Irwin Shaw: Rich Man, Poor Man

‘If you don’t throw them out, I’m going to clout them,’ the soldier said thickly. He was clenching and unclenching his fists.

‘You used bad language,’ the usher said to Tom.’ I heard it with my own ears. Not in this theatre. Out you go.’

By now most of the audience was booing. The usher leaned over and grabbed Tom by his sweater. By the feel of the

big hand on him Tom knew there was no chance with the man. He stood up. ‘Come on, Claude,’ he said. ‘All right, Mister,’ he said to the usher. ‘We don’t want to cause any disturbance.

Just give us our money back and we’ll leave.’ ‘Fat chance,’ the usher said. Tom sat down again. ‘I know my rights,’ he said. Then very loudly, so that his voice rang through the entire auditorium over the sound of the gunfire from the screen. ‘Go ahead and hit me, you big brute.’

The usher sighed. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you your money back. Just get the hell out of here.’ The boys stood up. Tom smiled up at the soldier. ‘I warned you,’ he said. ‘I’ll be waiting for you outside.’

‘Go get your ma to change your diapers,’ the soldier said. He sat down heavily.

In the lobby, the usher gave them each thirty-five cents out of his own pocket, making them sign receipts to show the owner of the theatre. Tom signed the name of his algebra teacher and Claude signed the name of the president of his father’s bank. ‘And I don’t want to see you ever trying to get in here again,’ the usher said.

‘It’s a public place,’ Claude said. ‘You try anything like that and my father’ll hear about it.’ ‘Who’s your father?’ the usher said, disturbed. ‘You’ll find out,’ Claude said menacingly. ‘In due time.’ The boys stalked deliberately out of the lobby. On the street they clapped each other oh the back and roared with laughter. It was early and the picture wouldn’t end for another half hour, so they went into the diner across the street and had a piece of pie and some coffee with the usher’s money. The radio was on behind the counter and a newscaster was talking about the possibility of the German high command falling back into a redoubt in the Bavarian Alps for a last stand.

Tom listened with a grimace twisting his round baby face. The war bored him. He didn’t mind the fighting, it was the crap about sacrifice and ideals and our brave boys all the time that made him sick. It was a cinch they’d never get him in the army.

‘Hey, lady,’ he said to the waitress, who was buffing her nails behind the counter, ‘can’t we have some music?’ He got enough patriotism at home, from his sister and brother.

The waitress looked up languidly. ‘Ain’t you boys interested in who’s winning the war?’ ‘We’re Four F,’ Tom said. ‘We have a rare eye disease.’ ‘Oh, my rare eye disease,’ Claude said, over his coffee. They burst into laughter again.

They were standing in front of the Casino when the doors opened and the audience began to stream out. Tom had given Claude his wristwatch to hold so that it wouldn’t get broken. He stood absolutely still, purposely controlling himself, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, hoping that the

soldier hadn’t left before the end of the picture. Claude was pacing up and down nervously, his face sweating and pale from excitement. ‘You’re sure now?’ he kept saying. ‘You’re absolutely sure? He’s an awful big sonofabitch, I want you to be sure.’

‘Don’t you worry about me,’ Tom said. ‘Just keep the crowd back so I have room to move. I don’t want him grappling me.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Here he comes,’

The soldier and his girl came out on to the sidewalk. The soldier looked about twenty-two or twenty-three. He was a little pudgy, with a heavy, sullen face. His tunic bulged over a premature paunch, but he looked strong. He had no hash marks on his sleeve and no ribbons. He had his hand possessively on the girl’s arm, steering her through the stream of people. ‘I’m thirsty,’ he was saying. ‘Let’s go get ourselves a coupla beers.’ Tom went over to him and stood in front of him, barring his way.

‘You here again?’ the soldier said, annoyed. He stopped for a moment. Then he started moving again, pushing Tom with his chest.

‘You better stop pushing,’ Tom said. He grabbed the soldier’s sleeve. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

The soldier stopped in surprise. He looked down at Tom, who was at least three inches shorter than he, blond and cherubic looking in his old blue sweater and basketball sneakers. ‘You sure are perky for a kid your size,’ the soldier said. ‘Now get out of my way.’ He pushed Tom to one side with his forearm.

‘Who do you think you’re pushing, Sidney?’ Tom said and jabbed sharply at the soldier’s chest with the heel of his hand. By now people were stopping around them and looking on curiously. The soldier’s face reddened in slow anger. ‘Keep your hands to yourself, kid, or you’ll get hurt.’

‘What’s the matter with you, boy?’ The girl said. She had redone her mouth before coming out of the theatre but there were still lipstick smears on her chin and she was uncomfortable at all the attention they were getting. ‘If this is some kind of

joke, it’s not funny.’

‘It’s not a joke, Angela,’ Tom said.

‘Stop that Angela crap,’ the soldier said.

‘I want an apology,’ Tom said.

‘That’s the least,’ Claude said.

‘Apology? Apology for what?’ The soldier appealed to the small crowd that by now had collected around them. ‘These

kids must be nuts.’.

‘Either you apologise for the language your lady friend used to us in there,’ Tom said, ‘or you take the consequences.’

‘Come on, Angela,’ the soldier said, ‘let’s go get that beer.’ He started to take a step, but Tom grabbed his sleeve and pulled. There was a tearing noise and a seam broke open at the shoulder.

The soldier twisted around to view the damage. ‘Hey, you little sonofabitch, you tore my coat.’

I told you you weren’t going nowhere,’ Tom said. He backed away a little, his arms crooked, his fingers outspread. ‘Nobody gets away with tearing my coat,’ the soldier said. ‘I don’t care who he is.’ He swung with his open hand. Tom moved in and let the blow fall on his left shoulder. ‘Ow!’ he screamed, putting his right hand to his shoulder and bending over as though he were in terrible pain.

‘Did you see that?’ Claude demanded of the spectators. ‘Did you see that man hit my friend?’

‘Listen, soldier,’ a grey-haired man in a raincoat said, “you can’t beat up on a little kid like that.’

‘I just gave him a little slap,’ the soldier turned to the man apologetically. ‘He’s been dogging me all … ‘

Suddenly Tom straightened up and hitting upward, with his closed fist, struck the soldier, not too hard, so as not to discourage him, along the side of the jaw.

There was no holding the soldier back now. ‘Okay, kid, you asked for it.’ He began to move in on Tom. Tom retreated and the crowd pushed back behind him. “Give them room,’ Claude called professionally. ‘Give the men room.’

‘Sidney,’ the girl called shrilly, ‘you’ll kill him.’ ‘Nah,’ the soldier said, ‘I’ll just slap him around a little. Teach him a lesson.’

Tom snaked in and hit the soldier with a short left hook to the head and went in deep to the belly with his right. The soldier let the air out of his lungs with a large, dry sound, as Tom danced back.

‘It’s disgusting,’ a woman said. ‘A big oaf like that. Somebody ought to stop it.’

‘It’s all right,’ her husband said. ‘He’d said he’d only slap him a couple of times.’

The soldier swung a slow, heavy right hand at Tom. Tom ducked under it and dug both his fists into the soldier’s soft middle. The soldier bent almost double in pain and Tom