The Listener (4 page)

‘Tis not in mortals to command success,

But we’ll do more, Sempronius — we’ll deserve it.

Addison

“Well, it’s like this,” said Tab Shutts sullenly, clasping his callused hands together on his knees. “O.K. Listen. You can listen your head off, see if I care. Bet you never worked a day in your life. I know you guys, college grads. I never went beyond seventh grade. Maybe you don’t understand fellers like me, huh? Well, anyway, they say you listen. God damn it, who listens, anyways? Nobody I ever heard of. So, you listen. You’re goin’ to get an earful, mister. You and your college!

“I never had a chance. First thing, after school, I get a job. Know what comes then? The goddamn Army, that’s what. But maybe I’d better tell you about my folks.

“Dad never had a chance, neither. Worked twelve hours a day, six days a week. Then he fell in bed. That’s all. Eight of us kids. Don’t know how he got them, workin’ like that.” Tab grunted. “Mom worked too. Doin’ washin’. Could be they just passed in the doorway. What doorway? The whole place was full of us kids, doorways too.

“The priest comes around and says, ‘Why aren’t the children in school?’ Mom says, ‘Father, they work around, just like Joe and me’. And the priest looks sad, and he’s no well-fed specimen, either. Thin and young, and pale like a ghost. And he says, ‘Our Lord worked around too’. Kind of silly, wasn’t he, the priest? Christ knew He was God, but what do we know? The priest says, ‘He was a carpenter’. Stupid answer.

“My name ain’t really Tab. It’s Timothy. A saint. I ain’t no saint. Ain’t been to confession or Mass for years. What for? What’s a guy like me got to live for? Here I am, thirty-two, and putter around in a factory, can’t even operate a machine. There’s automation too. No use for us guys anymore. Where they goin’ to sweep us?” He chuckled. “Under the carpet? Maybe.”

The soft white light beamed down on him, and he looked at it and shifted uneasily. “Oh, they tell us they’ll train us! They’ll make jobs for us. What do I need trainin’ for, at my age? All I want is just to work, like always, and earn a decent livin’. No fancy stuff. Hell, come to think of it, why work, anyways? Factory stiff. A nobody. Kids yellin’ for television, and I’m loaded up to here in debt for the refrigerator and the washin’ machine. Only fun I get is goin’ for a glass of beer and talkin’ with the other guys who got gripes too.

“About my folks. Dad dies when I’m fourteen. Law says I got to go to school until I’m sixteen. I got a paper route, and I wash cars at the gas station. And there’s this chick.

Dad’s a factory bum too, but she’s got lipstick and jeans and a big fat can. I met her when I was seventeen and she’s fifteen. Same class together, with Sister Mary Dominic, and is she tired! No wonder, all those kids. Oh, we ain’t hungry. Who goes hungry, with the Welfare and all that stuff? We got our orange juice and vitamins and hot lunches and milk. We’re big as horses; make our folks look like midgets. Sister Mary Dominic’s half our size. Guess she never had a chance, neither.”

Tab paused, and his big tanned face darkened and became more uneasy. He shifted impatiently on the marble chair. “Nobody’s ever got a chance,” he muttered. “Hey, you, behind that curtain, what chance did you have? Your folks had money, eh? Sent you to college? Sure! So you can sit there and listen to jerks like me and smile to yourself. We ain’t nothin’ to you. Anyway, you’re paid to listen, ain’t you? All the time in the world!

“About my folks. Mom keeps up the laundry, then all at once she dies. I’m seventeen. Never did know why she died. Eight of us, some younger than me, some older. Who cares? We get the hell out. I’ve got this job, and it pays me fifteen dollars a week, spare time. Not enough to live on. Then I go into this factory. New war’s on. Make big money. All the money there is. War’s going to last forever. That’s what the foreman says. Then they pull me out for the Army. What chance does a guy have?

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’ here talkin’ to you. But Fran — she’s my wife, she’s the one with the jeans and the lipstick and the big fat can — she tells me to go talk to you. What’ve I got to lose, shootin’ off my mouth? At least you listen. What’re you doin’ behind that curtain, anyways? Listenin’! What d’you know about jerks like me who never had a chance?

“So I’m in the Army. What’s the Korean war about? Who cares? Had a hell of a good time. Tokyo. All those places. If I’d had an education I could’ve stayed there in one of these houses, with maids and everything, and big pay from the gov’mint. But I never had a chance, and they shipped me back, and there’s this chick, waitin’ for me. Oh, we fooled around. She’s kind of pretty, if you like a kid who shows all of her upper teeth and her tongue and squints her eyes and tries to look like Hollywood and the movies. First thing you know, there’s a kid comin’ along. I wanted to duck the whole thing, but she brings around a priest, not the young, sick kind I used to know, but a big guy, and he won’t stand for no foolin’. Big hams on him; like to break your neck if you say anythin’. Well, anyway, we got to get married. And then this priest says, ‘What about the G. I. Bill?’ Well, what about it? Here I am, married, though I don’t want to be, and a kid comin’, and my dad had three of us at my age. Who wants to get educated and sit around in an office drawin’ maybe thirty bucks a week? I can go in a factory and get three times that, with fringe benefits. So I go, and Fran howls, and I slam her in the jaw, and the cops come and I get a suspended sentence. Nobody made a big noise when Dad slammed Mom around, except us kids. Jesus, how we howled! I remember I bit Dad in the leg, and I was only four then.”

Tab grinned, then scowled. “Why’d he hit her, anyway? She was doin’ her best, wasn’t she? And she half his size. Wonder what makes people do the lousy things they do. Maybe they never had a chance.”

Tab looked belligerently around the room, one hand clenched on his knee. But there was no one there. The light flowed down upon him, warm and soft. “Hell,” he muttered.

“Well, now I got three kids, and they want everythin’. Fran says they can’t have it. She’s got this budget. Baby-sits, too, as if she ain’t got enough work to do without that. She thinks money in the bank’s somethin’ everybody should have. Why? Money’s made to spend and have a good time on. But not Fran. Come to think of it, she ain’t so pretty anymore. Gettin’ old, though she’s only thirty. Maybe that’s old for a dame, I guess. And she’s always readin’ and listening to newscasts. Hates sports. Ain’t that somethin’?

“What do I get? I can tell you this: I get more than the schoolteachers, even if I’m only a factory stiff! Yes sir! Think that one over. Is Fran satisfied? Oh no. Not my old girl. She wants me to go to this automation school the factory has. Learn somethin’, she says. And she shoves her damn books at me from the library. You know somethin’? Women make me sick. Always tryin’ to be bigger than they are, and not the way you think, either! They never know a guy don’t have a chance these days.”

The warm and mutely lit room was silent. Tab glared at the curtain. “One of those headshrinkers, huh? Listen and then write books about us poor jerks who never had a chance. What’m I here for? Well, I’ve had all there is. I’m pullin’ out. I’m on my way, and Fran and the kids can go on Welfare. Why not? That’s what taxes are for, ain’t they? Anyway, the way they’re throwin’ the atom bombs around, there won’t be no world soon, anyway. Or maybe it’s the hydrogen bomb. Or missiles. So why not live it up? Well, Fran seems to know what I’ve got in mind, and she says, ‘Go to that place Mr. Godfrey built’. I say no, and she begs and cries, and what the hell can you do with women? Hey, are you a priest back there? I hear you’re a Jew. Know what I think about Jews? There’s this guy in the Army

Hell, who cares? I’m filled right up to here, never havin’ a chance or anythin’. One guy tells me the Jews’ve got the whole money cornered. And the factory’s full of niggers and Puerto Ricans. A white man don’t have a chance these days.”

He scowled surlily at the curtain. “Maybe you’re thinkin’ about the bonus I got from the state. That wasn’t Fran’s business. Had a good time on it; four hundred dollars. A guy’s got a right to have a good time once in his life, don’t he? What’ve I got to live for? Bet you never saw a lathe or a saw or a hammer in your life. What do you guys know about workin’? I work forty hours a week, and then I fall on my face.” He paused, then grinned sheepishly. “Hell, my dad worked twelve hours a day, six days a week. The sucker. Wonder how he did it. Yeh, I wonder how he did it. Did you ever work twelve hours a day?”

The silence of the room appeared to enlarge and to hold him. He rubbed his jaw. “Hell, Fran ain’t a bad kid. I’m not complainin’. It’s just I never had a chance. Maybe Fran didn’t, neither. She worked, too, in this diner. And now there’s these kids. Molly’s kind of cute, but the two boys just yell all the time.” He laughed shortly. “Just like me and my brothers yelled. No wonder Dad and Mom used to clip us.

But Molly’s kind of cute. She was real cute in that Christmas bit at St. Aloysius. An angel. She looks kind of like Fran. Yeh. Come to think of it, women don’t have such a hot time, do they? They get pretty and then they marry — ”

He looked at the curtain. He was a big and burly young man; he stood up, his hands hanging at his sides, his face thrust forward. He said softly, “And then they marry jerks like me. That’s what they do. They marry jerks like me.”

His face changed, became heavy and sober. He rubbed his chin again. He said, “Poor Mom. Poor Fran. Poor Molly.” He moved toward the curtain and said earnestly, “But I guess you don’t have a mother now, do you, and I guess you don’t know about women.”

The curtain did not move. He looked at it uncertainly. Then he cried out, “Why don’t you talk? Why don’t you tell me what to do? I’ve got Fran and Molly, haven’t I?”

He ran to the curtain and pushed the button savagely. The curtains rolled apart swiftly, and the inner light rushed out upon him. He looked, and stood in utter silence. Then his eyes filled, and the tears ran down his full cheeks as if he were a child again.

“Yeh,” he whispered. “I guess you do know about women, about Mom and Fran and Molly. Yeh, I guess you do. Say, do you think there’s a chance for me? I mean, a real chance for jerks like me? I sort of forgot about Mom. But you didn’t, did you?”

His hand stretched forward, and the sullen and hostile face softened. “I guess I’d better be goin’,” he said. “It’s too late for Mom now, but Fran’s waitin’. You won’t forget me, will you? You won’t forget? I’m goin’ to that automation school tomorrow. I’m sorry I said you don’t know nothin’ about work. You sure worked hard, didn’t you? All your life. For jerks like me.”

“. . . despised and rejected from among men.”

It was an extremely hot day, but the air was pure and fresh and cool in the sitting room. The young man entering was dressed in black. He paused on the threshold as the bronze door began to close on his heels. He glanced about at the waiting men and women and waited, himself, for the inevitable stare of repudiation or disgust. But the others appeared not to notice him. They were sunk in engrossing thoughts of their own. He hated himself for apologetically tiptoeing to the slit in the wall, where he dropped a sealed note. Then he threw back his shoulders, carefully chose a chair far from the others, and sat down and waited. The others did not look at him. He picked a magazine from a table and rifled through the pages. He could not concentrate. He lifted his head, and though he coolly scrutinized the waiting room his eyes were timid. He wondered what the man behind that door would think of his note. He smiled disdainfully. What did it matter what anyone thought now? Why had he come here? A chance word, a half-remembered line in the newspaper? This was no place for him.

If only there were some pictures on the stark white walls! But no. A man, apparently, was to be left solely with his thoughts. Now, that was very pleasant! His thoughts. They stared back at him from the shining surfaces like questions. He tried to answer them angrily; they remained. He tried to keep his anger, but it became a question too. He studied his companions furtively. Why were they here? What troubles did that rosy fat man in the fine summer silk suit have, or that young woman with her pretty white face and light hair? Or that young man with the briefcase at his knee? Or that comfortable matron who was knitting? What agony could they have, compared with his?

The chime sounded, and one by one they rose and went into the mysterious room behind the oaken door. The young man strained to hear voices, one complaining, the other complacently soothing. There were no voices. Was it a chapel in there? If so, he would stalk out. There was no place in a chapel for him, or in hypocrisy, or breezy common sense. He himself was a curse. He hated himself and hated those who hated him.

Then the chime sounded for him, and he started, looked about the empty room, and rose. He began to tiptoe, then put his feet down solidly and wished the carpet could register his step. He held his good hat in his hand. He stalked to the oaken door and pushed it open and saw only gentle light and the marble chair with its velvet cushions, and the curtained alcove. Seeing the latter, he smiled grimly. A psychiatrist, as he suspected, or one of those busy social workers, or a clergyman. He sat down.

“Good afternoon,” he said in a beautiful voice. There was no answer, but all at once he felt that his greeting had been returned. Never mind! He was tired of their politeness, their vigorous pretending that he was not what he was.

“I am a Negro,” he said coldly. “I am twenty-five years old. My name is Gideon Cowles, and I was born in this city. I was graduated from the university here four years ago. With honors.” He paused. “I work in the kitchen of the best hotel as a part-time cook and full-time dishwasher.”

The room waited. He could feel peace and alertness about him, and a listening. “Oh yes,” he said, and tried to laugh. “They call you ‘the Man who Listens’. It is engraved over the door. Splendid. I am glad you are listening. No one ever listened to me before, not even in the orphan asylum where I was brought up. Not even a clergyman. I hope you are not offended — if you are a clergyman. I know how busy you all are; there aren’t enough of you. Sometimes I wonder if that isn’t the trouble with the world. There are not enough clergymen.” He bent his head and considered this with a kind of wonder.

“But then,” he said in a thinking voice, “who wants to be a clergyman these days? You are poorly paid; you are held in low esteem; you have no influence and no money. You don’t know any powerful politicians. You go through the streets of your parish, calling to your flocks — who do not listen. Forgive me; I come of a poetic race. Did you know that Negroes are naturally poetic? Indeed they are.

“You clergymen call at the gates, and no one opens them for you. You cry in your pulpits, and they yawn. You speak of the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man, and they nod, and go home to hate their neighbor. You go up and down, and no one hears your footsteps. Many of you are desperately poor — as Christ was poor — and no one cares. You stand at your altars and look at empty pews. You are a voice in the wilderness, and you may as well be voiceless. You offer Communion with your God, and the lips that take it are profane. You sing the Psalms of David, and the women think of the Sunday dinner and the men of baseball. The children wiggle and are restless; there is television waiting. There is a whole, evil, boisterous world outside your churches, ringing with bells and pounding with horns, and shattering with drums and whining with wheels, and shouting with silly bouncing voices. What effect has your voice against all these? No more than a bird’s call.

“What do your people want? They want everything. Except you. And your God. You are despised and rejected among men.”

He put his hands over his eyes. “As I am despised and rejected among men.”

The silence waited. The young man sighed and dropped his slender dark hands on his knees. “My own people laugh at me. The university graduates among us are sour and disgruntled. Do you blame them? They have no place to go with their degrees. Except to the meanest work. What nice house will shelter them? What intelligent white man will welcome them and drink and eat with them? Many of them become Communists, out of bitterness, because the Communists lie to them and assure them that in the coming Soviet world they will be equal. Equal to what, to whom? We are the despised and the rejected. We know what liars men are.

“Do you know what it means to be despised and rejected, turned away, laughed at, cursed, hated? Did any man ever treat you like this — as I have been treated? Did you ever feel a blow or see a look of disgust? Did you ever hear catcalls and jeers? Did any man say your people were less than animals? Were you ever driven away or refused food or shelter? Did you ever cry to your God, asking why He had forsaken you?”

Gideon stood up and cried aloud, striking his hands together in the utmost despair.

“Did you ever feel your own blood on your face and in your hands? Worse, did you ever feel your heart bleed helplessly? Did you look for one single accepting face? I tell you, I can’t live any longer!”

The silence hovered over him, and the light, like a presence of pity and love and understanding. He began to cry helplessly.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “You are a clergyman, a preacher. I can feel it, even from behind those curtains. I’ve insulted you. I’m sorry. But still, as a white man, you can’t know what it means to be despised and rejected.”

He moved slowly to the curtains and timidly touched the button. The curtains rolled back, and he saw the light and who stood in the light.

He burst into deep sobs. He extended his hands.

“Forgive me,” he groaned. “For you know, don’t you?”

He waited humbly. Then he whispered, “I’ve always known that I wanted to be a clergyman, to speak to my people with the authority of faith and with the love of God. But I was angry against man — and God. How could I tell my people of the goodness of God when they daily saw the hatefulness of man? There is a theological seminary here and they won’t reject me — you’ve made me see my own heart and what I really wanted, and where I was needed, for you’ve never despised us.”

He smiled, and the smile was now neither haughty nor timid. It was the smile of an accepted son whose father has always loved him.