Criers & Kibitzers, Kibitzers & Criers
Stanley Elkin
For
JERRY BEATY
HERB BOGART
BOB BROWN
DAN CURLEY
DAVE DEMAREST
BILL GASS
IRWIN GOLD
BILL GUGGENHEIM
AL LEBOWITZ
KERKER QUINN
HARRY RICHMAN
GEORGE SCOUFFAS
and
JARVIS THURSTON
Contents
PREFACE by Stanley Elkin
CRIERS AND KIBITZERS, KIBITZERS AND CRIERS
I LOOK OUT FOR ED WOLFE
AMONG THE WITNESSES
THE GUEST
IN THE ALLEY
ON A FIELD, RAMPANT
A POETICS FOR BULLIES
COUSIN POOR LESLEY AND THE LOUSY PEOPLE
PERLMUTTER AT THE EAST POLE
A BIOGRAPHY OF STANLEY ELKIN
PREFACE
For reasons not in the least clear to me, Criers and Kibitzers, Kibitzers and Criers has turned out to be my most enduring work, if by “enduring” one refers not to a time scheme encompassing geological epochs, or, for that matter, scarcely even to calendrical ones, but to those few scant handfuls—twenty-four since it was first published by Random House in hardback in 1966—of years barely wide enough to gap a generation. Not counting down-time, when it was out-of-print, or the peculiar half-life when it was in that curious publisher’s limbo, known to the trade (but never entirely understood, at least by this prefacer) as “out-of-stock,” it has been in print under sundry imprimaturs (Berkley Medallion, Plume, Warner Books and, until I actually looked it up in Books in Print where I couldn’t find it, I had thought Dutton’s Obelisk editions, and, now, Thunder’s Mouth Press), oh, say, eighteen or nineteen years. Set against the great timelines of history this ain’t, of course, much—not in the same league with astronomy’s skippy-stony’d light years certainly, or even, for that matter, the same ballpark as the universe, but we’re talking very fragile book years, mind, which are to life span approximately what dog years are to the birthdays of humans. At a ratio of seven-to-one (seven doggie years equalling forty-nine bookie years), that would make my criers and kibitzers, depending on how the actuaries count that half-life, either eight-hundred-and-eighty-two, or nine-hundred-and-eleven-years old. A classic, antique as Methuselah—the test, as the saying goes, of time.
In addition—more new math—two of these stories, “Criers and Kibitzers, Kibitzers and Criers” and “The Guest,” were adapted for and produced on the stage. “Criers” has been a radio play on the Canadian Broadcasting System, and one, “I Look Out for Ed Wolfe,” was bought for the movies, though it never made the cut. (“Ed Wolfe,” published in Esquire in 1962, was my first mass-market sale and put me, quite literally, on the map. Well, at least on Esquire’s rigged 1963 chart about America’s “Literary Establishment,” where I found myself in shameless scarlet, short-listed among a small, arbitrary bundle of real writers—realer, in any event, than me—in what that magazine deemed to be “The Red Hot Center.” [Just Rust Hills and Bob Brown kidding around.] It thrilled me then, it embarrasses me now. Had I had more sense it would have embarrassed me then, too. God knows it angered a lot of important critics who wrote letters to the editor, columns, even essays about it, a short-lived tempest in a tea bag not unlike the one old John Gardner provoked when he made his pronouncements about moral fiction. Not art for art’s sake but hype for hype’s—like the PENs and Pulitzers, NBAs and National Book Critics Circle Awards, and all those other Masterpieces of the Minute that might not last the night.) “A Poetics for Bullies” was recorded on an LP by Jackson Beck, the radio actor and famous voice of Bluto in the Popeye cartoons, and somewhere loose in the world is a cassette tape of “The Guest” which I recorded for an outfit called the Printed Word. Oh, and eight of the nine stories in C & K—“Cousin Poor Lesley and the Lousy People” is the exception—have been anthologized, a few of them—the “Criers,” “Guest,” “Ed Wolfe” and “Bully” stories—several times, almost often. “Criers” and “Ed Wolfe” were in The Best American Short Stories annuals back in the days when Martha Foley was Martha Foley. Indeed, for many years during the late sixties, the decade of the seventies, and into the eighties (it’s starting to fall off ), the stories have provided me and my family with a kind of widow’s mite, a small annuity—“sky money,” I like to call it. (I regard myself as a serious writer, even a professional one, but deep in my heart I think of most of the money I receive from my writing as essentially unearned. This isn’t, as you may suppose, a poetic wimp factor kicking in—I’m no art jerk—so much as the heart’s negotiated quid pro quo, all ego’s driving power trip, the rush many writers get out of their almost sybaritic wallow in the unfettered luxury of their indulged imaginations. (What, they’ll pay for this? I may be a badass, but I’m an honorable badass.) Anyway it—the money from the stories, all sources—never amounted to that much. I come cheap, after all. Maybe, top-of-the-head, all-told, thirty or thirty-five thousand dollars since 1966, my going rate for having passed the test of time. Nothing solid as a fortune, I admit, but tighter than loose change—something like the cumulative yield on a small CD, say.
What isn’t clear to me, though, is why. Why this book, why these stories? Surely I’ve written better books. Surely I’m a better writer now than I was when I wrote these stories. (Five of them, including the title story, one of my favorites, were written when I was still back in graduate school, for Christ’s sake, and only three, “The Guest,” “A Poetics for Bullies” and “Perlmutter at the East Pole,” were published after I’d published my first novel and before I’d written a second one.) So why? Why, really? I’d like to know.
One thing, certainly, is the accessibility of their style and (not behind that—indeed, quite the opposite—in absolute hand/ glove relationship to the relative simplicity of the style) plain speaking’s package deal with realism, time’s honored literary arrangement between ease and verisimilitude. Here, for example, is Feldman, the butcher, returning to his store after a quick trip to the bank for change for his cash drawer. (In the story, had I been a better stylist in the realistic tradition, I would have used the word “silver” instead of “change.”)
The street was quiet. It looks like a Sunday, he thought. There would be no one in the store. He saw his reflection in a window he passed and realized he had forgotten to take his apron off. It occurred to him that the apron somehow gave him the appearance of being very busy. An apron did that, he thought. Not a business suit so much. Unless there was a briefcase. A briefcase and an apron, they made you look busy. A uniform wouldn’t. Soldiers didn’t look busy, policemen didn’t. A fireman did, but he had to have that big hat on. Schmo, a man your age walking in the street in an apron. He wondered if the vice-presidents at the bank had noticed his apron. He felt the heaviness again.
There’s something comforting, almost soothing, about realism, and it’s nothing to do with shocks of recognition—well it wouldn’t, would it, since shocks never console—or even with the familiarity that breeds content, so much as with the fact that the realistic world, in literature, at least, is one that, from a certain perspective, always makes sense, even its bum deals and tragedies, inasmuch as it plays—even showboats and grandstands—to our passion for reason. The realistic tradition presumes to deal, I mean, with cause and effect, with some deep need in readers—in all of us—for justice, with the demand for the explicable reap/sow benefits (or punishments), with the law of just desserts—with all God’s and Nature’s organic bookkeeping. And since form fits and follows function, style is instructed n
ot to make waves but merely to tag along, easy as pie, taking in everything that can be seen along the way but not much more and nothing at all of what isn’t immediately available to the naked eye.
My point, then, is that the stories in Criers and Kibitzers, Kibitzers and Criers are right bang smack dab in the middle of realism. I may get things wrong, or even silly—as I do in the improbable scene in “In the Alley” when my protagonist, top-heavy with incurable cancer, checks himself out of the hospital to wander the city and goes into a bar to die in an unfamiliar neighborhood; or in red-hot centered “I Look Out for Ed Wolfe,” where—ending the story, as stories never should end, with a gesture—I have Ed throw his money away. But most of the stories have conventional, realistic sources. Only “On a Field, Rampant” and “A Poetics for Bullies” owe less to the syllogistic, rational world (though they’re not experimental, none of my writing is; I don’t care for experimental writing and, in my case at least, experimental writing would be if I did it in German or French) than they do to some conjured, imaginary one—and, sure enough, only in those stories am I more preoccupied with language than I am with realism’s calmer tropes. I offer the battle of the headlines from “On a Field, Rampant”:
“ ‘DOCKER WOULD BE KING,’ ” a man said, reading an imaginary headline. “ ‘IMMIGRANT CARGO HANDLER SAYS HE’S NATION’S RIGHTFUL MAJESTY!’ ”
“ ‘PRETENDER HAS MEDALLION WHICH TRACES LINEAGE TO ANCIENT DAYS OF KINGDOM.’ ”
“ ‘ “AMAZING RESEMBLANCE TO DUKE” SAYS DUKE’S OWN GATEMAN.’ ”
“ ‘DOCKMAN DEFIES DUKE.’ ”
“ ‘DOCKMAN DEFIES DUKE, DARES DUKE TO DUEL!’ ”
“ ‘MAKE-BELIEVE MONARCH.’ ”
“ ‘CARGO CON MAN CLAIMS KINGDOM!’ ”
“ ‘KHARDOV CREATES KINGDOM FOR CARGO KING.’ ”
“ ‘WHO IS KHARDOV?’ ”
I offer, also, the abrasive, brassy up-frontiness of the opening paragraph in “A Poetics for Bullies”:
I’m Push the bully, and what I hate are new kids and sissies, dumb kids and smart, rich kids, poor kids, kids who wear glasses, talk funny, show off, patrol boys and wise guys and kids who pass pencils and water the plants—and cripples, especially cripples. I love nobody loved.
The point here is that a “higher” or more conscious—if not conscientious—style is not only less realistic than the sedate and almost passive linears of the butcher’s quiet street, but also much more aggressive and confrontational. (Only consider the two operative words in the titles of those two stories—“rampant” with all its up-in-your-face forepawardlies and dug-in hind-leggedness, and “bullies”—and you’ll take my meaning.) In fiction and style not formed by the shared communal linkages between an author and the compacts, struck bargains, and done deals of a reasonable, recognizable morality—my law of just desserts—it’s always the writer’s service. Whatever spin, whatever “English” he puts on the ball is his. It’s his call. He leads, you follow. He leads, you play catch-up. (It’s that wallow in the ego again, the self’s flashy mud wrassle.) Obviously this makes for difficulties that most readers—don’t kid yourself, me too—don’t much care to spend the time of day with, let alone hang out with long enough to pass any tests of time.
Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?
Damn near everyone.
Now I don’t know how true this next part is, but it’s a little true I should think. I’m trying to tell what turned me. Well, delight in language as language certainly (I’d swear to that part). But something less delightful, too. It was that nothing very bad had happened to me yet. (I was a graduate student, protected up to my ass in the ivy.) My daddy’s rich and my mama’s good lookin’. Then my father died in 1958 and my mother couldn’t take three steps without pain. Then a heart attack I could call my own when I was thirty-seven years old. Then this, then that. Most of it uncomfortable, all of it boring. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t hop, I couldn’t jump. Because, as the old saying should go, as long as you’ve got your health you’ve got your naïveté. I lost the one, I lost the other, and maybe that’s what led me toward revenge—a writer’s revenge, anyway; the revenge, I mean, of style.
One final word about the stories in this collection and I’m done. I’m particularly fond of at least four of them: “Perlmutter at the East Pole” for its main character and the curses he invents, “The Guest” for its situation and humor, “Criers and Kibitzers, Kibitzers and Criers” for its situation and humor, and the truth, I think, of its perceptions and characters, and “A Poetics for Bullies,” for its humor and energy and style. I like the “Ed Wolfe” story a bit less, but I like it—for the imagery in the opening paragraph, for a lot of its dialogue, and for one reason no one could ever possibly guess. Remember Polish jokes? I could be absolutely wrong about this, but I think I may have contributed to the invention of them in this story. It was published in the September 1962 issue of Esquire. In August of that I year I went off to Europe to write my first novel. Up to that time I’d never heard a Polish joke, but when I returned to America in June 1963, they were all the rage. Everyone was telling them. I think I invented the stereotype they are built on. A complete serendipity, of course, like penicillin or certain kinds of clear plastic, but my serendipity. What a claim to fame—to have invented the Polish joke. But it proves my point, I think, the one about the distance to which a writer’s ego will stoop to have, whatever the cost, to him or to others, its own way.
STANLEY ELKIN
1990
CRIERS AND KIBITZERS, KIBITZERS AND CRIERS
Greenspahn cursed the steering wheel shoved like the hard edge of someone’s hand against his stomach. Goddamn lousy cars, he thought. Forty-five hundred dollars and there’s not room to breathe. He thought sourly of the smiling salesman who had sold it to him, calling him Jake all the time he had been in the showroom: Lousy podler. He slid across the seat, moving carefully as though he carried something fragile, and eased his big body out of the car. Seeing the parking meter, he experienced a dark rage. They don’t let you live, he thought. I’ll put your nickels in the meter for you, Mr. Greenspahn, he mimicked the Irish cop. Two dollars a week for the lousy grubber. Plus the nickels that were supposed to go into the meter. And they talked about the Jews. He saw the cop across the street writing out a ticket. He went around his car, carefully pulling at the handle of each door, and he started toward his store.
“Hey there, Mr. Greenspahn,” the cop called.
He turned to look at him. “Yeah?”
“Good morning.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Good morning.”
The grubber came toward him from across the street. Uniforms, Greenspahn thought, only a fool wears a uniform.
“Fine day, Mr. Greenspahn,” the cop said.
Greenspahn nodded grudgingly.
“I was sorry to hear about your trouble, Mr. Greenspahn. Did you get my card?”
“Yeah, I got it. Thanks.” He remembered something with flowers on it and rays going up to a pink Heaven. A picture of a cross yet.
“I wanted to come out to the chapel but the brother-in-law was up from Cleveland. I couldn’t make it.”
“Yeah,” Greenspahn said. “Maybe next time.”
The cop looked stupidly at him, and Greenspahn reached into his pocket.
“No. No. Don’t worry about that, Mr. Greenspahn. I’ll take care of it for now. Please, Mr. Greenspahn, forget it this time. It’s okay.”
Greenspahn felt like giving him the money anyway. Don’t mourn for me, podler, he thought. Keep your two dollars’ worth of grief.
The cop turned to go. “Well, Mr. Greenspahn, there’s nothing anybody can say at times like this, but you know how I feel. You got to go on living, don’t you know.”
“Sure,” Greenspahn said. “That’s right, Officer.” The cop crossed the street and finished writing the ticket. Greenspahn looked after him angrily, watching the gun swinging in the holster at his hip, the sun flashing brightly on the shiny handcuffs. Podler,
he thought, afraid for his lousy nickels. There’ll be an extra parking space sooner than he thinks.
He walked toward his store. He could have parked by his own place but out of habit he left his car in front of a rival grocer’s. It was an old and senseless spite. Tomorrow he would change. What difference did it make, one less parking space? Why should he walk?
He felt bloated, heavy. The bowels, he thought. I got to move them soon or I’ll bust. He looked at the street vacantly, feeling none of the old excitement. What did he come back for, he wondered suddenly, sadly. He missed Harold. Oh my God. Poor Harold, he thought. I’ll never see him again. I’ll never see my son again. He was choking, a big pale man beating his fist against his chest in grief. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. That was the way it was, he thought. He would go along flat and empty and dull, and all of a sudden he would dissolve in a heavy, choking grief. The street was no place for him. His wife was crazy, he thought, swiftly angry. “Be busy. Be busy,” she said. What was he, a kid, that because he was making up somebody’s lousy order everything would fly out of his mind? The bottom dropped out of his life and he was supposed to go along as though nothing had happened. His wife and the cop, they had the same psychology. Like in the movies after the horse kicks your head in you’re supposed to get up and ride him so he can throw you off and finish the job. If he could get a buyer he would sell, and that was the truth.
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