Tales of the Jazz Age (Classic Reprint)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  The man with the blood–shot eyes looked up.

  "Gordy," said the promenader with the prominent teeth, "Gordy."

  "Hello," said the man with the stained shirt thickly.

  Prominent teeth shook his finger pessimistically at the pair, giving the woman a glance of aloof condemnation.

  "What'd I tell you Gordy?"

  Gordon stirred in his seat.

  "Go to hell!" he said.

  Dean continued to stand there shaking his finger. The woman began to get angry,

  "You go way!" she cried fiercely. "You're drunk, that's what you are!"

  "So's he," suggested Dean, staying the motion of his finger and pointing it at Gordon.

  Peter Himmel ambled up, owlish now and oratorically inclined.

  "Here now," he began as if called upon to deal with some petty dispute between children. "Wha's all trouble?"

  "You take your friend away," said Jewel tartly. "He's bothering us."

  "What's at?"

  "You heard me!" she said shrilly. "I said to take your drunken friend away."

  Her rising voice rang out above the clatter of the restaurant and a waiter came hurrying up.

  "You gotta be more quiet!"

  "That fella's drunk," she cried. "He's insulting us."

  "Ah–ha, Gordy," persisted the accused. "What'd I tell you." He turned to the waiter. "Gordy an' I friends. Been tryin' help him, haven't I, Gordy?"

  Gordy looked up.

  "Help me? Hell, no!"

  Jewel rose suddenly, and seizing Gordon's arm assisted him to his feet.

  "Come on, Gordy!" she said, leaning toward him and speaking in a half whisper. "Let's us get out of here. This fella's got a mean drunk on."

  Gordon allowed himself to be urged to his feet and started toward the door. Jewel turned for a second and addressed the provoker of their flight.

  "I know all about you!" she said fiercely. "Nice friend, you are, I'll say. He told me about you."

  Then she seized Gordon's arm, and together they made their way through the curious crowd, paid their check, and went out.

  "You'll have to sit down," said the waiter to Peter after they had gone.

  "What's 'at? Sit down?"

  "Yes—or get out."

  Peter turned to Dean.

  "Come on," he suggested. "Let's beat up this waiter."

  "All right."

  They advanced toward him, their faces grown stern. The waiter retreated.

  Peter suddenly reached over to a plate on the table beside him and picking up a handful of hash tossed it into the air. It descended as a languid parabola in snowflake effect on the heads of those near by.

  "Hey! Ease up!"

  "Put him out!"

  "Sit down, Peter!"

  "Cut out that stuff!"

  Peter laughed and bowed.

  "Thank you for your kind applause, ladies and gents. If some one will lend me some more hash and a tall hat we will go on with the act."

  The bouncer bustled up.

  "You've gotta get out!" he said to Peter.

  "Hell, no!"

  "He's my friend!" put in Dean indignantly.

  A crowd of waiters were gathering. "Put him out!"

  "Better go, Peter."

  There was a short, struggle and the two were edged and pushed toward the door.

  "I got a hat and a coat here!" cried Peter.

  "Well, go get 'em and be spry about it!"

  The bouncer released his hold on Peter, who, adopting a ludicrous air of extreme cunning, rushed immediately around to the other table, where he burst into derisive laughter and thumbed his nose at the exasperated waiters.

  "Think I just better wait a l'il longer," he announced.

  The chase began. Four waiters were sent around one way and four another. Dean caught hold of two of them by the coat, and another struggle took place before the pursuit of Peter could be resumed; he was finally pinioned after overturning a sugar–bowl and several cups of coffee. A fresh argument ensued at the cashier's desk, where Peter attempted to buy another dish of hash to take with him and throw at policemen.

  But the commotion upon his exit proper was dwarfed by another phenomenon which drew admiring glances and a prolonged involuntary "Oh–h–h!" from every person in the restaurant.

  The great plate–glass front had turned to a deep blue, the color of a Maxfield Parrish moonlight—a blue that seemed to press close upon the pane as if to crowd its way into the restaurant. Dawn had come up in Columbus Circle, magical, breathless dawn, silhouetting the great statue of the immortal Christopher, and mingling in a curious and uncanny manner with the fading yellow electric light inside.

  X

  Mr. In and Mr. Out are not listed by the census–taker. You will search for them in vain through the social register or the births, marriages, and deaths, or the grocer's credit list. Oblivion has swallowed them and the testimony that they ever existed at all is vague and shadowy, and inadmissible in a court of law. Yet I have it upon the best authority that for a brief space Mr. In and Mr. Out lived, breathed, answered to their names and radiated vivid personalities of their own.

  During the brief span of their lives they walked in their native garments down the great highway of a great nation; were laughed at, sworn at, chased, and fled from. Then they passed and were heard of no more.

  They were already taking form dimly, when a taxi cab with the top open breezed down Broadway in the faintest glimmer of May dawn. In this car sat the souls of Mr. In and Mr. Out discussing with amazement the blue light that had so precipitately colored the sky behind the statue of Christopher Columbus, discussing with bewilderment the old, gray faces of the early risers which skimmed palely along the street like blown bits of paper on a gray lake. They were agreed on all things, from the absurdity of the bouncer in Childs' to the absurdity of the business of life. They were dizzy with the extreme maudlin happiness that the morning had awakened in their glowing souls. Indeed, so fresh and vigorous was their pleasure in living that they felt it should be expressed by loud cries.

  "Ye–ow–ow!" hooted Peter, making a megaphone with his hands—and Dean joined in with a call that, though equally significant and symbolic, derived its resonance from its very inarticulateness.

  "Yo–ho! Yea! Yoho! Yo–buba!"

  Fifty–third Street was a bus with a dark, bobbed–hair beauty atop; Fifty–second was a street cleaner who dodged, escaped, and sent up a yell of, "Look where you're aimin'!" in a pained and grieved voice. At Fiftieth Street a group of men on a very white sidewalk in front of a very white building turned to stare after them, and shouted:

  "Some party, boys!"

  At Forty–ninth Street Peter turned to Dean. "Beautiful morning," he said gravely, squinting up his owlish eyes.

  "Probably is."

  "Go get some breakfast, hey?"

  Dean agreed—with additions.

  "Breakfast and liquor."

  "Breakfast and liquor," repeated Peter, and they looked at each other, nodding. "That's logical,"

  Then they both burst into loud laughter.

  "Breakfast and liquor! Oh, gosh!"

  "No such thing," announced Peter.

  "Don't serve it? Ne'mind. We force 'em serve it Bring pressure bear."

  "Bring logic bear."

  The taxi cut suddenly off Broadway, sailed along a cross street, and stopped in front of a heavy tomb–like building in Fifth Avenue.

  "What's idea?"

  The taxi–driver informed them that this was Delmonico's.

  This was somewhat puzzling. They were forced to devote several minutes to intense concentration, for if such an order had been given there must have been a reason for it.

  "Somep'm 'bouta coat," suggested the taxi–man.

  That was it. Peter's overcoat and hat. He had left them at Delmonico's. Having decided this, they disembarked from the taxi and strolled toward the entrance arm in arm.

  "Hey!" said the taxi–driver.

  "Huh?"

>   "You better pay me."

  They shook their heads in shocked negation.

  "Later, not now—we give orders, you wait."

  The taxi–driver objected; he wanted his money now. With the scornful condescension of men exercising tremendous self–control they paid him.

  Inside Peter groped in vain through a dim, deserted check–room in search of his coat and derby.

  "Gone, I guess. Somebody stole it."

  "Some Sheff student."

  "All probability."

  "Never mind," said Dean, nobly. "I'll leave mine here too—then we'll both be dressed the same."

  He removed his overcoat and hat and was hanging them up when his roving glance was caught and held magnetically by two large squares of cardboard tacked to the two coat–room doors. The one on the left–hand door bore the word "In" in big black letters, and the one on the right–hand door flaunted the equally emphatic word "Out."

  "Look!" he exclaimed happily—

  Peter's eyes followed his pointing finger.

  "What?"

  "Look at the signs. Let's take 'em."

  "Good idea."

  "Probably pair very rare an' valuable signs. Probably come in handy."

  Peter removed the left–hand sign from the door and endeavored to conceal it about his person. The sign being of considerable proportions, this was a matter of some difficulty. An idea flung itself at him, and with an air of dignified mystery he turned his back. After an instant he wheeled dramatically around, and stretching out his arms displayed himself to the admiring Dean. He had inserted the sign in his vest, completely covering his shirt front. In effect, the word "In" had been painted upon his shirt in large black letters.

  "Yoho!" cheered Dean. "Mister In."

  He inserted his own sign in like manner.

  "Mister Out!" he announced triumphantly. "Mr. In meet Mr. Out."

  They advanced and shook hands. Again laughter overcame them and they rocked in a shaken spasm of mirth.

  "Yoho!"

  "We probably get a flock of breakfast."

  "We'll go—go to the Commodore."

  Arm in arm they sallied out the door, and turning east in Forty–fourth Street set out for the Commodore.

  As they came out a short dark soldier, very pale and tired, who had been wandering listlessly along the sidewalk, turned to look at them.

  He started over as though to address them, but as they immediately bent on him glances of withering unrecognition, he waited until they had started unsteadily down the street, and then followed at about forty paces, chuckling to himself and saying, "Oh, boy!" over and over under his breath, in delighted, anticipatory tones.

  Mr. In and Mr. Out were meanwhile exchanging pleasantries concerning their future plans.

  "We want liquor; we want breakfast. Neither without the other. One and indivisible."

  "We want both 'em!"

  "Both 'em!"

  It was quite light now, and passers–by began to bend curious eyes on the pair. Obviously they were engaged in a discussion, which afforded each of them intense amusement, for occasionally a fit of laughter would seize upon them so violently that, still with their arms interlocked, they would bend nearly double.

  Reaching the Commodore, they exchanged a few spicy epigrams with the sleepy–eyed doorman, navigated the revolving door with some difficulty, and then made their way through a thinly populated but startled lobby to the dining–room, where a puzzled waiter showed them an obscure table in a corner. They studied the bill of fare helplessly, telling over the items to each other in puzzled mumbles.

  "Don't see any liquor here," said Peter reproachfully.

  The waiter became audible but unintelligible.

  "Repeat," continued Peter, with patient tolerance, "that there seems to be unexplained and quite distasteful lack of liquor upon bill of fare."

  "Here!" said Dean confidently, "let me handle him." He turned to the waiter—"Bring us—bring us—" he scanned the bill of fare anxiously. "Bring us a quart of champagne and a—a—probably ham sandwich."

  The waiter looked doubtful.

  "Bring it!" roared Mr. In and Mr. Out in chorus.

  The waiter coughed and disappeared. There was a short wait during which they were subjected without their knowledge to a careful scrutiny by the head–waiter. Then the champagne arrived, and at the sight of it Mr. In and Mr. Out became jubilant.

  "Imagine their objecting to us having, champagne for breakfast—jus' imagine."

  They both concentrated upon the vision of such an awesome possibility, but the feat was too much for them. It was impossible for their joint imaginations to conjure up a world where any one might object any one else having champagne for breakfast. The waiter drew the cork with an enormous pop and their glasses immediately foamed with pale yellow froth.

  "Here's health, Mr. In."

  "Here's same to you, Mr. Out."

  The waiter withdrew; the minutes passed; the champagne became low in the bottle.

  "It's—it's mortifying," said Dean suddenly.

  "Wha's mortifying?"

  "The idea their objecting us having champagne breakfast."

  "Mortifying?" Peter considered. "Yes, tha's word—mortifying."

  Again they collapsed into laughter, howled, swayed, rocked back and forth in their chairs, repeating the word "mortifying" over and over to each other—each repetition seeming to make it only more brilliantly absurd.

  After a few more gorgeous minutes they decided on another quart. Their anxious waiter consulted his immediate superior, and this discreet person gave implicit instructions that no more champagne should be served. Their check was brought.

  Five minutes later, arm in arm, they left the Commodore and made their way through a curious, staring crowd along Forty–second Street, and up Vanderbilt Avenue to the Biltmore. There, with sudden cunning, they rose to the occasion and traversed the lobby, walking fast and standing unnaturally erect.

  Once in the dining–room they repeated their performance. They were torn between intermittent convulsive laughter and sudden spasmodic discussions of politics, college, and the sunny state of their dispositions. Their watches told them that it was now nine o'clock, and a dim idea was born in them that they were on a memorable party, something that they would remember always. They lingered over the second bottle. Either of them had only to mention the word "mortifying" to send them both into riotous gasps. The dining–room was whirring and shifting now; a curious lightness permeated and rarefied the heavy air.

  They paid their check and walked out into the lobby.

  It was at this moment that the exterior doors revolved for the thousandth time that morning, and admitted into the lobby a very pale young beauty with dark circles under her eyes, attired in a much–rumpled evening dress. She was accompanied by a plain stout man, obviously not an appropriate escort.

  At the top of the stairs this couple encountered Mr. In and Mr. Out.

  "Edith," began Mr. In, stepping toward her hilariously and making a sweeping bow, "darling, good morning."

  The stout man glanced questioningly at Edith, as if merely asking her permission to throw this man summarily out of the way.

  "'Scuse familiarity," added Peter, as an afterthought. "Edith, good–morning."

  He seized Dean's elbow and impelled him into the foreground.

  "Meet Mr. In, Edith, my bes' frien'. Inseparable. Mr. In and Mr. Out."

  Mr. Out advanced and bowed; in fact, he advanced so far and bowed so low that he tipped slightly forward and only kept his balance by placing a hand lightly on Edith's shoulder.

  "I'm Mr. Out, Edith," he mumbled pleasantly. "S'misterin Misterout."

  "'Smisterinanout," said Peter proudly.

  But Edith stared straight by them, her eyes fixed on some infinite speck in the gallery above her. She nodded slightly to the stout man, who advanced bull–like and with a sturdy brisk gesture pushed Mr. In and Mr. Out to either side. Through this alley he and Edith walked.

>   But ten paces farther on Edith stopped again—stopped and pointed to a short, dark soldier who was eying the crowd in general, and the tableau of Mr. In and Mr. Out in particular, with a sort of puzzled, spell–bound awe.

  "There," cried Edith. "See there!"

  Her voice rose, became somewhat shrill. Her pointing finger shook slightly.

  "There's the soldier who broke my brother's leg."

  There were a dozen exclamations; a man in a cutaway coat left his place near the desk and advanced alertly; the stout person made a sort of lightning–like spring toward the short, dark soldier, and then the lobby closed around the little group and blotted them from the sight of Mr. In and Mr. Out.

  But to Mr. In and Mr. Out this event was merely a particolored iridescent segment of a whirring, spinning world.

  They heard loud voices; they saw the stout man spring; the picture suddenly blurred.

  Then they were in an elevator bound skyward.

  "What floor, please?" said the elevator man.

  "Any floor," said Mr. In.

  "Top floor," said Mr. Out.

  "This is the top floor," said the elevator man.

  "Have another floor put on," said Mr. Out.

  "Higher," said Mr. In.

  "Heaven," said Mr. Out.

  XI

  In a bedroom of a small hotel just off Sixth Avenue Gordon Sterrett awoke with a pain in the back of his head and a sick throbbing in all his veins. He looked at the dusky gray shadows in the corners of the room and at a raw place on a large leather chair in the corner where it had long been in use. He saw clothes, dishevelled, rumpled clothes on the floor and he smelt stale cigarette smoke and stale liquor. The windows were tight shut. Outside the bright sunlight had thrown a dust–filled beam across the sill—a beam broken by the head of the wide wooden bed in which he had slept. He lay very quiet—comatose, drugged, his eyes wide, his mind clicking wildly like an unoiled machine.

  It must have been thirty seconds after he perceived the sunbeam with the dust on it and the rip on the large leather chair that he had the sense of life close beside him, and it was another thirty seconds after that before that he realized that he was irrevocably married to Jewel Hudson.

  He went out half an hour later and bought a revolver at a sporting goods store. Then he took a took a taxi to the room where he had been living on East Twenty–seventh Street, and, leaning across the table that held his drawing materials, fired a cartridge into his head just behind the temple.