Casserman was friendly but not ebullient. If you felt like talking, he’d lend a listening ear. If you didn’t want to talk, he’d respect your silence. He kept the place reasonably clean and he wouldn’t tolerate real rowdiness. It was just a pleasantly drab little refuge to relax in about midnight.
Around this time of night, one of the fixtures of the place was a runty-looking guy whom Casserman addressed as Fred. He resembled a disbarred jockey or a down-at-heels tout, pale-faced, shifty-eyed and always taciturn. He’d just sit hunched up over a beer and never say a word, but his eyes couldn’t stay put.
After awhile we paid no more attention to him than we did to the photograph of Jack Dempsey. His eyes would flick around the place and sometimes sort of accidentally meet your own, but there was never any challenge in them. They seemed vacant, incurious, oddly cold, and they slid away without revealing anything. The pale, wedge-shaped face never showed any expression.
Casserman told us once that he thought his silent customer had something to do with horse racing and "different sports events", but be was vague about it and none of us were interested enough to make any further inquiries.
The months and finally several years passed. I got a city-room promotion and a raise in pay. Several of my reporter friends left and several others took their places. And almost every night, about twelve, I went to Casserman’s and drank beer. And every night when I went there, Fred, the runty little guy with the pale wedge of a face, sat at the end of the bar and silently sipped his beer. His eyes roved around as always, restless but empty looking. Sometimes I’d give him a short nod when I first went in but I never could figure out whether or not he gave a half nod in reply. If he did, it was scarcely perceptible. I never saw him talking to anyone except Casserman and even then only a few perfunctory words were exchanged.
As time went on, the funny little runt seemed to get whiter and smaller and more silent — if that was possible. He seemed to be shrinking. I’d never paid any attention to his clothes, but I finally noticed one evening how really seedy they had become. All this registered in a sort of subconscious way. I had no real interest in the character. Several times during the evening you’d catch his eyes sliding away, but they affected me no more than the blinking neon sign across the street.
More time passed. Six months. Eight months. I can’t remember precisely. I went to Casserman’s as usual and drank beer and as always the runt sat at the far end of the bar, pale and still and shrunken-looking. He just seemed to be fading away.
One evening, toward the end, I caught his eyes sliding away and, just momentarily, something about his expression held my attention. Had I read a kind of fleeting but desperate appeal in those shifty eyes, or had I only imagined it? I was troubled, briefly, and then one of my cronies came in and we started to talk and I forgot all about the runt.
From here on, it’s tough. The time sequence and the exact sequence of minor events.
One evening, I remember, Casserman leaned across the bar and shook his head. ‘Fred’s lookin’ bad. Real bad. And not touchin’ his beer.’
I glanced toward the end of the bar. Fred sat there as usual and, to be truthful, he looked about the same to me. No worse than usual, that is. What I do remember is that the light at the far end of the bar appeared to be a bit dimmer than it ordinarily was. I couldn’t seem to get a sharp clear image of Fred. But the room was pretty smoky at the time and I thought nothing of it. I made some reply to Casserman, glanced up to see if a bulb had burned out — apparently none had — and then turned toward the door as my friend, Henry Kalk, the rewrite man, came in.
Two or three nights later Casserman leaned over and shook his head again. ‘I guess Fred’s gettin’ worse.’
I looked toward the end of the bar. Fred was no longer there. I was startled; the little runt almost never left till closing time.
‘I didn’t see him leave,’ I said rather pointlessly.
Casserman’s big shoulders bunched. ‘Left without touchin’ his beer.’ A wry grin turned the corners of his mouth. ‘And didn’t leave any dime either!’
For a few minutes, before the rest of the gang came in, I thought about Fred. He was obviously sick and something should be done. I resolved to ask about him somewhere. Then the city room slaves burst in and I’m afraid I forgot all about it as usual.
But the next night, when I returned to my midnight refuge, I did recall Casserman’s comment. I looked toward the end of the bar and there sat Fred as usual, still and white. He glanced up and then quickly looked away and I was rather shocked at his appearance. His face seemed terribly drawn and sunken; he appeared years older than he had a few weeks before. I got the impression that he was seriously ill and just going ahead on will power alone.
I caught Casserman’s attention later. ‘He ought to be in the hospital,’ I said.
Casserman nodded uneasily. ‘Yeah. But what can you do? The guy just sits there and won’t talk. Just sits and don’t even drink his beer anymore.’ He shrugged with an uncomfortable air. ‘It gives me the jitters.’
I don’t know what prompted me to ask the question, but I did. Lowering my voice, I leaned across the bar. ‘Is he leaving his dime?’
Casserman shook his head. ‘Just forgets, I guess. Hell, I don’t care much about that. He’s been comin’ here for years. It’s only that he’s beginning to get on me nerves a bit.’
Again, the exact sequence of time and events eludes me. But I have the impression that the next evening Fred sat at the far end of the bar as usual. The place was extra busy and I didn’t get to talk to Casserman.
I had a late, rush assignment the following night and didn’t make it to Casserman’s. But the subsequent night I strolled in at the regular time and there sat the runt, pale, silent and really sick looking. His eyes met mine and I nodded. This time, surprisingly, his return nod was actually perceptible. His eyes even held for a few moments and, again, I fancied that I read a mute but desperate and mounting appeal in them.
I was almost impelled to walk to the end of the bar and speak to him, but I didn’t. He looked away at the last moment, I hesitated, and the impulse passed. I sat down at my usual place.
A few minutes later, when the tavern had begun to fill up, Casserman leaned across the bar. ‘Still not touched his beer. Holy Jesus! He looks like a walkin’ corpse!’
‘We ought to do something,’ I said.
Casserman shrugged unhappily. ‘He don’t talk anymore, don’t say a word. Maybe before closin’ time, you could try to get somethin’ out of him?’
I hesitated. ‘Yeah. I’ll see.’
Although I had been impelled to speak to the runt only a few minutes previously, I now found that my desire to do so had ebbed away. I’m not sure why. Pure selfishness maybe. I suppose I just didn’t want to disturb the pleasant aura of late evening which alcohol, companions and a familiar refuge combined to create. Beyond that, I think I felt convinced that the little runt would probably repel my attempts at solicitude with a wall of silence and the whole episode would turn out to be both awkward and embarrassing. In any event, I did nothing.
I suppose my decision to do nothing was the climax. In a sense the business about Fred ended right there, that same evening, no more than a half hour later. I’ll try to describe it as I recall it and you can accept or reject it as you see fit.
I can’t remember the exact time, right to the minute, but it must have been approximately quarter to one, I recollect, clearly, that for some reason I glanced up, toward the end of the bar. Fred was looking at me. His eyes lingered and once more I read a curious, despairing appeal in them. It was so intense and so apparent that it fixed my attention.