Criers & Kibitzers, Kibitzers & Criers

by Stanley Elkin

  The manager glared at him. “You’re one of those FBI guys, right?” he asked. “Sure, pal, I been expecting you.” He turned to the waiter. “I never seen it fail. Every four months one of these FBI guys comes around and tries to talk Russian to my waiters.” He looked back at Morty scornfully. “When are you boys going to wake up? You’re looking for spies, go learn Albanian and eat at one of their places.”

  “Everybody is under arrest,” Morty said weakly, his heart not in it. “I hadn’t really meant to make my move just yet, but I was in the neighborhood.”

  On the fifth ring a man answered.

  “Let me speak to Rose Gold, please,” Morty said politely.

  “Rose is next door,” the man said. “Who’s this calling?”

  “My business is with Rose Gold,” he said firmly.

  “Is this a tradesman? It’s almost midnight. Is this a tradesman?”

  “I am Rose’s friend,” Morty said. “We used to travel together.”

  “Oh. To Philadelphia. The man who used to take Rose in his car to visit her sister? Why didn’t you say so? Just a minute.”

  “Hello,” a woman said in a little while. “What is it, Mr. Shintler?”

  “It’s me,” Morty said, “it’s Morty Perlmutter. Last month. The subway. I wanted to buy you a drink.”

  “How did you get this number?” Rose asked angrily. “Did you follow me?”

  “No, no, listen to me. I’m very low tonight.”

  “Why did you tell my husband you were Mr. Shintler?”

  “Can I see you?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “I’m very low,” Morty said again. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Today’s my fifty-ninth birthday. I haven’t got any friends, any family. My money is almost gone. My health stinks. I’m restless. Also I’m worried about the synthesis.”

  “The what? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m fifty-nine years old.” He felt his heart turn over. He couldn’t talk.

  “You…” Rose Gold said. “You. Are you still there? What is this?”

  “Don’t hang up,” Morty said.

  “Look, I don’t hang up on people,” she said. “So. You’ve been thinking about me, have you? Well, I’m very flattered. I’m very flattered a fifty-nine-year-old man with no friends and no family and who rides the subway and bothers women has been thinking about me.”

  “I had to talk to somebody.”

  “Say, wait a minute,” Rose Gold said. “You’re retired. Am I right? And you’re not fifty-nine, you’re past sixty-five. Is that right? And you’re out of business now and you’re a widower and your children have moved away and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Am I wrong or right?”

  “It’s nothing like that,” Morty said.

  “Of course it is,” Rose Gold said. “Listen, I remember you too. You’re basically a very decent-looking man, presentable, clean, I’ll give you some advice. Move to Florida.”

  “Move to Florida?”

  “Certainly.”

  “That’s your advice?”

  “Or California. Or Phoenix, Arizona. Wherever there’s sun. Old people need the sun. It cheers them up.”

  Okay for you, Fatso, Morty thought. “Listen,” he said, “I haven’t any time. I think Shintler just came in. If he hears me my life isn’t worth a nickel. He’s coming after you when your husband goes to work tomorrow. He’s got this powerful new car, and he’s going to abduct you. He knows a place in Philadel—No, Shintler, I swear, I’m just sending out for pizza.”

  Morty couldn’t sleep. It was hot in the room, and however he moved his head against his knapsack he could not get into a comfortable position. Also, as he had told Rose Gold a few nights before, he was very low.

  He knew what the trouble was. For weeks now he had been statistically oriented—filled in, filled up. He was in a position now to move in on the truth. Then what? Where other men often experienced the vague emptiness of anticlimax, Morty was depressed by anteclimax. It was what he called his “Moses Syndrome.” (It was Morty’s hypothesis that Moses hadn’t died at the edge of the wilderness, and could have, had he chosen, entered the Promised Land with the other children of Israel, but that he had probably experienced, as Morty did now, an anteclimax and had turned back at the last minute. He had written it up. There was a reprint in his knapsack.) That’s what happens to you, Morty thought. He punched the knapsack a few more times and finally gave up.

  He called Rose Gold and told her he thought he’d go over to Central Park and try to get some sleep there. He asked her if she’d meet him, and she said no and not to call her any more.

  In the park Morty propped his knapsack against a tree and lighted his South American Rain Forest Lamp. He set it beside him and lay down in the grass. He decided to browse through the Yellow Pages until he became tired enough to sleep.

  He was studying RESTAURANT EQUIPMENT REPAIRING when he saw the boys.

  His hand closed around his blowpipe. “That’s close enough,” he said.

  “Who you supposed to be, man,” the largest boy said, “Jungle Jim?”

  Morty took careful aim and sank a poison dart directly into the center of the kid’s T-shirt. The boy sat down solemnly. A second boy kneeled beside him and looked at Morty in terror.

  “You killed my brother,” he said.

  “No, no,” Morty explained, “he’s not dying. I used Opiola. It just takes some of the fight out of them.”

  “Jeez,” the oldest boy—probably the leader—said respectfully.

  “You boys muggers?” Morty asked. “What do you generally clear on a night like this?”

  “Hey, man,” the boy on the ground said suddenly, “I feel great. He turned me on, I think.”

  “Yeah?” the leader asked, interested.

  “Yeah. No crud, man, it’s very, very great. I see interesting things. Thanks, mister.”

  Morty smiled.

  “Mister?” the leader said.

  “What is it?”

  “Shoot me and my friend with the blowgun, hey.”

  “You boys muggers?” Morty asked again.

  “No, man,” the leader said, “we like to camp out.”

  “What do you do,” Morty asked, “go after old ladies, old men, what?”

  “Tell him, Ramon,” the boy on the ground said, “maybe he’ll shoot you.” He lay spread-eagled in Central Park and looked up at the stars. “I never been so high,” he whispered reverently.

  Ramon looked down at his friend and then turned to Morty. “Sure,” Ramon said, “that’s right. We’re muggers. My friend here hits them low and my other buddy hits them high and I grab their purse and clip them a little.” He looked at Morty for approval. “We’re dropouts,” he added.

  “I see,” Morty said.

  “Poison me,” Ramon said hungrily.

  The boy on the ground hummed The Star-Spangled Banner. “That’s a beautiful song,” he said. “I never realized what a beautiful song that is.”

  “What do you make out of it?” Morty asked the leader.

  “Depends,” he said. “Hot weather, a lot of people in the park, maybe a hundred, a hundred-fifty a week.”

  “Wow,” the kid on the ground said. “Wow! Wow!”

  “But you have to divide that between you,” Morty said.

  “That’s right,” Ramon said impatiently, “between us. Go ahead, mister. Don’t miss.”

  “Listen,” Morty said, “do yourselves a favor.” He took a memo pad from his breast pocket and tore off a notation and handed it to Ramon. “Here are the names and addresses of six organizations looking for boys. I took them out of tonight’s paper. You’ll make a lot more money and I understand there’s a real opportunity for advancement.”

  “Okay,” Ramon said, “in the morning. I promise. Shoot us.”

  “Why should I shoot you? You’re rehabilitated.”

  “Don’t waste time talking, man,” the wounded boy’s brother told Ramon. “Let’s close
in on him. He’ll have to shoot.”

  “Yeah,” the leader said, “yeah, that’s right.”

  They moved toward Morty.

  “It actually gets better,” the boy on the ground said.

  “No closer,” Morty said.

  “Come on, Ramon, jump him.”

  “No closer,” Morty warned.

  Ramon moved to spring at Morty, and at close range Morty pumped a dart into his stomach. The boy fell writhing to the ground.

  “How is it, Ramon? Is it as great as George says?” the boy’s brother asked.

  “It hurts,” Ramon said.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” George said. “It’s great.”

  “It hurts,” Ramon said. “I think I’m dying.”

  “It doesn’t hurt, man. It’s very pleasant,” George said.

  “No,” Ramon said, “it hurts.”

  “Ramon is right,” Morty explained expertly. “I’m out of Opiola. I didn’t kill him, but he’ll have the pain for seven years.”

  Morty called Rose Gold.

  “I’m terrified of you,” she told him.

  “No,” he said, saddened. “No, Rose.”

  “I am. Terrified. You have our name, our number. Probably you have our address. I’m terrified.”

  “No, Rose,” Morty said, “that’s awful. Why should you be afraid?”

  “Listen,” Rose Gold said, “I’ve given the police a full description. You can’t get away with frightening people.”

  “You’re being too soft with him,” a man’s voice suddenly broke in. “I’ve hired private detectives. They’ve got important clues. You’ll be brought to justice, don’t you worry about that.”

  “Who is that?” Morty asked. “Who’s there?”

  “This is Rose Gold’s husband,” the man said. “I hear everything you say to my wife.”

  “Why are you talking to me like this?” Morty demanded. “What are you talking about clues? You want clues, I’ll give you clues. I never had a secret in my life. I live at 205 West 70th Street. Come get me. What do you think this is?”

  “Did you hear that, Rose?” the man asked, excited. “Did you get the address? All right, you,” he said, “what do you want from Rose? Why do you keep calling her?”

  “I don’t have to tell you a thing,” Morty said, “but as it happens, I have no secrets. In each society I visit I try to find somebody I can talk to. Then they pass on what I tell them. It’s the oral tradition. When we finally met for that drink, I was going to share everything with Rose.”

  “Share everything? Share what?”

  “Just the meaning of things, that’s all,” Morty said.

  “Baloney the meaning of things,” Gold said.”

  “Jerk,” Morty said, “you don’t think there is one? There is one, there is one. I have an astonished heart. Life is immense. Don’t you know that?”

  The man laughed. “Okay, Mr. Philosopher,” he said, “you find out the meaning of things and you call us up at a decent hour and you let us know—but no drinks. No meetings and no drinks. We have your address. We can put our hands on you whenever we have to.”

  “No threats, please,” Morty said quietly.

  “This man is crazy, Rose,” Gold said.

  “Let me talk to your wife now, if you don’t mind,” Morty said.

  “Sure,” Gold said, laughing, “talk to her. Rose.”

  “Rose?”

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “Is he still there?”

  “He’s watching television. I guarantee you. What is it?”

  “I’m very sorry, Rose. I didn’t know how awful it was for you.”

  “He’s a good provider,” Rose Gold said.

  “Don’t patronize me,” Morty said, raising his voice. “Don’t hang up. I’m sorry I yelled. Listen, I think I can help you. In my knapsack I have a special soap. Its lather brings understanding. It won’t give wisdom, but it opens the mind to the wisdom of others. Do you think you could get him to bathe?”

  “Is that what you wanted to say to me?” Rose asked angrily.

  “No. Listen. Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, tomorrow. I move up. I close in on the truth. Frankly, I’ve been putting it off. I’m a little nervous about it.”

  “Well sure, a big thing like that.”

  “I told you, Rose, I don’t permit people to patronize me,” Morty said, controlling himself. “Now,” he said, calm again, “this thing tomorrow will be tremendous. I’m qualified for it to be. Before no—now yes. I told them in 1934, when I refused the doctorate. That was a speech. That was. What was I in 1934? A small, marked man, thin as a warrior, passionate in the guts but unripe as next week. Still, I told them. ‘Doctors Lopus and Moore and Stitt and Frane,’ I said, ‘I decline to be examined. What of music, gentlemen? What of medicine and history and physics and literature? What of military strategy and folk dancing and astronomy and law? I know nothing, doctors. Good-by.’ ”

  “Good-by,” Rose Gold said.

  “Not you. It’s what I said. So now I’m prepared. Listen, it wasn’t easy. These aren’t the old-timey German-beer-garden days when all you had to do for knowledge was sell your soul. It’s a buyer’s market now. It probably always was. Anyway, it hasn’t been easy. Those damned jungles, that creepy food, those redundant world capitals—all that lousy note-taking and collating and waiting for boats and keeping your ears off their bloody necklaces. Phooey, Rose. But—you prepare and you’re prepared. Tomorrow.”

  “Hah!” Rose Gold’s husband shouted. “Hah! You see? The man’s a fool. He’s crazy. Tomorrow is Sunday. Everything’s closed!”

  “Tomorrow!”

  He left his room and went downstairs and crossed Amsterdam Avenue and walked the two blocks to the park. He entered and turned right, walking south along the western margins of Central Park, crossing intricate foot and bridle paths, raising his stout stick to greet the few early morning riders, cutting through greensward where the wet grass swished against his cuffs. He was grateful it was cool, for his knapsack was heavy and he had a long way to go. From time to time, from a hilly rise, he could see the fine apartments across the avenue, and once, down a wide, plunging street, the hazy green of Jersey like something at the bottom of a moated hill. Then the road—there was barely any traffic—swung next to him and he moved along narrower and narrower grassy plots out into Columbus Circle. “Oh, brave new world,” he said, and caught his breath, and looked for a moment at the stunning marble brightness of the Coliseum. All around him were the city’s new museums, theaters, concert, and exhibition halls. “This is it,” they boasted to him. This ain’t it, he thought, and shoved the knapsack higher, lifting it as one would push up on the buttocks of a piggybacking child.

  He crossed the wide street and walked past the expensive hotels toward the Grand Army Plaza, seeing his face, like something on fire, in the brassy medallion plates of the Essex and Hampshire Houses and the Barbizon-Plaza and the St. Moritz and Plaza hotels. And this ain’t it, he thought, catching a dim fragrance of open luggage, cuff links on the rug, melting ice.

  He headed south on Fifth Avenue past the fine stores, their clean enormous windows reminding him of nativity scenes, glassed, moneyed crèches. He paused for a moment before a window, looking past his reflection into the cool, tweedy depths of the scene, and admired the horsey, intelligent dummies, a season ahead in a different time zone and climate, in some heaven off earth, standing, awkwardly graceful, self-conscious and chosen in front of the precious furniture and rare books. He caught a scent of the turning wheels inside Swiss watches. “This ain’t it,” he sniffed. “It’s only the way it ought to be.”

  A policeman moved up behind him. Morty could feel the cop’s eyes on his back. “I’m no revolutionary, Officer,” he said without turning. “The thought of smashing this thick glass makes me shudder. I only wish I could afford some of this stuff.”

  “You a peace marcher?” the cop asked.

  “Too
old,” Morty said. ‘“Truth walker.”

  He crossed the street to look into the window of F.A.O. Schwarz and stared in amazement at the toys for the emperor’s children, the king’s kids, and then went down 56th Street toward Madison Avenue. In the distance, on both sides of the street, he could see the striped, fringed canopies and bright pennants of French and Italian restaurants. They looked like the gay tents of ancient, opposing armies. Knights could have appeared under the awnings, buckling armor.

  He turned down Madison Avenue and smelled electric-typewriter ribbons. At Abercrombie & Fitch on 45th Street, Morty stopped, startled. There in the window was a manikin, burdened as Morty himself was by a knapsack, but pithhelmeted, superbly, masculinely bloused, with clever canvas loops for his shells running like intricate braid across his handsome shirt, his field marshal’s jodhpurs flowing like twin, wind-whipped flags into the rich leather boots. He marched proudly through his air-cooled, Platonized jungle, his eyes like jeweler’s crystal, toward the grand bull koodoo of creation somewhere behind Morty’s back. Morty was not put off. “No, this ain’t it either, is it, oh, wax brother?” he said and moved east along 45th Street past Park, where the banks were and the new office buildings like upended trays of ice cubes.

  He went on to Lexington, walking abreast of the stocky, Greeky splendor of the Grand Central Terminal, still idle and almost cabless this early on a Sunday morning. He followed the big building, like a stone roadblock, around two corners and came out at 42nd Street.

  He moved toward Broadway. Now he could smell dollar-nine-cent steaks. He could smell publishers’ remainders, paperback books, lenses, tripods, leatherette camera cases, record albums, little Statues of Liberty, transistorized tape recorders—plastic. Overwhelmingly he could smell plastic. “This ain’t it, and this ain’t even the way it ought to be,” he said.

  At Times Square he looked north into the great valley of Broadway. Slogans, the names of movie stars, trademarks, colossal painted labels stuck flat to the buildings like ripped shards of poster on a kiosk. In the wilderness of unkempt, unlit tubing scribbled across signs, he could just make out glassy, ghost traces of airplanes, fountain pens, the complicated wing movements of birds.