Stanley Elkin - Criers & Kibitzers, Kibitzers & Criers

“You’re late,” Greenspahn said. “What do you mean coming in so late?”

“I been to Harold’s grave,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I been to Mr. Harold’s grave,” he repeated. “I didn’t get to the funeral. I been to his grave cause of my dream.”

“Put the stock away,” Greenspahn said. “Some more came in this afternoon.”

“I will,” he said. “I surely will.” He was an old man. He had no teeth and his gums lay smooth and very pink in his mouth. He was thin. His clothes hung on him, the sleeves of the jacket rounded, puffed from absent flesh. Through the rents in shirt and trousers Greenspahn could see the grayish skin, hairless, creased, the texture like the pit of a peach. Yet he had a strength Greenspahn could only wonder at, and could still lift more stock than Arnold or Frank or even Greenspahn himself.

“You’d better start now,” Greenspahn said uncomfortably.

“I tell you about my dream, Mr. Greenspahn?”

“No dreams. Don’t tell me your dreams.”

“It was about Mr. Harold. Yes, sir, about him. Your boy that’s dead, Mr. Greenspahn.”

“I don’t want to hear. See if Arnold needs anything up front.”

“I dreamed it twice. That means it’s true. You don’t count on a dream less you dream it twice.”

“Get away with your crazy stories. I don’t pay you to dream.”

“That time on Halsted I dreamed the fire. I dreamed that twice.”

“Yeah,” Greenspahn said, “the fire. Yeah.”

“I dreamed that dream twice. Them police wanted to question me. Same names, Mr. Greenspahn, me and your boy we got the same names.”

“Yeah. I named him after you.”

“I tell you that dream, Mr. Greenspahn? It was a mistake. Prank was supposed to die. Just like you said. Just like I heard you say it just now. And he will. Mr. Harold told me in the dream. Frank he’s going to sicken and die his own self.” The porter looked at Greenspahn, the red eyes filling with blood. “If you want it,” he said. “That’s what I dreamed, and I dreamed, about the fire on Halsted the same way. Twice.”

“You’re crazy. Get away from me.”

“That’s a true dream. It happened just that very way.”

“Get away. Get away,” Greenspahn shouted.

“My name’s Harold, too.”

“You’re crazy. Crazy.”

The porter went off. He was laughing. What kind of a madhouse? Were they all doing it on purpose? Everything to aggravate him? For a moment he had the impression that this was what it was. A big joke, and everybody was in on it but himself. He was being kibitzed to death. Everything. The cop. The receipts. His cheese man. Arnold and Shirley. The men in the restaurant. Frank and the woman. The schvartze . Everything. He wouldn’t let it happen. What was he, crazy or something? He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, but pulled out a piece of paper. It was the order Harold had taken down over the phone and left on the pad. Absently he unfolded it and read it again. Something occurred to him. As soon as he had the idea he knew it was true. The order had never been delivered. His son had forgotten about it. It couldn’t be anything else. Otherwise would it still have been on the message pad? Sure, he thought, what else could it be? Even his son. What did he care? What the hell did he care about the business? Greenspahn was ashamed. It was a terrible thought to have about a dead boy. Oh God, he thought. Let him rest. He was a boy, he thought. Twenty-three years old and he was only a boy. No wife. No business. Nothing. Was the five dollars so important? In helpless disgust he could see Harold’s sly wink to Frank as he slipped the money out of the register. Five dollars, Harold, five dollars , he thought, as though he were admonishing him. “Why didn’t you come to me, Harold?” he sobbed. “Why didn’t you come to your father?”

He blew his nose. It’s crazy, he thought. Nothing pleases me. Frank called him God. Some God, he thought. I sit weeping in the back of my store. The hell with it. The hell with everything. Clear the shelves, that’s what he had to do. Sell the groceries. Get rid of the meats. Watch the money pile up. Sell, sell, he thought. That would be something. Sell everything. He thought of the items listed on the order his son had taken down. Were they delivered? He felt restless. He hoped they were delivered. If they weren’t they would have to be sold again. He was very weary. He went to the front of the store.

It was almost closing time. Another half hour. He couldn’t stay to close up. He had to be in shul before sundown. He had to get to the minion . They would have to close up for him. For a year. If he couldn’t sell the store, for a year he wouldn’t be in his own store at sundown. He would have to trust them to close up for him. Trust who? he thought. My Romeo, Arnold? Shirley? The crazy schvartze? Only Frank could do it. How could he have fired him? He looked for him in the store. He was talking to Shirley at the register. He would go up and talk to him. What difference did it make? He would have had to fire all of them. Eventually he would have to fire everybody who ever came to work for him. He would have to throw out his tenants, even the old ones, and finally whoever rented the store from him. He would have to keep on firing and throwing out as long as anybody was left. What difference would one more make?

“Frank,” he said. “I want you to forget what we talked about before.”

Frank looked at him suspiciously. “It’s all right,” Greenspahn reassured him. He led him by the elbow away from Shirley. “Listen,” he said, “we were both excited before. I didn’t mean it what I said.”

Frank continued to look at him. “Sure, Jake,” he said finally. “No hard feelings.” He extended his hand.

Greenspahn took it reluctantly. “Yeah,” he said.

“Frank,” he said, “do me a favor and close up the place for me. I got to get to the shul for the minion .”

“I got you, Jake.”

Greenspahn went to the back to change his clothes. He washed his face and hands and combed his hair. Carefully he removed his working clothes and put on the suit jacket, shirt and tie he had worn in the morning. He walked back into the store.

He was about to leave when he saw that Mrs. Frimkin had come into the store again. That’s all right, he told himself, she can be a good customer. He needed some of the old customers now. They could drive you crazy, but when they bought, they bought. He watched as she took a cart from the front and pushed it through the aisles. She put things in the cart as though she were in a hurry. She barely glanced at the prices. That was the way to shop, he thought. It was a pleasure to watch her. She reached into the frozen-food locker and took out about a half-dozen packages. From the towers of canned goods on his shelves she seemed to take down only the largest cans. In minutes her shopping cart was overflowing. That’s some order, Greenspahn thought. Then he watched as she went to the stacks of bread at the bread counter. She picked up a packaged white bread, and first looking around to see if anyone was watching her, bent down quickly over the loaf, cradling it to her chest as though it were a football. As she stood, Greenspahn saw her brush crumbs from her dress, then put the torn package into her cart with the rest of her purchases.

She came up to the counter where Greenspahn stood and unloaded the cart, pushing the groceries toward Shirley to be checked out. The last item she put on the counter was the wounded bread. Shirley punched the keys quickly. As she reached for the bread, Mrs. Frimkin put out her hand to stop her. “Look,” she said, “what are you going to charge me for the bread? It’s damaged. Can I have it for ten cents?”