John Passos - Big Money

He went in and sat down. The waitress was a little dark sourfaced girl with rings under her eyes. It was a muggy sort of day, the smell of soap from the dishwashing and of hot grease from the kitchen hung in streaks in the air. When the waitress leaned over to set the place for him he got a whiff of damp underclothes and armpits and talcumpowder. He looked up at her and tried to get a smile out of her. When she turned to go get him some tomatosoup he watched her square bottom moving back and forth under her black dress. There was something heavy and lecherous about the rainy eastern day.

He spooned soup into his mouth without tasting it. Before he’d finished he got up and went to the phonebooth. He didn’t have to look up her number. Waiting for the call he was so nervous the sweat ran down behind his ears. When a woman’s voice answered, his own voice dried up way down in his throat. Finally he got it out: “I want to speak to Miss Humphries, please… Tell her it’s Charley Anderson… Lieutenant Anderson.” He was still trying to clear his throat when her voice came in an intimate caressing singsong. Of course she remembered him, her voice said, too sweet of him to call her up, of course they must see each other all the time, how thrilling, she’d just love to, but she was going out of town for the weekend, yes, a long weekend. But wouldn’t he call her up next week, no, towards the end of the week? She’d just adore to see him.

When he went back to his table the waitress was fussing around it. “Didn’t you like your soup?” she asked him. “Check… Had to make some phonecalls.” “Oh, phonecalls,” she said in a kidding voice. This time it was the waitress who was trying to get a smile out of him. “Let’s have a piece of pie and a cup of coffee,” he said, keeping his eyes on the billoffare. “They got lovely lemonmeringue pie,” the waitress said with a kind of sigh that made him laugh. He looked up at her laughing feeling horny and outafterit again: “All right, sweetheart, make it lemonmeringue.”

When he’d eaten the pie he paid his check and went back into the phonebooth. Some woman had been in there leaving a strong reek of perfume. He called up the Century Club to see if Ollie Taylor was in town. They said he was in Europe; then he called up the Johnsons; they were the only people left he knew. Eveline Johnson’s voice had a deep muffled sound over the phone. When he told her his name she laughed and said, “Why, of course we’d love to see you. Come down to dinner tonight; we’ll introduce you to the new baby.”

When he got out of the subway at Astor Place it wasn’t time to go to dinner yet. He asked the newsvendor which way Fifth Avenue was and walked up and down the quiet redbrick blocks. He felt stuffy from the movie he’d killed the afternoon in. When he looked at his watch it was only halfpast six. He wasn’t invited to the Johnsons’ till seven. He’d already passed the house three times when he decided to go up the steps. Their names were scrawled out, Paul Johnson — Eveline Hutchins, on a card above the bell. He rang the bell and stood fidgeting with his necktie while he waited. Nobody answered. He was wondering if he ought to ring again when Paul Johnson came briskly down the street from Fifth Avenue with his hat on the back of his head, whistling as he walked. “Why, hello, Anderson, where did you come from?” he asked in an embarrassed voice. He had several bags of groceries that he had to pile on his left arm before he could shake hands. “Guess I ought to congratulate you,” said Charley. Paul looked at him blankly for a moment; then he blushed. “Of course… the son and heir… Oh, well, it’s a hostage to fortune, that’s what they say…”

Paul let him into a large bare oldfashioned room with flowing purple curtains in the windows. “Just sit down for a minute. I’ll see what Eveline’s up to.” He pointed to a horsehair sofa and went through the sliding doors into a back room.

He came back immediately carefully pulling the door to behind him. “Why, that’s great. Eveline says you’re goin’ to have supper with us. She said you just came back from out there. How’d things seem out there? I wouldn’t go back if they paid me now. New York’s a great life if you don’t weaken… Here, I’ll show you where you can clean up… Eveline’s invited a whole mess of people to supper. I’ll have to run around to the butcher’s… Want to wash up?”

The bathroom was steamy and smelt of bathsalts. Somebody had just taken a bath there. Babyclothes hung to dry over the tub. A red douchebag hung behind the door and over it a yellow lace negligee of some kind. It made Charley feel funny to be in there. When he’d dried his hands he sniffed them, and the perfume of the soap filled his head.

When he came out of the door he found Mrs. Johnson leaning against the white marble mantel with a yellowbacked French novel in her hand. She had on a long lacy gown with puff sleeves and wore tortoiseshell readingglasses. She took off the glasses and tucked them into the book and stood holding out her hand.

“I’m so glad you could come. I don’t go out much yet, so I don’t get to see anybody unless they come to see me.”

“Mighty nice of you to ask me. I been out in the sticks. I tell you it makes you feel good to see folks from the other side… This is the nearest thing to Paree I’ve seen for some time.”

She laughed; he remembered her laugh from the boat. The way he felt like kissing her made him fidgety. He lit a cigarette.

“Do you mind not smoking? For some reason tobaccosmoke makes me feel sick ever since before I had the baby, so I don’t let anybody smoke. Isn’t it horrid of me?”

Charley blushed and threw his cigarette in the grate. He began to walk back and forth in the tall narrow room. “Hadn’t we better sit down?” she said with her slow irritating smile. “What are you up to in New York?”

“Got to get me a job. I got plans… Say, how’s the baby? I’d like to see it.”

“All right, when he wakes up I’ll introduce you. You can be one of his uncles. I’ve got to do something about supper now. Doesn’t it seem strange us all being in New York?”

“I bet this town’s a hard nut to crack.”

She went into the back room through the sliding doors and soon a smell of sizzling butter began to seep through them. Charley caught himself just at the point of lighting another cigarette, then roamed round the room, looking at the oldfashioned furniture, the three white lilies in a vase, the shelves of French books, until Paul, red in the face and sweating, passed through with more groceries and told him he’d shake up a drink.

Charley sat down on the couch and stretched out his legs. It was quiet in the highceilinged room. There was something cozy about the light rustle and clatter the Johnsons made moving around behind the sliding doors, the Frenchy smell of supper cooking. Paul came back with a tray piled with plates and glasses and a demijohn of wine. He laid a loaf of frenchbread on the marbletopped table and a plate of tunafish and a cheese. “I’m sorry I haven’t got anything to make a cocktail with… I didn’t get out of the office till late… All we’ve got’s this dago wine.”

“Check… I’m keepin’ away from that stuff a little… Too much on my mind.”

“Are you round town looking for a job?”

“Feller goin’ in on a proposition with me. You remember Joe Askew on the boat? Great boy, wasn’t he? The trouble is the damn fool’s laid up with the flu and that leaves me high and dry until he gets down here.”

“Things are sure tighter than I expected… My old man got me into a grainbroker’s office over in Jersey City… just to tide me over. But gosh, I don’t want to wear out a desk all my life. I wouldn’ta done it if it hadn’t been for the little stranger.”