Miss Lonelyhearts and a Cool Million

by Nathanael West

  10

  Along with his civilian clothes, the prison authorities turned back to Lem an envelope containing the thirty dollars he had had in his pockets on the day he was arrested.

  He did not loiter in Stamford, but went immediately to the depot and bought a ticket for New York City. When the cars pulled into the station, he boarded them determined not to speak to any strangers. He was helped in this by the fact that he was not as yet used to his false teeth. Unless he exercised great care, they fell into his lap every time he opened his mouth.

  He arrived in the Grand Central Station all intact. At first he was quite confused by the hustle and bustle of the great city, but when a Jehu standing by a broken-down Pierce Arrow hack accosted him, he had the presence of mind to shake his head in the negative.

  The cabby was a persistent fellow. “Where do you want to go, young master?” he asked with sneering servility. “Is it the Ritz Hotel you’re looking for?”

  Lem took a firm purchase on his store teeth and asked, “That’s one of those high-priced taverns, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I’ll take you to a cheap one if you’ll hire me.” “What’s your charge?”

  “Three dollars and a half, and half a dollar for your baggage.”

  “This is all the baggage I have,” said Lem, indicating his few things tied in a red cotton handkerchief.

  “I’ll take you for three dollars, then,” said the driver with a superior smile.

  “No, thanks, I’ll walk,” said our hero. “I can’t afford to pay your charge.”

  “You can’t walk; it’s over ten miles from this station to town,” replied the Jehu without blushing, although it was evident that they were at that moment standing almost directly in the center of the city.

  Without another word, Lem turned on his heel and walked away from the cab driver. As he made his way through the crowded streets, he congratulated himself on how he had handled his first encounter. By keeping his wits about him, he had saved over a tenth of his capital.

  Lem saw a peanut stand, and as a matter of policy purchased a bag of the toothsome earth nuts.

  “I’m from the country,” he said to the honest-appearing merchant. “Can you direct me to a cheap hotel?”

  “Yes,” said the sidewalk vendor, smiling at the boy’s candor. “I know of one where they charge only a dollar a day.”

  “Is that cheap?” asked our hero in surprise. “What then do they charge at the Ritz?”

  “I have never stayed there, but I understand that it is as much as three dollars a day.”

  “Phew!” whistled Lem. “Think of that now. Twenty-one dollars a week. But I suppose they do you awfully well.”

  “Yes, I hear they set a very good table

  “Will you be so kind as to direct me to the cheap one of which you first spoke?”

  “Certainly.”

  It was the Commercial House to which the peanut dealer advised Lem to go. This hostelry was located in a downtown street very near the Bowery and was not a stylish inn by any manner of means. However, it was held in good repute by many merchants in a small way of business. Our hero was well satisfied with the establishment when he found it. He had never before seen a fine hotel, and this structure being five stories above the offices seemed to him rather imposing than otherwise.

  After being taken to his room, Lem went downstairs and found that dinner was ready, it being just noon. He ate with a country boy’s appetite. It was not a luxurious meal, but compared with the table that Warden Purdy set it was a feast for the gods.

  When he had finished eating, Lem asked the hotel clerk how to get to Asa Goldstein’s store on Fifth Avenue. He was told to walk to Washington Square, then take the bus uptown.

  After an exciting ride along the beautiful thoroughfare, Lem descended from the bus before a store, across the front of which was a sign reading

  ASA GOLDSTEIN, LTD. Colonial Exteriors and Interiors

  and in the window of which his old home actually stood.

  At first the poor boy could not believe his eyes, but, yes, there it was exactly as in Vermont. One of the things that struck him was the seediness of the old house. When he and his mother had lived in it, they had kept it in a much better state of repair.

  Our hero stood gazing at the exhibit for so long that he attracted the attention of one of the clerks. This suave individual came out to the street and addressed Lem.

  “You admire the architecture of New England?” he said, feeling our hero out.

  “No; it’s that particular house that interests me, sir,” replied Lem truthfully. “I used to live in it. In fact I was born in that very house.”

  “My, this is interesting,” said the clerk politely. “Perhaps you would like to enter the shop and inspect it at firsthand.”

  “Thank you,” replied Lem gratefully. “It would give me a great deal of pleasure so to do.”

  Our hero followed after the affable clerk and was permitted to examine his old home at close range. To tell the truth, he saw it through a veil of tears, for he could think of nothing but his poor mother who had disappeared.

  “I wonder if you would be so kind as to furnish me with a little information?” asked the clerk, pointing to a patched old chest of drawers. “Where would your mother have put such a piece of furniture had she owned it?”

  Lem’s first thought on inspecting the article in question was to say that she would have kept it in the woodshed, but he thought better of this when he saw how highly the clerk valued it. After a little thought, he pointed to a space next to the fireplace and said, “I think she would have set it there.”

  “What did I tell you!” exclaimed the delighted clerk to his colleagues, who had gathered around to hear Lem’s answer. “That’s just the spot I picked for it.”

  The clerk then ushered Lem to the door, slipping a two-dollar note into the boy’s hand as he shook it good-by. Lem did not want to take the money because he felt that he had not earned it, but he was finally prevailed upon to accept it. The clerk told Lem that he had saved them the fee an expert would have demanded, since it was very important for them to know exactly where the chest of drawers belonged.

  Our hero was considerably elated at his stroke of luck and marveled at the ease with which two dollars could be earned in New York. At this rate of pay, he calculated, he would earn ninety-six dollars for an eight-hour day or five hundred and severity-six dollars for a six-day week. If he could keep it up, he would have a million in no time.

  From the store, Lem walked west to Central Park, where he sat down on a bench in the mall near the bridle path to watch the society people ride by on their beautiful horses. His attention was particularly attracted by a man driving a small spring wagon, underneath which ran two fine Dalmatians or coach dogs, as they are sometimes called. Although Lem was unaware of this fact, the man in the wagon was none other than Mr. Asa Goldstein, whose shop he had just visited.

  The country-bred boy soon noticed that Mr. Goldstein was not much of a horseman. However, that individual was not driving his beautiful team of matched bays for pleasure, as one might be led to think, but for profit. He had accumulated a large collection of old wagons in his warehouse and by driving one of them in the mall he hoped to start a vogue for that type of equipage and thus sell off his stock.

  While Lem was watching the storekeeper’s awkward handling of the “leathers” or reins, the off horse, which was very skittish, took fright at a passing policeman and bolted. His panic soon spread to the other horse and the wagon went careening down the path wreaking havoc at every bound. Mr. Goldstein fell out when his vehicle turned over, and Lem had to laugh at the comical expression of mingled disgust and chagrin that appeared on his countenance.

  But suddenly Lem’s smile disappeared and his jaw became set, for he saw that a catastrophe was bound to occur unless something was immediately done to halt the maddened thoroughbreds.

  11

  The reason for the sudden disappearance of the smile
from our hero’s face is easily explained. He had spied an old gentleman and his beautiful young daughter about to cross the bridle path, and saw that in a few more seconds they would be trampled under the iron hooves of the flying beasts.

  Lem hesitated only long enough to take a firm purchase on his store teeth, then dashed into the path of the horses. With great strength and agility he grasped their bridles and dragged them to a rearing halt, a few feet from the astounded and thoroughly frightened pair.

  “That lad has saved your lives,” said a bystander to the old gentleman, who was none other than Mr. Levi Underdown, president of the Underdown National Bank and Trust Company.

  Unfortunately, however, Mr. Underdown was slightly deaf, and, although exceedingly kind, as his many large charities showed, he was very short tempered. He entirely misunderstood the nature of our hero’s efforts and thought that the poor boy was a careless groom who had let his charges get out of hand. He became extremely angry.

  “I’ve a mind to give you in charge, young man,” said the banker, shaking his umbrella at our hero.

  “Oh, don’t, father!” interfered his daughter Alice, who also misunderstood the incident. “Don’t have him arrested. He was probably paying court to some pretty nursemaid and forgot about his horses.” From this we can readily see that the young lady was of a romantic turn of mind.

  She smiled kindly at our hero, and led her irate parent from the scene.

  Lem had been unable to utter one word in explanation because, during his tussle with the horses, his teeth had jarred loose and without them he was afraid to speak. All he could do was to gaze after their departing backs with mute but ineffectual anguish.

  There being nothing else for it, Lem gave over the reins of the team to Mr. Goldstein’s groom: who came running up at this juncture, and turned to search for his oral equipment in the mud of the bridle path. While he was thus occupied, a man representing the insurance company with which Mr. Goldstein carried a public liability policy approached him.

  “Here is ten dollars, my lad,” said the claim adjuster. “The gentleman whose horses you so bravely stopped wishes you to have this money as a reward.”

  Lem took it without thinking.

  “Please sign this for me,” added the insurance man, holding out a legal form which released his company from any and all claim to damages.

  One of Lem’s eyes had been so badly injured by a flying stone that he could not see out of it, but nevertheless he refused to sign.

  The claim adjuster had recourse to a ruse. “I am an autograph collector,” he said slyly. “Unfortunately, I have not my album with me, but if you will be so kind as to sign this piece of paper which I happened to have in my pocket, you will make me very happy. When I return home, I will immediately transfer your autograph to a distinguished place in my collection.”

  Befuddled by the pain in his injured eye, Lem signed in order to be rid of the importunate fellow, then bent again to the task of finding his store teeth. He finally discovered them deep in the mud of the bridle path. After carefully prying the set loose, he went to a public drinking fountain for the dual purpose of bathing both it and his hurt eye.

  12

  While he busied himself at the fountain, a young man approached. This stranger was distinguished from the usual run by his long black hair which tumbled in waves over the back of his collar and by an unusually high and broad forehead. On his head he wore a soft, black hat with an enormously wide brim. Both his tie, which was Windsor, and his gestures, which were Latin, floated with the same graceful freedom as his hair.

  “Excuse me,” said this odd-appearing individual, “but I witnessed your heroic act and I wish to take the liberty of congratulating you. In these effete times, it is rare indeed for one to witness a hero in action.”

  Lem was embarrassed. He hurriedly replaced his teeth and thanked the stranger for his praise. He continued, however, to bathe his wounded eye, which was still giving him considerable pain.

  “Let me introduce myself,” the young man continued. “I am Sylvanus Snodgrasse, a poet both by vocation and avocation. May I ask your name?”

  “Lemuel Pitkin,” answered our hero, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was suspicious of this self-styled “poet.” In fact there were many things about him that reminded Lem of Mr. Wellington Mape.

  “Mr. Pitkin,” he said grandly, “I intend to write an ode about the deed performed by you this day. You do not perhaps appreciate, having a true hero’s modesty, the significance, the classicality—if I may be permitted a neologism—of your performance. Poor Boy, Flying Team, Banker’s Daughter…it’s in the real American tradition and perfectly fitted to my native lyre. Fie on your sickly Prousts, U.S. poets must write about the U.S.”

  Our hero did not venture to comment on these sentiments. For one thing, his eye hurt so much that even his sense of hearing was occupied with the pain.

  Snodgrasse kept talking, and soon a crowd of curious people gathered around him and poor Lemuel. The “poet” no longer addressed our hero, but the crowd in general.

  “Gentlemen,” said he in a voice that carried all the way to Central Park South, “and ladies, I am moved by this youth’s heroism to venture a few remarks.

  “There have been heroes before him—Leonidas, Quintus Maximus, Wolfe Tone, Deaf Smith, to mention only a few—but this should not prevent us from hailing L. Pitkin as the hero, if not of our time, at least of the immediate past.

  “One of the most striking things about his heroism is the dominance of the horse motif, involving, as it does, not one but two horses. This is important because the depression has made all us Americans conscious of certain spiritual lacks, not the least of which is the symbolic horse.

  “Every great nation has its symbolic horses. The grandeur that was Greece is made immortal by those marvelous equines, half god, half beast, still to be seen in the corners of the Parthenon pediment. Rome, the eternal city, how perfectly is her glory caught in those martial steeds that rear their fearful forms to Titus’s triumph! And Venice, Queen of the Adriatic, has she not her winged sea horses, kindred to both air and water?

  “Alas, only we are without. Do not point to General Sherman’s horse or I will be angry, for that craven hack, that crowbait, is nothing. I repeat, nothing. ‘What I want is for all my hearers to go home and immediately write to their congressmen demanding that a statue depicting Pitkin’s heroic act be erected in every public park throughout our great country.”

  Although Sylvanus Snodgrasse kept on in this vein for quite some time, I will stop reporting his oration to acquaint you, dear reader, with his real purpose. As you have probably surmised, it was not so innocent as it seemed. The truth is that while he kept the crowd amused, his confederates circulated freely among its members and picked their pockets.

  They had succeeded in robbing the whole crowd, including our hero, when a policeman made his appearance. Snodgrasse immediately discontinued his address and hurried off after his henchmen.

  The officer dispersed the gathering and everyone moved away except Lem, who was lying on the ground in a dead faint. The bluecoat, thinking that the poor boy was drunk, kicked him a few times, but when several hard blows in the groin failed to budge him, he decided to call an ambulance.

  13

  One wintry morning, several weeks after the incident in the park, Lem was dismissed from the hospital minus his right eye. It had been so severely damaged that the physicians had thought best to remove it.

  He had no money, for, as we have recounted, Snod. grasse’s henchmen had robbed him. Even the teeth that. Warden Purdy had given him were gone. They had been taken from him by the hospital authorities, who claimed that they did not fit properly and were therefore a menace to his health.

  The poor lad was standing on a windy corner, not knowing which way to turn, when he saw a man in a coonskin hat. This remarkable headgear made Lem stare, and the more he looked the more the man seemed to resemble Shagpoke Whipple.


  It was Mr. Whipple. Lem hastened to call out to him, .and the ex-President stopped to shake hands with his young friend.

  “About those inventions,” Shagpoke said immediately after they had finished greeting each other. “It was too bad that you left the penitentiary before I could hand them over to you. Not knowing your whereabouts, I perfected them myself.

  “But let us repair to a coffee place,” he added, changing the subject, “where we can talk over your prospects together. I am still very much interested in your career. In fact, my young friend, America has never had a greater need for her youth than in these parlous times.”

  After our hero had thanked him for his interest and good wishes, Mr. Whipple continued to talk. “Speaking of coffee,” he said, “did you know that the fate of our country was decided in the coffee shops of Boston during the hectic days preceding the late rebellion?”

  As they paused at the door of a restaurant, Mr. Whipple asked Lem still another question. “By the way,” he said, “I urn temporarily without funds. Are you able to meet the obligation we will incur in this place?”

  “No,” replied Lem, sadly, “I am penniless.”

  “That’s different,” said Mr. Whipple with a profound sigh. “In that case we will go where I have credit.”

  Lem was conducted by his fellow townsman to an extremely poor section of the city. After standing on line for several hours, they each received a doughnut and a cup of coffee from the Salvation Army lassie in charge. They then sat down on the curb to eat their little snack.