Reinhart in Love (62 page)

Audience? Unfortunately yes, some fifteen or twenty souls stood in the pit, near enough to rest their jaws upon the rim of the stage, explaining why nobody had been seen either on the midway or in the front compartment: the show was on in the back. Indeed, it appeared that Reinhart had been precipitated into the whorehouse scene itself, with Grace as madam and three more naked girls representing the stable, which Billie-Jo now joined, dropping bra and G-string en route.

Now it took Reinhart no time at all to see that what you had here were two groups of humanity each of which believed the other to be a preposterous and degrading spectacle. In the girls this conviction manifested itself in a fixed sneer; in the men, an anxious smirk.

“C'mon, Rover,” said Grace, goosing him with her whip handle, “pick your mate for breeding purposes.” She snapped her fingers at the girls, and number one stepped out of line and pranced about like a toy poodle, behind high and her hand bunched above it like a pompom tail. Number two was squat and bowlegged as an English bull, and her choice of role was obvious. Three coursed the forestage as a greyhound bitch; and Billie-Jo bayed like a hound.

During these doings Reinhart stood there in felt hat and topcoat, curiously at ease though ostensibly an object of scorn being simultaneously tempted by the whores and punished by the madam. Man of iron? Not really: for example, the lash itself was made of soft felt with a little wing of cardboard at its extremity to provide the sound of pain without the effect. Secondly, the fluids he had drunk earlier still supplied the inner reassurances. With a constant snootful he could have been a great actor.

Having waited courteously until the last doggie fell back into rank, he proceeded to address the swarm of white faces some four feet beyond his toes.

“Well, fellows, there you have it. With all respect to these misguided but hardworking girls, I think you'll admit it's not much. Finally you must ask yourselves: ‘Why did I ever come in here to see the imitation of a cat house when I could have gone to a real one for a couple dollars more?' Reality, friends. That's all I'm asking you to consider, reality instead of fantasy. Is that so difficult?”
Craaack
, Grace's fake whip snapped past his nose.

“The answer is Yes, of course. Don't think I can't understand that you have come here because here failure is impossible. Even in a brothel, not to mention the ordinary walks of life, you are required at the minimum to
get one up
. Let him sneer who has a perfect record in this respect—if he can be found.” He paused a moment to allow the popular expression of cynical mirth, but none came. And before he resumed, Grace gave him a big push in the small of the back and said: “Go home, Jack, your act is over.”

Next a tough-looking male individual—probably the barker, whose presence had gone unnoticed—appeared and, grasping Reinhart with tattooed hands, endeavored to hurl him off the stage. Too bad that when attacked by thugs, only the night before, Reinhart had not been caught in a rhetorical mood. Now, showing only the briefest twitch of exasperation, he lifted his big fist like a sandbag and felled the intruder stone cold.

“Jeesus,” said the long-necked girl who played the greyhound, “he's one of them athaletic preachers from the YMCA. I'm taking off.” And she did, running bare-ass through the curtain, followed by three of her colleagues. Billie-Jo, however, remained and started again to croon her ritual invitations, the perfect model of half-witted solipsism; she would have seen a grizzly bear as merely a big stiff in a fur coat, looking for a good time.

But indomitable Grace, now wielding the leather-bound whip handle, struck Reinhart with it in back of the knees, causing him momentarily to buckle.

She said: “Go away, you bastid.”

Of course the audience took these events as part of the show, and when Reinhart forcibly disarmed her, which involved certain close-quarter work, they were moved to cry ribald encouragements: “Don't stop now, boy!” “Shove it in.” And so on, advertising, so to speak, their disregard of his earlier commentary. He then appreciated the fact that uttering the truth is one thing and getting anyone to believe it, another—which made him one with all the great prophets. John the Baptist had to get his head cut off before anyone would take him seriously, and everybody knows about the lengths to which went Jesus of Nazareth.

Reinhart really was convinced at the moment that, unless he got his message across to this representative sample, the entire male element of the great American nation would degenerate into voyeurs and onanists. He decided he must make the sacrifice, and let go of Grace so as to prepare his martyr-costume. Up to this moment, she had taken each incident more ill than the last—one had to admire her spirit while deploring its object—but as Reinhart dropped one by one his garments to the floor, she shed her ferocity to the same rhythm, and when his hat, topcoat, suit jacket, shirt, necktie, and undershirt were gone, and his belt unnotched, had nothing left but fright.

“Listen, Jack, our permit don't cover pulling the job on stage, for Christ Almighty!” She dashed for her own heap of clothing, down right, incidentally trampling the recumbent barker, who whimpered “Uncle!” in his profound sleep.

But Reinhart, still in his pants, waylaid her from behind, lifted her with boots kicking, and said to the audience: “I hope you're not missing any of this. Your manhood is at stake, friends, and no less. What I ask of you is merely to exercise it: Do, instead of Look. Act, rather than Imagine. Move, in place of Talk. You will thank me in the years to come. And—here's the irony—the women will thank
you
, because can't you see that
they don't want to win!”

At this point, Reinhart's trousers fell about his ankles and, while still holding Grace, he found it easy to step out of them, which was more than he could do with any kind of equanimity in the privacy of his own bathroom. Billie-Jo, who with her blank self always accepted the prevailing temper, confirmed that the power now was Reinhart's: she had wandered down amongst the crowd and, clutching everywhere, found three takers at once. They bore her to the ground.

“Excellent!” cried Reinhart from the platform above. He was at the first button of his drawers, and had put Grace on her feet while retaining her with his free hand. She had by now ceased to struggle, and hung limp, muttering “My God.” Her hair, close to his nose, had an unpleasant smell, like rancid bacon grease. She was very repulsive to him. Unfortunately he couldn't have made the same point with Billie-Jo, who was more feasible. However, you might say it was being made for him on the ground below. “Wonderful,” he shouted down, and to himself, with even more gusto: “Old fellow, you may as well accept it: at last you've had your success.”

There remained no reason why he should continue to take off his clothes, and much to be said against it. When she saw his trousers going back on, Grace asked numbly: “Now what?”

He signaled to the audience, and several of them, inspired by the splendid example their fellows were setting with Billie-Jo, came up the stairs.

“I?” he answered. “I'm going home. I'm a married man.”

He dressed quickly while the men negotiated with her, for rape, of course, was out of the question: he was happy they had not made that erroneous interpretation; these chaps, take them all in all, were the salt of the earth, and though his own tastes might vary from theirs, he felt no undue superiority over them. Sex is a poor area for one-upmanship, considering what we all have done or will yet do, not to mention unconsummated aspirations.

When Reinhart was once again in full street attire, he bade a jolly goodnight to all and went through the curtain into the front compartment. A premonition told him to spy around the corner of the door-flap before issuing through it to the exterior. He saw a squad of sinister-looking roustabouts advancing on the tent, led by Al the ticket taker, who was middle-aged but carried a piece of lead pipe, and followed by the three girls that had got away. These last had covered their nudity with chenille bathrobes, hems angelically dragging the ground and raising little clouds of dust.

Now Reinhart did briefly consider slipping out by another route. In some ways, victories are more taxing than failures, and he was very tired. At the thought of mounting still another attack he could only groan. Nevertheless, he would not tolerate the obscuring of the principles he had given so much to establish.

He marched out boldly, flashing a half dollar in the palm of one hand and waving the bill of sale for the Gigantic in the other.

“Jenkins of the County Vice Squad,” he growled at Al. Then stowing away his fake badge and search warrant and thrusting out his belly, he said: “I'm running you in for flagrant immorality. And if you don't drop that pipe, I'll shove it down your throat.”

Al let his weapon fall, punched the greyhound girl in the mouth, screaming: “You said he was a reformer,” and wailed at Reinhart: “Wha do you guys want, my blood? I already paid off your partner when we come in yesterday, and since then we ain't grossed a hundred. Jesus, what a locality. Go on, take it all, take my shoes while you're at it. Who gives Al a break? Sock it inta Al, it's the national sport.” He began to sob, his old jowls aquiver.

Miss Greyhound spat out a tooth, and said: “Al, we could—” Al's roundhouse knocked her flat.

“Here now,” Reinhart remonstrated, “brutality to women is prohibited by the laws of this county.”

“Well, I got you there,” said Al, grinning through his tears. “That happens to be my wife.”

“I'll tell you what,” Reinhart said. “I didn't know one of my boys had already been around. Callahan, probably—round-faced fella about five-ten with sandy hair?”

“Nah, tall fella, long-faced fella, called Dixon.”

Reinhart nodded. “Yeah, Dixon.” The sounds of merriment came from the tent behind them. “Don't worry so much: listen to how well the show's going.”

“And you tole me he broke it up,” said Al to his wife and caught her with a left hook just as she was rising on one knee.

“I don't care if you are married to her, that sort of thing makes me very uneasy,” Reinhart admitted. “I wish you would quit it.”

“Why don't you butt out, you sonofabitch?” the woman yelled at Reinhart.

Al would have kicked her had he not been blocked. He threw up his puffy fingers, which were yellow from cigarettes. “Listen to that. She ain't got no sense, officer. Don't hold it against me.”

“I don't,” said Reinhart. “It is clear that woman cares for you, Al, and I never question Love, but rather marvel at its existence in a world so full of other distractions.” He then gave permission to carry on with the show, free of further harassment by Jenkins of the Vice Squad providing only that certain alterations, of which Al would be apprised by Billie-Jo and Grace, be maintained.

“You will make more money,” Reinhart said. “Your customers will be satisfied, and not frustrated. And finally, though the entertainment will still err on the side of vulgarity, in the degree to which it makes public what under perfect conditions would be kept private—which charge of course can be brought against any art—it will no longer outrage Nature to anything like the old extent. Just remember, you never have to apologize for normality.”

Saluting God and country, he made himself scarce.

Reinhart had been sidetracked, but in a good cause. He had always wanted to strike a blow against that teasing. “Only in America,” as a great man once said, “can you find a woman who looks like a whore, dresses like a whore, and acts like a whore, but who if you treat her like a whore will call a policeman.” Reinhart had no faith that his reforms would last—he was opposed by the whole mystique of modem entertainment as well as the general sexual trend of
pis aller;
also, in this show he had been operating on the lowest level—but the principle had been stated. Despite Bee's advice he could not help being idealistic.

He went towards the roadhouse to fetch Homer, whose car was still parked in the lot but no longer by itself, the evening being well into the shank, the game afoot, and the area alight with pseudo carriage lanterns. He was twice almost run down by arriving customers, one vehicle carrying the sort of young marrieds who pledge at their nuptials never to become stodgy, and for the first year go out on the town every Thursday night; the other, a bald-headed joker with a kidney condition: he couldn't drink himself, but liked to see some life around him while he ate his chicken sandwich on whole wheat. Naturally Reinhart couldn't
know
these details, but the possibility that he might be absolutely wrong—that the couple were gloomy adulterers and the other fellow an alcoholic—made it all the more interesting to speculate.

Speaking of patrons, the door suddenly swung open and one came hurtling out upon the shoe of a brawny chap in a tuxedo, who cried: “And
stay
out!” Carried on by momentum, the ejectee went some yards into the parking lot, clawing feebly at nothing, like a lobster en route to the boil; at last his borrowed energy ran dry and, spreading the eagle, he plunged to the earth, nose down.

As luck would have it, he fell directly in Reinhart's path. Otherwise the ex-corporal would have ignored him at all costs, there being little profit in commerce with a drunk, especially when one himself is sobering.

“Come on,” said Reinhart, prodding him with a shoe, “you're in the roadway and might get run over.”

The drunk put his hands beneath his chest and did a perfect push-up, one straight line from back-swell to heels—he did ten, in fact, up and down, before collapsing prone again.

“Do that, drunk or sober,” he said, the words rattling out of the gravel against which his mouth was pressed, “you rotten mongrel, and then tell me I'm no gentleman.”