Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

There he is, the hat, the suit, the tie — when it got cold, a long topcoat and muffler — carrying his case of swatches, everything buttoned and always an undershirt, no matter how hot. (His underpants — he occasionally went in and out of the bathroom or around the apartment in them — the Jockey kind, and they always seemed loose, one of his balls hanging out.) Downtown, walking on the street together. “Can I carry it for you?” “Nah, you got your books, and just think where I’d be if you lost it. This case is the most valuable thing I own. Without it I’m dead, and getting another one up with all the orders and names I got in it would be next to impossible. You ought to get one like it — I’ll buy you one — but for books, so you can hold them by a handle instead of a strap and they don’t get wet or slip out and you can also put your lunch in.” “Nobody carries books like that. I’d be laughed at.” “Well, they used to and still should. But you want to go with the fashion, suffer for it.” Men’s and boys’ garment center, about twenty blocks from the women’s one. Meets his father a couple of times a year there to buy pants or a sport jacket or winter coat wholesale from the manufacturers. “Half off, what better deal than that? And if the style’s out of date or just didn’t go over this year and they want to get rid of it to make room, you might get it at one quarter list.” When Gould started making good money in his late teens, he paid for his own clothes; when he was younger or only had a small part-time job, his father did or they split it. They’d meet soon as Gould could get downtown from school. “I’d almost ask you to skip your last classes but I know that’s bad and you’re also not doing too well in some of them, your mother said.” Corner of 23rd Street and Eighth Avenue, by the downtown subway entrance. Raining or snowing, then under the corner hamburger joint awning there. “Want a papaya juice and hot dog before we start off? On me?” “No, thanks.” “The juice is supposed to be healthy for your stomach and the hot dog’s kosher. I’ve had them. They’re not bad.” “No, thanks.” “You want, get a hamburger. It’s probably better for you.” “Really, Dad.” “Then let’s get moving. I can see you’re in a hurry, and I still got a long day ahead of me too.” Often — he in fact can’t remember a time this didn’t happen: “Look, long as we’re in the building”—in the building next door, walking past the building, on the same street, in the neighborhood, down here—“mind if I go to this jacket”—vest, suit, coat, evening wear—“manufacturer to see if I can peddle some of my linings?” “You always do this when we meet for clothes, even after you say you know I have my own job to get to.” “Well, I’ve always got a living to make and don’t want to waste any advantages, so why should I make another trip and the carfare for it when I’m already here? Make sense? Does to me. I swear I’ll be quick.” Then: “Why you coming around the front for?” the receptionist (buyer, owner, partner, owner’s son or son-in-law) says at the showroom entrance to the place. “This is for buyers, not sellers. You want to sell something, go round to service and give your name.” They have to wait there ten to fifteen minutes. It’s dark, grimy, with a big floor-to-ceiling cage around the whole back area that you have to be buzzed into to see someone in the workplace. “Victor Bookbinder, this is my son. I’d like to speak to Izzy Rosen or some other fabrics buyer that might be around,” and gives his card. When the buyer or owner or owner’s son or son-in-law finally comes it’s usually: “You have an appointment, Bookbinder? I thought maybe my mind’s going blotto and I forgot something. So why should I see you? I got work to do.” “I know and I’m sorry but I thought — I was taking my son around here for pants — that as long as I was in the neighborhood—” “Hey, c’mon, what’re you handing me? You’re always in the neighborhood, right? That’s what you sales slobs do. You sell your rags and are always in the neighborhood for it so you come jerking me for orders when you know I’m at my most busy. You’ve no appointment and I’ve work up to my kishkes, so it’s no.” “I just thought—” “Hey, what’d I say, am I talking to myself? You want I should tell Hank here not to let you through anymore? Hank,” he yells, “this Victor sales guy doesn’t pass no more, got it? — only kidding.” And to his father, “Just stop thinking so much, it’s not doing anything for your sachel or your wallet. You want to make a sale and be smart and not so fake dumb, then do what I say because that’s who I buy from. I don’t care how classy your rags are or the buy for the money or what any other manufacturer does, I don’t see no salesman ‘less an appointment. Okay, now get out of here, your time’s up,” and turns around and goes inside. Sometimes the buyer, or whoever, will come out to the cage with “Victor, my friend, how you doing, I got no time for you now, so another day, okay? but call.” Or: “This your little kid? Not so little anymore — he’s a real starker , a real one. You play football, kid? — you look it. Good-looking, too. Going to be a shtupper if there ever was one. I bet the girls already fall for him, do I got it pegged right? He looking for a job? — You looking for a job, kid? — I can fix it for you. We can use a reliable cart hoofer. Ours are all goof-offs or don’t show up when they promise, leaving us stranded. Bullshit artists, that’s what they are; every last one of them should be canned, and they will when we get ones better.” “Actually—” his father says. “Vic, if you’re pitching, I got no seconds to spare, none, sonny. Ring me up first, and I’ll see you if I can. And Junior, I’m serious what I said, so if you’re looking, come in and see me any day at five. You’re half the hustler your dad is, you got a job.” Couple of times Gould said, “Why do you take that from these men?” and his father said, “Take what, what men, what do you mean, the talk they give me, like that guy?” “And sending you around to the service entrance when they’re already speaking to you at the front. Also, though, if you know they don’t want us there near the showroom, why do you go? It’s embarrassing to me,” and his father said, “With each buyer it’s different. Some don’t mind my going there, and I do it because I’ve a better chance of catching them sitting and schmoozing than by calling them out from the back. And as for how they talk to me and so on, you got to put up with it if you want to make a sale. They can go to anybody for their fabrics — my company’s aren’t so much superior than another’s — and especially if the other salesman shmeers them. In the end we pull in more a year than they do — they’re just salaried, their under-the-table stuff is their commissions but nothing like mine — which is why they treat us like so much crap. But it’s all playing around, no real harm meant — they know; it’s the way the Garment Center operates.” One time one of the buyers said, after his father had called him out to the back, “Listen, fat man, I didn’t ask to see you today, I got a big headache, so blow,” and Gould said, “Don’t you talk to him like that!” and the man said, “What’d you say, punk? You want to get your fucking ass slung down the elevator shaft?” and his father said to Gould, “Hey, who asked you? Go downstairs … no, we’re both going. Thanks”—to the man—“see you again,” and when they got outside — Gould had wanted to say something about it in the freight elevator, but his father said, “Later; it’s for nobody’s ears”—his father said, “You’re lucky I didn’t clip you in your stupid head right up there. You want to kill a sale for me with that momzer forever? Next time you want me to drag you around for clothes when I should be doing my regular business, keep your trap shut.” But none of those times was seeing his father on the street, alone, from a distance, walking, what he said. Also where his father didn’t see Gould, just in his own world, caught without knowing it. He’s come up the subway exit, and his father was always waiting there or under the awning about ten feet away. “Hi, Dad.” “Hello. Like a quick bite?” “No.” “Then let’s get going.”