He was usually in the rear of the store, reading under a dim electric bulb suspended from the ceiling by a long cord from which dangled sheets of tanglefoot fly-paper. He had made himself a comfortable seat by mounting a car seat on two packing boxes. Beside the boxes was a spittoon which he made use of when he chewed his baccy. Usually it was a filthy pipe he had between his teeth, sometimes an Owl cigar. The big heavy cap he removed only when he went to bed. His coat collar was always white with dandruff and when he blew his nose, which he did frequently—like an elephant trumpeting—he made use of a blue bandanna kerchief a yard wide.
On the counter near by were piles of books, magazines and newspapers. He switched from one to the other in accordance with his mood. Beside this reading matter there was always a box of peanut brittle which he dove into when he got excited. It was obvious, from his girth, that he was a hearty eater. His wife, he told me several times, was a divine cook. It was her most attractive side, from all I gathered. Though he always supplemented this by saying how well read she was.
No matter what time of the day I dropped in he always brought out a bottle. Just a snifter, he would say, flourishing a flask of schnaps or a bottle of vodka. I'd take a drink to please him. If I made a face he'd say—Don't like it much, do you? Why don't you try a drop of rye?
One morning, over a tumbler of rye, he repeated his desire to teach me to drive. Three lessons is all you'll need, he said. There's no sense in letting the car stand idle. Once you get the hang of it you'll be crazy about it. Look, why not go for a spin with me Saturday afternoon? I'll get some one to mind the store.
He was so eager, so insistent, that I couldn't refuse.
Come Saturday I met him at the garage. The big four-door sedan was parked at the curb. One look at it and I knew it was too much for me. However, I had to go through with it. I took my place at the wheel, manipulated the gears, got acquainted with the gas pedal and the brakes. A brief lesson. More instruction was to follow once we were out of town.
At the wheel Reb became another person. King now. Wherever it was we were heading for it was at top speed. My thighs were aching before we were half-way there, from braking.
You see, he said, taking both hands off the wheel to gesitculate, there's nothing to it. She runs by herself. He took his foot off the gas pedal and demonstrated the use of the hand throttle. Just like running a locomotive.
On the outskirts of the city we stopped here and there to collect rent money. He owned a number of houses here and elsewhere farther out. All in run-down neighborhoods. All occupied by Negro families. One had to collect every week, he explained. Colored people didn't know how to handle money.
In a vacant lot near one of these shacks he gave me further instruction. This time how to turn round, how to stop suddenly, how to park. And how to back up. Very important, backing up, he said.
The strain of it had me sweating in no time. Okay, he said, let's get going. We'll hit the speedway soon, then I'll let her out. She goes like the wind—you'll see ... Oh, by the way, if ever you get panicky and don't know what to do, just shut off the motor and slam on the brakes.
We came to the speedway, his face beaming now. He pulled his cap down over his eyes. Hang on! he said, and phttt! we were off. It seemed to me that we were hardly touching the ground. I glanced at the speedometer: eighty-five. He gave her more gas. She can do a hundred without feeling it. Don't worry, I've got her in hand.
I said nothing, just braced myself and half closed my eyes. When we turned off the speedway I suggested that he stop a few minutes and let me stretch my legs.
Fun, wasn't it? he shouted.
You betcha.
Some Sunday, he said, after we collect the rents, I'll take you to a restaurant I know, where they make delicious ducklings. Or we could go down on the East Side, to a Polish place. Or how about some Jewish cooking? Anything you say. It's so good to have your company.
In Long Island City we made a detour to buy some provisions: herring, smoked white fish, begels, lachs, sour pickles, corn bread, sweet butter, honey, pecans, walnuts and niggertoes, huge red onions, garlic, kasha, and so on.
If we don't do anything else we eat well, he said. Good food, good music, good talk—what else does one need?
A good wife, maybe, I said rather thoughtlessly.
I've got a good wife, only we're temperamentally unsuited to one another. I'm too common for her. Too much of a roustabout.
You don't strike me that way, said I.
I'm pulling in my horns ... getting old, I guess. Once I was pretty handy with my dukes. That got me into heaps of trouble. I used to gamble a lot too. Bad, if you have a wife like mine. By the way, do you ever play the horses? I still place a few bets now and then. I can't promise to make you a millionaire but I can always double your money for you. Let me know any time; your money's safe with me, remember that.
We were pulling into Greenpoint. The sight of the gas tanks provoked a sentimental twinge. Now and then a church right out of Russia. The street names became more and more familiar.
Would you mind stopping in front of 181 Devoe Street? I asked.
Sure, why not? Know some one there?
Used to. My first sweetheart. I'd like to have one look at the house, that's all.
Automatically he came down hard on the gas pedal. A stop light stared us in the face. He went right through. Signs mean nothing to me, he said, but don't follow my example.
At 181 I got out, took my hat off (as if visiting a grave) and approached the railing in front of the grass plot. I looked up at the parlor floor windows; the shades were down, as always. My heart began to go clip-clop the same as years ago when, looking up at the windows, I hoped and prayed to catch sight of her shadow moving about. Only for a brief moment or two would I stand there, then off again. Sometimes I'd walk around the block three or four times—just in case. (You poor bugger, I said to myself, you're still walking around that block.)
As I turned back to the car the gate in the basement clicked. An elderly woman stuck her head out. I went up to her and, almost tremblingly, I asked if any of the Giffords still lived in the neighborhood.
She looked at me intently—as if she had seen an apparition, it seemed to me—then replied: Heavens no! They moved away years ago.
That froze me.
Why, she said, did you know them?
One of them, yes, but I don't suppose she'd remember me. Una was her name. Do you know what's become of her?
They went to Florida. (They, she said. Not she.)
Thanks. Thank you very much! I doffed my hat, as if to a Sister of Mercy.
As I put my hand on the car door she called out: Mister! Mister, if you'd like to know more about Una there's a lady down the block could tell you...
Never mind, I said, wit's not important.
Tears were welling up, stupid though it was.
What's the matter? said Reb.
Nothing, nothing. Memories, that's all.
He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a flask I took a swig of the remedy for everything; it was pure fire water. I gasped.
It never fails, he said. Feel better now?
You bet. And the next moment I found myself saying—Christ! To think one can still feel these things. It beats me. What would have happened if she had appeared—with her child? It hurts. It still hurts. Don't ask me why. She belonged to me, that's all I can tell you.