I didn’t mind being by myself because it gave me a chance to do some thinking. However, I wasn’t alone for long, because it was soon after this that I began talking to George. He was different from the rest. He wasn’t even a student at that time. He had been, but he was an independent type like me, and he’d told them to go whistle. It hadn’t done him any harm either because he was selling his pictures like crazy. I would have liked to quit like him and do what he was doing, but I don’t dare. That was just what the old man was waiting for. If I quit art school, it would be one, two, three, and into business college, and after that into the dismal old stock exchange.
George looked like an artist too. He sported a wonderful Van Dyke, and though he could afford any clothes he liked, he always dressed in corduroys, and he wore them like a king. I had tried to grow a beard when I first started at art school, but it never looked like anything more than a few patches of tumbleweed sticking out of my jaw. That, combined with the bald area on top of my scalp, made it look as if someone had flattened my head out. My father was bald and so was my uncle. I don’t remember my mother, but I bet she was bald too. Anyway, I had to hack off my beard and shave every day like some cheap stockbroker’s clerk.
But the one place I really had to hand it to George was the way he dealt with women. The stories he told! It seems he only had to raise an eyebrow, and they came tumbling in his direction like apples down a chute. Of course I’d had a few little adventures of my own, but I had to work hard for them, whereas he seemed to have the girls lined up four deep outside his door. Mind you, George was a gentleman and never mentioned names, but I could guess who some of his conquests were. There were quite a few gorgeous dolls around who usually didn’t have even a good night for me, let alone a good morning.
You might think from what I’ve said that George and I were close. Well, we were most of the time, but we had our quarrels. He’d boast about the prices he’d be getting for his paintings, or his successes with his girl friends, and then he’d ride me a bit. Sometimes I couldn’t take it, particularly if the other students or Prof. Whitehouse had been giving me a bad time. Then I’d get mad and we’d begin to yell at each other, and people in the Joint would stare at our table and start grumbling.
One night we had a real set-to. I hadn’t been feeling well. I hadn’t slept for nights, and had been dozing all day. Quite frankly, I was glad when the other students gave me the cold shoulder, because I couldn’t stand the sight of them any more. I wasn’t too glad to see George either. He tore into me right away, first about some miniature he’d sold for fifty bucks, and then about some visiting film star who just wouldn’t give him any peace. I told him what he could do with his miniature, and the film star. He just laughed and called me a beardless youth. That did it. I started yelling at him like a madman, and tried to punch him on the nose.
The glasses went flying and the table tipped over. A couple of waiters came up and grabbed me by the arms.
“Don’t grab me,” I yelled. “Throw him out. He’s the one that started it.”
“Who?” said one of the waiters.
“Him, George Poldroon. That fellow over there.”
“Over where?” asked the waiter.
I looked round, and, would you believe it, the dirty skunk had sneaked out. That was when old Whitehouse came up. He’d been having a gay time at the corner table with some of the girls. He nodded to the waiters with his face all screwed up, then I heard him tell them to hold me while he called the police. I tried to get at him, but they hung on to me like a couple of octopuses. By the time tire police came, I didn’t know what I was doing, and those boys didn’t give me a chance to find out. I’ve just got a vague recollection of being booked, thrown into the tank, and beating on the bars for hours, shouting bloody murder.
When I came to, I was in a hospital; at least that’s what I found out later. It was just a small room with soft walls, and I was lying on a mattress on the floor. There wasn’t much light in the room, and at first I thought they had put George in there with me. But it turned out to be a hospital orderly. I got to be quite friendly with him later, but at that particular moment I hated him.
“How are you feeling, fellah?” he asked, when he saw me moving.
“What’s that to you?” I grouched back at him.
“Maybe I can help you,” he said, and he had a soft, pleasant sort of voice.
“Well, I’ve got the biggest headache you ever heard of.” I answered.
“Just a moment, I’ll get you something.” He got up, unlocked the door, and backed out. I must have dozed off while he was gone, because the next thing I knew, he was shaking me by the shoulder, and offering me some pills, and some juice out of a cardboard cup. I found out later that I was what they call under sedation at the time. It felt more like a hangover to me because, not only was my head throbbing like a pile driver, but my tongue felt like desert sand, and I had the foulest taste in my mouth.
I don’t know how long I stayed in the little room; it must have been several days. When they reckoned I was fit to be let out, they put me in a big ward with the other patients. I tell you, you’ve never seen such a bunch of nuts. One fellow used to sing to himself all day, off key, and another one just walked up and down the whole time just like a caged lion, not saying a word to anyone. Some of the others had their own brand of screwy habits, but a lot of them seemed like quite ordinary people. Of course, that was how I saw them at the time, but I bet a lot of them had come in like me.
George never showed up the whole time I was in there. My old man and my uncle took it in turns to come down to visit me every week, and when they thought I was ready for it, they started giving me the palsy-walsy stuff and all the man-to-man talk about what I was going to do when they let me out — discharged was the word they used when they wanted to make me feel good. The old man didn’t want me to go back to the art school, and quite frankly I wasn’t too keen myself on getting mixed up again with old Whitehouse and his team of daubers. On the other hand, I was determined not to give up my art and get sidetracked into that dingy stockbrokers’ office.
I think one of the doctors must have settled the argument for us because one day the old man came in a bit pale around the gills. The psychiatrist had been talking to him about mental illness being a family affair, and suggested that the old boy ought to be analyzed too. That was when he compromised and bought that estate for me near Bluestone Park. I was to go down there to convalesce, and, of course, I took my painting stuff along with me.
Land was pretty cheap in that part of the country, and the old man was able to pick up nearly twenty acres for next to nothing. He thought it would be a good investment as a sideline. It was mainly forest land, fir, pine and a lot of brush. Some of the trees had already been cut down by the previous owner, and were still lying around, but there were a lot left, so many that you could almost get lost in the place. In fact, I really did get lost once or twice, and I never actually explored the whole estate.
There was an old cottage down near the road that had been modernized a bit, and that’s where I lived. Nellie used to come up from the village every day to clean house, cook my dinner, and see that my washing was done. She was sort of pretty in a way, blue eyes, golden hair and all that sort of stuff. She had a nice little figure too, even though her legs were an inch or so too short for her body. But the average guy might not notice that; an artist sees it straight away.