A garbage can, Rick thought. What chance have we got? Miller believes that, too.
“That’s not true,” he said. “You shouldn’t say that, Miller.”
“Aw, it’s true,” Miller said. “You don’t know, you jus’ here a short while. You’ll fine out, you’ll see.”
This isn’t Miller, Rick thought, this is Solly Klein.
“You mustn’t believe that,” Rick said fervently. “You really mustn’t, Miller.”
“How can you b’lieve no different? You see it, doan you? Hell, I ain’t learnin’ nothin’ here, nothin’ at all.”
“But there are boys who do learn here, Miller,” Rick said, thinking This is crazy, this is an argument with Solly, this is all wrong.
“Yeah, maybe, but I ain’t seen none. All you see is a big screwed-up mess, tha’s all. Nobody even know what’s goin’ on here. Ever’body thinks ever’thin’s jus’ fine, but it ain’t. I’ll never be a mechanic in this place, Mr. Dadier. Ever’body jus’ fools aroun’ here.”
“Including you, Miller,” Rick said.
Miller stared at him for a moment, and Rick thought he would lose contact with the boy right then, thought the conversation would come to a complete halt.
“I s’pose,” Miller said.
“Why, Miller?”
“What else you goan do?” He looked at Rick with honest puzzlement on his face, and Rick wished he could say something immediately to take away the confusion. “You s’pose to work hard when ever’body else jus’ friggin’ aroun’? You s’pose to make a goddamn fool of yourse’f?” He shook his head, and his shoulders seemed to slump. “No, you jus’ go ’long with it, tha’s all. You forget ’bout learnin’, tha’s all. You fool aroun’ an’ have a good time.”
“That’s the easy way, Miller.”
“Tha’s the only way,” Miller said firmly, softly.
“No, Miller, it’s not the only way. You can’t always take the soft way out. Sometimes you’ve got to do whatever’s best, even if it makes things harder. Can’t you understand that, Miller?”
“No,” Miller said, shaking his head, forgetting completely that he was talking to a teacher, “no, I can’t see that. I can’t see anybody takin’ the hard way when the easy way’s open. You got to prove that to me, man. You got to show that to me.”
“I wish I could, Miller. I wish there were some way to show you.”
“There ain’t, man, I’m tellin’ you. You take the easy way, an’ you get along, and you fool aroun’ jus’ like ever’body else, and tha’s it.”
“And you forget about being a mechanic,” Rick said.
“I guess so,” Miller said sadly.
“And what will you be?”
“Somethin’ll turn up,” Miller said. “Things always turn up.”
“And meantime, you’ll just drift with the tide.”
“I s’pose,” Miller said.
Rick wanted to mention the English class, wanted to say something about Miller’s behavior there as contrasted with his behavior connected with the show, as contrasted with his behavior right now, right this minute. He sensed, however, that anything about the English class would be an intrusion here, and so he held his tongue, and they turned back to painting, and he wished he could think of something to say that would show Miller he was wrong about the easy road.
At the same time, he wondered if this talk would change Miller’s conduct in class the next day, and he had a sneaking dread that it would not. He knew that Miller’s line was drawn in indelible ink, and he didn’t think anything as slight as a heart-to-heart talk could hope to erase that line. So they painted in silence, and he tried to think of the correct example, but he couldn’t.
They left the school about nine-thirty, both lighting up cigarettes when they were outside the building. They walked together to Third Avenue, Rick in his street clothes now. Miller still in the dungarees which were his street clothes, his leather jacket pulled up high on his neck.
“I get a train here, Chief,” he said.
“G’night, Miller,” Rick answered. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“G’night,” Miller said.
“And thanks for the help. I appreciated it.”
“Don’t mention it, Chief,” Miller said, and they parted.
The next day, in English 55-206, there was no change in the behavior of Gregory Miller. Gregory Miller took the easy road, and the easy road was the road that raised hell and clowned and didn’t give a damn about learning. And Rick was not disappointed because he was not surprised.
On Friday the 18th, Rick held his first dress rehearsal, and it went off without a hitch. George Katz, his stomach padded, his face bewhiskered, seemed really to acquire the St. Nick personality once he got into the costume, but he never lost his pompous interpretation of the role, so that the character became a cross between a jolly laugh and a request for two lumps of sugar, please. Rick couldn’t have been more delighted with the interpretation. The angels, in costume, were — as Lois Hammond put it — “adorable.” And whereas Rick disliked that particular word, he had to admit it fit them to a T. They wore brass halos, rakishly atilt, held aloft over their heads by a slender brass rod that jutted up from the harness attaching their downy yellow wings to their backs. Lois had done wonders with ordinary household sheets, cutting yoke necks into them, lining the necks with gleaming gold braid, fashioning the sheets into tunics. The tunics had short sleeves, each sleeve edged in gold braid. The skirts of the tunics were edged in the same fashion. The skirts reached to the boys’ knees, and Lois had rounded out the costumes with golden sandals, each sandal sporting a pair of golden wings at the heel.
The picture was humorous as well as pleasing to the eye. The colors blended into a soft harmony: the warm brown of the boys’ skin, the crisp white of the tunics, the metallic yellow of the halos, sandals and gold braid, the softer yellow of the feathered wings. The boys loved the costumes, and Miller beamed broadly and said, “Bet you never thought you’d see me in a angel’s getup, did you, Chief?”
Rick looked at the angel Miller and laughed. “I’ll admit I pictured you in the other place,” he said, reflecting that Miller was always in the other place except during rehearsals.
They ran through the show without interruptions, while Rick took notes. He held the cast for about fifteen minutes after rehearsal, reading from his notes, making general comments about the caliber of the performances, correcting minor points. He told them there’d be two more rehearsals, one on Monday night in street clothes, and a final dress rehearsal on Tuesday night, the 22d. He also added that the show was a humdinger, and they’d all probably receive Broadway offers once it was presented.
Lois Hammond was waiting for him when he dismissed the cast, but he said good-night to her curtly, and then walked out of the auditorium with George Katz and Alan Manners who’d dropped in to see what was going on.
“You’ve really done a wonderful job with this, Dadier,” Katz said as they crossed the schoolyard.
“I had a lot of help,” Rick said modestly, feeling very pleased about the show, hoping it would go over well on the day of the assembly.
“Yes,” Katz admitted, “but you were the guiding force.” He paused, as if he were embarrassed by what he was about to say next. “I imagine you’re a very good teacher, Dadier. The kids seem to like you.”
“Me?” Rick asked, unconsciously using the standard Manual Trades reply. He chuckled in the darkness, wishing Katz’s supposition were true.