by Max Shulman
CHAPTER 16
But I digress. I was telling about how I counted the blocks for Payson Atterbury.
Well, sir, I started on the outskirts of town, walked through the suburbs and residential sections, and finally ended up in the commercial district. One day when I was walking down Market Street, a dingy thoroughfare which runs along the tracks on the edge of downtown, who should I bump into but George Overmeyer. “George, you old sonofagun,” I cried in my bluff, hale manner.
“Hello, Harry. What are you doing down here?”
Mindful of Mr. Atterbury’s admonition not to reveal my connection with him, I replied, “Oh, I’m just out for a breath of fresh air.” This was perhaps not the most brilliant of evasions, since there were two tanneries across the street. “But what are you doing down here?” I countered.
He pointed to a warehouse a few doors away. ROSSI WHOLESALE LIQUOR CO. said a sign on the side of the building. “I’ve got to buy some booze. Want to come along?”
“Charmed,” I said and accompanied him into the warehouse. It was a dank, cavernous place, jammed with ceiling-high stacks of whisky cases. George took me over to a roll-top desk in the corner of the warehouse and introduced me to Mr. Rossi, a swarthy, scar-faced man in a derby hat and purple suit.
“Hiya, Jack,” said Mr. Rossi to me.
“I want to order some whisky,” said George.
“Got cash?” asked Rossi.
“No,” said George, “but I’ll pay you in a week or so.”
“Cash,” said Rossi. “Now.”
“I don’t get it,” said George. “Haven’t I always paid you?”
“Yeah, but it’s gettin’ slower and slower,” replied Rossi.
“Look, Rossi,” said George, “you know I’ve got a good business.”
What George said was perfectly true. Everybody in Ivanhoe Gardens bought their liquor from him, and Ivanhoe Gardens was what you might call a drinking community. A neighborhood statistician once figured out that the glass used in the bottles of whisky consumed annually in Ivanhoe Gardens would be sufficient to replace every window in the Pentagon. He did not say what effect brown window glass would have on the already shaky morale of Pentagon employees.
“Sure you got a good business,” Rossi admitted. “But look how you run it. You come in for ten minutes every day, rifle the till, and then go out to the track and lose the dough. You’re no credit risk. You’re a bum.”
“Well, how do you like that?” said George, turning to me in amazement. “Rossi calls me a bum. Rossi! Did you ever hear of this guy during prohibition, Harry? Murderer, thug, bootlegger, racketeer …”
A dreamy look came into Rossi’s eyes. “Yeh,” he breathed. “Murderer, thug, bootlegger, racketeer … Pimp, too. And numbers, kidnaping, hijacking, arson, smuggling. Ah,” he sighed, “them was the days. Remember the time I hijacked the drug company truck? I thought it was loaded with medical alcohol. Turned out to be bubble bath. I spiked it and sold it for sparkling burgundy.
“And remember,” he chuckled, “the Elm Street Massacre? Killed forty-seven guys and six elms.
“Ah, them was the days,” he sighed again. He shook his head reminiscently for a moment and then turned to George. “But now I’m a businessman and I say you’re a bum.”
George argued some more, but Rossi kept shaking his head and saying “Cash,” so we finally left.
“You haven’t got any money you can lend me, have you, Harry?” asked George when we were back on the street.
“I’m sorry, George, I haven’t,” I replied. “Why don’t you try a bank?”
“If Rossi thinks I’m a bum,” said George, “what will a bank think?”
“You’ve got a point,” I allowed. “Well, George, I’ll scout around and see if I can find some money for you—Say!” I cried, struck with a sudden thought. “Why don’t you go see Payson Atterbury? Bad risks are his business.”
George smiled. “Walk down the street with me for a minute. I want to show you something.” We walked a little way and came to Nick’s shoeshine stand. “See this?” asked George. “A couple of years ago Nick needed fifty cents to buy a new shoeshine rag. Atterbury lent him the money. Now Nick is working for Atterbury.
“Come on.” He took me a few steps farther—to Sam’s Café. “Last year Sam wanted to buy a mimeograph machine to print his menus. He borrowed the money from Atterbury. Now Atterbury owns the restaurant.
“What’s more,” said George, taking me on to Wang Lin’s Chinese laundry next door, “Atterbury repossessed the mimeograph machine and sold it to Wang Lin for a mangle.”
We were at the corner. “I’ll leave you now,” said George, “with these words of wisdom: Never do business with Payson Atterbury.”
George turned the corner and I continued down Market Street, smiling to myself. Never do business with Payson Atterbury, indeed! There was nobody I would rather do business with. Mr. Atterbury was the nicest, sweetest, kindest man I knew. So what if he drove a hard bargain? That did not make him a villain. What George failed to realize was that some of our greatest citizens, our most generous philanthropists, were hard bargainers when it came to business. Take Andrew Carnegie. Nobody has ever claimed that he was softhearted in a business deal, and yet without his generosity hundreds of American cities would today be without libraries and the works of Zane Grey would be unknown to millions.
Someday, I thought as I walked, George would realize the basic kindliness of Payson Atterbury. Then the two would be friends. Mr. Atterbury, I knew, was already amiably disposed toward George, for he was always asking me about him. Only George needed to be won over. Perhaps I would be the man to do it. It was to be hoped; nothing would give me greater pleasure than to bring these two fine gentlemen, my best friends, together in comradeship.
This I thought as I counted the blocks.
CHAPTER 17
“A party, a party, we’re gonna have a party!” I sang merrily—but softly, lest Miss Geddes become angry and change her mind. It was only after a great deal of wheedling that she had consented to the party. For weeks I had been reminding her that we had to reciprocate for all the times we had been entertained by our neighbors, and finally she agreed.
I must confess that I was being devilish sly. It wasn’t really out of obligation to our friends that I urged the party; it was because I wanted to play host. For a long time I had felt myself capable of performing this function. I had the poise, the background, and Dad Geddes’s black velvet jacket with frogs for buttons.
But as the day of the party approached, I grew increasingly nervous. Perhaps I was rushing things. I had, to be sure, won my spurs in Ivanhoe Gardens society—but as a guest, not as a host. It is one thing to go to a party, quite another to give one. Did I, I wondered, really, truly, honestly have the stuff?
My fears were groundless. As soon as the first couple arrived, my jitters vanished abruptly. “Good evening, good evening, good evening!” I cried jovially, pumping their hands and giving them funny hats to wear. “Wowdow!” I shouted. “Sure gonna be some doin’s here tonight!” Winking broadly, I pinched the lady’s bottom and bade them enter.
Nor did my charm diminish as the other guests arrived. To each I gave a cheery greeting that made him feel not just welcome, but wanted. This to me is the essence of hospitality. It is well enough to be polite to a guest, to see that he has plenty to eat and drink, but a true host will do more. He will make each guest feel that his (the guest’s) presence is absolutely essential to his (the host’s) happiness. This feeling I endeavored to instill in all my guests, and to make sure that I had succeeded, I sobbed piteously when each finally went home.
When the guests were all assembled, I clapped my hands for attention and announced that we were all going to play Twenty Questions. “Shove it,” said Miss Geddes, and the others gaily echoed her sentiments. Nor were they any more receptive to my proposals of Pin the Tail on the Donkey, Going to Jerusalem, or Authors. For these were people who did not need games or any
such artificial stimuli to keep a party bubbling. Conversationalists to a man, filled with savoir-faire and joie de vivre, they required nothing besides themselves and liquor to make an evening a success. Until dawn the good talk flowed, sometimes serious, sometimes frivolous, always engrossing.
Out of the many interesting conversations that night, a few stay particularly in my mind. One was Mr. Bergen’s account of his trip to Europe. Mr. Bergen, an eminent bath-towel jobber, had just completed a six-day junket to London, Paris, Rome, and the Riviera, so he knew whereof he spoke.
“The most outstanding feature of London,” said Mr. Bergen, “is the bad teeth of the natives.”
“What can you expect with a Labor government?” said Mr. Atterbury.
“The English policemen are called bobbies, after Sir Robert Peel who founded the English police force,” said Mr. Bergen.
“Isn’t that interesting?” said George Overmeyer. “The American police are called cops, after Sir Robert Coppers who founded the American police force.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Mr. Bergen. He continued: “On the grounds of Windsor Castle is the famous Queen’s Doll House. The manufacturers of Great Britain presented it to the Queen Mother Mary several years ago. It stands about ten feet high and has fifteen rooms, each competely furnished. All the furnishings in the little house actually work. There’s a little piano that can be played, a little stove that cooks, a little washing machine that washes—everything really works. The paintings on the wall are miniatures done by England’s greatest artists. The little books in the library are real books, printed in type that can be read with a magnifying glass.”
“I think it’s a dirty shame making that poor old queen live in that little tiny house,” said Mrs. Overmeyer.
“Do you think,” asked Mr. Atterbury, “that France is going communist?”
“I’m glad you asked that question,” said Mr. Bergen. “When I was in Paris I made it a point to talk to the man in the street, to find out which way their political sentiments are trending.”
“Is it true,” interrupted Mrs. Overmeyer, “that in Paris there are lady attendants in the men’s washrooms?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Bergen. “Now, as I was saying, I went out and took, you might call it, an unofficial poll. In fact, I did the same thing in Rome.”
“Do they have them there too?” asked Mrs. Overmeyer.
“What?” said Mr. Bergen.
“Lady attendants in the men’s washrooms.”
“I don’t really know,” answered Mr. Bergen. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t in Rome long enough to go to the washroom.… But to get back to Atterbury’s question, let me give you an illustration. I hired a car in Paris. Fellow named Jacques drove it.”
“What an odd name for a Frenchman,” remarked George Overmeyer.
“They have the goddamdest names,” replied Mr. Bergen. “Well, sir, I had many a talk with my friend Jacques.”
“Can they see what you’re doing?” asked Mrs. Overmeyer.
“Who?” said Mr. Bergen.
“The lady attendants in the men’s washrooms.”
“Yes, I believe they can. But, as I was saying, this Jacques—”
“I’d be too embarrassed to do anything,” I giggled.
“This fellow Jacques,” Mr. Bergen went on, “was what you might call a typical Frenchman—four feet eight inches tall and a pervert.”
“Are there men attendants in the ladies’ washrooms?” asked Mrs. Overmeyer.
“I couldn’t say,” replied Mr. Bergen.
“It’s only fair,” said Mrs. Overmeyer.
“Perhaps.… Well, to get back to Jacques, I said to him one day, ‘Jacques, let’s forget that I’m an American and you’re a Frenchman. I want you to consider yourself an equal for the moment.’”
“A handsome gesture,” said George Overmeyer. “Now we’re even for the Statue of Liberty.”
“Well, I believe that every American who goes to Europe should think of himself as a kind of ambassador,” said Mr. Bergen. “Try to build good will. Be friendly. Be tolerant. Keep your disgust to yourself.”
“These women in the men’s washrooms,” said Mrs. Overmeyer. “Do they get paid?”
Reluctantly I took my leave at this point. I had spent quite a little time conversing with this group, and I was afraid that the other guests might feel themselves unwanted if I did not also devote some time to them. With a cheery smile I went over and joined a group of ladies. Here the conversation was not of such global significance; it was, in fact, just an exchange of friendly gossip about some of our neighbors. I put my hand on Miss Geddes’s shoulder and listened. (The hand was withdrawn shortly after she burned it with a cigarette.)
“I understand that Beatrice Venable’s hair is dyed,” said Mrs. Oxnard.
“That’s not true,” said Mrs. Herwig, springing to Beatrice Venable’s defense. “It’s a wig.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Flandrau. “Sam shaved her head after he caught her with the Japanese gardener.”
“Sam’s a fine one to go around shaving heads,” said Mrs. Westlake. “Remember the way he carried on with the Swedish maid at the Bascombs’ house that night?”
“Well, so did all the other men,” said Mrs. Richards.
“A regular smörgåsbord,” I giggled.
“The Bascombs take dope, don’t they?” said Mrs. Hershey.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Mrs. Atterbury. “I know their silverware is plated.”
“I will say this for the Bascombs,” said Mrs. Wycliff. “Helen certainly knows how to dress. Did you see her at the symphony last week? I’ve never seen her looking so young.”
“No wonder,” said Mrs. Kingsley. “That was her confirmation dress.”
“Did you see Mildred Worthington at the symphony with that Goldberg boy?” said Mrs. Daley. “She looked absolutely exhausted.”
“Those Jews are so passionate,” said Mrs. Cheever. “I wonder why.”
“Because they can’t get into country clubs,” explained Mrs. Howe.
Much as I would have liked to stay and hear some more friendly gossip, I felt it my duty to move on to some other guests before they began to feel that I was neglecting them. I joined a group of men gathered at the bar. Here the topic was one of keen interest to all us middle-classmates: income taxes.
“I hear Jack Benson’s in trouble with the Internal Revenue people,” said Mr. Daley.
“Wha’ hoppen?” said Mr. Hernandez.
“Remember that miscarriage Jack’s wife had three years ago?” said Mr. Daley. “Well, Jack’s listing it as a dependent.”
“I tell you,” said Mr. Richards, “income taxes are going to be the ruin of this country.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Westlake. “There’s no risk capital any more. Nobody wants to take a chance.”
“Why should they?” said Mr. Flandrau. “The government takes all your profits.”
“Right,” said Mr. Kingsley. “Nobody’s going to expand or branch out unless he can make some money.”
“Taxes have taken all the incentive out of business,” said Mr. Olin.
“The whole economy is shrinking,” said Mr. Wycliff.
All nodded and sighed.
“Well, Daley,” said Mr. Westlake, “how’s that branch office of yours coming along?”
“Be open next month,” said Mr. Daley. “Say, I hear you bought the building next door to your store.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Westlake. “I’m going to bust out the wall and double my floor space.”
“I’ll be calling on you,” said Mr. Richards. “We’re putting in three new lines of merchandise down at the warehouse.”
“Then I’ll be calling on you,” said Mr. Flandrau. “My garage has branched out into the truck business now too.”
“Better call on me too,” said Mr. Olin. “I’m opening a string of stores out in the suburbs.”
It was time again for me to move on to so
me more guests. Shaking my head sadly because income taxes had destroyed all incentive for business to expand, I turned away and started for a group singing “Sweet Violets” at the piano. My clear alto was more than welcome, even though I did not know the lyrics.
From the singers I went to another group and then to another and another and another, brightening the corners where they were. Nobody, I took pains to assure, was deprived of my presence this night.
The sun was well over the horizon when the last guests crawled out to their car. Tired but happy, I sank into an easy chair and reviewed the evening. By any standard, it had been a swimming success. I had passed my first test as host with flying colors; not a man jack of my guests had complained about feeling unwanted. How proud, I thought, Miss Geddes must be of me. Perhaps even proud enough to—
I leaped from the chair and raced around the house looking for her. I found her at last underneath the bar, curled peacefully on the floor, a bottle of champagne in her hand. Gently, so as not to wake her, I picked her up and carried her to her room, the champagne bottle still dangling from her hand. I laid her carefully on her bed, then tiptoed over to the window and lowered the blinds. On tiptoe I returned to her. Gently I started to pull the champagne bottle out of her hand. Sleeping, she held tighter to the bottle. I increased my pressure, and the cork flew out with a report like a pistol shot.
She sat bolt upright in bed. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“Aw, you know,” I answered.
“Get the hell out of here,” she said.
“No,” I said, determination rising within me. “No, Miss Geddes, I will not get out,” I said grittily. “I will not allow this marriage to be made a mockery of any longer. I know my rights.”
