An Agent of Utopia

by Andy Duncan

  I walked over, afraid that Al would be crying, too, but no, he just sat there, looking out at the city.

  I sat, too. My feet dangled alongside his. I asked, “Did you see it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Me, neither,” I said. I would have put my arm around him, but his sack of rivets was in the way. “This happens sometimes,” I said. “Not often. Maybe not again for ten years. But it happens.”

  “Yeah. Got a smoke?” Al asked, his voice shaky.

  I didn’t smoke, and he knew that. But it was something to say.

  “Let’s go down now,” I said.

  “OK,” he said.

  For the first time since the accident, for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be in the steel. I wanted to be on the ground. The feeling would pass, would rarely come back. But I felt it then.

  Al went first, leading the way. I carried the rivets. Without them, Al was so small, the ladder wasn’t even vibrating when I took hold of it. It was as if he weren’t there.

  Rattling down in the elevator, we watched the city rise around us. As we descended into shadow, it got colder. The car shook like a buckboard, so we braced ourselves against the walls.

  I turned to Al and said, “Let me see that advertisement again.”

  He handed it to me, and I read it over.

  “Colony Theater,” I said. “I know where that is. I saw a pirate movie there, once.”

  Al sounded excited. “Are you going, Mr. Eddie?”

  “Why not?” I said. “They’re looking for real Indians, aren’t they?” I drew myself up, jabbed my thumb into my chest. “One hundred percent real Indian, that’s me.”

  The Colony Theater was also in midtown, at Broadway and West Fifty-Third, around the corner from the Iceland skating rink and the IRT substation. Still there, too, but it’s changed hands, changed names. In those days it was new, half vaudeville and half pictures, and though I hadn’t worked on it, I knew guys who had. For some reason there were a lot of garages and car dealerships on that block, and the night of the premiere, the showroom windows were filled not with cars but with displays of Indian jewelry, Indian weapons, and Indian Indians. Well, people dressed like movie Indians, anyway. They had drawn a crowd, too. Just walking that block toward the theater on premiere night was slow going, more than three hours before the show.

  Above each window was a sign, in Western-saloon lettering, telling everyone on the sidewalk what was happening.

  “Off to the Trading Post.” That was two guys in a canoe, paddling. It might have been convincing if I had been as short as Al, but I could look down through the glass and see the canoe was sitting on blue gravel, and rather than disturb the rocks, the Indians were paddling the air.

  “Sharing the Peace Pipe.” That window was pretty cloudy. The two old guys with the pipe kept rubbing the glass clear with their elbows, but it just clouded up again. They didn’t look so peaceful. They looked annoyed. They didn’t look Indian, either. No one in the windows did.

  The next window was titled “A Helpless Prisoner.” A chesty blonde was tied to a stake on top of a crepe-paper fire, and two guys waving tomahawks were dancing around her. Well, I say around. They had no room in the display case to get behind the blonde, so they just danced back and forth on either side of her, fanning their lips like white kids going wah-wah-wah, and the blonde pretended to scream her head off, only silently. This seemed to be the most popular window, judging from the press of the crowd, but looking at the activity behind the glass was strange because I could hear only the noises on the sidewalk, made by the many people jostling to see.

  “Look at the lungs on that broad!”

  “Pay attention, Billy. This is history!”

  “They’re gonna kill her!” That was a little kid, pressing herself back against her mom’s knees, trying to back away from the glass. Only the crowd kept pressing her forward. She was shouting her head off. “They’re gonna kill her, Ma! They’re gonna kill her!”

  “It’s just pretend, honey,” her mother said.

  I leaned down, tapped her shoulder. “That’s right,” I said. “Those tomahawks, see how they flap back and forth? They’re made of rubber. Rubber can’t hurt you.”

  The kid stared up at me, sucked in breath that whistled through the gap in her teeth, filled herself up for another bellow.

  “Don’t talk to niggers, Cordelia,” Ma snarled. I registered only a big flowered hat and a frowning set of eyebrows before she whisked her daughter away in the crowd.

  I nearly turned around right then, and went home. But I didn’t. Some people. What can you do?

  The sidewalk clock showed ten minutes to nine, and I needed to get a move on.

  Under the Colony Theater marquee, behind a velvet rope, were a few teepees with more Indians milling around, and a calliope mounted on a circus wagon. An old guy in a U.S. Cavalry uniform was pounding the hell out of the keyboard. He was playing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” I still don’t know why. Guys in coveralls crossed my path, toting into the lobby an upright microphone, a folding screen with glossy photos pinned to it, a balsa-wood cutout of Custer. A man’s voice yelled, “Aren’t you listening? The Indian village sticks out no farther than here, otherwise the crowd is filing down a chute like so many goddamn cattle!”

  I threaded through and turned into the alley, clutching the paper they’d given me that afternoon, when I registered for the show. It was a lot less crowded and easier to breathe in the alley, but it sure didn’t smell so good. I took my place at the end of a short line of guys shuffling single file through the stage door. I had tried to dress up a little, with rosewater and some shine in my hair, but a couple of these men looked as if they’d slept in their clothes, and the guy just ahead smelled worse than the alley. None of them looked Indian, either.

  A leathery woman with a gnawed cigar wedged in the corner of her mouth was checking us in on a clipboard. Her first question, when I reached her, was: “Cavalry or Indian?”

  I was tempted, and the thought made it hard to keep a straight face, but I finally said, “Indian.”

  She flipped a sheet. “Name?”

  “Eddie DeLisle,” I said.

  “Eddie what?”

  “DeLisle,” I said. “I talked to Mr. Birnbaum on the phone. He put me down.”

  Her cigar tacked back and forth in her mouth as she looked and didn’t find me.

  I added: “Big dee, little eee, big ell, little eye, little ess, little ell, little eee.”

  “Big enn, little oh,” she said. “I got no Eddies here. See for yourself.” Her neck wattles shook like a turkey’s.

  “Hey, there it is,” I said, my big finger tapping the smeared page. I forgot I had signed it “E. Two Rivers DeLisle,” but my last name was more of a big dee with a tail.

  She grunted and used a grease pencil to lay a thick black smear across my name. “Good,” she said. “Tell the dressers you’re the last member of the welcoming party in the lobby. First door to your right.”

  The dressers, when I walked in, didn’t wait to be told anything. The moment I entered their long, bright room, barely registering the bare skin and sagging bellies and bobbing headdresses, hands were unbuttoning my braces, my shirt, unwrapping my collar. And these were women!

  “Raiding party?” one asked, holding up a big fur hat with horns.

  “Lobby,” I squawked, as my britches fell around my ankles. “The welcoming party.”

  “Ah,” she said, moving so fast that I registered only eyeglasses, a flurry of measuring tape, and a pencil in her red hair. “Take off his shirt, too. Don’t worry, you can keep your shorts. This ain’t that kind of theater.”

  She turned to a clothes rack sagging beneath the weight of buckskin and feathers and started yanking down items, leaving the wire hangers to dance naked. In moments, those clothes were on me, in layers. I
could barely move.

  “Well well,” she said, stepping back with her arms folded. “You, at least, look good. You, I can believe in.” She was pretty, I now could see, and her eyes looked pinched in the corners. I think that meant she was smiling, but before I could smile back, someone dropped a sweaty band of cloth across my eyes. I yanked it up by instinct and turned to see, in a full-length mirror, an Indian chief peering out from under a feathered headdress so long that it dragged the floor behind. I wore fringed buckskin trousers, moccasins, a leather belt with turquoise braided in, and a white fur vest that left my arms and chest bare. I was impressed.

  Then the woman’s hands were rubbing all my bare skin she could see and reach, smearing on makeup, striping me like a tiger. “The others were too hairy for this,” she said, “but you’ll look just fine.” I thought she looked just fine, too, as she wiped her hands on the tail of her smock, shoved my street clothes into a cubby, and tossed me a wooden number, like in a deli. “You’re in Seventy-Six. Don’t lose this, because it’s your pay chit, too. You’ll be naked and poor. Hey, Hilda. Hilda! Show the Chief here to the lobby, will you?”

  A kneeling older woman with safety pins in her mouth looked up from an Indian princess’s hem. “Mhm-MHM-mhmmhm,” Hilda said. “Mhm-MHM.”

  “Oh, fine, then. Follow me, Chief—well, what is your name?”

  “I’m Eddie,” I said.

  “I’m Millie,” she said, over her shoulder. “Pleased to meetcha.”

  We had plunged into a series of narrow corridors full of people on the move—the ones in costume mostly headed in our direction, the stagehands mostly shouldering past in the other.

  I asked, “What does the welcoming party do?”

  She laughed. “At a guess, I’d say you welcome people. Impressive, ain’t I? That’s what three years in New York does for an Iowa girl. Makes you smart.” She flung open a shabby door, and before us was the Colony Theater lobby. Marble floors, gold-leaf cornices, red velvet curtains, a chandelier wider than my gang’s platform, and, in the middle of it, an Indian village. Not like Caughnawaga village, though. Those lobby teepees wouldn’t have lasted five minutes during winter on the St. Lawrence. We build our houses right, up there. A dozen Indians and a dozen soldiers in Cavalry uniform were being herded into groups by a yelling bald guy in riding breeches, waving a clipboard.

  “See the Kaiser there? Do what he says. Within reason. OK? Break a leg, Eddie.” She was already halfway down the corridor.

  “Hey, wait a sec,” I said.

  She turned, one eyebrow arched.

  “You gonna undress me later?” I asked.

  She laughed out loud. “Oh, someone can help you with that, if I’m busy.” She turned away but kept turning as she walked, so she now was walking backward looking at me. Her hands were stuck deep in the pockets of her smock, which she flapped like wings, her tape measure fluttering. “But who knows, Eddie? I mean, who the hell can say? It’s Saturday night on Broadway, the avenue where dreams come true.”

  Laughing, I stepped into the lobby, feeling better than I had in a while, and was nearly run over by a giant squeaky-wheeled platform being shoved past the door. On the platform, rolling in reverse, was a stuffed buffalo, a massive thing, shaggy and awe-inspiring. It nearly ran over some loafing soldiers, too, but the Cavalry scattered in panic as the buffalo slid to a stop, its beard swaying, its beady eyes staring right at me.

  ——

  The welcoming party’s job turned out to be greeting the dignitaries who entered the lobby on the red carpet. Just before they reached the radio microphone, we were supposed to raise our right hands, just like swearing on the Bible, and say, “Hail, Great Chief!” No, I am not kidding. Or “Hail, Great Mother!” Those moving-picture gals in their little dresses didn’t look like Great Mothers to me, but they sure as hell didn’t look like Great Fathers, either.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s the exclusive Universal Pictures contract beauty, Alice Joyce! Co-star of that terrific new Ronald Colman picture, Beau Geste! From P. C. Wren’s electrifying best seller! . . . Fresh from his latest sellout show at the Winter Garden, here’s everyone’s favorite singer, Al Jolson! . . . Here’s top producer Samuel Goldwyn, whose new sensation is The Winning of Barbara Worth! Starring Ronald Colman, Gary Cooper, and Vilma Banky, the Hungarian Rhapsody! . . . Here’s George Jessel, star of Broadway’s hit play, The Jazz Singer. . . . And look out, everyone! Here are the stars of that wacky new Broadway sensation, The Cocoanuts. Yes, it’s Groucho Marx, Harpo Marx, Chico Marx, and Zeppo Marx.”

  “Hey, are you guys related?” asked the one in the painted mustache.

  Most of the dignitaries were there because they worked for the studio, or had a new picture coming out, or a show on Broadway, or were just there because that’s what famous people have to do, show up to fill seats at things like this—though at least two of the Marxes, I noticed, went out the side door the moment the announcer was done with them, and I didn’t see them come back.

  One dignitary was different, a white-mustached old man in a Cavalry uniform that was not a costume. He walked with a cane. Everybody else, when we said, “Hail, Great Father,” laughed and hailed us back, or in one case honked a horn. This old man just looked thoughtful. For a second I expected him to salute.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, a very special guest, retired Brigadier General Edward S. Godfrey. General Godfrey, welcome. Please tell our listeners where you were on June 25, 1876.”

  “I was in command of K Company at the Little Bighorn.”

  “Remarkable. So you served under Custer himself?”

  “I did, yes. Though in that battle, my column was separate from his.”

  “And how did you survive, sir?”

  “We suffered losses, of course, but with the aid of Providence, my men held off the enemy until General Terry arrived, two days later. Whereupon, as the world knows, I learned the sad news that General Custer and the men who rode with him—six company commanders included, and three of Custer’s own closest kin—had been slain, victims of an overwhelming enemy force. I know, for I was in charge of the identification and the burial of the honored dead. An awesome duty, a terrible duty, and yet a sadly necessary duty, for—”

  “Thank you, General, and enjoy the show. Here she is, ladies and gentlemen, the radiant Clara Kimball Young!”

  Finally the parade of dignitaries was over, and almost everyone with a ticket had filed into the auditorium. Only some stragglers were left, and the big crowd outside—the people who had no tickets, but were just enjoying the free stuff—were still standing there looking in. The boss-man shook hands with us, thanked us for being excellent scenery, and said we were welcome to stay for the movie on Universal’s nickel, though we might have to stand up in the back of the house. The show was a sellout, seventeen hundred seats full. Most of the Cavalry took this as their cue to leave—in hopes of avoiding the massacre, maybe—but most of the Indians decided to stay, and began filing through the auditorium doors, still in costume because they were afraid if they went back to the dressing room, they’d miss something. The orchestra already was playing the overture. I was about to join them when I realized one of those figures out on the sidewalk looked familiar.

  I trotted outside for a closer look. It was Al, his chin just above the velvet rope.

  “Look at you, Mr. Eddie,” he said. “You got paint all over and feathers like a pigeon.”

  Al was more dressed up than I’d ever seen, in knickers and a buttoned blue shirt, with his hair oiled and parted in the middle.

  “Al, you’re missing the movie. Where’s your papa?”

  Then I was sorry for asking. He sagged worse than if I’d handed him a 30-pound sack of rivets. He looked like he was carrying two floors at once.

  “Papa couldn’t make it, Mr. Eddie,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “He took sick, and I guess he forgot to buy the t
ickets. But hey, I was all dressed up anyhow. So I been watching everything out here. It’s like a free show, Mr. Eddie.”

  I had an idea. “Stay here, Al. Stay close to the rope.”

  I went back to the teepees. Most of the Indians had gone inside, but one of the braves who had threatened the blonde in the window was sitting on a stool behind the biggest teepee. He was having a smoke, not such a good idea with that headdress on. “How you doing?” he said, with a nod.

  “You using that blanket?” I pointed to a big colorful rumple in front of the teepee flap like a welcome mat, then picked it up without waiting for an answer. “Thanks. Let’s see.” I patted myself down, but came up short of accessories. “How many necklaces you wearing, buddy? Three at least. Lend me one, will you?”

  He wedged the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and stared at me as he slowly unclasped the beads and held them close to his chest. “Say, what’s the story?” he asked.

  “Just trying to be a good Indian,” I said as I tugged the beads from his clenched hand, one at a time. “There’s a pal.”

  Just then, his window buddy crawled out of the teepee, struggled to his feet. He was a little unsteady, his big belly swaying. He’d lost his headdress someplace. Then the teepee flap opened again, and the Helpless Prisoner crawled out, a flask rolling onto the pavement beside her knee. It sounded empty. The headdress was too big on her blonde head, and as she stood, it angled over one eye like a flapper’s hat.

  “Hiya,” she said as she finished buttoning her blouse. She had started at the bottom. “Jeez, that pallet is hard,” she said. “How’d they ever make so many Indians, I wonder, lying on the ground like that? I ask you.”