Meanwhile, first things first.
My baggage, a briefcase and Gladstone, was worn but substantial looking. I had no trouble in checking in at a first-class hotel and charging a quart of whiskey to my room. I gave my quarter to the bellboy. Slugging down a few drinks, I tried to map out a plan of action.
It would be impossible to hold a job until this bowel ailment was cleared up. At any rate, a job would not get me the money I had to have as quickly as I had to have it. I thought and thought, turning a thousand wild schemes over in my mind. And the one I finally settled on was probably the wildest of them all.
I would write and sell a novel.
This solution to my dilemma seemed even more preposterous the next morning. But I gave myself a pep talk—and several stiff drinks—and sallied forth into the city. After all, I was a writer, wasn't I? And publishers needed books, didn't they? And it was no crime to be broke, was it? So what was the difference if the proposition I had to make was just a trifle unusual?
It made quite a bit of difference, it seemed. I never got past the receptionists at the first few publishers I called on. At the fifth—or maybe it was the sixth—an editor heard me out sympathetically, and suggested that I wire whatever friends or relatives I had for a ticket back to California. He lent me two dollars for this purpose. I spent it for breakfast, cigarettes and a few more drinks. Then, I tackled another publisher.
This was a small but reputable firm which had published many first novels. I was promptly admitted to an editor's office. He listened to me incredulously, burst into laughter and took me in to see the publisher. That gentleman also listened, a frown of wonder creasing his forehead.
"Let's see," he said at last. "You want us to bail you out of your hotel, then—"
"It's just a small bill."
"Then you want us to lend you a typewriter and stake you while you're writing a novel, a book which you yourself don't have very clearly in mind."
I said I had it clear enough. "I talk a very bad story. And you only need to stake me for two weeks. When I turn in the novel, you can deduct anything you've given me from your usual advance."
'"When' you turn it in, and 'if' it's publishable."
"You'll have it," I said, "within two weeks. And it will be publishable."
He hesitated, moved against his better judgment. "I'm sure your intentions are good, but I don't think you will. I don't see how you can. But perhaps..."
I walked out of that office with a battered typewriter in one hand and a check in the other. I checked out of my hotel, rented a three-dollar-a-week room on Seventh Avenue and started to work. Working an average of twenty hours a day, I finished the book in ten days.
It got a mixed reception at the publishing company. Some of the editors were very enthusiastic about it; others were just as unenthusiastic. So, as is often done, the manuscript was farmed out to another writer for reading and opinion.
This young man was the scion of a wealthy Hollywood family, and the author of one novel. He reported that I showed promise "for a beginning writer" but that I obviously did not know enough about life to attempt a novel. I needed to "meet the stark realities of existence at first hand"—not merely to read about them in books, as (he added) I patently had.
Sick and nearly hysterical with worry as I was, I burst into laughter when I read that report. The publisher gave me a friendly wink. He was no more impressed with the young man's opinion than I was. He would, he said, pass the manuscript on to a couple of other writers.
"Louis Bromfield and Richard Wright. I'm sure they'll like it. And now, as long as we're holding you up on the thing..."
He advanced me another twenty-five dollars. Since I had been practically living on whiskey, and whiskey was very cheap in those days, I still had part of the original advance left. If I had to, I could live two weeks with no additional money.
"Do you think—" I hesitated as I shook hands with the publisher. "Do you think you'll have your reports in within the next two weeks?"
"Well, we'll certainly try to. If we can't, and you should need a few more dollars, we can—"
"It isn't that," I said. "It's something that would be pretty hard to explain, and I won't try to. I've burdened you enough with my personal problems. But—"
"Sure." He clapped me on the back. "I'll let you know just as soon as I can."
The calendar blurred and swayed in front of my eyes. I braced my hands against the dresser, leaned forward squinting.
"Let's see," I mumbled aloud. "T-two days from Oklahoma, plus ten days, plus four f'r that Hollywood bastard, plus—plus—What the hell day is it?"
I couldn't figure it out. My eyes wouldn't focus. My mind was satiated with worry over the inevitable.
It was probably as well that I didn't know the truth, or, knowing, did not accept it. Sodden drunk for days, I was near enough dead already.
"G-got to eat," I thought, again mumbling the thought aloud. "Got to..."
I stumbled around the room, looking for my clothes. I discovered that I was dressed, and laughing crazily I flopped back down on the bed.
There was a knock on the door. I shrugged, and dug a bottle out from under the pillow...Lot of knocking lately. Lot of funny-looking things. Take a drink, and they went away.
The door opened and two men came in. My landlady stood behind them, wringing her hands.
"I just didn't know what to do, gentlemen. I tried to call a doctor, but—"
"Sure. The doctors don't like to fool with us drunks...What do you say, Bill? You thinking the same thing I am?"
"I'm afraid so. And I think we'd better get him there fast."
They took me by the arms, hoisted me to my feet. Suddenly panicked, I tried to jerk away.
They held onto me firmly.
"It's all right, fellow. We're from Alcoholics Anonymous. We're going to take care of you."
"H-how? Where you takin' me?"
"Don't you worry at all. We're on your side. Been through this thing ourselves."
We went down to the street and got into a car. Then on to Bellevue Hospital where I was committed.
Many scare stories have been circulated about Bellevue Alcoholic Ward. Perhaps I am not the most competent critic, but I saw nothing to justify them. The food was good, the beds comfortable and immaculate. Surrounded by some pretty trying customers, the attendants remained accommodating, the doctors and nurses courteous and capable.
In a word, I was very well treated. So much so that by the afternoon of the fifth day I was able to be discharged.
I started across town toward my rooming house, worrying again—continuing to worry. It was a day short of five weeks, since I had left Oklahoma. Not much over a month, to be sure, but to an old man, a lonely old man who secretly feared that he might be forsaken...
I reached Fifth Avenue. Instead of crossing, I suddenly turned and headed uptown. Surely the publisher would be able to make his decision by this time. By God, he simply 'had' to.
Well, he had.
He walked me into his office, his arm around my shoulders. "Got some good reports from Louis and Dick. They're going to fix us up with blurbs to put on the cover...Now, I do feel that quite a few revisions are necessary. There are a couple of chapters I'd like to see excised, and new ones substituted. But—"
"Oh," I said, pretty drearily. "Then it'll still be quite a while before—"
"What? Oh, no, we'll pay for it right now. We're definitely accepting it. Incidentally, when you get this one out of the way, we'll be glad to—Yes?"
The receptionist was standing in the doorway. She murmured an apology, held out a yellow Western Union envelope. "This came in yesterday, Mr. Thompson. I tried to reach you by phone, but—"
"It must be from my mother," I said. "I wasn't sure how long I'd be at that rooming house, so I told her to—to—"
I ripped the envelope open.
I stared down at the message.
Blindly. Stricken motionless.
"Bad news?" The publisher's hushed voice.
"My father," I said. "He died two days ago."
THE END