“His sister’s married to an enlisted man stationed in West Germany,” I said.
The pawnbroker stroked his long jaw. “That’s a tall order,” he said. He came from behind the counter and studied me. “You got some size on you, God bless you.”
“It would be all right if the clothes were a little small,” I said. “That would heighten the effect, you see.”
“Maybe I got something in the back,” the pawnbroker said.
“Go see.”
He brought out exactly what I needed. It was as though the twelve men we had been describing had died back there. “See if these work,” he said, handing me some clothing.
“Have you been in show business too?” I asked.
“I’ve just got an interest,” he said shyly. ’ I tried on the clothes and the pawnbroker leaned back against the counter and admired me. “You look like a different person,” he said.
I laughed. “That’s very funny,” I said.
“To tell you the truth,” he said after I had decided which clothes I would take, “I don’t know what to charge for this stuff. On the one hand it’s all old, unclaimed, but on the other hand it’s a very good costume. What the hell, three pants, shoes, all those stockings, a jacket — say fifteen bucks.”
My hand was reaching for my wallet when I stopped myself. “Listen,” I said, “fifteen bucks is very fair. As you say, these aren’t old clothes, but a very artistic costume. If that’s your price I’ll pay it. But I just thought. You say you’re interested in the theater.”
“I don’t want no passes,” the pawnbroker said, suspicious.
“No, of course not,” I said. “Of course not. I just had an idea. Listen, let me give you your fifteen dollars.” I reached into my wallet and took out the money and extended it, but the pawnbroker hesitated.
“What was your idea?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, “you know the Playbill they give out?”
He nodded.
“Well, did you ever notice the credits? I mean where it says ‘Furs by Fendrich,’ ‘Jewelry by Tiffany’? Look, I’m no businessman, but I happen to know that that sort of thing is the most prestigious advertising space anybody can get.” I lowered my voice. “It’s payola.”
“I’ve wondered about those credits,” the pawnbroker said.
“Well, of course,” I said. “Now suppose we put it in that Al’s clothes — that’s the character’s name that I’m portraying — were donated by” —I looked through the pile of second-hand cameras and radios and musical instruments to the name inverted on the window—“Charley’s Pawn Shop.”
“My clientele don’t go much to the theater,” the pawnbroker said.
“That’s not the point. For one thing it would be a gag. On the other hand it would polish the image of the profession.”
He thought about it for a while. “What’s the name of your show?” he said finally.
“The Dying Gladiator.”
“It’s not very catchy,” he said.
“Those things are worked out in New Haven.” I held out the money again. The pawnbroker looked at it for a second and then waved it away. “What the hell,” he said, “it’ll be a good joke.”
“It will,” I said. “It is.”
I went back to my room with the old clothes. Already I felt better. There are certain people who are not happy unless they get something wholesale; others, like myself, do not possess a thing unless they have had it for nothing. It was the old water into wine principle, a little harmless miracle-making. That afternoon I felt as if I were making a comeback.
Each morning I kissed Margaret like someone going away to the office and walked the few blocks to my shabby rented room. In my old clothes I was a new man. In a week I was ready.
I went into a restaurant and strolled by a table the waitress had not yet cleared. I picked up her tip for courage, for luck. Using the dime I had stolen, I went into the phone booth and called the Ford Foundation.
When I gave a secretary my name and asked to be put through to the director she hesitated, so I gave her a little razzle-dazzle. “This is Detroit calling, baby,” I said. “Get it? De-troit!”
She said she’d try to connect me; she must have been a new girl. Years before I had discovered the uses of the big Foundations. We were on good terms. I had suggested projects to them and they regarded me as an interested amateur. I was on their mailing lists. I knew, for example, where all the young poets were, the novelists. At one time I used to keep a map with little pins in it, like something in a War Room. I could put my finger on any of those fellows, any time I wanted.
“Harley,” I said, “it’s Jimmy Boswell. I’m sorry I had to scare the little girl, but it was urgent. I’ve had a scheme, Harley, which you people might be interested in. My word of honor, Harley, I haven’t gone to The Guggenheim with this yet.”
I told him about The Club. He was very interested, but vague when I tried to pin him down.
“Could I get a commitment on this right away, Harley? Twenty-five thousand a year is all it would take.”
“It’s cheap, Boswell,” Harley admitted, “but you must appreciate how the Foundation works.”
“My God, Harley, I’m only talking about twenty-five thousand dollars a year. You could take it out of the stamp fund.”
“Well, it’s not that, Boswell.”
“Bring three poets back from Yucatán,” I said. “Call off two musicologists. You don’t really believe there’s a future in that electronic stuff, do you?”
“Boswell, believe me, it isn’t the money.”
“Well,” I said a little more softly, “the truth is I’ve never known you people to be mean. What is it, Harley? Is the plan no good? I’d like a straight answer on this.”
“Boswell, the idea is good — it’s sound. But don’t you think it’s a little, well, snobbish?”
“Ah,” I said. I was grinning.
“Well, after all,” Harley said.
“The Rockefeller may not be so fastidious, Harley,” I warned.
“Now, Boswell…” Harley said.
“The Guggenheim and The Carnegie may have different views.”
“Boswell…” Harley said.
“The Fund for the Republic people may think along other lines.”
“Please…” Harley said.
“Well, dammit, Harley, if it’s not too snobbish for The Fund for the Republic people, I don’t see what you have to be so squeamish about.” My grin had folded into an open smile; I couldn’t keep a straight face; I almost doubled up; my nose was running. Here I was in a phone booth in the Columbus Circle subway station, with the little rubber-bladed fan whirling merrily away, and the light going on and off as I opened and shut the door not fifty feet away from the mad faggot in the stall in the men’s toilet peeping through a hole at the businessmen standing before the urinals; here I was, James Boswell, orphan. Herlitz-placed, Mr. America in second-hand pants, lawful husband of the Principessa Margaret dei Medici of All the Italies, being apologized to by the director of The Ford Foundation.
“Why are you laughing?” Harley asked.
“What’s that? Excuse me?”
“What are you laughing at?”
“Well, you’ll forgive me, Harley, but your remark about snobbishness strikes me as just a little absurd.”
“Does it?” Harley said coolly.
“Well, figure it out,” I said. “You and I are both dedicated to a kind of talent elite. Anyway, Princeton and Palo Alto have been doing this sort of thing, only on a bigger scale, for years.”
Harley thought about that awhile and I thought, It’s grand to swing, it is grand to be a swinger. If it were ever my fate to be executed for something, I would hope they would hang me. Fitting — a broken neck and a hard-on. What more could anybody get from life?