Coming out of the hole my mother is sure to exclaim: “You shouldn’t smoke so much!” The smoke has to be explained, you see. Her line is: “Henry was just here.” Hearing her give this feeble explanation to a caller I sometimes stuff my mouth with a coat sleeve for fear of breaking loose with a chortle.
Now and then she hands me this: “Can’t you make your stories shorter?” Her thought—poor soul!—is that the sooner I finish them the quicker I will be paid. She doesn’t want to hear about rejection slips. Acts almost as though she didn’t believe in them.
“What are you writing about now?” she asks one morning.
“Numismatics,” I tell her.
“What’s that?”
I explain in a few words.
“Do you think people really want to read such things?”
I wonder to myself what she would say if I were to tell her the truth, tell her about “The Failure.”
The old man is more amenable. I sense that he doesn’t expect anything to come of all this nonsense, but he’s curious and at least pretends to be interested in what I’m doing. He doesn’t quite know what to make of the fact that he has a son twice-married, and the father of a child, who sits in the dining room day after day tapping away on a typewriter. At bottom he has confidence in me. He knows I’ll get somewhere some day somehow. He’s not uneasy in his soul.
Around the corner, where I trot each morning to get the paper and a pack of cigarettes, is a little store run by a newcomer—a Mr. Cohen. He’s the only person, this Mister Cohen, who seems at all interested in my doings. He thinks it remarkable that he has a writer, even if only an embryonic one, for a customer. All the other tradespeople, be it said, know me of old; not one of them suspects that I’ve grown a new soul. To them I am still the little boy with the corn-colored hair and the innocent smile.
Mister Cohen, however, is of another world, another epoch. He doesn’t “belong” any more than I. In fact, being a Yid, he’s still suspect. Especially to the old-timers. One bright and lovely morning the dear Mister Cohen confesses to me that he too once had ambitions to be a writer. With genuine feeling he informs me how much our little conversations mean to him. It is a privilege, he says, to know someone who is “on the bias.” (Of the same stripe, I suppose he meant.) Lowering his voice, he confides with huge disgust his low opinion of the neighboring shopkeepers. Ah, dear Mister Cohen, darling Mister Cohen, come forth, come forth, wherever you are, and let me kiss your waxen brow! What was it, now, we had in common? A few dead authors, fear and hatred of the police, scorn for the Gentiles and a passion for the aroma of a good cigar. You were no virtuoso, and neither was I. But your words came to me as if they were played on the celesta. Step forth, pale sprite, step forth from the divine telesme and let me embrace you once again!
My mother, of course, is not only surprised but shocked to discover that I have become friends with “that little Jew.” What on earth do we talk about? Books? Does he read? Yes, mother dear, he reads in five languages. Her head swings back and forth unbelievingly, and again back and forth disapprovingly. Anyway, Hebrew and Yiddish, which are one and the same to her, don’t count: only Jews understand such gibberish. (Ech! Ech!) Nothing of importance, says she, could possibly be written in such outlandish tongues. And the Bible, mother dear? She shrugs her shoulders. She meant books, not the Bible. (Sic.)
What a world! Not one of my old pals left. I used to wonder if I wouldn’t run into Tony Marella some day. His father still sat by the window mending shoes. Every time I passed the shop I greeted him. But I never had the courage to inquire about Tony. One day, however, reading the local newspaper—The Chat—I discovered that my old friend was running for alderman in another district, where he now lived. Maybe he would become President of the United States one day! That would be something, what!—a President out of our obscure little neighborhood. Already we could boast of a colonel and a rear admiral. The Grogan brothers, no less. They had lived only a few doors away from us. “Grand boys!” as the neighbors all said. (A little later and, by God! one of them actually becomes a general; as for the other, the rear admiral, blast me if he isn’t sent to Moscow on a special mission—and by none other than the President of our Holy Roller Empire. Not so bad for our little insignificant Van Voorhees Street!)
And now, thinks I to myself (de la part des voisins), we have little Henry with us. Who knows? Maybe he’ll become another O. Henry. If Tony Marella is slated to be President one day, surely Henry, our little Henry, can become a famous writer. Dixit.
Just the same—a slightly different key now—it was too bad we hadn’t produced at least one good prize fighter. The Laski brothers had faded out. Lacked the stuff that champs are made of. No, it wasn’t the neighborhood to breed John L. Sullivans or James J. Corbetts. The old 14th Ward, to be sure, had turned out a dozen good pugilists, not to speak of politicians, bankers, and good old “con” men. I had the feeling that, were I back in the old neighborhood, I would be writing more vividly. If only I could say hello to chaps like Lester Reardon, Eddie Carney, Johnny Paul, I’d feel like a new man.
“Shit,” I said to myself, rapping my bare knuckles against the iron spike of a fence, “I’m not done for yet. Not by a long shot.…”
And so one morning I woke up full of piss and vinegar. Decided to bust out into the world and make my presence felt. No set plan or project in mind. Tucking a sheaf of manuscripts under my arm, I made a dash for the street.
Playing a hunch, I make my way into the inner sanctum of an editorial office where I find myself face to face with one of the editors of a five-cent magazine. My thought is to ask for an editorial position.
The curious thing is that the man is one of the Miller tribe. Gerald Miller, no less. A good omen!
I don’t have to exercise my charms because he’s already predisposed in my favor. “No doubt about it,” says he, “you’re a born writer.” In front of him is a slew of manuscripts; he’s glanced here and there, enough to convince himself that I have the goods.
“So you would like a job on the magazine? Well, it’s just possible I can make room for you. One of the editors is leaving in a week or so; I’ll speak to the boss and see what can be done. I’m certain you could fill the bill, even if you’ve had no training for it.” Follows this up with a few discerning compliments.
Then, apropos of nothing, he suddenly says: “Why don’t you write something for us meanwhile? We pay well, you know. I imagine you could use a check for $250, couldn’t you?”
Without waiting for a reply, he continues: “Why don’t you write about words? I don’t have to read very far to see that you’re in love with words.…”
I wasn’t sure I understood what exactly he wished me to say on this subject, especially to a five-cent audience.
“I don’t quite know myself,” he said. “Use your imagination. Don’t make it too long, either. Say five thousand words. And remember, our readers are not all college professors!”
We sat there a while, chinning, and then he escorted me to the elevator. “See me in about a week,” he said. Then, diving into his pocket, he fished out a bill and stuffed it in my fist. “You might need that to hold you over.” He smiled. It was a twenty-dollar bill, as I discovered when I hit the street. I felt like running back and thanking him again, but then I thought no, perhaps they’re used to treating their writers that way.
“The snow was falling all over Ireland.…” The words were running like a refrain through my head as I skipped lightly over the cobblestones homeward bound. Then came another line—why, I had no idea: “In my Father’s house are many mansions.…” They blended perfectly, the snow falling gently, softly, steadily (all over Ireland), and the jeweled mansions of bliss, of which the Father kept an infinite number. It was St. Patrick’s day for me, and no snakes in sight. For some weird reason I felt Irish to the core. A bit of Joyce, a bit of the Blarney Stone, a few shenanigans—and Erin Go Bragh; (Every time the teacher’s back was turned one of us would steal to the b
lackboard and scrawl out in flaming chalk: Erin Go Bragh!) It’s Brooklyn I’m walking through and the snow is softly falling. I must ask Ulric to recite the passage for me again. He’s got just the voice for it, has he. It’s a beautiful melodious voice. And that he has, Ulric!
“The snow was softly falling all over Ireland.…”
Nimble as a goat, thin as air, wistful as a faun, I wend my way over the lovely bubbly cobblestones.
If only I knew what to write! Two hundred and fifty dollars was not to be sneezed at. And an editorial position to boot! My, but I had risen suddenly! Mister Cohen must hear of this. (Sholem Aleichem!) Five thousand words. A cinch. Once I knew what to say I could write it at one sitting. Words, words.…
Believe it or not, I can’t put a damned word to paper. My favorite subject and here I am, tongue-tied. Curious. Worse than that—depressing.
Maybe I ought to do a little research work first. After all, what do I know about the English language? Almost nothing. To use it is one thing; to write about it intelligently quite another.
I have it! Why not go straight to the source? Why not call on the editor in chief of the famous unabridged dictionary? Which one? Funk & Wagnall’s. (The only one I ever used.)
Next morning bright and early I’m sitting in the anteroom, waiting for Dr. Vizetelly himself to appear. (It’s like asking Jesus Christ to help you, think I to myself.) However, the cards are on the table. All I pray for is not to make a damned fool of myself, as I did years ago when I called on a famous writer and asked him straight out: “How does one begin to write?” (The answer is: “By writing.” That’s exactly what he said, and that was the end of the interview.)
Dr. Vizetelly is standing before me. A live, genial man, full of sparkle and verve. Puts me at ease immediately. Urges me to unburden myself. Draws up a comfortable chair for himself, listens attentively, then begins.…
For a full hour or more this kind, gracious soul, to whom I shall always feel indebted, delivers himself of all that he thinks may serve me. He speaks so rapidly and fully that I haven’t the chance to make a single note. My head is spinning. How will I remember even a fraction of all this exciting information? It’s as though I had put my head under a fountain.
Dr. Vizetelly, conscious of my dilemma, comes to the rescue. He orders a page to bring me folders and pamphlets. Urges me to look them over at my leisure. “I’m certain you’ll write an excellent article,” he says, beaming at me like a godfather. Then he asks if I will be good enough to show him what I’ve written before submitting it to the magazine.
Without warning he now puts me a few direct questions about myself: how long have I been writing? what else have I done? what books do I read? what languages do I know? One after another—tic, tac, toe. I feel like less than nobody, or as they say in Hebrew—efesefasim. What indeed have I done. What indeed do I know? Smoked out at last, what is there to do but humbly confess my sins and omissions. I do so, exactly as I would to a priest, were I a Catholic and not the miserable spawn of Calvin and Luther.
What a virile, magnetic individual, this man! Who would ever dream, meeting him in the street, that he was the editor of a dictionary? The first erudite to inspire me with confidence and admiration. This is a man. I say it over and over to myself. A man with a pair of balls as well as a think-tank. Not a mere fount of wisdom but a living, rushing, roaring cataract. Every particle of his being vibrates with an electric ardor. He not only knows every word in the English language (including those in “cold storage,” as he put it) but he knows wines, horses, women, food, birds, trees; he knows how to wear clothes, knows how to breathe, knows how to relax. And he also knows enough to take a drink once in a while, Knowing all, he loves all. Now we touch him! A man rushing forward—on all fours, I almost said—to greet life. A man with a song on his lips. Thank you, Dr. Vizetelly! Thank you for being alive!
In parting he said to me—how can I ever forget his words?—“Son, you have all the makings of a writer, I’m sure of it. Go along now and do what you can. Call on me if you need me.” He placed one hand on my shoulder affectionately and with the other gave me a warm handclasp. It was the benediction. Amen!
No longer falls the soft white snow. It is raining, raining deep inside me. Down my face the tears stream—tears of joy and gratitude. I have beheld at last the face of my true father. I know now what it means—the Paraclete. Goodbye, Father Vizetelly, for I shall never see you again. May thy name be hallowed forever more!
The rain ceases. Just a thin drizzle now—down there under the heart—as if a cesspool were being strained through fine gauze. The whole thoracic region is saturated with the finest particles of this substance called H2O which, when it falls on the tongue, tastes salty. Microscopic tears, more precious than fat pearls. Sifting slowly into the great cavity ruled over by the tear ducts. Dry eyes, dry palms. The face absolutely relaxed, open as the great plains, and ripening with joy.
(“Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?”)
It’s wonderful to speak one’s own idiom, to have it rebound in your face, become again the universal language. Of the 450,000 words locked up in the unabridged dictionary, Dr. Vizetelly had assured me I must know at least 50,000. Even the shit pumper has a vocabulary of at least 5,000 words. To prove it, all one had to do was to go home, sit down, and look around. Door, knob, chair, handle, wood, iron, curtain, window, sill, button, legs, bowl.… In any room there were hundreds of things with names, not to mention the adjectives, the adverbs, the prepositions, the verbs and participles that accompanied them. And Shakespeare had a vocabulary hardly bigger than a moron’s of today!
So what does it add up to? What will we do with more words?
(“And haven’t you your own language to keep in touch with?”)
Aye, the own language! Langue d’oc. Or—huic, huic, huic. In Hebrew one says “How are you?” in at least ten different ways, according to whether one is addressing a man, a woman, men, women, or men and women, and so on. To a cow or a goat nobody in his right senses says “How are you?”
Wending homeward, toward the street of early sorrows. Brooklyn, city of the dead. Return of the native.…
(“And haven’t you your own land to visit?”)
Aye, dismal Brooklyn I have, and the neighboring terrain—the swamps, the dumps, the stinking canals, the ever vacant lots, the cemeteries.… Native heath.
And I am neither fish nor fowl.…
The drizzle ceases. The innards are lined with wet lard. The cold drifts down from the north. Ah, but it’s snowing again!
And now it comes to me, fresh from the grave, that passage which Ulric could recite like a born Dubliner.… “It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”
In this snowy realm, with language chanting its own sweet litany, I sped homeward, ever homeward. Between the covers of the giant lexicon, amid ablatives and gerundives, I curled up and fell fast asleep. Between Adam and Eve I lay, surrounded by a thousand reindeer. My warm breath, cooled by living waters, enveloped me in a refulgent mist. In la belle langue d’oc, I was out to the world. The caul was about my neck, strangling me, but ever so gently. And the name of the caul was Nemesh.…
It took me a solid month or more to write the article for my namesake, Gerald Miller. When I finished I found that I had written fifte
en thousand words instead of five. I squeezed out half and brought it to the editorial offices. A week later I had my check. The article, by the way, was never published. “Too good,” was the verdict. Nor did the editorial job ever materialize. I never found out why. Probably because I was “too good.”
However, with the 250 we were able to resume life together once more. We picked ourselves a furnished room on Hancock Street, Brooklyn, city of the dead, the near dead, and the deader than the dead. A quiet, respectable street: row after row of the same nondescript frame houses, all adorned with high stoops, awnings, grass plots and iron railings. The rent was modest; we were permitted to cook over gas burners tucked away in an alcove next to an old-fashioned sink. Mrs. Henniker, the landlady, occupied the ground floor; the rest of the house was let out to roomers.
Mrs. Henniker was a widow whose husband had grown rich in the saloon business. She had a mixture of Dutch, Swiss, German, Norwegian and Danish blood. Full of vitality, idle curiosity, suspicion, greed and malice. Could pass for a whorehouse keeper. Always telling risqué stories and giggling over them like a schoolgirl. Very strict with her roomers. No monkey business! No noise! No beer parties! No visitors! Pay on the dot or you go!
It took this old geezer some time to get used to the idea that I was a writer. What stupefied her was the way the keys clicked. She had never believed anyone could write at such speed. But above all she was worried, worried for fear that, being a writer, I would forget to pay the rent after a few weeks. To allay her fears we decided to give her a few weeks’ rent in advance. Incredible how a little move like that can solidify one’s position!