20

I went to the indoor racetrack that Saturday evening, Pa was with me, rode the bus down jabbing blah blah blah “Well so I said to so and so”—

“Hey Pa, t’en rappelle tu quand qu’on faisa les lions—Hey Pa remember when we made the lions, I was four years old, on Bridge Street, and you’d sit me on your knees imitating the noises of animals! Remember? and Ti Nin?”

“Pauvre Ti Nin,” said my father; talk to him, it would start him, gather in him, “it’s a damn shame the way that poor little girl has found troubles—!”

“—and we’d listen together, you made lions.”

“It was fun, I was amusing myself with my little kids,” he’d say way off brooding darkly, over lost youth, mistaken rooms, weird troubles and strange gossipy rumors and stiff unpleasant unhappiness of bleary people in parlors, remembering himself with pride and pity. The bus went downtown.

I explained my track to him, so he’d understand the night’s races better; he understood that 3.7 was my best time and that night there was a Negro on the Worcester North team who was supposed to be like a lightning eagle in the sprints; I was afraid I was going to be beaten in my city that night by a Negro, just like the young boxers around the corner at the Crescent and the Rex Ballroom when they put the chairs and the ring in the floor of the cold dancers. My father said—“Go as fast as you can, beat the bastard: they’re supposed to run like damn streaks! antelopes of Africa!”

“Hey Pa—and Pauline Cole’s gonna be there.”

“Oh—That’s your other girl? Little Pauline, yeh, I like that little one me—Too bad you dont get along with her, she must be just as good as your little Maggie Papoopy there the other side of the river—”

“They’re different!”

“Aw, well you’re already startin to have trouble with women!”

“Well, what do you want me to do.”

Hand up. “Don’t ask me! Ask your mother—ask the old cure—ask the askers—I dont know—I dont pretend to know—I’m just trying to get along in the world—You’ll all have to work with me. You’ll see that it’s gonna be pretty damn bad, Comprends?” loud, in French, like an uncle calling the idiot from the corner making clear to me meanings that can never be recorded in the English language.

Together, heads bent forward with the bus, we rode downtown. He wore a felt hat, I had an earmuff hunting cap; it was a cold night.

The crowd was swarming around the dark street outside the brilliantly lit Annex, it was like some great church service suddenly let out and they were all coming to the track meet, an old church a block away, huge trees, redbrick factory annexes, the back of a bank, the glow of midtown Kearney Square red and vague over the backs of tar roofs and neon signs beyond. The football coach from some little suburban town would be there, talking in the door with the owner of a sporting goods store, or old soda-fountain habitue with long memories of track records from 1915 (like in German Europe); my father and I, bashful, would push through the crowds; my father’d be looking everywhere to see somebody he knew, grinning, and wouldnt see anybody. The mysterious inside, with people standing around the great door to the Annex and the track, beyond them were the boards of the banked turns, like circus props huge and dusty. Ticket takers. Little nameless kids jumping around. “I’ll go sit in the stands while I can still get a seat,” Pop said. “I’ll wave at you when you come out.”

“I’ll see you—” But Pop thinks I said “be seeing you” and is already waddling off through the crowds inside, he walks around the banks, onto the floor, to his plank seat; others are standing in the middle of the track in topcoats jawing. Young kids have already started running around in shorts, when they get older than fourteen or fifteen they’ll be getting big hood suits with long running ski pants with the school’s colors on them; the older boys are inside leisurely changing. The great mysterious Negro flyer is hidden in the opponents’ showers somewhere—like a great lion beast I can feel his stalking presence—like a thonged whip the surly tawny tail is flashing at the level floor, the growl, the teeth, no greeting in the V’s and W’s of his Vow—the rumbling roar of other lions even further down below—My imagination had been fed on circuses and unclean magazines; I looked everywhere like a goof as I hurried to my track shoes.

Others were there—Johnny Lisle—Dibbick who ran so funny, the track team captain—smells of liniment, towels—

“Hey there Jack waddayasay boy?” Johnny Lisle out of the corner of his mouth. “Think we’ll win the 300 tonight?”

“Hope I dont have to run it.” It was like the railroad local, it was hard work.

“Melis’ll run it tonight—and Mickey Maguire—and Kazarakis.”

“Krise, they cant be beat.”

“Joe was asking me to run it second man but I dont know that route—you know, I’m a 1000-yard runner, I dont wanta wear myself out and get my *#:! shins all cracked out—”

“I knew I’d have to run it,” I said out loud, really complaining, but Johnny didnt hear me as just then a panic seized us all and we knew there was no more time to talk, in twenty seconds we were all bundling in our running hoods and parka pants and stepping out mincingly on little tiny toe-dancer sneakers with hard rubber bottoms to catch the wood of the indoor planks—nail shoes were for moderner high schools with all-cork tracks. In these tight sneakers you could really streak, they were light.

I saw Pauline at the door. She never looked more glamorous, great moist eyes of grueling blue were mooning right at me like swimming seas, at her age it had all the men turning quick furtive felt hats to see her twice. All I had to do was stand there like a post and let her go. She leaned on the wall wriggling before me, with hands back clasped, I just smiled, she made love speeches.

“Hey I bet you’ll be watching for me behind the forty-yard line, huh? I’ll wave. You wave back at me.”

“Okay.”

“Dont say that I didnt come here to see you because I dont love ya, see?”—in closer.

“What?”

“I didnt think you’d catch it the first time—I’ll get even with you if you grrr with me.” She was clenching her teeth and fists at me. All the time she never took her eyes off me; she was in love with something, probably me, probably love. I grieved inside that I had to give up her for Maggie. But I couldnt have Mary and Magdalene both so I had to decide my mind. And I didnt want to be a boor and do the wrong thing hurting Pauline—if boor is strong enough, gross enough. So I looked solemnly at her and said nothing and started out to my race. Her sympathies were with me. “What a funny rat!” she also must have thought—“Never comes and admits nothing.” Like Faust.³⁷