Irwin Shaw - Rich Man, Poor Man

Claude followed him, uneasily. Claude was a lanky, thin-armed boy, with a long-nosed squirrelly wedge of a face and loose, wet lips. He was nearsighted and wore glasses and that didn’t make him look any better. He was a manipulator and behind-the-scenes man and slid out of trouble like a corporation lawyer and conned teachers into giving him good marks although he almost never opened a school book. He wore dark suits and neckties and had a kind of literary stoop and shambled apologetically when he walked and looked insignificant, humble, and placating. He was imaginative, his imagination concentrating on outrages against society. His father ran the bookkeeping department of the Boylan Brick and Tile Works and his mother, who had a degree from St Anne’s College for Women, was the president of the draft board, and what with all that and the priest-uncle besides, and his harmless and slightly repulsive appearance, Claude manoeuvered with impunity through his plot-filled world.

The two boys moved down the empty row and sat directly behind the GI and his girl. The GI had his hand in the girl’s blouse and was methodically squeezing her breast. The GI hadn’t removed his overseas cap and it peaked down steeply over his forehead. The girl had her hand somewhere down in the shadows between the soldier’s legs. Both the GI and the girl were watching the picture intently. Neither of them paid any attention to the arrival of the boys.

Tom sat behind the girl who smelled good. She was liberally dosed with a flowery perfume which mingled with the buttery,

cowlike aroma from a bag of popcorn they had been eating. Claude sat behind the soldier. The soldier had a small head, but he was tall, with broad shoulders, and his cap obscured most of the screen from Claude, who had to squirm from side to side to glimpse the film.

‘Listen,’ Claude whispered, ‘I tell you he’s too big. I bet he weighs one seventy, at least.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Tom whispered back. ‘Start in.’ He spoke confidently, but he could feel little shivers of doubt in his fingertips and under his armpits. That hint of doubt, of fear, was familiar to him and it added to his expectation and the beauty of the final violence. ‘Go ahead,’ he whispered harshly to Claude. ‘We ain’t got all night.’

‘You’re the boss,’ Claude said. Then he leaned forward and tapped the soldier on the shoulder. ‘Pardon me, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you’d be so kind as to remove your cap. It’s difficult for me to see the screen.’

I ain’t no sergeant,’ the soldier said, without turning. He kept his cap on and continued watching the picture, squeezing the girl’s breast.

The two boys sat quietly for more than a minute. They had practised the tactic of provocation so often together that there was no need for signals. Then Tom leaned forward and tapped” the soldier heavily on the shoulder. ‘My friend made a polite request,’ he said. ‘You are interfering with his enjoyment of the picture. We will have to call the management if you don’t take your cap off.’

The soldier swivelled a little in his seat, annoyedly. ‘There’s two hundred empty seats,’ he said, ‘If you friend wants to

see the picture let him sit someplace else.’ He turned back to his two pre-occupations, sex and art.

‘He’s on the way,’ Tom whispered to Claude. ‘Keep him going.’

Claude tapped the soldier on the shoulder again. ‘I suffer from a rare eye “disease,’ Claude said. ‘I can only see from this seat. Everywhere else it’s a blur. I can’t tell whether it’s Errol Flynn or Loretta Young up there.’

‘Go to an eye doctor,’ the soldier said. The girl laughed at his wit. She sounded as though she had drunk some water the wrong way when she laughed. The soldier laughed, too, to show that he appreciated himself.

‘I don’t think it’s nice to laugh at people’s disabilities,’ Tom said. ‘Especially with a war on,’ Claude said, ‘with all those crippled heroes.’

‘What sort of an American are you,’ Tom asked, his voice rising patriotically. That’s the question I would like to ask, what sort of an American are you?’

The girl turned. “Get lost, kids,’ she said.

‘I want to remind you, sir,’ Tom said, ‘that I hold you personally responsible for anything your lady friend says.’

‘Don’t pay them no mind, Angela,’ the soldier said. He had a high, tenor voice.

The boys sat in silence again for a moment.

‘Marine, tonight you die,’ Tom said in a high falsetto, in his Japanese imitation. ‘Yankee dog, tonight I cut off your balls.’

‘Watch your goddamn language,’ the soldier said, turning his head.

‘I bet he’s braver than Errol Flynn,’ Tom said. ‘I bet he’s got a drawer full of medals back home but he’s too modest to wear them.’

The soldier was getting angry now. ‘Why don’t you kids shut up? We came here to see a movie.’

‘We came to make love,’ Tom said. He caressed Claude’s cheek elaborately. ‘Didn’t we, hotpants?’

‘Squeeze me harder, darling,’ Claude said. ‘My nipples’re palpitating.’

‘I am in ecstasy,’ Tom said. ‘Your skin is like a baby’s ass.’

‘Put your tongue in my ear, honey,’ Claude said. ‘Ooooh -I’m coming.’

That’s enough,’ the soldier said. Finally he had taken his hand out of the girl’s blouse. ‘Get the hell out of here.’

He had spoken loudly and angrily and a few people were turning around up front and making shushing noises.

‘We paid good money for these seats,’ Tom said, ‘and we’re not moving.’

“We’ll see about that’ The soldier stood up. He was about six feet tall. ‘I’m going to get the usher.’

‘Don’t let the little bastards get your goat, Sidney,’ the girl said, ‘Sit down.’

‘Sidney, remember I told you I hold you personally responsible for your lady friend’s language,’ Tom said. This is a last warning.’

‘Usher!’ the soldier called across the auditorium, to where the lone attendant, dressed in frayed gold braid, was sitting in the last row, dozing under an exit light. ‘Sssh, sssh!’ came from spots all over the theatre.

‘He’s a real soldier,’ Claude said. ‘He’s calling for reinforcements.’

‘Sit down, Sidney.’ The girl tugged at the soldier’s sleeve. ‘They’re just snotty kids.’

‘Button your shirt, Angela,’ Tom said. ‘Your titty’s showing.’ He stood up, in case the soldier swung.

‘Sit down, please.’ Claude said politely, as the usher came down the aisle towards them, ‘this is the best part of the picture and I don’t want to miss it.’

‘What’s going on here?’ the usher asked. He was a weary looking man of about forty who worked in a furniture factory during the day.

‘Get these kids out of here,’ the soldier said. They’re using dirty language in front of this lady.’

‘All I said was, please take your hat off,’ Claude said. ‘Am I right, Tom?’

‘That’s what he said, sir,’ Tom said, sitting down again. ‘A simple polite request. He has a rare eye disease.’

‘What?’ the usher asked, puzzled.

‘If you don’t throw them out,’ the soldier said, ‘there’s going to be trouble.’

‘Why don’t you boys sit someplace else?’ the usher said.

‘He explained,’ Claude said. ‘I have a rare eye disease.’

‘This is a free country,’ Tom said. ‘You pay your money and you sit where you want to sit. Who does he think he is - Adolf Hitler? Big shot. Just because he’s wearing a soldier suit. I bet he never got nearer to the Japs than Kansas City, Missouri. Coming here, giving a bad example to the youth of the country, screwing girls in public. In uniform.’