Authors: Kurt Vonnegut
Paul frowned at the screen for a moment, tried to jiggle as the saxophonist jiggled, and to fit a song to the rhythm. Suddenly his mind clicked, and the tune was flowing in his imagination as surely as though the sound had been turned on. “ ‘Rosebud.’ The song is ‘Rosebud,’ ” said Paul.
The young man smiled quietly. “ ‘Rosebud,’ eh? Just for laughs, want to put a little money on it? I’ll say it’s—um, ah, well—‘Paradise Moon,’ maybe.”
“How much?”
The young man studied Paul’s jacket, and then, with slight surprise, his expensive trousers and shoes. “Ten?”
“Ten, by God. ‘Rosebud’!”
“What’s he say it is, Alfy?” called the bartender.
“He says ‘Rosebud,’ I say ‘Paradise Moon.’ Turn her on.”
The last notes of “Paradise Moon” blared from the loudspeaker, the saxophonist grimaced and backed off the screen. The bartender winked admiringly at Alfy and turned down the volume again.
Paul handed Alfy the ten. “Congratulations.”
Alfy sat down in the booth without being invited. He looked at the screen, blew smoke through his nose, and closed his eyes reflectively. “What you figure they’re playing now?”
Paul decided to buckle down and get his money back. He looked hard at the screen, and took his time. The whole orchestra was in view now, and, once he thought he’d picked up the thread of a melody, he looked from musician to musician for confirmation. “An old, old one,” he said. “ ‘Stardust.’ ”
“For ten it’s ‘Stardust’?”
“For ten.”
“What is it, Alfy?” called the bartender.
Alfy jerked a thumb at Paul. “This kid’s fair. He says ‘Stardust,’ and I can see where he gets it. He’s right about the oldy, but he picked the wrong one. ‘Mood Indigo’ is the name.” He looked sympathetically at Paul. “It’s a tough one all right.” He snapped his fingers.
The bartender twisted the volume knob, and “Mood Indigo” filled the air.
“Wonderful!” said Paul, and he turned to Finnerty for confirmation. Finnerty was lost in his own thoughts, and his lips moved slightly, as though in an imaginary conversation. Despite the noise and excitement of Alfy’s performances, he apparently hadn’t noticed them.
“A knack,” said Alfy modestly. “Like anything else: you know, keep at it long enough, and you surprise yourself. Couldn’t tell you—in real detail, you know—how I did it. Gets to be another sense—you kind
of feel
it.”
The bartender, the waitress, and several other bystanders had fallen silent in order to hear Ally’s words.
“Oh, there’s some tricks,” said Alfy. “Watch the bass drum quiver instead of what the guy’s doing with the traps. Get the basic beat that way. Lot of people watch the traps, see, and the guy may be going off on a tangent. Things like that you can learn. And, you gotta know instruments—how they make a high note, how they make a low one. But that ain’t enough.” His voice took on a respectful, almost reverent tone. “It’s kind of spooky what else it takes.”
“He does classical stuff too,” said the bartender eagerly. “Oughta see him with the Boston Pops on Sunday nights.”
Alfy ground out his cigarette impatiently. “Yeah, yeah—classics,” he said, frowning, mercilessly airing his inner doubts about himself. “Yeah, I was lucky last Sunday when you saw me. But I ain’t got the repertory for that. I’m over my head, and you can’t pick up in the middle of the classics. And you play hell building a repertory of that stuff, when you gotta wait sometimes a year, two years, to see the thing twice.” He rubbed his eyes, as though remembering hours of concentration before a video screen. “You gotta see ’em plugged and plugged and plugged. And all the time new ones—and lots of ’em steals from oldies.”
“Tough, eh?” said Paul.
Alfy raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, it’s tough—like anything else. Tough to be the best.”
“There’s punks trying to break in, but they can’t touch Alfy,” said the bartender.
“They’re good in their specialties—usually the quick killings,” said Alfy. “You know, the minute a new number’s out, they try and cash in on it before everybody’s seen it. But none of ’em’s making a living at it, I’ll tell you that. Got no repertory, and that’s what it takes to keep going day in, day out.”
“This is your living?” said Paul. He hadn’t succeeded in
keeping the sense of whimsey out of his voice, and quick resentment was all about him.
“Yeah,” said Alfy coldly, “this is my living. A buck here, ten cents there—”
“Twenty bucks here,” said Paul. This seemed to soften most of the expressions.
The bartender was anxious to maintain a friendly atmosphere. “Alfy started out as a pool shark, eh, Alfy?” he said briskly.
“Yeah. But the field’s crowded. Maybe room for ten, twenty guys going at it steady. There must of been a couple of hundred of us trying to make a go of it with pool. The Army and the Reeks and Wrecks were on my tail, so I started looking around for something else. Funny, without thinking much about it, I’d been doing this since I was a kid. It’s what I should of gone into right from the first. Reeks and Wrecks,” he said contemptuously, apparently recalling how close he came to being drafted into the R and R Corps. “Army!” He spat.
A couple of soldiers and a large number of men from the Reeks and Wrecks heard him insult their organizations, and they did nothing but nod, sharing his contempt.
Alfy looked at the screen. “ ‘Baby, Dear Baby, Come Home With Me Now,’ ” he said. “A newy.” He hurried to the bar to study the movements of the band more closely. The bartender rested his hand on the volume knob and watched anxiously for Alfy’s signals. Alfy would raise an eyebrow, and the bartender would turn up the volume. It would be on for a few seconds, Alfy would nod, and off it would go again.
“What’ll it be, boys?” said the waitress.
“Hmmm?” said Paul, still fascinated by Alfy. “Oh—bourbon and water.” He was experimenting with his eyes, and finding that they didn’t work too well.
“Irish and water,” said Finnerty. “Hungry?”
“Yeah—give us a couple of hard-boiled eggs, please.”
Paul felt wonderful, at one with the saloon, and, by extension, with all humanity and the universe. He felt witty, and on the verge of a splendid discovery. Then he remembered. “Holy God! Anita!”
“Where?”
“At home—waiting.” Unsteadily, mumbling cheery greetings to all he passed, Paul got to the telephone booth, which reeked with a previous occupant’s cigar smoke. He called home.
“Look, Anita—I won’t be home for supper. Finnerty and I got to talking, and—”
“It’s all right, dear. Shepherd told me not to wait.”
“Shepherd?”
“Yes—he saw you down there, and told me you didn’t look like a man on his way home.”
“When did you see him?”
“He’s here now. He came to apologize for last night. Everything’s all ironed out, and we’re having a very nice time.”
“Oh? You accepted his apology?”
“Let’s say we arrived at an understanding. He’s worried that you’ll turn in a bad report on him to Kroner, and I did everything I could to make him think you were considering it seriously.”
“Oh, now listen, I’m not going to turn in any bad report on that—”
“It’s the way
he
plays. Fight fire with fire. I got him to agree not to spread any more tales about you. Aren’t you proud of me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Now you’ve got to keep working on him, keep him worried.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now, you just go ahead and have a good time. It does you good to get away now and then.”
“Yes’m.”
“And please try to get Finnerty to move out.”
“Yes’m.”
“Do you think I nag you?”
“No’m.”
“Paul! Would you like it if I didn’t take an interest?”
“No’m.”
“All right. You just go ahead and get drunk. It’ll do you good. Eat something, though. I love you.”
“I love
you.”
He hung up, and turned to face the world through the steamy window of the phone booth. Along with his feeling of dizziness was a feeling of newness—the feeling of fresh, strong identity growing within him. It was a generalized love—particularly for the little people, the common people, God bless them. All his life they had been hidden from him by the walls of his ivory tower. Now, this night, he had come among them, shared their hopes and disappointments, understood their yearnings, discovered the beauty of their simplicities and their earthy values. This was
real
, this side of the river, and Paul loved these common people, and wanted to help, and let them know they were loved and understood, and he wanted them to love him too.
When he got back to the booth, two young women were sitting with Finnerty, and Paul loved them instantly.
“Paul—I’d like you to meet my cousin Agnes from Detroit,” said Finnerty. He rested his hand on the knee of a fat and determinedly cheerful redhead sitting next to him. “And this,” he said, pointing across the table at a tall, homely brunette, “is
your
cousin Agnes.”
“How do you do, Agnes and Agnes.”
“Are you as crazy as he is?” said the brunette suspiciously. “If you are, I’m going home.”
“Good, clean, fun-loving American type, Paul is,” said Finnerty.
“Tell me about yourself,” said Paul expansively.
“My name isn’t Agnes, it’s Barbara,” said the brunette. “And she’s Martha.”
“What’ll it be?” said the waitress.
“Double Scotch and water,” said Martha.
“Same,” said Barbara.
“That’ll be four dollars for the ladies’ drinks,” said the waitress.
Paul handed her a five.
“Holy smokes!” said Barbara, staring at the identification card in Paul’s billfold. “This guy’s an engineer!”
“You from
across
the river?” said Martha to Finnerty.
“Deserters.”
Both girls moved away, and with their backs against the wall of the booth, they looked at Paul and Finnerty with puzzlement. “I’ll be go to hell,” said Martha at last. “What you want to talk about? I had algebra in high school.”
“We’re just plain folks,” said Paul.
“What’ll it be?” said the waitress.
“Scotch, double,” said Martha.
“Same,” said Barbara.
“Come here, damn it,” said Finnerty, pulling Martha to his side again.
Barbara still kept her distance from Paul and looked at him distastefully. “What are you doing over here—having a good laugh at the dumb bunnies?”
“I like it over here,” said Paul earnestly.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Honest, I’m not at all. Did I say anything that sounded like I was?”
“You’re thinking it,” she said.
“That’ll be four dollars for the ladies’ drinks,” said the waitress.
Paul paid again. He didn’t know what to say next to Barbara. He didn’t want to make a pass at her. He simply wanted her to be friendly and companionable, and to see that he wasn’t a stuffed shirt at all. Far from it.
“They don’t castrate you when they give you an engineering degree,” Finnerty was saying to Martha.
“They might as well,” said Martha. “Some of the kids that come over from across the river—you’d think they were.”
“After our time,” said Finnerty. “I meant they didn’t
use
to.”
To build up more of an atmosphere of intimacy, rapport, Paul casually picked up one of the shot-glasses before Barbara and sipped at it. It then dawned on him that the shots of expensive Scotch, which had been arriving as though by bucket brigade, were no more than brown water. “Smooth,” he said.
“So what am I supposed to do, have a nervous breakdown?” said Barbara. “Let me out.”
“No, please, that’s all right. Just talk to me is all. I understand.”
“What’ll it be?” said the waitress.
“Scotch, double, with water,” said Paul.
“Trying to make me feel bad?”
“I want you to feel good. If you need money, I want to help.” He meant it with all his heart.
“Suit yourself, plunger,” said Barbara. She looked restlessly about the room.
Paul’s eyelids grew heavier and heavier and heavier as he tried to think of the phrase that would break the ice with Barbara. He folded his arms on the table top and, for just an instant’s rest, he laid his head on them.
When he opened his eyes again, Finnerty was shaking him, and Barbara and Martha had gone. Finnerty helped him out onto the sidewalk for air.
The out-of-doors was a nightmare of light and noise, and Paul could see that some sort of torchlight parade was under way. He burst into a cheer as he recognized Luke Lubbock, who was being borne by in a sedan chair.
When Finnerty had established him back in the booth, a speech, the nugget of the whole evening’s nebulous impressions, composed itself in Paul’s mind, took on form and polish
inspirationally, with no conscious effort on his part. He had only to deliver it to make himself the new Messiah and Ilium the new Eden. The first line was at his lips, tearing at them to be set free.
Paul struggled to stand on the bench, and from there he managed to step to the table. He held his hands over his head for attention.
“Friends, my friends!” he cried. “We must meet in the middle of the bridge!” The frail table suddenly lurched beneath him. He heard the splitting of wood, cheers, and again—darkness.
The next voice was the bartender’s. “Come on—closing time. Gotta lock up,” said the bartender gently.
Paul sat up and groaned. His mouth was dry, and his head ached. The table was gone from the booth, and there were only cracked plaster and boltheads to show where it had once been moored to the wall.
The saloon seemed deserted, but the air was filled with a painful clangor. Paul peered out of the booth and saw a man mopping the floor. Finnerty sat at the player piano, savagely improvising on the brassy, dissonant antique.
Paul shuffled over to the piano and laid his hand on Finnerty’s shoulder. “Let’s go home.”
Finnerty continued to lash at the keys. “Staying!” he shouted above the music. “Go home!”
“Where you going to stay?”
Then Paul saw Lasher, who sat unobtrusively in the shadows, leaning against the wall in a chair. Lasher tapped his thick chest. “With me,” he said with his lips.
Finnerty shook off Paul’s hand and wouldn’t answer.