Henry Miller - NEXUS

He hesitated before resuming. But I want to tell you this, for my own part. I know little about writers or writing, but it strikes me that only a writer could have spoken as you did. Only an exceptional individual, I will add, would have had the audacity to take a man in my position into his confidence. I feel indebted to you; you make me feel that I'm bigger and better than I thought myself to be. You may be desperate, as you say, but you're certainly not lacking in resourcefulness. A person like you can't go under. I'm not going to forget you easily. Whatever happens,! hope you will regard me as a friend. A. week from now I suspect that this interview will be ancient history to you.

I was blushing to the roots of my hair. To get such a response suited me far better than finding a niche in the Hobson and Holbein enterprises.

Would you do me a last favor? I asked. Do you mind escorting me to the elevator?

Did you have trouble with Jim?

So you know, then?

He took me by the arm. He has no business running that elevator. He's absolutely unpredictable. But the boss insists on keeping him. He's a war veteran and distantly related to the family, I believe. A real menace, though.

He pressed the button and the lift slowly ascended. Jim, as he called the maniac, seemed surprised to see the two of us standing there. As I stepped into the lift Mr. Larrabee extended his hand once again and said, obviously for Jim's benefit—Don't forget, if you're ever—and he stressed the ever—in this neighborhood again, stop in to see me. Maybe next time we can have lunch together. Oh yes, I'll be writing Mr. Higginbotham this evening. I'm sure he'll be deeply interested. Good-bye now!

Good-bye, I said, and all my thanks!

As the lift made its weary descent I kept my eyes riveted straight ahead. I had a look on my face as if rapt in thought. There was only one thought in my mind, however, and that was—when will he explode? I had a hunch that he was even more venomous toward me now—because I had been so cunning. I was as wary and alert as a cat. What, I wondered, would I do ... what could I do ... if suddenly, between floors, he shut the power off and turned on me? Not a peep, not a stir, out of him. We reached bottom, the gate slid open, and out I stepped ... a Pinocchio with both legs burned off.

The hallway was deserted, I noticed. I made for the door, some yards away. Jim remained at his post, as if nothing had ever happened. At least, I felt that that was his attitude. Half-way to the door I turned, on the impulse, and headed back. The inscrutable expression on Jim's face told me that he had expected me to do just that. Coming closer I saw that his face was truly a blank. Had he retired into his stone-like self—or was he lying in ambush?

Why do you hate me? I said, and I looked him square in the eye.

I don't hate anybody, was the unexpected answer. Nothing but the muscles of his mouth had moved; even his eyeballs were fixed.

I'm sorry, I said, and made a half turn as if to march away.

I don't hate you, he said, suddenly coming to life. I pity you! You don't fool me. Nobody does.

An inner terror gripped me. How do you mean? I stammered.

Don't give me words, he said. You know what I mean.

A cold shiver now ran up and down my spine. It was as if he had said: I have second sight, I can read your mind like a book.

So what? I said, amazed at my impudence.

Go home and put your mind in order, that's what!

I was stunned. But what followed, as Mr. Larrabee had put it, was absolutely unpredictable.

Hypnotized, I watched him pull up his sleeve to reveal a horrible scar; he pulled up his pant's leg and there were more horrible scars; then he unbuttoned his shirt. At the sight of his chest I almost fainted.

It took all that, he said, to open my eyes. Go home and set your mind straight. Go, before I strike you dead!

I turned at once and started for the door. It took all my courage not to break into a run. Some one was coming from the street. He wouldn't strike me now—or would he? I moved at the same pace, quickening it as I neared the door.

Whew! Outside I dropped the brief case and lit myself a cig. The sweat was oozing from all pores. I debated what to do. It was cowardly to run off with my tail between my legs. And it was suicidal to return. Veteran or not, crazy or not, he meant what he said. What's more, he had my number. That's what burned me up. I moved away, mumbling to myself as I trudged along. Yeah, he had me dead to rights: a time waster, a faker, a glib talker, a no good son of a bitch. No one had ever brought me so low. I felt like writing Mr. Larrabee a letter telling him that no matter how my words had impressed him everything about me was false, dishonest, worthless. I became so indignant with myself that my whole body broke out in a rash. Had a worm appeared before me and repeated Jim's words, I would have bowed my head in shame and said: You're absolutely right, Mr. Worm. Let me get down beside you and grovel in the earth.

At Borough Hall I grabbed a coffee and sandwich, then made instinctively for The Star, an old time burlesque house that had seen better days. The show had already started but no matter: there was never anything new either in the way of jokes or in the way of ass. As I entered the theatre the memory of my first visit to it came back. My old friend Al Burger and his bosom pal, Frank Schofield, had invited me to go with them. We must have been nineteen or twenty at the time. What I particularly recollected was the warmth of friendship which this Frank Schofield exuded. I had met him only two or three limes before. To Frank I was something very very special. He loved to hear me talk, hung on every word I uttered. In fact, everything I said fascinated him for some reason. As for Frank, he was one of the world's most ordinary fellows, but brimming with affection. He had a mammoth figure—weighed then almost three hundred pounds—drank like a fish and was never without a cigar in his mouth. He laughed easily, and when he did his stomach shook like jello. Why don't you come and live with us? he used to say. We'll take care of you. It makes me feel good just to look at you. Simple words, but honest and sincere. Not one of my boon companions at that time possessed his homely qualities. No worm had eaten into his soul yet. He was innocent, tender, generous to a fault.

But why was he so fond of me? That's what I asked myself as I groped my way to a seat in the pit. Rapidly I went over the roster of my bosom friends, asking myself what each and every one of them really thought of me. And then I thought of a school mate, Lester Faber, whose lips would curl into a sneer each time we met, which was every day. No one in the class liked him, nor the teachers either. He was born sour. Fuck him! I thought. Wonder what he does for a living now? And Lester Prink, what had become of him? Suddenly I saw the whole class, as we looked in that photo taken on graduation day. I could recall every one of them, their names, height, weight, standing, where they lived, how they spoke, everything about them. Strange that I never ran into any of them...

The show was frightful; I almost fell asleep in the middle of it. But it was warm and cosy. Besides, I was in no hurry to get anywhere. There were seven, eight or nine hours to kill before the two of them would return.

The cold had moderated when I stepped out of the theatre. A light flurry of snow was falling. Some inexplicable urge directed my steps toward a gun shop up the street. There was one revolver in the window which I invariably stopped to look at when passing. It was a thoroughly murderous looking weapon.

In customary fashion I stopped and pressed my nose against the show window. A hearty slap on the back made me jump. I thought a gun had gone off. As I turned round a hearty voice exclaimed: What in the devil are you. doing here? Henry, my boy, how are you?