Plexus (77 page)

“Perfect! … Now what makes worms crawl and birds to fly? What makes the spider spin his crazy web? What makes the kangaroo…?”

“Hold it, man! One question at a time. Now which is it—the bird, the worm, the spider or the kangaroo?”

“Why do two and two make four? Maybe you can answer that! I don't ask you to be an anthroposophagist, or whatever the devil they're called. Plain arithmetic … two plus two equals four. WHY? Answer that and I'll say you're an honest Roman. Go on, now, give it to me!”

“Bugger the Romans! I'd rather be a monkey with Darwin, b'Jasus!
Arithmetic!
Bah! Why don't you ask me if red-eyed Mars ever wobbled in her funicular orbit?”

“The Bible answered that long ago. So did Parnell!”

“In the pig's ass he did!”

“There isn't a question but was answered once and for all—by somebody or other.”

“You mean the Pope!”

“Man, I've told you a hundred times—the Pope is but a Pontifical interlocutor. His Holiness never asserted that he was the risen Christ.”

“Lucky for him, because I'd deny it to his treacherous face. We've had enough of Inquisitions. What the sad, weary world needs is a bit of common sense. You can rave all you like about spiders and kangaroos, but who's going to pay the rent? Ask your friend that!”

“I told you that he joined the Dominicans.”

“And I said that he was nuts.”

At this point the bartender, thinking to quiet them, was about to offer drinks on the house when who walks in but a blind man playing a harp. He sang in a tremulous falsetto which was woefully false. He wore dark-blue glasses and over his left arm was slung a white cane.

“Come give us a bawdy song!” cried one of the disputants.

“And none of your shenanigans!…” cried the other.

The blind man removed his glasses, slung the harp and cane over a peg in the wall, and shuffled to the bar with an alacrity that was amazing.

“Just a wee drop to wet the palate,” he whined.

“And a bit of brandy,” said the other.

“Give him a drop of Irish whiskey,” he whined.

“To the men of Dublin and County Kerry,” said the blind man, raising both glasses at once. “Down with all Orangemen!” He looked around, bright as a bobolink, and took a swallow from each of the tumblers.

“When will you get any shame in you?” said the one.

“He's wallowing in gold,” said the other.

“It's loike this,” said the blind man, brushing his lips with his sleeve, “when me owld mother died I promised
her I'd never do another stroke of work. I've kept to me bargain, and so has she. Every time I pluck the strings she calls to me softly; ‘Patrick, are you there? It's grand, me boy, it's grand.' Before I can ask her a question she's gone again.
The fair grounds
, I call it. She's been there for thirty years now—and she's kept to her bargain.”

“You're dotty, man. What bargain?”

“It's long to explain and my throat's parched.…”

“Another brandy and whiskey for the scoundrel!”

“You're kind, the two of you.
Gentlemen
, that's what you are!” Again he raises both glasses. “To the Blessed Mary and her prodigal sons!”

“Did you hear that now? That's blasphemy or I'll eat me hat.”

“It's not either. Tush tush!”

“The Blessed Mary had only one son—
and by the holy Patrick he was no prodigal!
He was the Prince of Paupers, that's what he was. I'll take an oath on it.”

“This is no court. Easy with your oaths! Go on, man, tell us of your bargain!”

The blind man pulled his nose meditatively. Again he looked about—bright and merry, chipper as could be. Like an oily sardine.

“It's loike this …” he began.

“Don't
say
that, man! On with yer! Out with it!”

“It's a long, long story. And me throat's still dry, if yer don't mind me saying so.”

“Get on with it, man, or we'll be fleeing your bottom!”

The blind man cleared his throat, then rubbed his eyes.

“It's loike I wuz sayin'… Me owld mother had the gift of sight. She could see through a door, her gimlicks were that strong. Wanst, when the dadda was late for supper.…”

“Your dadda be damned! You're a creepy old counterfeiter!”

“I am that too,” screeched the blind man. “I've every little weakness.”

“And a throat that's always parched.”

“And a pocketful of gold, eh, you rascal!”

Suddenly the blind man became terrified. His face blanched.

“No, no!” he screamed, “not me pockets. You wouldn't do that to me? You wouldn't do that.…”

The two cronies began to laugh uproariously. Pinning his arms to his sides, they went through his pockets—pants, coat and vest. Dumping the money on the bar, they piled it neatly in bills and coins of every denomination, putting the bad money to one side. It was a stunt they had evidently rehearsed more than once.

“Another brandy!” called the one.

“Another Irish whiskey—
the best!”
called the other.

They dished out some coins from the pile, and then a few more, to make a generous tip for the barman.

“And is your throat still parched?” they asked solicitously.

“And what will
you
have?” says the one.

“And
you?”
says the other.

“My throat's getting dryer and dryer.”

“Aye, and so is mine.”

“And did you ever hear about the bargain Patrick made with his owld mother?”

“It's a long story,” says the other, “but I've a mind to hear it to the end. Would you tell it now, while I down a goblet to your health and virility?”

The other, raising his goblet: “I could tell it till the Day of Judgment, it's that good. A corkin' yarn. But let me wet me throat first.”

“They're a bunch of thieves, the three of 'em,” said the barkeep, as he filled my glass. “Would you believe it, one of 'em was a priest once. He's the biggest faker of the lot. Can't put 'em out—they own the building. See what I mean?”

He busied himself with the empty glasses, rinsed them,
wiped them, polished them, lit himself a cigarette. Then he ambled over to me again.

“All shandygaff,” he mumbled confidentially. “They can talk sense, if they want to. They're as smart as steel traps. Like to put on an act, that's all. Beats me why they pick this place to do it in.” He leaned backward to spit a gob in the spittoon beside his feet.
“Ireland!
They never saw Ireland, none of them. They were born and raised a block away from here. They love to put it on.… You'd never think it, would you, but the blind fellow was a great little fighter once. Until he got knocked cold by Terry McGovern. He's got the eyes of an eagle, that bird. Comes in here to count his money every day. It burns him up to get wooden money. You know what he does with the bad coins? Passes them off on real blind men.
Ain't that nice?”

He left me a moment to beg them to quiet down. The champagne was beginning to have its effect.

“Know what the big news is now? They're planning to hire a hansom and take a ride through Central Park. Time to feed the pigeons, they say. How's that for you?” He leaned backwards again to use the cuspidor. “That's another one of their acts—feeding the pigeons. They throw out some crumbs or peanuts, and when they've collected a crowd they begin throwing away the wooden money. Gives them a great kick. After that Blind Ben does a little number and they pass the hat around. As if they hadn't a cent in the world! I'd like to be there sometime and put a nice lump of shit in the kitty.…”

He looked around to eye them disdainfully. Turns back to me again and starts spouting.

“Maybe you thought they were really arguing about something? I've listened time and again to find out how it begins—but I never can. Before you know it they're in the thick of it. They say any old thing—to get wound up. It's gab they like. The argumentation is just dirt in the eye. The Pope, Darwin, kangaroos—you heard it all. It never makes sense, no matter what they're talking about. Yesterday
it was hydraulic engineering and how to cure constipation. The day before it was the Easter Rebellion. All mixed up with a lot of horseshit—the bubonic plague, the Sepoy mutiny, Roman aqueducts and horse feathers.
Words, words
.… It drives me nuts sometimes. Every night I'm arguin' in my sleep. The hell of it is I don't know what I'm arguin' about. Just like them. Even my day off is ruined. I keep wondering if they're goin' to show up somewheres.… Some people think they're funny. I've seen guys split their sides laughing at 'em. It ain't funny to
me
, no sir! By the time I finish here I'm standing on my head.…
Listen
—I did a stretch once—for six months—and a colored guy had the cell next to mine.…
Can I freshen it up for you?
… He sang all day long, and nights too. Got me so mad I wanted to throttle him. Funny, hah? Shows you how sensitive you can get.… Brother, if I ever get out of this racket I'm headin' for the Sierra Nevadas. What I need is peace and quiet. I don't even want to look at a cow. It might go MOO-ooo-ooo—
see what I mean?
Trouble was, when I got back my wife was gone. Yeah! Ran out on me—and with my best friend, of course. Just the same, I can't forget that month of peace and quiet. It was worth everything that happened afterwards.… You get sensitive, working like a slave all day long. I was cut out for somethin' else. Never could find out what. I've been off beat for a long time.…
Can I freshen it up for you?
It's on the house, what the hell! You
see
… now I'm talkin' a blue streak. That's what happens to you. You see a sympathetic puss and you spill the beans.… I haven't told you anything yet.” He reached up and took down a bottle of gin. Poured himself a thimbleful, a good one. “Here's how! And let's hope they get the hell out of here soon.
Where was I?
Yeah, the bad news.… What do you think my parents wanted me to be?
An insurance agent
. Can you beat that? They thought it was refined like. The old man was a hodcarrier, you see. From the old country, sure enough. A brogue as thick as mulligatawney. Yeah, the insurance
racket. Can you picture me goin' through a routine like that? So I joins the Marines. After that the horses. Lost everything. Then I take up plumbing. No go. Too clumsy. Besides, I hate filth, believe it or not. So what? Well, I bummed around a bit, got wise to myself and borrowed a little from the old man so as I could open a hash joint. Then I make the mistake of gettin' hitched up. A battle royal from the day we were spliced. Except for that vacation I was telling you about. So help me God, one experience wasn't enough. Before you know it, I'm hooked up with another one—a cute little bitch too. Then the real agony starts. She was a screwball, this last one. She got me so bitched up I didn't know whether I was goin' or comin'. That's how I landed in the clink. When I came out I was that low I was ready for religion. Yes sir, those six months in the clink put the fear of Christ in me. I was ready to toe the line.…” He poured himself another thimbleful of gin, spat again, and resumed where he had left off. “Listen, I was that careful you could have offered me a gold ingot and I wouldn't touch it. That's how I got inter this business. I asked for somethin' to keep me busy. It was the old man who got me the job.” He leaned over to whisper the words: “He coughed up five hundred clams to get me this break! That's kindness,
what!”

Here I begged off to take a leak.

When I came out the bar was full.

The trio had disappeared, I noticed. I shook myself like a dog and headed back for the Gay White Way. Everything had fallen back into its normal aspect. It was Broadway once again, not the
rambla
, not the Nevsky Prospekt. A typical New York throng, no different from what it was in the year One. I bought a paper at Times Square and ducked into the subway. The workers were wending their weary way homeward. Not a spark of life in the whole train. Only the switchboard in the motorman's compartment was alive, crackling with electricity. You could add up all the thoughts that were being thought,
put a decimal in front of them, and add twenty-six digits to make it even less than nothing.

On the seventh day God rested from His labor and saw that all was good.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it!

I wondered vaguely about the pigeons. And from that to the Sepoy Mutiny. Then I dozed off. I fell into such a stupor that I never woke up till we got to Coney Island. The brief case was gone. So was my wallet. Even the newspaper was gone.… Nothing to do but stay in the train and ride back again.

I felt hungry. Voraciously hungry. And in excellent spirits. I decided I might as well eat at The Iron Cauldron. It seemed as if I hadn't seen my wife for ages.

Fine! Giddy-ap, horsey! To the Village!

The Iron Cauldron was one of the landmarks of the Village. Its clientèle was drawn from far and near. Among the many interesting characters who frequented the place were the inevitable freaks and eccentrics who made the Village notorious.

To believe Mona, it would seem that all the nuts congregated at her tables. Almost every day I heard of some new figure, each one, of course, more extravagant than the last.

The latest was Anastasia. She had blown in from the Coast and was having a time of it to keep going. She had had a few hundred dollars with her on arriving in New York but it had vanished like smoke. What she hadn't given away had been stolen. According to Mona, she was an extraordinary-looking person. She had long black hair
which she wore like a mane, violet-blue eyes, beautiful strong hands and large sturdy feet. She called herself Anastasia simply. Her last name, Annapolis, she had invented. Apparently she had wandered into The Iron Cauldron in search of work. Mona had overheard her talking to the proprietor and had come to her rescue. Wouldn't hear of her washing dishes or even waiting on tables. She had divined at once that this was an unusual person, had invited her to sit down and eat, and after a long conversation had loaned her some money.