Criers & Kibitzers, Kibitzers & Criers

by Stanley Elkin

  “Ain’t he married?” Paul Gold said.

  “I’m not a policeman,” Greenspahn said.

  “Jake’s jealous because he’s not getting any,” Joe Fisher said.

  “Loudmouth,” Greenspahn said, “I’m a man in mourning.”

  The others at the table were silent. “Joe was kidding,” Traub, the crier, said.

  “Sure, Jake,” Joe Fisher said.

  “Okay,” Greenspahn said. “Okay.”

  For the rest of the lunch he was conscious of Shirley and Arnold. He hoped they would not see him, or if they did that they would make no sign to him. He stopped listening to the stories the men told. He chewed on his hamburger wordlessly. He heard someone mention George Stein, and he looked up for a moment. Stein had a grocery in a neighborhood that was changing. He had said that he wanted to get out. He was looking for a setup like Greenspahn’s. He could speak to him. Sure, he thought. Why not? What did he need the aggravation? What did he need it? He owned the building the store was in. He could live on the rents. Even Joe Fisher was a tenant of his. He could speak to Stein, he thought, feeling he had made up his mind about something. He waited until Arnold and Shirley had finished their lunch and then went back to his store.

  In the afternoon Greenspahn thought he might be able to move his bowels. He went into the toilet off the small room at the back of the store. He sat, looking up at the high ceiling. In the smoky darkness above his head he could just make out the small, square tin-ceiling plates. They seemed pitted, soiled, like patches of war-ruined armor. Agh, he thought, the place is a pigpen. The sink bowl was stained dark, the enamel chipped, long fissures radiating like lines on the map of some wasted country. The single faucet dripped steadily. Greenspahn thought sadly of his water bill. On the knob of the faucet he saw again a faded blue S. S, he thought, what the hell does S stand for? H hot, C cold. What the hell kind of faucet is S? Old clothes hung on a hook on the back of the door. A man’s blue wash pants hung inside out, the zipper split like a peeled banana, the crowded concourse of seams at the crotch like carelessly sewn patches.

  He heard Arnold in the store, his voice raised exaggeratedly. He strained to listen.

  “Forty-five” he heard Arnold say.

  “Forty-five, Pop.” He was talking to the old man. Deaf, he came in each afternoon for a piece of liver for his supper. “I can’t give you two ounces. I told you. I can’t break the set.” He heard a woman laugh. Shirley? Was Shirley back there with him? What the hell, he thought. It was one thing for them to screw around with each other at lunch, but they didn’t have to bring it into the store. “Take eight ounces. Invite someone over for dinner. Take eight ounces. You’ll have for four days. You won’t have to come back.” He was a wise guy, that Arnold. What did he want to do, drive the old man crazy? What could you do? The old man liked a small slice of liver. He thought it kept him alive.

  He heard footsteps coming toward the back room and voices raised in argument.

  “I’m sorry,” a woman said, “I don’t know how it got there. Honest. Look, I’ll pay. I’ll pay you for it.”

  “You bet, lady,” Frank’s voice said.

  “What do you want me to do?” the woman pleaded.

  “I’m calling the cops,” Frank said.

  “For a lousy can of salmon?”

  “It’s the principle. You’re a crook. You’re a lousy thief, you know that? I’m calling the cops. We’ll see what jail does for you.”

  “Please,” the woman said. “Mister, please. This whole thing is crazy. I never did anything like this before. I haven’t got any excuse, but please, can’t you give me a chance?” The woman was crying.

  “No chances,” Frank said. “I’m calling the cops. You ought to be ashamed, lady. A woman dressed nice like you are. What are you, sick or something? I’m calling the cops.” He heard Frank lift the receiver.

  “Please,” the woman sobbed. “My husband will kill me. I have a little kid, for Christ’s sake.”

  Frank replaced the phone.

  “Ten bucks,” he said quietly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ten bucks and you don’t come in here no more.”

  “I haven’t got it,” she said.

  “All right, lady. The hell with you. I’m calling the cops.”

  “You bastard,” she said.

  “Watch your mouth,” he said. “Ten bucks.”

  “I’ll write you a check.”

  “Cash,” Frank said.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “Here.”

  “Now get out of here, lady.” Greenspahn heard the woman’s footsteps going away. Frank would be fumbling now with his apron, trying to get the big wallet out of his front pocket. Greenspahn flushed the toilet and waited.

  “Jake?” Frank asked, frightened.

  “Who was she?”

  “Jake, I never saw her before, honest. Just a tramp. She gave me ten bucks. She was just a tramp, Jake.”

  “I told you before. I don’t want trouble,” Greenspahn said angrily. He came out of the toilet. “What is this, a game with you?”

  “Look, I caught her with the salmon. Would you want me to call the cops for a can of salmon? She’s got a kid.”

  “Yeah, you got a big heart, Frank.”

  “I would have let you handle it if I’d seen you. I looked for you, Jake.”

  “You shook her down. I told you before about that.”

  “Jake, it’s ten bucks for the store. I get so damned mad when somebody like that tries to get away with something.”

  “Podler,” Greenspahn shouted. “You’re through here.”

  “Jake,” Frank said. “She was a tramp.” He held the can of salmon in his hand and offered it to Greenspahn as though it were evidence.

  Greenspahn pushed his hand aside. “Get out of my store. I don’t need you. Get out. I don’t want a crook in here.”

  “Who are you calling names, Jake?”

  Greenspahn felt his rage, immense, final. It was on him at once, like an animal that had leaped upon him in the dark. His body shook with it. Frightened, he warned himself uselessly that he must be calm. A podler like that, he thought. He wanted to hit him in the face.

  “Please, Frank. Get out of here,” Greenspahn said.

  “Sure,” Frank screamed. “Sure, sure,” he shouted. Greenspahn, startled, looked at him. He seemed angrier than even himself. Greenspahn thought of the customers. They would hear him. What kind of a place, he thought. What kind of a place? “Sure,” Frank yelled, “fire me, go ahead. A regular holy man. A saint! What are you, God? He smells everybody’s rottenness but his own. Only when your own son—may he rest—when your own son slips five bucks out of the cash drawer, that you don’t see.”

  Greenspahn could have killed him. “Who says that?”

  Frank caught his breath.

  “Who says that?” Greenspahn repeated.

  “Nothing, Jake. It was nothing. He was going on a date probably. That’s all. It didn’t mean nothing.”

  “Who calls him a thief?”

  “Nobody. I’m sorry.”

  “My dead son? You call my dead son a thief?”

  “Nobody called anybody a thief. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

  “In the ground. Twenty-three years old and in the ground. Not even a wife, not even a business. Nothing. He had nothing. He wouldn’t take. Harold wouldn’t take. Don’t call him what you are. He should be alive today. You should be dead. You should be in the ground where he is. Podler. Mumser,” he shouted. “I saw the lousy receipts, liar,” he screamed.

  In a minute Arnold was there and was putting his arm around him. “Calm down, Jake. Come on now, take it easy. What happened back here?” he asked Frank.

  Frank shrugged.

  “Get him away,” Greenspahn pleaded. Arnold signaled Frank to get out and led Greenspahn to the chair near the table he used as a desk.

  “You all right now, Jake? You okay now?”

  Greenspahn was sobbing heavily.
In a few moments he looked up. “All right,” he said. “The customers. Arnold, please. The customers.”

  “Okay, Jake. Just stay back here and wait till you feel better.”

  Greenspahn nodded. When Arnold left him he sat for a few minutes and then went back into the toilet to wash his face. He turned the tap and watched the dirty basin fill with water. It’s not even cold, he thought sadly. He plunged his hands into the sink and scooped up warm water, which he rubbed into his eyes. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and unfolded it and patted his face carefully. He was conscious of laughter outside the door. It seemed old, brittle. For a moment he thought of the woman with the coffee. Then he remembered. The porter, he thought. He called his name. He heard footsteps coming up to the door.

  “That’s right, Mr. Greenspahn,” the voice said, still laughing.

  Greenspahn opened the door. His porter stood before him in torn clothes. His eyes, red, wet, looked as though they were bleeding. “You sure told that Frank,” he said.

  “You’re late,” Greenspahn said. “What do you mean coming in so late?”

  “I been to Harold’s grave,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I been to Mr. Harold’s grave,” he repeated. “I didn’t get to the funeral. I been to his grave cause of my dream.”

  “Put the stock away,” Greenspahn said. “Some more came in this afternoon.”

  “I will,” he said. “I surely will.” He was an old man. He had no teeth and his gums lay smooth and very pink in his mouth. He was thin. His clothes hung on him, the sleeves of the jacket rounded, puffed from absent flesh. Through the rents in shirt and trousers Greenspahn could see the grayish skin, hairless, creased, the texture like the pit of a peach. Yet he had a strength Greenspahn could only wonder at, and could still lift more stock than Arnold or Frank or even Greenspahn himself.

  “You’d better start now,” Greenspahn said uncomfortably.

  “I tell you about my dream, Mr. Greenspahn?”

  “No dreams. Don’t tell me your dreams.”

  “It was about Mr. Harold. Yes, sir, about him. Your boy that’s dead, Mr. Greenspahn.”

  “I don’t want to hear. See if Arnold needs anything up front.”

  “I dreamed it twice. That means it’s true. You don’t count on a dream less you dream it twice.”

  “Get away with your crazy stories. I don’t pay you to dream.”

  “That time on Halsted I dreamed the fire. I dreamed that twice.”

  “Yeah,” Greenspahn said, “the fire. Yeah.”

  “I dreamed that dream twice. Them police wanted to question me. Same names, Mr. Greenspahn, me and your boy we got the same names.”

  “Yeah. I named him after you.”

  “I tell you that dream, Mr. Greenspahn? It was a mistake. Prank was supposed to die. Just like you said. Just like I heard you say it just now. And he will. Mr. Harold told me in the dream. Frank he’s going to sicken and die his own self.” The porter looked at Greenspahn, the red eyes filling with blood. “If you want it,” he said. “That’s what I dreamed, and I dreamed , about the fire on Halsted the same way. Twice.”

  “You’re crazy. Get away from me.”

  “That’s a true dream. It happened just that very way.”

  “Get away. Get away,” Greenspahn shouted.

  “My name’s Harold, too.”

  “You’re crazy. Crazy.”

  The porter went off. He was laughing. What kind of a madhouse? Were they all doing it on purpose? Everything to aggravate him? For a moment he had the impression that this was what it was. A big joke, and everybody was in on it but himself. He was being kibitzed to death. Everything. The cop. The receipts. His cheese man. Arnold and Shirley. The men in the restaurant. Frank and the woman. The schvartze. Everything. He wouldn’t let it happen. What was he, crazy or something? He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, but pulled out a piece of paper. It was the order Harold had taken down over the phone and left on the pad. Absently he unfolded it and read it again. Something occurred to him. As soon as he had the idea he knew it was true. The order had never been delivered. His son had forgotten about it. It couldn’t be anything else. Otherwise would it still have been on the message pad? Sure, he thought, what else could it be? Even his son. What did he care? What the hell did he care about the business? Greenspahn was ashamed. It was a terrible thought to have about a dead boy. Oh God, he thought. Let him rest. He was a boy, he thought. Twenty-three years old and he was only a boy. No wife. No business. Nothing. Was the five dollars so important? In helpless disgust he could see Harold’s sly wink to Frank as he slipped the money out of the register. Five dollars, Harold, five dollars, he thought, as though he were admonishing him. “Why didn’t you come to me, Harold?” he sobbed. “Why didn’t you come to your father?”

  He blew his nose. It’s crazy, he thought. Nothing pleases me. Frank called him God. Some God, he thought. I sit weeping in the back of my store. The hell with it. The hell with everything. Clear the shelves, that’s what he had to do. Sell the groceries. Get rid of the meats. Watch the money pile up. Sell, sell, he thought. That would be something. Sell everything. He thought of the items listed on the order his son had taken down. Were they delivered? He felt restless. He hoped they were delivered. If they weren’t they would have to be sold again. He was very weary. He went to the front of the store.

  It was almost closing time. Another half hour. He couldn’t stay to close up. He had to be in shul before sundown. He had to get to the minion. They would have to close up for him. For a year. If he couldn’t sell the store, for a year he wouldn’t be in his own store at sundown. He would have to trust them to close up for him. Trust who? he thought. My Romeo, Arnold? Shirley? The crazy schvartze? Only Frank could do it. How could he have fired him? He looked for him in the store. He was talking to Shirley at the register. He would go up and talk to him. What difference did it make? He would have had to fire all of them. Eventually he would have to fire everybody who ever came to work for him. He would have to throw out his tenants, even the old ones, and finally whoever rented the store from him. He would have to keep on firing and throwing out as long as anybody was left. What difference would one more make?

  “Frank,” he said. “I want you to forget what we talked about before.”

  Frank looked at him suspiciously. “It’s all right,” Greenspahn reassured him. He led him by the elbow away from Shirley. “Listen,” he said, “we were both excited before. I didn’t mean it what I said.”

  Frank continued to look at him. “Sure, Jake,” he said finally. “No hard feelings.” He extended his hand.

  Greenspahn took it reluctantly. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Frank,” he said, “do me a favor and close up the place for me. I got to get to the shul for the minion.”

  “I got you, Jake.”

  Greenspahn went to the back to change his clothes. He washed his face and hands and combed his hair. Carefully he removed his working clothes and put on the suit jacket, shirt and tie he had worn in the morning. He walked back into the store.

  He was about to leave when he saw that Mrs. Frimkin had come into the store again. That’s all right, he told himself, she can be a good customer. He needed some of the old customers now. They could drive you crazy, but when they bought, they bought. He watched as she took a cart from the front and pushed it through the aisles. She put things in the cart as though she were in a hurry. She barely glanced at the prices. That was the way to shop, he thought. It was a pleasure to watch her. She reached into the frozen-food locker and took out about a half-dozen packages. From the towers of canned goods on his shelves she seemed to take down only the largest cans. In minutes her shopping cart was overflowing. That’s some order, Greenspahn thought. Then he watched as she went to the stacks of bread at the bread counter. She picked up a packaged white bread, and first looking around to see if anyone was watching her, bent down quickly over the loaf, cradling it to her chest as though
it were a football. As she stood, Greenspahn saw her brush crumbs from her dress, then put the torn package into her cart with the rest of her purchases.

  She came up to the counter where Greenspahn stood and unloaded the cart, pushing the groceries toward Shirley to be checked out. The last item she put on the counter was the wounded bread. Shirley punched the keys quickly. As she reached for the bread, Mrs. Frimkin put out her hand to stop her. “Look,” she said, “what are you going to charge me for the bread? It’s damaged. Can I have it for ten cents?”

  Shirley turned to look at Greenspahn.

  “Out,” he said. “Get out, you podler. I don’t want you coming in here any more. You’re a thief,” he shouted. “A thief.”

  Frank came rushing up. “Jake, what is it? What is it?”

  “Her. That one. A crook. She tore the bread. I seen her.”

  The woman looked at him defiantly. “I don’t have to take that,” she said. “I can make plenty of trouble for you. You’re crazy. I’m not going to be insulted by somebody like you.”

  “Get out of here,” Greenspahn shouted, “before I have you locked up.”

  The woman backed away from him, and when he stepped forward she turned and fled.

  “Jake,” Frank said, putting his hand on Greenspahn’s shoulder. “That was a big order. So she tried to get away with a few pennies. What does it mean? You want me to find her and apologize?”

  “Look,” Greenspahn said, “she comes in again I want to know about it. I don’t care what I’m doing. I want to know about it. She’s going to pay me for that bread.”

  “Jake,” Frank said.

  “No,” he said. “I mean it.”

  “Jake, it’s ten cents.”

  “My ten cents. No more,” he said. “I’m going to shul.”

  He waved Frank away and went into the street. Already the sun was going down. He felt urgency. He had to get there before the sun went down.

  That night Greenspahn had the dream for the first time.

  He was in the synagogue waiting to say prayers for his son. Around him were the old men, the minion, their faces brittle and pale. He recognized them from his youth. They had been old even then. One man stood by the window and watched the sun. At a signal from him the others would begin. There was always some place in the world where the prayers were being said, he thought, some place where the sun had just come up or just gone down, and he supposed there was always a minion to watch it and to mark its progress, the prayers following God’s bright bird, going up in sunlight or in darkness, always, everywhere. He knew the men never left the shul. It was the way they kept from dying. They didn’t even eat, but there was about the room the foul lemony smell of urine. Sure, Greenspahn thought in the dream, stay in the shul. That’s right. Give the podlers a wide berth. All they have to worry about is God. Some worry, Greenspahn thought. The man at the window gave the signal and they all started to mourn for Greenspahn’s son, their ancient voices betraying the queer melody of the prayers. The rabbi looked at Greenspahn and Greenspahn, imitating the old men, began to rock back and forth on his heels. He tried to sway faster than they did. I’m younger, he thought. When he was swaying so quickly that he thought he would be sick were he to go any faster, the rabbi smiled at him approvingly. The man at the window shouted that the sun was approaching the danger point in the sky and that Greenspahn had better begin as soon as he was ready.