He leaned on the couch arm (he breathed gently: but felt breath's coolness only on the left side of his upper lip) and looked at the paper over his lap. I've just corrected the last half-dozen sheets, he thought: his upper arms were bone tired. Pains pulsed in his finger joints. He loosened his grip on the pencil.
The title-page, he noticed now, read:
BRASS
ORCHIDS
BY
He started to smile; the muscles of his mouth blocked it.
Mr Newboy, gone to the kitchen, returned now with another steaming cup.
"I guess—" the smile broke through—"you better take the 'by' off the title page."
"Ah," Mr Newboy raised his chin. "That does bring up a sort of strange subject. I talked to your friend Mr Loufer. And he told me about—"
"I mean it's okay," Kid said. "I think it would be a good idea if it came out with no name. Anonymously."
"Mr Loufer said that you're — rather picturesquely — called 'the Kid' by many of your friends?"
"That would look pretty stupid," Kid said. " 'Poems by the Kid.' I think it would be better with nothing." Somewhere beneath the thing inside that made him smile, there was the beginnings of embarrassment. He sighed, still smiling.
Gravely, Mr Newboy said: "If you really feel that way, I'll tell Roger. Are you finished looking them over?"
"Yeah."
"That was quick. How were they?"
"Uh, fine. I mean not that many mistakes."
"That's good."
"Here."
"Oh, are you sure you wouldn't like to keep the notebook?"
It was opened back in the middle. Kid lowered the papers to his lap. To avoid the feeling of confusion he let his eyes take the page's opening lines:
Poetry, fiction, drama — I am interested in the arts of incident only so far as fiction touches life; oh no, not in any vulgar, autobiographical sense, rather at the level of the most crystalline correspondence. Consider: If an author, passing a mirror, were to see one day not himself but some character of his invention, though he might be surprised, might even question his sanity, he would still have something by which to relate. But suppose, passing on the inside, the character should glance at his mirror and see, not himself, but the author, a complete stranger, staring in at him, to whom he has no relation at all, what is this poor creature left…?
Newboy was saying, "You're all sure now that you don't want to write again. But be certain, inspiration will come, arriving like one of Rilke's angels, so dazzled by its celestial journey it will have completely forgotten the message entrusted to it yet effectively delivering it merely through its marvelous presence—"
"Here!" Kid thrust out galleys and notebook. "Please take it! Please take it all. Maybe… I mean, maybe you'll want to check something else." He watched his extended hands sway to his thumping heart.
"All right," Newboy said. "No, you keep the notebook. You just may want it again." He took the papers, and hefted his case against his hip. "I'll take these back to Roger this evening." The papers rustled down in the case. "I probably won't be seeing you again. I really don't know how long the printing will take. I wish I could see the whole project through." He snapped a last snap. "I'm sure he'll send me a copy when it's done — however your mail system works here. Good-bye." His hand came forward. "I've really enjoyed the time we've spent together, the talks we've had. Do say good-bye to your little girl friend for me?"
Kid shook. "Yes, sir. Um… thank you very much." The notebook was on the floor, one corner over Kid's bare foot.
Newboy walked to the steps.
"Good-bye," Kid repeated into the silence.
Newboy nodded, smiled, left.
Kid waited for the disturbing memory to flicker once more. His heart quieted. Suddenly he picked up his and Newboy's coffee cup and went into the kitchen.
Seconds after he began to rinse them in the sink, he noticed how firm the water pressure was. He ran his forefinger around the crock rim. The water hissed on the enamel.
Somebody struck a dissonance on the piano.
Curious, Kid turned off the water. The cups clinked on the sideboard. As he crossed the floor, one of the boards squeaked: he had wanted to be completely quiet.
At the darker end of the auditorium, someone in work clothes stood before the brass innards. The orange construction shoes and the coveralls momentarily recalled the woman on the ladder changing the street signs.
The figure turned and walked to the couch. " 'Ey…" A heavy, flattened voice, a slight nod and slighter smile: George Harrison picked up an old Times, and lowered himself to the couch, crossed his legs, and opened the tabloid-size paper.
"Hello." Kid heard faint organ music.
"Y's'pos'd' be i' 'eah?" Harrison looked from behind the paper.
The natural rhythm of English speech; no, Kid thought, it is impossible.
"You sure you supposed to be in here?" George repeated.
"Reverend Tayler brought me down." (It would be stupid, he decided, even to try.)
" 'Cause if you ain't suppose to be in here, she gonna get mad." Harrison smiled, a mottled ivory crescent between his lips' uneven pigment. "Seen you in the bar."
"That's right." Kid grinned. "And you're in those posters all over town."
"You seen them?" Harrison put down the paper. "You know, them fellows what make them is a little—" he joggled his hand—"you know?"
Kid nodded.
"They good though. They good guys." He shook his head, then pointed at the ceiling. "She don't want no scorpion around here. You sure you're supposed to be in here. Don't matter to me, she said okay."
"I was hungry," Kid said. "She said I could get something to eat."
"Oh." Harrison turned on the couch. His green jumpsuit was open to the waist, over a banlon shirt with a raveled collar. "You come for the service?"
"No."
"Ain't no scorpion come to the damn service anyway. What you fellows dress up all that shit for?" Harrison laughed, but shook a finger. "It's cool, it's cool."
Kid looked at the large, lined knuckles and thought of the cracks in black earth. "What kind of service is it?"
"I just come because she say I should please come, so, you know, I come here sometimes." Harrison shook his head. "From Jackson, that's where—" and something Kid couldn't follow—"see?"
Though he didn't, Kid nodded. Then he became curious and asked, "What did you say?"
"In Jackson. You know what Jackson is?"
"Yeah, sure."
But Harrison was laughing again.
He, Kid reflected, is becoming a god, to see what emerged from his tone of thought. Kid's inner eye was alive with visions of June.
But George stood, dropping his paper. White leaves opened and fell, one on the couch, several on the floor. "You the one they call the Kid. Yeah?"
Kid was terrified, and felt stupid for not knowing why.
"They talk about you. I heard about you. I heard what they said." The finger shook again. "You the one that don't know who he is. I heard them."
"Nobody around here got anything to do except talk," Kid said. "You know that? You know what I mean about that?"
The black hand went down against the coverall. The green wrinkled. "So you don't like it here?"
"Yeah," Kid said. "I like it… don't you?"
Harrison nodded, his cheek filled with his tongue. "You ever come over in the Jackson?" The tongue flicked the lips.
"I've walked through."
"You know any black people live over there?"
"No. Well, Paul Fenster…"