The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze

by William Saroyan

  It was not easy to talk, even with his mother: it seemed so much more natural to say nothing, even when he was ill or bewildered, and sometimes she would call him to her.

  John, are you all right? Why don’t you say something? Let me see your tongue. John, is anything the matter?

  But all he could do was look into her eyes. Sometimes he would be sick, but it was himself and anything that was himself couldn’t be talked about and he would show his mother his tongue and let her hold his hand to see if he had a fever, and when she would say, John, John, you are sick, my poor boy; when she would say this, he would be amazed. That was in her mind, he would feel. She made that up. I’m just standing here. It meant, then, that he was outside, too, everywhere, outside of himself too, in other people’s minds. They could see him and being larger they could see him differently from what he knew, and they could come to conclusions that were impossible for him. They could fix him in their minds as so much height and weight, so much face and mind, and a condition; but he couldn’t do it. He was merely there, trying to figure it out, waiting.

  It was the church then, God in Slavonian, and Jesus. He remembered the people singing, his mother sitting beside him, singing and looking strangely beautiful, something new in her, and a new odor, sweeter now. He wanted to sing with them. It was really beautiful, the Sunday morning light in the church, and everyone singing, but he didn’t know the words. The earth was so lovely, it was so splendid to be alive, sitting in the church. Suddenly he began to pour himself out among the people, into the earth, singing with his mother, making up words, unable to remain silent any longer. That was a lovely time, that time in the church, singing because he was alive.

  The locomotive came out of nowhere, big and black and the ringing of bells, the turning of steel wheels, making him afraid. John, his mother said, we are going away. They got aboard the train and sat down. He heard the locomotive begin to puff, and very slowly the train began to move, carrying him with it. He was amazed, sitting in the train. He saw the buildings coming to and going away from him, at first slowly, then swifter, and swifter, and swifter, and pretty soon it was like music, one two three, one two three, solid things hurrying by, flash, a tree, a house, flash, and the music, one two three, one and one and two and two, the wheels grinding, a road, a river, flash, flash, and the scream of the locomotive. It was very sad to see so many things for such a little time, before he had even been able to look at them solidly, and the bigness of the place, one thing at a time, stretching out endlessly in all directions, the whole earth, nearly broke his heart. He wanted to touch everything. He wanted to have something to do with all of it. He wanted to be aware of, and to mean something to, everything he saw, every tree, every house, every face, all the earth, all the hills covered with grass and flowers, all the streams. And the house where he had lived with his father and his mother . . . where was that now? And where was he that had lived in that house? That little boy who couldn’t learn to read . . .

  It was a new place now, no hills, a smaller place, new faces, new streets, and he was still the same, though he was wearing a bigger pair of trousers and a new jacket.

  Then it was a dream, carrying him to something new, a newer loveliness, a little girl named Maxine, in the third grade. In the dream he went to her and she saw his love and she loved him. What happened was this: they walked together, holding hands. In the morning, after the dream, he was ill with love for the girl. He could not eat breakfast, and he walked to school in a daze, wishing never to emerge from the dream. When he saw the girl in the classroom he became so ill with love he could barely stand on his legs. She sat two seats in front of him, across the aisle, and all day he sat staring at her soft brown hair, still living in the dream. He forgot that he was at school, and each time he was called on to recite, he could think of nothing to say, there was absolutely nothing to say: all he knew was that he loved the girl, loved her, loved her, nothing else. He wanted nothing other than to know that the girl loved him. He wondered what it could mean. A whole month he loved her secretly. Then she dwindled away, still coming to class but no longer meaning what she had once meant to him.

  It was evening, and he was walking across the school grounds on his way home, singing It’s a long long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go. He was singing with all his might, and he hadn’t seen Miss Fargo coming down the school steps. He had felt that he was alone and that he could shout it out the way he liked, but suddenly he saw her, stopping at the foot of the stairs, looking amazed.

  Come here, John, he heard her say, and he went to her, feeling ashamed of the noise he had made. He hadn’t known anyone was around. He hadn’t meant to let anyone hear him. He stood before her, holding his cap, feeling embarrassed.

  Where is Tipperary, John? she asked.

  In Ireland, he replied. He was afraid to look up into her face. She was a young teacher and he liked her very much. She had a lovely sadness and it was fine to sit in a room all day and look at her. Once she sighed sadly, and he sighed sadly, and she saw him and heard him. Then she looked into his eyes and smiled. She smiled at him alone, and when he left the room for recess, he went running through the school grounds with joy, tearing around because it was so fine, Miss Fargo seeing him, he himself, smiling at him.

  She stood at the foot of the stairs a long minute, not speaking; then he felt her hand in his hair. Thank you, John, she said.

  He could never forget that; it seemed very strange, very fine.

  It was the valley, the hot sun, and he was walking along a road, through the vineyard country, with Fat Garakian, Pete Tobin, and Rex Ford . . . going swimming, in the summer. Then it was the water, cool and clean to the body, and the diving, all the boys naked . . .

  He could never forget them diving . . .

  The war came along imperceptibly, and he was running through the town shouting. Peace, Peace, The War Is Over . . .

  In his sleep the locomotive smashed through the earth, and he felt the longing for remote places, to go away from the valley, to cross the mountains, to reach the sea, alien cities, far places. And he saw vast ships. . . away . . . to all the places of the earth, to Tipperary . . .

  He was riding in a train, crossing the mountains, alone, seventeen . . . then a motor bus . . . nineteen . . . then the subway in New York . . . twenty . . .

  The snow, the multitudes alive . . . twenty-one . . . one day, one night, the earth, himself, over and over again, one day, one night, the earth again, and again himself, and again himself, again and again . . .

  He was sitting in the small room, drinking . . . twenty-two . . . and the girl was sitting across the table from him, watching him. He had been silent a long time, ten minutes perhaps, drinking . . .

  Then he said, What is it you asked?

  She had been crying . . . one day, one night, to this, a new moment of talk, of being, and again himself, outside, in another’s mind, with another meaning . . .

  John, he heard her say, John, talk to me . . . what are you thinking? . . . John, is anything the matter? . . .

  He saw himself standing before the house, crying . . . and he heard the girl talking to him, saying the same things over and over again . . . John, John, is anything the matter? . . .

  But she had been telling him something . . . something amusing, something that brought back the image of the sea of his sleep, and the moments of being alive . . . this girl, he thought, it is too splendid . . . then he began to laugh quietly, looking into her face, laughing about it . . .

  Tell me again what you said . . . she was a girl he had met at a cheap dance . . .

  Tell me again, he said . . . I didn’t quite understand.

  She began to talk again, seeming frightened, smoking a cigarette, and all he could get out of it was two months on the way, and it was his, she was sure it was his . . . she had had other men before she had known him but after that she hadn’t, would he believe her, she hadn’t, she hadn’t touched another man, over five months, she had been faithful .
. . would he believe her? . . and now it was two months on the way and she was scared . . . she couldn’t sleep . . . she just had to see him . . . what was he thinking?

  You mean, he said, talking more to himself than to her, I myself, outside, in you, something growing, myself . . . is that what you mean?

  Yes, yes, she said. John, please believe me . . . you will see, honest, you will see that it’s yours . . . I’ve never loved anyone but you . . . I knew you didn’t mean it to be this way . . . I didn’t either . . . it just happened . . . but it’s yours, honest, John, I’m not making this up . . .

  He began to laugh again, feeling large . . . outside of himself . . . possessing all the earth. I, he said, I myself, something growing in you . . .

  Then you will? she said. I could kill it . . . there are doctors and I could get it out . . . but I thought maybe you wanted to know . . .

  He got up with anger and shook the girl, smiling at her after a moment. What are you talking about? he said . . . don’t talk like a chippy . . .

  You will? she said.

  He began to laugh with all his might . . . it’s mine, isn’t it? he said. He sat down again, smiling at her, amazed. How does it feel in you? he asked. Do you mean to tell me you’re sure . . . not one of those other things . . . do you mean to say it’s pretty large?

  Yes, she said, yes, large . . . I can feel it . . . we can rent a small place . . .

  It is very funny, he said . . . Don’t worry, sure, do you think I’m crazy? We’ll move to a small house . . .

  You want to have it? he said . . . you’re sure?

  Yes, she said . . . I want to see it . . . outside, living . . .

  You mean, he said, to have it looking at things . . . standing up on earth, looking?

  Yes, she said, I could go to a doctor . . .

  Don’t talk that way, he said . . . how is it making you feel? I’m beginning to feel fine, he said.

  I feel fine too, she said; only I was scared . . . I thought you’d give me the money to go to a doctor . . .

  Shut up, he said. If you say that again, I’ll knock your teeth out . . .

  But you love me . . . you love me, don’t you, John?

  Sure, he said, sure I love you . . . but that’s not the point . . . tell me about it . . . do you sleep well?

  I’ve been worrying, she said.

  Stop worrying, he said . . . one day, one night, the earth, himself, then another, himself again, still another, and this other looking at the earth, through his eyes, seeing it, and a photograph, him holding the other, something small but of itself, and this girl . . . stop worrying, he said . . . we’ll move to a small house and wait . . . I thought you were after money . . . I didn’t quite understand what you were driving at . . . do you mean you want to see it, you yourself, outside, looking? . . let me feel where it is, he said . . .

  He touched the girl, laughing with her . . . yes, he thought, I myself, outside, growing in her . . . being the whole earth . . . you were talking so much, he said, I thought you were after money . . . I wasn’t listening . . .

  Sure, he said, sure . . . we’ll move to a small house and wait . . . this is fine, he said . . . why didn’t you say it plainly . . . why didn’t you come right out with it . . . I thought you were after money . . .

  He saw the earth growing in her through him, the universe falling into the boundaries of the form of man, the face, the eyes, solidity, motion, articulation, then awareness, then quiet talk, quiet communion, himself again, and yet another, to proceed through time, one day, one night, the earth, and the energy of man, and the face of man, himself . . . he began to laugh softly, touching the girl where it was growing, feeling fine.

  Harry

  This boy was a worldbeater. Everything he touched turned to money, and at the age of fourteen he had over six hundred dollars in the Valley Bank, money he had made by himself. He was born to sell things. At eight or nine he was ringing door bells and showing housewives beautiful colored pictures of Jesus Christ and other holy people—from the Novelty Manufacturing Company, Toledo, Ohio—fifteen cents each, four for a half dollar. “Lady,” he was saying at that early age, “this is Jesus. Look. Isn’t it a pretty picture? And only fifteen cents. This is Paul, I think. Maybe Moses. You know. From the Bible.”

  He had all the houses in the foreign district full of these pictures, and many of the houses still have them, so you can see that he exerted a pretty good influence, after all.

  After a while he went around getting subscriptions for True Stories Magazine. He would stand on a front porch and open a copy of the magazine, showing pictures. “Here is a lady,” he would say, “who married a man thirty years older than her, and then fell in love with the man’s sixteen-year-old son. Lady, what would you have done in such a fix? Read what this lady did. All true stories, fifteen of them every month. Romance, mystery, passion, violent lust, everything from A to Z. Also editorials on dreams. They explain what your dreams mean, if you are going on a voyage, if money is coming to you, who you are going to marry, all true meanings, scientific. Also beauty secrets, how to look young all the time.”

  In less than two months he had over sixty married women reading the magazine. Maybe he wasn’t responsible, but after a while a lot of unconventional things began to happen. One or two wives had secret love affairs with other men and were found out by their husbands, who beat them or kicked them out of their houses, and a half dozen women began to send away for eye-lash beautifiers, bath salts, cold creams and things of that sort. The whole foreign neighborhood was getting to be slightly immoral. All the ladies began to rouge their lips and powder their faces and wear silk stockings and tight sweaters.

  When he was a little older, Harry began to buy used cars, Fords, Maxwells, Saxons, Chevrolets and other small cars. He used to buy them a half dozen at a time in order to get them cheap, fifteen or twenty dollars each. He would have them slightly repaired, he would paint them red or blue or some other bright color, and he would sell them to high school boys for three and four times as much as he had paid for them. He filled the town with red and blue and green used automobiles, and the whole countryside was full of them, high school boys taking their girls to the country at night and on Sunday afternoons, and anybody knows what that means. In a way, it was a pretty good thing for the boys, only a lot of them had to get married a long time before they had found jobs for themselves, and a number of other things happened, only worse. Two or three girls had babies and didn’t know who the other parent was, because two or three fellows with used cars had been involved. In a haphazard way, though, a lot of girls got husbands for themselves.

  Harry himself was too busy to fool around with girls. All he wanted was to keep on making money. By the time he was seventeen he had earned a small fortune, and he looked to be one of the best-dressed young men in town. He got his suits wholesale because he wouldn’t think of letting anyone make a profit on him. It was his business to make the profits. If a suit was marked twenty-seven fifty, Harry would offer the merchant twelve dollars.

  “Don’t tell me,” he would say. “I know what these rags cost. At twelve dollars you will be making a clean profit of two dollars and fifty cents, and that’s enough for anybody. You can take it or leave it.”

  He generally got the suit for fifteen dollars, alterations included. He would argue an hour about the alterations. If the coat was a perfect fit and the merchant told him so, Harry would think he was being taken for a sucker, so he would insist that the sleeves were too long or that the shoulders were too loose. The only reason merchants tolerated him at all was that he had the reputation of being well-dressed, and to sell him a suit was to get a lot of good free advertising. It would bring a lot of other young fellows to the store, fellows who would buy suits at regular prices.

  Otherwise, Harry was a nuisance. Not only that, the moment he made a purchase he would begin to talk about reciprocity, how it was the basis of American business, and he would begin to sell the merchant earthquake insuranc
e or a brand new Studebaker. And most of the time he would succeed. All sorts of business people bought earthquake insurance just to stop Harry talking. He chiseled and he took for granted chiseling in others, so he always quoted chisel-proof prices, and then came down to the regular prices. It made his customers feel good. It pleased them to think that they had put one over on Harry, but he always had a quiet laugh to himself.

  One year the whole San Joaquin valley was nearly ruined by a severe frost that all but wiped out a great crop of grapes and oranges. Harry got into his Studebaker and drove into the country. Frost-bitten oranges were absolutely worthless because the Board of Health wouldn’t allow them to be marketed, but Harry had an idea. He went out to the orange groves, and looked at the trees loaded with fruit that was now worthless. He talked to the farmers and told them how sorry he was.

  Then he said:

  “But maybe I can help you out a little. I can use your frost-bitten oranges . . . for hog and cattle feed. Hogs don’t care if an orange is frost-bitten, and the juice is good for them the same way it’s good for people . . . vitamines. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll have the oranges picked and hauled away, and I’ll give you a check for twenty-five dollars, spot cash.”

  That year he sent over twenty truck loads of frost-bitten oranges to Los Angeles for the orange-juice stands, and he cleaned up another small fortune.

  Everyone said he could turn anything into money. He could figure a way of making money out of anything. When the rest of the world was down in the mouth, Harry was on his toes, working on the Los Angeles angle of disposing of bad oranges.

  He never bothered about having an office. The whole town was his office, and whenever he wanted to sit down, he would go up to the eighth floor of Cory Building and sit in M. Peters’ office, and chew the rag with the attorney. He would talk along casually, but all the time he would be finding out about contracts, and how to make people come through with money, and how to attach property, and so on. A lot of people were in debt to him, and he meant to get his money.