Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“I want a drink,” he said to her as the cab started. “I want to forget what I saw tonight.”

“They were not so bad,” Gurske said. “They were scientific.”

“Not a bloody nose,” Flanagan said. “Not a single drop of blood. Heavyweights! Heavyweight pansies!”

“As an exhibition of skill,” Gurske said, “I found it interesting.”

“Joe Louis could’ve wiped them all up in the short space of two minutes,” Flanagan said.

“Joe Louis is overrated,” Gurske said, leaning across from the little folding seat and tapping Flanagan on the knee. “He is highly overrated.”

“Yeah,” Flanagan said. “He is overrated like the S. S. Texas is overrated. I saw the Schmeling fight.”

“That German is a old man,” Gurske said.

“When Louis hit him in the belly,” Flora said, “he cried. Like a baby. Louis’ hand went in up to the wrist. I saw with my own eyes.”

“He left his legs in Hamburg,” Gurske said. “A slight wind woulda knocked him over.”

“That is some slight wind,” said Flanagan, “that Louis.”

“He’s built like a brick privy,” Flora remarked.

“I woulda liked to see Dempsey in there with him.” Gurske rolled his eyes at the thought. “Dempsey. In his prime. The blood would flow.”

“Louis would make chopmeat outa Dempsey. Who did Dempsey ever beat?” Flanagan wanted to know.

“Listen to that!” Gurske pushed Flora’s knee in amazement. “Dempsey! The Manassa Mauler!”

“Louis is a master boxer,” Flanagan said. “Also, he punches like he had a baseball bat in his both hands. Dempsey! Eugene, you are a goddamn fool.”

“Boys!” Flora said.

“Dempsey was a panther in action. Bobbing and weaving.” Gurske bobbed and weaved and knocked his derby off his small, neat head. “He carried destruction in either fist.” Gurske bent over for his hat. “He had the heart of a wounded lion.”

“He certainly would be wounded if he stepped into the ring with Joe Louis.” Flanagan thought this was funny and roared with laughter. He slapped Gurske’s face playfully with his huge hand and Gurske’s hat fell off.

“You’re very funny,” Gurske said, bending over for his hat again. “You’re a very funny man.”

“The trouble with you, Eugene,” Flanagan said, “is you don’t have no sense of humor.”

“I laugh when something’s funny.” Gurske brushed his hat off.

“Am I right?” Flanagan asked Flora. “Has Eugene got a sense of humor?”

“He is a very serious character, Eugene,” Flora said.

“Go to hell,” Gurske said.

“Hey, you.” Flanagan tapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t you talk like that.”

“Aaah,” Gurske said. “Aaah—”

“You don’t know how to argue like a gentleman,” Flanagan said. “That’s what’s the matter with you. All little guys’re like that.”

“Aaah!”

“A guy is under five foot six, every time he gets in a argument he gets excited. Ain’t that so, Flora?”

“Who’s excited?” Gurske yelled. “I am merely stating a fact. Dempsey would lay Louis out like a carpet. That is all I’m saying.”

“You are making too much noise,” Flanagan said. “Lower your voice.”

“I seen ’em both. With my own eyes!”

“What the hell do you know about fighting, anyway?” Flanagan asked.

“Fighting!” Gurske trembled on his seat. “The only kind of fighting you know about is waiting at the end of a alley with a gun for drunks.”

Flanagan put his hand over Gurske’s mouth. With his other hand he held the back of Gurske’s neck. “Shut up, Eugene,” he said. “I am asking you to shut up.”

Gurske’s eyes rolled for a moment behind the huge hand. Then he relaxed.

Flanagan sighed and released him. “You are my best friend, Eugene,” he said, “but sometimes you gotta shut up.”

“A party,” Flora said. “We go out on a party. Two gorillas. A little gorilla and a big gorilla.”

* * *

They rolled downtown in silence. They brightened, however, when they got to Savage’s Café and had two Old-Fashioneds each. The five-piece college-boy band played fast numbers and the Old-Fashioneds warmed the blood and friends gathered around the table. Flanagan stretched out his hand and patted Gurske amiably on the head.

“All right,” he said. “All right, Eugene. We’re friends. You and me, we are lifelong comrades.”

“All right,” Gurske said reluctantly. “This is a party.”

Everybody drank because it was a party, and Flora said, “Now, boys, you see how foolish it was—over two guys you never even met to talk to?”

“It was a question of attitude,” Gurske said. “Just because he’s a big slob with meat axes for hands he takes a superior attitude.”

“All I said was Louis was a master boxer.” Flanagan opened his collar.

“That’s all he said!”

“Dempsey was a slugger. That’s all—a slugger. Look what that big ox from South America did to him. That Firpo. Dempsey had to be put on his feet by newspapermen. No newspaperman has to stand Joe Louis on his feet.”

“That’s all he said,” Gurske repeated. “That’s all he said. My God!”

“Boys,” Flora pleaded, “it’s history. Have a good time.”

Flanagan toyed with his glass. “That Eugene,” he said. “You say one thing, he says another. Automatic. The whole world agrees there never was nothing like Joe Louis, he brings up Dempsey.”

“The whole world!” Gurske said. “Flanagan, the whole world!”

“I want to dance,” Flora said.

“Sit down,” Flanagan said. “I want to talk with my friend, Eugene Gurske.”

“Stick to the facts,” Gurske said. “That’s all I ask, stick to the facts.”

“A small man can’t get along in human society,” Flanagan said to the company at the table. “He can’t agree with no one. He should live in a cage.”

“That’s right,” Gurske said. “Make it personal. You can’t win by reason, use insults. Typical.”

“I would give Dempsey two rounds. Two,” Flanagan said. “There! As far as I am concerned the argument is over. I want a drink.”

“Let me tell you something,” Gurske said loudly. “Louis wouldn’t—”

“The discussion is closed.”

“Who says it’s closed? In Shelby, Montana, when Dempsey—”

“I ain’t interested.”

“He met ’em all and he beat ’em all—”

“Listen, Eugene,” Flanagan said seriously. “I don’t want to hear no more. I want to listen to the music.”

Gurske jumped up from his chair in a rage. “I’m goin’ to talk, see, and you’re not going to stop me, see, and—”

“Eugene,” Flanagan said. Slowly he lifted his hand, palm open.

“I—” Gurske watched the big red hand, with the heavy gold rings on the fingers, waggle back and forth. His lips quivered. He stooped suddenly and picked up his derby and rushed out of the room, the laughter of the guests at the table ringing in his ears.

“He’ll be back,” Flanagan said. “He’s excitable, Eugene. Like a little rooster. He has got to be toned down now and then. Now, Flora. Let’s dance.”

They danced pleasantly for a half-hour, taking time out for another OldFashioned between numbers. They were on the dance floor when Gurske appeared in the doorway with a large soda bottle in each hand.

“Flanagan!” Gurske shouted from the doorway. “I’m looking for Vincent Flanagan!”

“My God!” Flora shrieked. “He’ll kill somebody!”

“Flanagan,” Gurske repeated. “Come on out of that crowd. Step out here.”

Flora pulled at Flanagan as the dancers melted to both sides. “Vinnie,” she cried, “there’s a back door.”