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