Plexus (72 page)

Through all eternity.

Almost the first thing we asked, disgraceful as it sounds, was whether they had any money to spare.

“Is that all that's eating yez?” Kronski was fairly beaming. “That's easy. How much would you like? Will fifty do?”

We hugged one another for joy.
“Money,”
he said—“why didn't you wire me?” And in the next breath—“Do you really like it here? Kinda scares me, to tell you the truth. This ain't no country for niggers—nor for Jews. Makes me creepy.…”

Over the meal he wanted to know what I had written, whether I had sold anything, and so on. He had suspected, so he said, that things weren't going well with us. That's why we hopped down sort of sudden like. I've got thirty-six hours to spend with you.” He said this with a smile which meant—you won't have to put up with me a minute longer.

Mona was all for going back with them, but for some perverse reason I insisted that we stick it out a little longer. We argued about this rather heatedly but got nowhere.

“The hell with that question,” said Kronski. “Now that we're here, what can you show us before we leave?”

Promptly I relpied: “Lake Junaleska.” I didn't know
why I said it, it just popped out of my mouth. But then suddenly I did know. It was because I wanted to see Waynesville again.

“Every time I get near this place—Waynesville—I feel as though I would like to settle down. I don't know what it is about the place, but it gets me.”

“You'll never settle down in the South,” said Kronski. “You're a born New Yorker. Listen, why don't you stop roaming through the hinterland and go abroad? The place for you is France, don't you know that?”

Mona agreed most enthusiastically.

“You're the only one who talks sense to him,” she said.

“If it were me,” said Kronski, “I'd pick Russia. But I don't have the wanderlust. I don't find New York so bad, would you believe that?” Then, in characteristic fashion, he added: “Once I set up practice I'll stake you two to a trip to Europe. I'm serious about it. I've had the thought many a time. You're getting stale here. You don't belong in this country, neither of you. It's too small, too petty … it's too goddamned prosaic, that's what. As for you,
Mister
Miller, quit writing those damned things for the magazines, do you hear me? You're not meant to write that stuff. You're cut out to write books.
Write a book
, why don't you? You can do it.…”

The next day we went to Waynesville and to Lake Junaleska. Neither place made the least impression on any of them.

“Funny,” said I, as we were riding back, “you can't picture a guy like me spending the rest of his days in a spot like that—like Waynesville, I mean. Why? Why does it seem so fantastic?”

“You don't belong, that's all.”

“I don't, eh?” Where
do
I belong, I asked myself. France? Maybe. Maybe not. Forty million Frenchmen was a lot to swallow in one dose. If anything, I preferred Spain. I took instinctively to Spaniards, as I did to Russians.

Somehow the conversation had got me to pondering the
economic question again. That was always a nightmare. In a weak moment I found myself wondering if we hadn't better return to New York after all.

The next day, however, I was of a different mind. We accompanied Kronski and his wife to the edge of the town where they quickly got a lift. We stood there a moment waving good-bye, then I turned to Mona and mumbled thickly: “He's a good egg, that Kronski.”

“The best friend you've got,” said she quick as a flash.

With the fifty from Kronski we paid something on our debts, and, trusting that Kronski would send us a little more when he got back to New York, we made another stab at it. By sheer force of will I succeeded in finishing another story. I tried to begin another, but it was hopeless: I hadn't an idea in my bean. So instead I wrote letters to all and sundry, including that kind editor who had once offered to give me a job as his assistant. I also looked up O'Mara, but found him in such a despondent mood that I didn't have the heart to mention money.

There was no doubt about it, the South was getting us down. The landlord and his wife did everything to make us comfortable; Mr. Rawlins, too, did his best to encourage us. Never a word from any of them about the money we still owed them. As for Matthews, his trips to West Virginia were becoming more frequent and more protracted. Besides, we simply couldn't bring ourselves to borrow from him.

The heat, as I have already said, had a great deal to do with our lowered morale. There is a heat which warms and vitalizes, and there's another kind which enervates one, saps one's strength, one's courage, even one's desire to live. Our blood was too thick, I suppose. The general apathy of the natives only added to our own apathy. It was like somnolescing in a vacuum. Never did one hear the word art: it was absent from the vocabulary of these people. I had the feeling that the Cherokees had produced more art than these poor devils ever would. One missed the
presence of the Indian whose land, after all, it was. One felt the overpowering presence of the Negro. A heavy, disturbing presence. The “tar heel,” as the native is called, is certainly no niggerlover. He's not much of anything, in fact. As I say, it was a vacuum, a hot, smoldering vacuum, if one can imagine such a thing.

It made me itchy at times to walk up and down the desolate streets. Walking the road was no fun either. On every side a gorgeous setting presented itself to the eye, yet inwardly one felt nothing but despair and desolation. The beauty of the surroundings only served to ravage one. God had certainly meant for man to lead a different life here. The Indian had been much closer to God. As for the Negro, he would have thrived here had the white man given him a chance. I used to wonder, and I wonder still, whether eventually the Indian and the Negro will not get together, drive the white man out, and re-establish Paradise in this land of milk and honey. Ah well—

The very next blessing that Mary had

Hit was the blessing of two

To think her little Jesus

Could read the Bible through

Read the Bible through.

A few contributions dribbled in—pin money, no more! as a result of the letters I had sent out “to all and sundry.” Not a word from Kronski, though.

We held out a few more weeks, then totally discouraged, we decided one night to get up at the crack of dawn and sneak away. We had only two little grips to lug. After a sleepless night we rose with the first streak of light and, carrying our shoes in one hand and a grip in the other, we eased out as noiseless as mice. We walked several miles before a car came along. It was noon by the time we reached Winston-Salem, where I decided to send my father a collect message asking for a few dollars. I suggested
he wire the money to Durham, where we planned to spend the night.

Towards evening we entered Durham. A telegram was waiting for me, sure enough. It read: “Sorry son but I haven't a cent in the bank.” I felt like weeping, not over our own plight but because of the humiliation it must have caused the old man to send a message like that.

Thanks to a stranger, we had had a sandwich and coffee around noon. We were now famished, more famished than ordinarily, of course, because of the impossible distance still to go on an empty stomach. There was nothing to do but take to the road again, which we did—like automatons.

As we were standing on the highway, too tired and defeated to trudge another step, as we stood there blankly watching the sun go down like a burst tomato, all of a sudden a rather snazzy car pulled up and a cheery voice called out—“Want a lift?” It was a couple headed for some little town about two hours distant. The man was from Alabama, and spoke with the accent of a man of the deep South, the woman was from Arkansas. They were cheerful, lively individuals who seemed not to have a care in the world.

On the way we had car trouble, one little thing after another. Instead of making it in two hours it took almost five. By the time we reached our destination, thanks to the delays, we had become firm friends. We had told them the truth about ourselves, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and it had gone straight to their hearts. I shall never, never forget the way that good woman immediately we entered the house, rushed to the bathroom, filled the tub with hot water, had out the soap and towels, and begged us to relax while she scared up a meal. When we reappeared, clothed in their bathrobes, the table was set; we sat down at once to an excellent meal of hash and fried eggs with hot muffins, coffee, preserves, fruit and pie. It was about three in the morning when we turned in. At their request we slept in their bed, never realizing until
we awoke that our kind hosts had improvised a bed for themselves by removing the seats from the car.

When we got up, around noon, we had a hearty breakfast, after which the man showed me around his huge backyard where the remains of cars were strewn about. Wrecks were his livelihood. He was certainly a happy-go-lucky sort of fellow, and his wife even more so. Our unexpected visit seemed to make them slap-happy. Why we didn't stay with them a few days, as they begged us to do, I don't know.

As we made ready to leave, the woman took Mona to one side and furtively pressed a few bills in her hand, while the husband shoved a carton of cigarettes under my arm. They insisted on driving us out of town a little distance so that we might get a lift more easily. When we finally parted they had tears in their eyes.

It was getting on and we were bent on making Washington that day. We would have made it too, were it not for the fact that we got nothing but short hauls. By the time we sailed into Richmond it was nightfall. And again we were broke. The few dollars the woman had given us had disappeared—the purse with it. Had someone robbed us of those miserable few dollars? If so, it was a grim joke. However, we felt too good, too near our goal, to be depressed over the loss of our little fortune.

Time to eat again.…

With a calculating eye we scanned the various restaurants and finally decided on a Greek one. We would eat first, then explain our predicament. We put away a good meal, with extra helpings of dessert, and then gently broke the news to the proprietor. Our story made no impression on him whatever, or rather, it made the wrong impression. All he could think of—hardly a solution!—was to call the police. In a few minutes a motorcycle cop appeared. After the usual grilling he asked us point-blank what we intended to do about the situation. I said that if he would pay for the wire we would send a message to New York, that
undoubtedly the money would be forthcoming in the morning. He thought this a reasonable idea and volunteered to put us up in a hotel nearby. He then turned to the Greek and informed him that he would be responsible for us. All of which struck me as damned decent.

I dispatched a message to Ulric, not without misgivings. The cop escorted us to our room and said he would be round to see us early the next morning. Despite the fact that we were from New York, he showed us uncommon consideration. A New York cop, I couldn't help but reflect, was a horse of another color.

During the night I got up to make sure the proprietor hadn't locked us in. I found it impossible to close my eyes. As the night wore on I felt more and more certain that there would be no answer to our telegram.

To slip out without the night clerk spying us was impossible. I got up, went to the window, and looked out. It was a drop of about six feet to the ground. That settled it: we'd leave by the window at dawn.

As the sun came up we were again standing on the highway a mile or two outside the town. We still had our two little grips. Instead of making a beeline for Washington we headed for Tappahannock—just in case the cop might be on our trail. As luck would have it we got a lift in jig time. No breakfast, of course, and no lunch. En route we ate a few green apples, which gave us the colic.

A little distance out of Tappahannock a lawyer en route to Washington picked us up. A charming fellow, well read, easy to talk to. We gave him an earful in the time allotted us. It must have taken effect because as we were saying good-bye to him in Washington, he insisted on lending us twenty dollars. He said he was “lending” it, but what he meant very plainly was that we were to spend it and forget about it. As he toyed with the brake he mumbled over his shoulder:

“I once tried to be a writer myself.”

We were so elated we couldn't get home fast enough.
Around midnight we landed in the big city. The first thing we did was to phone Kronski. Could he put us up for the night? Certainly. We dove into the subway and made for the Bronx where he was again living.

The subway was a doleful sight to our eyes. We had forgotten how pale and worn the people looked, we had forgotten what a stench the city gave off. The treadmill. Trapped again.

Well, at least we were on familiar ground. Maybe someone would be glad to see us after the lapse of a few months. Maybe I'd look for a job in real earnest.

The sixth joy goes like this—how appropriate!

The very next joy Mary had

It was the joy of six

To see her little Jesus

On the crucifix.

And here is Dr. Kronski…

“Well well! Back again! I told you so. But don't think you can camp out on us. No sir! You can stay the night, but that's all. Have you eaten? I've got to get up early. There are no clean towels, don't ask for any. You'll have to sleep in the raw. And don't expect your breakfast served in bed. Good night!” All in one breath.

We cleared the cots of medical books and scraps of food, pulled back the grey sheets, noticed the blood stains but said nothing, and crawled in.

O COME ALL YE OUT OF THE WILDERNESS AND GLORY BE!

In a Buddhist magazine not long ago I read something like this: “If we could only get what we want when we think we need it life would present no problem, no mystery, and no meaning.” I was a trifle indisposed the morning I read this. I had decided to spend the day in bed. Reading these words, however, I began to howl with laughter. In less than no time I was up and out of bed, chirping away as merrily as usual.