Irwin Shaw - Rich Man, Poor Man. Beggarman, Thief

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

“Squeeze me harder, darrrling,” 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.

“Ssh, sssh!” came from spots all over the theater.

“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 toward 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 big 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 any 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.”

“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 theater. 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 to the owner of the theater. 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 on 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 gains the American Army had made that day in Germany and 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 any 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 onto 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.”