by John Sanford
“And the Boy Pioneers are always caught short. That’s a fine outfit you’re getting into.”
“How about taking that uniform off and getting ready for school?” the woman said. “You missed the whole morning.” She watched the boy go into the bedroom, and then she turned to her husband. “Well, Dan, you’re home.”
“Glad or sorry?” he said.
“Too glad ever to make a joke of it,” she said. “It was a bad year, and looking back now, I seem to have spent it waiting for something to explode.”
“Well, it’s over, honey, so take a breath and relax.”
“I can’t, Dan, not just yet,” she said.
He looked at her for a moment, and slowly his face worked into a smile. “Why, Polly!” he said, and he rose and went toward her.
The boy came from the bedroom, saying “I’m going,” but with his hand on the doorknob, he paused to study a mother-and-father kiss.
“I thought you were going,” the hack-driver said.
“I’m going,” the boy said, and he closed the door behind him. He was astride the banister, ready to slide to the floor below, when he realized that he had forgotten to take his cap.
Through the transom, he heard his mother say, “I’ve got to make up for that day in Pemberton.”
He no longer wanted the cap. He let himself slide.
Property, if any
“The lucky stiff is in Cuba now,” the hack-driver said, tapping a letter from an envelope. “How does he do it? How in hell does he do it?”
“Do what?” the woman said.
“Cover so much territory,” the hack-driver said, and crumpling the envelope, he tossed it through the window into the courtyard.
“He’s round,” the woman said. “He rolls.”
“I wanted that Cubic stamp,” Danny said, and he went to the window and peered down.
“Me, I hope my heart out, and maybe after seven years, some slob’ll come along and say ‘Drive me to Asbury Park.’ Asbury Park!”
“I’ve never been to Asbury, Dan. What’s it like?”
“Like a thousand other seaside dumps.”
“Then why’re you so crazy to see all those dumps?”
“You just don’t understand, honey.”
“Do you?” she said.
The hack-driver ignored the question. “I’m about to read a letter from my dear brother-in-law,” he said, “and when I finish, I’ll have a bellyful of bile. ‘U. S. Naval Station, Guan-something, Cuba, October 28, 1919. Dear Stick-in-the-mud.’ That’s a good start for a lousy day. They’re all lousy, but this one’s going to be worse. I’ll probably jump into the Pope-H and go right through the floor. If I don’t watch out, I’ll have a pushmobile. And I’ve simply got to do something about that back seat—the fares are squawking about their piles. What a car! What a way to make a living! What a life!”
The woman leaned over the back of his chair and looked at him upside-down. “Is it really so terrible?” she said.
“Well, not at the moment.”
“All the time kissing,” the boy said.
“Butt out, stinker.”
Well, I’m nearing the end of my hitch, and then for a little sight-seeing.…
“I wish I had that Cubic stamp.” the boy said.
“A little sight-seeing!” the hack-driver said. “Why, that dog has seen more than God, and he’s seen it twice!”
I’ve got my eye on a place called Russia. It’s about as easy to get into as Heaven, but I’ll manage it somehow, even if I have to tunnel under from hell. They say something big is going on there, but old Web Varner won’t believe it till he can touch it. Imagine a country where the people own everything—banks, mines, railroads, the air they breathe, the ground they walk on, and themselves! No fat-ass crooks to figure out a man’s life so close that at the end all the poor pruned-down bastard can show for it is three cigar-store coupons and a cold ham-hock.
The hack-driver said, “Did I once say he was a Socialist? I take it back: he’s a Bullshevik.”
The woman said, “He started when he was ten years old. I remember he heard a speech in the street one day, and he rushed home to tell us that we, not Vanderbilt, really owned the New York Central. Pop said, ‘Maybe, son, but I’d hate to see Vanderbilt’s face when we broke the news.’ By the way, it’s Bolshevik, not Bullshevik.”
“Who cares about the spelling? It’s the meaning that counts.”
“Do you know what Bolshevism is?”
“It’s the people owning the means of production,” the hack-driver said. “And don’t look so surprised.”
“I didn’t mean to,” the woman said.
“There’s Morty and Roger,” Danny said. “I hope they don’t see that stamp.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the hack-driver said. “Don’t look so God damn surprised.”
America was once a tidal-wave of words, and in 1775 words were as hot as a pistol, and we set the world on fire with them, but we got scared of ourselves, and we let the fire go out (in fact, we put it out), and our words are cold now, and so is America. We were going to make history for the next thousand years. Hell, we made it for exactly twelve, and then we wet our powder with the Constitution.
The woman said, “Well, his powder isn’t wet.”
“I’m going down and get that Cubic stamp,” the boy said.
For a moment, the hack-driver sat still, listening to step-sounds ebbing, and then he said, “I love all the Varners.”
I may ship straight from Havana, in which case we won’t be seeing each other for quite a while. I haven’t spent a button since joining the Navy, and I had some bucks in the bank before I went in. The last time Polly wrote me, Dan, she kind of indicated that you just about had your snoot above water, so what with the kid growing up and all, and you and the cab falling apart, I’m enclosing a little check on the Corn Exchange in the hope it’ll tide you over till.…
The hack-driver and the woman dashed to the window. In the courtyard below, Morty Peck was disputing possession of the envelope with Danny Johnson, the Battling Bulldog of Battery Park. Leaning over the back fence, Goggly Roger Lynch was egging Morty on.
“I found it,” Morty said, “and it’s mine!”
“Finders keepers, losers weepers,” Roger said.
“Give it back,” Danny said, “or I’ll wet your powder. That means I’ll knock you down in the water.”
“You and who else?” Roger said.
“My uncle sent that emvelope, so it belongs to me,” Danny said.
“Your uncle!” Morty said. “You never had an uncle, and if you did, he’d be an aunt!”
“The time has come for me to wet your powder,” Danny said, and forthwith he delivered two blows. The first struck Morty’s left eye, and the second his right eye, and they resulted in his full surrender of the envelope and immediate retreat across the fence.
From up above, the hack-driver said, “That was a neat one-two, son. I never done better myself.”
“He bent the stamp a little, but I can straighten it,” Danny said, and he began to peel it from the envelope.
“Watch out how you do that. You’ll tear it.”
“I’m being careful. You got to be careful with stamps.”
“Maybe you ought to soak it in hot water.”
“No, I got it off,” the boy said, and he started for the courtyard door, tossing away the envelope as he went.
The woman nudged the hack-driver. “Do you want that envelope for anything?” she said.
“Jesus, I forgot!” he said. “Hey, Danny, bring that hunk of paper up too, will you?”
“Big Dan and Little Dan,” the woman said. “My two damn fools.”
Name of Bank
The Pope-Hartford drifted up Fifth Avenue on the late-afternoon tide. It contained no paying passengers: no silk-shirt ports, no tarts in ostrich-plumes, no shysters named Max, no jockeys or gamblers, no member of any board of directors, no obscure citizen merely in a hurry—none of these rode t
he worn waffles of cab’s upholstery. Instead, the interior was crammed to the roof with boxes, bundles, pots and pans, blankets, books, rolled-up clothing, and the aggregate drabness of bright trinkets acquired one by one through the years. On a bucket between the hack-driver and his wife, who occupied the drop-seat under the meter, sat Danny their son—the Johnson family, on the move for the first time since becoming a family, was heading for its new home, a flat in Harlem near the corner of 121st Street and Park Avenue.
In front of the Public Library, the cab was held up for a moment by the upheld hand of a traffic policeman.
“Look at the lions,” the boy said.
When the cab passed the policeman, he appraised it without expression—up, down, and across—and turned away.
“Cossack,” the hack-driver said. “All cops are Cossacks at heart.”
“Why do they have lions on the liberry?” the boy said.
“To scratch matches on. I should’ve scratched one on that cop’s chin.”
“What in the world have you got against that cop?” the woman said.
“Didn’t you see the way he looked at me? It was on the tip of his tongue to say, ‘Take that wreck off a the Avenoo!’”
“What was on the tip of yours?”
“I’d’ve said, ‘What for?’ and he’d’ve said, “I’m going to run you in!’”
“You wouldn’t’ve been frightened, of course.”
“Not me,” the hack-driver said. “I’d’ve told him just where he got off. I’d’ve said, ‘Start running,’ and we’d’ve been on our way. He’d’ve said, ‘A fresh egg, eh?’ and I’d’ve said, ‘Just laid.’ He’d’ve said, ‘Pull over to the curb and produce your license!’ I’d’ve looked at him contemptibly, and I’d’ve flipped open my wallet and shown him my picture, saying, ‘Reckonize me, Inspector?’ and he’d’ve curled. They all curl when you call ’em Inspector. He’d’ve said, ‘Seems like I seen this mugg before,’ and I’d’ve said, cool as a cuke, ‘I’m Dago Frank.’ ‘I thought you was familiar,’ he’d’ve said, and then I’d’ve said, ‘They took that snap of me just before I went to the Chair in 1914.’ By now, he’d’ve been wishing to Christ he never tangled with me.”
The woman said, “Wouldn’t I have said anything while all that was going on?”
“What could you do that would’ve curled him better than I was curling him?”
“Oh, something like, ‘What’re you two game-cocks sore about?’”
“How would that’ve helped?”
“He might’ve calmed down and said, ‘Lady, I was only pointing out to your husband that this old car might break down and block traffic,’ and hearing him talk like that, you might’ve calmed down too, at least long enough to say, ‘Officer, I have a Constitutional right to drive where I please, but if it’s a favor you want, consider it granted.’”
“Where would that’ve got us?”
“The two of you would’ve been friends.”
“Who wants to be friends with a cop?”
“I could’ve said something,” Danny said, “and you would’ve won the argument, and you would not’ve had to be friends. He would never’ve said another word after what I would’ve said.”
“That sounds more like my speed,” the hack-driver said. “What would you’ve said, son?”
“I would’ve looked right in his eye and said sneering, ‘I don’t like pleecemen,’ and he would’ve got mad and said sneering ‘What do you mean—you don’t like pleecemen? You got to like pleecemen!’ and then I’d’ve said sneering, ‘I don’t like pleecemen because they’re a servant of the ruling-class!’ That would’ve won the argument.”
“Then you should’ve said it. What were you ascared of?”
“I was ascared he’d ask me what I meant. Uncle Web told me once, but I forgot.”
“The ruling-class is anybody with five bucks in the bank.”
“How much do we have in the bank?”
“Just about that, give or take a quarter.”
“Then why ain’t we the ruling-class?”
“We don’t have any servant.”
“What about that pleeceman?” the boy said. “If a highway-robber went in the bank and tried to steal, wouldn’t the pleeceman stop him?”
“If he was the guy back there, more likely he’d say, ‘Hurry up, but only take the small change.’”
“How would the robber know which money to take?”
“It’s right there on the books. In one column, it says, ‘Daniel Johnson—$5.40’ and in the next column, it says, ‘Rock D. Johnefeller—$ 1,000,000.’”
“But supposing the robber said, ‘Why should I only steal five bucks off of Daniel Johnson? I could get a million off of Rock D. Johnefeller.’”
“The guy I just argued with would say, ‘Take Johnson’s money. He’s only a poor slob, so what could he do about it?’”
“But supposing the robber said, ‘I come in here to fill up this satchel with money, and if I only take Johnson’s money, it will not fill up this satchel. It will only fill up if I put in some of Johnefeller’s money, so I am going to do it.’ What would the pleeceman say then?”
“He’d say, ‘Johnefeller’s money is dynamite. Put it in that satchel, and it’ll blow up in your face. Why not be sensible? If Johnson’s money won’t fill up that satchel, there’s a lot of other poor slobs in here that only have five bucks too. All of ’em put together couldn’t squawk as loud as one Johnefeller, so take their money and be sensible.’”
“Would the robber be sensible?” Danny said.
“The only one that ever wasn’t is still in jail.”
“What happens to a robber that’s sensible?”
“He gets to be president of the bank.”
“What’s the good of that?”
“What’s the good?” the hack-driver said. “He can take off his mask!”
* * *
The last box and bundle had been carried upstairs, the last rag of clothing had been accounted for, and the last lost mate of the last shoe had been found. The bed-rails had been joined and the mattresses imposed, the map had been tacked over a tear in the wallpaper, and a thirty-watt bulb had been turned on to take the place of the sunken sun. Through floor and ceiling, new voices had been heard and new odors endured, and finally there came a long and sunday-vacant moment when the Johnsons, all three, had looked about them at surroundings different for the first time in a dozen years, and in that moment each had known in a private yet communicatory way, that fewer years remained of life: each in that moment had grown older, because each had become aware of the past.
“We ain’t getting anywheres, Polly,” the hack-driver said.
Twenty-four blocks down Park Avenue, the Buffalo Express poured from a tunnel in Manhattan rock, the pound of its triple trucks changing to a cannonade as ballast gave way to elevated rail. Rolling at a mile a minute, the train passed the Johnson flat in pulsant thunder that swamped speech and drummed the world—and then the last car was gone, and with it the sound and the trembling.
“We ain’t getting anywheres!”
PART TWO
Let Us Have Peace
On a lawn between the Claremont Mansion and Grant’s tomb, four boys lay outflung in the summer morning like wounded. A fifth boy, a Negro, stood near the curb, listening, but not speaking, glancing at the others but not demanding, close by but apart: he was with them, but they were not with him.
“… If I was maroomed on a desert,” Monroe Squire was saying, “all I’d want to eat is ten million ice-cream combs.”
“What flavor?” Harry Keogh said, and raising his head, he trained his muzzle on a dandelion and fired chain-shots of licorice-juice across the intervening grass.
“Pistache,” Monroe said, and he came up part way from supine to watch the Fort Lee ferry Tenafly come into dock. She reversed engines, and a boom of green milk exploded from her stern. “If that boat was pistache, I’d eat it right down till it sunk.”
Gilbert Spence t
urned to Daniel Johnson. “What’s your favorite thing?” he said.
[Food] the colored boy said, but only he heard the word.
A low-slung tug, the Rose Mac Namara, slouched past up-river, lifting a boiling wake like a bustle, and over the churn played a gray and white acrobat, a gull.
“I’m hungry,” Danny said.
* * *
Perlman’s Candy Store was a ten-foot hole in an old taxpayer under the 125th Street Viaduct. Sunlight came through its smeared window in a steep slant of spinning dust and floating lint, and it broke on metal and glass into tinsel stars. Behind the soda-fountain, a man in a black mohair skullcap was preparing four banana-splits, and five pairs of eyes—four from across the sticky marble and one from the doorway—were watching him. Half a banana, cut the long way, lay in each of the four banana-curved dishes, and riding it were three scoops of ice-cream—vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. Perlman dipped a ladle into a jar and excavated a dripping load of marshmallow, and this he poured over the knobs of icecream. Another ladle dredging another jar came up with crushed pineapple to stud the marshmallow, and a third ladleful sprinkled the now mobile muck with walnuts. A final touch was added: a maraschino cherry was rammed into each of the middle mounds.
“Ten cents apiece,” Perlman said.
Four dimes went slowly across the counter. Perlman scraped them into his hand, and turning to a cash-register, he pressed a key: the machine flung its tongue out, and the coins vanished. Four spoons sank through ice-cream and struck submerged bananas. Four mouths were stoked. In the doorway, an empty mouth tried to savor an imagined taste, but the taste remained in the mind, and the mouth watered.
“I always eat slow,” Monroe said. “That makes it get bigger.”
Harry said, “Three scoops is three scoops, and it wouldn’t be four even if you took all day.”
“If you finish before I finish,” Monroe said, “then it stands to reason I got more than you, because I got some left, and you ain’t.”
“How can you have more than you have?” Gilbert said. “That’s dumb.”
“Whatever I had left over at the end would be extra.”
