’t swerve.
—Other mothers said it, I told them, my eyes stuck to the daughter’s. —Other mothers said it. To stop their crying. Beauty’s only skin-deep, Daisy. Beauty’s only skin-deep, Hazel. But they got it wrong. We know that.
She leaned forward; only my words would catch her.
—Beauty isn’t the skin, I said.
And I touched her face.
—It’s there, under the skin.
I took my hand away.
—What’s your name?
—She’s Mildred, said Hettie.
—It’s still there, Mildred. Just under the skin.
I took the soap from my pocket and put it on the counter, not too loudly. I wanted it there but not announced.
—The skin becomes a shell, I said. —Life does it. Wind, smoke, the sun. Just a few years’ living. Laminosis. The hardening of the skin. Happens to us all, but men get away with it.
They waited for me.
—But the beauty is still there, I said. —Right beneath the skin. Only, you don’t feel it any more. The skin gets harder and deeper.
I counted to three.
—But doesn’t have to be that way.
I sat up straight, pushed myself away from the counter, and now the soap was sitting there, wrapped in brown paper. I picked it up and handed it to her.
She went to grab, but stopped.
—What is it?
—Soap.
—You saying I need a wash?
—No, I’m not.
I held the soap in front of her. She gazed, and took it.
—Thanks, I said. —What you have in your hand is, essentially, soap. But it’s more than that.
—Now there’s a surprise, said Hettie.
—Hang on, I said. —It’s more, but not much more. Not much, but vitally more. It cleanses, but it also softens, which is beyond all other brands. It softens the skin. It adds nothing. It takes nothing. It simply revitalises what has been dormant. What’s already yours.
She looked from the soap, to me. Her eyes fought her mouth for control of her face.
—That feeling you miss so much, Mildred, is right beneath your skin.
I pointed at the small block in her fist.
—And that will give it back to you. Simply wash with that bar, once a day, preferably in the morning. The skin is at its most receptive but, between ourselves, whenever you like is grand. And that feeling will rise through your skin, back to where you know it should be. Right there, at your fingertips. At the world’s fingertips.
I let myself rest against the counter again.
—Results in days. Guaranteed.
She eventually spoke.
—I ain’t so sure about the world’s fingertips.
—It’s an option, I said. —You decide.
And, suddenly, her eyes were sharp and mean again.
—How much?
—Dollar, ninety-nine.
—For soap?
—If it was just soap I wouldn’t be selling it. Who’s going to pay two bucks for a bar
of soap?
I made no move to take it back.
—What’s it called?
—It has no name. It’s not a gimmick. It isn’t Lifebuoy or Listerine. It’s the real thing. It makes no claims. It simply does what it’s supposed to do. It’s up to yourself.
She looked at Hettie.
—See me two bucks, Mama, will ya.
—No chance, said Hettie.
—Ah, go on.
—I give, you go?
—Yes, dearest Mama.
Hettie took exactly two dollars from under her apron and put them on the counter.
—So, go.
Mildred put her hand on top of the cash. She looked at me, and lifted the hand. She slid off the stool.
—I’ll go when I get my change, she said.
I took the penny – the only one in my pocket – and held it between my fingers. She took it. Her nails were broken but not destroyed. Now she held the soap.
—This doesn’t work, I’m back.
—It’ll work, I said. —And you’ll be back. It’s great stuff but it doesn’t last forever.
She stopped out on the street, looked in at us over the price cards, and smiled.
—That is the way, said Hettie.
She looked away.
—That is how to remember her. Smiling.
Then Mildred was gone.
—I’m cruel, you think? said Hettie.
—No, I said. —I don’t.
—It hurts too much. It is easier to remember.
She tapped the plate.
—She forgot her sandwich.
I’d forgotten my own. I looked at it now and didn’t want it. I wanted to get out on to the streets. I’d just sold a repackaged cake of soap to a hophead with no money. I’d passed my own test; there was no fuckin’ stopping me. But I took a bite from the sandwich. I nodded my satisfaction.
—You have more of that soap for me? said Hettie.
—You don’t need it, Hettie.
—My money is not good if I want something with it?
I hadn’t picked up the two dollars on the counter. I took another brown-papered packet from my pocket – the paper from off one of Olaf’s bottles – and I put it beside the money. Then I picked up the money.
—This’ll do.
—It will work if I don’t pay for it?
—You paid, I told her.
—It will work?
—Yes.
She took a dollar from under her apron and placed it in front of me.
—I don’t want it, Hettie, I said, and I stood up to go.
—Take, she said. —Take it. I don’t pay, it don’t work. I buy expensive soap, don’t work if it ain’t expensive.
I had to take it. If I didn’t, I was robbing her. The skin you love to touch. It was the words I’d sold them. I was never going to be the man who sold soap. The words, not the product – the story, the spell. And sex appeal too, the Big It. The present tense, and happy ending. The skin, uncovered and waiting; the intimacy and hugeness of you; the thrill of touch, the held hand, the sin, excitement; and love in the middle, fat with sugar and immortality. The skin you love to touch. It was the words, and the clear, honest eyes of the man who’d spoken to them, and terrified and rescued them.
I’d been looking at the words all day and night since I’d landed on Manhattan. Pleasure Ahead. In crackling neon and paint. I Found the Way to Happiness. On every wall, in every window. In the air, in the pools of water on early-morning streets. Keep That Schoolgirl Complexion. In stagnant puddles that the sun never got to. They were everywhere. Blinking on and off ceilings all night, following me all day. Critical Eyes Are Sizing You Up. I knew what they were doing – Right Now – the men who’d come up with the slogans. Let me carry your Cross for Ireland, Lord. I knew how to unsettle and soothe with words. I knew how to bully and push. Shun all policemen and spies! And inspire, provoke and terrify. I was still only twenty-two, but I’d been inspiring and provoking with words and more than words long before most of the New York ad men knew what they were for. It was soap now instead of freedom, cash they were after instead of votes and safe houses, but it was the same thing, the same approach and tactics. Sell the words, sell the goods and the life. Sell the need, and the salvation. Smile with the consumer, suffer with her. Little Dry Sobs through the Bedroom Door. Terrify the man – Dandruff! – then save him – End Dandruff. Create the hole, then offer to fill it. Let me carry your Cross for Ireland, Lord. I am your best friend. Blow Some My Way.
I was late arriving. I wouldn’t be joining the club – the ad men and consumption engineers, the princes of ballyhoo. And I didn’t care. This was the land of the itch. The ad men and their clients had it salved and numbed, ready for slicing. They were hacking away goodo, and had been for years. America was huge – mass – and it was shrinking – market. But there’d always be more. The ad men had the walls and airwaves, the water and the air. I had the sandwich boards. They were after the woman with the dollar. I’d go after the woman with less. They had the land behind the doorbell. I had the streets, the alleys and tenements, the land behind the doors with no bell. I had everywhere else.
* * *
His face was already in mine; his breath drenched me.
—You got something that’s mine.
—Mister Vaux, I said.
—That’s a funny thing, he said.
The grip on my arm was solid. The yellow eyes held mine and wouldn’t let go; there was no talking to them.
—Funny, he said. —You remember my name but I don’t remember fucking yours.
The cigar was lit but the smoke didn’t get in our way.
—What’s else, he said. —I don’t even want to know your fucking name. What I do want is this.
He slapped the front board with his left hand, and held me up with his right. The crowds parted, flowed past us. I’d been lazy; I’d underestimated Johnny No. He’d kill me now, here – the corner of 7th and Avenue A – safely away, I’d thought, from Fulton Street. He was in complete control. He wasn’t angry and he wasn’t going to waste time.
I decided.
—D’you want it back?
That surprised him, a bit. I could see it now; he was used to men apologising.
—Yare.
—Fair enough. If you let go of—
He slapped me. He let go of my arm and whacked me hard. My fedora went to the ground but I didn’t follow it. I was held by someone behind me.
He slapped me again.
—I don’t think I’m going to do that, he said. —Let people see me, people I do business with. Carrying my own boards. Important people. I think not, pally. You’re a smart guy. You got the message already. Am I right?
—You’re right.
—I guessed, he said. —I’m going this way, you’re going that way. The boards will be at my place of business when I get back. And I’ll never see you again.
And he slapped me again, two hands – the world was dots and heat.
—I don’t see you again, he said. —You hearing that?
—Yes, Mister Vaux.
—Forget my name, he said. —You don’t need it no more.
I could hear him moving away before I could see him clearly, or the guy who’d been holding me up. I wasn’t sure I was standing.
I felt his breath again, and his morning eggs.
—I know what you been doing, he said. —That sound like a warning?
—Yeah.
—Yare, he said. —You got that one fucking right. What’s my name?
—I can’t remember.
—You keep on can’t remembering and you will live a whole lot fucking longer. See this?
He was standing in front of my hat.
—I’m not going to stand on your fucking hat. I want to. It’s a good hat, I’m jealous. You don’t fucking deserve it. But. I’m not going to. Because, you go on a long journey, you need a good hat. We will not meet again. Be fucking missing. That sound like another warning to you?
I left the boards outside his office. The door was locked. J. W. Vaux. Nothing else. I tore off the sheets of paper, front –
HOLY SMOKE!
STERN’S CIGAR STORE –
107 AVENUE A –
– and back.
BUY YOURSELF A
CIGAR
MR STERN HAS
THEM ALL
It wasn’t one of my better ones. The client had liked the front but he’d vetoed the back.
STERN CIGARS
FOR
SERIOUS PEOPLE
—I don’t get it, he’d said.
—It’s the play on the name, I told him. —Stern.
—What, I’m stupid? he said. —You think I’m serious because I have the name to match?
—No.
I was learning fast. Never disagree with the client.
—It is a clever slogan but, I told him. —It’ll draw the custom.
—It’s an insult to my family, is what it is, he said. —It’s an insult to my father. And my mother. It’s an insult to me. It’s my store. Who’s here first thing every morning to open up? You?
—Mister Stern, I said. —I’m sorry.
—Yare, well.
—We’ll change it.
—Yare. I should be in it. I’m the store.
—Yes, I said. —How about this? Give yourself a cigar.
—What, give? I don’t want to give. I want them to buy.
—Buy yourself a cigar.
—Not bad. What about me?
—Mister Stern has them all.
—You got that right.
—Or, Danny Stern has them all. It’s less formal.
—This a party we’re selling or cigars?
—Mister Stern has them all.
—You got that right. You name them, they’re here. They ain’t here, they don’t exist.
—That’s great, that. We could use that.
—What? You want to walk around with my conversation on your back?
I left the boards against Johnny No’s door and went back down to the street.
—What about that Louise? said a man I hadn’t seen in weeks.
—You fuck her good.
—She’ll be thanking old Leon in the morning.
I pointed at Johnny No’s building.
—If he asks, tell him you saw me bringing the boards up.
—He won’t ask.