Gandalph Cohen & The Land at the End of the Working Day

by Peter Crowther

  McCoy looks around at the stairs and sees the darkness of the streets lying at the top, curled up away from the overhead lights on the stairs and, for a second, it reminds him that the world is waiting for him. Reminds him that the funny stories are only down here, down here in Jack Fedogan’s bar, and that up there he doesn’t have a job. Up there, funny stories are strictly for people who are in work. “Can’t see anything,” he says and looks back down at his beer and his highball.

  “Hey, you’re thinning down, Ed,” Jack says, changing the subject. “I hadn’t noticed that before,” he adds, patting his own stomach and nodding to Edgar Nornhoevan’s. “You lost a little weight. Looks good on you.” He nods and takes a slug of beer. “You working out?”

  Edgar pulls in a long sigh. “Tumor,” he says, letting out the air.

  “Tumor?” says Jim Leafman. “That some kind of diet?”

  Grimacing, Jack says, “It’s cancer, you dumb fuck,” hissing it. He turns to Rosemary Fenwick and adds, “Pardon my—”

  “I know,” Rosemary says, “pardon your fucking French.”

  McCoy Brewer reaches across and pats Edgar’s arm. “Where?” he asks.

  “Prostate. Me and Timothy Leary.”

  “Turn on, tume in and drop out,” says Jack.

  “Oh, that was awful,” says Rosemary.

  “Leave him be,” says Edgar. “He’s just trying to make me feel better.”

  “He’s just a comedian, he don’t mean nothing,” says Jim Leafman, filling his glass from the pitcher, filling it right to the brim and watching the froth turn into beer and slop down the sides onto the table.

  “I guess we’re all comedians tonight,” says McCoy.

  “Yeah,” Rosemary says, “it feels special alright. You feel that? Can you feel something special about everything?”

  “How special?” Jack slides his hand across the table and shakes one of Rosemary’s cigarettes out of the pack, then lights it.

  “I thought you quit?” says Edgar.

  “I did.” Jack takes a pull on the cigarette and blows smoke, smiling.

  Rosemary shrugs. “Dunno. Just special.”

  “It’s cos we’re telling jokes,” says Jim, “cos we’re comedians, like Mac said.”

  Jack Fedogan says, “What was it Lenny Bruce said about comedians?”

  Grunts from everyone. Nobody knows what Lenny Bruce said about anything.

  “He said something like a comedian is someone who makes up his own material, not someone who just repeats other folks’ stuff,” says Jack, remembering hearing Lenny interviewed by Studs Terkel on WFMT back in ’59, when he lived in Chicago. “They’re just echoes.”

  McCoy turned to him. “Lenny Bruce said that? Echoes?”

  “No … well, I don’t recall him actually saying that, but that’s what he meant,” says Jack. “He meant they’re not the real thing.”

  The sound on the stairs happens right then, McCoy, Rosemary, Jim, Jack and Edgar pulling themselves back from the table like they’re resting on an oven surface or a barbecue grill, staring at the table, feeling those same vibrations again, like the granddaddy of all trains is moving right under where they’re sitting, but they’re unable to take their hands away, each of them holding their hands flat on the table’s surface like they’re trying to stop it rising into the air. And then they all glance across at the stairs, from where the unmistakable sound of feet descending can be heard.

  “Now that’s the real thing,” says Edgar, saying it quietly, like he’s saying it only to himself.

  Coming down the stairs, looking around the room like it was an Aladdin’s cave of treasures, is a man. At first glance the man looks to be old, but then the assembled patrons of The Land at the End of the Working Day see that the man’s long hair and beard are probably only discolored by the city, made gray by the traffic exhausts and the cooking smells, and that they don’t actually relate to his age. For his face is completely unlined. It’s dirty, sure, grimy and greasy-looking, but the man’s eyes are bright and wide open, taking everything in. He stops a couple of steps from the bottom and puts his hands on his hips.

  In one hand he carries a dirty leather satchel, its contents bulging the sides out though there does not appear to be anything of any significant weight in there as it swings by his side effortlessly. He stands around five eight, five nine, a long black coat coming down to his shins, its sleeves rolled up to make thick cuffs which even then, with his arms bent, cover most of his hands. On the coat, either pinned into place or stitched—he’s standing too far away for the quintet at the table to be sure—are a series of signs and shapes, some of which are clearly moons, crescent moons, and stars, the kind of stars you see in children’s story books, five points and a fat center. The only thing that’s missing on these are faces, though McCoy wonders to himself if they weren’t there, once upon a time, and have merely been stolen by the city and the night.

  Around the man’s waist is a makeshift belt which appears to have been constructed by several neckties of various designs and colors, its knot lavishly fashioned into an elaborate bow. Beneath the coat hangs a pair of trousers, gray and flecked, which culminate in a series of ruffles at the man’s ankles, resting on a pair of scuffed training shoes bearing the unmistakable motif of Nike on the side. But it is his headgear that makes for the most striking item of his clothing.

  For on top of that veritable explosion of lank and matted hair sits a cross between a tall, conical hat and an old leather flying helmet, its tapered end bent so that the point hangs at a right angle to the rest of it, ear-flaps hanging loosely at the sides of his face and the whole affair similarly lavished with symbols and drawings, all of which are faded and scuffed and somehow altogether tired looking.

  “Bon soir, mes amis,” the man’s voice booms, and he lifts his hands as though he is a benign ruler addressing his people. Taking the final three stairs onto the floor of Jack Fedogan’s tavern, he sees the five people all holding their hands flat on the table and says, “Hey, don’t tell me … ‘Seance on a Wet Afternoon’, right?”

  They stare at him in silence.

  “Okay, maybe you’re enacting one of those shlocky slice’n’dice features … like maybe ‘Evil Dead 7’ or ‘Halloween 24’, something like that?” He waves his hands in the air and looks to the ceiling. “Is there anybody there?” he says in a deep wavering voice, dragging the words out to three and four times their length. “Aunt Jemima, tell Uncle Frank I’m gonna look after his stamp collection.”

  Jack stands up from the table and starts towards the man, waving his hands slowly in front of him. “I don’t know what you’re looking for pal,” Jack tells the man, “but you ain’t likely to find it in here.”

  “Me?” The man’s face frowns and he places both of his hands on his own chest. “It is not I who am looking for anything, but you yourselves.”

  “Us?” Edgar manages to say the word correctly and almost surprises himself that the drunkenness seems to have passed, at least for a while.

  “For sure,” says the man, turning to Edgar Nornhoevan. “For is that not why I have been summoned?”

  “We didn’t summon nobody,” says Jack. “And, like I say, we don’t allow no bums in here,” he adds, reaching a hand out to take hold of the man’s arm.

  “Ah, fear not friends … that is quite normal,” says the man, and he lifts a hand to straighten his hat. “Rather it is the City itself that seeks my help on your behalf,” he says, imbuing the word ‘city’ with a strange significance. He looks to the upturned faces and says, “It does that all the time.”

  Shifting around in her chair, Rosemary Fenwick asks the man who he is, something that most of the others have also been wanting to find out.

  “Me?” the man booms, “I am Gandalph Cohen.”

  “Gandalph Cohen?” says Edgar.

  “What kind of a name is that?” asks Jim Leafman.

  The man turns a withering glance at Jim and says, softly, “It’s Jewish.” />
  “I think he meant ‘Gandalph’,” says Rosemary.

  “Ah, of course, an unusual name I grant you.” The man smiles at Jack and shakes his elbow free. Pointing to the table, he says, “Might I join you?”

  Without waiting for a response, the man pulls a chair from one of the other tables, drags it across to sit between Rosemary and Edgar, and plops down with a sigh. Jack shrugs and walks across to the bar where he pours a fresh pitcher of beer which, along with a clean glass, he brings back to the table. The man accepts the glass and McCoy pours the beer.

  “My parents, God rest their souls, were Tolkien freaks,” he says, slurping the froth from his beard loudly. “The saga of the Ring and of the hobbits’ epic journey figured largely in their lives. When I came along, almost 39 years ago, the choice of a name was of no concern. The only problem was that the Rabbi misspelled it, so I’m Gandalph with a pee-aitch instead of with an eff. The full name is Gandalph Aragone Fordo Cohen. The man was a Philistine where fantastic literature was concerned but at least he spelled Cohen correctly.”

  The man takes another drink and, resting his glass back on the table, lifts his left side—the one next to Edgar—from the chair and lets rip a loud fart. “Pardonez moi,” he says.

  Astonished, Rosemary Fenwick bursts into uncontrolled laughter, quickly joined by Jim Leafman, McCoy Brewer and Edgar himself, though, placing a hand across his nose, he backs away from the man.

  “Jesus Chri—” Jack Fedogan begins before he too starts to laugh.

  “Why did you say that?” says Rosemary, still sniggering.

  “What?”

  “That ‘pardonay mwah’ stuff?”

  The man shrugs. “Just being polite. It’s always polite to excuse yourself when you pass wind in public.”

  “No, I mean saying it in French,” says Rosemary, unable to keep the exasperation out of her tone.

  Another shrug. “I used to be French.”

  “Used to be?” says McCoy.

  “Uh huh. I’ve been all kinds of nationality—French, German, Hindu, Russian … you name it, I’ve been it. The French has stuck, though. Hard to shake off.”

  “I thought you said you were Jewish,” Edgar says.

  “Nope. I said my name was Jewish.”

  “So what are you? What are you now?” asks Jack.

  “Jewish. Been Jewish all my life … this one, anyways.” He takes another slug of beer.

  “You just said-”

  “Sorry,” Gandalph Cohen says to Jack Fedogan, “playing the old semantics game. The other nationalities were other lives … existences before this one. This time around I am most assuredly Jewish … but a little French here and there never hurt anyone.”

  Jack, Edgar, Jim, McCoy and Rosemary sit looking at each other, exchanging frowns, grimaces and rolled-up eyes, side-glancing at the new arrival as he leans on the back of his chair and scans the interior of the Working Day.

  “Nice place,” says Gandalph Cohen at last, turning back to face the others but nodding at Jack Fedogan. “Bet it’s expensive to run, yes?”

  Jack regains his composure and nods. The truth of the matter is that it’s very expensive. Jack is currently fighting a foreclosure order from the bank, something he tries to keep to himself. But not for long. He figures he’s got one week.

  “Ah, well,” says the newcomer, “it’s only money, yes?”

  He turns to Edgar. “And you need to urinate and can’t do it so well, yes?” He leans forward and sniffs. “Cancer of the prostate, if I’m not mistaken.” He nods to himself, satisfied with his diagnosis. “Invariably fatal, I believe but—” He sniffs again. “I think this one will respond to treatment. A few visits to the radiography area will put it to rest … plus you’ll be able to start up electrical household objects from twenty paces.”

  Turning to Rosemary, he places a grubby hand on her knee and squeezes once before removing it. “And you, my dear, are worrying about your husband and your little boy …” He pauses and closes his eyes. “New England?” He opens his eyes and sees Rosemary staring at him, her mouth hanging limply open. “Nice place … but terrible winters.” He pats the knee again. “You’ll see them again, my dear … but leave it until the spring.” He glances away quickly, trying to convince himself that one lie might ease a burden where the truth would only increase it.

  “And you, sir,” he says across the table to Jim Leafman. “Woman trouble, I believe, is what ails you.”

  “Who—” Jim’s voice sounds about three octaves too high, like a choirboy’s, and he clears his throat before continuing. “Who said I was ailing?”

  Gandalph Cohen laughs. “Ah, we’re all ailing, mon ami,” he says to Jim, “it’s only the reasons that are different. Your future lies away from your wife—is it Clarice?”

  Jim nods.

  “Yes? Nice name. Well, your path goes in another direction from hers. But be happy with it. It’s a good path.”

  “What about my bar?” asks Jack Fedogan. “You never said. You just said, ‘It’s only money’.”

  “No, you’ll never lose the bar,” says Gandalph Cohen. “But you’ll lose its present location. And it won’t be the same.”

  “Shit,” says Jack, and then, “pardon my French, Rosemary.”

  “French?” says Gandalph Cohen. “That would be merde surely?”

  “Of course it won’t be the same,” says Jack, annoyed. “But where will it be if it ain’t here?”

  “There’ll always be a Land at the End of the Working Day,” comes the reply, “just as there will always be a proprietor. Right now, it’s here and it’s you. A few years back, it was a Laundromat in Queens. Before that, a hot dog stand down near Battery Park … a video store in Jackson Heights—that was the one before you …”

  “A Laundromat, a hot dog stand and a video store all called The Land at the End of the Working Day?” says Jim Leafman.

  “Mais non, my little garbage collecting friend,” says Gandalph Cohen. “‘Squeeky Clean,’—with a double ‘e’— ‘Frank’s Franks’ and ‘The Big Picture’. The name isn’t important.”

  “Never mind the name,” says Jack, “what do you mean ‘before me’? I don’t think I’m following you? Just who are you?”

  “I told you,” says Gandalph Cohen. “I’m Gandalph Cohen.”

  “How do you know so much, I think is what he means,” says Rosemary, pulling a cigarette out of her pack.

  Gandalph Cohen shrugs. “I just know, that’s all. I know that the City creates its own amusements. It’s like an offshoot of the Gaia theory … you know? Where the planet is a thinking entity that looks after itself?”

  Edgar nods and takes a drink. Suddenly he’s feeling a whole lot better than he’s felt in days. In fact, he’s feeling downright good.

  “And,” Gandalph Cohen continues, “it needs something to appease the people who live in it. Kind of like a pressure valve, through which temperatures are allowed to cool off. But it moves it around.”

  “It moves it around?” Jack Fedogan shakes his head. “What moves what around?”

  “The City,” says Gandalph Cohen. “The City moves its pressure valve around. On a whim,” he says, brandishing an arm theatrically, “for no good reason other than sheer caprice. And tonight’s the night it goes from here.”

  McCoy has been silent for a while, thinking over what has been said. He clears his throat now and says, “Where does it go from here?”

  The man in the strange hat shrugs. “Don’t know yet. Don’t ever know. Thing is, I don’t need to know. People only need the valve when they’re close to bursting. Some folks are close to bursting most of the time and they become regulars … kind of like therapy, you know? Some folks are so very close to bursting they never find it—like not seeing the wood for the trees?—and they end up blowing away a couple families in their local MacDonalds or decapitating their neighbors for not returning a half-used carton of barbecue-lighting fluid.

  “Me, I’ve been at 14 of these hand
overs over the years. I suspect it was someone else before me, someone the City picks.”

  “What … you know, what do you actually do?” asks Jim.

  “You believing all this?” says Jack, slapping Jim’s arm.

  “I don’t actually do anything,” Gandalph Cohen says, ignoring Jack Fedogan’s remark. “I’m what you might call a conduit. It’s through me that the necessary levels are attained so that the … the force, I guess you could call it—though I am aware that someone else already thought up that particular usage of term—so that the force can be freed.” He drains his glass and pours some more beer. “Where it’ll go from here is anybody’s guess. How long it’ll stay there, the same.” He reaches into his coat pocket and removes the sandwich.

  “You never said,” says Rosemary, grimacing as she watches the man take a bite out of the soggy-looking baguette, “how you know so much about us … our names … and everything else.”

  “And you never said what was going to happen to me … you ‘did’ everyone else,” says McCoy.

  “You,” Gandalph Cohen says to McCoy Brewer, speaking around a mouthful of sandwich, “you are out of a job. Tomorrow you will still be out of a job. But a job is just a job, yes? Tonight, mon ami, you have a mission … a quest, even … and a quest has always been more important than a job. More than that I cannot say … though I will say that you will be immensely helpful to Jack here, over the months and years ahead. As, it must be said, he will be to you.

  “And in response to your question,” he says to Rosemary, “the rhythms of the City are complex.” He offers her a huge smile which exposes brown teeth. “But it is possible to follow them. Those rhythms are the people that live here … like fleas on a dog. It’s too difficult to explain any more than that.” He takes another slug of beer and wipes his sleeve across his beard.

  “The people know that the force is moving on,” he continues. “That is why there are none of them here tonight. They wouldn’t say that if you asked them, of course. They would simply say that they had other things to do … like dinner parties, movies, bowling—do people still go bowling?”