Consequently, Blue begins to suspect that Black is no more than a ruse, another one of White’s hirelings, paid by the week to sit in that room and do nothing. Perhaps all that writing is merely a sham—page after page of it: a list of every name in the phone book, for example, or each word from the dictionary in alphabetical order, or a handwritten copy of Walden. Or perhaps they are not even words, but senseless scribbles, random marks of a pen, a growing heap of nonsense and confusion.
This would make White the real writer then—and Black no more than his stand-in, a fake, an actor with no substance of his own. Then there are the times, following through with this thought, that Blue believes the only logical explanation is that Black is not one man but several. Two, three, four look-alikes who play the role of Black for Blue’s benefit, each one putting in his allotted time and then going back to the comforts of hearth and home. But this is a thought too monstrous for Blue to contemplate for very long. Months go by, and at last he says to himself out loud: I can’t breathe anymore. This is the end. I’m dying.
It is midsummer, 1948. Finally mustering the courage to act, Blue reaches into his bag of disguises and casts about for a new identity. After dismissing several possibilities, he settles on an old man who used to beg on the corners of his neighborhood when he was a boy—a local character by the name of Jimmy Rose—and decks himself out in the garb of tramphood: tattered woolen clothes, shoes held together with string to prevent the soles from flapping, a weathered carpetbag to hold his belongings, and then, last of all, a flowing white beard and long white hair. These final details give him the look of an Old Testament prophet. Blue as Jimmy Rose is not a scrofulous downand-outer so much as a wise fool, a saint of penury living in the margins of society. A trifle daft perhaps, but harmless: he exudes a sweet indifference to the world around him, for since everything has happened to him already, nothing can disturb him anymore.
Blue posts himself in a suitable spot across the street, takes a fragment of a broken magnifying glass from his pocket, and begins reading a crumpled day-old newspaper that he has salvaged from one of the nearby garbage cans. Two hours later, Black appears, walking down the steps of his house and then turning in Blue’s direction. Black pays no attention to the bum—either lost in his own thoughts or ignoring him on purpose—and so as he begins to approach, Blue addresses him in a pleasant voice.
Can you spare some change, mister?
Black stops, looks over the disheveled creature who has just spoken, and gradually relaxes into a smile as he realizes he is not in danger. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a coin, and puts it in Blue’s hand.
Here you are, he says.
God bless you, says Blue.
Thank you, answers Black, touched by the sentiment.
Never fear, says Blue. God blesses all.
And with that word of reassurance, Black tips his hat to Blue and continues on his way.
The next afternoon, once again in bum’s regalia, Blue waits for Black in the same spot. Determined to keep the conversation going a little longer this time, now that he has won Black’s confidence, Blue finds that the problem is taken out of his hands when Black himself shows an eagerness to linger. It is late in the day by now, not yet dusk but no longer afternoon, the twilight hour of slow changes, of glowing bricks and shadows. After greeting the bum cordially and giving him another coin, Black hesitates a moment, as though debating whether to take the plunge, and then says:
Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Walt Whitman?
Walt who? answers Blue, remembering to play his part.
Walt Whitman. A famous poet.
No, says Blue. I can’t say I know him.
You wouldn’t know him, says Black. He’s not alive anymore. But the resemblance is remarkable.
Well, you know what they say, says Blue. Every man has his double somewhere. I don’t see why mine can’t be a dead man.
The funny thing, continues Black, is that Walt Whitman used to work on this street. He printed his first book right here, not far from where we’re standing.
You don’t say, says Blue, shaking his head pensively. It makes you stop and think, doesn’t it?
There are some odd stories about Whitman, Black says, gesturing to Blue to sit down on the stoop of the building behind them, which he does, and then Black does the same, and suddenly it’s just the two of them out there in the summer light together, chatting away like two old friends about this and that.
Yes, says Black, settling in comfortably to the languor of the moment, a number of very curious stories. The one about Whitman’s brain, for example. All his life Whitman believed in the science of phrenology—you know, reading the bumps on the skull. It was very popular at the time.
Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it, replies Blue.
Well, that doesn’t much matter, says Black. The main thing is that Whitman was interested in brains and skulls—thought they could tell you everything about a man’s character. Anyway, when Whitman lay dying over there in New Jersey about fifty or sixty years ago, he agreed to let them perform an autopsy on him after he was dead.
How could he agree to it after he was dead?
Ah, good point. I didn’t say it right. He was still alive when he agreed. He just wanted them to know that he didn’t mind if they opened him up later. What you might call his dying wish.
Famous last words.
That’s right. A lot of people thought he was a genius, you see, and they wanted to take a look at his brain to find out if there was anything special about it. So, the day after he died, a doctor removed Whitman’s brain—cut it right out of his head—and had it sent to the American Anthropometric Society to be measured and weighed.
Like a giant cauliflower, interjects Blue.
Exactly. Like a big gray vegetable. But this is where the story gets interesting. The brain arrives at the laboratory, and just as they’re about to get to work on it, one of the assistants drops it on the floor.
Did it break?
Of course it broke. A brain isn’t very tough, you know. It splattered all over the place, and that was that. The brain of America’s greatest poet got swept up and thrown out with the garbage.
Blue, remembering to respond in character, emits several wheezing laughs—a good imitation of an old codger’s mirth. Black laughs, too, and by now the atmosphere has thawed to such an extent that no one could ever know they were not lifelong chums.
It’s sad to think of poor Walt lying in his grave, though, says Black. All alone and without any brains.
Just like that scarecrow, says Blue.
Sure enough, says Black. Just like the scarecrow in the land of Oz.
After another good laugh, Black says: And then there’s the story of the time Thoreau came to visit Whitman. That’s a good one, too.
Was he another poet?
Not exactly. But a great writer just the same. He’s the one who lived alone in the woods.
Oh yes, says Blue, not wanting to carry his ignorance too far. Someone once told me about him. Very fond of nature he was. Is that the man you mean?
Precisely, answers Black. Henry David Thoreau. He came down from Massachusetts for a little while and paid a call on Whitman in Brooklyn. But the day before that he came right here to Orange Street.
Any particular reason?
Plymouth Church. He wanted to hear Henry Ward Beecher’s sermon.
A lovely spot, says Blue, thinking of the pleasant hours he has spent in the grassy yard. I like to go there myself.
Many great men have gone there, says Black. Abraham Lincoln, Charles Dickens—they all walked down this street and went into the church.
Ghosts.
Yes, there are ghosts all around us.
And the story?
It’s really very simple. Thoreau and Bronson Alcott, a friend of his, arrived at Whitman’s house on Myrtle Avenue, and Walt’s mother sent them up to the attic bedroom he shared with his mentally retarded brother, Eddy. Everything was just fine. They shook hands, exchanged greetings, and so on. But then, when they sat down to discuss their views of life, Thoreau and Alcott noticed a full chamber pot right in the middle of the floor. Walt was of course an expansive fellow and paid no attention, but the two New Englanders found it hard to keep talking with a bucket of excrement in front of them. So eventually they went downstairs to the parlor and continued the conversation there. It’s a minor detail, I realize. But still, when two great writers meet, history is made, and it’s important to get all the facts straight. That chamber pot, you see, somehow reminds me of the brains on the floor. And when you stop to think about it, there’s a certain similarity of form. The bumps and convolutions, I mean. There’s a definite connection. Brains and guts, the insides of a man. We always talk about trying to get inside a writer to understand his work better. But when you get right down to it, there’s not much to find in there—at least not much that’s different from what you’d find in anyone else.
You seem to know a lot about these things, says Blue, who’s beginning to lose the thread of Black’s argument.
It’s my hobby, says Black. I like to know how writers live, especially American writers. It helps me to understand things.
I see, says Blue, who sees nothing at all, for with each word Black speaks, he finds himself understanding less and less.
Take Hawthorne, says Black. A good friend of Thoreau’s, and probably the first real writer America ever had. After he graduated from college, he went back to his mother’s house in Salem, shut himself up in his room, and didn’t come out for twelve years.
What did he do in there?
He wrote stories.
Is that all? He just wrote?
Writing is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he’s there, he’s not really there.
Another ghost.
Exactly.
Sounds mysterious.
It is. But Hawthorne wrote great stories, you see, and we still read them now, more than a hundred years later. In one of them, a man named Wakefield decides to play a joke on his wife. He tells her that he has to go away on a business trip for a few days, but instead of leaving the city, he goes around the corner, rents a room, and just waits to see what will happen. He can’t say for sure why he’s doing it, but he does it just the same. Three or four days go by, but he doesn’t feel ready to return home yet, and so he stays on in the rented room. The days turn into weeks, the weeks turn into months. One day Wakefield walks down his old street and sees his house decked out in mourning. It’s his own funeral, and his wife has become a lonely widow. Years go by. Every now and then he crosses paths with his wife in town, and once, in the middle of a large crowd, he actually brushes up against her. But she doesn’t recognize him. More years pass, more than twenty years, and little by little Wakefield has become an old man. One rainy night in autumn, as he’s taking a walk through the empty streets, he happens to pass by his old house and peeks through the window. There’s a nice warm fire burning in the fireplace, and he thinks to himself: how pleasant it would be if I were in there right now, sitting in one of those cozy chairs by the hearth, instead of standing out here in the rain. And so, without giving it any more thought than that, he walks up the steps of the house and knocks on the door.
And then?
That’s it. That’s the end of the story. The last thing we see is the door opening and Wakefield going inside with a crafty smile on his face.
And we never know what he says to his wife?
No. That’s the end. Not another word. But he moved in again, we know that much, and remained a loving spouse until death.
By now the sky has begun to darken overhead, and night is fast approaching. A last glimmer of pink remains in the west, but the day is as good as done. Black, taking his cue from the darkness, stands up from his spot and extends his hand to Blue.
It’s been a pleasure talking to you, he says. I had no idea we’d been sitting here so long.
The pleasure’s been mine, says Blue, relieved that the conversation is over, for he knows that it won’t be long now before his beard begins to slip, what with the summer heat and his nerves making him perspire into the glue.
My name is Black, says Black, shaking Blue’s hand.
Mine’s Jimmy, says Blue. Jimmy Rose.
I’ll remember this little talk of ours for a long time, Jimmy, says Black.
I will, too, says Blue. You’ve given me a lot to think about.
God bless you, Jimmy Rose, says Black.
And God bless you, sir, says Blue.
And then, with one last handshake, they walk off in opposite directions, each one accompanied by his own thoughts.
Later that night, when Blue returns to his room, he decides that he had best bury Jimmy Rose now, get rid of him for good. The old tramp has served his purpose, but beyond this point it would not be wise to go.
Blue is glad to have made this initial contact with Black, but the encounter did not quite have its desired effect, and all in all he feels rather shaken by it. For even though the talk had nothing to do with the case, Blue cannot help feeling that Black was actually referring to it all along—talking in riddles, so to speak, as though trying to tell Blue something, but not daring to say it out loud. Yes, Black was more than friendly, his manner was altogether pleasant, but still Blue cannot get rid of the thought that the man was on to him from the start. If so, then Black is surely one of the conspirators—for why else would he have gone on talking to Blue as he did? Not from loneliness, certainly. Assuming that Black is for real, then loneliness cannot be an issue. Everything about his life to this point has been part of a determined plan to remain alone, and it would be absurd to read his willingness to talk as an effort to escape the throes of solitude. Not at this late date, not after more than a year of avoiding all human contact. If Black is finally resolved to break out of his hermetic routine, then why would he begin by talking to a broken-down old man on a street corner? No, Black knew that he was talking to Blue. And if he knew that, then he knows who Blue is. No two ways about it, Blue says to himself: he knows everything.