Walker Percy - The Last Gentleman

“Sir?” The engineer cupped a hand to his ear. The burly man’s T-shirt had the legend Deep Six printed on it. No doubt he belonged to a bowling league. He reminded the engineer of the fellows he used to see around bowling alleys in Long Island City.

“You heard me.”

“Sir, I don’t believe I like your tone,” said the engineer, advancing a step with his good ear put forward. Perhaps the time had come again when you could be insulted, hear it aright, and have it out then and there as his grandfather used to have it out. But there must be no mistake. “You were speaking to me?” he asked again, straining every nerve to hear, for nothing is worse than being an honorable deaf man who can’t be certain he is insulted.

The alpiner turned to Mort Prince. “Mae here sawr him in Haddon Heights, Her brother-in-law lives in Haddonfield.”

“Haddon Heights? Haddonfield? I’ve never heard of either place,” said the bemused engineer. “In any case I don’t care for this fellow’s tone.” It had happened again, he knew, he had been mistaken for someone else.

The next thing he knew, another man came crowding in, a fair-skinned oldish man with a gray crew cut and tabs on his elbows like Jiggs.

“He’s a Jersey agent, Mr. Prince,” said the newcomer.

“What’s all this about?” asked the writer, feeling his wristlet uneasily. The engineer perceived that the other set great store by getting along with his neighbors — like Descartes — and so was in a quandary.

“That’s a fact, Mr. Prince,” said the burly man, who had decided to take a neighborly tone toward the writer. “That’s the way they do it, they come over here from Jersey like him and his friend were and they ride around the block slow like them, looking. You saw them! But we’re not worried about you, Mr. Prince. I was just telling Whitey here that Mr. Prince wasn’t about to sell his house.”

“I’m not a Jersey agent, whatever that is,” said the engineer, noticing that the pseudo-Negro was smiling a brilliant nervous rueful smile and was opening his hands first to one side and then the other.

“Fellows,” the pseudo-Negro appealed to all parties, calling heaven to witness the follies and misunderstandings of men. “This is ridiculous,” he cried, opening his hands, “believe me.”

The engineer flushed angrily. “And furthermore I’ve never heard of Haddon Heights,” he told them. Yet strive as he might to keep his anger pure and honorable, it was no use. The alpiner had detached himself somewhat and stood apart with an ironic expression like a man who has been in a wreck and is embarrassed by passers-by. And the engineer, up to his old tricks despite himself, began to tune him in to see how it stood with him. Damnation, he swore to himself. To make matters worse, his hay fever had returned, his nose swelled up and began to run, and he had left his handkerchiefs in the firkin. Rage leaked away.

But he had not reckoned with the woman.

“Faggot!” she cried, rushing past Jiggs and thrusting her face within inches of the engineer’s. She wore a black bolero jacket over her bowling-league skirt. Her bare arms were moist and muscular like a man’s.

“Faggot?” repeated the puzzled engineer, feeling his nose.

“You work for Oscar Fava, don’t you?” she asked, both malignant and triumphant.

“I do not.” He glanced at her uneasily. What to do with a maniac of a woman?

“As a matter of fact, I do have the place for sale,” said Mort Prince, who had decided to be irritated with his neighbors after all.

“Did you sign any papers?” asked the burly man, his good nature beginning to stick in his throat.

“What is it to you?”

“Could I see the papers, Mr. Prince?” He pronounced it päpers.

“They can’t break a block without you let them,” said Jiggs, his face beginning to mottle Irish red and white.

“Get the hell out of my house,” said Mort Prince, although the householders had not crossed the threshold. Everyone still stood in the cathedral doorway.

“Fink,” said the woman, who had not taken her eyes from the engineer’s face. As he watched incredulously, she balled up her fist like a man, thumb out of the way, and cocked it back.

“Hold on,” said the engineer — she could hit him! And at the same moment from the corner of his eye he saw the burly man advance upon the writer, hand outstretched, perhaps for the “papers,” perhaps to shake hands, but advancing nevertheless. Two other householders, he noticed for the first time, were standing in the background, speaking in low tones and swinging their arms briskly in the manner of bystanders.

“Excuse me,” said the engineer to the woman, squeezing past her as if she were an irate shopper in Macy’s basement. On the way he brushed against Jiggs, who immediately fell back and began to crouch and wave him in with his fingertips.

“Come on, come on,” said Jiggs.

But it was the pseudo-Negro who caught his attention. He had come between the engineer and Jiggs and shook his head sadly and good-naturedly. “Hold on, fellows,” he said, undoing his cuff link. “I’m afraid there’s been a rather pathetic misunderstanding here — a sad commentary in fact on the fraility of us all. Fellows—”

“No,” cried the engineer angrily. “Don’t roll up your sleeve.”

“Go ahead and roll up your sleeve,” cried Jiggs, misunderstanding, dancing ominously and now waving the pseudo-Negro into him.

The engineer groaned. “No. I—” he began, taking another step toward the grinning alpiner. Here was the villain!

But in that instant, even as he was passing the woman, whom he had forgotten, she drew back her fist clear to her earlobe and, unleashing a straight whistling blow, struck the engineer on the fleshy part of his nose, which was already swollen and tender from hay fever.

Oh, hideous exploding humiliating goddamnable nose pain, the thump-thud of woe itself. Oh, ye bastards all together. “Come here,” he thought he heard himself say as he struggled to get at the alpiner — did he hit him? — but the next thing he knew he was sitting on the front steps enveloped by the dreadful cordiality of misunderstandings cleared away, of debits to be balanced. The bastards, friends and foe, were all apologizing to each other. As he held his nose, he saw the pseudo-Negro rolling his sleeve down. He had shown them his white patch.

Only Mort Prince was still angry. “That’s not the point,” he was saying furiously to the householders, who, the engineer perceived instantly, were anxious for him to score his point. They were allowing him his anger. Everyone felt bad. The engineer groaned.

“I thought they were blockbusters, for Christ’s sake,” Jiggs was telling a newcomer. “They been here,” he assured Mort Prince. “And they come from Jersey.”

“I just want to make it damn clear I’m selling to anyone I please, regardless of race, creed, or national origin.”

“Me too! That’s just what I was telling Lou here.”

“And hear this,” said the writer, massaging his wristlet grimly. “If there is any one thing that pisses me off, its bigotry.”

“You’re right,” cried Jiggs. “Mr. Prince, if Mae and I didn’t have our savings in our house — listen, let me tell you!” But though everyone listened, he fell silent.

“We keep the lawr, Mr. Prince,” said the alpiner earnestly. Then, seeing a chance to put a good face on the whole affair, he laughed and pointed his chin toward the engineer. “Tiger over there though, he was coming for me. Did you see him? I’m telling you, he was coming and I was getting out of his way. Tiger.” Hand outstretched, he crossed to the engineer.

The engineer held his nose and looked at the hand. He had had enough of the whole crew.