A convict holding an envelope came up to the wire cage behind which Feldman was waiting. “Give me a stamp,” he said.
“Certainly,” Feldman said. He took a special-delivery stamp from the special drawer he had prepared and slipped it to the man through the opening in the cage. “Thirty cents, please,” he said politely.
“Not this,” the man said, “a stamp. A regular stamp. A nickel stamp.”
“All out,” Feldman explained.
“What do you mean all out? I want to send a letter.”
Feldman glanced down at the stamp the convict had just returned to him. “They deliver it any hour of the day or night with this,” he said. “This is one of the best stamps there is.”
“I don’t want it delivered any hour of the day or night. It’s a letter to my mother. I say I’m feeling fine and that I’m glad Uncle had a nice time in Philadelphia.”
Feldman nodded sympathetically.
“Look,” the man said, “have you got an air-mail stamp? I’ll send it air-mail.”
“All out,” Feldman said. He considered the problem for a minute. “I know,” he said suddenly. “Do you know anyone in Europe?”
“Why?”
“Well, if you know someone in Europe, I could sell you an overseas air letter for eleven cents. You write your mother the air letter, and your pal in Europe redirects it to your mom. If he does it right away, she’ll have it in under two weeks.”
“I don’t know nobody in Europe,” the man said.
“Asia. These air letters go to Asia too. It takes a little longer, but—”
“I never been to Asia. I don’t know nobody in Asia. Just give me the goddamned special-delivery.”
“Coming right up,” Feldman said sweetly.
The next customer, a young man, wanted a stamp too. He was holding some documents. They looked important. Probably they were legal forms he was sending to his lawyer.
Feldman shook his head sadly. “I’ve only got this cent-and-a-quarter precanceled job for nonprofit organizations,” he said.
The young man made some private calculations. “Well, give me seven of them. That’d make more than the eight cents it costs for an air-mail.”
“Gee, I’ve got only one left. There’s not much call for them.”
“What would happen if I put a cent-and-a-quarter stamp on this?”
“You’d have to send it open, unsealed,” Feldman said expertly. “It goes surface mail. Rail, bus, that sort of thing.”
“These are important confidential papers,” the convict said. “My appeal rides on this.”
“Uh huh,” Feldman said.
“They have to go out today.”
“Do you know anybody in Europe?”
Finally the man had to take his chances. He stuffed the papers into the envelope and started to lick it.
“Unh unh, unh uhn,” Feldman warned, waving his finger.
“I forgot,” the man said. He handed the unsealed envelope to Feldman reluctantly, anxious and very doubtful. Feldman dropped it cheerfully into the mailbag.
“How about a drink?” Feldman asked. “To relax you.”
“All right,” the convict said. “A Coke.”
“All out. Here,” Feldman said, “try this. Just got in a shipment. A new taste sensation.” He extended an open bottle of the mauve soda pop.
The young man took a few swallows. “It tastes like bubble gum,” he said.
“That’s what they’re drinking today,” Feldman said. “The kids. They’re doing the twist and drinking bubble-gum soda.”
“Yeah.”
“Say,” Feldman said, “if that appeal comes through, you’ll be getting out soon.”
The young man looked troubled again. “Maybe you’d better give me back my letter,” he said. “Maybe my friend has a stamp.”
“You kidding” Feldman said. “You kidding me? That’s a federal rap, buddy. Me tamper with the mails? I’m not sticking my hand into that mail bag. What, are you kidding? That’s federal.”
“Well, let me back there. I’ll do it.”
“I can’t,” Feldman said. “You never heard of an accessory? Forty-two percent of the guys in here are accessories. Besides, I can’t let unauthorized personnel back here. That would be an infraction of prison decorum. Jesus, the Feds would want me, and the warden would want me too.”
“Well, what about me?” the convict said. “I already committed a federal offense.”
“You did?”
“I’m not a nonprofit organization,” the man said gloomily.
“I didn’t hear that,” Feldman said. “You never said it, and I didn’t hear it.” He looked at Sky and Flesh and Walls. “You guys are witnesses. I didn’t know. To me he looked nonprofit.” He turned back to the young man. “Look, relax. Try to see the bright side. Maybe the papers won’t fall out. Maybe the transportation strike will be over soon. They’re not too far apart. The President is sending an arbitrator in a private plane. As soon as the fog lifts. If your appeal goes through you’ll be out soon.”
“In a few months,” the young man said doubtfully.
“What have you done about your shoes?” Feldman asked.
“What shoes?”
“Your shoes,” Feldman said. “That you came in with.”
“I don’t know. They took them away.”
“Well, certainly they did. They hold them down in wardrobe for when you get out. Were they new?”
“I don’t remember. Yes. I got them just before I was framed.”
“I see.”
“They were Italian.”
“I see.”
“They didn’t have laces.”
“Oh?”
“They had these little gold zippers.”
“They sound very nice,” Feldman said.
“They were comfortable. Very light,” he said wistfully.
“Soft leather,” Feldman said.
“Yeah. Very soft.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Why? They were very comfortable.”
“No, I mean soft leather collapses. It doesn’t hold its shape.”
“Oh.”
“Shoetrees would save them,” Feldman said. “Of course the wardrobe guard doesn’t tell you that when he takes your shoes. Sure, he’s looking out for himself. He tries to save himself a little work. What does the wardrobe guard care? A man gets out and his shoes are shot. It’s a goddamn fucking pity.”
The young man pulled on his soda. When Feldman hooked his finger at him he leaned forward.
“Get a pair of shoetrees,” Feldman said confidentially. “What is it, a three-dollar investment? If you’re talking about the style I think you’re talking about, you’d be protecting something worth many times more.”
“They cost twenty-five bucks.”
“There, you see?” Feldman’s face became very serious. “Save your shoes,” he said slowly. He might have been a dentist warning schoolchildren about their teeth. He reached behind his back, detached a shoetree from the razor-blade stand, brought it around his body quickly and slapped it with a smart, ringing clap into his palm. Startled, the young man jumped back. Feldman’s eyes were closed. “What is it preserves in this world that decays? Where age always withers and time’s never stayed?” The young man stared at him. Feldman opened his eyes. “What, friend, do the ancients say makes perfect?”
The convict shook his head.
“Come on,” Feldman said, “this is basic. What do the ancients say makes perfect? Practice, that’s what. Practice. Practice does. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do. Practice. ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.’ ‘How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?’ Practice, pal, makes perfect, pal. Practice! Habituality conquers reality. See the athlete: every muscle a maneuver. Unused, things collapse. Occupancy is a life principle. What else explains the growth of the caretaker industry in this country? They leave rangers in the forests in the wintertime. Use. Use use! Who’s talking about your creepy zippered dago shoes? This is life I’m talking about, friend, character I’m pushing for three dollar bills. Your shoes need practice. Let my shoetrees walk your shoes! Stuff them with my proxy feet and let them run around down there!” He shoved the shoetree into the young man’s hand.