DID I WORK TODAY! I have my poor slob hero, whom, by the way, I decided to name Austin in honor of the Healey, out of the house. He’s roaming the streets, snatching crumbs from frankfurter rolls on frankfurter stands, afraid that before they’re digested someone will see them floating around on the surface of the contents of his stomach. The hot pavements burn, dirt adheres to sole and heel, so that he has to slide his feet along rather than pick them up, which would shock passers-by with the sight of moving footprints. I get Austin to his parents’ home. Isn’t that a great name, even apart from the Healey, it’s a real slob’s name. Anyway, his mother is out shopping. He gobbles up half a pound of sliced ham, drinks a quart of milk and watches the mess slowly dissolve as it becomes part of him. Even there, though, this poor baby has to hide in the closet after eating. Suppose his mother were to return suddenly and see a stomach full of milky masticated ham walking around. In the closet he begins to dream again. As soon as he pulls himself together he’ll sneak aboard a transcontinental plane and fly to Moscow, where he’ll hang around barbershops and street corners until he picks up the language. Then he’ll enter the Kremlin, station himself in the bedroom of the head of state. Whispering in the dark of night, Austin will represent himself as a divine voice and thus begin to direct Russian foreign policy. He can see it now, Russia will make peaceful overtures to America. They’ll be received with suspicion. So Austin will fly to Washington to do his stuff on the President. In fact he goes wherever there is trouble in the world, always in the cause of peace and justice. Within a year’s time mankind has achieved a state of well-being unique in history. He reveals his accomplishments. Statues are raised to him in the world capitals. The Church canonizes him while he’s still alive. And all the time he’s dreaming like this he is trying to figure out answers to the simplest problems of life. Where can he live safely? How get food? How avoid capture by the scientists? Well, he decides to phone his buddy, whom I’m calling Schaefer in honor of the beer. Austin wants him to come over immediately. Schaefer wants Austin to come over to his place. Let’s meet halfway at a bar, Schaefer suggests. Austin can’t, Schaefer must come to him, and he shouldn’t be surprised by what he sees or doesn’t see, he adds mysteriously. This intrigues Schaefer, he tries to get Austin to explain. Austin won’t, and Schaefer thinks he knows what it is: Austin’s parents are away, he is shacking up with a nymphomaniac and needs his assistance to keep her content. Austin says nothing to disabuse him of the idea. Schaefer will be right over. While he waits, Austin again daydreams. With the help of a smart front man like Schaefer, he can become the richest and most powerful man in the world. That very night, they could, or Austin could, break into a store and steal money, with which Schaefer can buy things. Austin could hang around the safe of a large business firm and memorize the combination. The possibilities are limitless, and Schaefer would be appreciative enough and loyal enough to keep his mouth shut. What was it anyway that the two of them wanted from the world? In their many discussions about life they had decided that the only undeniable good was having women. So, after they got money, Schaefer would rent him a luxurious apartment and become his procurer. Schaefer could tell the girls that his client was a rich celebrity whose identity must remain a secret. The girls would have to consort with him in a perfectly dark room, for which service of course they would be handsomely paid. At such prices the girls were bound to be gorgeous creatures. It would be a shame not to get a look at them before the festivities. In fact if he didn’t get a look at them he might as well hire cheap twenty-five or fifty-dollar girls. Ah, he had an idea. Suppose he answers the door himself, making out that it is being opened by remote control. He could even speak to the girls in a lighted room by explaining that he was using a high-fidelity intercom system. He would have a cocktail ready for them, and then after a bit of this intercom chatter he would direct them to undress, and finally they would be invited into the room of rooms, whose entrance is a maze-like light baffle to avoid the possibility of a door opening and giving him away in the saddle. There was, of course, the chance that the girls might come to the idea that he was a crook hiding out. This could lead to difficulties. Or curiosity might overcome one of them, and she would sneak a flashlight or match into the room. As he was enjoying these possibilities, the bell rang. He thought it was Schaefer and opened the door slowly so as not to frighten his friend. Instead, it was a young and beautiful girl. Apparently she thought the door had swung open by itself, and called into the apartment that she is collecting for Catholic Charities. When there was no answer from Austin and she seemed ready to go, he tiptoed into the kitchen, cupped his hands over his mouth to give the impression of greater distance and called for her to come in, he would be with her in a minute. Then he stepped out into the hall to see if she had followed his directions. She had, she even ran her hands over her butt to smooth her skirt and stuck out her breasts to tuck in her blouse. Austin was overwhelmed by her prettiness, by her cleanness and freshness. He could smell from eight or ten feet the feminine scents of powder and soap. The two of them stood silently facing one another for perhaps thirty seconds, until finally the girl became uneasy. Are you still there, she asked. Austin was too close to answer. I’ll have to be going now, she called, and Austin was touched by a sense of great impending loss. At that moment he wanted this girl to stay with him more than he had wanted anything in his life. It wasn’t only that she was pretty and open and innocent, it was particularly that she had come on a charitable mission. This meant she was a charitable person. He felt that if somehow without frightening her he could explain his situation she would stay and be his friend. But unless he did something in the next few seconds she would be gone and he would never see her again. He could not let that happen, so he slipped past her down the hall, slammed the door and threw the double lock. As soon as he saw the girl’s face he was sorry. After an instant of shocked immobility, she rushed to the door, hands outstretched. Deep in her throat she made sounds of panic. Now he wanted her to get out, but in her haste and upset she kept unlocking one lock and locking the other. She couldn’t seem to get them both open at the same time, and he didn’t know how to help her. In his own agitation he knocked his elbow against the wall. At the noise the girl spun around, gave up the door and rushed into the living room. Afraid that she might jump from the window, Austin ran after and caught her by the waist. His touch brought on a hysterical seizure. She shook convulsively, and her sounds died to desperate breathing. Austin hurried back to the door, unlocked it and threw it open. She passed him and was gone like a bird from a cage. He was all shame and remorse. He had to go after her to discover the extent of the damage he had done. There she was, in front of the building, near collapse in the arms of a middle-aged woman who was patting her and crooning There, there. From the girl came a mixture of gasps and wails. A crowd gathered, a policeman arrived. Eventually the girl quieted down and told her story. As soon as the cop elicited the number of the apartment he trotted into the building. In a few minutes he was back leading Schaefer by the arm. Schaefer’s face showed both guilt and fright, but also anger. Apparently he thought Austin had played some terrible joke on him. So what do you think, man? See, I want to cut off Austin’s various accesses to salvation. I’m going to isolate him more and more, really put the screws to him, push him right to the edge. What will happen then I don’t know, something, we’ll see. So much for art. Friday night Harvey showed up to talk about his forthcoming marriage. Forthcoming meaning yesterday afternoon in the chambers of one Judge Arnold Barfman. Harvey’s ladylove actually got the divorce, by the way. I didn’t know what to say to Harvey. I mean, he’s twenty-one, as who isn’t, and if he wants to marry this aged objet d’amour, well, all right. And I would, as requested, be best man. I showed him the suit I planned to wear, a nice dark gray tropical worsted, as well as the white shirt and the blue tie with discreet diagonal stripes and the black shoes and the ribbed nylon socks, and asked him what he was wearing. He just shook his head and grunted. Are you going through with this thing or not, I said, because if you’re not, tell me, so I can line something up for tomorrow. I needed a strong weekend for myself, I felt a rather large loneliness gathering with the dust-balls under the bed, and I wanted to keep moving. Well, he’d just nod and grunt, the most neutral nod and grunt I ever saw. This was not the happy anticipation one expects from a bridegroom. Not that I blamed him. In the first place his parents knew nothing about the marriage, he told them he was moving in with his musical-comedy collaborator. Also, the bride’s lawyers had never approached him with a settlement. Also, Foxy had not come through with the ten-grand honorarium. Not that I blamed Fox either. I mean, this was a business deal, and Madam Fox had already gotten the divorce. Fox could marry his chick without offending Mrs. Fox’s moneybag brother. So it looked like a sick crummy world to me, and Harvey did not look like he was making his way in it. I mean, Harvey can do some outrageous things, but they always seemed to be things to talk about, like going into Christian Science Reading Rooms and asking for the lavatory. Harvey was the cueball, sending other balls on their way, but here he was rolling into the pocket himself. Do you love her, I asked. She’s a crazy good screw, he said. But do you love her? I love a crazy good screw, he said. That’s not going to help you at the dinner table, I said, and he wouldn’t answer me, just grunt and nod. Well, this was a poor baby if I ever saw one, so I decided to interfere, be a kind of anti-Cupid. I fed him liquor. By two in the morning he’d had three-fourths of a quart, and I had had the rest. I could hardly keep my eyes open, but Harvey kept going and going. We went for a ride in the Austin-Healey, which, by the way, we got up to a hundred. I didn’t, he did, and I only knew it because he told me later. But I do remember that just before we got back he said he had to pee. We pulled over, he took an almost empty pint of Canadian Club from the glove compartment, drank the contents, and peed into the neck. Peed into the neck somewhat, that is. Most went on the floor. He put the cap back on and tucked the bottle under the car. Well, I was sure he’d pass out when I got him home, and maybe he’d sleep through the wedding. But he no sooner flopped on the couch than he sprang up and announced that we had to go out again. Some bum might find the bottle and think it was whiskey, he said. Well, we never found the bottle, and maybe some bum did think it was whiskey, but Harvey has a good heart, I say. I mean, if it had even occurred to me about the bum, I’d have said the hell with it, do him good, but Harvey is conscientious. So finally we got back the second time, after picking up beer on the way, and instead of falling down in a bunch, he got out my phonograph records. I was the one who passed out, and I would have slept through the wedding, if at one-thirty yesterday afternoon he hadn’t woke me up. He was all shaved and dressed, and he shoved me into the shower, and I put on my gray suit and my black shoes and my white shirt and my blue tie and we went to the chambers of Judge Arnold Barfman. Not to keep you in suspense, let me say that Harvey isn’t married. Apparently after I got to sleep he went out and bought still more beer, and by the time we made the courthouse the poor slob was totally white and totally silent. He didn’t wobble or anything, and he’d give me a little dig if I put my hand on his elbow to steady him, but all the zing was gone. The bride was there, in a tailored suit, pulled in at the waist. I had never seen her before, and she looked pretty good, but not to marry, for Chrissake. I mean, she had a big ass and big tits and alligator shoes and a leathery tan face and hair dyed the color of expensive wood and a gay corsage and a brother and two friends—a man and woman somewhere between her age and Harvey’s—and I’m sure she’s a crazy good screw, but she could have been Harvey’s mother. In fact she and Foxy have a nineteen-year-old daughter. Where was the daughter, I thought, bring on the daughter, at least Harvey would have a chance with the daughter. But this was a monster, and everybody knew it. The brother was an oily runt who looked disgusted with the whole thing, and the couple, who I guess were supposed to be witnesses, were smily and nervous and gave the impression of being thrilled to be so near big money. The judge was an impassive fart with a hairline mustache, hired to officiate, aware that he was expected to add fatherly authority to the proceedings. Well, my outrage was unnecessary, because some of the scene must have gotten through to Harvey. We weren’t in the room a minute when he slumped into the chair and wouldn’t, or couldn’t, get up. He didn’t pass out, mind you, but he didn’t acknowledge the introductions or the pleasantries of the witnessing couple either, or the frowns of the brother. I guess the brother and I felt the same way about the thing. Harvey gave the bride a few deadpan glances, but otherwise he just stared at the knees of whoever stood in front of him. After a while, they got a doctor, a house physician from a nearby hotel, who said that Harvey was in alcoholic shock. The doctor gave him a shot of vitamin B or something, and the male witness helped me get him down to the car. Harvey didn’t say a mumbling word all the way home, and he listed like a broken boat going up the stairs. But in the apartment he finally passed out. I went over to the tennis court near the river, worked up a sweat and sort of shook off the night. Harvey came to about eleven P.M. and asked for a drink, and when I said there was nothing around he passed out again. This morning he was gone. I felt like a Boy Scout, I had done my good undeed.