And I, flinching: “I got a steamer basket here for — for somebody here on the ship. Mr. and Mrs. — ” I clutch at the tag.
“Oh, is it you they meant, sonny?” He nods, as if he’s become aware of a prank. A smile displaces his irritation.
“Yes, sir. I got this basket — for this ship — Mr.—”
“All right, sonny,” he looks at the tag. “We’ll take care of it. You’ve come to the right place.”
“Yes, sir.” I hand over the elegantly heaped basket of fruit under their crinkly celluloid covering.
He seems to be laughing wickedly to himself as he takes the basket and disappears inside.
And relieved at having delivered the expensive burden in my care, I make my way back to the gangway. I move among clusters of fashionably dressed people, people jolly yet tense in leave-taking, in parting, their gestures and behavior quickened by the cold river wind sweeping over the deck. One group in particular becomes imprinted on my memory: two handsome, slender, tall young men in dark suits with narrow trousers bend in bright mirth at some witticism someone in the group has uttered. And one of the women sharing their mirth, polished in appearance, clad as befits her station in a rich fur, turns her face toward mine. She is middle-aged; her eyes glisten, yet her thoughts seem elsewhere; her eyes glisten, yet they seem remote from the laughter on her lips. The instant of our mutual survey dissolves — like the scanty smoke whipped into the taut, cold sky above the row of striped vertical stacks. I hear myself reciting the enchanting words recently read in our new textbook in English—The Ancient Mariner—which I couldn’t help reading to the end, and rereading:
The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!”
Ouoth she, and whistles thrice.
XIII
P & T YULETIDE — A SKETCH
It was Christmas Eve. And we rode homeward, Tommy and I, in the back of Quinn’s roomy panel truck, the new White. Save for a few undeliverables, all of the huge hampers were empty at last. Near midnight it was, and we lolled on the pads that were used to cover the hampers to protect the contents against the frost. The truck sped southward. And we in the back giggled in weariness at every inane remark. The truck turned east, bounded in and out of the crosstown trolley tracks of deserted 125th Street. Occasional oncoming headlights lit up Tommy’s thin-lipped, gap-toothed Irish face. Tomorrow was Christmas. Tomorrow was everyone’s day off.
“You know, you ain’t like a Jew,” said Tommy. “You’re a regg’leh guy.”
I shrugged involuntarily. “Well, I’ve been livin’ with Irish and ’Tollians now five years. Five and a half.”
“That the street we’re goin’ to?”
“Yeah, ll9th Street.”
“For Christ sake, don’t say nothin’ about me goin’ way over east,” Quinn said over his shoulder.
“All this is overtime. When we punch in at the garage, it’s all overtime.”
“Fer all of us,” Tommy added.
“Yeah, I know. It’s like Thanksgiving when I thought I got a raise.”
“He went aroun’ braggin’, I’m gittin’ six bucks a week. Did yuh hear about that, Quinn?”
“Yeah,” Quinn replied. “You got a lot to learn, kid.”
“I know it. I forgot, that’s all.”
Quinn chuckled. “You’re lucky they didn’t.”
Tommy burst into laughter. “You forgot. That’s what I mean. If you was like a real Jew, you’d never forget.”
“Well, it was Wednesday we worked those two extra hours,” Ira explained apologetically. “Then came Thanksgiving. And it was next week we got paid for it. So.”
“Thanksgiving ain’t a holiday fer Jews?”
“It don’t matter,” Ira shrugged.
“It don’t? I know Christmas ain’t.”
“No. It’s just like any day.”
“So what the hell d’you do tomorrow?”
“It’s like a Tuesday. Like a Wednesday. Only no school, that’s all.”
“You poor bastard.”
“Well, don’t rub it in. He can’t help it,” said Quinn.
“I ain’t rubbin’ it in. Honest, Quinn, I feel sorry for him because he’s a regg’leh guy. Dey don’t have no Christmas, dat’s all. No toikey dinner, no eggnogs, no Christmas tree an’ presents under it. You never believed in Santa Claus when you was a kid?”
“No.”
“See what I mean?”
“Yeah, but they got their own holidays.” Quinn kept his head fixed forward on the deserted highway, his hands moving in slight corrections of the wheel, as he spoke. “I had a buddy in the army, ‘Shnitzel,’ we called him, tall, skinny guy. He was a Jew. He told me all about their holidays. You know that guy fasted on Yom Kipper? Didn’t eat a thing an’ our unit was on leave too, way back o’ the front lines. He was always tellin’ me about Torah. That’s your holy book, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s in the Torah, he’d say. Or what’s that other thing? Talmud, yeah? It’s in the Talmud. He was a helluva good scout, though. He was my buddy. I used to kid him: Does the Torah tell you how to fade the dice? I asked. No, he said. It’s way too holy for that. Well, does the Talmud then? No, he said. Then what good is it? He knew I was kiddin’ him. He said, no, but the Talmud’ll tell yuh how much interest to charge. I thought that was a good one. I once asked him, What does the Talmud tell you to do if you’re goin’ over the top with fixed bayonets an’ you meet another Jew? I say. What does a Christian do? he says to me. Yeah, but we’re from different countries, I says to him. Well, so are we, he says. Yeah, but look at the fight you an’ me got into wit’ Craneby an’ his corporal pal, when he said you ain’t got no country — remember? He said your flag was the three balls over a pawnbroker’s shop. Boy, what a battle. They’da beat the shit outa him if I wasn’t there. I nearly slugged him myself once when he was gonna crawl out into no-man’s-land an’ get a bran’ new Luger that was layin’ there fer a souvenir. Fer Christ sake, I said, don’t you know them goddamn Heinies ain’t got a machine gun trained right on it. How the hell would a brand-new Luger git out there. His name was Abe, but we called him Shnitzel. Nearly everybody else in the fuckin’ army was Al, but we called him Shnitzel. Because he was a Jew, I guess. We kidded him for bein’ a Heinie. That was a hot one, him bein’ a Heinie.” Quinn fell silent, watched the road, steered into the open away from the tracks, yawned. “Ah, Jesus. We ain’t got all the answers. I don’t give a shit what anybody says, Father McGonnigle, or nobody else.”
“Yeah? I wasn’t rubbin’ it in,” Tommy reiterated. “We was just talkin’.”
“So what d’you do tomorrow?” I asked him.
“Me? Sleep.”
“Sleep!” I echoed. “Christmas?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t git outa bed for the Pope.”
And suddenly the tension within me seemed to discharge. The awesome figure of the supreme Pontiff, seen in the rotogravure sections of the newspapers, loomed up solemnly in the darkness near the closed panel doors of the truck. In all his regalia, with crosier in hand and tiara on head, he sternly adjured Tommy to get out of bed — and was defied. It seemed so ludicrous, so gigantically ludicrous, that all at once I was convulsed with laughter; I squealed, I howled, I rolled on the pad. Tommy joined me without knowing why; and Quinn up front chortled wearily: “What the hell’s got into yuh, kid?”