The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (12 page)

But he would never meet her, that unknown singer. And if he never met her, if he never met anyone from now on, nobody would know about his renunciation of all ties, all ambitions. What good was it, doing something, if nobody in the whole world knew you were doing it? What was more terrible than being alone all your life, nobody caring if you lived or died? Why, if he went on being a proofreader for the rest of his days, living in a place like this, he might never have another intimate conversation with a living soul. What sort of man was he that he could even consider such a thing? Look at yourself, would you? Lying in this dump, all alone. And that damned singing woman. Ah, shut your gob, womanl

"Turn that bloody thing off," he shouted.

But the singing continued. Nobody heard. Holy God, nobody heard him, shut up in this cell. He could die this instant, call for help — suffocate — and nobody would hear!

He got off the bed, put on his shoes and went out into the corridor. The doors to the other rooms were open. Nobody there. He was alone here, he could die here, that was what Vera and Paulie had done to him. He went down the corridor. One door was shut. One door, behind which that bloody woman caterwauled her song. In a sudden mindless rage, he ran towards that door, thumped on it, shouting: "Turn that off. Turn it down, do you hear?"

Nobody answered. The horrible endearments went on.

'Cause Baby needs lovin', yes Baby needs lovin' — to-oo!

He grabbed the door handle and the door opened inwards, spilling him into pitch-blackness.

A light snapped on. One of the thinnest men Coffey had ever seen stood on the bed in his undershorts, his long hair rumpled like a coxcomb. The horrible woman sang from a miniature radio dangling like a camera around the thin man's neck. The tiny room, twin to Cof-fey's, was jammed with developing trays, film packs, muscle-building equipment, a stripped-down radio transmitter, a judo mat, a tape recorder and a huge pile of men's magazines.

"You bastard/' the man said. "Look what you done. You just ruined five bucks' worth of color film."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't enough. Come on in. Let's get a little natural light on the subject."

The stranger ripped a blanket from his window, switched off the overhead light, shut off the radio, and sank down on the bed, crosslegged, like an Indian holy man, sweeping the pile of men's magazines to the floor. "Sit down," he said. "Know what you done? You ruined my entry for the Popular Photography Contest, that's

what. Two hours I spent in the cab of a crane to get this shot and now it's ruined. The least you can do is pay me for the film. Five bucks."

"But I — well, I'm very short of money," Coffey said. "I can't afford to pay you. I'm sorry."

"Now, wait a minute; let's discuss it," the thin man said. "This is a problem in human relations. My name is Warren K. Wilson, by the way. What's your name?"

"Ginger Coffey."

"Okay, Ginger. Now, youVe got a job, right?"

"Yes. But I'm just a proofreader. I don't earn much —"

"Well, get another job, why don't you?"

"It's not so easy," Coffey said. "I've been trying."

"What do you mean, it's not easy? There's plenty of work in this country if you know how to go after it. You live here in the Y?"

"Yes."

"Single?"

"No — ah — my wife's not with me just now."

"Oh-oh," Wilson said. "You got a wife, have you? Not so good. I happen to know about a couple of jobs that's going up North this week. I'm heading up to Blind River myself, Monday morning. Of course, you married guys are screwed. Now, let's see. What are your hours on this proofreading job?"

"Six at night until one in the morning."

"Perfect. Can you drive a truck?"

"As a matter of fact, I can. At least, I drove one in the Army."

"Right. How'd you like a job making deliveries, here in Montreal? Eight to four, six days a week, and it pays sixty bucks."

Coffey stared at the judo mat on the floor. Driving a truck? Was that what he had come to Canada for?

"See, I just quit this job yesterday," Wilson said. "TiNY

ONES — it's a diaper service outfit. Suppose I get you taken on there? That worth five bucks to you? You owe me the dough anyways."

"Diapers?" Coffey said. "Isn't that sort of a — sort of a dirty job?"

Wilson bent forward, his body half-disappearing under the bed, his knobbly backbone curved like Charlie Chaplin's walking stick. Up he came with a package of cigarettes. He lit one and blew a smoke ring. "I done the job for two months/' he said, staring at Coffey through the ring. "Do I stink?"

"Sorry. No, of course not, I just meant —"

"Disinfectant," Wilson said. "Every sack of returns smells like perfume. And anyways, if you want to get somewhere in this world, you've got to push. Now, look at me. I'll go anywhere and work at any job that pays. And you know why? Because I'm studying. Look at this." He pointed to the radio transmitter. "Now, this is on loan to me from the American Home Radio and Television Engineers College, That's a low-power broadcasting transmitter. I bet you didn't know that radio and TV repairs is one of the fastest-growing industries on this whole continent?"

"No, I didn't."

"Well, it's a fact. Now, once I get my diploma as a graduate of the A.H.R. and T., I can pick up fifty a week in my spare time. At least, that's what the ad says."

"It sounds very good."

Wilson put his finger into a second smoke ring. "Right. But when I make that extra jack, know what I'm going to do? Invest in German cameras. And then I start studying another course. How to be a magazine photographer. Now, there's the life! Movie stars posing for you, flying in planes all around the world, meeting all kinds of personalities. How do you like that?"

"Yes," Coffey said. "That sounds interesting, I suppose/* "You suppose? I'm telling you. Now, you take me,

that's why I can move anywheres I want. I'm mobile, see.

And I don't miss my fun. Any time I feel like it, I just

check into a hotel, buy a quart of liquor and ask the

bellboy to send a pig up."

"Right. Why jump in the ocean, eh? I mean, look at you, you're tied down, you can't go no place unless you bring the wife along. And because you're tied down you got no ambitions, right?"

"My wife just left me," Coffey said.

"Well then, what are you worrying about? Big guy like you, whyn't you come up North with me, you'll get hired right away. Look — " Wilson bounded up from his crouch on the bed and struck a strong-man pose. Large knobbly muscles lumped out all over his back. "I had to work to get like you are," he said. "I done it on a home gym set in Toronto. Built myself up from a runt to a Mr. Junior Honorable Mention. That's what I mean about getting ahead. You see, I was doing this home study course. There's a place in Chicago gives you a diploma that guarantees you a job as a private investigator any place in the States. Well, I done fine in the test, but I failed the physical. So I took this body-building course and, like I say, I built myself up to a Mr. Junior Honorable Mention. That's something, eh?"

"But why didn't you become a private detective?"

"Bad timing," Wilson said. "When I wrote back to the college in Chicago they said I was too late. All the private eye licenses was given out for that year and they want me to do the course over again. Well, eff that, I said. So I started this TV course, instead. I mean" — and he leaned over and gripped Coffey 's arm — "I mean . . . Say, your

deltoids are like dead mice, you want to build them up. . . . Anyways, as I was saying, you got to keep moving, do whatever comes along. Now, how about coming up North with me next week?"

"Well, I — I — what was this truck-driving job you mentioned earlier?"

"Oh, that job. You want to take that instead? You could make more money up North, you know."

"Yes. . . . But my wife ... I have a little girl here. Perhaps I'd better stay here."

"Okay, suit yourself. Now, let's see. . . ." Wilson scrambled around under the bed once more and came up with a writing pad and a ball-point pen. "He-ere we are/' Busily he began to write, his lips moving as he formed large childish letters on the paper.

Coffey looked at him. Here was a single man, a free man who next Monday would head up to Blind River; a man who could still dream youth's dreams, who could see himself as a magazine photographer traveling over the world, meeting beautiful girls, living life's adventures. It was an old dream of Coffey's; one he'd started to dream at the age of fifteen. And the men's magazines, the mailorder courses, the talk of women as an inanimate pleasure to be enjoyed as you would enjoy a drink, the room jammed with evidences of boyish schemes, boyish pursuits — yes, it was familiar. A world of toys.

Yet Wilson was no longer a boy. The thin neck was clawed with age; there were gray streaks in the long untidy locks of hair; the hands were veiny, stippled with telltale brown moles. Was manhood what Wilson had missed?

"There we are," Wilson said, folding the paper. "Now you take this over to the bossman this aft. And write me out an IOU for five bucks, right?"

Coffey took the pen and wrote that he owed you, Warren K. Wilson, the sum of five dollars, signed J. F. COFFEY. They exchanged slips of paper.

"See?" Wilson said. "I knew we could make a deal if we talked things over. That's human relations for you. Now, here's my address up North. I'm trusting you to send me the dough, okay?"

"Fair enough."

They shook hands on it; boys crossing their hearts. In the corridor, alone again, Coffey looked at the slip of paper.

Mr. Mountain, TINY ONES Depot, 1904 St. Donat Street. Dear Mr. Mountain:

Here is a friend of mine, very relible driver who has lots of experince in driving trucks and making deliveres and has part time night job which would suit you if you take him on 8 to 4 on my old shift.

Sincerly, W. K. Wilson

He put the piece of paper in his pocket. At least it was true that he could drive a truck. It was worth a try. With two jobs, he'd have enough money to support her and Paulie. And that was what mattered now. For after a morning's freedom, one thing was clear. It was too late to begin again, alone.

The small office at the rear of the TINY ONES depot was decorated with a large lumber products calendar showing a young woman, her skirts entangled in a fly-fisherman's cast. Her hands had gone up to shield the O of horror her pretty mouth made, instead of readjusting the

resultant deshabille. It seemed to Coffey as he stood beneath this calendar that the pretty girl's embarrassment perfectly mirrored his own.

Underneath the calendar sat Mr. Stanley Mountain, his enormous weight severely testing a stout swivel chair. His most noticeable moving part was a stomach, large as a regulation basketball, which bobbed regularly up and down, straining against his very clean white shirt and his yellow felt braces. His head of hair, white as detergent, bent in perusal of Wilson's note.

"Show me your driver's license," he said.

Coffey showed it.

"You a vet?"

"Yes," Coffey said. It was so bloody hard to explain about the Irish Army.

"R.C.A.F. transport officer myself," Mr. Mountain said. "And let me tell you I still run things by the book. . . . Corp?"

A small man in white overalls put his head around the office doorway.

"Corp, take this man out to the yard, give him a truck. Test him."

"Right now, sir?"

"Right now."

So Coffey followed Corp out into the snow and was introduced to a small closed van which bore a picture of Winston Churchill, neatly diapered, and the legend: TINY ONES. "Drive her across the yard and park her between the two vans on the far side," Corp said.

Coffey did this without difficulty, then waited as Corp joined him. "Have a smoke, Paddy," Corp said. "Never mind about the rest of it. I just passed you."

"Thanks very much."

"I mean," Corp said — "I mean, I don't go for this service bull. Who does he think he is? The war's over, you know.

I mean, you got to help other people," he went on, becoming, Coffey thought, quite upset. "I mean, you're out of work, Paddy, right? Probably got a wife and kids to support, right? Well then, good luck to you. Now here — give him this card. Finish your smoke. Then go on back/'

Coffey finished his cigarette as told, crossed the yard again and gave the card to Mr. Mountain. Unconsciously, he assumed atten-shun! as he waited to hear Mr. Mountain's verdict.

"Check," said Mr. Mountain. "You're assigned, then, on a three-week trial. Terms of duty — Monday to Saturday. Hours of duty — o-eight hundred hours to sixteen hundred hours. Truck to be checked and presented to your relief at sixteen-ten. Morning check-out inspection o-seven-fifty hours. Now, double on back to Corp and get your uniform."

"Right, sir," Coffey said. "Thank you, sir." Involuntarily, he wagged Mr. Mountain the old salute. Mr. Mountain seemed pleased.

"Carry on, Coffey," he said.

A battle-dress jacket; a military cap with a badge which read TINY ONES; a machine for making change; a pair of sky-blue trousers and a pair of knee-length rubber boots. He signed for all, followed Corp into the locker room and began to try them on. Off went his Tyrolean hat, his hacking jacket, his gray tweed trousers and brown suede boots. On the bench they lay, the last remains of Ginger Coffey. On went the uniform, anonymous and humiliating. He thought of the first time he had worn a uniform, as a private in the Regiment of Pearse; still a boy, still dreaming of wars, battles and decorations. And of the last time he took off his uniform on the day of his discharge. Of the

relief he had felt then, knowing that it had all been a waste, that never again would he willingly become a number, a rank, a less than a man.

The uniform fitted him perfectly.

"Okay," Corp said. "You'll do. Take them off and stow them in your locker. Now you're a regular member of the shit brigade."

Six The TINY ONES depot was in the east end of the city. To return to the Tribune lie must walk a long way. As he started off, the sun moved west, unadmitted by the pall clouds which all day had curtained the frozen river and the city islanded within it. Thermometers outside banks and filling stations began to fall. Four forty-five. Office workers, waiting release as the minute hand moved slowly towards the hour, looked at the darkness beyond their windows and saw edges of frosting begin to mist the panes. While below, approaching the financial district, saving the price of a bus, Coffey hurried on.