Sweet Thursday (19 page)

“No.”

“If a man has any money he doesn't ask, ‘Can I afford this?' but, ‘Can I deduct it?' Two men fight over a luncheon check when both of them are going to deduct it anyway—a whole nation conditioned to dishonesty by its laws, because honesty is penalized. But it's worse than that. If you'll just hand me a bottle I'll tell you.”

“Tell me first.”

“I didn't write the tax laws,” Old Jay said, trembling. “The only creative thing we have is the individual, but the law doesn't permit me to give money to an individual. I must give it to a group, an organization—and the only thing a group has ever created is bookkeeping. To participate in my gift the individual must become part of the group and thus lose his individuality and his creativeness. I didn't write the law. I hate a law that stifles generosity and makes charity good business. Corporations are losing their financial efficiency because waste pays. I deplore it, but I do it. I know you need a microscope, but I can't give it to you because with taxes a four-hundred-dollar microscope costs me twelve hundred dollars—if I give it to you—and nothing if I give it to an institution. Why, if you, through creative work, should win a prize, most of the money would go in taxes. I don't mind taxes, God knows! But I do mind the kind of law that makes of charity not the full warmness of sharing but a stinking expediency. And now, if you don't hand me a beer, I shall be forced—”

“Here's your beer,” said Doc.

“What's for breakfast?”

“God knows. The party at the Palace Flop house to night is a masquerade. ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.'”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“I shall go as a red dwarf,” said Old Jingleballicks.

“A dying star,” said Doc. “It kind of fits you with that hair.”

When the beer was gone they decided that beer made breakfast redundant. Doc went back for six more bottles, and in a burst of generosity he brought back the Bohemia.

“Now there's beer for you,” said Old Jingleballicks. “The Mexicans are a great and noble people. The Pyramid of the Sun and this beer—whole civilizations have produced less. You started to tell me about your paper last night but you got deflected by a girl. I'd like to see that girl.”

“I'd like to tell you about my paper. I want to draw some parallels between emotional responses in cephalopods and in humans, and I'd like to observe the pathological changes that go with these responses. Now the body walls of octopi are semitransparent. With proper equipment it might be possible to observe these changes as they happen. Sometimes the simpler organisms can give us a key to the more complex. Dementia praecox, for example, was considered purely a psychotic manifestation until it was observed that there were physical symptoms as well.”

“Why don't you write your paper?”

“I seem to be afraid to. A kind of terror comes over me when I start.”

“What have you got to lose if you fail?”

“Nothing.”

“What have you got to gain if you succeed?”

“I don't know.”

Old Jingleballicks regarded Doc benignly. “Have you got enough beer in you so you aren't quarrelsome?”

“I'm never quarrelsome.”

“The hell you aren't! Took my head off last night. You hurt my feelings.”

“I'm sorry. What did you want to say?”

“Will you let me finish if I start?”

“I'll try.”

Old Jay said, “You feel to me like a woman who has never had a baby but knows all the words. There's a lack of fulfillment in you. I think you have violated something or withheld something from yourself—almost as though you were eating plenty but no Vitamin A. You aren't hungry, but you're starving. That's what I think.”

“I can't imagine anything I lack. I have freedom, comfort, and the work I like. What have I missed?”

“Well, last night, in every conversation, a girl named Suzy crept in—”

“For God's sake!” said Doc. “Do you know what Suzy is? An illiterate little tramp, a whore! I took her out to dinner because Fauna asked me to. I found her interesting the way I'd find a new species of octopus interesting, that's all. You've always been a goddam fool, Old Jingleballicks, but you've never been a romantic damn fool.”

“Who's talking about romance? I was speaking of hunger. Maybe you can't be wholly yourself because you've never given yourself wholly to someone else.”

“Of all the esoteric goddam nonsense!” Doc cried. “Why I give floor room to you I don't know.”

“Then try to figure out why you get mad,” said Old Jay.

“What?”

“Well, aren't you putting a lot of energy into denying something which, if it is not true, deserved no denial?”

“Sometimes I think you're just plain nuts,” said Doc.

“Know what I'm going to do?” said Old Jay. “I'm going to buy a bottle of whisky.”

“I don't believe it!” said Doc.

Very few people know that Hazel had given the Palace Flop house its name years ago when the boys had first moved in. Inspired by the glory of having a home, Hazel compounded the name of something he knew about and something he didn't, the known and the unknown, the homely and the exotic; and, ever after, the name had stuck, so that it was known by certain people from one end of the state to the other. And the Palace Flop house had justified its name over the years. It had been shelter and home base to the boys. Also, some surprising events had occurred there.

The building itself was not impressive—redwood board and bat, tar-paper roof, twenty-eight feet long, fourteen feet wide, two square windows, and two doors, one on each side. Into this simple box Mack and the boys had moved some remarkable articles, the products of their wits, their work, and sometimes their misfortune. The great cast-iron stove was in excellent condition and bid fair to outlast the Colosseum which it resembled. The grandfather clock, once the home of a dog, stood empty now—and Eddie wanted to be buried in it. Each of the beds was canopied as a substitute for mending the roof, and Gay's bed was kept just as it was when he went away—patchwork quilt turned down to reveal a gray tennis-flannel sheet. His copy of
Amazing True Desert Stories,
folded open to page 62, lay on top of the apple box just as Gay had left it; and his prize possession, a collector's item, a ring gear and pinions of a 1914 Willys-Knight, lay on a black velvet cloth in the bottom of the box. On the shelf over his bed the boys kept some kind of nosegay in a swanky swig glass, for Gay had loved flowers. He ate them—particularly red roses, mustard flowers, wild turnip blossoms, and the petals of one variety of dahlia. No one had ever been allowed to sit or sleep in Gay's bed. He might return one day, the boys thought, even though he was reported dead and his Army insurance paid.

Now there had been tom-wallagers in the Palace Flophouse but never such a bull-bitch tom-wallager as was now in the process of exploding. The outside was freshly whitewashed. Beds were pushed together, and the interior was a bower of pine boughs crossed to make a canopy. The great stove was laid out as a bar and the oven was full of cracked ice. In front of the back door a little stage was built, with a painter's dropcloth for a curtain and the door for an entrance—for certain theatrical effects, not counting the raffle itself, were planned for that area.

This forest bower was lighted by Japanese lanterns, and a string of lanterns led down to the chicken walk above the railroad track. The boys were pleased with their effort.

Mack surveyed the scene and put a name to it that was remembered. “A veritable fairyland,” he said.

The Patrón had contributed his prize group of musicians, the original Espaldas Mojadas—two guitars, gourds, bones, castanets, and Haitian drum, and last, a guitarón as big as a rowboat. Cacahuete Rivas, the nephew of the Patrón, was scheduled to join his trumpet to the band later, but now he was on the beach, practicing his solo softly.

As evening came to Cannery Row the boys were tired but content. Following Mack's lead, they all agreed to be trees. After all, they were the hosts. Their one sorrow was that Hazel had left them. His yearning to be Prince Charming had overcome his love for his friends. In Joe Elegant's tiny bedroom he was being transformed.

“Caught me with my pants down,” Mack apologized for the twentieth time. “Hazel's such a mug you forget he's sensitive. Hell, I could of worked out some kind of charming rig if I'd give it some thought. Don't seem right without him here to mess things up.”

It is customary at most masquerades for the arriving guests to be shy, ill at ease, and sober, and to stand around uneasily for maybe an hour before the party warms up. In this matter of starting a party Cannery Row is far ahead of some other centers of culture. The party was to start at 9:00
P.M.
sharp. The guests would be notified by the trumpet of Cacahuete Rivas, playing “Whistle While You Work.”

At least two hours before the signal a series of small earnest parties, at Wide Ida's, the Bear Flag, and in private homes, were practicing for the main event. This party was going to begin in full bloom. Of course Mack and the boys were so weighed down with responsibility that they didn't get the best out of their liquor; still, they made progress, and they watched the big hand of the alarm clock on the back of the stove.

In the Bear Flag the pageantry was spread all over the floor. Snow White was going to have, as ladies of honor, some of the best-known and most respected hookers north of San Luis Obispo. The ladies were dressing in filmy gowns of red, yellow, and green, and each one was to carry a bottle of whisky garlanded with ribbons to match her dress. Fauna was going as a witch. It was her own idea. The only costume she really needed was a broom, but she had made a peaked black hat and a black alpaca wrap-around to carry the part off. But Fauna had a payoff. When the big moment came she was prepared to fling off her black gown, switch broom for wand, and emerge as the fairy godmother.

Wide Ida's was dwarf country. Eight Happys, four Sneezys, six Dopeys, and nineteen Grumpys clustered about the bar, earnestly singing “Harvest Moon” in one-and-a-half-part harmony.

Joseph and Mary had elected to go as Dracula. He hadn't seen
Snow White
, but to him a moving picture was a moving picture.

At Western Biological, Doc and Old Jingleballicks were hopelessly enmeshed in a discussion of tobacco mosaic. When the dam had burst a flood followed. A garbage can stood in the middle of the floor, and in it, nestled in crushed ice, the six remaining bottles of a case of champagne bought by Old Jay.

Doc and Old Jay had completely forgotten the party. When Cacahuete's trumpet sounded the call to arms they were shouting so loud they didn't hear it. When the youth and beauty of Cannery Row walked gaily up the lantern-lit chicken walk Old Jay and Doc were still screaming at each other.

Suddenly Doc dropped his voice, and it had the effect of a loud noise. “I think I will go away,” he said. “I have tried with every sinew and I have failed.”

“Nonsense!” said Old Jay. “Young man, you are at the threshold of a great career.”

“But what do I care for honors?”

“How do you know? You never got any,” said Old Jay.

“Don't try to hold me back, Old Jingle.”

“I won't. There's too many of you already. Do you realize you haven't cooked any dinner?”

“I bought a pound of hamburger and you ate it raw before I got it near a pan.”

“You shouldn't starve yourself, young friend,” said Old Jingleballicks.

Eddie hurled himself up the steps and flung open the door. “Doc!” he cried. “For God's sakes! She's started! They're going to draw!”

Doc picked a bottle from the ice. “Arm yourself, Old Jingleballicks. Forward!”

They had to help Old Jay up the chicken walk.

The drawing was being held for them. Dwarfs, animals, monsters, were drawn up in half-circle, facing the curtain.

“I guess we're all here,” said Mack. He looked behind the curtain. “You all right, Johnny?”

“Goddam cold,” said Johnny.

And at that moment Hazel entered proudly, his chin up, his eyes flashing with dignity. Joe Elegant had worked all day to get his revenge on mankind, and Hazel was the result. The basis of his costume was long gray underwear, to which were sewed hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs in red and black. Hazel's army shoes had yellow pompoms on the toes. An Elizabethan ruff of stiff paper was around his neck, and on his head a Knight Templar's hat with a white ostrich plume. From the belt around his middle hung a long scabbard. His right hand proudly held a cavalry saber at salute.

Joe Elegant had concentrated his revenge in one area. The drop seat of the costume had been removed and in its place, right on the essential surface of Hazel himself, was painted a bull's eye in concentric circles of red and blue.

Hazel was a breathtaking sight. He did not glance around. He knew he was right—he knew it by the silence. Smartly he turned the saber to parade rest and crossed his hands on the hilt. His breath caught in his throat.

“I,” he said huskily, “I am Prince Charming.” And the company could see now that his cheeks were rouged and his eyelashes beaded. “I proteck dam—damsels,” he announced. And only then did he turn his proud head for the applause and approval he knew he merited.

There were tears in Mack's eyes. “You done fine, Hazel baby,” he said. “Couldn't nobody do better. Who helped you?”

“Joe Elegant,” said Hazel. “What a nice guy!”

Whitey No. 2 moved up at Mack's imperceptible signal. “You want I should go now?”

“Right now,” said Mack softly. “Kick the bejeezus out of him.”

Hazel moved proudly in on their soft talk. “Mr. Joe Elegant presents his compliments,” he said. “He is sorry he cannot attend as he had to leave town on business. Let's see—is that all?—yep, that's all.”

“We'll thank him when he comes back,” said Mack grimly.

The guests looked at Hazel with stricken eyes, and no one laughed. One glance at Mack's jutting chin and doubled fists stopped that impulse.

“Get on with it,” Wide Ida growled.

Mack pulled himself together, advanced to the curtain, and turned to face the guests.

“Fellow citizens,” he said, “right here in Cannery Row lives a guy that there can't nobody want a better friend. For years we have took his bounty without sharing nothing back at him. Now this guy needs a certain article that runs into dough. Therefore it is the plea sure of I and the boys to raffle off the Palace Flop house to buy a microscope for Doc. We got three hundred and eighty bucks. Curtain!”

Doc shouted, “Mack! You're crazy!”

“Shut up!” said Mack. “Curtain.”

The cloth was pulled aside to reveal Johnny Carriaga dressed in an aluminum supporter and a pair of blue paper wings. Johnny brandished his bow. “I-am-Cupid-God-of-Love!” he shouted. Then the winning ticket slipped from his palm and fluttered to the floor. Johnny scrambled after it, yelling, “I-draw-a-bead-on-unexpected-hearts.” He grabbed the ticket and turned to Mack. “What do I do now?” he asked.

Mack gave up. “Oh, what the hell!” Then he shouted, “Is that the ticket you have drawn, Cupid?”

“I have plucked from the many.” Johnny hadn't been near the bowl but he yelled it anyway.

“Give it to me, you little bastard,” said Mack quietly. “Friends,” he said, “do my eyes deceive me? This
is
a surprise! Well, well! Folks, it gives me great plea sure to announce that the Palace Flop house has passed into the hands of Doc.”

Doc was jarred toward sobriety. He moved close to Mack. “You're crazy!” he said.

“Like a fox,” said Mack.

“Who told you you owned it? I didn't tell.”

“How do you mean, Doc?”

“I didn't think Chong told anybody but me. He was afraid you'd do something like this.”

Mack said, “Let's you and I step outside.”

Under the lanterns they faced each other. Doc popped the champagne cork and handed the bottle to Mack, who cupped his mouth over the glistening foam.

“What was you saying, Doc?” he asked quietly.

“Chong wanted you and the boys to have a home. He deeded it to you and put up the money for ten years' taxes.”

“Well, whyn't he tell us?”

“He was afraid if you knew you owned it you'd mortgage it or sell it and then you wouldn't have a home.”

Mack was shaken. “Doc,” he said, “would you do me the favor? Don't tell the boys.”

“Why, sure.”

“Shake on it?”

“Shake! Have a drink.”

Suddenly Mack laughed. “Doc,” he said, “I and the boys want to ask will you rent the joint to us?”

“Sure I will, Mack.”

“I hope they never find out. They'd skin me,” said Mack.

“Wouldn't it be simpler if we just forgot the raffle?”

“No, sir!” said Mack. “Chong was right. I wouldn't trust the boys not to sell her sometime when they need a buck. I wouldn't trust myself.”

The visit of Old Jingleballicks had put Doc's system to an outrageous test. Meals had been infrequent, sleep fitful, emotions on stilts, and the intake of alcohol enormous. The raffle had jarred him out of a pleasant swimming state into something resembling sobriety, but not very closely. A fog of unreality like a dream feeling was not in him but all around him. He went inside the Palace and saw the dwarfs and monsters and the preposterous Hazel all lighted by the flickering lanterns. None of it seemed the fabric of sweet reality. The music was deafening. Old Jay danced by, clutching a pale brunette to his stomach as though she were a pain—a disgusting sight, and as unreal as the rest.

Anyone untrained in tom-wallagers might well have been startled at this tom-wallager. Eddie waltzed to the rumba music, his arms embracing an invisible partner. Wide Ida lay on the floor wrestling with Whitey No. 2, at each try displaying acres of pink pan ties, while a wild conga line of dwarfs and animals milled about. Johnny Carriaga ran wild. Standing on a box, he fired at random but not at unsuspecting hearts. Mrs. Alfred Wong had a rubber-tipped arrow stuck between her shoulderblades. Then Johnny winged a lantern, and it crashed in flames and set fire to three dwarfs, so that they had to be put out with a punch bowl.