"Hello," Chapman said on the phone. "Earl & Bishop? Give me the toy department, please; anybody in the toy department. No, I don't want Customer Relations, I want the goddam toy department. Fast!"
Ellen jumped up and reached for the phone. "Let me talk to them. You don't know how to handle people. You—"
Chapman fended her off and spoke again. "Hello? This is an emergency. My name's Chapman, and I'm afraid I left my son in your department about forty minutes ago. David Chapman. He's ten years old and he's wearing a grey suit and a grey school cap with a 'B' on it—"
"The blue suit! The blue suit!" Ellen screamed. "Don't you want them to find him?"
"He's wearing a blue suit," Chapman said, "and he was looking at the electric trains when—" He broke off and his face lit up. "You've got him? Sure? That's a relief."
"Is he all right?" Ellen demanded. "Is he frightened?"
"He's all right," Chapman whispered. On the phone he said, "Can you do me a great favor? We've got a plane to catch in twenty minutes. Can you send him over to the Airline Terminal with one of your people? I'll be happy to pay any charge. The BOAC desk. Yes. You will? That's fine. Thanks. Thanks a lot."
Chapman hung up and grinned. "Everything under control. They'll have Davey waiting for us."
"They won't." Ellen was sobbing. "They'll get the airline wrong. They'll—I should have gone myself. My God, a ten-year-old child. Lost! Alone!. . ."
"It's going to be all right, Elly."
"I hate you," she screamed.
"Aw, you say that to all the fellas," Chapman smiled.
They left. I went straight to the bar, opened the first decanter I could reach, and belted down all I could hold. The hackie began picking up the bags. He said, "How in hell could a guy lose his kid like that? An umbrella, okay; even a coat or a hat or maybe his wallet, but—"
"They lost him a year ago," I said. "The kid's been dead a year. God only knows what Chapman's going to do with her at the terminal. I'm not going to find out, and if you want my advice, you won't either."
Rogue, March 1964
I Will Never Celebrate New Year's Again
There's this producer named Tony who gives me a lot of work, so I have to remain on good terms with him. Part of the burden is going to the traditional New Year's party his wife, Gigi, throws. It's a drag; formal clothes, formal manners, champagne (which I hate) and talent being forced to entertain the guests.
So this New Year's I decided to miss it and stay home and have a quiet party. I invited my current girl, Martha, and another couple, bought a few magnums for them, and stocked up on whisky. I was preparing the ingredients for a light supper (Chicken a la King, salad, Petits Fours and coffee) when the phone rang. It was Gigi.
"What the hell is this I hear? You're running a rival brawl?"
"No, Gigi."
"That's the word going around."
"It's a lie. I'm staying home because I don't feel well, and I've asked a few people up."
"How many?"
"Three."
"Who?"
I told her.
"Damn you," she said, "I want them."
"All right, Gigi, you can have them. I'll cancel and go to bed."
So I did. But around ten o'clock, I began to get lonely and restless. I prowled around the house and finally noticed this invitation on the bulletin board. The Directors were giving a ball, and I'd been blackmailed into buying a ticket for twenty dollars which entitled me to a chance for a "door prize, supper, dancing until 3:00 A.M."
I arrived just as they were drawing for the door prizes. I've never won anything in my life, so I paid no attention. I sat down at the table with the guy who'd sold my ticket, and began drinking and chatting with him and the others.
The cases of wine, the cameras, the jewelry and the perfumes were distributed, and the M.C. finally called: "One Stutz Bearcat. Number 319." I ignored it, but my blackmailer exclaimed, "Hey! Isn't that the number of the ticket I sold you?" I looked at my stub. It was 319.
I stepped up on the dance floor where this lovely little Bearcat painted Fire Engine Red was displayed. It was big enough to hold a kid, and had a battery motor. I was in a daze; it looked as though '63 was promising to break my customary run of bad luck. I presented my stub, got a nice hand, and was about to claim my prize when a frantic character appeared, waving a stub. "I'm 319," he said.
We compared stubs. We both had 319; there'd been some kind of goof at the printer's. I was resigned.
"Have you got any kids?" I asked.
"Three."
"I haven't got any. Take the car."
My host tried to cheer me up and took me to a Park Avenue party in a giant duplex apartment featuring a sweeping staircase. I tried to hook up with a woman and was doing all right with a Hungarian girl when the dance band broke into Black & Tan, the classic stripper's number. My Hungarian began to strip.
She did a professional parade, shedding gloves, jewelry and clothes while the guests howled. Then she started up the stairs, discarding lingerie. She reached the head of the stairs, dropped the ultimate essential, turned the corner and disappeared. There was a fanfare, and the band began a Conga. A Conga line of men formed and went up the stairs after the Hungarian. I left.
I went up to Small's in Harlem, couldn't enjoy myself there, but ran into a couple of young writers who dragged me over to Morningside Heights to a fraternity patty. There was a stench of beer, the floor was sticky, a four-piece band whammed and twanged, and about fifty couples were twisting. Now I not only felt lonely; I felt old.
Suddenly there was a hissing WHOOSH! and a cloud of snow appeared in the room. Some tweed had pulled a CO2 fire extinguisher off the wall and was running around, shooting up the girls' skirts. They squealed and scattered, and one of them took refuge behind me. On closer inspection, she proved to be much older than the type you usually find at a fraternity dance.
She was about 30, with acid-red hair cut short, a sinewy, active body, and nervous hands. She wore a sort of Goldwyn Follies spangled dress, and gold pumps with bows. She was alive and attractive, but vulgar and common, and her name turned out to he . . . God save the mark . . . Torchy.
"You look like a gent," Torchy said. "Will you, for Christ's sake, get me out of here. This is kid stuff."
"Where's your date?"
"Passed out," she muttered.
We left, got a cab, and drove down to 50th and Madison Avenue, where I live. Torchy sat in her corner and said nothing. I was tired, unhappy, and not interested; but I had to go through the motions of the gent. I offered her a choice of going in the cab to wherever she was going, or coming up to my place for a drink.
"Boy, do I need a drink," she said. "Okay, but no funny business."
"At four in the morning?" I said wearily. "Who do you think I am, Paul Bunyan? So, come on; I'm freezing."
We went up to my place and I started a fire in the fireplace.
"What's that? Kennel coal?" Torchy asked. She wandered around the living room, staring at my books, pictures, and records. "Gee," she said. "I never been in a place like this before. You got class. What's it like to have class?"
"I wouldn't know, Torchy."
"Says you. This place is simply elegant. What's in there?"
"The kitchen."
She explored. "Je-zus! You cook, huh? What?"
"That was going to be Chicken a la King."
"You cook French. Wow! What's in there?"
"My workshop."
She investigated. "Christ! More books. You must have thousands. What are you, a publisher?"
"A writer."
"Yeah, it figures."
We went back to the living room and enjoyed the fire while we had drinks. We talked. Torchy was so naturally giving and receptive that she warmed me more than the fire. She wanted to know all about the books and the records and the pictures and what I wrote and had I traveled and did I have girls and what were they like and was I as nice to them as I was to her. After an hour of this, she beg
an to make me feel ashamed and ungrateful.
Suddenly she said, "I got to call Patchogue."
"Patchogue?"
"Yeah. Patchogue, Long Island. It's where I live. I got to tell them I ain't coming home tonight."
"The phone's out of order," I told her.
"Go on," she grinned. She came to me and ran her hand through my hair. "What kind of fink you think I am? I wouldn't hang a long distance call on you."
"The phone's in the bedroom," I said faintly.
"Yeah, I know. Alongside the bed." She went to the closet for her coat. "I'll call from that hotel across the street. They must have public phones."
"Don't be a fool, Torchy. Phone from here."
"And louse up the best time I ever had in my life? Nothing doing. I'm not grabby. I'll be right back."
"Wait a minute. I'll go with you."
"Stay here and make the chicken. I told you, I'm hungry."
"You can't go out in that light coat. Wear mine."
I threw my heavy coat over her shoulders. She turned and gave me a feathery kiss. "This is the best New Year's I ever had," she whispered.
"I'm beginning to think so, too, Torchy."
"You're an ace," she said, and scampered out.
I went into the kitchen and started the Sauce Bechamel for the chicken. I'd finished slicing the pimiento into strips and was getting the green peas out of the freezer when there was a heavy knock on the door.
"It's open," I yelled.
The knock repeated. I went to the door and opened it. A cop stood there.
"You Bester?" he asked.
"In the flesh. What's the matter, hi-fi too loud?"
"You better come downstairs," he said. "There's a dame in your coat. . ."
"That's all right, I loaned it to her."
"There's been an accident," he said. "Come on."
I followed him down to Madison Avenue, completely bewildered. It was getting light outside. On the bleak street there was a cab skewed against the curb before the hotel. A little crowd of spectators was clustered around a crumpled figure in the gutter. A livid pool of blood was spreading slowly from her body, staining its way into my New Year.
Rogue, February 1963
Out of This World
I'm telling this just the way it happened because I share a vice with all men. Although I'm happily married and still in love with my wife, I keep falling in love with transient women. I stop for a red light, glance at a girl in the cab alongside, and fall desperately in love with her. I go up in an elevator and am captivated by a girl in the car with a sheaf of stencils in her hand. When she gets off at the tenth floor, she takes my heart with her. I remember once falling in love with a model in the crosstown bus. She was carrying a letter to mail and I tried to read the return address and memorize it.
Wrong numbers are always the strongest temptation. The phone rings, I pick it up, a girl says, "May I talk to David, please?" There's no David in our house and I know it's a strange voice, but thrilling and tempting. In two seconds I've woven a fantasy of dating this stranger, meeting her, having an affair with her, breaking up my home, running off to Capri and living in glorious sin. Then I say, "What number are you calling, please?" And after I hang up I can hardly look at my wife, I feel so guilty.
So when this call came to my office at 509 Madison, I fell into the same old trap. Both my secretary and my bookkeeper were out to lunch, so I took the call directly at my desk. An exciting voice began talking fifteen to the dozen.
"Hello, Janet! I got the job, darling. They've got a lovely office just around the corner from the old Tiffany building on Fifth Avenue and my hours are nine to four. I've got a desk and a cubbyhole and a window a to myself, and I—"
"I'm sorry," I said, after I finished my fantasy. "What number are you calling?"
"My goodness! I'm certainly not calling you."
"I'm afraid not."
"I'm awfully sorry I bothered you."
"Not at all. Congratulations on the new job."
She laughed. "Thank you very much."
We hung up. She sounded so enchanting that I decided to make it Tahiti instead of Capri. Then the phone rang again. It was the same voice.
"Janet, darling, this is Patsy. I just had the most awful thing happen. I called you and got the wrong number and I was jabbering away when suddenly the most romantic voice said—"
"Thank you, Patsy. You've got the wrong number again."
"Oh, goodness! You again?"
"Uh huh."
"This isn't Prescott 9-3232?"
"Not even faintly. This is Plaza 6-5000."
"I don't see how I could have dialed that. I must be extra stupid today."
"Maybe just extra excited."
"Please excuse me."
"Not at all," I said. "I think you've got a romantic voice too, Patsy."
We hung up and I went out for lunch, memorizing Prescott 9-3232 . . . .
I'd dial and ask for Janet and tell her-What? I didn't know. I knew I'd never do it; but there was that dreamy glow that lasted until I came back to the office to face the afternoon's problems. Then I shook it off and returned to reality.
But I was cheating, because when I went home that night, I didn't tell my wife about it. She used to work for me before we got married and still takes a lively interest in everything that goes on in my office. We spend a pleasant hour or so every evening discussing and dissecting the day I've had. We did it this night, but I withheld Patsy's call. I felt guilty.
I was so guilty that I went down to the office extra early next morning, trying to placate my conscience with extra work. Neither of my girls was in yet, so the incoming line was open direct to my desk. Around eight-thirty my phone rang and I picked it up.
"Plaza 6-5000," I said.
There was dead air on the other end, which infuriated me. I hate the kind of switchboard girl who rings you and then lets you hang while she's placing other calls.
"Listen, monster!" I said. "I hope you can hear me. For pity's sake, don't call unless you're ready to put me through to whoever's calling. What am I? A lackey? Go to hell!"
Just as I was about to bang the phone down, a small voice said, "Excuse me."
"What? Patsy? Is that you again?"
"Yes," she said.
My heart flipped because I knew—I knew this couldn't be an accident. She'd memorized my number. She wanted to speak to me again.
"Good morning, Patsy," I said.
"My, you have a dreadful temper."
"I'm afraid I was rude to you."
"No. It's my fault. I shouldn't be bothering you like this. But when I call Jan, I keep getting your number. Our wires must be crossed somewhere."
"Oh. I'm disappointed. I'd hoped you were calling me to listen to my romantic voice."
She laughed. "It isn't that romantic."
"That's because I was rude. I'm willing to make it up to you. I'll buy you lunch today."
"No, thank you."
"When do you start the new job?"
"This morning. Good-bye."
"Lots of luck. Call this afternoon and tell me about it."
I hung up and asked myself if I hadn't come to the office early more in hopes of receiving this call than out of the desire to do extra work. I couldn't defend myself from my conscience. When you're standing on untenable ground, everything you do is suspect and defenseless. I was angry with myself and gave my girls a tough morning.
When I returned from lunch, I asked my secretary if there'd been any calls while I was out.
"Just the district phone supervisor," she said. "They're having some trouble with the lines."
I thought, "Then it was an accident this morning. Patsy didn't want to speak to me again."
At four o'clock I let both my girls go for the day to make up to them for my being obnoxious in the morning—at least that's what I kept telling myself. I loafed around the office from four to five-thirty, waiting for Patsy to call, building fantasies until I was ashamed of m
yself.
I had a drink from the last bottle left over from the Christmas office party, locked up and started for home. Just as I pressed the button for the elevator, I heard the phone ringing in my office. I tore back to the door, unlocked it (I still had the key in my hand) and got to the phone—feeling like a damned fool. I tried to cover with a joke.
"Prescott 9-3232," I said, half out of breath.
"Sorry," my wife said. "I've got the wrong number."
I had to let her hang up. I couldn't explain. I waited for her to call again, trying to figure what kind of voice to use so she'd know it was me and still not be able to match it with what she'd heard before. I decided to use the off-phone technique, so when it rang again I picked it up, held it a few feet away from my mouth and called crisp instructions to the empty office. Then I put my mouth close and spoke.
"Hello?"
"My, you sound distinguished. Like a general."
"Patsy?" My heart went bump.
"I'm afraid so."
"Are you calling me or Jan?"
"Janet, of course. These lines are a nuisance, aren't they? We've reported them to the company."
"I know. How'd the new job go today?"
"All right. . . I guess. There's an office manager who barks just like you. He scares me."
"I'll give you some advice, Patsy. Don't be scared. When a man yells like that, it's usually to cover his own guilty conscience."
"I don't understand."
"Well. . . maybe he's holding down a job that's too big for him and he knows it. So he tries to cover up by playing big shot."
"Oh, I don't think that could be it."
"Or maybe he's attracted to you and he's afraid that's going to interfere with efficiency. So he yells at you to keep himself from being too attentive."
"It couldn't be that either."
"Why? Aren't you attractive?"
"I'm not the one to ask."
"You have a wonderful voice."
"Thank you, sir."
"Patsy," I said. "I've much wise and seasoned advice to give you. It's obvious we've been fated by Alexander Graham Bell to meet, so who are we to buck fate? Let's have lunch together tomorrow."