‘I want to stop somewhere and get something to eat!’ she said loudly. ‘All right, all right!’ he said. ‘I been watching for a dog-wagon, haven’t I? There hasn’t been any. I can’t make you a dog-wagon.’ The wind blew rain in on her and she put up the window on her side all the way. ‘I won’t stop at just any old diner,’ she said. ‘I won’t stop unless it’s a cute one.’ He looked around at her. ‘Unless it’s a what one?’ he shouted. ‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘I mean a decent, clean one where they don’t slosh things at you. I hate to have a lot of milky coffee sloshed at me.’ ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll find a cute one, then. You pick it out. I wouldn’t know. I might find one that was cunning but not cute.’ That struck him as funny and he began to chortle again. ‘Oh, shut up,’ she said.
Five miles farther along they came to a place called Sam’s Diner. ‘Here’s one,’ he said, slowing down. She looked it over. ‘I don’t want to stop there,’ she said. ‘I don’t like the ones that have nicknames.’ He brought the car to a stop at one side of the road ‘Just what’s the matter with the ones that have nicknames?’ he asked with edgy, mock interest. ‘They’re always Greek ones,’ she told him. ‘They’re always Greek one’s,’ he repeated after her. He set his teeth firmly together and started up again. After a time, ‘Good old Sam, the Greek,’ he said, in a singsong. ‘Good old Connecticut Sam Beardsley, the Greek.’ ‘You didn’t see his name,’ she snapped. ‘Winthrop, then,’ he said. ‘Old Samuel Cabot Winthrop, the Greek dog-wagon man.’ He was getting hungry.
On the outskirts of the next town she said, as he slowed down, ‘It looks like a factory kind of town.’ He knew that she meant she wouldn’t stop there. He drove on through the place. She lighted a cigarette as they pulled out into the open again. He slowed down and lighted a cigarette for himself. ‘Factory kind of town than I am!’ he snarled. It was ten miles before they came to another town. ‘Torrington,’ he growled. ‘Happen to know there’s a dog-wagon here because I stopped in it once with Bob Combs. Damn cute place, too, if you ask me.’ ‘I’m not asking you anything,’ she said, coldly. ‘You think you’re so funny. I think I know the one you mean,’ she said, after a moment. ‘It’s right in the town and it sits at an angle from the road. They’re never so good, for some reason.’ He glared at her and almost ran up against the kerb. ‘What the hell do you mean “sits at an angle from the road”?’ he cried. He was very hungry now. ‘Well, it isn’t silly,’ she said, calmly. ‘I’ve noticed the ones that sit at an angle. They’re cheaper, because they fitted them into funny little pieces of ground. The big ones parallel to the road are the best.’ He drove right through Torrington, his lips compressed. ‘Angle from the road, for God’s sake!’ he snarled, finally. She was looking out her window.
On the outskirts of the next town there was a diner called The Elite Diner. ‘This looks – ’ she began. ‘I see it, I see it!’ he said. ‘It doesn’t happen to look any cuter to me than any goddam – ’ she cut him off. ‘Don’t be such a sorehead, for Lord’s sake,’ she said. He pulled up and stopped beside the diner, and turned on her. ‘Listen,’ he said, grittingly, ‘I’m going to put down a couple of hamburgers in this place even if there isn’t one single inch of chintz or cretonne in the whole – ’ ‘Oh, be still,’ she said. ‘You’re just hungry and mean like a child. Eat your old hamburgers, what do I care?’ Inside the place they sat down on stools and the counterman walked over to them, wiping up the counter top with a cloth as he did so. ‘What’ll it be, folks?’ he said. ‘Bad day, ain’t it? Except for ducks.’ ‘I’ll have a couple of – ’ began the husband, but his wife cut in. ‘I just want a pack of cigarettes,’ she said. He turned around slowly on his stool and stared at her as she put a dime and a nickel in the cigarette machine and ejected a package of Lucky Strikes. He turned to the counterman again. ‘I want a couple of hamburgers,’ he said. ‘With mustard and lots of onion. Lots of onion!’ She hated onions. ‘I’ll wait for you in the car,’ she said. He didn’t answer and she went out.
He finished his hamburgers and his coffee slowly. It was terrible coffee. Then he went out to the car and got in and drove off, slowly humming ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?’ After a mile or so, ‘Well,’ he said, ‘What was the matter with the Elite Diner, milady?’ ‘Didn’t you see that cloth the man was wiping the counter with?’ she demanded. ‘Ugh!’ She shuddered. ‘I didn’t happen to want to eat any of the counter,’ he said. He laughed at that comeback. ‘You didn’t even notice it,’ she said. ‘You never notice anything. It was filthy.’ ‘I noticed they had some damn fine coffee in there,’ he said. ‘It was swell.’ He knew she loved good coffee. He began to hum his tune again; then he whistled it; then he began to sing it. She did not show her annoyance, but she knew that he knew she was annoyed. ‘Will you be kind enough to tell me what time it is?’ she asked. ‘Big bad wolf, big bad wolf – five minutes o’ five – tum-dee-doo-dee-dum-m-m.’ She settled back in her seat and took a cigarette from her case and tapped it on the case. ‘I’ll wait till we get home,’ she said. ‘If you’ll be kind enough to speed up a little.’ He drove on at the same speed. After a time he gave up the ‘Big Bad Wolf’ and there was deep silence for two miles. Then suddenly he began to sing, very loudly, H-A-double-R-I-G-A-N spells Harrr-i-gan – ’ She gritted her teeth. She hated that worse than any of his songs except ‘Barney Google’. He would go on to ‘Barney Google’ pretty soon, she knew. Suddenly she leaned slightly forward. The straight line of her lips began to curve up ever so slightly. She heard the safety-pins in the tumbler again. Only now they were louder, more insistent, ominous. He was singing too loud to hear them. ‘Is a name that shame has never been con-nec-ted with – Harrr-i-gan, that’s me!’ She relaxed against the back of the seat, content to wait.
Bateman Comes Home
Written after reading several recent novels about the deep south and confusing them a little – as the novelists themselves do – with Tobacco Road and God’s Little Acre.
Old Nate Birge sat on the rusted wreck of an ancient sewing-machine in front of Hell Fire, which was what his shack was known as among the neighbours and to the police. He was chewing on a splinter of wood and watching the moon come up lazily out of the old cemetery in which nine of his daughters were lying, only two of whom were dead. He began to mutter to himself. ‘Bateman be comin’ back any time now wid a thousan’ dollas fo’ his ol’ pappy,’ said Birge. ‘Bateman ain’ goin’ let his ol’ pappy starve nohow.’ A high, cracked voice spoke inside the house, in a toneless singsong. ‘Bateman see you in hell afore he do anything ’bout it,’ said the voice. ‘Who dat?’ cried Birge, standing up. ‘Who dat sayin’ callumy ’bout Bateman? Good gahd amighty!’ He sat down quickly again. His feet hurt him, since he had gangrene in one of them and Bless-Yo-Soul, the cow, had stepped on the other one that morning in Hell Hole, the pasture behind Hell Fire. A woman came to the door with a skillet in her hand. Elviry Birge was thin and emaciated and dressed in a tattered old velvet evening gown. ‘You oughtn’ speak thataway ’bout Bateman at thisatime,’ said Birge. ‘Bateman’s a good boy. He go ’way in 1904 to make his pappy a thousan’ dollas.’ ‘Thuh hell wuth thut,’ said Elviry, even more tonelessly than usual. ‘Bateman ain’ going’ brang we-all no thousan’ dollas. Bateman got heself a place fo’ dat thousan’ dollas.’ She shambled back into the house. ‘Elviry’s gone crazy,’ muttered Birge to himself.
A large woman with a heavy face walked into the littered yard, followed by a young man dressed in a tight blue suit. The woman carried two suitcases; the young man was smoking a cigarette and running a pocket comb through his hair. ‘Who dat?’ demanded Birge, peering into the dark. ‘It’s me, yore Sister Sairy,’ said the large woman. ‘An’ tuckered as a truck horse.’ The young man threw his cigarette on the ground and spat at its burning end. ‘Mom shot a policeman in Chicago,’ he said, sulkily, ‘an’ we hadda beat it.’ ‘Whut you shoot a policeman fo’, Sairy?’ demanded Birge, who had not seen his sister for twen
ty years. ‘Gahdam it, you cain’ go ’round doin’ that!’ ‘That’ll be one o’ Ramsay’s jokes,’ said Sairy. ‘Ramsay’s a hand for jokes, he is. Seems like that’s all he is a hand for.’ ‘Ah, shut yore trap before I slap it shut,’ said Ramsay. He had never been in the deep South before and he didn’t like it. ‘When do we eat?’ he asked. ‘Ev’body goin’ ’round shootin’ policemen,’ muttered Birge, hobbling about the yard. ‘Seem lak ev’body shootin’ policeman ’cept Bateman. Bateman, he’s a good boy.’ Elviry came to the door again, still carrying the skillet; as they had had no food since Coolidge’s first term, she used it merely as a weapon. ‘Whut’s ut?’ she asked, frowning into the dark. The moon, grown tired, had sunk back into the cemetery again. ‘Come ahn out, cackle-puss, an’ find out,’ said Ramsay. ‘Look heah, boy!’ cried Birge. ‘I want me more rev’rence outa you, gahdam it!’ ‘Hello, Elviry,’ said Sairy, sitting on one of her suitcases. ‘We come to visit you. Ain’t you glad!’ Elviry didn’t move from the doorway.
‘We-all thought you-all was in Shecago,’ said Elviry, in her toneless voice. ‘We-all was in all Chicago,’ said Ramsay, ‘but we-all is here all, now all.’ He spat. ‘Dam ef he ain’ right, too,’ said Birge, chuckling. ‘Lawdy gahd! You bring me a thousan’ dollas, boy?’ he asked, suddenly. ‘I ain’t brought nobody no thousand dollers,’ growled Ramsay. ‘Whine you make yerself a thousand dollers, you old buzzard?’ ‘Don’ lem call me buzzard, Elviry!’ shouted Birge. ‘Cain’ you hit him wid somethin’? Hit him wid dat skillet!’ Elviry made for Ramsay with her skillet, but he wrested it away from her and struck her over the head with it. The impact made a low, dull sound, like sponk. Elviry fell unconscious, and Ramsay sat down on her, listlessly. ‘Hell va place ya got here,’ he said.
At this juncture a young blonde girl, thin and emaciated but beautiful in the light of the moon (which had come up again), ran into the yard. ‘Wheah you bin, gal?’ demanded Birge. ‘Faith is crazy,’ he said to the others, ‘an’ they ain’ nobody knows why, ’cause I give her a good Christian upbringin’ ef evah a man did. Look heah, gal, yo’ Aunt Sairy heah fo’ a visit, gahdam it, an’ nobody home to welcome her. All my daughters ’cept Prudence bin gone fo’ two weeks now. Prudence, she bin gone fo’ two yeahs.’ Faith sat down on the stoop. ‘Clay an’ me bin settin’ fire to the auditorium,’ she said. Birge began whittling at a stick. ‘Clay’s her third husban’,’ he said. ‘’Pears lak she should pay some ’tention to her fifth husban’, or leastwise her fo’th, but she don’. I don’ understan’ wimmin. Seem lak ev’body settin’ fire to somethin’ ev’time I turn my back. Wonder any buildin’s standin’ in the whole gahdam United States. You see anythin’ o’ Bateman, gal?’ ‘I ain’ seen anything’ o’ anybody,’ said Faith. ‘Now that is a bald-face lie by a daughter I brought up in the feah o’ hell fire,’ said Birge. ‘Look heah, gal, you cain’ set fire to no buildin’ ’thout you see somebody. Gahd’s love give that truth to this world. Speak to yo’ Aunt Sairy, gal. She jest kill hesef a policeman in Shecago.’ ‘Did you kill a policeman, Aunt Sairy?’ Faith asked her. Sairy didn’t answer her, but she spoke to Ramsay. ‘You sit on this suitcase an’ let me sit on Elviry a while,’ she said. ‘Do as yo’ Motha tells you boy,’ said Birge. ‘Ah, shut up!’ said Ramsay, smoking.
Ben Turnip, a half-witted neighbour boy with double pneumonia, came into the yard, wearing only overalls. ‘Ah seed you’all was a-settin’,’ he said, bursting into high, toneless laughter. ‘Heah’s Bateman! Heah’s Bateman!’ cried Birge, hobbling with many a painful gahdam over to the newcomer. ‘You bring me a thousan’ dollas, Bateman?’ Elviry came to, pushed Ramsay off her, and got up. ‘That ain’ Bateman, you ol’ buzzard,’ she said scornfully. ‘That’s only Ben Turnip an’ him turned in the haid, too, lak his Motha afore him.’ ‘Go ’long woman,’ said Birge. ‘I recken I know moan son. You bring yo’ ol’ pappy a thousan’ dollas, Bateman?’ ‘Ah seed you-all was a-settin’,’ said Ben Turnip. Suddenly he became very excited, his voice rising to a high singsong. ‘He-settin’, I-settin’, you-settin’, we-settin’,’ he screamed. ‘Deed-a-bye, deed-a-bye, deed-a-bye, die!’ ‘Bateman done gone crazy,’ mumbled Birge. He went back and sat down on the sewing machine. ‘Seem lak ev’body gone crazy. Now, that’s a pity,’ he said, sadly. ‘Nuts,’ said Ramsay.
‘S’pose you-all did see me a-settin’,’ said Ben Turnip, belligerently. ‘Whut uv ut? Cain’ Ah set?’ ‘Sho, sho, set yoself, Bateman,’ said Birge. ‘I’ll whang ovah his haid wid Elviry’s skillet fust pusson say anything ’bout you settin’. Set yoself.’ Ben sat down on the ground and began digging with a stick. ‘I done brong you a thousan’ dollas,’ said Ben. Birge leaped from his seat. ‘Glory gahd to Hallerlugie!’ he shouted. ‘You heah de man, Elviry? Bateman done …’
If you keep on long enough it turns into a novel.
Doc Marlowe
I was too young to be other than awed and puzzled by Doc Marlowe when I knew him. I was only sixteen when he died. He was sixty-seven. There was that vast difference in our ages and there was a vaster difference in our backgrounds. Doc Marlowe was a medicine-show man. He had been a lot of other things, too: a circus man, the proprietor of a concession at Coney Island, a saloon-keeper; but in his fifties he had travelled around with a tent-show troupe made up of a Mexican named Chickalilli, who threw knives, and a man called Professor Jones, who played the banjo. Doc Marlowe would come out after the entertainment and harangue the crowd and sell bottles of medicine for all kinds of ailments. I found out all this about him gradually, toward the last, and after he died. When I first knew him, he represented the Wild West to me, and there was nobody I admired so much.
I met Doc Marlowe at old Mrs Willoughby’s rooming-house. She had been a nurse in our family, and I used to go and visit her over week-ends sometimes, for I was very fond of her. I was about eleven years old then. Doc Marlowe wore scarred leather leggings, a bright-coloured bead vest that he said he got from the Indians, and a ten-gallon hat with kitchen matches stuck in the band, all the way round. He was about six feet four inches tall, with big shoulders, and a long, drooping moustache. He let his hair grow long, like General Custer’s. He had a wonderful collection of Indian relics and six-shooters, and he used to tell me stories of his adventures in the Far West. His favourite expressions were ‘Hay, boy!’ and ‘Hay, boy-gie!’, which he used the way some people now use ‘Hot dog!’ or ‘Doggone!’ He told me once that he had killed an Indian chief named Yellow Hand in a tomahowk duel on horseback. I thought he was the greatest man I had ever seen. It wasn’t until he died and his son came on from New Jersey for the funeral that I found out he had never been in the Far West in his life. He had been born in Brooklyn.
Doc Marlowe had given up the road when I knew him, but he still dealt in what he called ‘medicines’. His stock in trade was a liniment that he had called Snake Oil when he travelled around. He changed the name to Blackhawk Liniment when he settled in Columbus. Doc didn’t always sell enough of it to pay for his bed and board, and old Mrs Willoughby would sometimes have to ‘trust’ him for weeks at a time. She didn’t mind, because his liniment had taken a bad kink out of her right limb that had bothered her for thirty years. I used to see people whom Doc had massaged with Blackhawk Liniment move arms and legs that they hadn’t been able to move before he ‘treated’ them. His patients were day labourers, wives of streetcar conductors, and people like that. Sometimes they would shout and weep after Doc had massaged them, and several got up and walked around who hadn’t been able to walk before. One man hadn’t turned his head to either side for seven years before Doc soused him with Blackhawk. In half an hour he could move his head as easily as I could move mine. ‘Glory be to God!’ he shouted. ‘It’s the secret qualities in the ointment, my friend,’ Doc Marlowe told him, suavely. He always called the liniment ointment.
News of his miracles got around by word of mouth among the poorer classes of town – he was not able to reach the better people (the ‘tony folks’, he called the
m) – but there was never a big enough sale to give Doc a steady income. For one thing, people thought there was more magic in Doc’s touch than in his liniment, and, for another, the ingredients of Blackhawk cost so much that his profits were not very great. I know, because I used to go to the wholesale chemical company once in a while for him and buy his supplies. Everything that went into the liniment was standard and expensive (and well-known, not secret). A man at the company told me he didn’t see how Doc could make much money on it at thirty-five cents a bottle. But even when he was very low in funds Doc never cut out any of the ingredients or substituted cheaper ones. Mrs Willoughby had suggested it to him once, she told me, when she was helping him ‘put up a batch’, and he had got mad. ‘He puts a heap of store by that liniment being right up to the mark,’ she said.
Doc added to his small earnings, I discovered, by money he made gambling. He used to win quite a few dollars on Saturday nights at Freck’s saloon, playing poker with the marketman and the rail-roaders who dropped in there. It wasn’t for several years that I found out Doc cheated. I had never heard about marked cards until he told me about them and showed me his. It was one rainy afternoon, after he had played seven-up with Mrs Willoughby and old Mr Peiffer, another roomer of hers. They had played for small stakes (Doc wouldn’t play cards unless there was some money up, and Mrs Willoughby wouldn’t play if very much was up). Only twenty or thirty cents had changed hands in the end. Doc had won it all. I remember my astonishment and indignation when it dawned on me that Doc had used the marked cards in playing the old lady and the old man. ‘You didn’t cheat them, did you?’ I asked him. ‘Jimmy, my boy,’ he told me, ‘the man that calls the turn wins the money.’ His eyes twinkled and he seemed to enjoy my anger. I was outraged, but I was helpless. I knew I could never tell Mrs Willoughby about how Doc had cheated her at seven-up. I liked her, but I liked him, too. Once he had given me a whole dollar to buy fireworks with on the Fourth of July.
The Thurber Carnival Page 12
