John Passos - Manhattan transfer

‘Sure we are, you tell em,’ said Dougan.

‘I know lot of old fellers even, thinks the boys are gettin a raw deal… We’ll call it the Brooklyn Bonus Agitation Committee associated with the Sheamus O’Rielly Post of the A. L.… No use doin anythin unless you do it up right… Now are yous guys wid me or aint yer?’

‘Sure we are Joey… You tell em an we’ll mark time.’

‘Well Dougan’s got to be president cause he’s the best lookin.’

Dougan went crimson and began to stammer.

‘Oh you seabeach Apollo,’ jeered Garnett.

‘And I think I can do best as treasurer because I’ve had more experience.’

‘Cause you’re the crookedest you mean,’ said Segal under his breath.

Joe stuck out his jaw. ‘Look here Segal are you wid us or aint yer? You’d better come right out wid it now if you’re not.’

‘Sure, cut de comedy,’ said Dougan. ‘Joey’s de guy to put dis ting trough an you know it… Cut de comedy… If you dont like it you kin git out.’

Segal rubbed his thin hooked nose. ‘I was juss jokin gents, I didn’t mean no harm.’

‘Look here,’ went on Joe angrily, ‘what do you think I’m givin up my time for?… Why I turned down fifty dollars a week only yesterday, aint that so, Sid? You seen me talkin to de guy.’

‘Sure I did Joey.’

‘Oh pipe down fellers,’ said Segal. ‘I was just stringin Joey along.’

‘Well I think Segal you ought to be secretary, cause you know about office work…’

‘Office work?’

‘Sure,’ said Joe puffing his chest out. ‘We’re goin to have desk space in the office of a guy I know… It’s all fixed. He’s goin to let us have it free till we get a start. An we’re goin to have office stationery. Cant get nowhere in this world without presentin things right.’

‘An where do I come in?’ asked Sid Garnett.

‘You’re the committee, you big stiff.’

After the meeting Joe O’Keefe walked whistling down Atlantic Avenue. It was a crisp night; he was walking on springs. There was a light in Dr Gordon’s office. He rang. A whitefaced man in a white jacket opened the door.

‘Hello Doc.’

‘Is that you O’Keefe? Come on in my boy.’ Something in the doctor’s voice clutched like a cold hand at his spine.

‘Well did your test come out all right doc?’

‘All right… positive all right.’

‘Christ.’

‘Dont worry too much about it, my boy, we’ll fix you up in a few months.’

‘Months.’

‘Why at a conservative estimate fiftyfive percent of the people you meet on the street have a syphilitic taint.’

‘It’s not as if I’d been a damn fool. I was careful over there.’

‘Inevitable in wartime…’

‘Now I wish I’d let loose… Oh the chances I passed up.’

The doctor laughed. ‘You probably wont even have any symptoms… It’s just a question of injections. I’ll have you sound as a dollar in no time… Do you want to take a shot now? I’ve got it all ready.’

O’Keefe’s hands went cold. ‘Well I guess so,’ he forced a laugh. ‘I guess I’ll be a goddam thermometer by the time you’re through with me.’ The doctor laughed creakily. ‘Full up of arsenic and mercury eh… That’s it.’

The wind was blowing up colder. His teeth were chattering. Through the rasping castiron night he walked home. Fool to pass out that way when he stuck me. He could still feel the sickening lunge of the needle. He gritted his teeth. After this I got to have some luck… I got to have some luck.

Two stout men and a lean man sit at a table by a window. The light of a zinc sky catches brightedged glints off glasses, silverware, oystershells, eyes. George Baldwin has his back to the window. Gus McNiel sits on his right, and Densch on his left. When the waiter leans over to take away the empty oystershells he can see through the window, beyond the graystone parapet, the tops of a few buildings jutting like the last trees at the edge of a cliff and the tinfoil reaches of the harbor littered with ships. ‘I’m lecturin you this time, George… Lord knows you used to lecture me enough in the old days. Honest it’s rank foolishness,’ Gus McNiel is saying. ‘… It’s rank foolishness to pass up the chance of a political career at your time of life… There’s no man in New York better fitted to hold office…’

‘Looks to me as if it were your duty, Baldwin,’ says Densch in a deep voice, taking his tortoiseshell glasses out of a case and applying them hurriedly to his nose.

The waiter has brought a large planked steak surrounded by bulwarks of mushrooms and chopped carrots and peas and frilled browned mashed potatoes. Densch straightens his glasses and stares attentively at the planked steak.

‘A very handsome dish Ben, a very handsome dish I must say… It’s just this Baldwin… as I look at it… the country is going through a dangerous period of reconstruction… the confusion attendant on the winding up of a great conflict… the bankruptcy of a continent… bolshevism and subversive doctrines rife… America…’ he says, cutting with the sharp polished steel knife into the thick steak, rare and well peppered. He chews a mouthful slowly. ‘America,’ he begins again, ‘is in the position of taking over the receivership of the world. The great principles of democracy, of that commercial freedom upon which our whole civilization depends are more than ever at stake. Now as at no other time we need men of established ability and unblemished integrity in public office, particularly in the offices requiring expert judicial and legal knowledge.’

‘That’s what I was tryin to tell ye the other day George.’

‘But that’s all very well Gus, but how do you know I’d be elected… After all it would mean giving up my law practice for a number of years, it would mean…’

‘You just leave that to me… George you’re elected already.’

‘An extraordinarily good steak,’ says Densch, ‘I must say… No but newspaper talk aside… I happen to know from a secret and reliable source that there is a subversive plot among undesirable elements in this country… Good God think of the Wall Street bomb outrage… I must say that the attitude of the press has been gratifying in one respect… in fact we’re approaching a national unity undreamed of before the war.’

‘No but George,’ breaks in Gus, ‘put it this way… The publicity value of a political career’d kinder bolster up your law practice.’

‘It would and it wouldn’t Gus.’

Densch is unrolling the tinfoil off a cigar. ‘At any rate it’s a grand sight.’ He takes off his glasses and cranes his thick neck to look out into the bright expanse of harbor that stretches full of masts, smoke, blobs of steam, dark oblongs of barges, to the hazeblurred hills of Staten Island.

Bright flakes of cloud were scaling off a sky of crushing indigo over the Battery where groups of dingy darkdressed people stood round the Ellis Island landing station and the small boat dock waiting silently for something. Frayed smoke of tugs and steamers hung low and trailed along the opaque glassgreen water. A threemasted schooner was being towed down the North River. A newhoisted jib flopped awkwardly in the wind. Down the harbor loomed taller, taller a steamer head on, four red stacks packed into one, creamy superstructure gleaming. ‘ Mauretania just acomin in twentyfour hours lyte,’ yelled the man with the telescope and fieldglasses… ‘Tyke a look at the Mauretania, farstest ocean greyhound, twentyfour hours lyte.’ The Mauretania stalked like a skyscraper through the harbor shipping. A rift of sunlight sharpened the shadow under the broad bridge, along the white stripes of upper decks, glinted in the rows of portholes. The smokestacks stood apart, the hull lengthened. The black relentless hull of the Mauretania pushing puffing tugs ahead of it cut like a long knife into the North River.