DEATH IS A PAPER TIGER
By Charles Deemer
From Mississippi
Review, 1974
The paper
predicts war with China. It is so difficult to predict war? Who has seen
peace? If not China, Africa. Or Japan again. A friend, an enemy; an enemy.
a friend. China, then, and I give odds she wins. Any odds I would give.
China is thousands of years. China is hundreds of millions. China is
immortal. Look at history, read the books of her old men.
"A cynic
with your books," says Camilla. "Your books don't deserve you.
Gregory read to enrich the soul!''
Gregory is her
late husband. Where is his soul today? His ashes, at least, she keeps in
an urn. Any stranger who would ask to inspect a room must first see
Gregory's ashes.
Camilla puts out
her hand for the rent. A witch should have such a palm, creviced with so
many lines. Always she raises her voice: "The rent!"
Witch, take all I
have. Take from an old man his last penny. Maybe I have more tomorrow.
Maybe Sonny gives it to me. I see him today.
Back to your
voodoo and ashes! She thinks she owns me. The building she owns, not the old
man. I spit in her tracks. Such filth and stench in her building, spit
adds nothing. Spit is a bouquet of flowers. A bed, a chest, a lamp,
two chairs ... forty dollars a month for this! Today I would start
the war myself to get her first.
Maybe China will
capitulate, the paper says. America would capitulate, a Paper Tiger would
capitulate. Not China, with her old men.
Let her take
every penny. Let her buy Gregory a new urn. I need nothing. I need only
the pint, which I fetch from the cupboard. Sauce, Sonny calls it. So he
finds out, so he gets mad. No one gives an old man his idiosyncrasies.
From the window
everything is obvious. With the sauce everything is obvious. The dead
inhabit the city, as in the beginning. The neighborhood dies, this building
dies. All the young have guns. As if wars were fought with guns.
As if an old man didn't find the right war. Stay off the sauce, Sonny
says. As if an old man wouldn't see things so clearly. If Sonny is mad, he
is mad. Let him take back the State's money.
We meet as
always, at The Aces. I am early, or Sonny is late. Or maybe he hides in
the men's room, afraid to be here without me. Sonny would worry. A fight
would start, a prostitute would talk to him. A young man with
college, and he would worry. The world goes to war for his worry.
Stinger, the
pimp, is playing pool. He would loan me a buck and does. Only a short
beer, I need, until Sonny arrives.
I sit near the
window. Across the street children are playing in a lot filled with
rubble. A demolished building, which they call cleaning up the city. Which
they call war with China. Of course, I am cynical.
George comes over
for a handout. I give him half my change, he gets a beer and returns. He
hobbles on one leg and a cane and is always grinning. For no reason now
he laughs aloud, then chokes on the laughter and wipes his mouth with
a sleeve. "First one today," he toasts, though he is already
drunk.
"You still
getting checks?" he finally asks. The point all along. He would
accept half my check. So maybe some day I give it to him.
"I was
turned down again," he says.
What is new?
Somebody wins, somebody loses--that's the system. Maybe tomorrow George
gets the check and I go back on the street.
"I feel good
enough to work." Of course, a lie. "I feel like an
ox."
Maybe he's lucky,
I tell him. Maybe there's war with China. Then they need everybody, he can
join the Army.
"Once is
enough!" George laughs. He coughs and wipes his mouth.
Sonny walks in.
He comes straight to the table and says, "Let's go for a
ride."
I stand up. Sonny
nods at George, then to me says, "Come on." I follow him, not
once turning to see if George is watching us leave.
"You
hungry?"
I shrug. The
children across the street are gone.
"Then how
about a steak sandwich? My treat."
Sonny opens the
door for me, and I get into the car. As we pull away, I see that George
has hobbled into the doorway. He waves.
So maybe I am on
the street again. Not without reason would Sonny take me to lunch. Usually
The Aces is good enough, a few beers there, sausages, maybe a game
of pool. Sonny scribbles something in a notebook and leaves.
I try to recall
how many checks I've received. Every city has its own rules, and maybe
there's a limit. Maybe there's been a cutback. I don't remember reading
about a cutback in the paper. Lately it's been all China.
"Well,
old-timer, here's the bad news. You're off the payroll."
Sonny waits for a
response. I bite into my sandwich.
"We're
forced to cut corners somewhere. The rolls have become
ridiculous--astronomical and completely out of hand. So if we have to trim
them, first to go are those without families to support. That's why it's
you."
Now he chews,
swallows.
"You're
sixty-three, right? Hardly ready to be put to pasture. Hell, look at your
test scores. You're bright. Self-educated to boot, and that's impressive. You
only lack one thing. I'll level with you. You lack motivation. And
confidence--two things. You have to go out there, man, and make them take
notice. Even if you start with Manpower. They have ads in the paper every
day, they're crying for labor. And if this war materializes--God knows we
hope not--but if it does, that may loosen up the job market,
too. Thing is, you're going to have to lay off the sauce. I mean it. You
have to quit. You have to want--and I mean really want--to land a job and
hold it. And hold it, man.''
I have him drop
me off at The Aces. At first he refuses, I start to walk, he changes his
mind. Then he wants to know what I think, what I plan to do. What's the
use to answer? In the past we would play pool, he would scribble in
his notebook and leave. I never ask him what he writes. I tell him
nothing. Now he tells me I need a job. He thinks I eat air? He thinks the
witch gives me a pigpen for nothing? A job, he says. His last advice,
"Don't give up. As long as you hang in there, you'll make it. With
your natural intelligence, no problem. It's just a matter of perseverance.
That's the key. Believe me, I'm talking from experience.
Well. Listen, I'll come by now and then to see how you're making out.
To tell the truth, I'd like to see you get away from here. The
neighborhood works against you. You're too smart for this. But one thing,
no matter where you are, you have to lay off the sauce. I mean it, old-timer.
Well. Hang in there."
Before he drives
off I hit him for a five. He gives me ten.
With the sauce
everything is obvious. Ten is plenty--enough for me, George, to pay Stinger
back, with change to keep going. In The Aces it is almost a party, almost
a celebration.
I want to dance, I want to shout. No one gives an old man his
idiosyncrasies. I would stand on a table and shout from here to
China:
Why this noise,
to scare off a paper tiger? Why these cages, why these zookeepers, to lock
up a paper tiger? Listen to an old man!
I would stand on
a table and shout. A fight starts, and one of Stinger's girls is involved.
I spit on her. I spit on this fight, which ends the celebration, which
brings the police.
Witch Camilla
picks me up at the police station.
"Three, four
months you stay out of trouble. So what happens? The police have you
again. I don't care you have nothing to do with. You avoid that place, you
don't get involved. You know nothing to answer questions with. What
kind of place is that to go for? Who there is so important? Whores and
criminals! A man your age, as smart as you-you should know better. What is
wrong with staying home? You know you drink too much. You get your
check and then you drink, second you pay rent. I do you a favor not
throwing you out. Sometimes I think you're crazy in the head. Those books
you read, those ideas you get. So be a teacher, you're so smart. Four
times I get you from the police, that's how smart you are. You should
read a book on keeping sober. The world owes you a living? I pay
taxes for welfare, you don't even pay back, not even rent. Why don't I
throw you out? You think it's easy for me? You think it's easy with no
husband? You think I hide so much money in my mattress? You've been in
this country longer than I have. I tell you, this country
doesn't deserve you. You don't deserve this country. Maybe there's
war, and this morning you say China will win. What is that to say for
America? You care nothing for America. For books and liquor, that's all you
care. You think you're special? You think you're Plato? You
think you're Aristotle? A cynic, with your books. I tell you, this is
the last time. No more. Next time they can ship you to China. I do you a
favor. I let you get by with what you can afford. This country's good to
me, I'm good in return. I'm good to you. Here is a decent man, I say. A
name like Mekosky, he has blood from the old country. And a man with
so many books, he is smart. Maybe he writes his own book and is famous and
I see him on Johnny Carson. I tell you, first I see you in jail. First I
see you a bum on the street. You think it's easy for me? You think I owe
you something? Maybe you think you put something over on me. Maybe
you never read a book in your life. You buy on impulse only, a sickness
maybe. All day you spend in your room and read nothing. So you think great
thoughts? A man who drinks should be so lucky. A crazy
man's thoughts, you think. And no wonder, all that time on
your hands. All day in your room. Tomorrow you take your free time
and find a job or get out. I give you one week. I thought you were a smart
one, reading all those books. Maybe he writes his own book. Maybe he's a
professor on vacation. I have faith in you. I give you the benefit of the doubt.
I'm supposed to pay my taxes on such benefits? One week or out. Into the
street. One week, no more!"
For two days I am
in my room. For two days with nothing, with books. She is right--I don't
read them, not for years. I possess them merely, have them around
like so many wives who bore me. My harem.
But so ambitious
as a young man! I want to learn everything. I want to read everything. I
read Confucius, Lao Tzu, Plato, Aristotle, saints, Descartes, Locke,
Kant, Hume, Nietzsche. I read Shakespeare, literature. Marx and Freud.
The Old and New Testaments! My eyes go bad, I can't keep a job for
reading. And all I find out from so many books is this--that nothing
changes. Then I stop reading. Better to drink. What is new?
On the third day,
a knock. Why answer? She has a key, she will let herself in. As sure as
predicting war.
Always Camilla
must raise her voice:
"You are
drunk again! One week I give you and you drink!"
I tell her I have
no sauce for two days. With what would I buy sauce?
"With what
do you stay here? On my sympathy!''
No, because some
money is better than nothing. Because no one else would live in this
pigpen.
"I see an
unshaven pig who makes it so! The rent!''
I don't have
it.
"You have
nothing. No rent, no job, nothing. These books you don't read' you could
sell for the rent."
Take them.
"Such
important books, you let me take them? So many books on life? A job's book
you need!"
Always the answer
is a job.
"Such a
cynic! I tell you, I cynic you right into the street. I thought you were a
good man. I like you, I have faith in you. No more. I give you one
week!"
At The Aces I ask
George for a handout.
"Half of
what I got," he says. He gives me thirty cents. I count every
penny.
"I got more
but need it for a bed," he explains. "It's been four days. My
back is killing me. Any other time I'd share the works, you know
that."
I go to the men's
room. Not to pee--to let George hobble away, to permit him his exit.
One of Stinger's
girls buys me a whiskey. She says, "You tell me pops--if I was
rolling in dough would I be here?"
I give up waiting
for Stinger and leave. There are other ways. The street is not new to
me--now a matter of remembering, of adjusting, of getting used to it
again. The State makes an old man lazy, and he forgets.
Of course, I
steal. There is work, and there is work. The secret of stealing is
efficiency, something worth the effort. How old secrets return! I decide
on jewelry, as many months ago, even as the first time.
Efficiency and
humility--something worth stealing but nothing too valuable, so important
it is missed and written up in the paper. A fifty dollar necklace, no
more. I could get thirty, twenty, on the street.
National Jewelers
is a six-block walk. An old man forgets, and I wait outside for a while,
trying to remember. I am almost ready to enter when a horn
distracts me. Driving by, Camilla pulls to the curb.
She raises her
voice: "Now jewelry you can afford to buy! You have the last straw! I
kick you out!"
Then I forget
everything, then I need a drink.
That evening
Camilla waits for me in the hallway. She wears a dress that has lace
around the collar, a dress that smells of moth balls.
For once she does
not raise her voice: "You think it is weakness to apologize? So I am
weak. So I apologize."
A smile crumples
her face, A witch should have such a face.
"Maybe he
borrows money to buy me pearls, I say. Pearls are better than
rent."
I have no pearls.
I have two bucks, which Stinger loans me.
"Or he has
no money and steals. That is no good. But to steal pearls is touching. It
shows a good heart."
I smell perfume
with the moth balls.
"I tell
myself, Camilla, you have been cruel. Be nice to him. He drinks too much
but he is a good man. He is one of the few, like Gregory. So many books he
reads. So troubled they make him."
Camilla takes my
hand. Maybe I am visibly shaking. With the sauce everything is
obvious.
"Fix him a
nice meal. Play for him a Strauss waltz."
We enter her
apartment, which has many rooms, which is no pigpen. Inside Camilla
releases my hand. I quickly put it in a pocket.
"I have
candles," she says. I wait near the door while she lights them.
On the mantel I
find the urn containing Gregory's ashes. The urn's pedestal is the single
huge paw of an unnamed beast.
"Gregory
loved Strauss," Camilla says. She puts on a record and begins to
sing, "Dum dee dee, dum dee dee," moving across the room.
As she advances,
I step back into the doorway. She takes the urn from the mantel, embraces
it and begins to dance. I see that her eyes are closed. I leave even as
she is waltzing.
On the street a
policeman tells me, "We can't just give you a cell, mac. You have to
have done something. You're not even drunk."
The glass
shatters and an alarm begins to ring. I step into the store through the
hole in the window and fill my pockets with everything in sight. An
exception--I pass up a pearl necklace.
The police are
slow. I wait on the curb outside for fifteen minutes.
"Very
funny," the policeman says. "A real clown, aren't you? Okay,
we'll give you a bunk. Maybe for longer than you figure."
Through the war
with China is long enough. Through the war with China is forever.
/end