"Fellas"—he was the he-man type of artist and always kept a damp, dead cigar clutched in his teeth—"Fellas, I'm gonna tell you something important, something that relates to your profession as sculptors. Of course, you know sculpture isn't all just working from the model and drawing and doing composition in school—heh, heh."
And he looked at us over the rims of his glasses, circling his eyes at us all. We "heh-hehed" politely.
"Sculptors eat off their sculpture. They get commissioned to do sculpture, they get paid for doing it and they eat."
He paused to let that sink in.
"Y'see, the people that commission you and pay you are called clients. Now, that's what I'm gonna talk about."
Well—all the students gasped and looked at each other. What's happening here? Could old Fishname really be going to tell this bunch who spent their days or nights in factories, elevator shafts, dishwashing, or having their blocks knocked off as sparring partners to ham and beaners so that they could afford the luxury of doing a few hours sculpture a day or night —was he really going to let down the bars and let us know how a sculptor earns his living at sculpture? That was unheard of. Sculpture was a closed corporation. None of the young artists who could do much finer work than that old Fishname had any idea how they could ever break in.
"Yes, I'm gonna tell you how to eat off of your sculpture. Say, now—a portrait commission. When you get a client, you got to greet them politely when they come to your studio— when they're posing for you, get them to talk about themselves—"
But he didn't tell us how to get a client or how to get enough money off sculpture to buy a ha'penny bagel, to say nothing of paying rent for that fine studio in which we were supposed to greet our clients.
Well, I'd been using old Fishname's technique on big Joe, as I drew his head, sitting on the number one hatch of the Hermanita. I'd got him to talk about himself. That wasn't hard—and I got a better story out of him than the drawing I'd made. Joe was dissatisfied with it too, and would not sit up again. He complained I'd drawn his nose crooked—and when I told him his nose was crooked, he answered that I could have straightened it out in my drawing. When he drew a ship—that was his forte—and he didn't like the lines of her, he'd change them and fix it.
Anyway, he quit and called to Slim, the Georgia Boy, who was coming along the deck, "Hey, Slim, sit down 'ere. Let d'keed take your pi'ture," and he added graciously, "he draws weree fine."
"Yes, suh. Sho will," and Slim took a long step and flopped himself down on the hatch in front of me. "Make it good. I'll send it home to m'mammy. She ain't seen none of me for a long time now."
He sat there grinning at me with his big ears sticking out on either side of his thin head like a pair of transparent pink bat wings. The setting sun was behind him and the light shone through his ears.
I got him to sit around more and began to draw—there wasn't going to be much light soon.
"Make it good." Slim looked at me out of the comers of his eyes. He could not help grinning; now and again he snickered.
"Sober up, Slim, I can't see your face if you keep that big mouth open."
Slim thought that was good, and it sent him giggling and chortling even more... All right, Mr. Fishname—what would you do with a client who squirms around and giggles so you can hardly see him?
"How come, Slim, you ain't seen your mother for a long time?"
He was young, not any older than I. That sobered him up.
"Well—I kain't go home until I get some foldin' money."
"How come?"
"Well—the ol' man won't lemme come a-visitin' las' I pay m'board t' home."
"Even if you just want to sleep over and spend a day?"
"Yeah. He won't lemme near the house."
"Well, it oughtn't cost much. You could get one of the coast ships down to Savannah."
"Naw. It don't cost much. Jes' happens I never seem to get it. Before I shipped out on this baby, I took me a ship to India —I figured I'd get enough to go down to Gawgia and visit a bit. That's a long trip—India's a long way off—we stopped in a few ports before we got there. When we dropped anchor in Calcutta, I got took sick and laid in the hospital for five months. The Consul got me a ship back to the States. When I landed—damned if I wasn't broke again—so I ships out again. It's another long trip. By the time we get back to N'Yawk, bet I'll have enough to pay for my board down home for a couple o' weeks, and I'm gonna pay m'mammy a visit... How's that picture comin' on?"
9. Hymns and Chicken
IF YOU'VE NEVER SPENT A SUNDAY ABOARD A FREIGHTER, you can't know what the Sabbath means. That was the day we had eggs for breakfast—the only day of the week. Two of them, fried, with the whites a little rubbery and some jagged lumps of fried pork.
We day men and Scotty were so happy with our day off that first Sunday at sea that we didn't know what to do with ourselves. We were full of unadulterated ecstasy at the mere thought of twenty-four hours of wallowing in a sunny, taskless Valhalla.
We lingered and stretched and smoked around the mess after breakfast, savoring the beginning of a day with no "turn to" and no dirty work. For that day we could sport around out in the sun in our clean, washed-out dungarees and nice clean undershirts all day long like a lot of blooming first-class passengers. Slowly we drifted back aft and sat on the iron ladder leading to the poop. Scotty dragged his harmonica out of his back pocket, sounded a few magnificent deep chords, then, with chin drawn back, his eyelids fluttering, he let out with "Holy, Holy"—and we joined in. On the third "Holy" we were all in it and got a fine, resonant, choir effect.
"Ai, lads—now then, that sounds pr-r-utty gud. All to-gether-r now again."
And Scotty, keeping time with his harmonica, led us through the hymn—and we were not irreverent. We meant it. We sang some others. We were all well-brought-up boys from good God-fearing homes and, although I didn't know all the words to the hymns (an unpleasant Austrian who had favored the Anschluss and eventually became a rabid Nazi had once told me that I had no proper kinderstube), I knew the music and provided a pretty good tenor, baritone, or bass, according to the needs of the moment.
We had just about worked our way through the Rock of Ages when some of those who had been sleeping hollered we ought to shut up. So we did, and sat out in the sun talking quietly.
Yes ... on the seventh day we rested. . . .
What particularly whetted our appetites for complete repose aboard that ship was the tantalizing aperitif that was served up to us all week in the picture of that tremendous lump of inactivity—our Chief Engineer, old One-Ton, stretched out on a straining deck chair with a wall of old frayed pulp magazines banked around him, Wild West Adventure Stories, some old Argosys and stacks of True Life Terrible Detective Stories.
All through the week as we Soogie-Moogied on the officer's deck on the sunny side, or sweated away at chipping decks, we'd come to a point along the deck when the Bos'n would hold up his hand like a traffic cop and in a low voice carefully guide us around the chief's chair. He'd be there in the sun, his mountainous belly rising in a grand swell, a counterbalance to the lower curve with which he filled the canvas deck chair. His head was thrust forward as far as he could get it along that mountain of fat, and as he peered through his sun glasses at the pulp magazine resting on the summit of his belly, his heavy-mouth always hung open with his lower lip so big it looked like another chin jutting out of his well-endowed collection. With all that, he plopped there (you couldn't call it sitting—the spine functions in sitting and there was no spine in that lump of blubber), sweating like the best of us in the hot sun.