"How should I know? Just bumming around. Bus is outa commission, and I'm
outa luck."
He clattered down the stairs, whistling.
Next door for a shine at the Greek bootblack's. Enthroned on the dais, a
minion at his feet, he was momentarily monarchial. How's the boy? Good?
Same here. Down, his brief reign ended. Out into the bright noon-day
glare of Fifty-third Street.
A fried-egg sandwich. Two blocks down and into the white-tiled
lunchroom. He took his place in the row perched on stools in front of
the white slab, his feet on the railing, his elbows on the counter. Four
white-aproned vestals with blotchy skins performed rites over the
steaming nickel urns, slid dishes deftly along the slick surface of the
white slab, mopped up moisture with a sly grey rag. No nonsense about
them. This was the rush hour. Hungry men from the shops and offices and
garages of the district were bent on food (not badinage). They ate
silently, making a dull business of it. Coffee? What kinda pie do you
want? No fooling here. "Hello, Jessie."
As she mopped the slab in front of him you noticed a slight softening of
her features, intent so grimly on her task. "What's yours?"
"Bacon-and-egg sandwich. Glass of milk. Piece of pie. Blueberry."
Ordinarily she would not have bothered. But with him: "The blueberry
ain't so good to-day, I noticed. Try the peach?"
"All right." He looked at her. She smiled. Incredibly, the dishes
ordered seemed to leap out at her from nowhere. She crashed them down on
the glazed white surface in front of him. The bacon-and-egg sandwich was
served open-faced, an elaborate confection. Two slices of white bread,
side by side. On one reposed a fried egg, hard, golden, delectable,
indigestible. On the other three crisp curls of bacon. The ordinary
order held two curls only. A dish so rich in calories as to make it food
sufficient for a day. Jessie knew nothing of calories, nor did Nick. She
placed a double order of butter before him--two yellow pats,
moisture-beaded. As she scooped up his milk from the can you saw that
the glass was but three quarters filled. From a deep crock she ladled a
smaller scoop and filled the glass to the top. The deep crock held
cream. Nick glanced up at her again. Again Jessie smiled. A plain
damsel, Jessie, and capable. She went on about her business. What's
yours? Coffee with? White or rye? No nonsense about her. And yet: "Pie
all right?"
"Yeh. It's good."
She actually blushed.
He finished, swung himself off the stool, nodded to Jessie. She stacked
his dishes with one lean, capable hand, mopped the slab with the other,
but as she made for the kitchen she flung a glance at him over her
shoulder.
"Day off?"
"Yeh."
"Some folks has all the luck."
He grinned. His teeth were strong and white and even. He walked toward
the door with his light quick step, paused for a toothpick as he paid
his check, was out again into the July sunlight. Her face became dull
again.
Well, not one o'clock. Guessed he'd shoot a little pool. He dropped into
Moriarty's cigar store. It was called a cigar store because it dealt in
magazines, newspapers, soft drinks, golf balls, cigarettes, pool,
billiards, chocolates, chewing gum, and cigars. In the rear of the store
were four green-topped tables, three for pool and one for billiards. He
hung about aimlessly, watching the game at the one occupied table. The
players were slim young men like himself, their clothes replicas of his
own, their faces lean and somewhat hard. Two of them dropped out. Nick
took a cue from the rack, shed his tight coat. They played under a
glaring electric light in the heat of the day, yet they seemed cool,
aloof, immune from bodily discomfort. It was a strangely silent game and
as mirthless as that of the elfin bowlers in Rip Van Winkle. The
slim-waisted shirted figures bent plastically over the table in the
graceful postures of the game. You heard only the click of the balls, an
occasional low-voiced exclamation. A solemn crew, and unemotional.