J R

  —Dave? He’s all right, goes off half cocked sometimes but he works hard even puts in Saturdays . . .

  —So do the damn cleaning women keep an eye on him hear me Beaton?

  A restrained trickle of water sounded behind them.—Dave? that you in there?

  Black, burnished, black, the shoes turned to point toward the ranked metal doors as one came slowly open, then the other, with a cinching of belts.—Well by, what the devil are they doing here, get an earful did you boys?

  —No we didn’t even . . .

  —Why not . . . he tore off a paper towel and blew his nose,—hear more straight talk in the washroom than you will at twenty board meetings . . . and he held the paper towel off to look into it before he wadded it up.—Anything else we can tell you?

  —Well I just wondered what you said about . . .

  —Are you a millionaire?

  —Millionaire? What would you do with a million dollars, you tell me that.

  —Me? First I’d get this great big place with like these electric fences and . . .

  —Be a damn fool too wouldn’t you, he muttered as the carpeting swallowed their footsteps in the corridor.—You in this class of Mrs Joubert’s are you? Mean she’s never told you the only damn time you spend money’s to make money?

  —She did too hey I mean that’s what we’re having where she said your money should work for you or it’s like this here lazy partner which you . . .

  —Think she’s pretty smart do you?

  —Sure she’s real smart, like . . .

  —Real smart is she? She ever teach you what money is?

  —Like anybody knows that I mean, wait, here like this here quarter is . . .

  —What most damn fools think, next time you just tell her money is credit, get that?

  —It’s what?

  —Tells you your money should work for you you tell her the trick’s to get other people’s money to work for you, get that?

  —Sure but . . .

  —There they are . . . Davidoff rounded a corner ahead,—oh and Carol . . .

  —Dave, that press statement . . .

  —All squared away Boss . . . Davidoff hurried the boys ahead of him,—we had to clear them out of the board room Boss I think a pipe in the ceiling went, oh Carol . . . they rounded the corner behind her,—that press release I want to see it before it goes out, just a few word changes . . .

  —But it went out already, you said . . .

  —You mean it really went out? Well get the, get them on the phone. Wait. Get a pad. Got a pad?

  —Hey wait all my stuff in that room hey that stock we bought’s in there wait . . .

  —It’s all right your teacher got it hurry up . . . he pulled a door and they broke out on the hard floor to round the corner on a massive panel of black on white stroked with a mad reserve,—Carol? In the first paragraph for attributing the stock’s activity just read attributing the activity in nickel futures trading . . . he swerved them toward the elevators past a man balancing the huge canvas,—and in the second paragraph, for . . .

  —Hey buddy where do you want this thing.

  —Just, just lean it there don’t drop it get into the, wait I’ll have to show you where the board room is, Carol? he got the elevator button with a stab as one behind him ejected a figure hung with bags and cameras pursued by a cartload of white boxes—wait here’s the pho, doesn’t matter look Carol get these kids over to the automat with the others where’s . . .

  —I got the wrong subway.

  —Never mind forget it just get me proofs of the pictures you got downtown here get those box, wait . . . he came on empty hands fighting his tie,—Gov . . .

  —This it?

  —This is yes sir this is the painting Governor, the one we . . .

  —Don’t match the carpet don’t match the walls don’t match a damn thing, what’s all that.

  —What sir the oh, the box lunches yes sir these are the box lunches but the class Mrs Joubert’s youngsters had to leave because of the leak in the board room we’ll have to throw them out, there’s no . . .

  —Throw them out? What’s in them.

  —Ham and cheese sandwich, banana, cupcake potato chips pickle wedge . . .

  —Don’t throw out good food, who ordered them.

  —I did yes sir but . . .

  —You ordered them you eat them . . . he bumped the surge of yellow where she backed the boys into the elevator,—hear me? Waste shows an undisciplined strain of mind, Mister what’s your name . . .

  They descended to Country Gardens, pressed out ahead of her—hey aren’t we going to eat?

  —You’re going to the automat instead . . . she held the yellow skirt against a gust of wind,—see over in that next block?

  —Hey look . . .

  —Come on boys, don’t stop . . .

  —Boy but wouldn’t you think the police wouldn’t just let him lie there hey?

  —You coming with us to eat?

  —Did you see all that blood hey?

  —No I have to go right back to work, there’s your friends . . . she gained the glass, pointed in over beans mounting a withered frankfurter remnant charred en casserole.—Come see us again now . . .

  —Who’s that with Mrs Joubert hey . . . they burst from the revolving door.

  —That guy Bast, she better have my stuif boy . . .

  —Boys? No running . . . she called seated near bread and rolls, an elbow on the table and her fingers, curved as fingers curve on a violin’s fingerboard back on the heel of her hand where her chin rested, quivered there as though bringing the tremolant tone to her voice.—Not at you no, no I was laughing at myself when I was young, at what I thought all composers were like I’d read something about Wagner somewhere, about how he couldn’t stand books in a room where he was working and how he stroked soft folds of cloth and scent, he liked attar of roses and someone sent it to him from Paris, that’s what I thought it was like all silk, silk and attar of roses . . .

  —Is this here all my stuff Mrs Joubert?

  —How we suppose to eat.

  —Yes I think if we can borrow another dollar from, thank you Mister Bast just take it over there boys, she’ll change it into nickels for you I’m sorry Mister Bast, I don’t know what we would have done if we hadn’t run into you again.

  —Yes well I’d hoped . . .

  —I don’t know how I could have left without money, I’d barely enough for their train fare and their lunches were supposed to be . . .

  —No it’s all right . . . he’d brought his eyes up sharply from the loose collar of her blouseless suit, more the appeal of asking a favor than granting one in his tone—that was when he was old though, Wagner I mean, when Wagner was old and . . .

  —Yes but that’s what you meant isn’t it, about creating an entirely different world when you write an opera, about asking the audience to suspend its belief in the . . .

  —No not asking them making them, like that E flat chord that opens the Rhinegold goes on and on it goes on for a hundred and thirty-six bars until the idea that everything’s happening under water is more real than sitting in a hot plush seat with tight shoes on and . . .

  —Mrs Joubert could I have a dime?

  —I think you’ve had enough to eat Debby, we’re . . .

  —It’s Linda.

  —Linda yes I’m sorry, where’s your sweater.

  —Over on the table, I don’t want to eat they said it costs a dime to go to the toilet here, you have to put a dime in to get in the . . .

  —Yes yes all right if, oh thank you again we must be taking every penny you . . .

  —No no it’s all right I’ve, I’d put some aside for the union and when they wouldn’t take me, when you say you’re a concert pianist they give you as hard a score as they can find there was a drummer there and all they asked for was give us a paradiddle . . .

  —But why must you join at all, if you simply want to compose . . .

  —No well since this teachin
g was, since it didn’t really work out too well I thought if I could find some work playing I could keep on with my . . .

  —Mrs Jou . . .

  —Here . . .! he thrust a dime at the figure shifting rapidly foot to foot beside her,—that I could keep working on my . . .

  —But couldn’t you earn something writing music for, I don’t know but there must be somewhere you could . . .

  —Yes well that’s what I did, what I’m doing I mean somebody I met there, a bass player, he was on standby he’s getting paid not to play at a Broadway show they say is a musical just because it . . .

  —Mis . . .

  —Excuse me, boys please! You’ve just had a dollar J R you don’t need . . .

  —No I know, I just wondered if Mister Bast wants me to change some nickels from a dollar for him.

  —Not, no but if you’d like something?

  —Some, just some tea I think, I don’t feel awfully well . . .

  —Yes wait, here . . . he peeled away a bill under the table.

  —And he found you something? this bass player?

  —No well yes sort of indirectly, he said he wanted to help me out and sent me to a place over on the West Side where they said they wanted some nothing music, three minutes of nothing music it’s for television or something, they said they had three minutes of talk on a track or a tape they needed music behind it but it couldn’t have any real form, anything distinctive about it any sound anything that would distract from this voice this, this message they called it, they . . .

  —But of all things how absurd, paying a composer to . . .

  —Yes well they didn’t, I couldn’t do it I mean, they were in a hurry they would have paid me three hundred dollars and I tried and all I could, everything I did they said was too . . .

  —And that’s hardly what I meant, someone being paid not to play who sends you somewhere to write nothing mus . . .

  —Well what do you think I . . .! he caught one hand back with the other,—I’m sorry I, three hundred dollars all I could think of was that concerto of Mozart’s the D-minor, that’s more than he got paid for the whole series and I couldn’t even . . .

  —But I think it’s marvelous, that you couldn’t write their nothing music? I mean just because you can’t get paid to play Chopin or even write music that’s . . .

  —No but I am though, I didn’t finish . . . he looked up from her fingertips touching his hands clenched there,—when I left somebody else there said he’d like to help me out and sent me downtown to see some dancers who want their own music for . . .

  —Boys . . .! her hand was gone,—settle down! she called after the collision at the marbled cashier’s cage—I’m sorry, we . . .

  —Do you like Chopin?

  —Oh of course I do yes, that ballade the Ballade in G? it’s simply the most roman . . .

  —In G-minor yes that’s on the program if I could get tickets would you, it’s next week would you like to go if I can get the tickets it’s a recital by . . .

  —That’s awfully sweet Mister Bast I . . .

  —No well I guess I, I mean you’re married I didn’t think of that I just . . .

  —That’s hardly the reason no but, I’m just afraid I can’t, I’m . . .

  —No that’s all right I just, I just thought you, you wanted some tea yes I’m sorry I’ll get it . . .

  —Thank you I’d, oh be careful! she’d seized his wrist.

  —No I’m all right . . . he came up slowly as her hand fell away,—I’ll get it . . . he righted the chair and stood looking, turned toward the figures huddled at a table near the telephone booths foreheads almost touching, hands churning coins.

  —Boy did you see how she throws out twenty nickels without she doesn’t even look at them? Like her fingers can count them like they’re this here machine wait, let’s see that one . . .

  —Like these blind people which they see with their fingers did you know that hey? No wait here’s one . . .

  —That’s crap let’s see. It’s got no D on it, like it’s nineteen fifty only it needs this here little D on it that’s, oh hi Mister Bast you need your nickels now?

  —Yes and settle down, Mrs Jou . . .

  —Excuse me sir . . . he turned at a tug on his jacket by a woman filling the phone booth behind him.—You Mister Slomin?

  —I? No, what . . .

  —Hello . . .? she got the phone back to her ear, closing herself in with difficulty.—No Mister Slomin’s away from his desk right now. Can he call you back when he comes in . . .?

  —Eight, nine, is twelve enough Mister Bast? I’ll bring the rest over in a second we’re just looking at them.

  —Give them to me yes . . .

  —And I had to lend two to Mister Gibbs okay?

  —To what?

  —Two nickels . . . a door clattered open behind him and a hand emerged to point,—or I mean three . . .

  The hand withdrew into the booth,—Ben . . .? No I’ve just been out there I’ve just seen her, she . . . her lawyer did? Well what does her lawyer . . . what do you mean he says I go to the track if I didn’t go to the God damned track do you think I could keep up these payments? She . . . Well whose fault is that, the court order tells me to pay it directly to the Department of Probation if it takes them two weeks to get it to her what am I sup . . . Well God damn it she’s the one who took it to court in the first place look, if there’s some way to . . . what kind of a lump sum, where does she think I . . . the door started its clatter closed,—Christ what a thing to, that bitch that, stupid stale bitch . . .

  —Boy is he pissed off at somebody, did you see him come in hey? Like he tried to go the wrong way in the revolving door.

  —He’s a pisser, give me some more of your water.

  —What does it taste like.

  —Like tomato juice what do you think.

  —That old guy over there keeps looking over.

  —So what.

  —So he looks like the manager and he’s going to come over and boot your ass for using up all the ketchup.

  —It’s on the table free isn’t it?

  —Okay but you didn’t even buy a sandwich, you get fifty cents for lunch and you don’t even buy your sandwich.

  —So . . .? A sodden paper bag came dragged from the battered portfolio—I’m buying one off myself so whose business is that.

  —’Sixty-eight, ’seventy, ’forty-nine look hey here’s an old Indian head one what’s it worth.

  —Five cents look I’m trying to read this thing hey, could you . . .

  —What that crap they just gave us up there? You can’t even understand it.

  —So what I can ask somebody . . . the pencil stub ground down a margin—holy, you got a napkin?

  —They’re by the spoons over there. Like a club boys and girls I mean that’s some club boy, you don’t even get to . . .

  —Look I’m trying to read hey . . . a handkerchief wad came up to smear the ketchup splash across the page—could you shut up a minute?

  —Sure ’seventy, ’seventy-two here’s another Indian head one you know why the Indian’s nose is all squeezed up like this hey?

  Doors clattered behind them.—Excuse me are you Mister Slomin?

  —If I was I’d change my name.

  —Hey wait Mister Gibbs? Could I just ask you wait a second, what does it mean where it says at the top here options exercised.

  —Take them out walk them around the block, look where did you . . .

  —No honest hey, what . . .

  —Means you have the chance to buy something like stock at a certain price within a certain time, you exercise it you’ve bought it look what are you all doing here anyhow.

  —It’s this here field trip where’s this other thing wait, divested here where it says he divested himself . . .

  —Took off his clothes, what field trip . . .

  —No honest, divested himself of his holdings in order to . . .

  —Means he got rid of all his stock what
field trip.

  —Mrs Joubert she’s over there, see? by where it says bread and rolls? And wait aggregate, what does aggregate . . .

  Behind them the door clattered.—Mister Marks? Just a minute I’ll see if he’s in the office. Mister Marks . . .? but his back had reared in an abrupt turn that the right bar of music just then might have claimed for a moment from a tango leaving him pitched and staring, steadied against a table before he moved avoiding the approach of age grazing with ruminant dignity in the retrieval of napkin wads from unmarked paths leading to where it said bread and rolls.

  —Look out here he comes, hey.

  —So what . . . the glass came down emptied, the sweater sleeve up to wipe away the ketchup tinge mustache—if that badge he’s got says he’s this here manager see why they don’t put these napkin things on the tables.

  —They’re over by spoons get me one hey, what are you doing.

  —Giving him back his nickels, watch my stuff . . . he swept them off the table turning for where it said beverages, coming up behind a renewed assault on the beverage gargoyle—hey Mister Bast? Here’s the rest of your nickels . . .

  —Just, careful just drop them in my pocket . . . and cup rattled on saucer recovering the course toward where it said bread and rolls to reach the table without accident until it was set down—I’m sorry I, I’ll get a napkin . . .

  —Why they can’t simply put them on the tables . . .

  —Cut down waste, same reason they make these chairs so God damned uncomfortable afraid you’ll try to come in and dine. Napkins on the table people would use them if there’s none in reach they use the back of their hand problem’s manners take time why they won’t let you have any, time is money money’s the . . .

  —Thank you Mister Bast, please don’t bother to . . .

  —Like a gas station come in feed get out they, Mister who . . .?

  —Oh I, I thought you must know each other, Mister Bast? She put the neatly folded napkin under the cup,—Mister Gibbs. We were terribly fortunate to run into him . . .

  —Yes glad to help, what’s . . .

  —No no Mister Bast I meant, he’s been . . .

  —Mister Bast? Sorry didn’t recognize you Mister Bast, I want to congratulate you on that music appreciation program. Real milestone wouldn’t you say Miss, Mrs . . .