1920: The Roaring Anthology

I had nowhere in particular to go, so I decided to drop by the depot to see if there was any work left.

  The secretary at the counter studied me critically through her wire-rimmed eyeglasses, which gave her the look of an angry lemur. “Number 437… 437…” She shuffled through a thick stack of index notes, “here it is. Didn’t report for work this morning, did you?”

  “I was indisposed, ma’am.”

  “Well then. Nothing left. You’ll have to come back next week.” She folded her hands, and looked up at me with a satisfied expression.

  “None at all?” I paused, then ventured, “I don’t have much else to do today, you see.”

  She must have caught something in my voice, because her bland smile faded and she looked up at me frankly.

  “Want to make some money for the holiday, is it?”

  “Well, I – ” She was no longer listening. She shuffled the papers again, lost in some private thought. Then she pulled out another card.

  To herself, “I see that 541 is absent again, well, and why not?” With a rustle of starched tweeds, she stood up and opened a filing cabinet behind her, pulling out a thin folder.

  “Here you go – Central Park East, should be a nice afternoon for you.”

  She handed me the ledger, already half-filled with notes, her glasses catching the last rays of the winter sun. I couldn’t believe my luck. Central Park! Civilization! I thanked her profusely, and to the calls of “You go back to the Bowery on Monday, you hear,” went out into the street, a new man.

  * * * * *

  It was almost dark by the time I made it to the ‘60s. The white stone buildings had turned blue against the snow, and the first signs of light stood out in yellow squares of windows and shop displays. It had started snowing heavily again, and in place of the usual press of week-end theater crowds, there was only a handful of cabs down the whole expanse of Fifth, and a few stray men besides, hats pulled low and hurrying against the snow. If not for them, I’d have felt like the last man on earth.

  I took out my papers and confirmed the first address, turning off on Sixty-Second, past a stately family of brownstones, and to a large apartment building with white Roman colonnades bordering the front door.

  I showed my badge to the porter, who told me that the apartment I was looking for took up the entire top floor and was owned by a general recluse who was rarely seen in residence. Leaning close, he added, “thinks he’s a writer, you see. Never in. See more of his lady friends, to think of it. Wandering off somewhere, or else mooning about for days. God knows, can’t think of nothing better to do with his time, I suppose. I shouldn’t talk, you know, but it’s pitiful, really. Working people like you or I know better, don’t we?” And he gave me a conspiratorial wink.

  I was intrigued by this, and wanted to ask more, but the porter switched back to a businesslike tone and waved me in, saying, “don’t think you’ll find him in today, but we’ll see, we’ll see.”

  He phoned ahead. To his surprise, the call was answered, and I was ushered into a gilded elevator, where with a clatter of an ornate grill, he sent me up with firm instructions to not be alarmed at the new design, and “just push the button like so,” he proudly leaned in to demonstrate, “and it’ll go where you need!”

  I walked out into a long and somewhat claustrophobic corridor. The walls were paneled in a rich mahogany with a carved ledge that stretched halfway between the floor and the ceiling; above it, was a stately wallpaper in a gilded peacock pattern. I walked down toward the only door, and knocked somewhat tentatively, impressed by the stature of it all. It was opened almost at once by a man in a red oriental robe.

  “Good afternoon, sir. We are conducting a survey of –” I began, reaching mechanically into my coat pocket for my badge, but when I looked back up the words suddenly stuck in my throat. The man was – me.

  * * * * *

  Yes, here was the same dark crumpled hair, the same soft – almost feminine – features, as if drawn by a sentimental illustrator, the same heavy brows, grey eyes, thick and slightly upturned nose, even the faint pockmark on the right temple, left by a childhood battle with the pox. His robe was tied loosely at the waist, and beneath it I could see the same shock of black hair curling up toward the neck in the same pattern.

  We stood there mutely for several seconds, and I watched him make his way from recognition through surprise, suspicion, and finally a forced neutrality, each of these as recognizable to me as looking at a mirror. Finally, with a quick look past me at the corridor, he opened the door wide and said, in my voice, “I guess you’d better come in then.”

  We entered a large foyer with a black-and-white checkered floor and two arches on either side. He closed the door, then took my coat and hat to hang on a lone coat rack. “You’re taking the census, then?”

  I nodded. I had completely forgotten about the questionnaire, the papers, all of it. I suddenly felt dizzy and weak, and he must have seen something of it because he said with a note of concern, “let’s get you all set up then. I’ll make us some tea, shall I? I’m hopeless at it, but if you’ll go just through here and have a seat, I should be able to pull something together.”

  Before I could say anything, he rested a familiar hand on my back and led me through to a vast living room.

  “Take a seat. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he said, and disappeared back through the archway. I thought at first of following him, then after listening to the fading sound of his steps, and then the distant opening and closing of doors, I realized that I had just been standing there in a kind of hazy indecision.

  The room was dim, lit by a single fringed lamp that cast a modest circle over a pair of brocade armchairs, and between them a small table piled with loose papers and envelopes. I made my way to one of the chairs, holding fast to the enumerator’s folder as I sat down, rather as a drowning man might hold on to a piece of flotsam. Then, hearing no one approach, I made a tentative survey of my surroundings.

  Through the shadows I could see a dizzying assortment of furniture. There was a velvet settee, two high-backed wooden chairs in what looked like the style of Louis XVI, and three columns of barrister bookcases reaching up toward the ceiling and neatly stacked with sets of leather-bound tomes. Then a tall, carved mantle fronted by a round conversation table on a clawed pedestal, six more chairs, and a grandfather clock.

  There were carpets masking almost the entirety of the floor, and walls similarly cluttered with assorted prints and paintings, though I could not make out the details. Behind me were two windows, each covered in thick drapes, lending the scene a somewhat cavernous air.

  Aside from the armchair to my left – which displayed signs of fraying in the seat – and the clutter on the table, everything seemed to be ordered and pristine, as if a maid just left it. Seeing nothing for my mind to hang on to, I looked down at my folder, flicking the edge nervously. In the distance, I heard the faint whistle of a kettle.

  Then out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the letterhead on the topmost piece of paper on the table. Two words – Smart Set – and I couldn’t help myself. It turned out to be a letter from H.L Mencken, the very same H.L. Mencken whose signature stamped a curt note to me not two months before. I picked up the letter and read hungrily:

  “It has been three months of silence now, and though I hold little faith in human progress, I would have liked to believed in yours had you felt the urge to meet a deadline.

  Now I assure you that while all is lost, we might still be persuaded to accept–”

  “Are you acquainted with H.L.?” came a voice behind me, and it took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t me who had spoken aloud.

  “I – I’m so sorry,” I stammered, dropping the letter, “I couldn’t help myself. I am a writer too, you see –”

  “Oh?” he seemed genuinely interested, “where do you publish?”

  “Well,” I hesitated, considering briefly whether I could lie to him but ultimately decided on the truth, “no. Not
yet, I mean. It’s only been a few months, you see, and I haven’t caught the spirit of things quite yet, but it’s only…”

  “Well, that’s no matter,” he interjected, but kindly, and covered the correspondence with a large tray that held two cups, a small pot, and an unopened tin of Oreo sandwiches. I noted that he had changed out of his robe into a plain white shirt and pants, almost identical to mine. He poured hastily and asked, “So I gather you were going to ask me some questions?”

  I didn’t understand what he was talking about until I remembered my folder. I looked down, realizing that I would have to open it to start the familiar routine. Usually, I could do the questions by heart.

  “Let’s see… Have… Have you been living at this place of abode since January the 1st?”

  “Yes. And what about you?”

  I looked up, flustered, “what do you mean?”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Me? Oh – over at Madison Square by the Fuller – but what does that matter?”

  He took a sip of tea and looked thoughtful, and this in turn gave me a chance to look him over again. Yes, it was undeniably the same face, the same features. But who was he? The only explanation I could think of was a long-lost twin, but then my parents were not the type, and I’d have known by now, somehow I’d have found out –

  He interrupted this train of thought by saying, “a small room, is it? With a view of the train?” Seeing my startled expression, he laughed a little nervously, “was I right? I was only guessing.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I turned back to the questionnaire and read mechanically, “and your given name is?”

  He perked up. “Haven’t I said? I guess I haven’t…” and at this he stood up and offered me his hand, smiling, “let me introduce myself properly – I’m Wallace. Wallace Pendleton. And you are?”

  * * * * *

  Something important was missing. Some crucial detail that I could not catch on to. Too many thoughts jumbled themselves in my mind. Twin? Brother? Doppelgänger? I hear Shelley had one. No, a joke. A sick joke. A con man? Should I be frightened? Run? A dream? A trance?

  I took his hand limply. Then his expression suddenly changed to something wild and hungry.

  “I know!” he said loudly, “I know! It’s Wally, isn’t it?” And he grasped me by both shoulders, pulling me up and looking straight into my eyes with something close to rapture. I didn’t answer. I was lost completely.

  He shook me slightly and asked again, “you’re called Wally, aren’t you? You must be!”

  “I… How did you know?”

  Just as suddenly, he released me and took a step back, his manic look vanishing in an instant.

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t tell you,” he said in a subdued voice, and ran a hand through his hair. I noticed that it trembled slightly.

  “This… deserves something stronger than tea, doesn’t it?” He said, and I nodded.

  “Why don’t I give you the tour? I keep it all locked up in the back anyway.” And then, inexplicably, he laughed.

  My laugh.

  * * * * *

  I picked up my papers, and we walked back through the foyer. From there he led me through a long line of dark and dormant rooms, opening doors and tugging on pull-chains, accompanying each with a pithy description like “this one is only fit for guests” of a small bedroom done in a pale flowered wallpaper, or “this is a sort of morning room – great light.”

  By the fourth or fifth room, I had somewhat collected myself, and found that I was growing steadily annoyed. There was something selfish it all, each room more grand than my entire place and yet just sitting there, pristine and dismissed, as if under a bell jar. Was this why my father had cut off my allowance? So he could support this man in grand style?

  At last, we reached the final door, and entered what turned out to be the master bedroom. A canopied bed dominated the scene, with a scatter of tables, dressers and chairs placed at odd angles along the walls.

  Here are last were inimitable signs of life. On every flat surface stood a collection of wineglasses and tumblers with caked brims, stacks of old plates with unrecognizable contents, and several overfilled ashtrays. The bedding was in complete disarray, and loose typewritten and marked-up sheets were half hidden among the crumpled blankets. I was no longer surprised to see that the scattered notes appeared to be in my handwriting.

  “I never let the maid clean here,” he said apologetically. Then he walked purposefully across the room and opened a door half-hidden behind a tall wardrobe. He ushered me forward into a magnificent bath chamber, big enough to stand three abreast and glittering in white porcelain. I drew in my breath. This was a far cry from the hallway facilities I had grown used to.

  At the far end of the room stood a linen cabinet. He approached this eagerly and made to open it, then seemed to be having some trouble. I took a step closer, and he turned back to me with a frown, “it won’t open. Is there a key, do you think?”

  I stared at him blankly, and watched as he patted down his pockets, and then looked in some confusion over the room. “I’m almost sure that I had something … Was it… Where – ah!” and he pulled a long chain from under his shirt, revealing a small brass key.

  “Here we go –” he muttered with a satisfied expression and with a gesture more fitting to a master of ceremonies, threw open the cabinet doors to reveal a startling array of bottles. “Voilà!”

  It was an impressive sight. Peering over his shoulder, I made out two shelves of whiskey, stacked four deep, then a shelf of gin and something green that looked like absinthe, and below that, a couple dozen bottles of something clear and an assortment of after-dinner liquors in a rainbow of colors.

  “If you’re careful, this’ll last ‘til the country comes back to its senses,” he said with a grin, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a bottom drawer. He poured a generous measure into each glass, handing one to me.

  “A toast?”

  A toast? Here? I looked around at the claw-footed bath and the pedestal sink, and laughed. Well, who was I to judge, after all?

  “What to?” I asked, gamely.

  “To freedom!” He exclaimed, and downed his glass, refilling it instantly with a well-practiced gesture.

  “You know,” he said, taking down another healthy measure of whiskey, “I think you showed up at just the right time.”

  This quickly brought me back to my senses. “How do you mean?” I asked, putting down my folder and cautiously perching on the edge of the tub.

  He didn’t reply at first. He rubbed his glass slowly between his palms, watching the amber liquid swirl back and forth. Then he said quietly, “only I think I’ve got it all figured out, you see.”

  His eyes focused in on mine, and he added, “haven’t you?”

  “No – I… I mean, I don’t know.” I looked at him helplessly.

  He sighed, “you don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?”

  I took out my crumpled Chesterfields, taking one and handing him the rest. He lit up, and slipped the pack into his pocket.

  As the room slowly filled with smoke, he said “I’ve been thinking about something like it for a long time now. It makes no sense, really. But nothing does, does it? And you’ve said it yourself, it would make a great piece for The Strand – ”

  Suddenly, we both jumped at the sound of a bell in the hallway.

  “That must be Ellie!” he gasped, and quickly stubbed his cigarette out on the sink. “Stay quiet!” he hissed in a stage whisper, crouching by me, “she can’t see me – I mean us –”

  We sat frozen for a full minute, until he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “She’s gone, I think,” he said in his normal voice. Yet something in his manner had changed, as if an invisible line had tautened and snapped, leaving a frayed and naked edge exposed to the air.

  “Look Wallace,” he stood up, “I really think I’ve got to go now. I think it’s
my only chance.”

  “But wait –”

  But what about me, I wanted to say, but he was already at the door to the bedroom, and then past it, and then I heard him yell back, his voice echoing eerily against the white tile, “if I’m right, then it’s all faulty and full of holes, and you can just –”

  But I wasn’t listening. I just realized that the folder with all my papers was gone. He must have taken it by mistake.

  “Wait!” I yelled after him and stood up, spilling my drink in haste. I ran back through bedroom to the hallway, stumbling in the dark toward the glimmer of the foyer, then finally I was there.

  It was empty. My coat and my hat were gone.

  * * * * *

  My wallet! My papers! My badge!

  I stood stock still, at a loss. Then I saw a piece of paper laying just inside the door that must have fallen to the ground, a pitiful trampled thing to be left with. It’s over, it read in a loopy scrawl.

  I could think of nothing else but to take the elevator down. In the lobby, I approached the porter.

  “Good evening, Mr. Pendleton,” he said coolly.

  “Did you see anyone leave just now? With a packet of papers?” Seeing his blank expression, I added, “only you must have seen him. He looked just like me?”

  He didn’t answer at first, looking me over with a strange expression on his face. Then he said with an exaggerated slowness, “no, sir. No one’s left the building just now.”

  “And are there any other entrances? A basement, maybe?”

  “The basement is locked in the evenings, sir.”

  I ran my hand through my hair in desperation, “Well, then, maybe the other one – Dawes – maybe he’s seen something?”

  The porter’s face fell, and he said sadly, “I’m sorry to tell you, but Dawes has been out all week. It’s the flu, you know,” he sighed, “we’ve all put in for a service at St. Cath–”

  I cut him off, “you’ve taken no breaks at all then?”

  “None, sir,” he replied stiffly, obviously stung at my lack of interest.

  I started toward the door, but the porter called after me, “are you feeling all right, sir?”

  “What? I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Then may I suggest that you change out of those trousers if you plan to go out tonight?”