Boswell (28 page)

Morty shrugged carelessly. It was neither a modest gesture nor sententious self-effacement. Morty would never buff elegant fingernails down well-bred lapels. His movement seemed instead rather hopeless, and I felt a brief panic of guilt.

“I thought Hitler would have finished all that,” he said quietly.

I nodded helplessly. “Well,” I said, “let’s get out of here.” A little extravagantly, I motioned for him to precede me down the staircase.

He went down the stairs apathetically and we left the house.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “I left my hat and coat in a tree. Wait right here.” I ran off to get them. When I returned a minute later Morty was sitting on the wide patio steps, his elbows on his knees. His chin was in his hands.

“Are you all right, Morty?”

He looked up at me sadly and pointed to his mouth.

“Are you dissolving a pill, Morty?” He nodded. I waited while Morty’s pill dissolved. “Morty, how did you come here tonight? Did you drive?”

Morty swallowed deeply. “I drove,” he said in a minute.

I looked down the long necklace of cars in Gibbenjoy’s curving driveway. “Which is yours, Mort?”

He pointed listlessly down the driveway, indicating a place somewhere near the gates. “It’s a Forty-seven Buick,” he said softly.

“Well, come on,” I said. “You’d better give me the keys.” I pulled him up gently. “Come on, Morty, we can’t stay here.”

I led him down the drive past the shiny Cadillacs and Lincolns and Rollses. Chauffeurs in funereal livery lounged against the highly polished fenders talking quietly to each other, or sat, the driver’s doors thrown widely open, staring vacantly at the tips of their boots.

We came to Morty’s car, black and blocky and vaguely powerful. It was the car of a traveling salesman who did a lot of driving alone and carried his sample cases in the back seat and missed his family. I had a sudden surge of feeling for its owner when I saw it. I imagined him in some midwestern university town on a week night in the winter. He was there to give a lecture and he couldn’t read the street signs very well and he moved with stiff effort inside his heavy overcoat and his thick gloves.

“Shall I drive, Morty? You seem a little tired.”

“Yeah,” he said, “all right. You drive.” He gave me a ring of keys on a dirty bit of string. There were only a few keys on it.

I opened the door for Morty. “Well, where to?” I said when I was sitting behind the wheel.

“Listen,” he said, “there’s really no need for you to leave the party.”

“Come on, Morty, after what I said to Gibbenjoy?”

“Yes,” he said, “I suppose you’re right. I hope I didn’t get you into trouble with him. He’s very powerful.”

“That’s of no importance, Morty,” I said. “I wish you’d put that out of your mind. Everything’s all right.”

“Well,” he said, “I hope so.”

“How about a hamburger, Morty? I know a place on Market Street that’s open all night. Cabbies and cops eat there. And truckers.” I was thinking of the Maryland Café. It was across from the Love.

“All right,” he said without enthusiasm.

We drove through the curving, wooded suburbs of the wealthy and into the city. Beside me Morty sat with his head resting on the back of the seat and this thin short legs stretched out. His eyes were closed. I felt very good, very powerful. I was driving through the streets of the city with the world’s newest Nobel Prize winner beside me. It didn’t bother me at all that I’d practically had to capture him to have him with me in this way. What would General Manara do with someone like Morty? The Mortys were his company clerks. What would Hope Fayespringer do with him? Or Gibbenjoy? He was better off with me. I smiled to myself. I was a Nobel Prize winner winner.

We went down a cobblestoned street with two sets of streetcar tracks. I skidded in one of the ruts and jolted the car in pulling it out. Morty woke up.

“Feel better, Morty?”

He took out his box and put two more pills into his mouth.

I turned onto Market Street, drove down it to the Maryland and pulled near the curb a few doors away from the restaurant. “This is it, Dr. Perlmutter,” I said.

Morty revived when we walked into the café. It was a big place with wide red-plasţic-covered booths along two walls. Down the center of the room was a double row of booths. A counter with stools ran along the back; behind it were grills and ice cream freezers and shelves with small boxes of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes and Rice Krispies and red and white cans of Campbell’s soups. The whole place was lit by strings of long fluorescent tubes that hung exposed from the ceiling.

Morty seemed pleased. “This is very nice,” he said. “This is really nice.”

“Yes,” I said. I had picked it because it was the only place in Philadelphia I knew. I always ate there.

He went over to the cashier’s glass counter and bent down to look into it. “Look,” he said, “Look. ‘Brach’s Peppermint Curls.’ ‘Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit.’ ‘Beeman’s Pepsin Chewing Gum.’ ‘Holloway’s Milk Duds.’ ‘Hershey’s Milk Chocolate.’ ‘Mallen’s Malties.’ ‘Evans’ Little Licorice.’”

The cashier, sitting on a high stool behind the counter, looked down at him nervously. “Can’t you make up your mind?” she said.

Morty peered up at her.

“Can’t you decide what candy you want?”

“Oh,” Morty said. “Certainly. Give me a package of Beeman’s Pepsin Chewing Gum.”

On her side of the counter the woman slid back the wooden doors and reached inside. Morty put his finger on the glass to show her where the gum was. She sighed heavily. Morty looked up at me and winked.

He stood up. “Five cents, is that right?” He had a quarter in his hand. He stooped down again, and looked inside the case. “Let me have a Hershey’s Milk Chocolate, too.”

The woman got off her stool and bent down. “Where is it?” she asked.

“Right there,” Morty said. He smiled at the woman through the glass.

“That’s fifteen cents,” the woman said, straightening and sitting again on her stool. “The candy is a dime.”

“I think I’ll take my change in a cigar,” he said. “Which cigars are a dime?”

“It says on the boxes,” the woman said wearily.

“Yes, of course. Do you see these wonderful cigar boxes?” he asked me.

I stooped down beside him and peered into the case.

“Look at the emblem on the Dutch Master. That’s really a very fine reproduction.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is.”

“Look at that one,” Morty said. ”‘That Grand Imperial. The Smoke of the Czars.’ That’s a dime. Do you want one?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’ll take a Grand Imperial,” he told the woman.

“Say,” she said. “Candy, cigars—how about a nice glass of milk and a bottle of beer?”

Morty stood up. He put his gum and his candy and his cigar in his pocket. “You know what’s wrong with girls like you?” he said. “You’re wise guys. I had my eyes right up your skirt the whole time I was looking through that glass case. You’ve got a run up your left stocking starting at the knee that goes up to the thigh.”

“Morty!” I said.

He leaned across the counter. “My second wife was a cashier,” he said to her.

The woman rolled her eyes upward in what she meant to be massive boredom.

Morty laughed. “I used to get her the same way,” he said.

“Will you listen to him?” she said.

“Come on, Morty,” I said, and led him to a booth. He followed, still laughing.

“This place is really nice,” Morty said again when we had sat down. He seemed as lively as he had earlier in the evening. Evidently he was one of those people with an emotional second wind.

He spread out a napkin he had taken from the metal dispenser and put the candy on it, placing the wrapper so that he could read it. Then he put the gum beside it and looked from one to the other. All expression was gone from his face as he studied the wrappers. I looked at the brown and gray candy wrapper, wondering what he saw. He picked up the package of gum and holding it in front of his eyes turned it so that he could study each side. He put it down on the napkin again and sat back. Then he leaned forward, bending down slowly over the napkin. The napkin might have been a slide, the gum and candy cultures on it.

“What is it, Morty?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Suddenly he slid out of the booth and rushed back to the cashier. I saw him pointing to the glass case. He took some coins out of his pocket and looked into his palm for a moment. “Twenty cents’ worth,” I heard him say excitedly.
“Any
kind, that’s the point.” The woman gave him more candy, but instead of coming back to the booth he went to the counter at the rear of the café and leaned forward across it. In a moment he was back in the booth.

Morty put all the candy on the napkin. “See?” he said excitedly. “‘Mallen’s Malties.’ ‘Beeman’s Pepsin Chewing Gum.’ ‘Hershey’s Chocolate.’”

“Morty,” I said, suddenly frightened, “are you a diabetic?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Don’t you understand?” he asked impatiently. “All the candies, all the gums have the name of the man who makes it prominently on the label.
Showing the possessive!
Hershey’s. Peter Paul’s. Beeman’s. Curtiss’. Brach’s. Wrigley’s. I looked at the products behind that counter there and it’s the same thing.
Campbell’s
Tomato Soup.
Kellogg’s
Corn Flakes. Why? It’s an important question. Think of other products. Is it
Remington’s
typewriter?
Chevrolet’s
automobile?
Bayer’s
aspirin? No! But you do find
Pond’s
cold cream. Cold cream yes, but typewriters no. What an insight! There’s
Welch’s
Grape Juice, but it’s
Schlitz
Beer!
I’ve explained the culture!”
Morty said, his eyes shining. “I was looking for the key. I knew there must be a key. There had to be a key. Margaret Mead said no, it was too complex to have one, but I knew she was wrong. ‘Go for the belly button of the culture,’ I said. ‘Something that’s there but no one bothers to think about.’”

“Morty, what is it?”

“All the bugs aren’t out yet,” he warned.

“Of course, but what is it?”

“It will have to be refined.”

“I know that. Certainly, but—”

“I’ll have to do a lot of legwork. Research. Dull stuff.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” I said.

“I’ll have to get a complete list of brand names somewhere.”

“Brand names?”

“Do you suppose the Department of Commerce?”

“What
is
it, Morty?”

He looked at me suspiciously. “What’s your field?” he asked me suddenly.

“What?”

“What’s your field?”

“Morty, I haven’t got a field. I swear to you.”

“What’s your field?”

“Left.”

“You’re not an anthropologist?”

I shook my head.

“Are you in academics at all?”

“No, Morty.”

“All right,” he said a little uncertainly. “I suppose I can trust you. I have to tell somebody. As I say, though, it’s not perfected yet. There’s plenty of thinking still to be done.”

I nodded.

“Well,” he said, “when I first realized about the candy wrappers I thought it might have something to do with pride or craftsmanship or something. Most candy makers were probably small businessmen initially. Working in their own candy kitchens from private recipes, caramel up to their elbows. When they branched out maybe they just wanted to keep that homemade touch. So they put their signatures on the wrappers. That’s the term,
‘Signatures’!
Maybe they thought it might even be good business. But that’s crap. Who buys candy?
Kids
buy candy. What the hell does a kid care if the stuff’s homemade? What does a kid know about good business? Then when I saw the cereal boxes, I realized it was bigger than that. Who eats cereal? Kids. Who eats soup? Again kids. Always kids.
Kids!
All right, let’s skip to the grape juice. Who drinks grape juice? Kids, right? But who drinks
beer?
Adults!
Welch’s
grape juice!
Schlitz
beer. The possessive disappears. The name is absorbed into the product, do you follow me? Pullman car, Maytag washer, Ford. It’s the conspiracy of anonymity, don’t you see? Just as long as Wrigley keeps that apostrophe ’s’ after his name, he remains an entity, a human being. We see him among the gum base, the cornstarch, the artificial, fruit flavoring. But who’s Morris that the Morris chair is named for? Who’s Macadam of the macadam road? Can you imagine such a person? Now, why should products that relate to children have this aura of individuality, and products that relate to adults have this aura of anonymity? Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Why?”

“I don’t
know
why,” Morty said, suddenly weary.

“Morty,” I said.

“It’s no good. I can’t even state the problem.”

“It
is
good, Dr. Perlmutter,” I said.

“It stinks.”

“Work on it, Morty.”

“Do you want this candy?” Morty asked. “I break out.” He shoved the candy across the table to me.

It was painful to see him subdued again. I wondered if he had a third and fourth wind. What he said about the names had excited me. After all, if I had a field, that was it—brand names. The grand brands of the great. I wished Morty would go on, but I saw that he wouldn’t. He was tired, bored. I decided to find out more about him.

We sat quietly for a few moments. When the waitress came over and took our orders I ordered a hamburger and potatoes. Morty wanted tea.

“Morty,” I asked after a while, “was that all true what you told Gibbenjoy? About the six wives and all the rest?”

“Certainly it’s true.”

“You’d have to be eighty-five years old,” I said admiringly.

“I’m fifty-six,” he answered sadly.

I was astonished. He seemed fifteen years younger.

The waitress brought our food. I was hungry and ate my hamburger quickly. I offered Morty some French fried potatoes, but he hook his head. He played with the little tag attached by a string to the tea bag inside the pot.

“Morton’s
tea,” he said, showing me the tag.

“You could still work it out.”

He ignored me. “Well, maybe I saved myself in time on that one. It’s too bad it’s such horseshit. You see how it is? That’s the sort of thing I have to depend on. ‘The key to the culture.’ Right in the old home town, the old back yard, Grandma’s trunk in the attic. I’m too old for anything else now.”