It was after ten when Peter came into Billy Gallivan's, the restaurant
of the singing waiters. By now he could not see distinctly every sheep
which jumped over the fence but he was still counting them. "I am
drunk," he said to himself. "I am so drunk that nothing matters." But he
knew that it was not so. Unfortunately the formula of Coue had not yet
been given to the world and Peter lacked the prevision to say, "Drink by
drink I am getting drunker and drunker and drunker."
And the singing waiters failed to inspire him with that reckless
disregard for present, past and future which he desired. One of them, a
fat man who had blonde hair and sang bass, eventually took Peter's
order. He set the glass on the table and then moved away no more than a
step to begin his song. "When I'm a-a-lone I'm lonely," he thundered in
Peter's ear, "when I'm a-a-lone I'm bloo." Probably he was not as lonely
as Peter. It made it worse because the song was so silly. "Every other
girl and brother," the verse went on later, "has some pal just like a
mother."
By this time the waiters were gathering from all over the long low room.
Six of them stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Peter's table and
sang together. "When I'm a-a-lone I'm lonely, when I'm a-a-lone I'm
bloo." One of them went up high and quavered. Others went elsewhere.
There was a voice for every level. It was part singing. And they swayed
back and forth from one foot to another. The room swayed with them but
it would not keep time. The rhythm of the room was much longer. Peter
could feel it pound as if he had been a mile runner and the finish lay a
hundred yards ahead of him. He still knew that he was a fool to come up.
After a long time the song stopped. The patrons of the place began to
throw money out to the singers. With painstaking recklessness Peter
fumbled in his pockets and found a silver dollar. It almost filled his
hand as if it had been a baseball. He shook his head vehemently. What
did he care if the count was two and three, he was not going to lay it
over. The curve was the trick. The outside corner was the nervy spot to
shoot for. Drawing back his arm he flung the dollar and it crashed
against a table and bounded away. For a second the coin spun around and
then it waddled in a long arc straight home to Peter's chair. He put his
foot on it and picked it up. No, he was too sober not to know that a
dollar was excessive.
These men were not very good waiters--any of them--but that did not make
them artists. They were not very good singers either. Peter remembered
that he had read in his little leather Bible, "You cannot serve God and
mammon." That was the trouble. Art and utility should never meet. A fine
tenor ought not to serve drinks and even indifferent singing seemed to
spoil a man as a waiter. This theme had been in his mind before. A great
dancer could not be a mother. Yes, that was the point where this
speculation had begun. At last he found a quarter and threw that and he
left a ten cent tip on the table.
"Hello, big boy," said a woman as he was going out. She was as blonde
and as fat as the lonely waiter and much redder. Peter made no reply but
went out and up the street to the Eldorado. Eldorado! That was a land of
which the Spaniards had dreamed, a land of gold. They never found it.
Perhaps that was just as well. Somebody in a tub had said, "Eldorado!"
No, he didn't--that was "Eureka!"
At the Eldorado the waiters didn't sing at all. Special people did that.
But mostly it was just dancing. The floor was filled with couples. A
long flight of steps led down to the tables. At the foot of the steps a
girl sat alone. She was a young girl and pretty but hard and brazen
enough. And she didn't call him, "Dearie." She merely said, "Buy me a
drink."
Peter sat down.
"My name's Elaine," she said. "But you don't have to call me that. I
think it's sort of a cold name, don't you? I'm not cold. People that
like me call me 'Red,' on account of my hair. Now you tell me your
name."
"John Whittier," said Peter, reverting to the slumming name he had used
in his Freshman year at Harvard. It was the name of the proctor in his
entry.
"Maybe John Greenleaf Whittier," said Elaine.
"Perhaps you're a poet. Yes, I can see you're a poet."
Peter was annoyed. "John Whittier's not my real name," he said. "My
name's Peter Neale."
That aroused no flash of recognition. Peter was surprised that this girl
of the Eldorado should know John Greenleaf Whittier and never have heard
of Peter Neale.
"I don't think it's very nice of you," she said, "not to give me your
real name. I gave you mine. Are you ashamed of me?"
"No," replied Peter, "I'm ashamed of myself."
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to get drunk."
"We'll get drunk together. I'll help you."
Drinking with somebody did seem to help. At any rate after two rounds
Peter achieved for the first time during the evening that detached
feeling which he had been seeking. All the dancers now were dim and
distant. The music was something which tinkled from down a long
corridor. Even the obligation to drink seemed lighter. Peter merely sat
and stared at Elaine. Gray-eyed, firm and flaming, it was a face which
blotted out all other images. He found himself thinking only of this
woman in front of him. And she was real. She was close. He could touch
her.
"Who are you looking at?" said the girl.
"Elaine."
"I told you that people that liked me called me Red. Why don't you call
me that? Why don't you like me?"
"I like you a lot."
Elaine made a face at him. In her no barriers seemed to have been set up
against the potency of drinking. Already she was in the babbling stage.
"I'm not like the rest of the girls around here. You don't need to be
ashamed of me. I've had a good education. I can prove it to you. Ask me
about the square on the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle."
"What about it?"
"It's equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides. You see,
if it wasn't for hard luck I wouldn't be in a place like this. I'm a
lady. I know Latin too. _Amo_, that's love. _Amo_, I love. _Amas_, you
love."
"Don't," said Peter crossly. The spell was broken. The woman was making
him think. Now he could hear the drums again. This was the meanest trick
of many which the fate of the day had played him. With all the evil
women of a great city to choose from it had been Peter's misfortune to
happen upon an educated harlot. He had drugged himself steadfastly to be
rowdy and here was a lady who talked about Latin and right angles.
Elaine sensed a mistake in technique. "Come away from here, Peter," she
said. "Come on. You're just a tired little baby. You don't want to talk
any more. You're my little baby."
Peter got up and had to catch the table to keep from falling over. "My
name's Otto Schmaltz," he said and did a silly imitation of the accent
of the comedian in "The Joy Girls." But the possibility of a revision of
the material came to him. "My baby's bes' lil' baby in the world."
He would have gone away at once, but a man came down the stairs at that
moment and approached the table. "Red," he said, "if you ever stand me
up again I'll bust your face."
"Honest, Jim," said the girl, "I waited half an hour. I thought you
weren't coming."
"Let that lady alone," said Peter. "She's with me."
He didn't like Elaine any more, but he knew that the code demanded that
he should show resentment of the intrusion.
"Keep your face out of this," said the newcomer. "What damned business
is it of yours?"
There was a ready-made answer for that in the code.
"You come outside and I'll make it my business," said Peter.
"Don't waste your time on the big souse, Jim," said Elaine clutching at
the arm of the man who had threatened her. But the fact that the girl
absolved Peter from all the cares of guardianship did not remove his
responsibilities according to the code. "Come on outside," he repeated.
He went slowly up the stairs but when he reached the sidewalk and turned
around there was no Jim. Peter waited. He wanted very much to hit
somebody and Jim seemed wholly appropriate. After a few seconds the man
came out. He walked up close to Peter but he held his hands behind his
back. According to the code nothing could be done until each had
extended an arm.
"Come on," said Peter impatiently, "put up your hands and I'll punch
your head off."
Jim suddenly drew his right arm from behind his back and clipped him
sharply over the head with a bottle. Peter stared at him wonderingly for
almost a second. Surprise seemed to halt the message to his brain.
Slowly he crumpled up on the sidewalk. The blow was not painful, but the
swinging arc of all things visible was now longer than ever before. The
lights, the lamp-posts and the buildings slowly turned end over end in a
complete circle. Peter put one hand to his head. It was wet and sticky.
For a second or so he considered that and wondered. Finally he realized
that it was blood. Lifting himself up on his hands and knees he saw Jim
and Elaine scrambling into a taxicab.
"I'll bet she doesn't talk about right angles to him," thought Peter.
For a moment he considered pursuit, but before he could make up his mind
the taxicab had started. It swept past him no more than ten feet away.
He could see the red head of the woman in the window. One week later he
decided that he should have cupped his hands and shouted, "You
hypotenuse hussy!" That night he could think of nothing. The fragments
of glass lay about him. Peter examined them and found it had been a
champagne bottle. After a bit he called a taxicab for himself and said,
"Go to some hospital that's near." He had begun to feel a little faint.
A doctor in the reception room dug the glass out of Peter's scalp bit by
bit and hurt him dreadfully. Every stab of pain cut through the fumes
and left him clear-headed. Nothing was forgotten any more. He was able
to compare the relative poignancy of two sorts of pain and decided that
he did not care much how long the doctor kept it up. At last the job was
finished and Peter's head bandaged.
"You were drunk, weren't you?" said the doctor.
"Yes," said Peter, "I was."
There was no other comment. Nobody would call Peter Sir Galahad on
account of this fight and yet it was honorable enough he thought, even
if the issues were a little mixed. Nor was it entirely unsatisfactory.
At least he had been able to taunt Fate into an overt act. He knew a
poem by a man who wrote, "My head is bloody but unbowed." Peter had
often used that line in prizefight stories. Still he was a little sick
now and perfectly sober. He looked at his watch. In an hour or so it
would be dawn. There didn't seem to be anything to do but go home.
Opening the door of his apartment, Peter tripped over something in the
dark and fell with a bang. Kate woke and called out in obvious terror,
"Who's there?"
"It's only me," said Peter, "Mr. Neale. I decided not to stay out after
all. I'm sorry I woke you up. I fell over the baby carriage."