Atop an Underwood (8 page)

“You said it, Dick,” agrees the accoster.

And now comes the pause. Both sides have given short accounts of their contemporary progress. Life, at this very moment, is hinging on jobs, day-shifts and night-shifts, school, how one is doing, and studies. Life, that rich adventure, is narrowed down to a few terse sentences and obliging smiles; it has lost its grand luster, it has become nothing but a sidewalk conversation, looking into a mill-hand's fretful eyes, smelling the smoke of his cigarette, noticing his oil-stained overalls, and being open for the outpouring of the mill-hand ego-universe—a universe of the terror and death of early morning, of walking to the mill in the cold morning drawing from a cigarette butt, of the tin lunch-box, of the terrible maw of the mill with its full-faced heat and aromatic dyes, of walking home in the sunset, of a supper tasting cotton, of standing on the corner and discussing the Red Sox, of going to bed because you have to get up early to go to work.

The pause is just long enough, and to the experienced mind of Richard, it means the end.

“Well,” smiles Walt, the millworker. “I'll be seein' you Dick. So long!”

“So long!” smiles Richard, turning up the street to resume his walk. “Take it easy.”

And now life broadens suddenly and swiftly. Life is no longer the ego-universe of the millworker. It is the ego-universe of Richard Vesque, and consequently, so much better and greater and more appropriate. The ego-universe of Richard Vesque is the greatest ego-universe of all time.

Walking home from school, it seems to Richard Vesque that he must hurry. There is no reason for it, because it is two o'clock in the afternoon and there is no one home, but nevertheless Richard walks swiftly and eats up the distance eagerly. Something prods him to hasten; he knows there is nothing at home but the kitchen with food in it for him to eat, and an empty, silent house. Yet he hurries as if he had an appointment with someone that he must keep. And, as a result, he suddenly finds himself at the foot of the staircase leading up three flights to the flat. He opens the mailbox, locks, and slams it. He starts to climb the stairs. At each floor, he turns wearily with hand on the banister post, and begins another ascension. Finally, he stands before his door. He is heaving and panting, and there is a clammy sweat on his face. The banister itself is clammy. The gray light outdoors finds its way into this hallway and renders it dark-gray, sad, and dimly sullen. Richard sees this, and unlocks the door leading to his home. He walks across the threshold and closes the door, and then crosses the flat to his room where he literally tears off his clothing and flops onto his bed, almost nude, with a tremendous sigh. At this gray moment in life, Richard thinks that he cannot make it; that he is not equal to life, and will soon have to give up; it is too hot, too humid, his hair is too often in his face, he is too skinny, it is too gray and gloomy and discouraging outside, there is no great symphony of conquest ringing through the corridors of his world, only a long series of dull days. Life is too funereal, too painful, and has no rewards.

Richard lies there on his back, wearing only a small pair of trunks, and stares at the cracks in the ceiling, noticing how they resolve themselves into shapes of mountains. It is two o'clock in the afternoon, the house is empty, and life drags on.

There is a copy of William Saroyan's short stories on the bed. Richard picks it up, reads a few lines, and drops it again. His eyes are too heavy and his mind too despondent; he couldn't read a page if he had to, even Bill Saroyan. Richard closes his eyes and feels his nude body begin to cool, until finally his body begins to be coldly clammy. It clamors for the need of warmth. Richard moves his tired bones, slithers in bed, and then stays limp.

“I can't make it,” he says out loud. “I'm going to die like this, freezing in a cold, empty house, at two o'clock in the afternoon on a gray day.”

Five minutes of staring at the ceiling and thinking of nothing, and then Richard finally rolls over and over to the edge of the bed, and then swings his legs down. With a crazy little cry, Richard begins to dance around the room, and then with a mad whimsy, takes a swan dive back onto the bed where he lies with his face submerged in the pillow. He yelps into the pillow, and then he makes ominous dragon growls. Then he rolls over and over until he again swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He stares at the floor, sighing through his teeth and making crazy sounds come out of his throat.

“I'm crazy,” he concludes, beginning to dress.

Dressed, he goes to the kitchen and opens the pantry door. He finds a box of crackers, takes it down. He finds some peanut butter, and some cold milk in the ice box. With a knife, he butters the crackers; he pours the foaming milk into a glass, and seats himself at the table, putting a newspaper under his meal. It is the funny page, and as he eats and drinks, he studies the comics carefully. Even the funnies are gray and colorless, but although their world does not cry with color and dazzling light, their deeds are romantic. Richard turns on the radio to an all-day recording program, and listens to the announcer making his commercial with a trained, enthusiastic, precise voice. And then the music comes on, and the empty house is filled with music, but it's only from the radio. Life is still gray; the music is joyful, but it is a sad joy that does not go beyond the radio, and fails to penetrate the invincible gray wall of life. It is a music that is thwarted, yet goes on self-sufficient and self-satisfied.

Richard goes to the window and looks down the street. A yellow bus goes by and a man comes down the street on a bicycle. A newspaper boy is untying his pile of papers, his wagon ready. Somebody is coming out of the barber shop, yelling back into it and laughing as he goes across the street to the Club. Inside the Club, Richard thinks, he will have a glass of beer to celebrate his new haircut. Richard presses his nose against the window pane and crosses his eyes. “What a screwy world this is!” he says out loud. “There's nothing in it. Everything is gray, even my eyes.”

Richard gets up from the chair and goes to his room. He lies down on the bed and drowses off, saying: “To hell with it. I'm going to sleep it off.”

And he does.