Peering over the edge of the Balloon, I mapped the hills and dales of Norman’s bean. Posted there as plain as day were the signs of intelligence, spirituality, mental energy, firmness, and - this was the best of all - a regular hillock pointing to ‘philoprogenitiveness,’ defined by Gall as a ‘particular feeling that leads one to watch over and provide for helpless offspring.’ This discovery of the true nature of the Owner of the Desk filled me with happiness - for the first time in my life I did not feel alone in the world. It gave me a sense of security and - as Gall might have put it - a strong feeling of adhesiveness. I was instantly in love.
Here I seem to hear sounds of impatience, a pointed shifting of a chair, a deliberate snort. The sight of my happiness, I suppose, goads you into pointing out the painfully obvious, and you wonder aloud if it had never occurred to me that I might not exactly belong to the category of ‘helpless offspring.’ The short answer to that one is: never. Looking back I can see that the whole near-tragedy, which I shall get to shortly, was caused by the simple fact that Norman’s head was not entirely hairless. My investigation of his character, however diligent, was blunted by an ill-kempt growth of dark curls shrouding his temples. Had I been able to perch on a shoulder and explore those temples with my forepaws I have no doubt as to what I would have found: crescent-shaped ridges over the ears, indicating ‘destructiveness,’ aided and abetted by a pair of wedge-shaped bulges, pointing to ‘secretiveness.’ But all that was in the future. For now it is appropriate to place beneath the picture of Norman at his desk the caption THE FIRST HUMAN BEING F. EVER LOVED.
Chapter 5
I traveled in my books but I no longer ate them, and food - the mundane, illiterate kind - was a constant problem. I was forced to leave the shop every night, ramp up my courage and creep out under the cellar door, to forage around the Square, cringing in shadows, creeping down drains, racing from dark spot to dark spot. Diary of a Nightcrawler. As the year wore on, the days growing colder, then warmer, I began to notice changes in the neighborhood, and I don’t mean the stunted flowerings of a few ragged clumps of grass and daffodils. Indeed, the changes I am referring to stood in ironic contrast to those meager burgeonings. On nearly every block businesses were vanishing, and at night the side streets, and even the Square itself, emptied out earlier. Apart from the knots of sailors in the doorways of bars, there was often no one around after eleven. There were more broken windows in the buildings, and these often went unmended or were replaced by plywood sheets. Trash piled up in alleys and even on the sidewalks in front of some stores. Cars were abandoned at the curb, to be slowly picked to pieces by scavengers, and the brick buildings themselves seemed to sag with age, as though, like old people or old rats, they had lost the will to hold themselves erect. Rats moved into the cars, building cozy burrows in the seats.
Now and then I bumped into one of the old bunch out there. They too had changed a lot since setting out on their own. Hollow-cheeked and furtive, long bodies and hanging bellies, they were unpleasant-looking characters - to the point where I almost didn’t recognize them. They usually liked pretending they didn’t know me either. They were always frantic to get someplace or other - chasing rumors of easy grub or running from the Man - but occasionally one of them would stop to bat the breeze, give me the news and maybe a tip about where I could scarf up some supper. The tips were usually false, designed to send me off in the wrong direction. Deep down they had not changed much - in their eyes I was still a prize chump. It was through one of those chance encounters that I found out Peewee had been killed, run over by a taxi the night before. I stood with Shunt on the sidewalk while he pointed out a patch of fur in the middle of Cambridge Street, like a little rug. Though Peewee had never shown me the slightest consideration, it was unnerving to see him like that. In my mind, I posted next to his name the words RIDICULOUS and LIFE.
And what did I post next to my own name? When I was in the dumps, I posted GROTESQUE CLOWN and even RAT, but when I was up - which was often the case back then - I posted BUSINESSMAN. My business was books - consumption and exchange. I hung out in the Balloon and the Balcony and studied the trade. I leaned over the edge of the Balloon, in constant peril of falling, and read the morning paper over Norman’s shoulder. At times, when he placed his coffee cup just so, I could see my own reflection in the dark water - not an appetizing sight at breakfast time. Norman was a real reader too. He would feel about on the desk for his cup like a blind man, find it, grasp it, and raise it to his lips without ever taking his eyes off the newspaper. The aroma of coffee floated up and hung around the ceiling. I loved that smell, though it would be a long time before I actually tasted coffee.
A man in a bar once asked me what books taste like ‘in an average sort of way.’ I had a ready answer, but in order not to make him feel completely stupid, I pretended to ponder the question for a while before saying, ‘My friend, given the chasm that separates all your experiences from all of mine, I can bring you no closer to that singular savor than by saying that books, in an average sort of way, taste the way coffee smells.’ This was a mouthful, and I could tell by the way he returned to his drink that I had given him plenty to think about. Now that I am alone again, I don’t ever smell coffee anymore, which is one more nice thing gone from my life.
After the morning paper, I would eavesdrop on Norman’s dealings with his customers. Many - perhaps most - were true readers hoping to buy a few good books cheap. If they had not come in with a title on their lips or if their browsing seemed unfocused and vague, Norman was sure to notice, and he always knew how to steer them in the right direction. He was a real Sherlock Holmes when it came to the divination of character from outward appearances. He could tell at a glance - from their dress, their accents, their haircuts, even their gaits - the kind of books they liked, and he never made a mistake, never handed Peyton Place to someone who would have been happier with Doctor Zhivago. Nor vice versa - Norman Shine was not a snob. He was short and big-bottomed. He had a broad face - it seemed to be wider than it was long - and a very small mouth, which he would purse up when he listened. Ask him a question, ask him if he has Dombey and Son or Marivaux’s Life of Marianne in translation, and watch his mouth draw up. It was like pulling the string of a little sack or poking a sea anemone. And no matter how ordinary the question - ‘Who wrote War and Peace?’ or ‘Where is your restroom?’ - he would incline his head so as to look at you over the tops of his glasses, purse his lips, and in general act as if yours was the most profound of inquiries. Then the anemone would forget its fear, the drawstring would relax, his mouth would open in the gentlest of smiles, and raising an extended index finger as if testing the wind, he would say, ‘Back room, lefthand shelves, third shelf from the bottom, toward the end,’ or some such precise thing. With his bald pate and horseshoe of bushy hair, he looked like a jolly friar. I sometimes mixed him up with Friar Tuck.
On Saturday afternoons, especially when the weather was fine, the shop would be crowded with customers, and Norman would leave his desk by the door and move about the store helping people find what they wanted. He was beautiful then, moving gracefully among them. He was like a musketeer. He was Athos, quiet and reserved, slow to anger, but deadly when provoked. Assaulted by a question from behind, he spins about, thrusts his rapier at a top shelf, and draws down, impaled and flashing like a fish on a spear, Death in Venice. Another request might send him charging down an aisle, a turn at the corner of a shelf, a left feint in the direction of juvenilia, and then, crouching, a lunge to the right - and there, skewered by his sword point, is Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book. A third request, this time from an old woman in a mackintosh, bent and ugly, meets with the usual deference. A deep bow, a chivalrous pirouette, two lightning jabs, and The Power of Positive Thinking and Arthritis and Common Sense lie at her feet. Bravo, mon vieux Athos, bravo. But Norman’s most endearing moments occurred on rainy days, with no customers in the store, when he roamed the aisles armed with a large turkey-feather duster, an
d dusted to the right, dusted to the left, and hummed or whistled as he went. Seeing him then made me think how nice it was to be human. Rainy days were pleasant ones for me too. Lulled by the watery pit-a-pat, I occasionally dozed off at my post. And sometimes I had nightmares in which I died excruciating deaths, crushed beneath Webster’s unabridged or flushed screaming down a drain. And then I would wake up in the warm store to the gentle hissing of the rain and the whispering of the feather duster and feel happy again.
Meanwhile, the world outside the bookstore was looking more and more like a place I did not much want to be part of. During our orientation trip up top Mama had complained a lot to Luweena and me about our lack of gratitude for all she was doing for us in showing us the great scrape-and-scrounge spots. Which was ridiculous. From my point of view she had shown us mostly a bunch of death traps and not much to be grateful for. The one exception was the Rialto Theater, and for that even to this day my gratitude knows no bounds. No Rialto, no longing. No longing, no Lovelies. No Lovelies, and . . . what? No Lovelies, and a lonely rodent, at the closing of the garden, mulling the quality of his despair. The rest of my family were blessed in a way. Thanks to their dwarfish imaginations and short memories they did not ask for a lot, mostly just food and fornication, and they got enough of both to take them through life while it lasted. But that was not the life for me. Like an idiot, I had aspirations. And besides, I was terrified. The Rialto stood out as the one moderately safe place in the whole depressing neighborhood where you could still pick up something to eat, and eat it calmly without worrying about what calamity was going to fall on your head and turn you into a rug like Peewee. A combination movie theater and flophouse, the Rialto stayed open twenty-four hours a day. Half the audience was there only to sleep - it was cheaper than a room and warmer than a street. It was known affectionately as the Scratch House, and most rats avoided it because of the vermin, a voracious population of fleas and lice, and also because of the reek - a stench of old people, poor people, sweat and jism, mixed with the stink of the pesticides and disinfectants they dumped in once a week. But to me, given my temperament, that seemed a small price to pay. The Rialto screened old movies during the day and evening, perhaps forty films in all, which it continuously recirculated, in order to maintain a front of shabby respectability. Then at midnight, when the citizenry and its censors were tucked in bed and the cops could safely look the other way, it would switch over to pornography. At the stroke of midnight, a halt, scratched, and flickering Charlie Chan or Gene Autry would come to a clattering stop in midreel. Utter darkness would follow, a few short minutes of coughing and shuffling, and then the projector would whirr back to life, and even its sound would seem younger, brighter. The change was spectacular.
Though the Rialto had a lot to offer, attendance was always sparse, and I found it easy to creep down the empty rows and with finikin discernment harvest the choicest bits of candy bar and popcorn and even an occasional serving of hot dog or smoked ham (the all-nighters often brought lunch with them) while the projector’s beam flashed like a searchlight above me. This profusion of provender, however, was for me not foremost among the Rialto’s attractions. For there on the midnight screen, naked and enormous as Amazons, were creatures just like the ones who had transfixed me with their loveliness in front of the Casino weeks before. But here they did not wear black rectangles on their chests and thighs, nor were they frozen in photographic stillness. Here they moved like real creatures in living color and danced and sometimes writhed on carpets that had obviously been made from animals far furrier than Peewee. They writhed alone or with men - whose gross presence, muscled and sinewed like enormous baby rats, I personally found superfluous and offensive - and sometimes they writhed in each other’s arms. How I longed for that smooth skin like soft chamois - to smell it, touch it, taste it; and that thick flowing hair - to bury my face in it, to swoon. I was well aware of what the others of my putative species, the few who might venture in, would think of these velvet-skinned beings. Where I discerned angels, they would see only hideous upright animals, lumbering, hairless, and vain. And if they did not laugh, it would be only because they never do.
The pull of these tremendous and fascinating creatures was so strong that I found myself sacrificing hours and even days at the bookstore just to behold them. I haul out my telescope once again. Trembling with impatience, I wait for my eyes to grow accustomed to the flickering darkness. Peering into that Rialto of dream and memory, I sweep my telescope this way and that until I find the younger me, the careless progenitor of this present wreck, locked in the circle of the lens: I am holding a little piece of what looks like a Snickers and I am perched on a seat in the front row among the drunken snorers, the mendicant munchers, the droolers, and the masturbators. Chewing quietly I contemplate the slow disrobings, the tentative undulations, the wild gyrations of the beings I have come to think of simply as ‘my Lovelies.’ Chew and contemplate, contemplate and chew, utterly rapt, utterly happy. I am not ashamed. Sometimes I think that all anyone needs in life is lots of popcorn and a few Lovelies.
Norman acquired most of his books at estate sales, and that for me was the only sad part of the book business. Returning from one of these sales, the old wood-paneled Buick wagon would be so weighed down with books that when he backed up to the shop door the bumper would scrape on the sidewalk. Opening the rear gate, he would carry them inside by the armful and stack them next to his desk in waist-high piles and during the days that followed open them one by one and pencil a price on the inside. I hated that part of the business. I hated most of all reading the inscriptions over his shoulder: ‘For my darling Peter on our fiftieth wedding anniversary’ (in The Ruba’iya’t of Omar Khayya’m), ‘This book was given me by dear dead Violet Swain when we were both seventeen’ (in The Catcher in the Rye), ‘To Mary, may it bring her solace’ (in John Donne’s Sermons), ‘Just to remind you of our fortnight of Italian heaven’ (in Ruskin’s The Stones of Venice), ‘Madness is only misunderstood genius - pray for me’ (in Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience), ‘I live, I die; I have lived, I am dead; I shall die, I will live’ (in Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling). Dozens of these in every carload. It was obscene. They should have buried the books with their owners, like the Egyptians, just so people couldn’t paw over them afterward give them something to read on the long ride through eternity.
Most books got priced at less than a dollar, though Norman had an eye for real value too, and - what with the bumps above his ears - a gift for secrecy. When he spotted a truly valuable book at one of those estate sales, he kept it up his sleeve until he had bought it for a song. He might pay a nickel for a book and then turn around, stick it in a glass-fronted case, and sell it for a thousand dollars the next day. When the collectors came in to see what he had, they put on white cotton gloves before touching anything in the case. And some of these were books that Norman had been schlepping around in his station wagon a few days before. But don’t tell that to the collectors! They sat there as solemn as Popes with their white gloves on, holding a book as gently as if it were a newborn baby, and talked about provenance, first printings, autographs, and the great Rosenbach. Some of these people knew a lot about the history of books, but none of them knew as much as Norman, and they could never put anything over on him. He was amazing. I came to believe that he knew everything. In my mind I had long since taken down the sign that labeled him as merely the Owner of the Desk, and next to his name I had put up two new signs: THE SWORDSMAN and THE BEARER OF THE KEY OF KNOWLEDGE. It was an easy step, via the image of the key, from there to St. Peter. And that was how the image of Norman Shine got mixed up in my mind with the idea of sainthood.
There was another interesting aspect of the book business, one that brought Norman closer to the hidden projectionist at the Rialto. You see, besides the good used books on the shelves and the very used books in the basement and the rare books in the glass-fronted cabinets, there were also books in the old iron safe in front
of the Rathole. These were the banned books, white-covered paperbacks published by Olympia Press and Obelisk Press and smuggled in from Paris. They had titles like Tropic of Cancer, Our Lady of the Flowers, The Ginger Man, Naked Lunch, My Life and Loves. The customers for these books spoke the names in whispers. If Norman knew the customer, or after sizing him up (they were all men) decided to trust him, off would come the Friar Tuck disguise: Norman’s round eyes would narrow, his little pocketbook mouth would flatten to a hard slit. It was like watching a different movie - here was the secret agent of the French underground handing out forged papers, or perhaps an underworld fence passing stolen diamonds. ‘Just a moment,’ he would say, and he would shoot a quick glance around. Then, crouching in front of the safe so as to hide its contents from view, he would deftly angle the contraband into a plain brown bag, one without PEMBROKE BOOKS written on it, but not before a whiff of Paris - Gauloise Bleu and red wine and car exhaust - had wafted up from the open safe to mingle with the coffee smell on the ceiling. And I thought, Good old Norman, striking a blow for freedom. Which shows that even before meeting Jerry Magoon I was a revolutionary at heart. It also shows that I was hiding from myself the obvious fact that, besides the blow for freedom, Norman was making a killing. He was, I now understand, a mixed character. But in those days the only mixed character I had an eye for was myself
All these new experiences got a tremendous battle going in my mind between Pembroke Books and the Rialto. To me they were like rival temples vying for my worship - sages and arhats on the one hand, angels on the other. Sometimes I gave in to the one and sometimes I gave in to the other. And when I gave in to the Rialto side I would often stay on right through the night. That way I could catch the daytime features without having to walk the streets in daylight. Among the continuously recycled black-and-white movies, besides Charlie Chan and Gene Autry, were westerns, gangster movies, and musicals, films with Joan Fontaine, Paulette Godard, James Cagney, Abbott and Costello, and Fred Astaire. The projectionist must have had a soft spot for Fred Astaire, he showed so many of his movies, and it was not long before I had a soft spot for him too. When his movies were showing I always stayed on. I was sure the projectionist was another guardian of the mysteries, like Norman. Two temples, two priests. I longed to catch a glimpse of him, but I never did.