by Henry Miller
Suddenly Pop shoots forward on the tail of another bike going at a fast clip. Turning his head he shouts: “It’s Joe Folger!” I’m off like a bat out of hell. Joe Folger! Why, that’s one of the old six-day riders. I wonder what sort of pace he’ll set us. Soon, to my astonishment, Pop shoots forward, dragging me along, and Joe Folger is tailing me. My heart is beating wildly. Three great riders: Henry Val Miller, Pop Brown, and Joe Folger. Where is Eddie Root, I wonder, and Frank Kramer? Where’s Oscar Egg, that valiant Swiss champion? My head is tucked down like a ball between my shoulders; my legs have no feeling, I’m all pulse and beat. Everything is co-ordinated, moving smoothly, harmoniously, like an intricate clock.
Suddenly we’ve come to the ocean front. A dead heat. We’re panting like dogs, but fresh as daisies just the same. Three great veterans of the track. I dismount and Pop introduces me to the great Joe Folger. “Quite a lad,” says Joe Folger, sizing me up and down. “Is he training for the big grind?” Suddenly he feels my thighs and calves, grabs my forearms, squeezes my biceps. “He’ll make the grade all right—good stuff.” I’m so thrilled that I’m blushing like a schoolboy. All I need now is to meet up some morning with Frank Kramer; I’ll give him the surprise of his life.
We saunter about a bit, pushing our wheels along with one hand. How steady a wheel when directed by a skilled hand! We sit down to have a beer. Of a sudden I’m playing the piano, just to please Joe Folger. He’s a sentimental cuss, I discover; I have to scratch my bean to think what will suit his fancy. While tickling the ivories we’re transported, as happens only in dreams, to the training grounds somewhere in New Jersey. The circus folk are here for the winter. Before we know it, Joe Folger is practicing the loop the loop. A terrifying spectacle, especially when one is sitting up so close to the big incline. Clowns are walking around in full regalia, some playing the harmonica, others skipping rope or practicing falls.
Soon a group has collected around us, taking our bicycles apart and performing tricks, à la Joe Jackson. All in pantomime, to be sure. I’m almost weeping because I’ll never be able to put my bike together again, it’s in so many pieces. “Never mind, kid,” says the great Joe Folger, “I’ll give you my wheel. You’ll win many a race with that!”
How Hymie comes into it I don’t remember, but he’s there of a sudden and looking terribly downcast. There’s a strike on, he wants me to know. I ought to get back to the office as quickly as possible. They’re going to marshal all the taxicabs in New York City to deliver the telegrams and cables. I apologize to Pop Brown and Joe Folger for quitting them so unceremoniously and dive into a car which is waiting. Going through the Holland Tunnel I doze off only to find myself on the cycle path once more. Hymie beside me riding a miniature bike. He looks like the fat man of the Michelin tires. He can hardly push the thing, he’s so winded. Nothing easier than for me to lift him by the scruff of the neck, bike and all, and carry him along. Now he’s pedaling in the air. He seems happy as a dog. Wants a hamburger and a malted milkshake. No sooner said than done. As we ride along the boardwalk I grab off a hamburger and a milkshake, flipping the man a coin with my other hand. At Steeplechase we ride straight up the shoot the chutes, as easy as soaring into the blue. Hymie looks a bit bewildered now, but not frightened. Just bewildered.
“Don’t forget to send some waybills to AX office in the morning,” I remind him.
“Watch it, Mr. M,” he begs, “you almost went into the ocean that time.”
And now, by God, whom should we run into, drunk as a pope, but my old friend Stasu. He’s just gotten out of the army, and his legs are still bowlegged from the cavalry drills.
“Who’s that little runt with you?” he demands surlily.
Just like Stasu to begin with fiery words. Always had to be mollified before you could begin talking to him.
“I’m leaving for Chattanooga tonight,” he says. “Must get back to the barracks.” And with that he waves goodbye.
“Is he a friend of yours, Mr. M?” asks Hymie innocently.
“HIM? He’s just a crazy Pole,” I answer.
“I don’t like Polacks, Mr. M. I’m scared of them.”
“What do you mean? We’re in the U.S.A., remember that!”
“Makes no difference,” says Hymie. “A Polack is a Polack anywhere. You can’t trust ’em.” His teeth were actually beginning to rattle.
“I ought to be getting home now,” he adds disconsolately. “The wife’ll be wondering where I am. Have you got the time on you?”
“O.K. Let’s take the subway then. It’ll be a little faster.”
“Not for you, Mr. M!” says Hymie, giving me a wild flattering smirk.
“You said it, kid. I’m a champ, I am. Watch me do a spurt.…” And with that I shoot forward like a rocket, leaving Hymie standing there with arms up yelling for me to return.
The next thing I know, I’m directing taxicabs, a whole fleet of them, from the saddle. I’ve got on a loud-striped sweater, and with megaphone in hand I’m directing traffic. The whole city seems to give way, no matter in which direction I press. It’s like riding through vapor. From the top of the American Tel. & Tel. building the president and the vice-president are sending out messages; streams of ticker tape float through the air. It’s like Lindbergh coming home again. The ease with which I circle around the cabs, darting in and out and always a leap ahead of them, is due to the fact that I’m riding Joe Folger’s old bike. That guy sure knew how to handle a wheel. Training? What better training than this? Frank Kramer himself couldn’t do better.
The best part of the dream was the return to Bedford Rest. There they were again, the boys all in different accouterment, the wheels bright and gleaming, the saddles just right, all with noses upturned, as if sniffing the breeze. It was good to be with them again, feel their muscles, examine their equipment. The leaves had grown thicker, the air was cooler now. Pop was rounding them up, promising them a good workout this time.…
When I got home that night—it was always the same night no matter how much time had elapsed—my mother was waiting up for me. “You’ve been a good boy today,” she said, “I’m going to let you take your bicycle to bed with you.”
“Really?” I exclaimed, hardly able to believe my ears.
“Yes, Henry,” she said, “Joe Folger was here a few minutes ago. He told me you would be the next world’s champion.”
“He said that, mamma? No, really?”
“Yes, Henry, every word of it. He said I should fatten you up a little first. You’re underweight.”
“Mamma,” I said, “I’m the happiest man alive. I want to give you a big kiss.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, “you know I don’t like that.”
“I don’t care, mamma, I’m going to kiss you just the same.” And with that I gave her a hug and squeeze that nearly split her in two.
“You’re sure you meant it, mamma—about taking the bike to bed with me?”
“Yes, Henry. But don’t get any grease on the sheets!”
“Don’t worry, mamma,” I yelled. I was beside myself with joy. “I’ll spread some old newspapers in between. How’s that?”
I woke up feeling around for the bicycle. “What are you trying to do?” cried Mona. “You’ve been clawing me for the last half-hour.”
“I was looking for my wheel.”
“Your wheel? What wheel? You must be dreaming.”
I smiled. “I was dreaming, a delicious dream too. All about my bike.”
She began to titter.
“I know, it sounds foolish, but it was a grand dream. I had a wonderful time.”
“Hey Ted,” I yelled, “are you there?”
No answer. I called again.
“He must have left,” I mumbled. “What time is it?”
It was high noon.
“I wanted to tell him something. Too bad he’s left already.” I turned over on my back and stared up at the ceiling. Wisps of dream floated through my brain. I felt mildly seraphic. An
d somewhat hungry.
“You know what,” I mumbled, still dream-logged, “I think I ought to go see that cousin of mine. Maybe he’ll lend me the wheel for a space. What do you think?”
“I think you’re just a little goofy.”
“Maybe, but I sure would love to ride that bike again. It used to belong to a six-day rider; he sold it to me at the track, you remember?”
“You’ve told me that several times.”
“What’s the matter, aren’t you interested? You never rode a wheel, I guess, did you?”
“No, but I’ve ridden horseback.”
“That’s nothing. Unless you’re a jockey. Well, shit, I guess it’s silly to be thinking about that bike. Them days are done for.”
Suddenly I sat up and stared at her. “What’s the matter with you this morning? What’s got you?”
“Nothing, Val, nothing.” She gave me a feeble smile.
“There is too,” I insisted. “You’re not yourself.”
She sprang out of bed. “Get dressed,” she said, “or it’ll be dark before long. I’ll fix breakfast.”
“Fine. Can we have bacon and eggs?”
“Anything you like. Only hurry!”
I couldn’t see what there was to be hurrying about, but I did as she said. I felt marvelous—and hungry as a wolf. Betweentimes I wondered what was eating her. Maybe her period coming on.
Too bad O’Mara had skipped off so early. There was something I wanted to tell him, something that had leaped to mind as I was coming out of the dream. Well, no doubt it would keep.
I threw back the curtains and let the sun stream in. The place was more beautiful than ever this morning, it seemed to me. Across the street a limousine was standing at the curb, waiting to take milady on her shopping tour. Two big greyhounds were seated in the rear, quiet and dignified, as always. The florist was just delivering a huge bouquet. What a life! I preferred my own, however. If only I had that wheel again everything would be tops. Somehow the dream clung to me tenaciously. The champ! What a quaint idea!
We had hardly finished breakfast when Mona announced that she had to go somewhere for the afternoon. She would be back in time for dinner, she assured me.
“That’s all right,” I said, “take your time. I can’t help it, but I feel too wonderful for words. It wouldn’t matter what happened today, I’d still feel fine.”
“Stop it!” she begged.
“Sorry, girlie, but you’ll feel better too once you step outdoors. Why, it’s like Spring.”
In a few minutes she was gone. I felt so full of energy I couldn’t decide what to do. Finally I decided not to do anything—just hop into the subway and get out at Times Square. I’d stroll about and let what happens happen.
By mistake I got out at Grand Central. Walking along Madison Avenue the notion seized me to look up my friend Ned. Ages it was since I last saw him. (He was back again in the advertising and promoting racket.) I’d drop in and say hello, then scram.
“Henry!” he blurts out, “it’s as if God himself sent you. Am I in a mess! There’s a big campaign on and everybody’s home ill. This damned thing (he flourished some copy) has got to be finished by tonight. It’s life and death. Don’t laugh! I’m serious. Wait, let me explain.…”
I sat down and listened. The long and short of it was that he was trying to write a piece of copy about the new magazine they were putting on the market. He had just the bone of an idea, nothing more.
“You can do it, I’m sure,” he implored. “Write anything, so long as it makes sense. I’m in a fix, I tell you. Old man McFarland—you know who I mean, don’t you?—is behind this business. He’s pacing up and down in there. Threatens to give us all the sack if something doesn’t happen soon.”
The only thing to do was to say yes. I got what little dope he had to offer and sat down to the machine. Soon I was pounding away. I must have written three or four pages when he tiptoed in to see how I was doing. He began reading the copy over my shoulder. Soon he was clapping his hands and shouting Bravo! Bravo!
“Is it that good?” I asked, looking up at him with twisted neck.
“Is it good? It’s superb! Listen, you’re better than the guy who does this stuff. McFarland will go nuts when he sees this.…” He stopped abruptly, rubbing his hands and giving little grunts. “You know what? I’ve an Idea. I’m going to introduce you to McFarland as the new man I’ve hired. I’m going to tell him that I persuaded you to take the job.…”
“But I don’t want a job!”
“You don’t have to take it. Of course not. I want to quiet him, that’s all. Besides, the main purpose is to have you talk to him. You know who he is and all he’s done. Can’t you give him a little salve? Flatter the pants off him! Then go into a little spiel—you know what I mean. Give him some pointers on how to launch the magazine, how to appeal to the reader, and all that shit. Lay it on thick! He’s in the mood to swallow anything.”
“But I hardly know anything about the damned thing,” I remonstrated. “Listen, you’d better do it yourself. I’ll stand behind you, if you like.”
“No you don’t,” said Ned. “You’re going to do the talking. Just talk a blue streak… anything that comes into your head. I’m telling you, Henry, when he sees what you’ve written he’ll listen to anything you say. I haven’t been in this racket for nothing. I know a good thing when I see it.”
There was only one thing to do. I said O.K. “But don’t blame me if I ball things up,” I whispered, as we tiptoed towards the sanctum sanctorum.
“Mr. McFarland,” said Ned in his best manner, “this is an old friend of mine whom I wired the other day. He’s been down in North Carolina working on a book. I begged him to come up and give us a hand. Mr. Miller, Mr. McFarland.”
As we shook hands I unconsciously made obeisance to the great figure of the magazine world. For a moment or two no one spoke. McFarland was sizing me up. I must say I took to him immediately. Man of action, there was in McFarland a brooding poetic streak which dyed all his gestures. “He’s no slouch, that’s certain,” I thought to myself, wondering at the same time how it was that he could permit himself to be surrounded by nitwits and halfwits.
Ned quickly explained that I had arrived only a few minutes ago and in that brief space of time, with scarcely any knowledge of the project, had written the pages which he now proceeded to hand over.
“You’re a writer, are you?” asked McFarland, glancing up at me and trying to read at the same time.
“You’re the best judge of that,” I replied, employing the diplomatic style.
Silence for a good few minutes as McFarland carefully perused the copy. I was on pins and needles. To hoodwink a bird like McFarland wasn’t simple. I forgot, incidentally, what I had written. Couldn’t remember a single line.
Suddenly McFarland looked up, smiled warmly, and remarked that what I had written looked promising. I felt that a great deal more was implied. It was almost affection which he now inspired in me. The last thing in my mind was to deceive him. He was a man I would have enjoyed working for—if I were going to work for anyone. Out of the corner of my eyes I observed Ned giving me the high sign.
For a fleeting moment, whilst gathering myself for the fling, I wondered what Mona would say if she were witness to the show. (“And don’t forget to tell O’Mara about the fathers!” I whispered to myself.)
McFarland was speaking. He had begun so quietly and smoothly that I was hardly aware of it. Right from the start I had again the conviction that he was no man’s dupe. People had said of him that he was finished, that his ideas were outdated. Seventy-five he was, and still going strong. A man of his stamp could never be licked. I listened to him attentively, nodding now and then, and beaming with admiration. He was a man after my own heart. Big ideas. A gambler and a daredevil.… I wondered if I shouldn’t seriously consider working for him.
It was quite a long speech the old boy was making. Despite all the signaling from Ned, I couldn’t determin
e where to bust in. McFarland had obviously welcomed our intrusion; seething with ideas, he had been pacing back and forth, champing at the bit. Our entrance upon the scene enabled him to let off steam. I was all for letting him go on. Now and then I nodded my head more vigorously or made some little exclamation of surprise or approval. Besides, the more he talked the better prepared I would be when it came my turn.
He was on his feet now, shifting restlessly about, pointing to the charts, the maps, and whatnot which ranged the walls. He was a man at home in the world, a man who had traversed the globe many times and could speak from firsthand knowledge of it. As I understood it, he was trying to impress me with the fact that he wanted to reach all the peoples of the world, the poor as well as the rich, the ignorant as well as the educated. The periodical was to come out in many languages, many formats. It was to produce a revolution in the magazine world.
Suddenly he stopped, out of weariness. He sat down at the big desk and poured himself a glass of water from the beautiful silver pitcher.
Instead of trying to show him how smart I was, I took the occasion after a respectful silence, to tell him how much I had always admired him and the ideas he had championed. I said it sincerely, and it was the right thing to say at the moment, I was sure of it. I could feel Ned growing more and more fidgety. All he could think of was the big spiel I was to pull off. Finally he couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Mr. Miller would like to tell you a few things he thought of in connection with…”
“Not at all,” said I, jumping to my feet. Ned looked bewildered. “I mean, Mr. McFarland, that it would be silly of me to advance my half-baked ideas. It seems to me you’ve covered the ground quite thoroughly.”
