William Gaddis - J R

— A short story out of it which if I published it somewheres there’s three semester hours credit right there…

— Boys and girls? I think everyone’s out, stand and file out the front and wait on the platform here, get your feet off the seat, who has the money for our share in, there it is yes Mister Bast maybe you wouldn’t mind taking it? Mister Bast is joining us today boys and girls…

— No but wait…

— Can we stop at the girls’ room Mrs Joubert? Like this one on the train the door was stuck and…

— Mrs Joubert what about lunch…

— Watch the stairs there don’t push!

— Wait I’m sorry I didn’t mean, I thought you just meant on the train…

— Nine, eleven twelve are there? thirteen? You didn’t happen to count them Mister Bast?

— No but no but I’m sorry I thought you just meant to help you on the train I, I have to go somewhere I came in today to look for a job and, and wait maybe I could do it tomorrow I…

— It’s my fault no I wouldn’t think of it we’ll be, stop that running! We’ll be fine Mister Bast really we, oh the money yes…

— But I, maybe on the way back maybe I can…

— Our train’s around four yes and thank you, oh and I hope your job works out boys and girls stay together…! they dodged ahead through the flood of hats, haircuts, briskly folded newspapers, — five, six one at a time now one at a time…! engulfed in the roar of the subway until they burst from the pavement where the sun cut a path across Trinity Church — eight, nine I should have counted wait for the light!

— Hey look at the graveyard…

— Boys and girls? yes look at the tombstones some of them are over two hundred years old oh look, look at that one with the weeping cherub carved on it isn’t it dear… and they gaped obediently at the bird dropping coursing down that weathered angel’s cheek until the light changed and released them across Broadway and down Wall in disheveled Indian file staggered seriatim by a stench rising from the sidewalk grating at No. 11 until George Washington’s extended hand flung their attention fragmented round the corner into Broad where the lofty pediment at No. 20 threatened to spill its stone comedy of naked labor yoked, high above their heads, to the lively dominion seething within, buffeted by the anxiety of lifetimes’ savings adrift in windbreakers and flowered hats toward the visitors’ gallery where football field hyperbole addressed them in a voice strategically boxed along the rail.

— on the Exchange floor which is made of solid maple…

— Boy what a mess.

— Hey I thought we’re going to the Museum of Natural History.

— thousand brokers who have the privilege of trading stocks on the floor…

— We getting tested on this Mrs Joubert?

— that look like hieroglyphics on the ticker tape band you see running high above the…

— See that little guy waving down there hey? I bet if I spit…

— stock of companies that provide jobs for millions of Americans in every walk of…

— Where we going hey, Mrs Joubert? We’re supposed to go buy this here stock off somebody down in that…

— No this way, this way, someone from the company’s meeting us here… she quested through the modest playland of corporation exhibits off the gallery where questions posed fabricated to answers that flashed at the touch of a button, racks offered free picture postcards, pamphlets, booklets, brochures on Investment Facte, The Language of Investing, How to Invest on a Budget, A Glossary of Investment Terms — I think I see him, Mister Davidoff? We’re over here…

— So these are our new owners!

— Boys and girls this is Mister Davi…

— Better keep the profits coming in hadn’t we, he elbowed his way toward her from a height whose precise statistical average left him looking shorter than any adult he approached — look like a pretty shrewd bunch… he paused there taking them in at a glance as he seemed to anything that moved — well! We all set?

— Nine, ten oh there… she turned at a glimpse of diamond-patterned sweater dodging from push button information on How To Read a Stock Table, — come along now let’s follow Mister Davidoff…

— I got sixteen postcards wha’d you get…

— Quit pushing… the elevator doors gasped closed like the breath held till they opened — where we going now hey…

— Icecream, there’s a guy out there selling icecream hey…

— Where we going now…

— Right up here everybody… Mister Davidoff wheeled her off balance toward the figure ahead commanding the Treasury steps whose greeting he returned with a wave of bonhomie and introduced all round — standing here in the cradle of American history boys and girls where he took the oath as our first president… he threatened passersby with instructive left jabs — under a button wood tree back in seventeen ninety-two when merchants met there to buy and sell securities and over here, here look right over here the pits in this wall boys and girls, see them here…? But her gaze, shifting, evading the stabs of his free hand, rose to rest on the magnificent chandelier glittering serene through the lazy drift of a full American flag reflected from the fortress behind them rising, falling back on gentle billows, shifting planes of reflection and reality where the still points of light pierced the engulfing warmth of the sun — left by a bomb planted by a Russian anarchist that killed a dozen innocent people right where you youngsters are standing right now, and when J P Morgan heard what’s the matter…

— Nothing no, I was just a little dizzy.

— Shall I get you a…

— No I’m quite all right I, I haven’t felt awfully well all day if you’ll get them across…

And Davidoff found himself standing alone — on the northernmost line of defense of this tiny Dutch settlement, and once we cross Wall Street boys and girls, he led in a brave stride off the curb, — we’re in Indian country… pausing past the dark mass of — an Italian Renaissance palace in Italy, but it’s really the Federal Reserve Bank and there are millions of dollars right under your feet, in vaults five stories down in bed rock… and they kicked at the filthy pavement experimentally, eddying round him finally as he stopped at a portal plaqued Crawley & Bro. over vicious chevaux-de-frise, to allot them to the elevators within.

— Boy, hey…

— Look at that one…!

— Boy hey what would you do if they were all alive?

But of all the eyes fixed on them only the blue ones moved, as the blonde behind the desk ahead looked up; the others simply stared with hapless fixity relieved, in the wild hog, by some remembered ferocity, by rue in an antelope — like a regular jungle hey…

— What I told you, the Museum of Nat…

— Where’s the snakes? They got any snakes Mrs Joubert?

But she’d sunk back on a leather bench, left the assault to their guide’s officious requests for — the photographer, has he showed up yet? Nobody from my office here? One of our PR boys was, oh and Shirl has Monty called? I’m expecting a call from Monty here and the cars, the limousines…

A loud buzz cut him off. She pushed her nail polish aside and responded to the box at her elbow. — Yes sir, yes sir… oh and Mister Crawley, Mister Davidoff is here with… yes sir.

— And Shirl, tell him…

— He’ll be right out, she said, as an unencumbered massive panel behind her proved to be a door.

— What in God’s…!

— I want you to meet a real live stock broker boys and girls, this is Mister Crawley, he came on with the sweep he had used to introduce them to the father of their country — oh and Crawley, he added in a hoarse aside, — don’t try any fast ones on them. They’re a pretty shrewd bunch!