train. I think not.”
Prosper said nothing. A salesman.
“And yourself?” the man said. “Alone and palely loitering?”
Not knowing why he should do so, Prosper decided not to pass this
by. “I was going to take the El downtown,” he said. “But those stairs
are a little beyond me.”
The man looked at the stairs, the iron framework of the El, as
though seeing them for the first time. “Inconvenient,” he said. He indi-
cated the knapsack. “You are prepared for a journey.”
“I was going west to look for work.”
The salesman didn’t look surprised or amused by this ambition,
though Prosper’d expected the one or the other. “So a ride downtown
wouldn’t take you far. I see that now.”
“And there’d go your gas, though I appreciate the offer.”
For a moment they stood together, Prosper and the salesman, both
feeling (they’d confess it later to each other) that there was another
remark to make, that Destiny had put them in speaking relation and
they hadn’t yet said the thing Destiny wanted them to say.
“The name’s Notzing,” said the salesman then, and put out his
hand—a little tentatively, thinking perhaps that such a one as Prosper
might not take hands, or not be able to—Prosper saw those thoughts
also, also not unfamiliar to him. “Call me Pancho.” The way he said it,
the first syllable sounded like ranch and not like launch.
42 / J O H N C R O W L E Y
“Prosper Olander,” Prosper returned, and took the salesman’s hand
before it retreated. Then he took from inside his coat a small paper
booklet. “This might help you out,” he said.
Pancho Notzing reached for the thing, a look of baffled wonder-
ment beginning to break on his face that he struggled to conceal. The
booklet was a C gasoline ration booklet, the most generous ranking,
reserved for doctors, ministers, railroad workers, people on whom we
all depended (that anyway was the idea). It was chock-full of coupons.
It was unsigned.
“A man could go far on this,” he said.
Prosper said nothing.
“I wonder how you came by it,” he said. “Issued to you perhaps in
error?”
“Not exactly.” The book remained in Pancho’s hand, as though still
in passage between them. “Where were you driving to, anyway?”
“I don’t really have a destination. I have my route, of course, and my
territory. But to tell you the truth I have been thinking of quitting.”
“Really.”
“I don’t suppose you’re offering those to me for sale.”
“That would be a crime,” Prosper said.
For a moment neither of them said anything more, the conclusion
evident to each of them already, only the question of who was to broach
it remaining. Barter was a thing we all in those times resorted to; Mr.
Black was a man we knew.
“I have been to the West,” Pancho said then. “The Mission country.
The land of Ramona. The hacienda at sunset. The primrose blooming
in the desert.”
“There’s a windshield sticker that goes with it,” Prosper said, reach-
ing again into his pocket. “I have that too.”
“I understand all the big plants are hiring. Everyone can do his
part.”
“They say.”
Pancho straightened, and with a final glance at the C booklet, he
put it in the breast pocket of his jacket. “You shouldn’t be made to
suffer indignities, if you’re headed out to help build ships or airplanes.
Ride with me, and we’ll make our way. I’m in the way of changing jobs
myself.”
F O U R F R E E D O M S / 43
“You don’t say.”
So sporting the new C sticker on the windshield, the Zephyr set off
in the direction of the sunset; when it ran out of gas just yards from
the next pump, Prosper took the wheel as the old man pushed, and
together they rolled it to the pump, Prosper pulling up gently on the
hand brake lever as instructed to bring it to a stop. The attendant, a
plump young woman in a billed cap and leather bow tie—there were
lots of women manning the pumps now, with the male pump jockeys
off at war—watched as Prosper pulled his crutches from the back seat
and got out to stand next to Pancho, who was panting with effort and
pressing a hand to his breast. They presented their C booklet, which
Pancho had signed, and the girl tore out a stamp, then expertly unlim-
bered the hose and wound the handle of the counter to put in their
allotted gas. No one spoke. The pump bell rang off the gallons. Above
them the red Flying Horse beat skyward. When she was done she
cheerfully washed the windshield with a sponge, her rump in the trou-
sers of her brown coverall moving with her motions. She took Pros-
per’s money and went to make change while the two men stood not
speaking by the car.
“All set,” she said, returning with the change.
“Thanks,” said Prosper.
“Thanks,” said Pancho.
“Oil change?” she asked. “Check those belts?”
“No, no thanks.”
The car started with a cough, dry throat needing a moment to
recover.
“Bye,” said the girl, and gave them a smart two-finger salute. “Drive
under thirty-five.”
“Bye,” said Prosper.
“Bye,” said Pancho.
The two of them didn’t speak again for some time after that, con-
scious of having done a wrong, not quite knowing whether to con-
gratulate themselves or shake their heads over the ways of the world
that had forced them to it, or just shut up; Pancho never would ask
Prosper, in all their journey together, where he had come up with those
stamps, and Prosper didn’t volunteer the information.
Pancho had a couple of last calls to make, he’d told Prosper, and
44 / J O H N C R O W L E Y
then a stop at the home office in the next city, where he’d leave his
sample cases, his last orders, and his resignation. He roomed with his
widowed sister, he said, when not on the road, which he was most of
the time; he’d wire her about his plans. Then they’d head for the south
and then the Coast.
“What was it you sell, or sold I guess?” said Prosper when the Mobil
station was far behind them and his city growing thin and passing
too.
“Fabrics,” Pancho said. “Commercial mostly. To the trade. Dam-
asks, matelassés, shantungs, broadcloths, velours. Specialty silks.
Done it for thirty years, a traveler in fabrics.”
“Why don’t you want to do it anymore?”
For a time Pancho seemed to be choosing among various answers
he might give, opening his mouth and making introductory sounds,
then shutting it again. “Ah, for one thing,” he said, “the business is
changing. I’m getting too old to keep up. All these new man-made
wonder fabrics. Nylon, rayon, spray-on, pee-on, who the hell can keep
them straight or pitch them in any way that’d be useful, well whoever
can, I can’t. Then this war, the big companies supplying the war depart-
ment are taking all the business, sucking up all the supplies, the cotton,
the silk, all of it, if you’re not selling to the government forget it.
Rationing: how are you going to sell fine fabrics to manufacturers who
are cutting back every day? When the women are wearing unlined suits
and the men are leaving the pocket flaps off their jackets and the cuffs
off their trousers? You tell me.”
Prosper could not tell him.
“More than that and above it all,” Pancho said, “I violate my own