Stanley Elkin - Boswell

The next day I took a room in a boarding house off Fifty-eighth Street and went to a pawnshop on Eight Avenue to lay in a wardrobe. I told the pawnbroker that I was an actor, that I needed a certain kind of clothes for the part I was playing, not seedy so much as shabby, and not shabby so much as tasteless, and not tasteless so much as anonymous.

“I see him as a guy in the bleachers,” I said. “He drinks beer. You know? Probably he’s not really from New York at all. Probably he’s originally from Gary, Indiana. He wears black shoes and powder-blue socks.”

“A hayseed,” the pawnbroker said.

“Well, yes and no,” I said. “My conception is more of a guy used to hard work in a factory, or somebody who wraps packages in a stockroom. He likes to watch people bowl. He likes to be comfortable. He wears wind- breakers. His pants turn over his belt.”

“Yeah,” the pawnbroker said, interested. “I think I see what you’re getting at. He could probably afford better but he’s ignorant.”

“That’s it.”

“He’s got underwear with big red ants painted on it,” the pawnbroker said.

“He wears wide ties.”

“There’s a loud pattern on his socks,” the pawnbroker said.

“Oh, an awful one,” I said.

“Yeah,” the pawnbroker said. “Yeah.”

“His wife is a waitress,” I said.

“Sure,” the pawnbroker said, “and now he drives a bus because he strained his back in the factory.”

“His sister’s married to an enlisted man stationed in West Germany,” I said.

The pawnbroker stroked his long jaw. “That’s a tall order,” he said. He came from behind the counter and studied me. “You got some size on you, God bless you.”

“It would be all right if the clothes were a little small,” I said. “That would heighten the effect, you see.”

“Maybe I got something in the back,” the pawnbroker said.

“Go see.”

He brought out exactly what I needed. It was as though the twelve men we had been describing had died back there. “See if these work,” he said, handing me some clothing.

“Have you been in show business too?” I asked.

“I’ve just got an interest,” he said shyly. ’ I tried on the clothes and the pawnbroker leaned back against the counter and admired me. “You look like a different person,” he said.

I laughed. “That’s very funny,” I said.

“To tell you the truth,” he said after I had decided which clothes I would take, “I don’t know what to charge for this stuff. On the one hand it’s all old, unclaimed, but on the other hand it’s a very good costume. What the hell, three pants, shoes, all those stockings, a jacket — say fifteen bucks.”

My hand was reaching for my wallet when I stopped myself. “Listen,” I said, “fifteen bucks is very fair. As you say, these aren’t old clothes, but a very artistic costume. If that’s your price I’ll pay it. But I just thought. You say you’re interested in the theater.”

“I don’t want no passes,” the pawnbroker said, suspicious.

“No, of course not,” I said. “Of course not. I just had an idea. Listen, let me give you your fifteen dollars.” I reached into my wallet and took out the money and extended it, but the pawnbroker hesitated.

“What was your idea?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “you know the Playbill they give out?”

He nodded.

“Well, did you ever notice the credits? I mean where it says ‘Furs by Fendrich,’ ‘Jewelry by Tiffany’? Look, I’m no businessman, but I happen to know that that sort of thing is the most prestigious advertising space anybody can get.” I lowered my voice. “It’s payola.”

“I’ve wondered about those credits,” the pawnbroker said.

“Well, of course,” I said. “Now suppose we put it in that Al’s clothes — that’s the character’s name that I’m portraying — were donated by” —I looked through the pile of second-hand cameras and radios and musical instruments to the name inverted on the window—“Charley’s Pawn Shop.”

“My clientele don’t go much to the theater,” the pawnbroker said.

“That’s not the point. For one thing it would be a gag. On the other hand it would polish the image of the profession.”

He thought about it for a while. “What’s the name of your show?” he said finally.

“The Dying Gladiator.”

“It’s not very catchy,” he said.

“Those things are worked out in New Haven.” I held out the money again. The pawnbroker looked at it for a second and then waved it away. “What the hell,” he said, “it’ll be a good joke.”

“It will,” I said. “It is.”

I went back to my room with the old clothes. Already I felt better. There are certain people who are not happy unless they get something wholesale; others, like myself, do not possess a thing unless they have had it for nothing. It was the old water into wine principle, a little harmless miracle-making. That afternoon I felt as if I were making a comeback.

Each morning I kissed Margaret like someone going away to the office and walked the few blocks to my shabby rented room. In my old clothes I was a new man. In a week I was ready.

I went into a restaurant and strolled by a table the waitress had not yet cleared. I picked up her tip for courage, for luck. Using the dime I had stolen, I went into the phone booth and called the Ford Foundation.

When I gave a secretary my name and asked to be put through to the director she hesitated, so I gave her a little razzle-dazzle. “This is Detroit calling, baby,” I said. “Get it? De -troit!”

She said she’d try to connect me; she must have been a new girl. Years before I had discovered the uses of the big Foundations. We were on good terms. I had suggested projects to them and they regarded me as an interested amateur. I was on their mailing lists. I knew, for example, where all the young poets were, the novelists. At one time I used to keep a map with little pins in it, like something in a War Room. I could put my finger on any of those fellows, any time I wanted.

“Harley,” I said, “it’s Jimmy Boswell. I’m sorry I had to scare the little girl, but it was urgent. I’ve had a scheme, Harley, which you people might be interested in. My word of honor, Harley, I haven’t gone to The Guggenheim with this yet.”

I told him about The Club. He was very interested, but vague when I tried to pin him down.

“Could I get a commitment on this right away, Harley? Twenty-five thousand a year is all it would take.”

“It’s cheap, Boswell,” Harley admitted, “but you must appreciate how the Foundation works.”

“My God, Harley, I’m only talking about twenty-five thousand dollars a year. You could take it out of the stamp fund.”

“Well, it’s not that, Boswell.”

“Bring three poets back from Yucatán,” I said. “Call off two musicologists. You don’t really believe there’s a future in that electronic stuff, do you?”

“Boswell, believe me, it isn’t the money.”

“Well,” I said a little more softly, “the truth is I’ve never known you people to be mean. What is it, Harley? Is the plan no good? I’d like a straight answer on this.”

“Boswell, the idea is good — it’s sound. But don’t you think it’s a little, well, snobbish?”

“Ah,” I said. I was grinning.

“Well, after all,” Harley said.

“The Rockefeller may not be so fastidious, Harley,” I warned.

“Now, Boswell…” Harley said.

“The Guggenheim and The Carnegie may have different views.”

“Boswell…” Harley said.

“The Fund for the Republic people may think along other lines.”

“Please…” Harley said.