Plexus (37 page)

Mona and her lover were too busy playing euchre to even glance at us. They seemed hilarious. The strange creature with the long hair was double-jointed; she had a fine mustache, firm breasts, and wore velvet trousers with gold braid down the sides. Exotic to the fingertips. Every now and then they jabbed each other with the needle.

“A fine pair,” I remarked. “They belong in the Hay-market.”

“Leave it to Cromwell,” said George Marshall, “he's got it all arranged.”

He had no more than uttered the name when there was a rap at the door.

“That's him,” said George Marshall. “Always on the dot.”

The door opened quietly, as if responding to a hidden spring. A man entered with a huge gory bandage wrapped around his skull. It was not Cromwell at all, it was Crazy Sheldon. I gave a shriek and fainted away.

When I came to, Sheldon was seated at the table dealing out the cards. He had removed the bandage. From the tiny black hole in the back of his skull the blood trickled steadily, running over his white collar and down his back.

Again I felt that I would faint. But George Marshall, sensing my discomfiture, quickly produced a little glass stopper from his vest pocket, inserted it in the bullet wound, and the blood stopped running. Sheldon now began to whistle gaily. It was a Polish lullaby. Now and then he broke the melody by spitting on the floor, whereupon he would hum a few bars, so softly, so tenderly, as though he were a mother with an infant at the breast. After he had hummed and whistled, after he had spat in every direction, he took to chanting in Hebrew, moving his head back and forth, wailing, doing the tremolo in a high falsetto, sobbing, moaning, praying. He sang in a powerful bass voice with a volume that was staggering. This went on for quite a time. He was like a man possessed. Suddenly he moved into another register, which gave his voice a peculiar metallic timbre, as though his lungs were made of sheet metal. He was singing in Yiddish now, a drunken tune filled with bloody oaths and filthy imprecations.
“Die Hutzulies, farbrent soln sei wern.… Die Merder, geharget soln sei wern.… Die Gozlonem, unzinden soln sei sich
….” His voice rose to a piercing screech.
“Fonieganef, a miese meshine of sei!”
With this, still screaming,
the foam dribbling from his mouth, he rose to his feet and began whirling like a dervish.
“Cossaken! Cossaken!”
he repeated over and over, stamping his foot and emitting a stream of blood from his pursed lips. He slowed down a little, put his hand to his back trousers pocket and brought out the miniature knife with the pearl handle. Now he whirled faster and faster, and as he shrieked
“Cossaken! Hutzulies! Gozlonem! Merder! Fonie-Ganef!”
he stabbed himself over and over, in the arms, in the legs, in the stomach, eyes, nose, ears, mouth, until he was nothing but a mass of wounds. Suddenly he stopped, grabbed the two women by the throat and knocked their heads together—again and again, as if they were two coconuts. Then he unbuttoned his shirt, raised the police whistle to his lips, and gave a blast which made the walls shiver. With this the ten members of the Xerxes Society rushed to the door; as they stepped across the threshold Sheldon, who had drawn his automatic, shot them down one by one, yelling,
“A miese meshine of sei.… Hutzulies, Gozlonem, Merder, Cossaken!”

Only George Marshall and I were alive and breathing. We were too paralyzed to move. We stood with backs to the wall, waiting our turn. Walking over the bodies of the dead as if they were so much fallen timber, Sheldon slowly approached us with leveled gun, unbuttoning his fly with the left hand. “Shitty dogs!” he said in Polish, “this is your last chance to pray. Pray while I piss on you, and may my bloody piss scald your rotten hearts! Call on your Pope now, and your Virgin Mary! Call on that faker, Jesus Christ! The assassins will be gescheissen. How you stink, shitty Goyim! Fart your last fart!” And he poured over us his steaming red piss which ate into our skins like acid. Hardly had he finished when he fired point blank at George Marshall; the body fell to the floor like a sack of manure.

I put up my hand to yell Stop! but Sheldon was already
firing. As I sank to the ground I began to whinny like a horse. I saw him raise his foot and then I got it in the face. I rolled over on my side. I knew it was the end.

It was days before I could shake off the aftereffects of the dream. In some mysterious way it had affected Mona too, though I had told her nothing of it. We were unaccountably listless and dispirited. Having dreamed so violently about him, I looked forward to seeing Sheldon pop up, but neither hide nor hair of him did we lay eyes on. Instead we received a post card from O'Mara informing us that he was in the vicinity of Asheville where there was a boom on. Said he would notify us to join him as soon as things were properly under way.

Out of sheer boredom Mona took another job in the Village, this time at a shady joint called The Blue Parrot. From Tony Maurer, a new admirer, she learned that the Milwaukee millionaire was due in town any day.

“And who is Tony Maurer?” I asked.

“A cartoonist,” she replied. “He was once a German cavalry officer. He's a real wit.”

“Never mind the rest,” I said. I was still in the doldrums. To summon even a flickering interest in one of her new admirers was beyond me. I was low, and I would stay that way until I hit bottom. Even Elie Faure was too much for me. I couldn't bring myself to concentrate on anything more important than a bowel movement.

As for looking up my friends, out of the question. When depressed I rarely ever visited anyone, even a close friend.

The few attempts I had made to do a little gold digging
on my own had contributed to lower my morale. Luther Goering, the last man I had hit up—for a mere five spot—had taken the wind out of my sails. It wasn't my intention to lay siege to him, seeing how he was almost one of the family, but running into him in the subway, as I did, I thought I might as well profit by the occasion. The mistake I made was to interrupt him in the middle of one of his interminable harangues. He had been telling me of the huge success he was enjoying (as an insurance salesman) through the application of Christ's teachings. Having always looked upon me as an atheist, he was now delighted to be able to overwhelm me with proofs of the practical aspect of Christian ethics. Bored absolutely stiff, I listened for a while in cold silence, sorely tempted at moments to laugh in his face. Nearing our station I interrupted the monologue to ask if he would lend me five dollars. The request must have struck him as outrageously irrelevant for he flew into a tantrum. This time I could no longer control myself—I laughed in his face. For a moment I thought he would slap me in the face; he was livid with rage, his lips trembling, his fingers twitching uncontrollably. What
was
the matter with me, he demanded to know. Had I supposed that because he had at last succeeded in earning a good living I was at liberty to regard him as a charitable institution? True, the Bible did say: “Ask and it shall be given, knock and it shall be opened unto you,” but one was not to infer from these words that one was to give up work and become a panhandler. “God looks after me,” he said, “because I look after myself. I put in fifteen and sixteen hours a day. I don't pray to God to put money in my pockets,
I beg him to bless my work!”
At this point he softened somewhat. “You don't seem to understand,” he said. “Let me try to explain it to you. It's really very simple.…”

I told him I didn't give a hoot for his explanations, that all I cared to know was—would he lend me the five dollars or not?

“Of course I won't, Henry, if you put it that way. You have to learn first to put yourself in God's good graces.”

“Fuck that!” I said.

“Henry, you're steeped in sin and ignorance!” In an effort to placate me he grasped my arm. I brushed it away. We walked down the street in silence. After a time, speaking as softly as he could, he said: “I know it's hard to repent. I've been a sinner myself. But I wrestled with might and main. And finally, Henry, God showed me the way. God taught me how to pray. And I prayed, Henry, night and day. I prayed even when talking to a client. And God has answered my prayers. Yes, out of the bounteous goodness of His heart He forgave, He brought me back to the fold. Look, Henry… last year I earned a scant $1500. This year—and the year is not over—I've earned well over ten thousand dollars. That's the proof, Henry. Even an atheist can't contest such logic!”

In spite of myself I was amused. I'll listen, thought I to myself. I'll let him try to convert me. Maybe then I can make it ten bucks instead of five.

“You're not starved, are you, Henry?” he suddenly inquired. “Because if you are we'll stop off somewhere and have a bite to eat. Perhaps this is God's way of bringing us together.”

I told him that I wasn't at the point of dropping in the street. The way I said it, however, implied that it was a possibility.

“That's good,” said Luther, with his customary insensitiveness. “What you need more than earthly food is spiritual sustenance. If one has that, one can do without ordinary food. Remember this—God always provides sufficient for the day, even to sinners. He watches over the sparrows.… You haven't altogether forgotten the good teachings, have you?—I know your parents sent you to Sunday school… and they also provided you with a good education. God was looking after you all the time, Henry.…”

“Jesus,” I asked myself, “how long will this continue?”

“Perhaps you remember the Epistles of St. Paul?” he continued. Since I gave him a blank look he dove into his breast pocket and exhumed a worn-looking New Testament. He stopped dead and began thumbing the pages.

“Don't bother,” I said, “give it to me from memory. I've got to get home soon.”

“That's all right,” he said, “we're on God's time now. Nothing can be more important that the precious words of the Bible. God is our Comforter, remember that, Henry.”

“But what if God doesn't answer one's prayers?” I said, more to discourage him from looking up the Epistles of St. Paul than to know the answer.

“God always answers him who seeks Him,” said Luther. “Perhaps not the first time or the second time, but eventually. Sometimes God sees fit to try us first. He wants to be sure of our love, our loyalty, our faith. It would be too simple if we could just ask for something and have it fall into our laps, wouldn't it now?”

“I don't know,” I said, “why not? God can do anything, can't He?”

“Always within reason, Henry. Always according to our merits. It's not God who punishes us, but we ourselves. God's heart is always open to him who seeks Him out. But it must be a real need. One must be desperate before God gives of His kindness.”

“Well, I'm pretty desperate right now,” I said. “Honest, Luther, I need that money bad. We're going to be evicted in a day or two if something doesn't happen.”

Luther was strangely unmoved by this last piece of information. He was so well attuned to God's ways, it seemed, that a little matter like eviction meant nothing to him. Perhaps God wanted it that way. Perhaps it was a preparation for something better. “What does it matter, Henry,” he said fervidly, “what does it matter where you are living if only you can find God? You can find
Him in the street just as easily as at home. God will shelter you with His blessed wings. He watches over the homeless just as much as He does over others. His eye is on us always. No, Henry, if I were you, I would go home and pray, pray that He show you the way. Sometimes a change does us good. Sometimes we get too comfortable and we forget whence all our blessings flow. Pray to Him tonight, on your knees, and with a full heart. Ask Him to give you work for your hands. Ask to serve Him, remember that. Serve the Lord, it is said, and keep His commandments. That is what I am constantly doing—now that I have found the light. And God rewards me abundantly, as I explained to you before.…”

“But look, Luther, if God is really taking care of you so handsomely, as you say, couldn't you share just a little of your blessed reward with me? After all, five dollars isn't a fortune.”

“I
could
do that, Henry, most certainly—
if I thought it were the right thing to do
. But you're in God's hands now:
He will
look after you.”

“In what way would it interfere with God's plans if you were to lend me that five bucks?” I insisted. I was getting fed up.

“The ways of the Lord are beyond our knowing,” said Luther solemnly. “Perhaps He will have a job for you to go to in the morning.”

“But I don't want a job, damn it! I have my own work to do. What I need is five bucks, that's all.”

“That will probably be provided, too,” said Luther. “Only you must have faith. Without faith, even the little you have will be taken from you.”

“But I haven't anything,” I protested. “Not a goddamned thing, don't you understand? God can't take anything away from me because I have nothing. Figure that out!”

“He can take away your health, He can take your wife
from you, he can take from you the power to move your limbs, do you realize that?”

“He'd be one big louse to do that!”

“God afflicted Job sorely, surely you haven't forgotten that? He also raised Lazarus from the dead. God giveth and God taketh away.”

“Sounds like a swindle game.”

“Because you are still beclouded with ignorance and folly,” said Luther. “For each one of us God has a special lesson to teach. You will have to learn humility.”

“If I only got a bit of a break,” I said, “I might be ready to learn my lesson. How can a man learn humility when his back is already broken?”

Luther disregarded this last completely. In restoring the New Testament to his breast pocket he came upon some forms from the insurance company which he flourished in my face.