Stanley Elkin - Criers & Kibitzers, Kibitzers & Criers

She stared at him for a moment with an astonished respect, and Morty sat down again. He contemplated using the Haitian Sleep Stone but decided it would be immoral. “All right, I’m Morton Perlmutter and I’m here in the final phase of my search for synthesis. More later over cocktails.”

“I’m married,” she said, out of breath.

“Of course you are. Don’t I know that? You think your kind of character is possible otherwise? It’s sacrifice and single-mindedness that does that. It’s years of love love love. You’ll have to tell me all about yourself. I’m dying to kiss you. Where does your boy intern?”

“We have no children,” she said shyly.

He wanted to take her hand. It was unscientific, but there it was. He wondered, too, if he might not make a cozy confidante of this woman. He knew what it meant, of course. Why not? He knew everything. All that was nonsense about the vital aunts. Morty was King Oedipus. He shrugged. I am what I am. Nothing bothers me, he thought lightly. This is my finest hour. One of them. It’s all been swell.

“Let me have your number,” he told her.

She shook her head.

“Let me have your phone number.”

“No,” she said, frightened again.

He used the Sleep Stone.

“I…am…Rose…Gold. You…can…usually…reach…me…at Klondike 5…6…7…4…3. Tuesdays I…play…mahjongg. Wednesdays I at…tend matinees.”

He brought her out of it quickly. “Now about that drink…” Morty said.

“No. Leave me alone. You’re a strange man.”

“I am what I am,” he said.

“This is my stop,” she said, getting up. “Don’t try to follow me. You’ll be arrested. I’m warning you.”

When she had called him a strange man, she had meant something unpleasant. His shock value had worn off. That often happened to him now. He equated it with the dying sense of wonder in the world. TV has done that, he thought absently, mass communication has. It made him angry. He followed her to the platform.

She turned quickly and faced him. “I meant what I said.”

“I’ve got your number, Rose Gold,” he said passionately. She started to walk away and Morty ran after her. “Listen to Perlmutter’s curse,” he commanded darkly. “May your neighborhood change!” She was running along the platform now. “May the fares to Miami be trebled! May your chicken soup freeze over!” She was going down the stairs now and he rushed after her. “ May your fur coats explode !” he roared.

Just for the hell of it he went to the Chase Manhattan and asked to see the director. (He had to use the Sleep Stone on two tellers, one vice-president and three secretaries. This made him uneasy. You could wear it out — like anything else.)

“Been overseas,” Morty explained to the director. “I’m thinking of moving my plant to New York City.”

“That’s wonderful, Mr. Perlmutter, but you’ll have to forgive me — I don’t think I’m familiar with your operation. If you could fill me in and then explain what it is you require of us—”

“Not so fast,” Morty said, “not so very fast there. There are some things I need to know.”

“I don’t understand why our Mr. Johnson—” he said speculatively. And then cheerfully to Morty: “Of course, if I can help you.”

“How’s the water supply?” Morty demanded.

“How’s that?”

“The water supply. Plants need water.”

The director blinked and Morty went on. “I don’t expect you to have all this stuff at the tip of your fingertips, you understand, but what is your labor situation in the area? Are the workers organized?” He thought of the natives back in the Pragmatii jungle. “Would there be women for my men?” he asked slyly. “These lads haven’t seen white girls in years.”

The director moved his chair back.

“Is there any culture?” Morty asked. “What about transportation facilities? How are the hospitals? In short, Mr. Director, what has New York City to offer me?”

The director had not heard the last few questions. He was mumbling into an emergency intercom in his water carafe. Morty offered the Sleep Stone but the man wouldn’t look.

He sat down in the Russian Tea Room on West 57th Street and addressed the waiter in Russian. “We are a long way from Lubsk, hah, cousin?” he said.

The waiter didn’t answer and went immediately for the manager. The manager came over to Morty’s table.

“It is miles to Pinfh, is it not, little Russian brother?” Morty said.

The manager glared at him. “You’re one of those FBI guys, right?” he asked. “Sure, pal, I been expecting you.” He turned to the waiter. “I never seen it fail. Every four months one of these FBI guys comes around and tries to talk Russian to my waiters.” He looked back at Morty scornfully. “When are you boys going to wake up? You’re looking for spies, go learn Albanian and eat at one of their places.”

“Everybody is under arrest,” Morty said weakly, his heart not in it. “I hadn’t really meant to make my move just yet, but I was in the neighborhood.”

On the fifth ring a man answered.

“Let me speak to Rose Gold, please,” Morty said politely.

“Rose is next door,” the man said. “Who’s this calling?”

“My business is with Rose Gold,” he said firmly.

“Is this a tradesman? It’s almost midnight. Is this a tradesman?”

“I am Rose’s friend,” Morty said. “We used to travel together.”

“Oh. To Philadelphia. The man who used to take Rose in his car to visit her sister? Why didn’t you say so? Just a minute.”

“Hello,” a woman said in a little while. “What is it, Mr. Shintler?”

“It’s me,” Morty said, “it’s Morty Perlmutter. Last month. The subway. I wanted to buy you a drink.”

“How did you get this number?” Rose asked angrily. “Did you follow me?”

“No, no, listen to me. I’m very low tonight.”

“Why did you tell my husband you were Mr. Shintler?”

“Can I see you?”

“No. Of course not.”

“I’m very low,” Morty said again. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Today’s my fifty-ninth birthday. I haven’t got any friends, any family. My money is almost gone. My health stinks. I’m restless. Also I’m worried about the synthesis.”

“The what? What are you talking about?”

“I’m fifty-nine years old.” He felt his heart turn over. He couldn’t talk.

“You…” Rose Gold said. “ You . Are you still there? What is this?”

“Don’t hang up,” Morty said.

“Look, I don’t hang up on people,” she said. “So. You’ve been thinking about me, have you? Well, I’m very flattered. I’m very flattered a fifty-nine-year-old man with no friends and no family and who rides the subway and bothers women has been thinking about me.”

“I had to talk to somebody.”

“Say, wait a minute,” Rose Gold said. “You’re retired . Am I right? And you’re not fifty-nine, you’re past sixty-five. Is that right? And you’re out of business now and you’re a widower and your children have moved away and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Am I wrong or right?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Morty said.

“Of course it is,” Rose Gold said. “Listen, I remember you too. You’re basically a very decent-looking man, presentable, clean, I’ll give you some advice. Move to Florida.”

“Move to Florida? ”

“Certainly.”

“That’s your advice?”

“Or California. Or Phoenix, Arizona. Wherever there’s sun. Old people need the sun. It cheers them up.”

Okay for you, Fatso, Morty thought. “Listen,” he said, “I haven’t any time. I think Shintler just came in. If he hears me my life isn’t worth a nickel. He’s coming after you when your husband goes to work tomorrow. He’s got this powerful new car, and he’s going to abduct you. He knows a place in Philadel — No, Shintler, I swear, I’m just sending out for pizza.”