Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

“I vun say sumding. Yur bisniss vot you do. Bud vy you mek her miserable? Nod led her slip. She has beks unter her eyes.”

Ludwig had feelings. They spoke to mine. Beneath the uniform, a man. Essence precedes existence. Even rotten with sleep, thick, dry bags under his eyes, he saw, he sympathized. The discretion demanded by his job forbade anything tangible, a sweater, a hat. “Ludwig,” I whispered, “you’re all right.” It didn’t matter if he heard me. He knew I said something. He knew it was something nice. He grinned, tugged the door open with both hands. I slapped out onto the avenue. I saw no one, dropped to my feet, and glanced back through the door. Perhaps for the last time. I lingered, indulged a little melancholy. Ludwig walked to a couch in the rear of the lobby. He took off his coat, rolled it into a pillow, and lay down. I had never stayed to see him do that before, but always rushed off to the subway. As if I were indifferent to the life of the building. Indeed, like a burglar, I seized the valuables and fled to the subway. I stayed another moment, watching good Ludwig, so I could hate myself. He assumed the modest, saintly posture of sleep. One leg here, the other there. His good head on his coat. A big arm across his stomach, the hand between his hips. He made a fist and punched up and down.

I went down the avenue, staying close to the buildings. Later I would work up a philosophy. Now I wanted to sleep, forget. I hadn’t the energy for moral complexities: Ludwig cross-eyed, thumping his pelvis in such a nice lobby. Mirrors, glazed pots, rubber plants ten feet high. As if he were generating all of it. As if it were part of his job. I hurried. The buildings were on my left, the park on my right. There were doormen in all the buildings; God knows what was in the park. No cars were moving. No people in sight. Streetlights glowed in a receding sweep down to Fifty-ninth Street and beyond. A wind pressed my face like Mr. Cohen’s breath. Such hatred. Imponderable under any circumstances, a father cursing his daughter. Why? A fright in the dark? Freud said things about fathers and daughters. It was too obvious, too hideous. I shuddered and went more quickly. I began to run. In a few minutes I was at the spit-mottled steps of the subway. I had hoped for vomit. Spit is no challenge for bare feet. Still, I wouldn’t complain. It was sufficiently disgusting to make me live in spirit. I went down the steps flatfooted, stamping, elevated by each declension. I was a city boy, no mincing creep from the sticks.

A Negro man sat in the change booth. He wore glasses, a white shirt, black knit tie, and a silver tie clip. I saw a mole on his right cheek. His hair had spots of gray, as if strewn with ashes. He was reading a newspaper. He didn’t hear me approach, didn’t see my eyes take him in, figure him out. Shirt, glasses, tie — I knew how to address him. I coughed. He looked up.

“Sir, I don’t have any money. Please let me through the turnstile. I come this way every week and will certainly pay you the next time.”

He merely looked at me. Then his eyes flashed like fangs. Instinctively, I guessed what he felt. He didn’t owe favors to a white man. He didn’t have to bring his allegiance to the Transit Authority into question for my sake.

“Hey, man, you naked?”

“Yes.”

“Step back a little.”

I stepped back.

“You’re naked.”

I nodded.

“Get your naked ass the hell out of here.”

“Sir,” I said,“I know these are difficult times, but can’t we be reasonable? I know that …”

“Scat, mother, go home.”

I crouched as if to dash through the turnstile. He crouched, too. It proved he would come after me. I shrugged, turned back toward the steps. The city was infinite. There were many other subways. But why had he become so angry? Did he think I was a bigot? Maybe I was running around naked to get him upset. His anger was incomprehensible otherwise. It made me feel like a bigot. First a burglar, then a bigot. I needed a cigarette. I could hardly breathe. Air was too good for me. At the top of the steps, staring down, stood Veronica. She had my clothes.

“Poor, poor,” she said.

I said nothing. I snatched my underpants and put them on. She had my cigarettes ready. I tried to light one, but the match failed. I threw down the cigarette and the matchbook. She retrieved them as I dressed. She lit the cigarette for me and held my elbow to help me keep my balance. I finished dressing, took the cigarette. We walked back toward her building. The words “thank you” sat in my brain like driven spikes. She nibbled her lip.

“How are things at home?” My voice was casual and morose, as if no answer could matter.

“All right,” she said, her voice the same as mine. She took her tone from me. I liked that sometimes, sometimes not. Now I didn’t like it. I discovered I was angry. Until she said that, I had no idea I was angry. I flicked the cigarette into the gutter and suddenly I knew why. I didn’t love her. The cigarette sizzled in the gutter. Like truth. I didn’t love her. Black hair, green eyes, I didn’t love her. Slender legs. I didn’t. Last night I had looked at her and said to myself, “I hate communism.” Now I wanted to step on her head. Nothing less than that would do. If it was a perverted thought, then it was a perverted thought. I wasn’t afraid to admit it to myself.

“All right? Really? Is that true?”

Blah, blah, blah. Who asked those questions? A zombie; not Phillip of the foyer and rug. He died in flight. I was sorry, sincerely sorry, but with clothes on my back I knew certain feelings would not survive humiliation. It was so clear it was thrilling. Perhaps she felt it, too. In any case she would have to accept it. The nature of the times. We are historical creatures. Veronica and I were finished. Before we reached her door I would say deadly words. They’d come in a natural way, kill her a little. Veronica, let me step on your head or we’re through. Maybe we’re through, anyway. It would deepen her looks, give philosophy to what was only charming in her face. The dawn was here. A new day. Cruel, but change is cruel. I could bear it. Love is infinite and one. Women are not. Neither are men. The human condition. Nearly unbearable.

“No, it’s not true,” she said.

“What’s not?”

“Things aren’t all right at home.”

I nodded intelligently, sighed. “Of course not. Tell me the truth, please. I don’t want to hear anything else.”

“Daddy had a heart attack.”

“Oh God,” I yelled. “Oh God, no.”

I seized her hand, dropped it. She let it fall. I seized it again. No use. I let it fall. She let it drift between us. We stared at one another. She said, “What were you going to say? I can tell you were going to say something.”

I stared, said nothing.

“Don’t feel guilty, Phillip. Let’s just go back to the apartment and have some coffee.”

“What can I say?”

“Don’t say anything. He’s in the hospital and my mother is there. Let’s just go upstairs and not say anything.”

“Not say anything. Like moral imbeciles go slurp coffee and not say anything? What are we, nihilists or something? Assassins? Monsters?”

“Phillip, there’s no one in the apartment. I’ll make us coffee and eggs …”

“How about a roast beef? Got a roast beef in the freezer?”

“Phillip, he’s my father.”

We were at the door. I rattled. I was in a trance. This was life. Death!

“Indeed, your father. I’ll accept that. I can do no less.”

“Phillip, shut up. Ludwig.”

The door opened. I nodded to Ludwig. What did he know about life and death? Give him a uniform and a quiet lobby — that’s life and death. In the elevator he took the controls. “Always got a hand on the controls, eh, Ludwig?”