Plexus (17 page)

The best part of the dream was the return to Bedford Rest. There they were again, the boys all in different accouterment, the wheels bright and gleaming, the saddles just right, all with noses upturned, as if sniffing the breeze. It was good to be with them again, feel their muscles, examine their equipment. The leaves had grown thicker, the air was cooler now. Pop was rounding them up, promising them a good workout this time.…

When I got home that night—it was always the same night no matter how much time had elapsed—my mother was waiting up for me. “You've been a good boy today,” she said, “I'm going to let you take your bicycle to bed with you.”

“Really?” I exclaimed, hardly able to believe my ears.

“Yes, Henry,” she said, “Joe Folger was here a few
minutes ago. He told me you would be the next world's champion.”

“He said that, mamma? No, really?”

“Yes, Henry, every word of it. He said I should fatten you up a little first. You're underweight.”

“Mamma,” I said, “I'm the happiest man alive. I want to give you a big kiss.”

“Don't be silly,” she said, “you know I don't like that.”

“I don't care, mamma, I'm going to kiss you just the same.” And with that I gave her a hug and squeeze that nearly split her in two.

“You're sure you meant it, mamma—about taking the bike to bed with me?”

“Yes, Henry. But don't get any grease on the sheets!”

“Don't worry, mamma,” I yelled. I was beside myself with joy. “I'll spread some old newspapers in between.
How's that?”

I woke up feeling around for the bicycle. “What are you trying to do?” cried Mona. “You've been clawing me for the last half-hour.”

“I was looking for my wheel.”

“Your wheel? What wheel? You must be dreaming.”

I smiled. “I
was
dreaming, a delicious dream too. All about my bike.”

She began to titter.

“I know, it sounds foolish, but it was a grand dream. I had a wonderful time.”

“Hey Ted,” I yelled, “are you there?”

No answer. I called again.

“He must have left,” I mumbled. “What time is it?”

It was high noon.

“I wanted to tell him something. Too bad he's left already.” I turned over on my back and stared up at the ceiling. Wisps of dream floated through my brain. I felt mildly seraphic. And somewhat hungry.

“You know what,” I mumbled, still dream-logged, “I
think I ought to go see that cousin of mine. Maybe he'll lend me the wheel for a space. What do you think?”

“I think you're just a little goofy.”

“Maybe, but I sure would love to ride that bike again. It used to belong to a six-day rider; he sold it to me at the track, you remember?”

“You've told me that several times.”

“What's the matter, aren't you interested? You never rode a wheel, I guess, did you?”

“No, but I've ridden horseback.”

“That's nothing. Unless you're a jockey. Well, shit, I guess it's silly to be thinking about that bike. Them days are done for.”

Suddenly I sat up and stared at her. “What's the matter with you this morning? What's got you?”

“Nothing, Val, nothing.” She gave me a feeble smile.

“There is too,” I insisted. “You're not yourself.”

She sprang out of bed. “Get dressed,” she said, “or it'll be dark before long. I'll fix breakfast.”

“Fine. Can we have bacon and eggs?”

“Anything you like. Only hurry!”

I couldn't see what there was to be hurrying about, but I did as she said. I felt marvelous—and hungry as a wolf. Betweentimes I wondered what was eating her. Maybe her period coming on.

Too bad O'Mara had skipped off so early. There was something I wanted to tell him, something that had leaped to mind as I was coming out of the dream. Well, no doubt it would keep.

I threw back the curtains and let the sun stream in. The place was more beautiful than ever this morning, it seemed to me. Across the street a limousine was standing at the curb, waiting to take milady on her shopping tour. Two big greyhounds were seated in the rear, quiet and dignified, as always. The florist was just delivering a huge bouquet. What a life! I preferred my own, however. If only I had that wheel again everything would be tops. Somehow the
dream clung to me tenaciously.
The champ!
What a quaint idea!

We had hardly finished breakfast when Mona announced that she had to go somewhere for the afternoon. She would be back in time for dinner, she assured me.

“That's all right,” I said, “take your time. I can't help it, but I feel too wonderful for words. It wouldn't matter what happened today, I'd still feel fine.”

“Stop it!” she begged.

“Sorry, girlie, but you'll feel better too once you step outdoors. Why, it's like Spring.”

In a few minutes she was gone. I felt so full of energy I couldn't decide what to do. Finally I decided not to do anything—just hop into the subway and get out at Times Square. I'd stroll about and let what happens happen.

By mistake I got out at Grand Central. Walking along Madison Avenue the notion seized me to look up my friend Ned. Ages it was since I last saw him. (He was back again in the advertising and promoting racket.) I'd drop in and say hello, then scram.

“Henry!”
he blurts out, “it's as if God himself sent you.
Am I in a mess!
There's a big campaign on and everybody's home ill. This damned thing (he flourished some copy) has got to be finished by tonight. It's life and death. Don't laugh! I'm serious. Wait, let me explain.…”

I sat down and listened. The long and short of it was that he was trying to write a piece of copy about the new magazine they were putting on the market. He had just the bone of an idea, nothing more.

“You can do it, I'm sure,” he implored. “Write anything, so long as it makes sense. I'm in a fix, I tell you. Old man McFarland—you know who I mean, don't you?—is behind this business. He's pacing up and down in there. Threatens to give us all the sack if something doesn't happen soon.”

The only thing to do was to say yes. I got what little dope he had to offer and sat down to the machine. Soon
I was pounding away. I must have written three or four pages when he tiptoed in to see how I was doing. He began reading the copy over my shoulder. Soon he was clapping his hands and shouting Bravo! Bravo!

“Is it that good?” I asked, looking up at him with twisted neck.

“Is it good?
It's superb! Listen, you're better than the guy who does this stuff. McFarland will go nuts when he sees this.…” He stopped abruptly, rubbing his hands and giving little grunts. “You know what? I've an Idea. I'm going to introduce you to McFarland as the new man I've hired. I'm going to tell him that I persuaded you to take the job.…”

“But I don't want a job!”

“You don't have to take it. Of course not. I want to quiet him, that's all. Besides, the main purpose is to have you talk to him. You know who he is and all he's done. Can't you give him a little salve? Flatter the pants off him! Then go into a little spiel—you know what I mean. Give him some pointers on how to launch the magazine, how to appeal to the reader, and all that shit. Lay it on thick! He's in the mood to swallow anything.”

“But I hardly know anything about the damned thing,” I remonstrated. “Listen, you'd better do it yourself. I'll stand behind you, if you like.”

“No you don't,” said Ned. “You're going to do the talking. Just talk a blue streak… anything that comes into your head. I'm telling you, Henry, when he sees what you've written he'll listen to anything you say. I haven't been in this racket for nothing. I know a good thing when I see it.”

There was only one thing to do. I said O.K. “But don't blame
me
if I ball things up,” I whispered, as we tiptoed towards the sanctum sanctorum.

“Mr. McFarland,” said Ned in his best manner, “this is an old friend of mine whom I wired the other day. He's been down in North Carolina working on a book. I begged
him to come up and give us a hand. Mr. Miller, Mr. McFarland.”

As we shook hands I unconsciously made obeisance to the great figure of the magazine world. For a moment or two no one spoke. McFarland was sizing me up. I must say I took to him immediately. Man of action, there was in McFarland a brooding poetic streak which dyed all his gestures. “He's no slouch, that's certain,” I thought to myself, wondering at the same time how it was that he could permit himself to be surrounded by nitwits and halfwits.

Ned quickly explained that I had arrived only a few minutes ago and in that brief space of time, with scarcely any knowledge of the project, had written the pages which he now proceeded to hand over.

“You're a writer, are you?” asked McFarland, glancing up at me and trying to read at the same time.

“You're the best judge of that,” I replied, employing the diplomatic style.

Silence for a good few minutes as McFarland carefully perused the copy. I was on pins and needles. To hoodwink a bird like McFarland wasn't simple. I forgot, incidentally, what I had written. Couldn't remember a single line.

Suddenly McFarland looked up, smiled warmly, and remarked that what I had written looked promising. I felt that a great deal more was implied. It was almost affection which he now inspired in me. The last thing in my mind was to deceive him. He was a man I would have enjoyed working for—if I were going to work for anyone. Out of the corner of my eyes I observed Ned giving me the high sign.

For a fleeting moment, whilst gathering myself for the fling, I wondered what Mona would say if she were witness to the show. (“And don't forget to tell O'Mara about the fathers!” I whispered to myself.)

McFarland was speaking. He had begun so quietly and smoothly that I was hardly aware of it. Right from the start I had again the conviction that he was no man's dupe.
People had said of him that he was finished, that his ideas were outdated. Seventy-five he was, and still going strong. A man of his stamp could never be licked. I listened to him attentively, nodding now and then, and beaming with admiration. He was a man after my own heart. Big ideas. A gambler and a daredevil.… I wondered if I shouldn't seriously consider working for him.

It was quite a long speech the old boy was making. Despite all the signaling from Ned, I couldn't determine where to bust in. McFarland had obviously welcomed our intrusion; seething with ideas, he had been pacing back and forth, champing at the bit. Our entrance upon the scene enabled him to let off steam. I was all for letting him go on. Now and then I nodded my head more vigorously or made some little exclamation of surprise or approval. Besides, the more he talked the better prepared I would be when it came my turn.

He was on his feet now, shifting restlessly about, pointing to the charts, the maps, and whatnot which ranged the walls. He was a man at home in the world, a man who had traversed the globe many times and could speak from firsthand knowledge of it. As I understood it, he was trying to impress me with the fact that he wanted to reach all the peoples of the world, the poor as well as the rich, the ignorant as well as the educated. The periodical was to come out in many languages, many formats. It was to produce a revolution in the magazine world.

Suddenly he stopped, out of weariness. He sat down at the big desk and poured himself a glass of water from the beautiful silver pitcher.

Instead of trying to show him how smart I was, I took the occasion after a respectful silence, to tell him how much I had always admired him and the ideas he had championed. I said it sincerely, and it was the right thing to say at the moment, I was sure of it. I could feel Ned growing more and more fidgety. All he could think of was
the big spiel I was to pull off. Finally he couldn't hold back any longer.

“Mr. Miller would like to tell you a few things he thought of in connection with…”

“Not at all,” said I, jumping to my feet. Ned looked bewildered. “I mean, Mr. McFarland, that it would be silly of me to advance my half-baked ideas. It seems to me you've covered the ground quite thoroughly.”

McFarland was visibly pleased. Suddenly recalling the reason for my presence, he picked up the copy lying before him and pretended to study it again.

“How long have you been writing?” he asked, giving me a long, penetrating look. “Have you done this kind of work before?”

I confessed that I hadn't.

“I thought so,” he said. “Maybe that's why I like this. You've got a fresh view of things. And an excellent command of language. What are you working on now, if I may ask?”

He had me in a corner. Since he was so frank and direct there was nothing to do but return the fire pointblank.

“The truth is,” I stammered, “I've only just begun to write. I try my hand at most everything, but nothing takes shape yet. I did write a book a few years ago, but I guess it was a pretty poor one.”

“It's better that way,” said McFarland. “I don't care for brilliant young writers. A man needs something under his belt before he can express himself. Before he really has anything to say, I mean.” He drummed on the desk top, ruminating. Then he resumed: “I'd like to see one of your yarns some time. Are they realistic or imaginative?”

“Imaginative, I hope.” I said it timidly.

“Good!” he said. “All the better. Maybe we can use something of yours soon.”

I didn't know quite what to say to this. Fortunately Ned came to my rescue.

“Mr. Miller is being modest, Mr. McFarland. I've read
almost everything he's written. He's got real talent. In fact, I might even say I think he has genius.”

“Genius
, hum! That's even more interesting,” said McFarland.