Tropic of Capricorn (32 page)

What I liked about him were his weaknesses; like all men who practise will-power he was absolutely flabby inside. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do – out of weakness. He was always very busy and he was never really doing anything. And always boning up on something, always trying to improve his mind. For example, he would take the unabridged dictionary and, tearing out a page each day, would read it through religiously on his way back and forth from the office. He was full of facts, and the more absurd and incongruous the facts, the more pleasure he derived from them. He seemed to be bent on proving to all and sundry that life was a farce, that it wasn’t worth the game, that one thing cancelled out another, and so on. He was brought up on the North Side, not very far from the neighbourhood in which I had spent my childhood. He was very much a product of the North Side, too, and that was one of the reasons why I liked him. The way he talked, out of the corner of his mouth, for instance, the tough air he put on when talking to a cop, the way he spat in disgust, the
peculiar curse words he used, the sentimentality, the limited horizon, the passion for playing pool or shooting crap, the staying up all night swapping yarns, the contempt for the rich, the hobnobbing with politicians, the curiosity about worthless things, the respect for learning, the fascination of the dance hall, the saloon, the burlesque, talking about seeing the world and never budging out of the city, idolizing no matter whom so long as the person showed “spunk”, a thousand and one little traits or peculiarities of this sort endeared him to me because it was precisely such idiosyncrasies which marked the fellows I had known as a child. The neighbourhood was composed of nothing, it seemed, but lovable failures. The grownups behaved like children and the children were incorrigible. Nobody could rise very far above his neighbour or he’d be lynched. It was amazing that any one ever became a doctor or a lawyer. Even so, he had to be a good fellow, had to pretend to talk like every one else, and he had to vote the Democratic ticket. To hear MacGregor talk about Plato or Nietzsche, for instance, to his buddies was something to remember. In the first place, to even get permission to talk about such things as Plato or Nietzsche to his companions, he had to pretend that it was only by accident that he had run across their names; or perhaps he’d say that he had met an interesting drunk one night in the back room of a saloon and this drunk had started talking about these guys Nietzsche and Plato. He would even pretend he didn’t quite know how the names were pronounced. Plato wasn’t such a dumb bastard, he would say apologetically. Plato had an idea or two in his bean, yes sir, yes siree. He’d like to see one of those dumb politicians at Washington trying to lock horns with a guy like Plato. And he’d go on, in this roundabout, matter of fact fashion to explain to his crap-shooting friends just what kind of a bright bird Plato was in his time and how he measured up against other men in other times. Of course, he was probably a eunuch, he would add, by way of throwing a little cold water on all this erudition. In those days, as he nimbly explained, the big guys, the philosophers, often had their nuts cut off – a fact! – so as to be out of all temptation. The other guy, Nietzsche, he was a real case,
a case for the bug-house. He was supposed to be in love with his sister. Hypersensitive like. Had to live in a special climate – in Nice, he thought it was. As a rule he didn’t care much for the Germans, but this guy Nietzsche was different. As a matter of fact, he hated the Germans, this Nietzsche. He claimed he was a Pole or something like that. He had them dead right, too. He said they were stupid and swinish, and by God, he knew what he was talking about. Anyway he showed them up. He said they were full of shit, to make it brief, and by God, wasn’t he right though? Did you see the way those bastards turned tail when they got a dose of their own medicine? “Listen, I know a guy who cleaned out a nestful of them in the Argonne region – he said they were so god-damned low he wouldn’t shit on them. He said he wouldn’t even waste a bullet on them – he just bashed their brains in with a club. I forget this guy’s name now, but anyway he told me he saw aplenty in the few months he was there. He said the best fun he got out of the whole fucking business was to pop off his own major. Not that he had any special grievance against him – he just didn’t like his mug. He didn’t like the way the guy gave orders. Most of the officers that were killed got it in the back, he said. Served them right, too, the pricks! He was just a lad from the North Side. I think he runs a pool room now down near Wallabout Market. A quiet fellow, minds his own business. But if you start talking to him about the war he goes off the handle. He says he’d assassinate the President of the United States if they ever tried to start another war. Yeah, and he’d do it too, I’m telling you … But shit, what was that I wanted to tell you about Plato? Oh yeah …”

When the others were gone he’d suddenly shift gears. “You don’t believe in talking like that, do you?” he’d begin. I had to admit I didn’t. “You’re wrong,” he’d continue. “You’ve got to keep in with people, you don’t know when you may need one of these guys. You act on the assumption that you’re free, independent! You act as though you were superior to these people. Well, that’s where you make a big mistake. How do you know where you’ll be five years from now, or even six months from now? You might be blind, you might be
run over by a truck, you might be put in the bug-house; you can’t tell what’s going to happen to you. Nobody can. You might be as helpless as a baby …”

“So what?” I would say.

“Well, don’t you think it would be good to have a friend when you need one? You might be so god-damned helpless you’d be glad to have some one help you across the street. You think these guys are worthless; you think I’m wasting my time with them. Listen, you never know what a man might do for you some day. Nobody gets anywhere alone …”

He was touchy about my independence, what he called my indifference. If I was obliged to ask him for a little dough he was delighted. That gave him a chance to deliver a little sermon on friendship. “So you have to have money, too?” he’d say, with a big satisfied grin spreading all over his face. “So the poet has to eat too? Well, well … It’s lucky you came to me, Henry me boy, because I’m easy with you, I know you, you heartless son of a bitch. Sure, what do you want? I haven’t got very much, but I’ll split it with you. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? Or do you think, you bastard, that maybe I ought to give you it all and go out and borrow something for myself? I suppose you want a
good
meal, eh? Ham and Eggs wouldn’t be good enough, would it? I suppose you’d like me to drive you to the restaurant too, eh? Listen, get up from that chair a minute – I want to put a cushion under your ass. Well, well, so you’re broke! Jesus, you’re always broke – I never remember seeing you with money in your pocket Listen, don’t you ever feel ashamed of yourself? You talk about those bums I hang out with … well listen, mister, those guys never come and bum me for a dime like you do. They’ve got more pride – they’d rather steal it than come and grub it off me. But
you,
shit, you’re full of high-falutin’ ideas, you want to reform the world and all that crap – you don’t want to work for money, no, not you … you expect somebody to hand it to you on a silver platter. Huh! Lucky there’s guys like me around that understand you. You need to get wise to yourself, Henry. You’re dreaming. Everybody wants to eat, don’t you know that? Most people are willing to work fix it – they don’t lie in bed
all day like you and then suddenly pull on their pants and run to the first friend at hand. Supposing I wasn’t here, what would you have done? Don’t answer … I know what you’re going to say. But listen, you can’t go on all your life like that. Sure you talk fine – it’s a pleasure to listen to you. You’re the only guy I know that I really enjoy talking to, but where’s it going to get you? One of these days they’ll lock you up for vagrancy. You’re just a bum, don’t you know that? You’re not even as good as those other bums you preach about. Where are you when I’m in a jam? You can’t be found. You don’t answer my letters, you don’t answer the telephone, you even hide sometimes when I come to see you. Listen, I know – you don’t have to explain to me. I know you don’t want to hear my stories all the time. But shit, sometimes I really have to talk to you. A fucking lot you care though. So long as you’re out of the rain and putting another meal under your belt you’re happy. You don’t think about your friends – until you’re desperate. That’s no way to behave,
is it?
Say no and I’ll give you a buck. God-damn it, Henry, you’re the only real friend I’ve got but you’re a son of a bitch of a mucker if I know what I’m talking about. You’re just a born good for nothing son of a bitch. You’d rather starve than turn your hand to something useful …”

Naturally I’d laugh and hold my hand out for the buck he had promised me. That would irritate him afresh. “You’re ready to say anything aren’t you, if only I give you the buck I promised you? What a guy! Talk about morals – Jesus, you’ve got the ethics of a rattlesnake.
No,
I’m not giving it to you yet, by Christ. I’m going to torture you a little more first. I’m going to make you
earn
this money, if I can. Listen what about shining my shoes – do that for me, will you? They’ll never get shined if you don’t do it now.” I pick up the shoes and ask him for the brush. I don’t mind shining his shoes, not in the least. But that too seems to incense him. “You’re going to shine them, are you? Well by Jesus, that beats all hell. Listen, where’s your pride – didn’t you ever have any? And you’re the guy that knows everything. It’s amazing. You know so god-damned much that you have to shine your
friend’s shoes to worm a meal out of him. A fine pickle! Here, you bastard, here’s the brush! Shine the other pair too while you’re at it.”

A pause. He’s washing himself at the sink and humming a bit. Suddenly, in a bright, cheerful tone – “How is it out today, Henry? Is it sunny? Listen, I’ve got just the place for you. What do you say to scallops and bacon with a little tartare sauce on the side? It’s a little joint down near the inlet. A day like today is just the day for scallops and bacon, eh what, Henry? Don’t tell me you’ve got something to do … if I haul you down there you’ve got to spend a little time with me, you know that, don’t you? Jesus, I wish I had your disposition. You just drift along, from minute to minute. Sometimes I think you’re a damned sight better off than any of us, even if you are a stinking son of a bitch and a traitor and a thief. When I’m with you the day seems to pass like a dream. Listen, don’t you see what I mean when I say I’ve got to see you sometimes? I go nuts being all by myself all the time. Why do I go chasing around after cunt so much? Why do I play cards all night? Why do I hang out with those bums from the Point? I need to talk to some one, that’s what.”

A little later at the bay, sitting out over the water, with a shot of rye in him and waiting for the sea food to be served up … “Life’s not so bad if you can do what you want, eh Henry? If I make a little dough I’m going to take a trip around the world – and you’re coming along with me. Yes, though you don’t deserve it, I’m going to spend some real money on you one day. I want to see how you’d act if I gave you plenty of rope. I’m going
to give
you the money,
see
… I won’t pretend to lend it to you. We’ll see what’ll happen to your fine ideas when you have some dough in your pocket. Listen, when I was talking about Plato the other day I meant to ask you something: I meant to ask you if you ever read that yarn of his about Atlantis. Did you?
You did?
Well, what do you think of it? Do you think it was just a yarn, or do you think there might have been a place like that once?”

I didn’t dare to tell him that I suspected there were hundreds and thousands of continents whose existence past or future we
hadn’t even begun to dream about, so I simply said I thought it quite possible indeed that such a place as Atlantis might once have been.

“Well, it doesn’t matter much one way or the other, I suppose,” he went on, “but I’ll tell you what I think. I think there must have been a time like that once, a time when men were different. I can’t believe that they always were the pigs they are now and have been for the last few thousand years. I think it’s just possible that there was a time when men knew how to live, when they knew how to take it easy and to enjoy life. Do you know what drives me crazy? It’s looking at my old man. Ever since he’s retired he sits in front of the fire all day long and mopes. To sit there like a broken-down gorilla, that’s what he slaved for all his life. Well shit, if I thought that was going to happen to me I’d blow my brains out now. Look around you … look at the people we know … do you know one that’s worth while? What’s all the fuss about, I’d like to know?
We’ve got to live, they say. Why?
that’s what I want to know. They’d all be a damned sight better off dead. They’re all just so much manure. When the war broke out and I saw them go off to the trenches I said to myself
good,
maybe they’ll come back with a little sense! A lot of them didn’t come
back,
of course. But the others! – listen, do you suppose they got more
human,
more considerate? Not at all! They’re all butchers at heart, and when they’re up against it they squeal. They make me sick, the whole fucking lot of ’em. I see what they’re like, bailing them out every day. I see it from both sides of the fence. On the other side it stinks even worse. Why, if I told you some of the things I knew about the judges who condemn these poor bastards you’d want to slug them. All you have to do is look at their faces. Yes sir, Henry, I’d like to think there was once a time when things were different. We haven’t seen any real life – and we’re not going to see any. This thing is going to last another few thousand years, if I know anything about it. You think I’m mercenary. You think I’m cuckoo to want to earn a lot of money, don’t you? Well I’ll tell you, I want to earn a little pile so that I can get my feet out of this muck. I’d go off and live with a nigger wench if I
could get away from this atmosphere. I’ve worked my balls off trying to get where I am, which isn’t very far. I don’t believe in work any more than you do – I was trained that way, that’s all. If I could put over a deal, if I could swindle a pile out of one of these dirty bastards I’m dealing with, I’d do it with a clear conscience. I know a little too much about the law, that’s the trouble. But I’ll fool them yet, you’ll see. And when I put it over I’ll put it over big …”