Plexus (66 page)

“I was in the same fix when I came here,” said Fletcher. “It takes time to get acquainted.… Ned, why don't you do down to the newspaper office. I've got a friend there, he's one of the editors. Maybe he can dig up something for you.”

“But I'm not a writer,” said Ned.

“Hell, Henry will write your stuff for you,” said O'Mara.

“Why don't you both go?” said Fletcher.

We were so elated with the prospect of getting a job that we all did a jig in the middle of the room.

“Let's have that one about looking for a friendly face,” begged Fletcher. We took to humming and singing again, not too loud because of Laura.

“You mustn't worry about her,” said Fletcher, “she sleeps like an angel. In fact, she
is
an angel. I honestly think that's why she's—you know. She didn't fit in our world. Sometimes I think it's a blessing she's the way she is.”

He showed us some of his work which he had stored away in big trunks. It wasn't too bad. At least he was a good draughtsman. He had been all over Europe in his youth—Paris, Munich, Rome, Prague, Budapest, Berlin. He had even won a few prizes.

“If I had my life to live all over again,” he said, “I'd do nothing at all. I'd keep tramping around the world. Why don't you fellows go west? There's still lots of room in that part of the world.”

That night we slept on the floor of Fletcher's studio. Next morning Ned and I went to see the newspaperman. After a few words I was voted out. But Ned was given a chance to write a series of articles. Naturally, I would do the dirty work.

All we had to do now was to pull our belts in until payday. Payday was
only
two weeks off.

That same day O'Mara led me round to the home of an Irish priest whose address someone had given him. We immediately got the cold shoulder from the Sister who opened the door. Descending the stoop we noticed the good Father easing his Packard out of the garage. O'Mara tried to plead with him. For encouragement he got a puff of heavy smoke from the Father's Havana cigar. “Be off with yer and don't be disturbin' the peace!” That was all Father Hoolihan deigned to say.

That evening I wandered off by my lonesome. Passing a big synagogue I heard the choir singing. It was a Hebrew prayer and it sounded enchanting. I stepped inside and took a seat far back. As soon as the service was over I went up front and collared the rabbi. “Reb,” I wanted to say, “I'm in a bad way.…” But he was a solemn looking cuss, utterly devoid of bonhomie. I told him my story
in a few words, winding up with an appeal for food, or meal tickets, and a place to flop,
if possible
. I didn't dare mention that we were three.

“But you're not a Jew, are you?” said the Reb. He squinted as if he couldn't make me out clearly.

“No, but I'm hungry. What difference does it make what I am?”

“Why don't you try the Christian churches?”

“I have,” I replied. “Besides, I'm not a Christian either. I'm just a Gentile.”

Grudgingly he wrote a few words on a slip of paper, saying that I was to present the message to the man at the Salvation Army. I went there immediately, only to be told that they had no room.

“Can you give me something to eat?” I begged.

I was informed that the dining room had been closed hours ago.

“I'll eat anything,” I said, clinging to the man at the desk. “Haven't you got a rotten orange or a rotten banana?”

He looked at me strangely. He was unmoved.

“Can you give me a dime—just a dime?” I begged.

Disgustedly he fished into his pocket and flung me the dime.

“Now clear out of here!” he said. “You loafers belong up North where you came from.”

I turned on my heel and walked away without a word. On the main street I saw a pleasant looking fellow selling newspapers. Something about his looks encouraged me to address him.

“Hullo,” I said, “how goes it?”

“Not too bad, buddy. Where are you from—
New York?”

“Yeah, and you?”

“Jersey City.”

“Shake!”

A few minutes later I was hawking the few papers he had
given me. It took me about an hour to get rid of them. But I had earned a few pennies. I hurried back to the “Y” and found O'Mara dozing behind a newspaper in a big armchair.

“Let's go and eat,” I said, shaking him vigorously.

“Yeah,” he responded derisively, “let's go to Delmonico's.”

“No, seriously,” I said. “I just made a few cents, enough for coffee and doughnuts. Come on.”

At once he was on his feet. As we hurried along I told him briefly what had happened.

“Let's find that guy,” he said, “he sounds like a friend. From Jersey City, eh? Swell!”

Mooney was the name of the newsie. He knocked off to have a bite with us.

“You can sleep in my room,” said Mooney, “I've got an extra couch. It's better than sleeping in the jail.”

The next day, towards noon, we followed his advice and went to the rear of the newspaper office to get a bundle of papers. Our friend Mooney of course had lent us the money to buy the papers. There were about fifty kids milling around, all trying to get their bundles first. I had to bend over a windowsill and haul them out through the iron bars. Suddenly I felt someone crawling up my back. It was a little darkie, trying to reach over my head for his bundle. I got him off my back and he crawled between my legs. The kids were all laughing and jeering. I had to laugh myself. Anyway, we were soon loaded and marching up the main street. It was the hardest thing in the world for me to open my mouth and yell. I tried shoving the papers at the passers-by. That didn't work at all.

I was standing there, looking rather foolish, I suppose, when Mooney came along. “That's no way to sell papers,” he said. “Here, watch me!” And with this he whirls around, flashing the paper and yelling “Extra! Extra! All about the big broo … siiis.…” I wondered what the great news was, unable to catch the important word at
the end of his phrase. I looked at the front page to see what the headline was. There was no headline. There didn't seem to be any news at all, in fact.

“Yell anything,” said Mooney, “but yell it at the top of your lungs! And don't stand in one spot.
Keep moving!
You've got to hustle if you want to get rid of them before the next edition is out.”

I did my best. I hustled up and down the main street, then ducked into the side streets. Soon I found myself in the park. I had sold only three or four papers. I put the bundle on the ground and sat down on a bench to watch the ducks swimming in the pond. All the invalids, recuperationists and valetudinarians were out sunning themselves. The park seemed more like the recreation grounds of an Old Soldiers' Home. An old codger beside me asked to borrow a paper to see what the weather report was like. I waited drowsily and blissfully while he read the paper from front to back. When he handed it back to me I tried to fold it neatly so that it wouldn't look shopworn.

On my way out of the park a cop stopped me to buy a paper. That almost unnerved me.

By the time the next edition was due on the streets I had sold exactly seven papers. I hunted up O'Mara. He had done a little better, but nothing to brag about.

“Mooney's going to be disappointed,” he said.

“I know it. I guess we're not cut out to peddle papers. It's a job for kids—or for a hustler like Mooney.”

“You said it, Henry.”

We had coffee and doughnuts again. Better than nothing. It was food and food was what we needed. All that walking up and down, and with a heavy bundle, gave one a furious appetite. I wondered just how long I would be able to stick it out.

Later in the day we ran into Mooney again. We apologized for our inability to do better.

“Forget about it,” he said. “I understand. Listen, let me lend you five bucks. Scout around for something better.
You're not cut out for this kind of thing. I'll see you tonight at the lunch counter. O.K.?” He hustled off, waving his hand cheerily.

“That's what you call a swell guy,” said O'Mara. “Now, b'Jesus, we've really got to land something. Come on, let's strike out!”

We set off straight ahead, neither of us having the faintest notion what we were looking for or how to find it. A few blocks farther on we met up with a cheerful looking guy who tried to hit us up for a dime.

He was a coal miner from Pennsylvania. Trapped, like us. Over a coffee and doughnut we got to exchanging ideas.

“Tell you what,” he said, “Let's go down to the redlight district tonight. You're always welcome if you can buy a drink. You don't have to go upstairs with the gals. Anyway, it's cozy and comfortable—and you can hear some music. Damned sight better than sitting around in the morgue.” (Meaning the “Y”)

That evening, over a few drinks, he asked us whether we had ever been converted.

Converted?
We wondered what he was driving at.

He explained. Seems there were always a few guys hanging around “the morgue” who were eager to win converts to the church. Even the Mormons had their scouts out. The thing was, he explained, to listen innocently and appear interested. “If the fool thinks he's hooking you, you can worm a meal out of him easy as pie. Try it sometime. They're on to me—I can't work it any more.”

We stayed in the whorehouse as long as we possibly could. Every so often a new girl showed up, made a few passes at us, and gave up.

“It's not exactly Paradise for them,” said our friend. “A dollar a crack, and the house gets the best part of it. Still, some of them don't look so bad, do they?”

We looked them over appraisingly. A pathetic bunch, even more pathetic looking than the Salvation Army
lassies. All of them chewing gum, humming, whistling, trying to look appealing. One or two, I noticed, were yawning, rubbing their bleary eyes.

“At least they eat regularly.” This from O'Mara.

“Yeah, there's something to that,” said our friend. “I'd rather go hungry, myself.”

“I don't know,” said I. “If I had to choose… if I were a woman … I'm not sure but what I'd take a crack at it. At least till I got fattened up a bit.”

“You
think
so,” said our friend, “but you're mistaken. You don't get fat on this job, let me tell you that.”

“How about that one?” said O'Mara, pointing out a ton of lard.

“She was born fat, anyone can see that. Besides, she's a booze artist.”

That night, on the way back to nowhere, I got to wondering about Mona. Only one little note from her since our arrival. True, she wasn't much of a letter writer. Nor was she very explicit about anything. All I had gleaned from her note was that she was going to be dispossessed any day. And then what? I wondered.

The next day I hung around the “Y” most of the day, hoping, or praying rather, that someone would start working on me. I was ready and willing to be converted to anything, even to Mormonism. But no one gave me a tumble. Towards evening I got a bright idea. It was so simple a stunt that I wondered why it hadn't occurred to me sooner. However, one has to get truly desperate before one thinks of such simple solutions.

What was the bright idea? To go from shop to shop asking only for foodstuffs which they were ready to throw out: stale bread, spoiled fruit, sour milk.… I never realized at the time how similar was my plan to the begging tactics of St. Francis. He too had demanded only what was unfit to eat. The difference was, of course, that he had a mission to perform. I was merely trying to keep afloat. A grand difference!

Nevertheless, it worked like a charm. O'Mara took one side of the street, I the other. By the time we met at the end of the block our arms were full. We rushed over to Fletcher's place, got hold of Ned, and prepared for a feast.

To be truthful, the scraps and the waste which we had gathered was far from being repugnant. We had all eaten tainted meat before, though not intentionally; the vegetables needed only to be trimmed; the stale bread made excellent toast; the sour milk gave the overripe fruit a delicious quality. A Chinese coolie would have regarded our repast as a luxurious one. All that lacked was a bit of wine to wash down the stale rat cheese. However, there was coffee on hand and a bit of condensed milk. We were elated. We ate like wolves.

“Too bad we didn't think of inviting Mooney,” said O'Mara.

“Who's Mooney?” asked Ned.

We explained. Ned listened with mouth open.

“Jesus, Henry,” he said. “I can't get over it. And me sitting upstairs in the front office all the while. Selling
your
stuff under
my
name—and you guys peddling papers! I'll have to tell Ulric about it. … By the way, have you seen the stuff you wrote? They think it's pretty good, did I tell you?”

I had forgotten all about the articles. Perhaps I read them, during those comas at the “Y,” and never realized that it was I who wrote them.

“Henry,” said Fletcher, “you ought to get back to New York. It's all right for these lads to waste their time, but not you. I have a hunch you're cut out for something big.”

I blushed and tried to pass it off.

“Come,” said Fletcher, “don't be so modest. You've got qualities, anyone can see that. I don't know what you're going to become—saint, poet, or philosopher. But you're an artist, that's definite. And what's more, you're unspoiled. You have a way of forgetting yourself that tells me a lot about you.”

Ned, who was still feeling guilty, applauded Fletcher warmly. “As soon as I get my check, Henry,” he said, “I'll give you the train fare back home. That's the
least
I can do. O'Mara and I will stick it out. Eh, Ted? You're a veteran: you've been on the bum since you were ten years old.”