It had become quiet. The two men stopped talking and put their coats on. They passed Verne, walking out through the heavy doors and disappearing beyond. The man playing shuffleboard gave up and came over to the bar to sit down. In the dim light his face was a dark shadow. He sat with his chin in his hands, not moving or looking to either side. Verne looked past him and saw other men sitting, gazing ahead of them, silent, lost in thought.
His mind began to wander. He thought about how he used to practice the oboe. He would sit in his room, holding the strange, cold instrument, blowing into it hour after hour. In the corner the radio played softly.
He could remember many details of his room in the family house. How long ago it was. He had owned a little table-top phonograph and some cheap records, part of a newspaper offer. The Dvorak New World Symphony. The Beethoven Fifth. Some Strauss waltzes. He played the records until they began to turn white. He used cactus needles because when they got dull he could sharpen them, again and again.
He had a paper route. He used his mother’s charge account at a department store to buy Heinrick van Loon’s History of the World and Diseases of the Mind by Professor Benjamin Stoddard. At the end of the month he had scarcely any money left over, once he paid her back. He had owned a mimeograph machine. He put out a little newspaper that he sold to the neighbors for three cents.
In the silence of the bar a man coughed. He moved on his stool. There were no other noises. The men sat looking straight ahead of them, at the rows of glasses, at the red light that ran up and around the massive mirror. Their reflections gazed back, dim, hunched, unmoving. The minutes passed, and no one moved. Slowly, an uncomfortable tension built up around them. A sharp, painful pressure.
Suddenly the bartender came to life. He walked along the wood planking to the other end of the bar. The doors opened and a man and woman came in front the street, laughing and breathing loudly. They sat down at a table.
Verne finished his drink and pulled his coat around him. He got up and walked outside onto the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets. The air was cold. The street was deserted. There was no one in sight.
He got in his car and drove back slowly to his apartment. He felt listless and dull. Did he want to go home? But if he did not, where should he go instead? He parked the car and got out. He walked up the stairs, his shoes making no sound in the dull grey carpet. The hall was deserted. At the far end a deep red light glowed.
FIRE EXIT
Above him a small globe sunk in the plaster of the ceiling shed enough illumination for him to find his key. He pushed the key into the lock and opened the door.
Looking into the dark apartment, grey and still in the dim light, he felt a cold and unhappy chill move up and settle in his heart. Suddenly his jaws opened. His head began to shake. He caught himself against the door and held on tight, his teeth chattering and his eyes wide. The fit moved quickly through him and was gone.
He breathed a shaky sigh of relief, running his fingers through his hair. Had it been tiredness? Cold? He did not know. He turned around and went out of the apartment, pulling the door shut behind him.
It did not take him long to find Teddy’s place. He remembered the bar on the corner, and the tall, unpainted signboard that was across the street. He parked his car and got out. Looking up toward her window he could see no sign of light. He moved a little way down the sidewalk, but still he could make out nothing. Nevertheless, he knew she was inside. How did he know? He did not bother to wonder. He made sure the doors to his car were locked and then going up the short flight of steps, he rang the girl’s door buzzer.
The door clicked. He pushed it open and went inside. He had expected her to come out in the hall, but above him her door remained shut. He climbed the stairs and stood for a moment outside her door, his hand raised to knock. A crack of brilliance showed under the door, and muffled and far away he could hear voices.
At last he knocked. The voices stopped. He felt sweat rise to the surface of his hands and forehead. There was the sound of someone moving around, and in a moment the door was pulled violently open. Teddy, in a white shirt and women’s jeans, stared at him in amazement.
“Really, this is too much!” Behind her several women were sitting around the living room. The phonograph was on loud, some deep New Orleans blues.
“May I come in?”
“Darling, please do.”
He followed her inside. Three women, in men’s pants and shirts, looked calmly up at him.
“Verne, this is Bobby, and Bert, and Terry.”
They nodded, without speaking.
Verne turned to Teddy. “I just thought I’d drop by. Maybe I better come back later. I don’t want—”
“Give me your coat.” She walked into the bedroom; he followed.
“We can talk some other time,” Verne said.
“These are just girls from the building. You’re not breaking anything up.” She hung up his coat. “They won’t stay long.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Don’t worry.” She took his arm as they went back, leading him. Her fingers were hard and strong. When they entered the living room they found the three women on their feet, standing near the door to the hall.
“We have to go. We’ll be back.” They opened the door. “Glad to have met you, mister.”
“Don’t leave on my account,” Verne murmured. They closed the door behind them. “I’m sorry I drove them out.”
“That’s all right.” Teddy began picking up the glasses around the room. “What do you want to drink? How would some John Jamison go?”
“John Jamison would go fine.” He sat down on the couch. The phonograph was still playing blues. He recognized Bessie Smith’s harsh, deep voice. He leaned back, his head against the couch. The room was warm, and smelled of women. Presently Teddy returned with two glasses. She put one by him and sat down on the floor, by the phonograph.
“Thanks,” Verne said, lifting the glass. The glass was cool and moist. He swallowed, shutting his eyes. The liquor scorched his throat and lungs; it was incredibly alive. If there were ever a water of life, this was it.
He sighed.
“How is it?”
“Fine.” Presently he said: “Were you surprised to see me?”
“No. Not very. You didn’t have any trouble finding the place, did you?”
“I found it all right.” He looked around the room. It had been cleaned up. The clothes and bottles were gone. The ashtrays had been emptied. “Your room looks better, this time.”
“You didn’t think much of it before.”
Verne smiled crookedly. “I didn’t think much of anything that evening.”
“Don’t think I’m going to apologize.”
“Forget it.” They were silent, listening to the music. Presently the records came to an end.
“What do you want to hear now? Anything?”
Verne set his drink down and went over to the record cabinet. Squatting down on his haunches he examined the backs of the albums, turning his head on an angle.
“How about the Bach Flute and Strings?” He drew out the album. “I haven’t heard that in a long time.”
“Put it on.”
He placed the records carefully on the turntable. In a few moments the measured tones of the solemn little dances began to fill the room. Verne returned to his place, beside his drink. “Nice. Real nice.”
“How long have you known Don?” Teddy said.
“A couple of years, I guess. Why?”
“Just wondering.”