— It's The Messiah by Handel, Eddie said after they had exchanged slightly embarrassed greetings, and he put down his armload of new books. — It's on this real little station, he went on, approaching the radio with a businesslike air, the slight apology in his tone articulating the expression on the face of the owner of this modest plastic affair who stood behind him, one hand clasping the other anxiously.
— What have I du-un. . and so friends to get your free. . managed to hold onto the ball… en este momento. . and now in a brand new. .
— Is it… time for it yet? Mr. Pivner asked hesitantly, prompting, self-conscious, a shyness reflected in the face of his skinny earnest guest as a hand dug into a pocket and the gold watch snapped open, and Mr. Pivner looked at him, and into his future with the thrill he had once known contemplating his own.
— I don't get much chance to listen to music any more since I'm studying so much, Eddie said, standing over the radio with an uncompromising look on his face, and like Pandora's box, the stream of things shut up in that marvelous creation poured out as he turned the dial. — It ought to be right here, he murmured, as though indeed seeking the one beneficence which remained behind when the lid was lifted and all of the torments and absurdities lying there in wait rushed forth, to inflict themselves with such thoroughness in man's life that he came to take them for granted as a part of it. — There's no… hope, Eddie muttered, as brackish laughter, turned on like a tap, burst in his face.
— Eddie…
— Owners of television sets in the metropolitan area witnessed a stark human tragedy in their own living rooms, when. .
— Listen. .!
The Messiah was trying to squeeze through an infinitesimal aperture, where it was being jostled, shouldered, pushed aside and out of shape by an acrobatic contest among violins performing Paga-nini's Perpetual Motion, on one side, and a cordially inane voice addressing friends, finally a quiz program where a house was being given away among much disciplined merriment.
Mr. Pivner listened with all his attention, faintly able to follow
— He was despised. . rejected… a man of sorrows. .
But he found himself following the quiz program, where a Mr. Crotcher had just answered a question concerning a fable with an ant for its hero, and won a completely furnished house in a popular suburban community called Arsole Acres.
— A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. . while the voice described the joys of the suburban community (its singular name derived, it appeared, from the Latin ars meaning art), and the doorbell rang.
There was something familiar about the man standing behind the one who flicked open a hip-pocket wallet with one thumb, to flash the star of the Secret Service as they entered.
— And who's this?
Eddie Zefnic was standing, as wide-eyed as his host.
— This? a… young friend of mine, he… what is this, officer?
— You better come along too.
— But what's this about?
— You can tell us what it's about, when we get downtown.
— But. . where are we going?
— The corner of West and Eleventh Streets, the Treasury man said patiently. Then, — Wait a minute, let's have a look at this bathrobe.
— But this, I… Mr. Pivner commenced, getting out of it.
They looked at the label. — This is the one, all right. . and rolled it up. — You're going to tell us you didn't know it was paid for with queer money?
— But. . Mr. Pivner was getting into his jacket, his coat, his green muffler. Eddie Zefnic was picking up his new science textbooks.
— Wait a minute, where you going?
— Just to… to get my glasses, Mr. Pivner said, and the man who had been silent accompanied him into the bedroom. Only as they were about to leave he spoke,
— You might as well turn off your radio, you won't be back here tonight. . and Mr. Pivner recognized him, as he hurried back across the dark room while they waited in the door. It was the blind accordion player.
— O.K., let's go… But even now, habit did not desert Mr. Pivner. He waited until the radio announcer had finished his sentence,
— And now friends, stay tuned for drama with the impact of reality.
The program was introduced by Beautiful Dreamer, played on the studio organ. Somewhere, distant, spectral, came the tender alleluias of a sixteenth-century processional, written by Gabrieli, to be led across the plaza of Saint Mark's, where he was organist.
— 1 came here from another state thinking I would be more happier with my father and… an insistent quailing voice commenced; and the apparitions on the plaza of Saint Mark's retired. — Now just a minute, dear, how old are you?. . With preternatural and delicate strength, the specters reappeared, for an instant directly the viscous voice left off, and then, — Twelve years old and I came here from another state thinking I would be more happier with my father and my father start drinkin again and beatin up on my step-mother. .
There was a crash. Stanley stood, and withdrew his foot from the front of the plastic radio, which was on the floor. He stood, staring at it, unable to believe that he had done such a thing: but there it lay in a mute tangle at his feet. Then he looked over his shoulder, alarmed as though he might have been seen by someone (the owner of the borrowed radio, for instance). Round him, everything in the room was packed in readiness, everything but the crucifix over his bed. Stanley's eyes reached that, and rested on it. His tooth began to ache again, the same one that had been aching the hour his mother died; and with that dull throbbing pain that memory returned, throbbing as vividly. Then Stanley squared his shoulders. He stood up straight, a movement which drew breath into his chest. He closed his teeth together hard, and then turned off the light without a glance at the bundle which held his almost completed work, palimpsests bound together with clean scores which he hoped to alter and copy on the boat; and he went out the door without stopping at the communal hall bathroom, as he'd meant to, pause there and correct that multiplication problem for the thousandth time, out on the street with no idea where he was going. He soon arrived at that place where everyone else who had started out as aimlessly decided was the place they'd started out for.
The juke-box was playing Return to Sorrento, and Ed Feasley, whom he did not think he had ever met, greeted him with, — Hello. . Chr-ahst, and handed him a glass of beer.
A weary atmosphere hung over the place. People stood about at odd angles, like clocks which must be stood at odd angles to keep running, finally all that is expected of them, for they seldom tell the right time, cracked faces kept around for familiarity as long as they keep some track of day and night.
— And so then she broke right out in Braille. . someone said.