Boswell (7 page)

When I thought of Penner I remembered the eggs. There were the shells, still on the side of the hot plate. I tried to imagine what he would say. He would, I decided, be disappointed in me; I would be the proof of his queer theories of hospitality. Screw him. I could break his back. I could cripple him.

I started to cry. Break his back. I was some guest. The host doesn’t like it when his guest steals his food? Break his back. Blind him with a punch. The Social Boswell. Bosill. Bosbad. I had to replace the eggs, put back the Bible, make the bed.

I straightened the room and went out into the street. Penner hadn’t said anything about a key so I left the door slightly ajar. Nobody breaks into an open room. What if one did? Penner’s room would break a thief’s heart. It had broken mine, Boswell, the Egg Stealer’s.

I cursed myself for the cab and the flamboyant tip. Bosbad the Show-Oaf. I would have to get some money, but I knew even as I walked around looking for likely cars that I wasn’t up to the car-lift. It was light out and there were people on the street and how could I be sure of picking the right car and even if I did what if it belonged to some housewife with a lot of packages? She’d either give me a dime or call a cop. I walked down the unfamiliar street, cold and desperate but certain nevertheless that something would happen simply because I needed something to happen. I had been outside for about twenty minutes when I realized that it was all pretty ridiculous. I was forced to a revision of my theory. Things happen all right, but they are unexpected things. No prayer is answered.

It was too cold just to walk. I went into a bar where about half a dozen men sat drinking and talking. The bartender looked up at me and nodded. I stood just inside the bar and smiled back at him, trying to convey that I was neither a drinking man nor a talker, just a guy trying to warm up, neighbor. I exaggerated my discomfort by giving myself great hearty whacks with my palms. I embraced my shoulders, I shook my head, I brr-rr-rrr-ed through my lips, I clonked imaginary snow from my imaginary boots. “I’m back, Martha,” I called to myself, “the colt’s foaled, the sow’s pigged, the hen’s chickened.” “You come in here, Sam,” I called to myself from the kitchen, “and take some hot cocoa.”

“Cold are you, big fella?” the bartender said.

“Witch’s tit weather, mister,” I said.

“Have a shot. Warm yourself.”

“Too cold yet,” I said.

A couple of men looked around at me, then turned back to their drinks. One of them whispered something into the ear of an old man who sat beside him. With painful jerks the old man turned on his stool to look at me.

“He’s big. He’s big,” he said in a loud voice.

“Shh.
Daddy,”
the man who had whispered said.

“All I said is he’s big. He
is
big,” the old man said again.

“My father is impressed with your size, sir,” the man explained.

“I’m big,” I said agreeably.

All the good little men in the bar looked around at me.

“You think he’s a Polack?” the old man asked his son.

“Shh. Daddy!”

“Your Polacks are big men,” the old man said. He turned to look at me again. “Are you a Polack, sir?” he said.

“No, sir,” I said. “I’m so big because I work out in a gym.”

“How’s that?” he asked.

“I lift the weights,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed, “a weight lifter. All those fellows are muscle-bound.” He turned to his son. “Some wiry fella could kick shit out of him.”

“Just a moment, sir,” I said, inspired.

“How’s that?”

“That’s the biggest fallacy in the world,” I said.

I walked over to the old man, took my coat off and rolled up my sleeves. I turned around slowly in front of the old man. Everybody in the bar was watching me. “Do I look muscle-bound?” I appealed. “It’s the biggest fallacy in the world. ‘Intelligent lifting creates strength without giving the appearance of crippling, freakish muscular definition,’” I said as if I were quoting.

“Just look how cold he was,” someone down the bar said. “Sluggish blood. Muscle-bound blood. It don’t circulate fast enough.”

I looked at the man sternly. “Do you say I’m not strong?” I asked him.

“No. My God, anybody could look at you and tell you’re strong. Hell yes, you’re strong. Sure you’re strong. I’d never say you wasn’t strong. I’m just thinking about what my cousin told me who’s a doctor. He once proved to me scientifically that pound for pound the strongest human being is a kid. If a kid was as big as a man he’d be dangerous he’d be so strong.”

“Well, how come they ain’t dangerous when they grow up?” the old man’s son said. “Kids grow up, don’t they?”

“Ah,” the man down the bar said, “there’s where you miss the point. It’s a question of ratio. My only point is it’s not just size.”

The old man asked if he could buy me a drink.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, “but I’m in training for the Olympics.”

“Going to beat the Russkies, hey?”

“I’m sure going to try, sir,” I said.

“I still say it stands to reason if a man is bigger than another man he’s got more power,” the old man’s son said.

A couple of others agreed with him and I sensed my opening. “No, the doctor’s right,” I said, indicating the man at the other end of the bar.

“How’s that?” the old man’s son said, hurt because he had been defending me and I had abandoned him.

“Well, power has nothing to do with size,” I explained. “Size is just weight. Look, there are several men here. Now it stands to reason that all you men taken together have more size than I do, isn’t that so?” I asked this of a man who had as yet taken no part in the conversation.

“You’re bigger than any man here,” the man said.

“Taken together, I said.”

“Oh, yeah, taken
together.”

I turned to the old man’s son. “Well, if you have more size than I do, then if your argument is right you ought to have more power than I do, too. But I say you don’t. I say that even though you have more size you don’t have more power. We’ll arm wrestle. I’ll bet I can beat any two of you at once.”

“How you going to do that?” the bartender asked.

“Well, I’ll sit here with my elbow up on the bar and two of you try to pull it down so that my arm touches the bar. If you can’t do it, I win. How about that, Doctor?” I asked the man down the bar. “Is that a fair test?”

A man on the other side of the old man’s son looked at me. “You want to bet us, is that right?”

“I believe in my strength,” I said.

“How much are you betting?” the man said.

“You say.”

He got off his stool and stood by the bowling machine. He signaled for the other men to collect around him. They had a conference, and then the man stepped from the group and came toward me. “We bet ten dollars,” he said, “but you’ve got to whip four of us.”

“One against four?” I said. “Aren’t you ashamed to come up against me with four helpers?”

“Oh, come on, fella,” the man said. “You’re a hustler. Do I look like a jerk? A guy comes in and says he bets he can beat two men, he
knows
he can beat two men. It’s a trick.”

“It’s no trick,” I said. “It’s strength.”

“Strength or trick, what difference does it make? If you suggest the bet it’s because you know you can win it. All I want to do is even up the odds. I’d say if you’re prepared to take on two of us you’re probably prepared to take on three of us, in a re-match. What I’m saying is let’s save us all some time and start with four right away. You might even be able to do it against four, but that’s where the bet comes in. I don’t think you’re that strong.”

There is such a thing in this world as counter- hustling. This man was a counter-hustler.

I didn’t know if I could beat them. There was no trick. I needed the money. Penner needed eggs.

“Well?” the man said.

“One of the four has to be the old man,” I said.

“Crap,” the man said, “even if it didn’t kill him, he’d be in the way. There’s going to be a lot of guys pulling at that arm.”

I hesitated.

“You pick the four you want to go against,” the man said generously.

I stood considering. “All right,” I said at last. “The bartender. The doctor. The old man’s son. And you.” That left three men out of it, the old man and a couple of truck drivers sitting in a booth.

“He’s afraid of you, Pop,” the bartender said to the old man.

“All right,” the counter-hustler said, “you set it up. What do you want us to do?”

I got up and slipped into an empty booth. I motioned two of the men to sit facing me. The doctor and the bartender sat down. “The old man’s son stands next to the doctor,” I said. “You stand next to him.”

“You’ve got all the room,” the counter-hustler said.

“You arrange it,” I said.

He shrugged. “Okay, we’d be crowded any way we did it. Your way is all right.”

“There has to be a time limit,” I said.

“No time limit,” the counter-hustler said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We could be here all night. Shouldn’t there be a time limit, Doctor?”

“I should think so,” the doctor said professionally.

“Five minutes?” I said.

“Ten,” said the counter-hustler.

“Seven,” I said.

“All right,” he said, “done.” He turned to his team. “Okay. Now for Christ’s sake, let’s not pull against each other. Doctor, you and Leroy push at his wrists. Me and Tommy will be pulling at him. Don’t any of you let go. If I see a spot open that needs some additional pressure I’ll get on it. The rest of you:
Don’t let go!
Now, we can use both hands. He can only use one. That’s eight hands to his one. We’ll have him down in no time.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Who’s got a watch?”

“I do,” the old man said.

“All right, you start us. If my arm is still up after seven minutes, blow the whistle.”

The truck drivers came out of their booth to watch. “I seen a fella do this once against seven guys in Dallas,” one of them said.

“Horse shit,” I said. “I’m the strongest man in the world.” I let my elbow come down sharply on the table. I made a fist. Four pairs of hands grabbed my wrist. I clenched my fist hard and the wrist swelled. The muscles in my forearm jumped. The forearm thickened. No hand could go all the way around my wrist. “Start us off,” I said to the old man.

“One for the money,” the old man said, “two for the show, three to get ready, and four to go!”

I braced myself. When the old man said go, seven hundred pounds of force shoved suddenly against my arm. Pain shot through it, but I held. At first I simply resisted but gradually I began to pull against them. Although it made the pain worse, I pulled against them viciously. I knew I was discouraging them. It was what I wanted. They were thinking, If his arm did not come crashing down after that first thrust it will never come down. I felt their pressure slacken individually. If they didn’t work together I could beat them.

“Come on,” the counter-hustler said suddenly, “all together. When I count three, pushers push and pullers pull with all your might. Your biggest effort.”

Their pressure relaxed almost completely while he counted.

“One,” he said.

“Two,” he said.

“THREE!”

“Because my heart is pure,” I yelled.

I felt strength surge into my arm. It drained from my legs, my chest, my back, my free arm, and spilled like water seeking its own level into the besieged arm. “Because
my
heart is pure,” I hissed at them. Their effort collapsed, their attack came to nothing. They began to push and pull against each other, coughing and panting.

“It’s no use,” the old man’s son said.

“He’s just one guy, God damn it,” my enemy said. “His arm gave a few inches that time. Come on. One. Two. Three.” They weren’t ready for him. The doctor lost his grip and his hand fell uselessly to the table.

“Don’t let go, don’t let go!” my enemy screamed. The doctor rushed his arm back into the contest but he grabbed the hand of the old man’s son. “No,” the counter-hustler said in despair, “that’s your own man.” He released his grip on me and guided the doctor’s hand to a vacant area on my arm. “All right,” he pleaded, “another shove. We can rock him down if we swing our guts into it Are you ready for me to count?”

The men grunted.

“One,” he counted, “two—all right, thureee!”

This time they came against me together. They shoved and pulled at my arm like men hauling down a flag. It was their lives’ most serious effort. My arm began to give. I thought they had broken it. A great pain, like something loose, slammed and tore through me. Pain came up my elbow like fire. I groaned. I could see tears on my fist. “No.” I screamed. “No. No.
No!
I will not be beaten. I will not be beaten. Because my heart
is
pure. Because my heart
is
pure!” Inches away from the table I was able to check the arm’s descent. They tried by sheer weight to force the arm the rest of the way down, but they had lost their rhythm again. Whatever it was that had brought them together, that had decided them to come to that bar in the first place—whatever mutuality of fate or luck or just plain taste that had caused each of them to accept my challenge, something monolithic in their lives which charted, categorized, classified them as though they were so many similar though perhaps not identical pieces of fruit—was gone. I hated them after all, my victims, because they could permit themselves to
be
my victims, because my victims were not great men, because my arm hurt. My arm went up easily, smoothly.

They hung on for the rest of the seven minutes, clinging to my arm indifferently, as they would in emergency to some piece of baggage they could not quite decide to abandon. They were dispirited, each in some particular stage of despair, routed, finally, as all men
are
finally routed, as individuals.

The old man called time and the hands came off my arm like so many birds quitting a branch.

The bartender handed me my ten dollars.

“No hard feelings,” my enemy said. “You were getting pretty sore there.”

“No,” I said, “of course not.” I rubbed my arm, holding it up, offering it to them. “It hurts,” I said.