“Sure. I want to drink my coffee first.”
“How can you drink it black like that?”
“I used to drink it this way in the service,” Buddwing said, smiling.
“What branch were you in?”
“I don’t remember.”
Schwartz pursed his lips and looked at Buddwing seriously. “How can you not know what branch you were in?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you were 4-F, don’t be ashamed of it.”
“I don’t think I was.”
“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” Schwartz asked suddenly. He stared at Buddwing, his face seriously concerned.
“Nothing. I just can’t remember anything, that’s all.”
“Why don’t you go see a doctor?”
“I might do that,” Buddwing said. He finished his first piece of Danish, and then picked up the hard roll and spread the three pats of butter on it.
“You like butter, don’t you?” Schwartz said. “Go ahead, eat. It’s Grade-A creamery butter, straight from the cows.”
“It’s very good butter,” Buddwing said, biting into the roll.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Don’t you remember anything at all?”
“Well, hardly anything.”
“You remember my name?”
“Sure.”
“What’s my name?” Schwartz said, twitching, testing him.
“Isadore Schwartz.”
“That’s very good,” Schwartz said. “See? Your memory ain’t so bad, after all.”
“Oh, I can remember everything that happened since I woke up this morning,” Buddwing said.
“You think you’ll remember where this cafeteria is?”
“I think so,” Buddwing said.
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like you to come back. I like to see a man who knows good food. Where’s your ticket?”
“What ticket?”
“The one you have to give the cashier on the way—”
“Oh. There it is. On the tray.”
Schwartz picked up the ticket. “Forget it,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, forget it. This is on me, Isadore Schwartz. I like to see a man eating. Drink your milk.”
“I can pay for my breakfast,” Buddwing said.
“Don’t I see you can pay for your breakfast? Do you look like a bum? Don’t you think I got eyes? The only thing that’s wrong with you is you can’t remember anything, that’s all.”
“Well, I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Schwartz, but—”
“What gesture? This ain’t a gesture, it’s a reality, a fact. I, Isadore Schwartz, am paying for your breakfast, Sam whatever the hell you changed your name to.”
“Buddwing.”
“That’s right, Buddwing. Where’d you pick a cockamamie name like that?”
“From a beer truck.”
“It sounds like from a beer truck, believe me,” Schwartz said. “You ain’t gonna drink your milk?”
“I was just coming to it.”
“Take a bite of the cheese Danish,” Schwartz said. Buddwing picked up the Danish and bit into it. “How’s that?”
“Delicious.”
“I know it is. Drink your milk. That’s Grade-A homogenized, from the same creamery the butter comes from. Here you don’t get pyok water when you order milk. It’s some milk, ain’t it?”
“It’s delicious,” Buddwing said.
“You ought to go see a doctor, you know that?” Schwartz said. “You shouldn’t put off ailments, no matter how small they seem. I’m telling you. My brother Dave, he had an ingrown toenail, he didn’t see a doctor, it was murder, believe me. Go see a doctor.”
“Well, maybe I will.”
“Though I must admit you eat like a healthy young horse. How old are you, anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t it bother you, not remembering anything?”
“Well... yes and no.”
Schwartz nodded gravely, and then twitched. “You better go see a doctor, Sam. Otherwise, twenty years from now, you’ll wake up in some small town in Minnesota, you’ll be married with four kids, and you’ll suddenly remember you ain’t Sam Buddwing at all, you’re really Max Lipschitz and you got a wife and a grown daughter up in the Bronx. That could get very complicated.”
“I guess it could.”
“Go see a doctor. They’re all lousy finks, I know, but maybe you’ll be lucky. Maybe you’ll find one who can help you.”
“Well, I thought I’d scout around a little on my own,” Buddwing said.
“Well, listen, it’s up to you. It’s your life, I’m only telling you what I would do. I’m talking to you like a father or a brother, the way I talked to Dave when he had the ingrown toenail.” Schwartz shrugged, and then twitched. “He wouldn’t listen to me, either.”
Buddwing drained his glass of milk and said, “Well, maybe I will go to a doctor.” He paused. “Listen, I wish you’d let me pay for my own—”
“Wouldn’t hear of it. Go on, you’re my guest. Can’t I have guests here? I’m here breakfast, lunch, dinner, I can’t have a guest to talk to every now and then? This is like my home. Consider yourself a guest in my home.”
“Well... thank you,” Buddwing said.
“My pleasure.” Schwartz rose. “Come back again, we’ll talk some more.” He put his hand on Buddwing’s shoulder gently, and added, “And don’t be ashamed you’re Jewish. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Some of the finest Christians, they’re Jews, believe me.”
He nodded, twitched, and then walked away from the table. Buddwing could see him at the cashier’s booth, giving the cashier the ticket, and then pointing out Buddwing, identifying him so that the cashier would let him pass through when he left. He waved at Buddwing and then went behind the steam table and through a door which presumably led to the kitchen. Buddwing suddenly wondered whether or not Schwartz was married and then, for no apparent reason, thought how nice it would be if he was not married and could meet Gloria. He basked in the idea of Gloria and Schwartz together, visualized them as husband and wife, and then suddenly frowned because he could not imagine them in bed together. The frown deepened. Rather than being unable to imagine them making love, he found that he could now imagine them all too vividly, that he could see Schwartz taking Gloria into his arms, his hands touching her breasts and her thighs, climbing onto the huge mother hulk of her, entering her. He could hear Gloria moaning as though in pain, and he wanted to shout to Schwartz to stop it, don’t you know you’re hurting her, and he was suddenly filled with an enormous hatred for the imagined image of Schwartz the lover. I could have had her if I had wanted her, he told the image of Schwartz. Leave her alone, you’re hurting her, you bastard, can’t you hear her whimpering?
He picked up his paper napkin with a harsh decisive motion and wiped it across his mouth. As he walked away from the table, he was filled with a vague fury. And yet he felt he should love this man. Schwartz had fed him, hadn’t he? Schwartz was willing to pay for his meal, wasn’t he? But the image of Schwartz grinding against his beloved Gloria, Buddwing’s own Gloria whose breast he had known — this image persisted until he reached the cashier’s booth. The cashier looked up at him, smiled, and said, “Mr. Schwartz has taken care of it.”
“How much was it?” Buddwing asked.
“A dollar thirty-five,” the cashier said.
Buddwing took the five-dollar bill from his pocket and put it on the cashier’s rubber-nippled pad. “Take it out of this,” he said.
“But Mr. Schwartz...”
“Yes, I know. I’m afraid I can’t accept his kindness.”
“But...”
“Please,” Buddwing said, and he gave the five-dollar bill a gentle nudge with his forefinger.