I'll Get There. It Better Be Worth the Trip.

by John Donovan

  One day Altschuler took me to the Holland-America Line pier, and we sat looking at the Nieuw Amsterdam for about an hour. Three sailors from the ship waved at us. They were just standing around, too. Altschuler told me that it took a day to land passengers, clean up the ship, and get ready for more passengers. It seemed very quiet on the ship. Only a few sailors were roaming around aimlessly, including the three who waved to us. Two guys in working clothes were doing something to some portholes. They were sitting on the same kind of thing window washers sit on when they are working on high buildings, a long platform fastened by ropes and pulleys to some place at the top. One of the workers was whistling.

  “Where do you want to go the most?” Altschuler asked me.

  I hadn’t thought of going anyplace. I’d read about a lot of places and seen a lot of things in the movies and on television about foreign places, but I had never thought of myself in connection with those places.

  “It costs a lot of money to go places,” I answered.

  “Suppose you had money. Where would you want to go?”

  Honestly, money is so important when you think of going anyplace, of getting on a ship like the Nieuw Amsterdam or in an airplane, that it seems goofy of me even to think about something like going to a place that is faraway. I mean, my father took me to Canada, and I’ll go to visit Aunt Louise in Massachusetts this summer, I guess. But places that don’t have something to do with some family person taking you there or being there and that’s why you’re going, places that aren’t one of those places seem crazy for me to think about.

  “What about you?” I say to Altschuler. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Maybe we want to go to the same places.”

  “Come off it,” Altschuler declares. “Either there are places you want to go or there aren’t.”

  I have a feeling that Altschuler is making a production out of this for a reason, but I can’t think what the reason is. Is he trying to decide whether I think about anything other than what happens to me from day to day or whether I think about other things and the other things aren’t worth a second thought? Or is he planning to be a travel agent when he grows up? Or what?

  “There is this place,” I lie.

  “Where?”

  “Solo Khumbu,” I say, remembering an old National Geographic of Mother’s I had looked at last night.

  “Solo Khumbu! What the hell is that?”

  Then I act condescending and superior for several minutes and tell him that I thought everyone knew about Nepal, and Sherpas, and yaks and naks, and llamas and all the potatoes they eat, and all that stuff. Altschuler thinks I’m great, I can tell from the look on his face. So by mistake I ruin everything by throwing in some stuff about Thailand, which I had read about in another issue of National Geographic last night.

  “How can rice shoots grow in a small country that also has Mt. Everest?” Altschuler asks.

  “That’s what’s so great about Nepal,” I tell him. Then I ask him right away where he wants to go the most. He tells me that wherever the Olympics are is where he wants to go. It doesn’t matter about the place. He figures that he will get jobs where he can earn a lot of money in three years and then take off the Olympic year to go to the games, both the winter and summer Olympics. I think that I have just as good an imagination as Altschuler does but perhaps not his convictions.

  Another place Altschuler takes me to one day is a section of several blocks along Sixth Avenue where wholesale florists have stores. We go into some of the stores and look as though we are buying for a big florist out of town, and Altschuler says that we would like to take samples of stuff back to our shop before we make up our minds about which dealer we will bring our business back to. Some of the stores give us each a couple of flowers, and we get about thirty stems by the end of the afternoon. Altschuler takes fifteen home, and I take fifteen. My mother tells me that it’s unusual to see a gladiolus and a rose and a whole lot of other stuff mixed up together and where did I steal them. I tell her about calling on all the wholesale florists. She thinks that is funny. Fred wants to eat up the whole bouquet. I let him sniff it several times, and it kills him not to get a bite of it. After it is in a pitcher, he sits up in front of it and begs. He whines his nobody-loves-me whine when I won’t let him have it.

  “They’ll make you sick, Fred,” I say. “Flowers are to look at, not eat.”

  Then I remember he had a good time rolling all over the flowers they put on Grandmother’s grave when she died.

  “Maybe later, Fred,” I promise. “When they stink more, you can roll in them then.”

  A very good place Altschuler took me to was the stamp and coin department at Gimbels department store. We went back three days in a row because Altschuler hadn’t been there for several months and there were some stamps he wanted to look at. He told me about his collection, which is exclusively stamps of new African countries. One afternoon at his house I looked at the albums he had. I helped him with his new stamps, but he wouldn’t let me do the actual licking and mounting. All I could do was line them up and hand them to him in the right order, like a slave.

  One of the best things about going to Gimbels was going upstairs to look at all the puppies on sale. If I had the money I would buy every one of them so Fred would have buddies to play with. I’ll bet that would go over big with you-know-who.

  Toward the end of the second week, after we had been going home and doing something together for a couple of hours almost every day, when I met Altschuler after school, he asked me if I wanted to come over to his house all day Saturday.

  “That’s the day I always spend with my father,” I tell him, “and Stephanie. That’s his wife.”

  “Oh,” Altschuler says.

  But he says it as though he is mad at me.

  “That’s the only day I get to see him.”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe you’d like to meet him. He’d be glad to have you come with us. I don’t know what we’ll do, but I’m sure he and Stephanie would like to have me bring my friend with me.”

  “Why?” Altschuler says.

  “What do you mean, why? Because you’re my friend, that’s why.”

  “That’s all right. Forget it.”

  “OK,” I say. Now I’m mad.

  “I don’t have time to walk home today,” Altschuler says. “I’m going to meet a friend later. See you.” He gets on the bus just before the door closes. I don’t even have a chance to get on. Altschuler leaves me standing there. I have to walk home alone, and I’m not sure why. I could run and catch the bus in a minute. It chugs along on donkey power, not like a regular city bus. I could catch it without any trouble at the first corner after it leaves the school yard. Why should I run just to do that? So I could find out why Altschuler decided to disappear in such a hurry, that’s why. What’s so important about not going over to his house on Saturday? I invited him to come with me. It’s not as though I didn’t want to see him. To hell with him. I’m not going to run after the bus.

  So I walk home by myself. When I’m with Altschuler, there are certain ways we walk home, certain streets he wants to walk down, and some he tells me aren’t worth bothering about. He’s the expert, so we always go the way he says. Except for the first day I walked with him, we had never gone along Sixth Avenue on the side with the candy store, the one where the lady ran out to greet Altschuler. I decide that today I’ll walk that way for no other reason than that it’s a route Altschuler is always leading me away from. Besides, I like candy, and maybe I would like to buy something every now and then. Like today. When I get to the store, I go in. The same lady that made a big fuss over Altschuler is there.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Oh, it’s Dougie’s friend!” she says. “Where’s Dougie? It’s weeks sin
ce I’ve seen him.”

  I tell her I don’t know where Altschuler is, and I look at the glass jars with an intensity I don’t particularly feel, in spite of how I like candy. How come this lady is so wrapped up in Altschuler? She probably has a million customers a week. Does she get wrapped up in all of them? I’d better watch out. Or should I? She asks me what I like.

  “Almost everything. I don’t like licorice too well, but I’ll eat it.”

  “No licorice! Just like Dougie! When he gets jelly beans, I always have to take the black out. It’s no wonder he’s your friend.”

  “How do you remember what everyone likes?” I ask. “With all the customers you have, it must be hard.”

  “Sure it is. So’s life,” she says. “When you’ve got a business, you remember things which help the business. What people like is very important in candy. Take, for example, if you were to buy Dougie a bag of candy as a present for his birthday, it would be important not to have black jelly beans in it. That’s business, sonny. Business is giving people what they want. Remember that, when you’re a big man doing a big business somewhere. It’s advice like this you need. You’ll grow up and go to college someday, and you’ll learn business from books and you’ll learn economics, and the Wall Street Journal will become your favorite comic book, and you might forget what a lady in the candy business told you. But you try to remember: Give the people what they want. That’s business,” she says, handing me a plate with fudge on it. “Try some. It’s good.”

  I do. And it’s good. I tell her so.

  “What did you expect? I made it myself.” She points to a row of jars. “That stuff I import from England. People in New York like to suck candy made in Europe. We got stuff here that tastes better and is cheaper, but New Yorkers like the English stuff. It’s a cheap way to take a trip, you think?”

  She tells me she forgot my name and I tell her what it is. She tells me I’m a good boy and I listen to advice.

  “Poor Larry,” she says. She takes a handkerchief from her apron pocket and blows her nose. “Such a boy!” She begins to cry, I think. “Like clockwork, every Friday, for years! Larry and Dougie would come in here for candy. Such a boy! You never knew him, if I recall. Him and Dougie were such a pair. Nice boys, not fresh like some kids I know. Always polite. Always please and thank you. That’s manners. Kids today forget those things. Maybe it’s because you boys are richer than most. Oh, I don’t know. I like rich kids better than poor ones. Not that I don’t like poor kids too. There’s a lot of poor kids with fine manners, and very nice to talk with too. Oh, but there’s something to be said for being rich. You boys start out with so much more. Count your blessings, sonny. Excuse me, I forgot your name.”

  “Davy Ross,” I tell her.

  “You’re a nice boy, Davy. I can tell from the way you act. You’re Dougie’s new friend, aren’t you?”

  “Sure,” I mutter.

  “So where is he? Where’s Dougie? He hasn’t been in to see me since the last time you two passed by. Not once since poor Larry died. What kind of friend do you call that, who won’t come to see me?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be in,” I say.

  “Davy, that’s the right name, isn’t it?” she says. “Promise me something. Tell Dougie that Mrs. Greene is a friend indeed. Promise you’ll tell him.”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s a good boy. Now choose what you want. For you there’s no charge today.”

  I smile my greedy smile, and she laughs. I pick out some of Mrs. Greene’s fudge and some caramels. She puts a lot of stuff in a bag for me, still laughing. “What did I tell you? Mrs. Greene is a real friend.”

  I save some of the fudge for my mother, but when I get home it is easy to see that fudge isn’t what Mother wants this afternoon. On several days Mother works at home, doing this writing stuff she has to do for her job. I had forgotten that this was one of those days, and I’m happy that I had forgotten because if I had remembered I would have been thinking about it all day. She has stayed home to work about five times, including today, since I have come to live with her. On the other four days something awful happened when I walked through the door. It usually had something to do with Fred, who bothered Mother when she was trying to work. Mother gets a lot of pep for her writing out of the array of liquor bottles spread around the kitchen and living room. I can see right away that she is filled with plenty of pep today.

  “Davy! Davy! Davy!” she says. “My precious lambie pie, my scrumptious strawberry tart, my delicious draught of apricot nectar! Come give Mummy a swell kiss.”

  I give Mother a kiss, practically falling on the floor because there’s so much alcohol in the air around her.

  “You must be working on a food account today,” I say. Me, the comedian.

  “What do you mean, my precious?” she says, sweeping me into her arms to kiss her again.

  “All those food names you kept calling me.” I laugh nervously. “I sounded like a three-course meal.”

  Mother doesn’t think I’m such a comedian though. She is sitting at her desk, and Fred, of course, is running around both of us like a nut, begging for attention from me. She jumps up now and turns away from me.

  “You’ve really got a lot of chutzpah, haven’t you? Just like your father.”

  “What’s chutzpah?”

  “It’s New York for nerve. You think you have all the answers.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought it was funny the way you called me all those foods. You must have been hungry,” I continue, now nervous as hell. “Maybe you didn’t have anything to eat today.”

  “What does that mean?” she says in a very loud voice, turning to me.

  “Nothing, Mother.”

  “I think it means something. You are just like your father. I don’t know why I let you see him every week. You’re getting more like him every day.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “With cracks about eating.” She moves away. Fred follows her. I think he heard the word “eat,” which he understands well, and thinks she is going to feed him. He gets mixed up in the hem of the long robe she is wearing, and Mother pulls it up from the floor.

  “Get the hell off my robe,” she says to Fred.

  “Come here, Fred,” I call. He comes dashing over to me. “I’ll take him out, Mother.” She doesn’t answer, so I go out with Fred. I stay out about seven times as long as I would ordinarily, and Fred couldn’t be more pleased. I walk him toward Fourteenth Street, which to Fred is like going to heaven since that’s where the wholesale meat dealers are. When I have been out as long as I dare without there being a terrible scene about where I was for so long when I get home, I take Fred back to Mother’s. The end of the Huntley-Brinkley news report is coming through loud and clear from the television set.

  “Good night, Chet.”

  “Good night, David.”

  “Good night to both of you,” I hear Mother call. “You bastards, I’ll bet you don’t spend your lives dog-sitting and kid-sitting. Good night, good night, get lost, both of you!” She turns off the television set and sees that Fred and I have returned.

  “Good night, good night,” she says, mimicking herself. “Good night, Chet. Good night, David. Do you suppose his mama called him Davy? What do you think, Davy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you don’t. If you cared for your mama, you’d get right on the telephone and call that man and ask him if his mama called him Davy. That’s what good little boys do. Isn’t that right, Fred?” She bends down to Fred, who runs toward her and jumps up to lick her face. “That’s a good doggie. Isn’t our Davy bad? He won’t call up the television man and ask him what his mama called him. What do you think, Freddy baby? Isn’t our Davy a bad boy not to do that?” Fred gives her another lick. I don’t know what she does then, but she must be
pinching Fred or squeezing him tight because he suddenly yelps in pain and makes a snapping sound.

  “My God!” Mother jumps up. “He tried to bite me!” Fred is confused and runs away from Mother.

  “No, he didn’t,” I say. “You frightened him. You must have pinched him.”

  “He tried to bite me.”

  “It’s because of what you did, Mother. You must have done something to him.”

  “I did not.”

  “He wouldn’t have yelped unless you did.”

  I go after Fred. He has run into the bathroom and curled himself up behind the toilet. I bend down, and he growls at me, softly but certainly. I am surprised, so I don’t say anything. I do put out my hand toward him, and he growls again and shows his teeth slightly. Fred has never done this to me before.

  Finally I speak softly. “That’s all right, Fred. It was an accident, Fred. No one is mad at Fred. I promise.” Fred stops growling and looks at me very tentatively. “That’s all right,” I say. “Good Fred, good Fred.” I put out my hand once again, and he lets me pat him. “Good Fred. Come to Davy.” He uncurls himself from the back of the toilet and moves slowly out. On one or two occasions before, I think Fred has tried to walk on tiptoe, and he tries to do it again. I’m sitting there on the floor, so he marches right between my legs and jumps up to kiss me. We have a big love feast for five minutes. I tell Fred that accidents will happen and he shouldn’t be mad at anyone. “Accident” isn’t a word in Fred’s vocabulary of course, unless he’s smarter than even I think he is. I read somewhere that dogs have a thousand-word vocabulary as far as comprehension goes. Some people say that is crazy. All dogs do is respond to the tone of your voice. I don’t believe that. I know dogs who are smarter than people. I know a specific dog who just may be smarter than my dumb mother with her dumb drinks and all that dumb talk about love and that crazy way she acts, one minute all love and kisses and the next minute like I just put a knife in her back. At least with Fred I know where I stand. Altschuler and my mother would make a great pair.