When he looks back at her, she has picked up a rag to wash the kitchen sink. . . .
When the haircut, shave, sun treatment, and the rest were over, I sat in the chair limply, feeling light, and slick, and clean, and Matt whisked the neckcloth off and offered me a second mirror to see the reflection of the back of my head. Seeing myself in the front mirror looking into the back mirror, as he held it for me, it tilted for an instant into the one angle that produced the illusion of depth; endless corridors of myself . . . looking at myself . . . looking at myself . . . looking at myself . . . looking . . .
Which one? Who was I?
I thought of not telling him. What good was it for him to know? Just go away and not reveal who I was. Then I remembered that I wanted him to know. He had to admit that I was alive, that I was someone. I wanted him to boast about me to the customers tomorrow as he gave haircuts and shaves. That would make it all real. If he knew I was his son, then I would be a person.
“Now that you’ve got the hair off my face, maybe you’ll know me,” I said as I stood up, waiting for a sign of recognition.
He frowned. “What is this? A gag?”
I assured him it was not a gag, and if he looked and thought hard enough he would know me. He shrugged and turned to put his combs and scissors away. “I got no time for guessing games. Got to close up. That’ll be three-fifty.”
What if he didn’t remember me? What if this was only an absurd fantasy? His hand was out for the money, but I made no move toward my wallet. He had to remember me. He had to know me.
But no—of course not—and as I felt the sour taste in my mouth and the sweat in my palms, I knew that in a minute I would be sick. But I didn’t want that in front of him.
“Hey, you all right?”
“Yes . . . just . . . wait . . .” I stumbled into one of the chrome chairs and bent forward gasping for breath, waiting for the blood to come back to my head. My stomach was churning. Oh, God, don’t let me faint now. Don’t let me look ridiculous in front of him.
“Water . . . some water, please . . .” Not so much for the drink as to make him turn away. I didn’t want him to see me like this after all these years. By the time he returned with a glass, I felt a little better.
“Here, drink this. Rest a minute. You’ll be okay.” He stared at me as I sipped the cool water, and I could see him struggling with half-forgotten memories. “Do I really know you from somewhere?”
“No . . . I’m okay. I’ll leave in a minute.”
How could I tell him? What was I supposed to say? Here, look at me, I’m Charlie, the son you wrote off the books? Not that I blame you for it, but here I am, all fixed up better than ever. Test me. Ask me questions. I speak twenty languages, living and dead; I’m a mathematical whiz, and I’m writing a piano concerto that will make them remember me long after I’m gone.
How could I tell him?
How absurd I was sitting in his shop, waiting for him to pat me on the head and say, “Good boy.” I wanted his approval, the old glow of satisfaction that came to his face when I learned to tie my own shoelaces and button my sweater. I had come here for that look in his face, but I knew I wouldn’t get it.
“You want me to call a doctor?”
I wasn’t his son. That was another Charlie. Intelligence and knowledge had changed me, and he would resent me—as the others from the bakery resented me—because my growth diminished him. I didn’t want that.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Sorry to be a nuisance.” I got up and tested my legs. “Something I ate. I’ll let you close up now.”
As I headed towards the door, his voice called after me sharply. “Hey, wait a minute!” His eyes met mine with suspicion. “What are you trying to pull?”
“I don’t understand.”
His hand was out, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “You owe me three-fifty.”
I apologized as I paid him, but I could see that he didn’t believe it. I gave him five, told him to keep the change, and hurried out of his barbershop without looking back.
June 21—I’ve added time sequences of increasing complexity to the three dimensional maze, and Algernon learns them easily. There is no need to motivate him with food or water. He appears to learn for the sake of solving the problem—success appears to be its own reward.
But, as Burt pointed out at the convention, his behavior is erratic. Sometimes after, or even during a run, he will rage, throw himself against the walls of the maze, or curl up and refuse to work at all. Frustration? Or something deeper?
5:30 P.M.—That crazy Fay came in through the fire escape this afternoon with a female white mouse—about half Algernon’s size—to keep him company, she said, on these lonely summer nights. She quickly overcame all my objections and convinced me that it would do Algernon good to have companionship. After I assured myself that little “Minnie” was of sound health and good moral character, I agreed. I was curious to see what he would do when confronted with a female. But once we had put Minnie into Algernon’s cage, Fay grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the room.
“Where’s your sense of romance?” she insisted. She turned on the radio, and advanced toward me menacingly. “I’m going to teach you the latest steps.”
How can you get annoyed at a girl like Fay?
At any rate, I’m glad that Algernon is no longer alone.
June 23—Late last night the sound of laughter in the hallway and a tapping on my door. It was Fay and a man.
“Hi, Charlie,” she giggled as she saw me. “Leroy, meet Charlie. He’s my across-the-hall neighbor. A wonderful artist. He does sculpture with a living element.”
Leroy caught hold of her and kept her from bumping into the wall. He looked at me nervously and mumbled a greeting.
“Met Leroy at the Stardust Ballroom,” she explained. “He’s a terrific dancer.” She started into her apartment and then pulled him back. “Hey,” she giggled, “why don’t we invite Charlie over for a drink and make it a party?”
Leroy didn’t think it was a good idea.
I managed an apology and pulled away. Behind my closed door, I heard them laughing their way into her apartment, and though I tried to read, the pictures kept forcing their way into my mind: a big white bed . . . white cool sheets and the two of them in each other’s arms.
I wanted to phone Alice, but I didn’t. Why torment myself? I couldn’t even visualize Alice’s face. I could picture Fay, dressed or undressed, at will, with her crisp blue eyes and her blonde hair braided and coiled around her head like a crown. Fay was clear, but Alice was wrapped in mist.
About an hour later I heard shouting from Fay’s apartment, then her scream and the sound of things being thrown, but as I started out of bed to see if she needed help, I heard the door slam—Leroy cursing as he left. Then, a few minutes afterward, I heard a tapping on my living room window. It was open, and Fay slipped in and sat on the ledge, a black silk kimono revealing lovely legs.
“Hi,” she whispered, “got a cigareet?”
I handed her one and she slipped down from the window ledge to the couch. “Whew!” she sighed, “I can usually take care of myself, but there’s one type that’s so hungry it’s all you can do to hold them off.”
“Oh,” I said, “you brought him up here to hold him off.”
She caught my tone and looked up sharply. “You don’t approve?”
“Who am I to disapprove? But if you pick up a guy in a public dance hall you’ve got to expect advances. He had the right to make a pass at you.”
She shook her head. “I go to the Stardust Ballroom because I like to dance, and I don’t see that because I let a guy bring me home I’ve got to go to bed with him. You don’t think I went to bed with him, do you?”
My image of the two of them in each other’s arms popped like soap bubbles.
“Now if you were the guy,” she
said, “it would be different.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just what it sounds like. If you asked me, I’d go to bed with you.”
I tried to keep my composure. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Charlie, I can’t figure you out. Most men like me or not, and I know it right away. But you seem afraid of me. You’re not a homosexual, are you?”
“Hell, no!”
“I mean you don’t have to hide it from me if you are, because then we could be just good friends. But I’d have to know.”
“I’m not a homosexual. Tonight, when you went into your place with that guy, I wished it was me.”
She leaned forward and the kimono open at the neck revealed her bosom. She slipped her arms around me, waiting for me to do something. I knew what was expected of me, and I told myself there was no reason not to. I had the feeling there would be no panic now—not with her. After all, I wasn’t the one making the advances. And she was different from any woman I’d ever met before. Perhaps she was right for me at this emotional level.
I slipped my arms around her.
“That’s different,” she cooed. “I was beginning to think you didn’t care.”
“I care,” I whispered, kissing her throat. But as I did it, I saw the two of us, as if I were a third person standing in the doorway. I was watching a man and woman in each other’s arms. But seeing myself that way, from a distance, left me unresponsive. There was no panic, it was true, but there was also no excitement—no desire.
“Your place or mine?” she asked.
“Wait a minute.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Maybe we’d better not. I don’t feel well this evening.”
She looked at me wonderingly. “Is there anything else? . . . Anything you want me to do? . . . I don’t mind . . .”
“No, that’s not it,” I said sharply. “I just don’t feel well tonight.” I was curious about the ways she had of getting a man excited, but this was no time to start experimenting. The solution to my problem lay elsewhere.
I didn’t know what else to say to her. I wished she’d go away, but I didn’t want to tell her to go. She was studying me, and then finally she said, “Look, do you mind if I spend the night here?”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I like you. I don’t know. Leroy might come back. Lots of reasons. If you don’t want me to . . .”
She caught me off guard again. I might have found a dozen excuses to get rid of her, but I gave in.
“Got any gin?” she asked.
“No, I don’t drink much.”
“I’ve got some in my place. I’ll bring it over.” Before I could stop her she was out the window and a few minutes later she returned with a bottle about two-thirds full, and a lemon. She took two glasses from my kitchen and poured some gin into each. “Here,” she said, “this’ll make you feel better. It’ll take the starch out of those straight lines. That’s what’s bugging you. Everything is too neat and straight and you’re all boxed in. Like Algernon in his sculpture there.”
I wasn’t going to at first, but I felt so lousy that I figured why not. It couldn’t make things any worse, and it might possibly dull the feeling that I was watching myself through eyes that didn’t understand what I was doing.
She got me drunk.
I remember the first drink, and getting into bed, and her slipping in beside me with the bottle in her hand. And that was all until this afternoon when I got up with a hangover.
She was still asleep, face to the wall, her pillow bunched up under her neck. On the night table beside the ash tray overflowing with crushed butts stood the empty bottle, but the last thing I remembered before the curtain came down was watching myself take the second drink.
She stretched and rolled toward me—nude. I moved back and fell out of bed. I grabbed a blanket to wrap around myself.
“Hi,” she yawned. “You know what I want to do one of these days?”
“What?”
“Paint you in the nude. Like Michelangelo’s ‘David.’ You’d be beautiful. You okay?”
I nodded. “Except for a headache. Did I—uh—drink too much last night?”
She laughed and propped herself up on one elbow. “You were loaded. And boy did you act queer—I don’t mean fairyish or anything like that but strange.”
“What”—I said, struggling to work the blanket around so that I could walk—“is that supposed to mean? What did I do?”
“I’ve seen guys get happy, or sad, or sleepy, or sexy, but I never saw anyone act the way you did. It’s a good thing you don’t drink often. Oh, my God, I only wish I had a camera. What a short subject you’d have made.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake, what’d I do?”
“Not what I expected. No sex, or anything like that. But you were phenomenal. What an act! The weirdest. You’d be great on the stage. You’d wow them at the Palace. You went all confused and silly. You know, as if a grown man starts acting like a kid. Talking about how you wanted to go to school and learn to read and write so you could be smart like everyone else. Crazy stuff like that. You were a different person—like they do with method-acting—and you kept saying you couldn’t play with me because your mother would take away your peanuts and put you in a cage.”
“Peanuts?”
“Yeah! So help me!” she laughed, scratching her head. “And you kept saying I couldn’t have your peanuts. The weirdest. But I tell you, the way you talked! Like those dimwits on street corners, who work themselves up by just looking at a girl. A different guy completely. At first I thought you were just kidding around, but now I think you’re compulsive or something. All this neatness and worrying about everything.”
It didn’t upset me, although I would have expected it to. Somehow, getting drunk had momentarily broken down the conscious barriers that kept the old Charlie Gordon hidden deep in my mind. As I suspected all along, he was not really gone. Nothing in our minds is ever really gone. The operation had covered him over with a veneer of education and culture, but emotionally he was there—watching and waiting.
What was he waiting for?
“You okay now?”
I told her I was fine.
She grabbed the blanket I was wrapped in, and pulled me back into bed. Before I could stop her she slipped her arms around me and kissed me. “I was scared last night, Charlie. I thought you flipped. I’ve heard about guys who are impotent, how it suddenly gets them and they become maniacs.”
“How come you stayed?”
She shrugged. “Well, you were like a scared little kid. I was sure you wouldn’t hurt me, but I thought you might hurt yourself. So I figured I’d hang around. I felt so sorry. Anyway, I kept this handy, just in case . . .” She pulled out a heavy book end she had wedged between the bed and the wall.
“I guess you didn’t have to use it.”
She shook her head. “Boy, you must have liked peanuts when you were a kid.”
She got out of bed and started to dress. I lay there for a while watching her. She moved in front of me with no shyness or inhibition. Her breasts were full as she had painted them in that self-portrait. I longed to reach out for her, but I knew it was futile. In spite of the operation Charlie was still with me.
And Charlie was afraid of losing his peanuts.
June 24—Today I went on a strange kind of anti-intellectual binge. If I had dared to, I would have gotten drunk, but after the experience with Fay, I knew it would be dangerous. So, instead, I went to Times Square, from movie house to movie house, immersing myself in westerns and horror movies—the way I used to. Each time, sitting through the picture, I would find myself whipped with guilt. I’d walk out in the middle of the picture and wander into another one. I told myself I was looking for something in
the make-believe screen world that was missing from my new life.
Then, in a sudden intuition, right outside the Keno Amusement Center, I knew it wasn’t the movies I wanted, but the audiences. I wanted to be with the people around me in the darkness.
The walls between people are thin here, and if I listen quietly, I hear what is going on. Greenwich Village is like that too. Not just being close—because I don’t feel it in a crowded elevator or on the subway during the rush—but on a hot night when everyone is out walking, or sitting in the theater, there is a rustling, and for a moment I brush against someone and sense the connection between the branch and trunk and the deep root. At such moments my flesh is thin and tight, and the unbearable hunger to be part of it drives me out to search in the dark corners and blind alleys of the night.
Usually, when I’m exhausted from walking, I go back to the apartment and drop off into a deep sleep, but tonight instead of going up to my own place I went to the diner. There was a new dishwasher, a boy of about sixteen, and there was something familiar about him, his movements, the look in his eyes. And then, clearing away the table behind me, he dropped some dishes.
They crashed to the floor, shattering and sending bits of white china under the tables. He stood there, dazed and frightened, holding the empty tray in his hand. The whistles and catcalls from the customers (cries of “hey, there go the profits!” . . . “Mazel tov!” . . . and “well, he didn’t work here very long . . .” which invariably seem to follow the breaking of dishware in a public restaurant) confused him.
When the owner came to see what the excitement was about, the boy cowered—threw up his arms as if to ward off a blow.
“All right! All right, you dope,” shouted the man, “don’t just stand there! Get the broom and sweep up that mess. A broom . . . a broom! you idiot! It’s in the kitchen. Sweep up all the pieces.”
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