From Time to Time (24 page)

Just past the Astor Hotel a block up from the Times building, we had to stop, immediately becoming a little island like all the other cars, cabs, carriages, and streetcars standing motionless in what was now an almost solid pack, curb to curb and up over the curbs, of people staring at the sky. Frank's motor off, we too watched-chins up, mouths open-as Roy Knabenshue sailed on down to the Times building. From here we couldn't judge distances too well, but the Times story the next morning said that "he reached a point on a line with the Times building and about fifty feet west of the tower, and that "he then turned his machine so that it pointed straight east. It remained stationary in that position long enough to allow him to wave his hand in acknowledgment of the greeting wafted up to him by members of the Times staff who were watching his flight from the tower. We could see them. Every visible window on the top floors of the Times building had been raised, and people-two, three, and sometimes four to a window-hung out, staring at Roy Knabenshue suspended there in space. We saw him wave, and then the women in the windows began waving handkerchiefs at him, and the men waved their shirtsleeved arms-and I felt wonderful; felt that damned, embarrassing lump in the throat you get sometimes at some very special human event. That man up there waving, those people in the tower, handkerchiefs fluttering back: I looked at the Jotta Girl and she looked at me, and we both nodded, smiling a little sheepishly, then looked up again at the sky.

Knabenshue must have moved his rudder, and for a moment or so we saw the strange shape of his balloon in silhouette. This is the photograph-taken in those moments from the Times tower

-that appeared in the Times, and is just about what we saw as he turned.

A shower of something fell from the balloon. For an instant I thought it was water, but the shower widened into a shimmering cloud as it fell, too slowly for water, and I realized Knabenshue had dropped a shower of paper.

"Must be over Times Square, Frank murmured. "He's dropped the checks.

"Checks? said the Jotta Girl.

Frank nodded, still watching Knabenshue. "Yeah, each good for a dollar. He glanced at her. "Find one, take it to the newspaper office, and they'll give you a dollar. It's advertising; they're paying him, that's why he's up there. Frank laughed. "He was sick all morning-I phoned him. Indigestion. Not used to New York food! He laughed again. "But he needs the money, so he's up.

Sounding so let down I had to smile, the Jotta Girl said, "Oh. I thought he loved it.

"He does. Frank set his forearms on the big wheel to look across at her, puzzled. "He loves it. It's why he does it. But it takes money. And to get money, you'll go up long as you can get out of bed.

Knabenshue sailed on, that crazy cloth propeller catching the sun, shrinking, shrinking to a black speck under a thumbnail splotch of yellow, clear on down to about Madison Square. Then, quickly, helped by the western breeze, he turned to the east, occasional little flutters of paper appearing below him like tiny far-off insect swarms. He was far to the east now, above Second Avenue maybe, or even First; we couldn't tell. And over there, too, the streets filled. ". . . none but invalids and cradled babies, the Times reporter wrote, "could have remained indoors in the Borough of Manhattan. Every housetop as far as the eye could reach was filled with men and women and children, all of them gazing upward in rapt contemplation of the same object-the traveler in the sky . . . between the Park and Madison Square every sidewalk was crowded with people, some of whom seemed glued to the spot with faces turned heavenward and mouths agape. While others were running hither and thither in eager attempts to be Johnny- on-the-spot when the aeronaut should return to solid ground once more. Not less than three hundred thousand witnessed Mr. Knabenshue's cruise over Manhattan Island.

We too sat watching him slide down out of the sky in a long glide toward Central Park-part of the time, we learned later, spilling gas to get himself down, because his engine had failed. And when he landed in the Park, fighting treetops a little to get down to the croquet field, he got into trouble with the cops, who ordered him out of the Park.

Broadway draining of people now, Frank started his engine, offering to drop us off wherever we were going, and we accepted- or at least the Jotta Girl did-a ride back to the Plaza. There we stood on the curb, smiling down at Frank in his roadster going chunka-chunka-chunka, the late sun polishing that lovely green hood, and I craved this car, I wanted to steal it. We asked him in for tea at the the dansant, which I could hear going strong with "By the light! . . . of the silvery moon! but he couldn't. There in his marvelous long-hooded open green beauty of a car, white shirt open at the collar, yellow hair mussed by the wind, he said his wife was expecting him, and I nearly smiled at the Jotta Girl's face. Married?

He said, "Come on down and see me, and I'll give you a ride in my hydro-aeroplane. Pier A, North River, near the Battery. We thanked him, both promising to show up soon for a flight, my mind simultaneously shouting that nothing could get me near his "hydro-aeroplane.

In the lobby we met Archie, to whom the Jotta Girl had spoken at Mrs. Israel's lecture. She introduced us casually, he invited us in for tea, and in we went. More dancing, at which I was exactly as good and as bad as before. But Archie was an easy, amiable guy, good company, we all had fun, and I stayed quite a while, before -all of a sudden-I was so tired I thought somebody, preferably the Jotta Girl, would have to carry me to my room. And I made my excuses, went up, and-shoes and half my clothes off- dropped down on the bed, and right to sleep: a big, big day.

CHAPTER 18

DOWN IN THE LOBBY before breakfast next morning, I bought a Times, then stood at the lobby theater-ticket window behind a man buying tickets for Kismet. And felt not even slightly surprised to hear just behind me, "Good morning, Simon. What are you going to see? And I turned to face the Jotta Girl, glad of an excuse to smile-it was hard not to laugh. But I didn't mind being so obviously pursued: this was a good-looking girl. And while it was flattering, I knew my feelings for Julia couldn't be touched, so it was kind of funny, too. "The Greyhound, I answered, and could have spoken her reply right along with her.

"Why, so am I, she said, her voice astonished at the coincidence. And, the man ahead of me turning away, studying his tickets, I stepped up and bought a pair on the aisle for today's matinee of The Greyhound. I didn't mind; I don't like sitting alone at a play or movie. And keeping the aisle seat for myself, I handed her the other.

But I like breakfast alone, and had it in the hotel coffee shop, with only the Times. Read the advance review of The Greyhound, which said, among other not entirely flattering things, that "by checking your intelligence with your hat, you might like the play well enough.

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And then I found this in the Letters to the PJditor column. But Coffvn's "assurances didn't even come close to convincing me that "hydro-aeroplanes were "very much safer than people think. What did sound persuasive to me was that "aeroplaning, particularly in this country, has received several black eyes because of the carelessness, amounting almost to criminal recklessness, of some airmen and some aeroplane builders. Even while reading those bone- chilling words, the blood was withdrawing from my skin with the sudden understanding that I actually had to go up in Frank Coffyn's "hydro-aeroplane. Had to. Had to. Because how else-I sat looking across the restaurant tabletops-how else could I search the length and breadth of Manhattan Island for something, it seemed to me, that I'd never seen or even heard of? How else search for a building with a prow like the Mauretania's? Oh, Rube, Rube, what have you got me into?

It was early, so I walked, taking my camera. this is Broadway

and Twenty-third Street, southeast corner of Broadway. And this is Broadway and Ninth Street, northeast . corner of Ninth. Still

pretty nice and respectable down here. But as I moved further and further down into this 1912 New York, it got shabbier. I glanced into Max's Busy Bee Quick Lunch Room here, and thought that

if Max had ever eaten here himself, it must be his widow running it now.