Boswell (22 page)

So now I follow cabs. Making one’s fortune is an intrigue, one of the great adventures.

September 12, 1950. Dallas, Texas.

This morning when Lome left the Palace he saw me and smiled. “How are you?” he asked.

I had not thought his capitulation would come so soon and I walked over to shake his hand. He ignored me and got into his taxi. I shook my fist at this snub and summoned the taxi that I had engaged. Lome’s car waited while I got into mine, and when it pulled away from the curb it moved so slowly that my driver had to follow in first gear. After fifteen minutes Lome’s cab still had not picked up any speed. I realized that we were covering the same few downtown blocks again and again. At one point Lome’s driver turned a corner unexpectedly. I reasoned that he would pick up speed, but when my cab turned to follow, there was Lome’s double-parked and waiting for us. Lome’s cab then turned onto an expressway and drove into the country. Twelve miles from the city he turned off onto a deserted country road and picked up speed. We went deeper and deeper into the countryside, the meter registering alarmingly. At last I realized what Lome was up to. It was a warning; he was telling me that his resources were endless, that I had no chance against him in such a competition.

I told my driver to turn around and go back to the hotel.

September 13, 1950. Dallas, Texas.

When Lome came out this morning and saw me he seemed very angry. I stared at him sullenly. He surprised me by coming up to me.

“I’m leaving town today,” he said. “You’d better not make any effort to follow me.”

“What’s to stop me?”

“You’d be arrested. The law protects people like me.”

“On what charge would I be arrested?”

“On what charge were you arrested here?”

“I want you to help me,” I said. “After all, you used my slogans.”

“They’re mine.”

“I made them up.”

“You signed a paper. Always have them sign a paper—a man’s signature is his own worst enemy.” He started walking, and as I fell in beside him he looked at me. “You’d better dismiss your driver,” he said.

“You won’t jump into a cab if I do?”

“Why should I? What’s Hecuba to me?”

I paid the fare on the meter and told the driver to go.

“Please, Mr. Lome,” I said, “just the name of one stock.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“An area then. What looks good? Steels? Rails? I need money.”

“Compete,” he said.

“All right then. Tell me a product. Give me the name of a product.”

Lome laughed. “Anything,” he said. “Everything.”

“Please, Mr. Lome.”

He stopped and turned to me. His face was angry. “All right,” he said, “let’s
talk
business. It’s a mine. The world is a mine. It runs on the soundest of business principles. There’s a law in physics which states that matter can neither be created nor destroyed. I like the sound of that. If I were asked what I believe in, I’d say I believed in that. Think of it:
nothing can be destroyed. Nothing.
How many times can an automobile be sold and resold? Four? Five? And then that one last time to the scrap man. Only it’s
not
the last time—the scrap man sells it to the mill and the mill turns into fresh steel and sells it and it’s a car again. Talk about life cycles, about resurrections. What’s Hecuba to me? There are people who buy lint, broken toys, government surplus, smashed glass, old newspapers. Don’t talk to me about priests—old men fiddling with wafers and wine like someone knotting a tie. Turn waste into profit. There’s religion for you: loaves and fishes, water and wine. Christ knew.”

We were passing a Woolworth’s. “I have to go in here for a minute,” Lome said.

We walked in and Lome went to the toy department. He looked at the toys critically, holding up one, then another, winding them, blowing his breath into the toy horns, posing the tin soldiers. “Look,” he said to me, pointing to a package of clay. “How much is the clay?” he asked a salesgirl.

“Fifteen cents,” she said.

He bought six packages. “Here,” he said to me, “have you got sixty cents?”

“Yes,” I said, a little confused.

“Give me,” Lome said.

I gave him the money and he handed me three packages of clay.

“They’re fifteen cents each,” I said.

“I’m your supplier. I’m entitled to a profit.”

“But I don’t
want
the clay.”

“Of course you don’t. You want tips on the market, you want to ride in the country in taxicabs. Sell the clay.”

“Who will I sell it to?”

“To a consumer. Find a consumer. There,” he said, pointing to the street, “in the marketplace.”

We went out. “Well?” Lome said.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Sell it. Sell the clay.”

“But I can’t.”

“You haven’t tried. Try.”

I went up to a woman. “Do you want to buy some clay, ma’am?” I asked her.

She looked at me as if I were crazy, and I turned to Lome helplessly.

“Here,” he said disgustedly, “watch me.”

He crossed the street and I followed him. As we walked Lome began to open his packages of clay. Each package contained five strips of colored clay, each strip about an inch and a half wide and perhaps a quarter of an inch thick. “I like to work with clay,” he said. “It’s a wonderful example of what I was saying before. Clay can neither be created nor destroyed.”

“I suppose so.”

“Coloring it—that was a stroke of genius. Adding to it. Newton never said you couldn’t add to it. That’s just merchandising. I need some newspaper. There should be one in that trash basket.”

He went over to it and I watched his arm disappear up to the elbow and reappear with a morning paper that looked as if it had been barely read. “Packaging and display,” Lome explained, showing me the newspaper. “All right,” he said, “where shall we set up shop?”

“But the police—”

“Well, we could try to get away with it, but you may be right. There are some corners which are best not cut. You stand over there by the trash basket and warn me if you see a cop.”

Lome separated the strips of colored clay and arranged them according to their colors on a sheet of the newspaper which he had spread out on the sidewalk. Already a few people had stopped to watch him. He did not look at them as he prepared the clay in little balls and slabs. He worked slowly, and gradually more people began to gather round him. Finally he stood up with a small chunk of clay in his hand. “Clay from the earth,” he said softly. And then, louder,
“Clay from the earth!”
A few of the people closest to him edged away slightly when he began to speak. “A souvenir of the world,” he called. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Clay to make feet, make men.

“Closer, Come! Gather! Yellow clay for the sun. Blue for the sea or sky. Red for the land. Ah, the red clay, the red is the saddest and best, the hardest to hold, to mold. Green clay for value, for emeralds and gems. I sell the world, the universe. White clay for the edifices and monuments of men. Not a toy, not a manufactured product. From God’s hands to you. For a remembrance.”

The people looked at each other and laughed and pointed their fingers at their temples. Lome saw them and stopped. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Do you think I would insult you with substitutes?” He broke off a piece from a lump he held. “Here,” he said, thrusting the piece into someone’s hand. “Feel it. Smell it, taste it. This is it. A chunk of the world. Real estate. You—you, sir—” He pointed to a small man at the back of the crowd. “Always go for the man at the back,” he called to me. “Sell him and then work your way to the front. My assistant, ladies and gentlemen,” he explained, pointing to me, “a humble clay gatherer.” He moved through the crowd. “You—you, sir, may I ask you a question?”

“I suppose so,” the man said, laughing nervously.

“Ah, don’t be afraid. It’s a personal question, of course. What’s the use of any other kind, eh, brother?”

The crowd laughed. “All right, friend, what I want to know is whether you own your home or rent?”

“I rent.”

“Fine. That’s fine. You rent, you say.”

“That’s right.”

“Never made it?” Lome asked suddenly, looking at the man sharply.

“What’s that? What do you mean?”

“Never made it. Never broke through. Obligations kept you a tenant. No, no, don’t be ashamed. Please. We understand. Here’s your opportunity. Clay. Clay is land, a plot. A plot for you.” Lome took another piece of clay from his pocket and molded it to the first piece. “The plot thickens,” he said, and the crowd laughed again. He pulled the piece of clay apart. “Or subdivide.” He held the piece of clay out to the man.

“It’s just clay,” the man said.

“Well, of course it is. That’s what I’ve been telling you. But don’t say it like that, brother. Don’t let me hear you say, ‘It’s just clay.’ Take that ‘just’ out. Be just. Say, ‘Why, it’s clay!’ Because that’s what it is. The emphasis is on
clay.
This is the stuff. Old Adam’s in that clay. Come on, brother. A souvenir, a remembrance of the earth. And here’s something else. I don’t know where it’s from and I don’t make any claims for it—I will not misrepresent. But that clay could be Chinese clay or Polish clay or Canadian or Argentine clay. Who can say who walked these old hills? Jesus Himself maybe, eh?

“All right, give me a nickel. That’s my price for the earth. That’s from the earth, too. We’ll trade, even steven. Clay for nickel. What’s Hecuba to me? Hey? And this is something you can take with you, friend—make no mistake about that. Beware of substitutes. Keep that nickel in your pants and they’ll turn you upside down when you die. They’ll shake you, brother. They’ll shake that nickel loose. They’ll never bury you with a nickel still in your pocket. But the clay stays. Ashes to ashes, pal, dust to dust. How about it? I’m waiting for your decision.”

“It’s worthless,” the man said.

Lome turned to the crowd. “This man has resistance. I like that in a man.” He turned back to the man suddenly and placed his hands on his lapels. “So you say it’s worthless, do you?” he shouted. “Well, I breathed
meaning
into it! What’s that worth? How much meaning you got in your life, friend, you can afford to let even five cents’ worth go by without jumping at it? You’re suspicious, are you? You’re afraid if you give me the nickel I’ve taken you. Well, maybe I have. You get taken every day, pal. Renter! Tenant! Where’s the gas you bought? Where are the phone calls? the electric? the food? What have you got to show me for the money you’ve spent? Show me something. Show me! Receipts? You hold on to that clay, you hear me? It’s dirt cheap. Cheap dirt. Give me the nickel.
Give it to me!”

Hypnotized, the man dug into his pocket and handed Lome a nickel. Turning to the others, Lome took up the clay from the newspaper and broke off pieces and handed them out as people forced their nickels on him. He laughed, taking their money, and at last held up his hands. “All gone, folks,” he said. “No more clay. I thank you for your attention.”

He came up to me. “How’d you make out with yours?” he asked.

“I’ve still go it.”

“With the great demand for clay?
It’s a seller’s market, friend.” He took the change out of his pocket and looked at it. “Not bad,” he said. “I made fifteen cents on your three packages and a dollar-twenty on mine. Deducting forty-five cents for expenses, that makes a profit of ninety cents. I doubled my money.”

“You were very good.” I was genuinely moved.

“Pigeons,” he said. “That was the lesson of the clay pigeons.”

September 14, 1950. Dallas, Texas.

Last night the drought ended. There were violent, sudden storms, lightning crackling, thunder clapping, signs and portents. The people came into the street to look at the rain.

I was with Lome in the limousine when the storm broke; he had allowed me to accompany him to the airport. He stared at the heavy rain. “I’ve got to be in Cleveland,” he said. “There’s a deal.”

“They’ll never let you take off in this weather,” I said hopefully.

“We’ll see about that.”

By the time we got to the airport it was raining even harder. Lome brooded about his vanishing opportunities. He went into the tower to plead his case, but it was no use. When he came down he was glum.

“I’ve got to be in Cleveland,” he said. “It’s an act of God, a damned act of God.” He said this as though God might be some competitor who had to make sure that Lome didn’t get to Cleveland first. “What are you grinning about?” he asked me.

“The weather works in my favor,” I said. In the limousine I had been urging him to help me.

“Bull,” he said. “You’ll get nothing out of my prolonged stay.”

We sat silently. Suddenly Lome looked up. “It has to break,” he said. “It has to.” He stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“To the tower. I want to look at those radar screens again.”

I started to follow him. “Look,” he said, “I don’t need you right now.”

I saw him stop to talk with one of the airport executives. I was miserable; I almost wished Lome might be allowed to take off. This was the end, I thought. My money, except for the sum I had set aside to invest on Lome’s advice, was all gone, and I no longer had any hope that he would help me.

More than most men I needed to be free. My controlling vision demanded it. It was grand to be a self- made man, but bliss to be an heir, a gentleman farmer, a hereditary lord, to be fixed in some sinecure where effort bred the soul’s reward. It was simple biology which finally caught up with you; it was economics that dealt the death blow. And duty was simply the food in the icebox, the roof over your head, your lousy needs, your growling upstart stomach and all the rest.

So goodbye, great men, you whose needs are met, all the folks with money in the bank and clothes in the closet, whose duty had been done, whose honorable intentions could be counted in diseases forestalled by health insurance, in down payments of one sort or another, in funds for their children’s educations. They were out of my league now, out of my neighborhood, my life. They lived in drier climates where the penny for the rainy day was a superfluity. I could, of course, continue to show up at their back doors, my hand outstretched in the pauper’s salute. but why should they listen any more than Lome had listened?