Wonder of the Worlds

by Sesh Heri

  “I’m afraid to,” I replied.

  “Go ahead. Take a deep breath,” he insisted. I chanced it and took a draw of air. “What do you smell?” Hall asked.

  “Coal dust, metal, oil… dirt… horse manure… and hog fat.” I said. “You smell hog fat,“ Hall said smiling, “I smell the future.”

  Well, that was fine with me if hog fat smelled like the future to Hall. It seemed he was always uttering banalities like that and uttering them with such an earnest and sincere and enthusiastic air that he made you feel that what he was saying had some real meaning. It made you want to laugh, cry, and pon- der the Eternal Mysteries all at the same time. I should say that, from time to time, Hall had good perceptions, and sometimes they were good business perceptions. I say, sometimes. Both of us were sharp businessmen—sometimes. Trouble was, in business, “sometimes” was not good enough. We got all our trunks together and had a porter cart them out to the front of the station to put on an omnibus to take to the hotel. When we got out to the sidewalk in front of the station, I spied a sign above a building across the street that read “MOOS CIGARS” and in much smaller letters “sold here.”

  I said to Hall, pointing up to the sign, “Say, I forgot to get cigars when we were inside, and that’s my brand up there.” “You smoke those?” Hall asked.

  “I have since I got back to America. I’m experimenting.” “What’s the experiment?” “How long it will take before they kill me. They’re the worst cigars I’ve ever smoked.”

  30

  “Then why smoke them?”

  “I can see you don’t know anything about cigars. You stay here and handle our baggage. I’m going over there and get provisioned.” I went on over to the store, got a box of cigars, some matches, and some pipe tobacco. After I paid for everything, the store clerk said, “I know who you are. I recognized you as soon as you came in. No foolin’—ain’t you Buffalo Bill?” “You’ve recognized me,” I said with a proper air of modesty.

  “I saw your show over at the arena,” the clerk went on. “Bully show. But, say, what do you want to buy those cheap cigars for? Here, let me get you our very best from Havana.” “Oh, no,” I said, “these will do fine.”

  “Oh,” the clerk said, “I know. You’re getting those for your Injuns. That’s it, ain’t it?” “Yes,” I said, “they like this kind. Can’t get them to smoke any other. And lord knows I’ve tried.” “Say,” the clerk said, “no offense, but you looked to be a bigger man in the show. More robust.”

  “I know,” I said, “It’s your Chicago water. It’s swiveling me up something awful. If you could see my spine, well, it’s folded up just like an accordion. Chicago water always does that to me. As soon as I get back out west, and get to drinking clear spring water, I straighten back up and fill out again to my normal height and dimensions. At first the doctors thought it was Bright’s disease, but now they’ve discovered that it’s Ebner’s Sponge Syndrome.” “No fooling,” the store clerk said with concerned gravity.

  “Yes,” I said, “well, I have to get these cigars back to the Injuns before they get agitated and start scalping people.” I started out, and as I was going through the door I heard the store clerk say, “Guess what? That’s Buffalo Bill! He’s buying cigars for his Injuns!” When I got back to the front of the station, Hall was supervising the porter who was shoving all our cases and valises on to an omnibus. I believe I counted twelve trunks that belonged to Hall. “All that heavy work makes me tired,” I said. “But you’re not doing any of it,” Hall said. “Looking at it being done is wearing itself,” I said.

  I took a cigar out of the box and lit it up, took a puff, and said, “Yep, this is a Moos. You know what they say.” “No, what do they say?” Hall asked. “When you light up a Moos, all hell breaks loose.” “Yes,” Hall replied, “that cigar smells like hell. Smells like a killer.”

  “Yes, it kills. It moderates all this Chicago air. Sterilizes all the hog-fat and sin microbes floating around.”

  31

  When the porter finished his work, Hall tipped him, and Hall and I went over to a row of hansom cabs waiting across the street. We got into one, and Hall said to the driver, “Great Northern.” The omnibus with our baggage started away from the station, and our cab followed behind it. I asked, “What do you have in all those trunks, Hall?” “Clothes,” he replied. “All those trunks of yours are full of clothes?” “Not full. I’d say less than a third full.” “Hall, you’ve got to learn to pack with more efficiency.”

  “What are you talking about? I know how to pack. I need that extra space. My wife has given me a shopping list and the purchases will go in all those spaces.” “Your wife trusts you to do her shopping for her?” “Doesn’t yours?” “Ha! Livy doesn’t trust me to buy my own neck ties.”

  “Now that’s funny. Here you are with all these big deals brewing, and your wife won’t let you buy your own neck ties.” “It’s all a question of proportion, Hall. Livy is afraid I’ll come home with some kind of polka-dotted, rainbow-hued, circus clown absurdity. And she knows that once I bought it, I’d insist on wearing it.” “You wouldn’t wear anything like that.” “I would if Livy’d let me. At least at home.” “You’re serious.”

  “Of course I’m serious. You want to know what I think is ridiculous? Grown men walking around in undertaker costumes three hundred sixty-five days out of the year. Like out there on the street. Could you please tell me what everybody’s mourning?” “I don’t know. Maybe the bank panic.”

  “The people of the Orient know how to dress—long f lowing silk robes in all the colors of creation.” “Chicago’s too cold for silk robes.”

  “Well—that’s a problem, too. Chicago’s a fine city, just too far north. It needs to be moved south—to about the latitude of St. Louis.” “Why not New Orleans?”

  “Oh no. Too hot down there. And anyway—all the solid land down there has already been bought up. All that’s left is swamp. No, Chicago will just have to make do. But then, that’s what Chicago has always been good at.” We reached the Great Northern Hotel on the northeast corner of Jackson and Dearborn Streets, a 14 story tower of brick walls and bay windows. We got out of the cab and went inside to the desk. Because of the fair, the lobby was full of people, and the hotel desk clerk told us that, despite its 500 rooms, the hotel was booked to capacity. If Hall had not wired ahead, we would have

  32

  been out of luck in getting rooms and would have had to seek lodging elsewhere, if we could have found it anywhere. Hall signed the register, and then I set down my name. “Here for the fair, Mr. Clemens?” the desk clerk asked. “Yes. I want to see that big wheel you’ve got down there.” “I’m sorry to say they don’t have it up yet.” “Don’t have it up yet?”

  “Just some scaffolding last time I was down there.” “When was that?”

  “Day before yesterday. But just you wait. When it’s up, it’ll be more thrill- ing than the Eiffel Tower.” “Well, it’ll take some doing to beat the Eiffel Tower. I’ll have to see it for myself. That is, if they finish it before I leave town.” “I hope you can. I know you’ll be amazed.” “Yes, well, that’s what I’m after. Amazement.”

  Hall and I went to our rooms, which were right next to each other. An inside door connected his room with mine; I closed it, and collapsed into a chair and just sat. I was dog-tired, but did not want Hall to know it. I was feeling that pressure on the top of my head again.

  The next day was a big, long day, one I will never forget as long as I live. It was followed by another, even longer day that I could not forget in ten lifetimes. These two days comprised a turning-point, you might say. I have been asked what the turning-point of my life was and have replied that there have been many. These two days were the turning-point I could never reveal. After this, I would never look at the world in quite the same way again. Looking back, I also realize that this was the turning-point of the financial disaster that would hit me not long into the future. On these two days the Pai
ge typesetter’s fate was sealed. The fortune I had invested in it was destined to be lost in its entirety. After this, we would struggle valiantly with the promotion of the machine for some time to come, and my delusion of its imminent success would grow deeper and more intense. But the death blow had already been struck here in Chicago on this next day—and the one following it. I will tell you how it happened.

  That next morning I met Hall down in the lobby of the hotel. He was sitting there, reading the morning paper. “There you are,“ Hall said. “I was about to go up and knock on your door.” “I was a little slow getting up this morning. I didn’t feel very well last night,” I said.

  “I thought you looked a little tired yesterday. Do you want to stay here while I go see Paige by myself?” “No, no,” I said. “I’m fine. Let’s have some breakfast. I’ll feel better then.”

  33

  We strolled across the lobby to the hotel’s restaurant. A young waiter seated us, and soon I was enjoying steak, eggs, and coffee, and beginning to feel like a member of the human race again. Hall said, “I see in the paper that Cleveland’s coming to the fair on May first to preside over the grand opening.” “That so?” I replied. “Too bad he’s not here now. There’s a thing or two I’d like to discuss with him.” “Yes. The bank panic.”

  “Somebody’s got to do something. Somebody’s got to pull in the reins on you-know-who.” “J.P.?”

  “All that man knows how to do is grab. An expert grabber. I’d like some- body to tell me—what has he built?” ”He’s built an empire.”

  “Do you have that right! And if somebody doesn’t do something, it’ll be the Empire of the United States, not the Republic—and J.P. will be the emperor.” “J.P. already is the emperor.” “I know that, you know that, and J.P. knows that.

  But when the waiter knows that—when the doorman knows that—when the bootblack down the street knows that—we’re all in for a world of hurt.” Hall and I finished breakfast and hailed a cab outside the hotel. Hall gave the driver an address scrawled on the back of one of his calling cards. The driver shook the reins and took us out on to the street and around the side of the hotel, and then left up State Street. We moved past crowds and shops and streetcars and on north toward a bridge spanning the Chicago River. We passed over the narrow river canal which was lined on either side with docked sailing vessels. Up ahead were some villainous looking warehouses. We reached the warehouses, and our driver turned the horses on to an alley with muddy gaps in its paving stones, and then drew the horses to a halt. “This is it?” I asked Hall. “I think so,” he said. We got out of the cab and looked up at the warehouse. It was a bleak, gray place.

  I said to the driver, “Wait for us. I’m not sure how long we’ll be.”

  Hall opened the grimy door of the warehouse and we went in. We stepped inside a big, empty room. The typesetting machine stood in the far corner with James W. Paige bending over it. Paige was his usual self: a bright-eyed, sharply dressed little man whose hands moved incessantly over the workings of the machine, polishing, adjusting, stroking, petting, just as I have seen a racehorse jockey do when handling a thoroughbred. James Paige was the inventor of the machine—nominally. Several other people had done the actual inventing: Farnham had conceived the basic typesetting mechanism, Thompson had

  34

  designed the distributor, North had the created the automatic justifier, and Von Schriver had arranged the letters on the keyboard. Paige had combined and coordinated all these inventions. But I think he had convinced himself that he had created the machine in its entirety. I know he had convinced himself that he was a genius.

  I was about to speak to Paige when my eyes fell upon the f loor of the warehouse. There I saw sheets of brown wrapping paper laid out in rows, and upon them lay nearly all the internal parts of the typesetter, row upon row of little cog-wheels, levers, screws, and other parts to which I could not put a name. An old man and two boys of about ten years of age sat on the f loor, and they were going over every one of those parts with oily rags. “What the hell is this all about?” I snapped at Paige who turned, startled. When he recognized Hall and me, he smiled. “Mr. Clemens. Mr. Hall,” Paige said evenly.

  “Mr. Paige, just what is the meaning of this?” Hall asked, saying the same thing I did, but in a slightly politer tone. “Oiling and inspection, Mr. Hall, oiling and inspection,” Paige said, smiling blandly.

  “Wh—What’s wrong?” I stammered. “Something happen to the ma- chine?” “Nothing’s happened. Everything’s fine. Just a little inspection, that’s all,” Paige said. “That’s what you always say when the machine breaks down. A little inspection. Next thing I know, a week’s been lost! A week long inspection! Is that any way to run a business?” “Mr. Clemens,“ Paige said, holding his hands out like a supplicant at a prayer meeting, “I’m just trying to get the machine ready for its big demonstra- tion tomorrow. You want the machine ready, don’t you?” “Of course I want the machine ready! What a question! What I want to know is: How in the living hell is it going to be ready by tomorrow with all its parts strewed out here on the ground?” “Mr. Clemens, Mr. Clemens,” Paige said, “you are perfectly justified to feel frustrated. I feel frustrated.

  Mr. Hall feels frustrated. Don’t you feel frustrated, Mr. Hall?” “Very,” Hall said. “We are all frustrated, Mr. Clemens. But we must keep a level head.” “My head’s level. It’s your dome I’m worried about.” “Mr. Clemens, please. I’ve been working all night. Please, I need your patience. I know you are a patient man, a patient and wise man who—” “Don’t grease me with any of your oil! I ain’t one of your machine parts!” “Mr. Clemens! I am going to have the machine ready in time! And it will run to perfection.”

  35

  “Perfection’s fine, if you can get it. If you can’t—let it run to imperfection. All I want for it to do is run! Can you understand that part?” “I understand that part—to perfection! I mean—I understand that part.” “Paige, you’ve got to learn you can’t get every detail right. It can’t be done. It’s never been done. It never will be done. The entire world is nothing but a compound fracture of mistakes! Why do you think the Good Lord rested at the end of six days? He was worn out over getting all the details right!” “Mr. Clemens, I just want the machine to live up to its potential. You can understand that. You know the machine’s potential.” “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have invested in it.” “The machine—the machine is like… like… a living creature. Yes—a thinking, living creature. A sentient creature. This is not merely a printing machine—oh no! That has already been invented long ago by Gutenberg. This— this is a thinking machine!” “I know that!” I snapped.

  “Then you must know that a living thing must be nurtured. Yes! Let others smirk! But it is true! The machine must be nurtured. It is in its infancy. But it will grow. And when it grows up, it will grow into a giant, a giant looming over the nineteenth and twentieth centuries—no, over the next five centuries—ten centu- ries. It shall define the millennium! The age of the printing press has passed. We are leaving the age of print and entering the age of information—yes, information itself as a thing unto itself! And who shall stand upon the threshold of that age? Who stood upon the threshold of the Renaissance? Fust and Gutenberg! Gutenberg and Fust! Who shall stand upon the threshold of the coming age? Clemens and Paige! Paige and Clemens! The great Mark Twain charting the course of the age of information through the dark night of doubt and ignorance! Now—would you really have me cut corners now?—Now, when triumph is at the tips of our very fingers? When the very age itself sparkles before us in all its golden glory, beckoning—beckoning for us to reach, grasp—yea, to pluck, hold, and taste the fruit of our time? I ask you, Mr. Clemens, you, a man of vision, while the rest of the world gropes in the stygian night!” Paige had talked himself red-faced. I just stood there looking at him. It seemed that whenever I was with Paige, he could talk me into anything. But the moment I got away from him and ref lected, I always perceived s
ome f law in his assertions. This time I was determined not to be led by the nose.

  I said, “You must think I’m the biggest fool in the world! You wrote me that you were preparing a factory here in Chicago capable of manufacturing ten thousand machines. And I come here to a ram-shackled cow barn to find one machine with its guts strewed out on the ground. You’re doing to me the same damn thing you did two years ago when that humbug Jones came to Hartford. We had some potential investors then—and what did you have to show then? Parts and promises! Parts and promises! All strewed out on the f loor! That’s

  36

  not going to happen this time! I want you to get this machine put together and operating. To-day—not tomorrow—today. Do you understand?” “I understand,” Paige said. “And who are those people over there?” “An old man and his grandsons.” “Why don’t you have regular mechanics doing that?” “You told me you wanted to economize.” “I didn’t mean for you to engage slave labor. Pay them regular mechanics wages. At least the old man. You can pay the boys at the apprentice rate.” “Whatever you say.” “And you keep your eye on them. Don’t let ‘em lose any of the parts, for God sakes.”