Charles Baxter: There's Something I Want You to Do

“One of what?” Harry asked.

“I was a Schindler Jew,” 32-A said.

Harry Albert felt a slight electrical shock. “I’m honored to meet you, sir,” he said. He held out his hand and introduced himself to the man, who replied with his own name, “David Lowie.” Or at least it sounded like Lowie. Harry didn’t think it would be polite to ask 32-A (or, no: a person shouldn’t think of a Holocaust survivor as 32-A) to repeat his name, so he refrained. Nor could he address his seatmate as David, presuming on an intimacy that did not exist. Mr. Lowie? Well, for the duration of an airplane flight, who needs names? Anonymity was the rule.

Apparently his seatmate didn’t think so. “Harry Albert?” the man asked. “What’s your last name?”

“It’s Albert.”

“Rrrgggr,” the man replied dismissively. “That’s an English name. But it sounds like a first name. Ha ha ha rrrgh.” He coughed into a stickily soiled handkerchief, crusted with dried extrusions.

“Yes,” Harry said, as the plane bounced around. A woman one row in front of him, on the other side of the aisle, was anxiously reading while holding her husband’s hand. Okay: it was a turbulent flight but not life-threatening. “Could I ask you,” Harry said, turning to his seatmate, “what Schindler was like? Did you ever talk to him?”

“ Talk to him? What a question. No! Never. Don’t be nuts. You didn’t even look at him.”

“You didn’t look at him?”

“Of course not. I kept my head down. I could hardly tell you what he looked like. You didn’t look at any of the Germans. If you were smart.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? I see you don’t— Well, because . It’s, um. Because obviously. Because you didn’t look at them, Schindler included. Not any of them. You know, I was going to be in that movie. Spielberg, that fellow, not a tall man, flew me to the grave site. In Jerusalem! With the camera set up, shooting, take one take two, I put a stone on the grave, me. Filmed. Lights, camera, action.”

“Were you—?”

“I got a good dry-cleaning business in Milwaukee,” the man said. “Several stores. Successful! A new one out in Brookfield, maybe one in Waukesha. We’re looking into it. My life doesn’t depend on being in a Hollywood film. I got left on the floor.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I got left on the floor. What’s the matter? This phrase, you never heard it? When they cut you out?”

“Oh,” Harry said, “the cutting-room floor . You got left on the cutting-room floor.”

“This is what I said.”

“No, you said you got left on the floor. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what floor you were talking about.”

“What’d you think I was talking about? The second floor, lingerie, where you buy ladies’ undergarments? This is— Well, you’re a kid, no wonder you don’t know anything. So. I went over there, a nice hotel, free food, the Holy Land, Jerusalem, he shoots me, I am directed, but where am I in the film? Nowhere. Not that I mind .”

“I’m sorry. You should have been in it.”

“You’re telling me. They flew me to Jerusalem. Coddled, there and back. A seat in first class both ways. So tell me. They don’t want me in their film. What’s wrong with me? My appearance? Anything? No. I don’t think so.”

Harry looked more carefully at his seatmate’s face, which was of a formidable ugliness. Of course, ugliness was no one’s fault despite what Oscar Wilde had said about the matter. Lowie’s elderly expression was one of sour, downturned-mouth disgust mixed with a very precise rudeness. However, he was a survivor, so hats off.

“You see anything wrong with my face?” The man was persistent.

“Not a thing,” Harry Albert said. “Clearly they made a mistake, leaving me on the floor. I mean you. Not me. You. Slip of the tongue.”

“You, they didn’t leave on the floor. With your looks, a handsome English prince like yourself, they never leave you down there. Guys like you? Always in the movie, upstairs, presidential suite, the best treatment, silk sheets. Palace guard out in front, beefeaters, room service. You, they put in the golden carriage. Horses pull you. People waving, want your autograph. Guys like me, never, unless we fight for it, compete, in a free market. How come therefore they fly me to Jerusalem if they’re only going to waste my time? This remains a puzzle. Even my wife can’t solve it. So why are you flying to Vegas?”

“A business conference,” Harry Albert said.

“What do you do?”

“Manufactu rer’s rep. Medical devices.”

“Well, good. That’s a good business. The economy can never hurt you if you sell to sick people. The sick are always with us, I assure you, Harry Albert. Always will be. A full supply of the sick. Hoards of sick. More of them always, too, including the old, like, what do the kids call them, zombies.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“What’re you going to be doing in Vegas?”

“Oh. Me? I’m meeting my wife. She got there yesterday, a cheaper flight, one night on her own, and she’s been playing the slots. I had work I had to do, talk to a banker here in Minneapolis, therefore I’m leaving today. She’s been playing the slots, did I mention that? And tonight and tomorrow and the next day, we’re going to the shows. The shows in Las Vegas are the best in the world! The nightlife. It’s— Am I explaining? Even a child knows. Do you like nightlife?”

Harry Albert liked nightlife very much but suddenly felt that a certain tact might be necessary. “Yes,” he said.

“And the showgirls?”

“Showgirls? Meh,” Harry Albert said.

“Meh?”

“Yeah, meh. I like the costumes sometimes,” Harry Albert said.

“Costumes, yes, sequins and glitter, but they’re not the point. What’s with the ‘meh,’ if I may ask?”

“I can explain.”

“This explanation I would like to hear. Every year, my wife and I go to Vegas. We have fun. We gamble a little, we go to the shows. Performances, by the very best: Wayne Newton, Olivia Newton-John, Sammy Davis Jr. Have you seen him? What a voice! Versatility! Perhaps he has no appeal to English royalty like Prince Albert, but what’s the harm? Okay, so he’s been dead for a while, but my point is: greatness. Also, and I don’t think I mentioned this, the sun. The sun is a prizewinner. Have you ever seen rain in Las Vegas?”

“No. Never.”

“Exactly. They’re smart. They have the sun under contract.”

“And rain?”

“Rain they don’t employ.”

“Well, it’s a desert out there,” Harry Albert said.

“Yes, but nightlife blooms where no rain falls. You’ve heard that expression? What time is it at the blackjack table? Who cares? Shoot out the clocks! The showgirls, tanned and healthy, where do these girls come from? They pop up out of the cactus plants, could be. Do they have mothers? Are they desert creatures like armadillos? I don’t bother to ask. Even my wife enjoys the showgirls, as long as they’re dancing. I like to sit close, so you can see the sweat. Sweat drips down their long legs. I like that. Criticize me if you want to.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t like them? Prince Albert, I believe you said you were indifferent to showgirls.”

“Well, I’m gay.”

“So are the girls. Everyone smiles in Vegas. Everyone is happy and carefree, except for the losers of life savings. You have to know when to stop. Common sense. I don’t see the problem.”

“You don’t get it,” Harry Albert said. “I’m queer.”