J. Powers - The Stories of J.F. Powers

“Well, I guess so,” Mr Newman said, with a laugh. Talking with Mr Hurley gave Mr Newman a good feeling. It was man-to-man or nothing with Hurley. Mr Newman, however, went back to work at four minutes to one.

During the afternoon Mr Newman developed a dislike for the fat fellow next to him, but when they teamed up on a big shipment of toys the fat fellow made some cynical remarks about the company and Mr Newman relaxed, thinking that his kind were harmless as rivals, that the company would be better off with employees like himself. And then was ashamed of himself, for he admired the fat fellow for his independence. Mr Newman regretted that he was too old for independence.

Toward the end of the day he was coming from getting a drink of water when he overheard Mr Hurley talking with Mr Shanahan.

“Yeah,” Mr Hurley said, “when you said the old bird was handy with rope I thought, boy, he’s old enough to think about using some on himself. My God, Shanahan, if this keeps up we’ll have to draft them from the old people’s home.”

Mr Newman went for another drink of water. When he returned to the shipping room they were all working and Mr Shanahan was not there.

Just before quitting time, Mr Hurley came over and congratulated Mr Newman on his first day’s work. He said he thought Mr Newman would make out all right, and showed him an easier way to cut string. When he suggested that Mr Newman wash up before the whistle blew, Mr Newman did not have the faith to refuse. He could not look Mr Hurley in the eye now and say something about wanting to finish up a shipment. Any extraordinary industry on his part, he knew now, was useless. He was too old. That was all they could see when they looked at him. That was the only fact about him. He was an old bird.

“All right, Charley, see you in the morning,” Mr Hurley said.

Mr Newman slowly brought himself to realize he was “Charley” to Mr Hurley. He had never before been “Charley” to anyone on such short acquaintance. Probably he would be “Old Charley” before long, which reminded him that Christmas was coming. There was no meaning beyond Christmas in all this sweat and humiliation, but that was enough. He would stick it out.

Mr Newman was impressed again with the vaultlike solemnity of the washroom. The strange dignity of the toilet booths, the resounding marble chips in the floor, the same as statehouses, the plenitude of paper, the rude music of water coursing, the fat washbowls, all resplendent and perfect of their kind, and towels, white as winding sheets, circulating without end…

Mr Newman, young here, luxuriated. Still he was sensible about it. The company was a big company and could no doubt stand a lot of wasting of towels and toilet paper, but Mr Newman, wanting to be fair, took only what he needed of everything. He would not knowingly abuse a privilege. He read a notice concerning a hospitalization service the company offered the employees. The sensibleness of such a plan appealed strongly to Mr Newman. He thought he would have to look into that, completely forgetting that he was only on temporary.

At the sound of the five-o’clock whistle Mr Newman hurried out and took his place in the line of employees at the time clock. When his turn came to punch out, clutching his time card, he was shaking all over. The clock would jam, or stamp the time in the wrong place, or at the last moment, losing confidence in the way he was holding the card, after all his planning, he would somehow stick it in the wrong way. Then there would be shouts from the end of the line, and everybody would know it was all on account of an old bird trying to punch out.

Mr Newman’s heart stopped beating, his body followed a preconceived plan from memory in the lapse, and then his heart started up again. Mr Newman, a new friend to the machine, had punched out smoothly. One of the mass of company employees heading for home, Mr Newman, his old body at once tired and tingling, walked so briskly he passed any number of younger people in the corridors. His mood was unfamiliar to him, one of achievement and crazy gaiety. He recognized the information girl ahead of him, passed her, and said over his shoulder:

“Well, good night!”

She smiled in immediate reflex, but it was sobering to Mr Newman, though she did say good night, that she did not seem to remember him very well, for it had not been the live smile.

At the outside door it was snowing. Mr Newman bought a newspaper and let the man keep the two cents change. He meant to revive an old tradition with him by reading the paper on the streetcar. There was enough snow on the sidewalk to ease his swollen feet.

It was too crowded on the streetcar to open his paper and he had to stand all the way. His eyes on a placard, he considered the case of a man from Minneapolis who had got welcome relief. Hanging there on a strap, rocking with the elemental heave of the streetcar, he felt utterly weary, a gray old thing. What mattered above all else, though — getting a job — he had accomplished. This he told himself over and over until it became as real as his fatigue and mingled itself with the tortured noise of the streetcar.

His wife met him at the door. One glimpse of his face, he thought, was all she needed and she would know how to treat him tonight. Already she knew something was up and had seen the scratch on his nose. She only said:

“You stayed downtown all day, Charley.”

“Yes, I did,” he said.

She went to hang up his coat, hat, and scarf. He stepped across the familiar rug to the radiator. He stood there warming his hands and listening to her moving things in the kitchen. He could not bring himself to go there, as he did on any other night before supper, to talk of nothing important or particular, to let the water run till it got cold, to fill their glasses. He had too much to tell her tonight. He had forgotten to remove his rubbers.

“Come on now, Charley.”

He took a few steps, hesitated a second, and went straight into the kitchen. He was immediately, as he knew he would be, uneasy. He could think of nothing insignificant to say. His eyes were not meeting hers. The glasses were filled with water. Suddenly he had to look at her. She smiled. It was hard to bear. He did have news. But now, he felt, she expected too much.

He bit his lips in irritation and snapped, “Why didn’t you let me get the water?” That was beside the point, of course, but it gave him leeway to sit down at the table. He made a project of it. Trying to extend the note of normalcy, he passed things to her. He involved her subtly in passing them back. He wanted her to know there was a time and place for everything and now it was for passing. He invented an unprecedented interest in their silverware. His knife, fork, and spoon absorbed him.

“Where did we get this spoon?” he asked crossly.

It was all wasted. She had revamped her strategy. She appeared amused, and there was about her a determination deeper than his to wait forever. Her being so amused was what struck him as insupportable. He had a dismaying conviction that this was the truest condition of their married life. It ran, more or less, but always present, right through everything they did. She was the audience — that was something like it — and he was always on stage, the actor who was never taken quite seriously by his audience, no matter how heroic the role. The bad actor and his faithful but not foolish audience. Always! As now! It was not a hopeless situation, but only because she loved him.

She did love him. Overcome by the idea, he abandoned his silence. He heard himself telling her everything. Not exactly as it was, naturally, but still everything. Not at first about his being handy with rope, nothing about being “Charley” and an old bird, but quite frankly that he was working in the shipping room instead of the office. About Mr Shanahan, the interviewer — how nice he was, in a way. About the information girl who seemed to take quite an interest in him and who, to his surprise, had said good night to him. Mr Hurley, his department head, and how to get to the employees’ lunchroom. The washroom, plenty of soap and towels, a clean place — clean as her kitchen; she should see it. Where he had lunch, not much of a place. The fat fellow next to him at the table, not exactly loyal to the company, but a very likable chap… and here — he dug into his shirt pocket — was a piece of their sticking tape, as she could see, with their name and trademark.