The summer was coming to an end but it kept getting hotter. Even September wouldn’t let go. Ben, over at Ben’s News and Smoke Shop, said it was the ozone. Soon it would be summer all year round. He asked me if I had read Philip Wylie, who had explained it all, and also, by the way, had explained all about Momism, the philosophy that blamed all the world’s troubles on over-protective mothers. That made Ben laugh. Only Mencken made sense, and a good cigar. He was retiring anyway, so it didn’t matter that in a couple of months or weeks the wrecking crews were coming. He was only worried about Hank, his partner, who was in the hospital with a heart attack, maybe over losing the business, maybe not; he had a bad heart.
“A shame,” Ben said about Lou Emmett. “He had started buying cigars again.”
Ben had been packing up, ready for them to come move him out. He had much valuable stuff here. Souvenirs, mementos that went back to World War Two. Once upon a time this had been the hub, the crossroads.
“Wait a minute,” he said.
He went to the back and returned with a baseball, and a well-worn baseball it was.
Ben said, “Remember the ‘50s?”
“Sure.”
“Those Reds of the ‘50s, they never won a World Series,” Ben said. “They were before the Big Red Machine. Not a Bench, Perez or Rose in the bunch…not even an Eric Davis to bring it up closer. None of that glamour. Our boys were named Smoky Burgess, Ed Bailey, Ray Jablonski, Johnny Temple, Roy McMillan, and of course Ted Kluszewski, Gus Bell and Wally Post. Big Klu, Bell and Post, brother could they hit. Hit those 222 homers that year, 1955 I believe it was, those balls popping out of Crosley Field left and right. Klu was the lefty. Post was the righty. Tied the league record. Klu hit those clean line drives, like hanging rope, remember? Wally Post hit missiles. You had kids waiting outside the left field fence to catch him when he socked one. He once hit one over a building that was some four hundred feet away. They had no pitching, that’s why they couldn’t win. Big Klu made all the headlines, and deservedly so. One great year after another. He was up there with Mays, Snider, Banks, 40 homers that year, drove in more than 100 runs. But Wally Post, he was part Indian, I believe. He had those high cheekbones. A silent type of individual. Kept to himself. One great year, but what a year!
“To me, that’s the greatest achievement of all. The rest of them were blessed. They had natural ability. To me that’s no big deal. But to eke out one great year from minimum gifts, now that’s something. That’s all you can ask of a man, or a woman, to give you that one great year, don’t you think? That was Wally Post. I’ll never forget him. He came in here once, you know.”
Ben began to reflect, lost himself in reverie. Now I never disbelieved him when he told people so-and-so had been here, and I never believed him, either. It was part of the atmosphere of Ben’s News and Smoke Shop, that kind of talk. It was part of Ben. Made no difference to me if Wally Post had been here or not. Ben was here and that was enough.
But now he handed me the baseball and sure enough it was autographed, to Ben, by Wally Post.
“Keep it,” he said.
Out of politeness, I declined.
He said he had only kept it around to remind him of the value of one great year, something we all had in us, and at his age, no, he didn’t need it anymore. But maybe I did, he said, so I kept it, because maybe I did. Yes, maybe I did.
I found out something funny about myself. The only thing I looked forward to all day was going to Ben’s. That was about all that got me up in the mornings. That being the case I decided to change my life swiftly and completely, and quit moping around. THERE IS NO MORE STEPHANIE.
I answered an ad for an advertising copywriter, since I had written much of Fat Jack’s copy, not just the boiler room stuff, but stuff that also got into the papers. I’d have to brush up on my objectives, of course. I showed up on one of the top floors of the Carew Tower. I met a receptionist named Mary. Then I met a man named Mr. Snow. He was a short man and powerfully built and wore a crew cut. I had filled out an application form but neither Mary nor Mr. Snow seemed to care too much about that, as much as what kind of water I drank. When I said tap water Mary and Mr. Snow shared a knowing look and a smile.
“That’s poison, you know,” said Mr. Snow.
“Am I in the right place? I’m here about the copywriter’s job.”
“By all means,” said Mr. Snow. “So let me show you a film.”
Which was partly about all the chemicals Americans drank from tap water, and mostly about a new filtering system that got all that out.
Mr. Snow asked me how I felt about the presentation.
“Fine,” I said. “Is that what I’d be advertising?”
“Why yes. That’s the product. Do you think you could sell that product?”
“Of course.”
“To your friends, relatives?”
I didn’t get the connection, until it was explained that I first had to BUY one of these units.
“I thought I’d be writing copy.”
“That, too.”
“What sort of salary are we talking?”
“Salary? No salary. You keep ten percent of all the sales you make.”
“Sales?”
“You’d be selling mostly to friends and relatives, using your home unit as a sample. But you have to BELIEVE in the product. Now, for this unit, your fee is a mere twelve hundred dollars…”
Crooks. They were crooks. They sold WATER! Like Morris Silver selling holes in the ground.
Which didn’t mean that I didn’t keep trying. I went out for interviews several times a week figuring it was time to find a job suitable for Stephanie, when we finally got together again, and I knew we would, at which time I’d be able to tell her that I was no longer LIMITED. Or maybe just telling her that I was off my can would be enough to make her happy.