John Passos - The 42nd Parallel

“Well, young man, during the brief interrogatory through which I’m going to put you, remember that you stand on the threshold of opportunity.”

Doc Bingham ferreted in the pigeonholes of his desk for a long time, found himself a cigar, bit off the end, lit it, and then turned again to Fainy, who was standing first on one foot and then on the other.

“Well, if you’ll tell me your name.”

“Fenian O’Hara McCreary…”

“Hum… Scotch and Irish… that’s pretty good stock… that’s the stock I come from.”

“Religion?”

Fainy squirmed. “Pop was a Catholic but…” He turned red.

Dr. Bingham laughed, and rubbed his hands.

“Oh, religion, what crimes are committed in thy name. I’m an agnostic myself… caring nothing for class or creed when among friends; though sometimes, my boy, you have to bow with the wind… No, sir, my God is the truth, that rising ever higher in the hands of honest men will dispel the mists of ignorance and greed, and bring freedom and knowledge to mankind… Do you agree with me?”

“I’ve been working for my uncle. He’s a social-democrat.”

“Ah, hotheaded youth… Can you drive a horse?”

“Why, yessir, I guess I could.”

“Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t hire you.”

“The advertisement in the Tribune said fifteen dollars a week.”

Doc Bingham’s voice assumed a particularly velvety tone.

“Why, Fenian my boy, fifteen dollars a week will be the minimum you will make… Have you ever heard of the cooperative system? That is how I’m going to hire you… As sole owner and representative of the Truthseeker Corporation, I have here a magnificent line of small books and pamphlets covering every phase of human knowledge and endeavor… I am embarking immediately on a sales campaign to cover the whole country. You will be one of my distributors. The books sell at from ten to fifty cents. On each tencent book you make a cent, on the fifty-cent book you make five cents…”

“And don’t I get anything every week?” stammered Fainy.

“Would you be penny-wise and pound-foolish? Throwing away the most magnificent opportunity of a lifetime for the assurance of a paltry pittance. No, I can see by your flaming eye, by your rebellious name out of old Ireland’s history, that you are a young man of spirit and determination… Are we on? Shake hands on it then and by gad, Fenian, you shall never regret it.”

Doc Bingham jumped to his feet and seized Fainy’s hand and shook it.

“Now, Fenian, come with me; we have an important preliminary errand to perform.” Doc Bingham pulled his hat forward on his head and they walked down the stairs to the front door; he was a big man and the fat hung loosely on him as he walked. Anyway, it’s a job, Fainy told himself.

First they went to a tailorshop where a longnosed yellow man whom Doc Bingham addressed as Lee shuffled out to meet them. The tailorshop smelt of steamed cloth and cleansing fluid. Lee talked as if he had no palate to his mouth.

“’M pretty sick man,” he said. “Spen’ mor’n thou’an’ dollarm on doctor, no get well.”

“Well, I’ll stand by you; you know that, Lee.”

“Hure, Mannie, hure, only you owe me too much money.”

Dr. Emmanuel Bingham glanced at Fainy out of the corner of his eye.

“I can assure you that the entire financial situation will be clarified within sixty days… But what I want you to do now is to lend me two of your big cartons, those cardboard boxes you send suits home in.” “What you wan’ to do?”

“My young friend and I have a little project.”

“Don’t you do nothin’ crooked with them cartons; my name’s on them.”

Doc Bingham laughed heartily as they walked out the door, carrying under each arm one of the big flat cartons that had Levy and Goldstein, Reliable Tailoring , written on them in florid lettering.

“He’s a great joker, Fenian,” he said. “But let that man’s lamentable condition be a lesson to you… The poor unfortunate is suffering from the consequences of a horrible social disease, contracted through some youthful folly.”

They were passing the taxidermist’s store again. There were the wildcats and the golden pheasant and the big sawfish… Frequents shallow bays and inlets. Fainy had a temptation to drop the tailor’s cartons and run for it. But anyhow, it was a job.

“Fenian,” said Doc Bingham, confidentially, “do you know the Mohawk House?”

“Yessir, we used to do their printing for them.”

“They don’t know you there, do they?”

“Naw, they wouldn’t know me from Adam… I just delivered some writin’ paper there once.”

“That’s superb… Now get this right; my room is 303. You wait and come in about five minutes. You’re the boy from the tailor’s, see, getting some suits to be cleaned. Then you come up to my room and get the suits and take ’em round to my office. If anybody asks you where you’re going with ’em, you’re goin’ to Levy and Goldstein, see?”

Fainy drew a deep breath.

“Sure, I get you.”

When he reached the small room in the top of the Mohawk House, Doc Bingham was pacing the floor.

“Levy and Goldstein, sir,” said Fainy, keeping his face straight.

“My boy,” said Doc Bingham, “you’ll be an able assistant; I’m glad I picked you out. I’ll give you a dollar in advance on your wages.” While he talked he was taking clothes, papers, old books, out of a big trunk that stood in the middle of the floor. He packed them carefully in one of the cartons. In the other he put a furlined overcoat. “That coat cost two hundred dollars, Fenian, a remnant of former splendors… Ah, the autumn leaves at Vallombrosa… Et tu in Arcadia vixisti… That’s Latin, a language of scholars.”

“My Uncle Tim who ran the printing shop where I worked knew Latin fine.”

“Do you think you can carry these, Fenian… they’re not too heavy?”

“Sure I can carry ’em.” Fainy wanted to ask about the dollar.

“All right, you’d better run along… Wait for me at the office.”

In the office Fainy found a man sitting at the second rolltop desk. “Well, what’s your business?” he yelled out in a rasping voice. He was a sharpnosed waxyskinned young man with straight black hair standing straight up. Fainy was winded from running up the stairs. His arms were stiff from carrying the heavy cartons. “I suppose this is some more of Mannie’s tomfoolishness. Tell him he’s got to clear out of here; I’ve rented the other desk.”

“But Dr. Bingham has just hired me to work for the Truthseeker Literary Distributing Company.”

“The hell he has.”

“He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Well, sit down and shut up; can’t you see I’m busy?”

Fainy sat down glumly in the swivelchair by the window, the only chair in the office not piled high with small paper-covered books. Outside the window he could see a few dusty roofs and fire escapes. Through grimy windows he could see other offices, other rolltop desks. On the desk in front of him were paperwrapped packages of books. Between them were masses of loose booklets. His eye caught a title:

THE QUEEN OF THE WHITE SLAVES

Scandalous revelations of Milly Meecham stolen from her parents at the age of sixteen, tricked by her vile seducer into a life of infamy and shame.

He started reading the book. His tongue got dry and he felt sticky all over.

“Nobody said anything to you, eh?” Doc Bingham’s booming voice broke in on his reading. Before he could answer the voice of the man at the other desk snarled out: “Look here, Mannie, you’ve got to clear out of here… I’ve rented the desk.”

“Shake not thy gory locks at me, Samuel Epstein. My young friend and I are just preparing an expedition among the aborigines of darkest Michigan. We are leaving for Saginaw tonight. Within sixty days I’ll come back and take the office off your hands. This young man is coming with me to learn the business.”