Plexus (67 page)

O'Mara grinned. Now that he had found a way to get food his spirits rose.

Besides, there was Mooney, to whom he had taken quite a fancy. He was certain that between them they could cook up something.

“But who'll write the articles for the paper?”

“I've already taken care of that,” said Ned. “They're making me layout man next week. That's right up my alley. The chances are I'll be making real dough soon.”

“Maybe you'll be able to throw something my way,” said Fletcher.

“I've thought of that too,” said Ned. “If Ted here will take care of the food problem I'll answer for the rest. It's only a few days now till payday.”

Again we slept at Fletcher's place. I passed a sleepless night, not because the floor was hard but because of Mona. Now that there was a chance to return I couldn't get back quickly enough. The whole night long I racked my brain to find a quick way out. Towards dawn it occurred to me that possibly the old man would send me part of the fare at least. If only I got as far as Richmond it would help.

Bright and early I went to the telegraph office to wire the old man. By nightfall the money had arrived—for a full trip. I borrowed an extra five bucks from Mooney, so as to eat, and that same evening I was off.

The moment I boarded the train I felt like a new man. Before half an hour had passed I had completely forgotten Jacksonville. What luxury to doze off in an upholstered seat! The strange thing was that I found myself writing again—in my head. Yes, I was positively itching to get to
the machine. It seemed like a century ago that I had written the last line.… I wondered vaguely, dreamily, where I would find Mona, what we would do next, where we would live, and so on. Nothing was of too great consequence. It was so damned good to be sitting in that comfortable coach—with a five dollar bill in my pocket.… Maybe a guardian angel
was
looking after me! I thought of Fletcher's parting words. Was I really an artist? Of course I was. But I had yet to prove it.… Finally I congratulated myself on having had such a bitter experience. “Experience is golden,” I kept repeating to myself. It sounded a bit silly, but it lulled me into a peaceful slumber.

Back to the old homestead, or to put it another way—back to the street of early sorrows. Mona lives with her family, I with mine. The only way—
pro tem
—to solve the economic problem. As soon as I've sold a few stories we'll find a place of our own again.

From the time the old man leaves for the tailor shop until he returns for dinner I'm hard at it—every day. Every day we talk to each other, Mona and I, over the phone; sometimes we meet at noon to have a bite together in some cheap restaurant. Not often enough, however, to please Mona. She's going mad with fear, doubts, jealousy. Simply can't believe that I'm writing day in and day out from morn to dusk.

Now and then, of course, I knock off to do “research work.” I have a hundred different ideas to exploit, all of them demanding investigation and documentation. I'm
running on all eight cylinders now: when I sit down to the machine it just flows off my fingers.

At the moment I'm putting the finishing touches to a self-portrait which I'm calling “The Failure.” (I haven't the remotest suspicion that a man named Papini, a man living in Italy, will soon produce a book by this very title.)

I wouldn't say it was an ideal place to work—my parents' home. I sit at the front window, hidden by the lace curtains, one eye open for callers. The rule of the house is—if you see a visitor coming, duck! And that's exactly what I do each time—duck into the clothes closet, with typewriter, books, papers and everything. Fantastic! (I call myself “the family skeleton.” Sometimes I get brilliant ideas hidden away in the dark folds of the clothes closet—induced no doubt by the acrid smell of camphor balls. My thoughts come so fast that it is almost unbearable to wait until the visitor leaves. In utter darkness I make illegible notes on odd bits of paper. (Just key words and phrases.) As for breathing, no trouble at all. I can hold my breath for three hours,
if necessary
.

Coming out of the hole my mother is sure to exclaim: “You shouldn't smoke so much!” The smoke has to be explained, you see. Her line is: “Henry was just here.” Hearing her give this feeble explanation to a caller I sometimes stuff my mouth with a coat sleeve for fear of breaking loose with a chortle.

Now and then she hands me this: “Can't you make your stories shorter?” Her thought—poor soul!—is that the sooner I finish them the quicker I will be paid. She doesn't want to hear about rejection slips. Acts almost as though she didn't believe in them.

“What are you writing about now?” she asks one morning.

“Numismatics,” I tell her.

“What's that?”

I explain in a few words.

“Do you think people really want to read such things?”

I wonder to myself what she would say if I were to tell her the truth, tell her about “The Failure.”

The old man is more amenable. I sense that he doesn't expect anything to come of all this nonsense, but he's curious and at least pretends to be interested in what I'm doing. He doesn't quite know what to make of the fact that he has a son twice-married, and the father of a child, who sits in the dining room day after day tapping away on a typewriter. At bottom he has confidence in me. He knows I'll get somewhere some day somehow. He's not uneasy in his soul.

Around the corner, where I trot each morning to get the paper and a pack of cigarettes, is a little store run by a newcomer—a Mr. Cohen. He's the only person, this Mister Cohen, who seems at all interested in my doings. He thinks it remarkable that he has a writer, even if only an embryonic one, for a customer. All the other tradespeople, be it said, know me of old; not one of them suspects that I've grown a new soul. To them I am still the little boy with the corn-colored hair and the innocent smile.

Mister Cohen, however, is of another world, another epoch. He doesn't “belong” any more than I. In fact, being a Yid, he's still suspect. Especially to the old-timers. One bright and lovely morning the dear Mister Cohen confesses to me that he too once had ambitions to be a writer. With genuine feeling he informs me how much our little conversations mean to him. It is a privilege, he says, to know someone who is “on the bias.” (Of the same stripe, I suppose he meant.) Lowering his voice, he confides with huge disgust his low opinion of the neighboring shopkeepers. Ah, dear Mister Cohen, darling Mister Cohen, come forth, come forth, wherever you are, and let me kiss your waxen brow! What was it, now, we had in common? A few dead authors, fear and hatred of the police, scorn for the Gentiles and a passion for the aroma of a good cigar. You were no virtuoso, and neither was I. But your words came to me as if they were played on the celesta. Step forth, pale sprite,
step forth from the divine telesme and let me embrace you once again!

My mother, of course, is not only surprised but shocked to discover that I have become friends with “that little Jew.” What on earth do we talk about?
Books?
Does
he
read? Yes, mother dear, he reads in five languages. Her head swings back and forth unbelievingly, and again back and forth disapprovingly. Anyway, Hebrew and Yiddish, which are one and the same to her, don't count: only Jews understand such gibberish. (Ech! Ech!) Nothing of importance, says she, could possibly be written in such outlandish tongues.
And the Bible
, mother dear? She shrugs her shoulders. She meant books, not the Bible.
(Sic.)

What a world! Not one of my old pals left. I used to wonder if I wouldn't run into Tony Marella some day. His father still sat by the window mending shoes. Every time I passed the shop I greeted him. But I never had the courage to inquire about Tony. One day, however, reading the local newspaper—
The Chat
—I discovered that my old friend was running for alderman in another district, where he now lived. Maybe he
would
become President of the United States one day! That would be something, what!—a President out of our obscure little neighborhood. Already we could boast of a colonel and a rear admiral. The Grogan brothers, no less. They had lived only a few doors away from us. “Grand boys!” as the neighbors all said. (A little later and, by God! one of them actually becomes a general; as for the other, the rear admiral, blast me if he isn't sent to Moscow on a special mission—and by none other than the President of our Holy Roller Empire. Not so bad for our little insignificant Van Voorhees Street!)

And now, thinks I to myself (
de la part des voisins
), we have little Henry with us. Who knows? Maybe he'll become another O. Henry. If Tony Marella is slated to be President
one day, surely Henry, our little Henry, can become a famous writer.
Dixit
.

Just the same—a slightly different key now—it was too bad we hadn't produced at least one good prize fighter. The Laski brothers had faded out. Lacked the stuff that champs are made of. No, it wasn't the neighborhood to breed John L. Sullivans or James J. Corbetts. The old 14th Ward, to be sure, had turned out a dozen good pugilists, not to speak of politicians, bankers, and good old “con” men. I had the feeling that, were I back in the old neighborhood, I would be writing more vividly. If only I could say hello to chaps like Lester Reardon, Eddie Carney, Johnny Paul, I'd feel like a new man.

“Shit,” I said to myself, rapping my bare knuckles against the iron spike of a fence, “I'm not done for yet. Not by a long shot.…”

And so one morning I woke up full of piss and vinegar. Decided to bust out into the world and make my presence felt. No set plan or project in mind. Tucking a sheaf of manuscripts under my arm, I made a dash for the street.

Playing a hunch, I make my way into the inner sanctum of an editorial office where I find myself face to face with one of the editors of a five-cent magazine. My thought is to ask for an editorial position.

The curious thing is that the man is one of the Miller tribe. Gerald Miller, no less. A good omen!

I don't have to exercise my charms because he's already predisposed in my favor. “No doubt about it,” says he, “you're a born writer.” In front of him is a slew of manuscripts; he's glanced here and there, enough to convince himself that I have the goods.

“So you would like a job on the magazine? Well, it's just possible I can make room for you. One of the editors is leaving in a week or so; I'll speak to the boss and see what can be done. I'm certain you could fill the bill, even if you've had no training for it.” Follows this up with a few discerning compliments.

Then, apropos of nothing, he suddenly says: “Why don't you write something for us meanwhile? We pay well, you know. I imagine you could use a check for $250, couldn't you?”

Without waiting for a reply, he continues: “Why don't you write about words? I don't have to read very far to see that you're in love with words.…”

I wasn't sure I understood what exactly he wished me to say on this subject, especially to a five-cent audience.

“I don't quite know myself,” he said. “Use your imagination. Don't make it too long, either. Say five thousand words. And remember, our readers are not all college professors!”

We sat there a while, chinning, and then he escorted me to the elevator. “See me in about a week,” he said. Then, diving into his pocket, he fished out a bill and stuffed it in my fist. “You might need that to hold you over.” He smiled. It was a twenty-dollar bill, as I discovered when I hit the street. I felt like running back and thanking him again, but then I thought no, perhaps they're used to treating their writers that way.

“The snow was falling all over Ireland.…” The words were running like a refrain through my head as I skipped lightly over the cobblestones homeward bound. Then came another line—why, I had no idea: “In my Father's house are many mansions.…” They blended perfectly, the snow falling gently, softly, steadily
(all over Ireland)
, and the jeweled mansions of bliss, of which the Father kept an infinite number. It was St. Patrick's day for me, and no snakes in sight. For some weird reason I felt Irish to the core. A bit of Joyce, a bit of the Blarney Stone, a few shenanigans—and
Erin Go Bragh;
(Every time the teacher's back was turned one of us would steal to the
blackboard and scrawl out in flaming chalk:
Erin Go Bragh!
) It's Brooklyn I'm walking through and the snow is softly falling. I must ask Ulric to recite the passage for me again. He's got just the voice for it, has he. It's a beautiful melodious voice. And that he has, Ulric!

“The snow was softly falling all over Ireland.…”

Nimble as a goat, thin as air, wistful as a faun, I wend my way over the lovely bubbly cobblestones.

If only I knew what to write! Two hundred and fifty dollars was not to be sneezed at. And an editorial position to boot! My, but I had risen suddenly! Mister Cohen must hear of this.
(Sholem Aleichem!)
Five thousand words. A cinch. Once I knew what to say I could write it at one sitting. Words, words.…

Believe it or not, I can't put a damned word to paper. My favorite subject and here I am, tongue-tied. Curious. Worse than that—
depressing
.

Maybe I ought to do a little research work first. After all, what do I know about the English language? Almost nothing. To use it is one thing; to write about it intelligently quite another.

I have it! Why not go straight to the source? Why not call on the editor in chief of the famous unabridged dictionary? Which one? Funk & Wagnall's. (The only one I ever used.)

Next morning bright and early I'm sitting in the anteroom, waiting for Dr. Vizetelly himself to appear. (It's like asking Jesus Christ to help you, think I to myself.) However, the cards are on the table. All I pray for is not to make a damned fool of myself, as I did years ago when I called on a famous writer and asked him straight out: “How does one begin to write?” (The answer is: “By writing.” That's exactly what he said, and that was the end of the interview.)