Roughneck (2 page)

       It was my sister, Maxine!

       I let out a whoop of pure joy.

       I sent a collect wire from the railroad station, and Maxine responded generously. Two days later, having left Mom and Freddie with my grandparents, I arrived in Lincoln.

       I was practically broke again. I hoped to sell the car for enough to carry me until I could land a job. Meanwhile, since it was not yet daylight, I cleaned up in a restaurant men's room and ate a large and leisurely breakfast. An hour or so later, when I thought the auto sales lots might be open, I returned to my car.

       A police tow truck was just hitching on to it. Overnight parking, it seemed, was a violation of the law in Lincoln, and no, no exceptions were made for newcomers. I could redeem the car by paying a fine, plus towing and storage charges.

       I listened to this ultimatum, choked with a mixture of emotions, and then suddenly I sagged against a telephone pole and began to howl with laughter. The tow crew looked at me warily. They hopped into their truck and drove away, taking my car with them, and I sat down on my suitcase and laughed until my lungs ached.

       That car—that damned lousy, heartbreaking, backbreaking Ford! And they thought I'd lay out dough to get it back! They thought 'I' was crazy! They thought 'I' was!

       And maybe I was. After ten days and a thousand miles in that car, it wouldn't have been surprising.

I worked that day and the next two as a soda and sandwich man. Relatively flush then, and well nourished with free meals, I quit the job and visited the university. I presented the letter of introduction from my editor friend in Texas. The recipient, a member of the administrative staff, was very cordial but was unable to offer me any assistance. He could not make me a loan himself. The university could not extend aid except to students with outstanding scholastic records. Perhaps if I appealed to another writer...some faculty member who was interested in writing...

       At this time, the assistant chancellor of the university was Robert Platt Crawford, a big-name writer for 'The Saturday Evening Post' and other large-circulation magazines. I knew him only by reputation and he, of course, did not know me at all. But I went to see him. I showed him some of my stories from regional periodicals, and requested a loan—one sufficient to pay a semester's tuition and buy textbooks, plus, if he had it to spare, a few dollars extra.

       Dr. Crawford looked somewhat startled. After a moment of deep silence, he asked that I repeat my request. I did so. The good doctor looked relieved. The acoustics of his office were very poor, he murmured, and he had feared momentarily that a complete remodeling of it might be necessary...Would I mind telling him a little about myself? Something about my background? Obviously, I had been out of high school for a number of years. Why was I starting college now and why had I chosen to come to this one?

       I told him, rather brusquely at first, out of nervousness, and then, as he beamed and nodded at me, with increasing ease. I talked on and on, so interested and amiable did he seem, and so intertwined were the various events of my life. To describe my hasty exit from the hotel world, it was necessary to describe my entrance. And that led to an account of the burlesque houses and Allie Ivers, the whores' nemesis; and that, in turn, led back to other things...Newspaper work, and my adventures as a dairyman, and the time I had almost cornered the French postcard market, and my abysmal failure to maintain the high standards of a millionaire's son...

       Dr. Crawford smiled. He chuckled. He leaned back in his chair and roared. Recovering himself, he declared that he had great faith in my talents as a writer, and that, moreover, I was obviously scholastic material of the very highest type. He would consider it a privilege, he said, to finance me. And taking out his wallet, he proceeded to do so.

       I took the money, gratefully but a little incredulously, for I had been afraid that in being completely frank with him I might have prejudiced my case. Now, having achieved the seemingly impossible, I realized that it could not have been achieved in any other way. The last man in the world to deceive is the man you hope to get money from. If he has it and you don't, the odds are that he is at least as shrewd as you and probably a hell of a lot shrewder.

       Dr. Crawford refused my offer to give him a note for the money. "Now why would I want that?" he said; and thus another simple truth was pointed up to me...why 'would' he want it? When a man's sole collateral is his word, why bother with his signature?

       With my tuition taken care of, I applied at the newspapers for part-time work; I applied at the radio stations, the advertising agencies, the publicity firms—at every place which conceivably might be in need of literary talent. I was expensively dressed. The fast-money circles in which I had moved had compelled a fine head-to-foot wardrobe, and my attire represented an original investment of several hundred dollars. I suspect that many of the important executives who received me thought that I was either a majority stockholder in the company or wished to become one. Most of them were brusque and some were pointedly unpleasant when they discovered the true and humble purpose of my call. Just why did I think they would want to hire me? What did I have to offer, an ex-bellboy, ex-oil field worker, et cetera, with a few months' newspaper experience and a few unimportant manuscript sales? They could get better men than me for nothing. There were college graduates here in Lincoln—men with graduate degrees in journalism—who were glad to work without salary, solely for the practical experience it gave them.

       I left some of these interviews cringing and more than a little shamed. Hell, I was actually sick, for my twenty-two-year-old hide had worn thin, instead of toughening, from the almost incessant onslaught of an outrageous fortune. I winced at each new blow to my pride, and the blows fell hard and fast.

       Being very stubborn—and, no doubt, stupid—I persisted in my patently hopeless quest. And, finally, at the last place I expected to, I met with seeming success.

       It was at a farm magazine. The two young editors looked me over fondly, ascertaining that I was entering the university, and, after a significant glance at one another, took me into firmly courteous custody...So I was from Texas, eh? (Here an awed look into the lining of my forty-dollar Borsalino.) And I wanted a job, eh? (A glance at label of imported tweed topcoat.) Well, they could understand that. It gave a man a certain independence, helping his standing on the campus. Now, of course—'naturally—'I had enrolled in the College of Agriculture?

       "My God, no!" I said, and then, seeing the pained looks on their faces, "Why would I want to do that? I'm in Fine Arts."

       They shook their heads. I had made a terrible mistake, they said. No one enrolled in Fine Arts, absolutely no one. The degree was worthless, you know; one might as well have a diploma from a barber college. The thing to do—and they would take immediate steps to arrange it—was to switch to the College of Agriculture. I could take journalism there, also as much English as I liked; and with a B.Sc.A., I would be fixed for life. It was practically as good as an M.D.

       Now, I was to become very cross with these young men in ensuing months, but I will say—although I say it grudgingly—that I believe they were sincere. A man with a Bachelor of Science degree in agriculture 'can' invariably get a job, and usually at a very handsome beginning salary. He can and he should, for he's damned well earned it. To begin with, he needs to have been raised on a farm and to have taken an active part in 4-H work. He will also find it helpful if he attends a vocational high school specializing in agriculture. Then he goes to an agricultural college—Nebraska is one of the three or four best in the world—and he enrolls for a heavy science curriculum, 'plus.' He doesn't take just physics, which is plenty tough in itself, but 'agricultural' physics. Not just botany, but 'agricultural' botany. And so on down the line. Practically every subject is a laboratory course. When he isn't peering through a microscope or working a slide rule, he will probably be wielding a surgical knife—dissecting the diseased and malodorous innards of some animal.

       Well, I had less than no business in such a college; even less, say, than I would have had in a theological seminary. So, of course, I enrolled in it. Or, rather, the two editors enrolled me. And I suspect that they came to regret it as much as I. They were also on the "rush" committee of an ag college fraternity, and they regarded me as a highly solvent, and hence desirable, prospect. They invited me to their "house" for dinner, and the next thing I knew I was pledged and a student in the College of Agriculture.

       Came the dawn—as they used to say in movies—and there were curses and recriminations as bitter as they were mutual. I felt that I had been swindled. They, my fraternity brothers, felt that they had been. And it was too late to correct matters. We had to put up with one another, and make the best of it.

       They crammed me at every opportunity to get me though my courses (a failing student could not belong to a fraternity). But naturally they could get me no job. How could they, a guy as dumb, agriculturally, as I was? It was up to me to find work for myself, and I couldn't be choosy about it. For the fraternity dues and assessments had added almost a third to my contemplated living costs.

       Eventually, and largely among the faculty members, I made some wonderful friends at the Agricultural College of the University of Nebraska, and I actually learned quite a bit about agriculture. But my first few months there were the most miserable in my life. I detested everyone, or so I convinced myself. Everyone appeared to detest me. I lived in a turmoil of worry, disappointment, disgust and self-doubt. Meanwhile, I had taken the first job I could find—as night attendant in a funeral establishment.

I went to work at six o'clock at night, and remained until seven in the morning. My pay was fifty dollars a month. My duties were mainly confined to answering the telephone, and to receiving the occasional callers who dropped by to look upon their late loved ones.

       Since I was permitted to sleep at the place—thus saving the price of a room—and since there was plenty of time to study, the job was nominally a good one. But for me, ever squeamish and imaginative, it was a small-scale nightmare. I couldn't sleep in the eerie, softly-lit quiet. I couldn't concentrate on my books. My jittery nerves were always on the point of popping through my skin, and when Bill, the ambulance driver, would creep up behind me and address me in ghostly tones, I literally hit the ceiling.

       A southerner and a college student like myself, Bill was the other night employee. He had practically as much time on his hands as I had, and when he wasn't pestering me he was usually down in the basement casket room. He said that I should join him down there—the coffins were beautifully padded and made excellent beds. And it was so peaceful, too, just like being in a nice quiet grave.

       "You come along with me, Jim, boy," he would warmly insist. "You jus' let old Bill tuck you in. I got one all picked out for you—a big bronze job with a real heavy lid. I'm tellin' you, man! You get in that good old casket and I close down that good old lid, and you just naturally 'got' to relax..."

       I was horrified, then puzzled by his antics. It just didn't seem reasonable that any man could be so perpetually merry in such depressing surroundings. The suspicion grew in my mind that there must be some attraction in the basement besides the caskets.

       One night when Bill had laid hands upon me and was insisting that I climb into one of those "good ol' coffins," I grabbed him by the shoulders. Pulling him close to me, I ordered him to expel his breath. He did so, grinning guiltily.

       "You sure won't tell no one, will you, Jim?" he pleaded. "The boss man'd just naturally pop his pumpkin if he found out about it."

       "Lead the way," I said firmly. "We're wasting time."

       He led the way, back into the deepest recesses of the basement. Reaching into a dust-covered pine casket, he withdrew two quarts of homemade beer. His landlady made it, he said, and he always arrived at work with a goodly supply.

       We drank. He looked into my face expectantly.

       "Not bad," I said. "Of course, it's pretty warm."

       "Not bad, pretty warm!" Bill exclaimed. "Now, ain't that just like a Texas fella? Always belittlin' something!"

       "Well, it 'is' warm," I said. "Why don't you go over to the restaurant and get a bucket of ice? I'll pay for it."

       "Huh-uh!" Bill rolled his head. "They'd wonder what it was all about, and the first thing we knew—wait a minute! I know what we can do, Jim boy!"

       "Yeah?" I said.

       "Why sure. Now that we're both in on the deal, there ain't a thing in the world to stop us."

       He explained. I choked and almost dropped my bottle.

       "For God's sake," I said. "We can't do 'that!' It's—well, it's just not right."

       "You mean it ain't respectful? What about the Egyptians—I guess they didn't have plenty of respect for the dead, huh? What about the Chinese, all them fine ol' civilizations?"

       "Well, sure," I said, "but that's different."

       "Sure, it's different. The stuff they put around their dead folks was wasted. This ain't gonna be."

       Bill went on to remark that I could drink my beer warm, if I liked, or I could do without entirely. Then, he gathered the remaining bottles from the casket, and trudged off up the stairs.

       I followed him. He went into the cooling room, and pulled out one of the two long drawers that were set into the wall. Tenderly, he began tucking beer around the refrigerated body inside. He laughed scornfully as I snatched a bottle away from him.

       "You just ain't makin' sense, Jim. Now, just looky here at this nice old fella. Am I botherin' him? Is it hurtin' him any? Why, I bet he likes it—looks like a fella that guzzled plenty himself."