Stanley Elkin - Criers & Kibitzers, Kibitzers & Criers

Morty couldn’t sleep. It was hot in the room, and however he moved his head against his knapsack he could not get into a comfortable position. Also, as he had told Rose Gold a few nights before, he was very low.

He knew what the trouble was. For weeks now he had been statistically oriented — filled in, filled up. He was in a position now to move in on the truth. Then what? Where other men often experienced the vague emptiness of anticlimax, Morty was depressed by ante climax. It was what he called his “Moses Syndrome.” (It was Morty’s hypothesis that Moses hadn’t died at the edge of the wilderness, and could have, had he chosen, entered the Promised Land with the other children of Israel, but that he had probably experienced, as Morty did now, an anteclimax and had turned back at the last minute. He had written it up. There was a reprint in his knapsack.) That’s what happens to you, Morty thought. He punched the knapsack a few more times and finally gave up.

He called Rose Gold and told her he thought he’d go over to Central Park and try to get some sleep there. He asked her if she’d meet him, and she said no and not to call her any more.

In the park Morty propped his knapsack against a tree and lighted his South American Rain Forest Lamp. He set it beside him and lay down in the grass. He decided to browse through the Yellow Pages until he became tired enough to sleep.

He was studying RESTAURANT EQUIPMENT REPAIRING when he saw the boys.

His hand closed around his blowpipe. “That’s close enough,” he said.

“Who you supposed to be, man,” the largest boy said, “Jungle Jim?”

Morty took careful aim and sank a poison dart directly into the center of the kid’s T-shirt. The boy sat down solemnly. A second boy kneeled beside him and looked at Morty in terror.

“You killed my brother,” he said.

“No, no,” Morty explained, “he’s not dying. I used Opiola. It just takes some of the fight out of them.”

“Jeez,” the oldest boy — probably the leader — said respectfully.

“You boys muggers?” Morty asked. “What do you generally clear on a night like this?”

“Hey, man,” the boy on the ground said suddenly, “I feel great. He turned me on, I think.”

“Yeah?” the leader asked, interested.

“Yeah. No crud, man, it’s very, very great. I see interesting things. Thanks, mister.”

Morty smiled.

“Mister?” the leader said.

“What is it?”

“Shoot me and my friend with the blowgun, hey.”

“You boys muggers?” Morty asked again.

“No, man,” the leader said, “we like to camp out.”

“What do you do,” Morty asked, “go after old ladies, old men, what?”

“Tell him, Ramon,” the boy on the ground said, “maybe he’ll shoot you.” He lay spread-eagled in Central Park and looked up at the stars. “I never been so high,” he whispered reverently.

Ramon looked down at his friend and then turned to Morty. “Sure,” Ramon said, “that’s right. We’re muggers. My friend here hits them low and my other buddy hits them high and I grab their purse and clip them a little.” He looked at Morty for approval. “We’re dropouts,” he added.

“I see,” Morty said.

“Poison me,” Ramon said hungrily.

The boy on the ground hummed The Star-Spangled Banner . “That’s a beautiful song,” he said. “I never realized what a beautiful song that is.”

“What do you make out of it?” Morty asked the leader.

“Depends,” he said. “Hot weather, a lot of people in the park, maybe a hundred, a hundred-fifty a week.”

“Wow,” the kid on the ground said. “Wow! Wow !”

“But you have to divide that between you,” Morty said.

“That’s right,” Ramon said impatiently, “between us. Go ahead, mister. Don’t miss.”

“Listen,” Morty said, “do yourselves a favor.” He took a memo pad from his breast pocket and tore off a notation and handed it to Ramon. “Here are the names and addresses of six organizations looking for boys. I took them out of tonight’s paper. You’ll make a lot more money and I understand there’s a real opportunity for advancement.”

“Okay,” Ramon said, “in the morning. I promise. Shoot us.”

“Why should I shoot you? You’re rehabilitated.”

“Don’t waste time talking, man,” the wounded boy’s brother told Ramon. “Let’s close in on him. He’ll have to shoot.”

“Yeah,” the leader said, “yeah, that’s right.”

They moved toward Morty.

“It actually gets better,” the boy on the ground said.

“No closer,” Morty said.

“Come on, Ramon, jump him.”

“No closer,” Morty warned.

Ramon moved to spring at Morty, and at close range Morty pumped a dart into his stomach. The boy fell writhing to the ground.

“How is it, Ramon? Is it as great as George says?” the boy’s brother asked.

“It hurts,” Ramon said.

“It doesn’t hurt,” George said. “It’s great.”

“It hurts,” Ramon said. “I think I’m dying.”

“It doesn’t hurt, man. It’s very pleasant,” George said.

“No,” Ramon said, “it hurts.”

“Ramon is right,” Morty explained expertly. “I’m out of Opiola. I didn’t kill him, but he’ll have the pain for seven years.”

Morty called Rose Gold.

“I’m terrified of you,” she told him.

“No,” he said, saddened. “No, Rose.”

“I am. Terrified. You have our name, our number. Probably you have our address. I’m terrified.”

“No, Rose,” Morty said, “that’s awful. Why should you be afraid?”

“Listen,” Rose Gold said, “I’ve given the police a full description. You can’t get away with frightening people.”

“You’re being too soft with him,” a man’s voice suddenly broke in. “I’ve hired private detectives. They’ve got important clues. You’ll be brought to justice, don’t you worry about that.”

“Who is that?” Morty asked. “Who’s there?”

“This is Rose Gold’s husband,” the man said. “I hear everything you say to my wife.”

“Why are you talking to me like this?” Morty demanded. “What are you talking about clues? You want clues, I’ll give you clues. I never had a secret in my life. I live at 205 West 70th Street. Come get me. What do you think this is?”

“Did you hear that, Rose?” the man asked, excited. “Did you get the address? All right, you,” he said, “what do you want from Rose? Why do you keep calling her?”

“I don’t have to tell you a thing,” Morty said, “but as it happens, I have no secrets. In each society I visit I try to find somebody I can talk to. Then they pass on what I tell them. It’s the oral tradition. When we finally met for that drink, I was going to share everything with Rose.”

“Share everything? Share what?”

“Just the meaning of things, that’s all,” Morty said.

“Baloney the meaning of things,” Gold said.”

“Jerk,” Morty said, “you don’t think there is one? There is one, there is one. I have an astonished heart. Life is immense. Don’t you know that?”

The man laughed. “Okay, Mr. Philosopher,” he said, “you find out the meaning of things and you call us up at a decent hour and you let us know — but no drinks. No meetings and no drinks. We have your address. We can put our hands on you whenever we have to.”

“No threats, please,” Morty said quietly.

“This man is crazy, Rose,” Gold said.

“Let me talk to your wife now, if you don’t mind,” Morty said.

“Sure,” Gold said, laughing, “talk to her. Rose.”

“Rose?”

“Yes? What is it?”

“Is he still there?”

“He’s watching television. I guarantee you. What is it?”