by Henry Miller
While it lasted it was wonderful. I mean the walks, the talks, the books we read, the food we ate, the excursions and explorations, the characters we bumped into, the plans we made. Everything was fizzing, or else purring like a smooth-running machine. Nights when nobody showed up, nights when it was mean outdoors or we were a little short of dough, O’Mara and I would get into one of those conversations which would last the whole night. Sometimes it began over a book we had just read, such as The Imperial Purple or The Eternal Husband. Or that wonderful story about a carrier pigeon—Gay Neck.
Around midnight O’Mara always got a bit nervous and fidgety. He was concerned about Mona, what she was doing, where she was, could she take care of herself.
“Don’t worry,” I would say, “she knows how to take care of herself. She’s had lots of experience.”
“I know,” he would say, “but Jesus.…”
“Listen, Ted, if I were to start worrying about such things I’d go nuts.”
“You sure have a lot of confidence in her.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
O’Mara would hem and haw. “Well, all I can say is, if she were my wife…”
“You’ll never have a wife, so what the hell’s the use of talking? She’ll be home at ten after one sharp, wait till you see. Come on, forget about it.”
Sometimes I couldn’t refrain from smiling to myself. You would think, b’Jesus, that it was his wife and not mine, the way he took it to heart. My friends were always behaving in this fashion with me. They always did the worrying.
The way to get him off the subject was to get him reminiscing. O’Mara was the greatest “reminiscer” ever. He went to it like a cow chewing its cud. Whatever lay in the past was fodder.
The person he loved most to talk about was Alec Walker, the man who had picked him up during a carnival at Madison Square Garden and put him to work in his office. Alec Walker always remained a mystery to O’Mara. He spoke of him affectionately, with admiration and with gratitude, but there was something in Alec Walker’s make-up which baffled him. One night I tried to get to the bottom of it with him. Apparently, what bothered O’Mara most was that Alec Walker seemed to have no use for women. And he was such a handsome man! He could have had any woman he laid eyes on.
“You said you didn’t think he was queer. If he’s not queer then he’s a celibate, that’s all there is to it. The way I see it, he’s a saint who’s missed his calling.”
O’Mara wasn’t at all satisfied with this cut-and-dried explanation.
“The only thing that bothers me,” I added, “is the way he allowed Woodruff to twist him about his fingers. If you ask me, there’s something fishy there.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said O’Mara quickly, “Alec’s a softy. Anybody can twist him about his little finger. He’s got too big a heart.”
“Listen,” I said, determined to have done with the subject once and for all, “I want you to tell me the truth… did he ever make a pass at you?”
O’Mara gave a loud guffaw. “A pass at me? You don’t know Alec at all or you’d never ask a question like that. Why, even if he were a queer, Alec would never do a thing like that, don’t you realize that?”
“No, I don’t. Unless you mean he’s too much of a gentleman—. Is that it?”
“No, no, not at all,” said O’Mara vehemently. “I mean that if Alec Walker were starving to death he would never ask you for a crust of bread.”
“Then it’s pride,” I said.
“It’s not pride either. It’s a martyr complex. He enjoys suffering.”
“It’s lucky for him he’s not poor.”
“He’ll never be poor,” said O’Mara. “He’d steal first.”
“That’s quite a statement. What gives you that idea?”
O’Mara hesitated a few moments. “I’ll tell you something,” he blurted out, “but don’t ever tell it to a soul. Alec Walker once stole a big sum of money from his brother; his brother, who’s a real son of a bitch, was going to send him up the river. But Sister what’s her name paid it back. Where she got it I have no idea. It was a considerable sum.”
I said not a word to this. I was floored.
“And you know who got him into that scrape, don’t you?” O’Mara continued.
I looked at him blankly.
“That little rat, Woodruff.”
“You don’t say!”
“I always told you that Woodruff was no good, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but I don’t get it. You mean to tell me that Alec Walker squandered all that money on our little friend Bill Woodruff?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Look, you remember that little tart Woodruff was so crazy about? He married her later, didn’t he?”
“You mean Ida Verlaine?”
“That’s it. Ida. Christ, it was Ida this and Ida that all day long. I remember because we were working together at the time. You haven’t forgotten that trip to Europe Alec and Woodruff took?”
“You mean Alec was jealous of the girl?”
“Christ no! How could Alec be jealous of a little slut like that? He was trying to save Woodruff from himself, that’s all. He saw that she was a no-good bitch and he tried to break it up. And Woodruff, the bastard, never satisfied with anything—I don’t have to tell you what he’s like!—had Alec running all over Europe. Just to keep his dirty little heart from breaking.”
“Go on,” I said, “it’s getting interesting.”
“The long and the short of it is that when they got to Monte Carlo, Woodruff began to gamble—with Alec’s money, of course. Alec never said a word. It went on for weeks, Woodruff losing steadily. That little bout cost Alec a fortune. He was cleaned out. But Woodruff wasn’t ready to go home. He wanted to see the Queen of Roumania’s winter palace; he wanted to visit the Pyramids; he wanted to go skiing at Chamonix. I tell you, Henry, when I talk about that guy my blood boils. You think women are gold diggers. Listen, that guy Woodruff is worse than any whore I ever met. He’d take the pennies off a dead man’s eyes.”
“In spite of it all he went back to his Ida—that’s the best part of it,” I commented.
“Yeah, and she fucked him good and proper, I hear.”
I laughed. Suddenly I stopped laughing. A thought struck me.
“You know what just occurred to me, Ted? I think Woodruff was queer.”
“You think he was! I know he was. I can forgive him that, but not his meanness, not his miserliness.”
“I’ll be damned,” I muttered. “That explains why he made such a mess of it with his Ida. Well, well! To think I’ve known him all these years and never suspected it.… And you still don’t think that there’s anything queer about Alec?”
“I know there isn’t,” said O’Mara. “He’s crazy about women. He trembles when they come within reach of him.”
“Beats me.”
“I told you before that he’s ascetic. He once studied for the priesthood. Then he fell in love with a girl who jilted him. He never got over it.… I’ll tell you something else about him you never suspected. Get this! You never saw him angry, did you? You wouldn’t think he could get angry, eh? So soft, so suave, so gentle, so considerate. He’s made of steel, that guy. Always in trim, always in fighting condition. I saw him clean up a whole bar one night, singlehanded. He was magnificent. Of course we had to run for it, but once we got out of reach he was as cool and collected as could be. Asked me to brush him off while he fixed his tie. There wasn’t a scratch on him. We went to a hotel where he smoothed his hair and washed his hands. Then he suggested having a bite to eat—at Reisenweber’s, I think it was. He looked immaculate, as always, and talked in a calm, steady voice as though we had just come from the theater. It wasn’t pose either: he was really calm, really quiet inside.
“I remember the meal too—just the sort of spread that Alec knew how to order. We dawdled over that meal for hours, it seems to me. Alec was in a mood to talk. He was trying to make me understand what a truly Christ-l
ike figure St. Francis was. He hinted that he had once aspired to be a sort of St. Francis himself. I used to make fun of Alec, you know, for being so damned pious. I used to call him a dirty Catholic—to his face, I mean. No matter what I said, though, I could never rile him. He would give me that sort of wistful, comprehending smile—you know what I mean—and I would grow ashamed of myself.”
“I never could dope out that smile,” I interrupted. “It always made me uncomfortable. I never knew whether he was being superior or playing the innocent one.”
“Righto!” said O’Mara. “In a way he knew he was superior—not just to us kids, but to most people. In another way he felt himself to be less than anyone. His humility was tinged with arrogance. Or was it elegance? You remember how he wore his clothes. And then the way he spoke—that soft Irish tongue of his, the impeccable English he used… no slouch, that guy! But when he grew silent, that was something. If anything could make me uncomfortable it was the way he could shut up like a clam. It used to give me the creeps. He was always silent, if you noticed, when other people were ready to explode. He’d shut up at the critical moment and leave you suspended in mid-air. It was a way of letting you blow yourself up, know what I mean? Then’s when I spotted the monk in him.”
“Listen, Ted,” I said, cutting him short, “I still can’t figure out what made him take to a guy like Woodruff.”
“That’s easy,” was O’Mara’s airy rejoinder. “He wanted to redeem the poor sap. It gave him pleasure to work on a worthless little prick like Woodruff. It was a test of his powers. Don’t think he didn’t know Woodruff. He had him figured out to a hair. What appealed to him most about Woodruff, strangely enough, was the mercenary streak. Like the martyr he was, he just kept shelling out and shelling out, until there was nothing left.… Woodruff never knew that Alec had stolen for him. He wouldn’t believe it, if you told him it, the little rat.”
“Did I tell you I ran into Woodruff lately? Yeah, going down Broadway.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“I never asked him.”
“Probably a pimp,” said O’Mara.
“But I do know what happened to Ida. She’s an actress now. Saw the billboards with her name plastered all over them. We ought to go and see her some time, what?”
“Not me,” said O’Mara. “I’ll see her in hell first.… Listen, the hell with her and the hell with Woodruff! I don’t know what set me to talking about such shits. Tell me, have you seen anything of O’Rourke lately?”
“O’Rourke? No, I haven’t. Strange you should think of him. No, to tell the truth, I haven’t even thought of him since I quit the job.…”
“Henry, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. O’Rourke is a prince. I don’t see how you could possibly forget a man like that. Why shit, he was a real father to you—and to me too. I’d certainly like to know what’s become of him.”
“We could look him up some night, that wouldn’t be hard.”
“I’d like nothing better,” said O’Mara. “It would give me a clean feeling just to be in his presence again.”
“You’re a funny guy,” I said. “Towards some people you’re almost worshipful. It’s like you’re looking for your father all the time.”
“That’s just what I am doing—you hit it on the head. That son of a bitch who calls himself my father, you know what I think of him! Know what he’s afraid of, that crud? That I’m going to rape my own sister one day. We’re too close, he says. And that’s the bastard who had me sent to the orphan asylum. He’s another guy, talking of no-good pricks like Woodruff, whose balls I could bite off with relish. Except I’ll bet he hasn’t got any! Tries to palm himself off as a Russian. He’s just a kike from Galicia. Sure, if I had had a father like O’Rourke I’d have made something of myself by this time. As it is, I don’t know what I’m cut out for. I’m just drifting. Fighting the Church all the time.… By the way, I almost did put the boots to my sister, that’s a fact. It was the old man who put the idea in my head. What the hell, it was only natural; I hadn’t seen her for twelve years. She wasn’t a sister any more, she was just a good-looking dame, very lovable and very lonely. I don’t know what the hell held me back. I must look her up sometime. She got married not long ago, I hear. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad now—I mean to have a whack at it.… Jesus, Alec would be horrified if he heard me talking this way.”
We went on in this fashion, from one reminiscence to another, until one ten sharp when, just as I had predicted, Mona walked in. She had a bundle of good things to eat in one arm and a bottle of Benedictine in the other. It was one of those kindly souls again who had bestowed his favors upon her. This time a retired baker from Weehawken, of all places. A man of culture too. Somehow, all her admirers had a tinge of culture, whether they were lumbermen, expugilists, tanners or retired bakers from Weehawken.
Immediately Mona entered our talk became dispersed. O’Mara had a way of grinning at her, when she began her yarns, which irritated her. In the beginning he used to interrupt her frequently. He could ask the most insultingly straightforward questions. “You mean he didn’t even try to put his arms around you?” Things like that, which were strictly taboo with Mona. But by now he had learned to hold his tongue and listen. Only occasionally would he come out with some sly remark, some subtle innuendo, which Mona took no notice of whatever. Now and then her exaggerations were so absurd that the two of us would burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. The curious thing was that Mona would also laugh her head off. Even stranger than her laughter, though, was her way of picking up again right where she had left off, as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Sometimes she would ask me to corroborate one of her outlandish statements, which I would do with a straight face, to O’Mara’s astonishment. I would even embellish her statement with some fanciful facts of my own. To this she would nod her head gravely, as if it were God’s truth I were recounting, as if we had spoken of it time and again—or as though we had rehearsed it together.
In the realm of make believe she was thoroughly at home. She not only believed her own stories, she acted as if the fact that she had related them were proof of their veracity. Whereas, of course, everybody assumed quite the opposite. Everybody, I say. Which only made her more secure in her ways. Hers was distinctly a non-Euclidian logic.
I spoke of laughter. There was only one sort of laughter she ever indulged in—an hysterical laughter. Actually, she was almost devoid of humor. Those who aroused her sense of humor were usually people who were themselves devoid of humor. With Nahoum Yood, who was truly a humorist, she smiled. It was a good-natured smile, indulgent, affectionate, the sort one gives to a wayward child. Her smile, as a matter of fact, was quite a different thing from her laugh. Her smile was genuine and warming. It sprang from her sympathetic nervous system. Her laugh, on the other hand, was off key, raucous, disconcerting. The effect was harsh. I had known her for a long time before I ever heard her laugh. Between her laughter and her weeping there was scarcely any difference. At the theater she had learned how to laugh artificially. A terrifying thing to hear! It used to send shudders up my spine.
“You know what you two remind me of sometimes?” said O’Mara, snickering. “You remind me of a pair of confederates. All that’s lacking is the old shell game.”
“It’s nice and toasty here though, eh what?” I answered.
“Listen,” said O’Mara, his face utterly serious, “if we could stick it out here for a year or two I’d say it was worth while. We’re in clover now, and don’t I know it! I haven’t relaxed this way for years. The funny thing is, I feel as if I were hiding away, as if I had committed a crime which I can’t remember. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if one day the police knocked at the door.”
Here we all laughed uproariously. The police! Too funny for words.
“Once I was rooming with a guy,” said O’Mara, beginning one of his never-ending stories, “and he was plain cuckoo. I didn’t know it until someone from the asylum
called for him. I swear to God he was the most normallooking person you ever saw, and he talked normal, and acted normal. In fact, that’s what was the matter with him—he was too goddamned normal. I was on my uppers at the time, too disheartened to even look for work. He had a job as a motorman—on the Reid Avenue car line. On his swings he’d come back to the room and rest up. He’d always bring a bag of doughnuts along and soon as he took off his things he’d make coffee. He never said much. Mostly he’d sit by the window and manicure his nails. Sometimes he’d take a shower and a rub down. If he was in high spirits he’d suggest playing a game of pinochle. We’d always play for small stakes and he’d always let me win, though he knew I was cheating him. I never asked him any questions about his past and he never volunteered anything on his own. Every day was a new day. If it was cold he talked about the weather, how cold it was; if it was warm, he talked about how warm it was. He never complained about a thing, not even when his pay was reduced. That in itself ought to have made me suspicious, but it didn’t. He was so kind and considerate, so unobtrusive and delicate, that the worst I could think of him was to call him dull. Yet I couldn’t very well complain about that, seeing as how he was taking care of me. Never once did he suggest that I ought to be up and stirring. All he ever wanted to know was if I were comfortable or not. I understood, that he needed me, that he couldn’t live alone—but that didn’t make me suspicious either. Lots of people hate to live alone. Anyway, and why the hell I’m telling you all this I don’t know, anyway, as I was saying before, one day there came a knock at the door and there stood the man from the asylum. Not a bad sort either, I must say. He moseyed in quiet-like, sat down, and started talking to my friend. In that quiet, easy way he says—“Are you ready to go back with me?” Eakins, that was the guy’s name, says, “Yes, of course,” in the same easy, quiet way. After a few minutes Eakins excused himself to go to the bathroom and pack his things. The officer, or whatever the hell he was, didn’t seem at all uneasy about letting the fellow out of his sight. He started talking to me. (It was the first time he had addressed a word to me.) It took me a few minutes to realize that he took me for a nut too. I got wise when he began asking me all sorts of funny, queasy questions—“Do you like it here? Does he feed you well? Are you sure you’re comfortable?” And so on. I was taken so unawares that I fell into the part as if it were made for me. Eakins had been in the bathroom a good fifteen minutes. I was getting fidgety, wondering how I would prove myself sane should the officer decide to take me along too. Suddenly the bathroom door opened softly. I looked up and there’s Eakins stark naked, his hair completely shaved off and a douche bag hanging from his neck. He had a grin on his face that I had never seen before. I got a cold chill instanter.