For a long moment, no one dared raise a hand. Then Rhoda Steiner timorously ran her hand up to half-staff. Then Mannie Davis, who had his law practice to consider. Ida. Frieda Klein, who was married to a cat who wasn’t a member. Two or three others. Harvey was playing it real cagey: now he had a phony two to one majority for San Francisco.
Suddenly it got through to me that Arlene’s hand wasn’t up!
“Hey, how come your hand isn’t up?” I hissed at her.
“What about yours?”
Huh? Jeez, that’s right, I was so busy counting the house and thinking dark thoughts that I had forgotten I had a vote too. Or more likely my arm was smart enough on a cellular level not to want to take part in this farce. Still, what the hell, it was my Patriotic Obligation to vote, so up went my arm under Constitutional protest.
But Arlene still wasn’t voting.
“What is this?” I said to her.
“I’m just not all that sure, Tom—”
Harvey puffed on his cigarette, exhaled, said: “Well now, about half a dozen are committed to New York. Very interesting—we seem to have twice as many people deeply committed to the move as we do to staying here. Which would seem to indicate that about half of us have open minds. Now I’d like to see all those leaning towards San Francisco....”
The biggest show of hands yet, maybe fifteen, including Linda Kahn; O’Brien, George Blum, Chester White, Jeannie Goodman, and Donald Warren, our Token Negro.
“And those leaning towards staying in New York...”
Less than ten hands—but, thank God, Arlene’s among them.
Harvey gave a plastic laugh. “No opinion?” he said.
Three or four timorous souls and/or smartasses (including Rich, who had already voted) raised their hands amidst titters.
“And finally, I’d like to see the hands of those among
all
groups who’d be willing to follow the community decision either way....”
About a dozen hands went up instantly. Then more hands in groups of twos and threes. Two dozen. Then thirty or more. Then Arlene’s hand went up. And in less than a minute, everyone’s hand was in the air except mine and a few of the hardcore aginners like Mannie Davis, Frieda Klein and Ida.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed at Arlene. “You’re not
serious!”
“We’re not voting to go,” she said, “just showing our confidence in the Foundation. Come on, raise your hand!”
“No chance!” I said. Harvey was sure playing a complicated numbers game. There were so many ways to vote, even overlapping votes, that I couldn’t figure out what the hell he was getting at. Except that one way or another, it would end up adding up to San Francisco.
“Now let’s see what all this adds up to,” Harvey said. “Less than a dozen of us are committed to staying in New York no matter what. About a third of the membership is actively committed to moving to San Francisco. About half of us haven’t made up our minds. But of that half about two-thirds are leaning towards San Francisco. And the overwhelming majority is willing to abide by the community decision—”
I had had about as much of the Brustein Poll as I could take. “What the hell does this numbers game mean?” I yelled.
Harvey flashed me a shit-eating smile. “You’re quite right, Tom,” he said. “Numbers by themselves mean little; these votes are just a rough tool for determining the general state of the consciousness of the Foundation community. So let’s see what we’ve found out qualitatively. First, and most important, I think it’s obvious from the final vote that we have come to see ourselves as a community, that most of us are willing to abide by the community decision. Second, it seems clear that if we do move to San Francisco, no more than about a dozen members are committed to staying behind. Finally, it would seem that about three quarters of us are either committed to the move already or are leaning that way—”
My head was spinning. Harvey had missed his calling: he should’ve been a tax accountant or a political statistician. Because he had neatly designed his series of votes to prove to the suckers that most of them wanted to go to San Francisco. Like they say, figures can’t lie, but liars sure can figure!
And, as if on cue, Ted leaped to his feet with the capper: “Well that does it, right? Three-quarters of us want to go to San Francisco!”
Harvey smiled at him benignly. “I think you’re jumping to conclusions, Ted,” he said. “Only a third of us want to got to San Francisco. The others are just leaning that way—”
“But almost all of us are willing to go along with the group decision,” shouted Rich Rossi, another of the San Fran red-hots.
“And we
know
which way the vote’ll go,” said Ted. “So what are we screwing around for?”
“I don’t think this is the time for a final vote,” Harvey said. “But let’s see... how many want a vote now?”
Only the hands of the dozen or so San Francisco fanatics went up. Harvey was playing it so cool I couldn’t figure out what he was doing.
“Ah shit!” Ted shouted disgustedly. Then he got that awful gleam in his eyes. “Dig,” he said, “let’s just
pretend
we’re having a final vote between New York and San Francisco. Everyone has to vote one way or the other.” He looked at Harvey for approval; Harvey shrugged indifferently. Ted took it, no doubt correctly, for yes. “New York?” he said.
Something between a dozen and fifteen hands went up: all the hard-core aginers except me, all the leaning against people including Arlene, and a few of the luke-warm San Francisco people like Chester White, who were having second thoughts.
“Why aren’t you voting for New York?” Arlene asked me nervously. “Come on, you’re not gonna vote for San Francisco, are you?”
“I categorically refuse to take part in this farce,” I told her.
“San Francisco?” Ted said with a smug grin.
A forest of hands. Maybe thirty.
“See?” Ted crowed. “A big majority wants to go and almost everyone is willing to go along with the vote. So what are we crapping around for, Harvey?”
The moment of truth: Ted had set it up beautifully for old Harv who could now say yes and still have everyone convinced that he had been pushed every step of the way.
But I had underestimated Harvey again. He still had one more finesse up his dirty white sleeve: “That’s not a meaningful vote, Ted. It may be a clear indication of how such a vote would go, but it’s a forced choice. It’s not a truly committed vote. And I refuse to accept anything less than a genuine community consensus.”
“Aw—”
Harvey held up his hand like the Living Buddha. “Tell you what, Ted,” he soothed, “let’s break up the formal meeting now and chew it over. I’ll call another meeting next week and then we’ll be ready for a final vote. It’ll give everyone a chance to really consider the reality of the situation, now that we know more or less how the vote will go. This isn’t an election, after all, but an attempt to reach a real community decision. It’d take several weeks to plan the move once we decide to go, so we can surely wait one more week for a final decision. So let’s just break this up and talk it over.”
And so saying, Harvey stepped down off the dais and the meeting almost immediately broke up into dozens of hot little bull-sessions. Man, that had been the Master’s Touch! Give ‘em a week to stew in it,
knowing
what the decision was going to be! Changed the question from “Do I vote for San Francisco?” to “Do I cut the Foundation out of my life?” As a group, as a community as Harvey would put it, it was all over but the shouting. And as far as I was concerned, I had had it with the Foundation. If I couldn’t talk Arlene and Ted and Doris back into their senses (and Arlene, at least, seemed no problem), they, and the rest of the Cuckoo-clock, could go take a flying leap into San Francisco Bay.
So I grabbed Arlene’s hand as we got up off the floor, held Ted by the shoulder, and said: “You can’t be serious, man!” Thus achieving what I wanted: Ted, Doris and Arlene formed into my own little bullshit group around me.
“Why not?” said Ted. “What’s to keep me in New York? I can set up a bike repair shop in San Francisco with no sweat, Doris can get some kind of job there, and I can get a big pad to paint in one hell of a lot cheaper than I can here.”
“But who do you
know
in San Francisco?”
Ted spread his arms as if to hug the whole universe to him. “All these people here!” he said. “That’s what’s so great about the Foundation—when we all move together, we’ll all know plenty of people in San Francisco. Like one big family!”
“Yes,” Doris said rather mechanically, perhaps trying to convince herself, “it’s not as if we were moving three thousand miles from home all by ourselves...”
“Et tu, Doris?”
She shrugged. “New York, San Francisco, what’s the difference? If Ted wants to got to San Francisco, why not? I’ll miss you, though, Tom....”
Ted draped his arm around my shoulder, “I’ll miss you too, man,” he said. “Shit, it’s ridiculous! Why the fuck don’t you come along? It’d be great for you!”
It seemed hopeless—unless something happened out of left field, Ted and Doris would go. Any why not? As Doris said, New York, San Francisco, what’s the difference. Of course, the
real
difference was that it’s the Foundation that counts. If not for that, I could see how a move across the country could be a groovy thing—but not if you took your worst hang-up along. And certainly not if following your insanity was your reason for going!
“You know, maybe you’ve got something there,” Arlene said. “I’ve been against going all along, but I’m not sure why—”
“You know why! Because you’re afraid!” Ted said.
“I know that... but afraid of
what
...?
”
“Shit,” said Ted, “you’re afraid of what
everyone’s
afraid of—being alone, all by yourself, in a place you don’t know, and where nobody knows you. Look, do you really think New York is the best place in the world to live, Arlene?”
“Well... not really, I suppose...”
“Of course not! You’re not that unconscious. Dig, don’t you see? It’s your sickness fighting for its survival. Your ego-fears telling you that going means change. And it’s right! Like Harvey once said to me, if you want to know what to do, take a good look at what you fear the most....”
Arlene was silent for a long moment. Then she turned to me and said: “You said something like that to me once, too. Maybe you were right. I know damn well I’ve got no rational reason for staying in New York—”
Goddamn, Ted was starting to get to her! “Bullshit!” I said.
“What do you mean bullshit? You told me to go into my fears yourself!”
“I mean bullshit, you’ve got no rational reason for staying in New York. What about college?
What about me?”
“Ah, shit, there are colleges in San Francisco,” Ted said. “And there’s no fucking reason why Tom can’t go with you if you mean that much to each other. Hell, if you
really
mean anything to Tom, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t go. Yeah,... It’s a good test of your thing with each other. If you were really meant to be together... well, if Tom won’t go with you to San Francisco, how can you—”
“Hey, mind your own fucking business!”
“He’s right,” Arlene said flatly.
“What do you mean, he’s right?” I said. “By that same stupid logic, you should stay in New York to prove that I mean something to you!”
“But there
is
one big difference,” Ted said before Arlene could get her mouth open. “The Foundation
is
going to San Francisco. We all know it is. So if you don’t go, Arlene, you’re gonna be left here all alone. No more groups, no more Harvey, no nothing. That’s what you’d be giving up to stay with Tom. But what will Tom have to give up to go with you? Just a crummy old job....”
“You’re supposed to be my friend?”
I snapped.
“But I
am
being your friend,” Ted said with humorless sincerity. “I’m being your friend and I’m being Arlene’s friend too. Because the two of you belong together—in San Francisco with the Foundation!”
“Ah shit!”
“Look, I think we ought to talk this over, Tom,” Arlene said, her eyes cold, her mouth grim and determined. “Alone.”
“Yeah, well the smell
is
getting pretty thick in here,” I said. “Okay, we’ll go eat our hearts out over dinner.”
As we turned to go, Ted caught my arm, stared at me with warm, concerned blue eyes. “No hard feelings?” he said quietly.
“No hard feelings!
What the fuck’s the matter with you, Ted?”
“I’m just trying to help you—”
“With friends like you, who needs enemies?”
“God-damn, Tom, you need to wake up! Your mind is only halfconscious! I feel sorry for you, is all...”
“Yeah, well the feeling is mutual!”
I dragged Arlene through the crowded room where the San Francisco agitprop machinery was whirring along in high gear. “You and I are gonna have a long nasty talk, baby,” I promised her.
I had decided to pass on Sing Wu’s which, though a much better restaurant than the little joint down the street, was big and light and a little flashy, with a bar and crowds, and hardly a place to talk. The little Chinese restaurant three blocks further down Second was small, dim, obscure, undistinguished, and the kind of place you remember by location, not by name. The small, low-ceilinged, badly-lit dining room was half a flight from street level and gave you the feeling of a cool, quiet cave. The only other customers, seated as we were at little two-place tables along the walls, were a cop in uniform, two old ladies eating together, a guy that looked like a truck driver, and a scuzzy old duck about one step up from a Bowery bum. The bigger tables in the center of the dining room looked like they had last seen service in 1939.
Arlene and I hadn’t said much to each other on the cab ride down—in fact we both seemed to be purposely confining the talk to where we were going to eat—and we still hadn’t broken down the wall of small talk and long silences between us as I ordered dinner and the waiter plunked down a pot of tea on the table. I let her pour cups of tea for us—a very Bronx-chick thing to do—and sipped mine straight—a very hip thing to do—while she dumped a huge spoonful of sugar into hers and began stirring and stirring and stirring, staring down into the dark brown whirlpool.