Where that left Jews, Buddhists, Muslims and Rastafarians, among other religions, to say nothing of England, France, Italy and Germany, among other democracies, I couldn’t say.
“Now about Aaron Skolnick,” I began, but Ann dived in before I could finish.
“He’s an impious man, and what’s more he’s bent on undermining this country, partly by corrupting young people such as yourself.”
Did she mean to underscore our age difference? Did she think I even cared about that? Or was she saying she cared about that? Or was she saying something else entirely, like Aaron Skolnick was out to undermine the country and corrupt young people like me?
Ann went on, “Commies worm their way into our schools to spread their propaganda. It’s bad enough that half our college professors are communist sympathizers, but for an American university to let a card-carrying party member speak on campus is intolerable.”
By now her eyes burned bright, as they might during sex.
“I see,” I said.
“Do you?”
“Yes, of course. Definitely.”
I had to lie. I mean, how else could I hurdle the barrier between us, namely my indifference toward religion and communists.
Ann appeared dejected despite my falsehood. “It’s such a burden sometimes, trying to persuade people who won’t listen. We know we’re right, but to convince others …”
While her voice trailed off I checked my watch. Geology began in ten minutes.
Shit.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’ve got to go or I’ll be late for class.”
I closed my notebook and grabbed the check.
“I’m sorry too,” Ann said. “Have I answered all your questions?”
She was sorry too? Did that mean what I hoped it meant? I decided to find out. “You’ve been more than helpful, but I do have one more question. Um, what do you do when, uh, you’re not fighting communism?”
She remained silent as we slid out of the booth and shrugged into our coats. Her delayed response came as we stood facing each other. “Are you getting personal?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Hey, they don’t call me Slick for nothing.
“Are you about to ask me out?”
Caught red-handed by a red=hating redhead, I managed to nod.
Ann patted my arm. “That’s sweet, but I’m too old for you and, more important, I’m engaged to Tim. We’ve been so busy, though”—she wiggled her barren ring finger—“we haven’t had time to shop.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You needn’t be. He’ll get me a ring eventually.”
“No, I meant—”
“I know what you meant. You needn’t apologize for that either. I’m flattered.”
We made our way to the cashier and I settled up. When we reached the sidewalk Ann McCory placed a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for doing this story.”
“But you haven’t read it yet. I mean, I haven’t even written it.”
“It’ll be good. You’re a fine reporter and talented writer, I can tell.”
She gave my shoulder a squeeze and was gone, along with my latest fantasy.
Chapter 25
Friday afternoon and all was well, almost. On the plus side, my story had appeared on page three, the closest I’d come to making the front page. On the not-so-plus side, the piece I was pecking out now was unworthy of any page.
After scrutinizing my revised copy yesterday, Hermann had said nothing, which meant he’d approved a second draft, which tempted me to run around the room yelling “Geronimo.” This temptation disappeared a few minutes later when he handed me another fluffy assignment, this one about the imminent expansion of the school cafeteria.
I’d made a few calls and now I was typing out the story, eager to be done with it. I was about halfway through when Rachel Solomon sat across from me, slowing me down considerably through no fault of her own. Wearing purplish hip-hugging slacks, she looked—dare I say it?—adorable.
She consulted her notes, then said, “I read your article on Bonny and Clyde. Nice job. No, better than nice. Excellent.”
I searched her face for a trace of condescension, but unsure what that looked like I gave up and thanked her. She began typing, I resumed and together we played the “Typewriter” symphony, or at least our version of it.
After a minute or two I sensed a dark cloud overhead.
“You’ve got a call,” Ellen Drury informed me. “Don’t monopolize the line.”
The high-pitched voice was familiar but not the attire, a flared skirt and frilly blouse. She should have stuck with the sack.
After watching her shamble away I strolled to the hall phone, reserved for personal calls.
“Rubin.”
“It’s Ann McCory, Nate.”
This couldn’t be good. I prepared to defend the story, including the quotes, which I’d meticulously transcribed despite being distracted.
“Hi,” I said for openers.
“I loved your article.” Loved? Did she say loved? “You were too kind to those pinko trustees and that commie publisher, and you omitted some of our most critical activities, but I know, I know, a newspaper only has so much space.” She paused, maybe as a prelude to withdrawing her love. “But here’s the important thing. You’re the first reporter to quote us accurately. I mean it, the first. So all things considered, I loved the article.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” And I did.
“You should. I’ve never complimented a reporter before.”
A flirty reply came to mind, but vanished when I caught Ellen Drury glaring at me from behind her typewriter. Just as well, I told myself. Miss McCory is engaged.
“Nate?”
“Yes?”
“Just wanted to make sure you were still there.” A second or two passed, then, “Look, I’ve gotta go. Full day and all that. But I had to call and say how much I liked the story. And how much I enjoyed our interview.”
Before learning of her engagement, I might have wrung some meaning from that. Now I merely spread my plumage.
Chapter 26
Sheldon and I sat at a table for two in the Student Union cafeteria, surrounded by the usual lunchtime racket.
“So how’re your new digs?” he asked, then dug into one of three cheeseburgers jammed on his plate, each seasoned with mustard and ketchup and crammed with pickles, onions, relish, lettuce, tomato and a hot pepper—plus, I think, a chunk of kitchen sink.
I wished I could zone out by shoveling food down my throat, but I guess I didn’t have the appetite for it. So I sipped my Coke while ignoring the bunless burger on my plate.
“The house sucks, and so does the neighborhood,” I said.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re so, I don’t know, uninteresting.”
“Uh-huh, I see. Uninteresting. What the hell does that mean?”
“Look, could we just not talk about it?”
I liked Sheldon, I did, except when he poked at my sore spots, which was often.
“Sure,” he said, “we can talk about anything you want.” Pause. “What about what’s-her-face?”
“Could you be more specific?”
“You know, the shvartz.”
What’d I tell you? Poke poke poke.
“You mean Amanda Fontaine?” I took a bite of burger and chewed half-heartedly.
“Yeah, her.”
“What about her?”
Sheldon stopped chewing long enough to look exasperated. “Don’t tell me you don’t wanna talk about her either.”
“No, as a matter of fact I don’t.”
“Why not?”
Now I was exasperated. “Because you said to forget her.”
“Since when do you listen to me?”
“Since I decided you were a smart boychik.” I smiled, also halfheartedly.
“Bullshit. You’re the brains of this outfit and we both know it.”
Sheldon killed off his burger a
nd remained silent, as if mourning its passing. After a decent interval he started in on the second. “So what gives?” he said between bites.
“I decided you were right. The situation was impossible, so I let it go.”
Strident laughter erupted at the next table, where a food fight had broken out among four guys wearing old-fashioned beanies, which reminded me of how similar to high school college was.
“She’s probably forgotten me by now anyway,” I yelled above the racket.
Sheldon reached over and pinched my cheek. “Who could forget that punem?”
Any girl who looked like Amanda Fontaine, that’s who. And if she couldn’t forget me on her own, plenty of guys would be willing to help her.
“Could we talk about something else, please?” I said, emphasizing the “please.”
Sheldon wiped imaginary tears from his eyes. “And I try so hard.” Sniffle. “But there’s just no pleasing you.”
At least he was having a good time, although at my expense.
“Okay, man, you name it,” he said. “Whaduhyuh wanna talk about?”
“Arlene.”
“Arlene? What about her?”
“You ever call her, or at least think about her?”
Sheldon attacked his third burger. “Nah, that’s done, kaput. It was cool while it lasted, but now she’s over there and I’m over here and … what’s the expression? … never the twain shall meet. Or should I say, never the fucking twain shall meet.”
Naturally he thought this hysterical, and laughed hysterically to prove it. What puzzled me was how he could dismiss a relationship so casually, especially one in which the fucking twain had met. I couldn’t shake off Diane Goldfarb, Jeanette Bigelow and Nancy Allabeck, at least not completely, and I hadn’t even twained them. As for Amanda Fontaine, at this rate she’d haunt me forever and maybe even after that.
I almost asked Sheldon how he could forget someone—someone he’d shtupped—so easily, but decided he wouldn’t know. He was like an animal operating on instinct, doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted. Maybe that’s why I remained friends with him despite our differences. I wanted to be more like him, and hoped his instincts would rub off on me.
I considered telling Sheldon about Ann McCory, another of my almost-rans, but that crazy I wasn’t. Instead I brought up the winter weather, a subject normally too humdrum and depressing for me, but at least it was something we could both agree on.
Winter sucked.
Chapter 27
Wonderman climbed into his delivery truck, jammed between a DeSoto and Studebaker outside Harry’s, while I hopped around on the sidewalk freezing my ass off. I’d foregone a jacket, thinking I could bear the bone-chilling cold for a minute or two, but I’d thought wrong.
My friend slammed the door and rolled down his window. “Hey, what say we have us a drink sometime.”
“You mean you and me, together?”
The cold must have frozen my brain, so I got what was coming to me. “No, I mean you and me separate.” Wonderman shook his head, grabbed a pair of wool gloves lying on the seat next to him and tugged them on. Then he looked at me with unwarranted kindness. “Course I mean you and me together.”
“Where, at a bar?”
Obviously my brain hadn’t thawed out yet, but in another act of generosity Wonderman gave me a straight answer. “Yeah, at a bar.”
“I’m underage.”
Well, that wasn’t completely stupid.
“So have a Coke or somethin.”
That didn’t appeal to me either. The idea of setting foot inside a bar made me anxious, maybe because Uncle Marvin spent so much time in one. And no way would I follow in that shikker’s footsteps.
“I don’t know if I should,” I said through chattering teeth. “Can I even get in, I mean at my age?”
“You be okay in The Cottonpicker, long as you wit me.” My skepticism must have showed because Wonderman rolled his eyes. “I’s tellin you, man. I taken my nephew there twice’t.” He turned the key in the ignition, and after initially resisting the engine fired up. “Pisses my preacherman brother off, is why I do it. He so uptight, can’t even shit reglar.” Wonderman slapped the steering wheel and hooted.
I might have laughed too if my face weren’t frozen solid. Instead, I hugged myself against a surging wind that dislodged a curbside snowdrift and whipped it into the street.
“Hey, you best get inside fore you catch somethin,” Wonderman suggested.
“I’m okay.”
He looked doubtful, but instead of arguing he adjusted his rearview mirror. “What about that drink?” When I remained hesitant, he added, “Hey, man, I ain’t got all day.”
Another thought occurred to me: what if I turned into a drunken maniac like Mr. Allabeck? On second thought, that must take years of heavy drinking—in other words, practice.
“Where’s the bar located? I asked.
“John R and Milwaukee.”
“Hmm. Is it a Negro bar?”
“Sure, mainly. What kinda stablishment you spect in that neighborhood?
“They let whites in?”
“Long as they payin whites.”
“Lotta white bars won’t serve coloreds.”
“Tell me bout it.”
I glanced around at nothing in particular, still hugging myself against the cold.
Wonderman put the truck in gear. “Juss thought I’d ask.” He started to roll up the window.
Clearly I’d hurt his feelings. Hell, one Coke in one bar wouldn’t turn me into a shikker.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay what?”
“Okay I’ll have a drink with you, at that bar.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. When?”
“You got classes tomorrow?”
“Couple.”
“You workin?”
“It’s Friday, no.”
We agreed to meet at The Cottonpicker the next evening.
#
A study I’d read for Sociology class ranked the John R-Rush Street area the worst in the country in terms of crime and poverty, more abysmal even than slums such as LA’s Watts and Brooklyn’s Bedford-Stuyvesant. I normally avoided the neighborhood, located only a few blocks from campus, because I’d heard too many stories about street fights in which bystanders suffered more damage than the combatants.
So now I was walking along a snow-slick street in the country’s lousiest neighborhood, my shoulders hunched against cold and fear. I lowered my eyes, feeling more than seeing the frosty stares of occasional passersby. I looked up from time to time and saw, in addition to the stares, windblown debris clinging to gated storefronts and empty wine bottles lying corpse-like in the gutter. I passed several bars that, unlike the stores, remained open at night, their garish signs daring people to enter. I hesitated only a second before entering The Cottonpicker.
I was in a Negro bar, all right, the only Caucasian present as far as I could tell. I looked around for Wonderman but couldn’t spot him so I started for the exit, preferring to wait outside in the cold rather than inside in a panic.
Why was I so jumpy? I liked Negroes, the ones I knew anyway. I even loved one of them. So what the hell?
I was still pondering this question when I heard a familiar voice above the din. “Hey, man, where you goin?”
I did an about-face and saw a hand waving at me from the far end of the bar, which curved around to face the entrance. I hadn’t recognized my friend out of uniform, looking all rustic in jeans and a plaid shirt. I waved back and crossed the room, conscious of the eyes tracking my passage.
Besides Wonderman, the row of patrons seated at the bar included a chummy threesome—a man flanked by two women, each of his arms encircling a waist. Pipe-cleaner thin but broad-shouldered, the guy wore a pinstriped suit and a deep, diagonal scar on his left cheek.
His companions, one large, one medium, sported blonde wigs, bright-green dresses and stiletto heels. The trio laug
hed as I passed, whether at me or a private joke I couldn’t tell.
After I reached Wonderman he slapped me on the back and motioned me to a stool.
“You made it.” He celebrated by sipping his Pabst.
“I told you I’d be here.”
“And you surely is a man a yo word.” He dipped into a bowl of peanuts. “What’ll you have, my man?”
“Coke.”
Wonderman summoned the bartender, a chiseled mountain on tree-trunk legs.
“Another, Marcus?” The Mountain rumbled.
At last, my friend’s name revealed, and without my having to ask for the umpteenth time.
But Marcus?
“Fo sure, Roy. And get my man here a Coke, with a Mary Sheeno on top.”
The bartender eyed me severely but followed up with a smile. “You bet.”
After his departure Wonderman asked, “So whass goin on?”
“Nothing much, um, Wonderman.”
He chuckled and looked over at the bartender, now pouring Coke into a tall glass half-filled with ice. “No one call me that other cept him and my mama.”
Roy crowned my drink with a cherry, then grabbed a Pabst from the bin, opened it with a church key and lumbered back with our drinks. He set them on cocktail napkins and looked at Wonderman. “Add both to the tab?”
“May’s well.”
Roy nodded and strode off.
I thanked my friend and sipped while debating whether to tell him about Ann McCory. I mean, I had to tell someone, and since Wonderman was even more experienced with women than Sheldon it might be worth the risk.
“Actually, there is something going on.”
“Whass that?”
I munched on the cherry while Wonderman took a sizable swallow of beer.
“Well, there’s this woman,” I said.
“They usually is.”
“And I interviewed her for a story.”
He frowned. “Whose you what?”
“I guess I haven’t told you. I’m a reporter for the college newspaper.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
He pounded the bar hard enough to jiggle our drinks. “Good for you, man. You gonna make somethin of yoself, thass fo sure.”
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 11
