Thomas Wolfe, page 435
Instead, they just stood there in that wide semi-circle, never intruding farther, looking at one another in an uneasy and bewildered manner, asking each other questions in a low voice from time to time which, for the most part, went unanswered since the person asked would squirm, look at his questioner uneasily and with wavering eyes, and then, muttering, “I don’t know,” with a slight gesture of his arms and shoulders, would sidle or shuffle away. And from time to time, the policemen, whose number by this time had grown to four, and who just stood around the man’s body with a waiting and passive vacancy, would suddenly start, curiously and almost comically, into violent activity, and would come thrusting and shoving at the ring of people, pushing them back and saying in angry and impatient voices: “All right, now! Break it up! Break it up! Break it up! Go on! Go on! Go on! Yuh’re blockin’ up duh passageway! Go on! Go on! Break it up, now! Break it up!”
And the crowd obediently would give ground, withdraw, shuffle around, and then, with the invincible resiliency of a rope of rubber or a ball of mercury, would return, coming back once more into their staring, troubled, uneasily whispering circle.
Meanwhile, the wooden stiles kept clicking with their dull, dead, somewhat thunderous note, the people kept thronging past to get their trains, and in their glances, attitudes, and gestures when they saw the ring of staring people and the man upon the bench, there was evident all of the responses which it is possible for men to have when they see death.
Some people would come by, pause, stare at the man, and then begin to whisper to one another in low uneasy tones: “What’s wrong with him? Is he sick? Did he faint? Is he drunk—or something?” to which a man might answer, looking intently for a moment at the dead man’s face, and then crying out heartily, with a hard, derisive movement of his hand, and yet with something troubled and uncertain in his voice: “Nah! He’s not sick. Duh guy is drunk! Dat’s all it is. Sure! He’s just passed out. . . . Look at dem all standin’ dere, lookin’ at duh guy!” he jeered. “Yuh’d t’ink dey neveh saw a drunk befoeh. Come on!” he cried. “Let’s go!” And they would hurry on, while the man mocked at the crowd with hard derisive laughter.
And indeed, the dead man’s posture and appearance as he sat there on the bench with his shabby old hat pushed forward over his head, one leg drawn stiffly back, his right hand hanging over the edge of the bench, and his thin, sunken Irish mouth touched by a faint, loose, rather drunken smile, were so much like the appearance of a man in a drunken stupor that many people, as soon as they saw his gray ghastly face, would cry out with a kind of desperate relief in their voices: “Oh! He’s only drunk. Come on! Come on! Let’s go!”—and would hurry on, knowing in their hearts the man was dead.
Others would come by, see the dead man, start angrily, and then look at the crowd furiously, frowning, shaking their head in a movement of strong deprecation and disgust, and muttering under their breath before they went on, as if the crowd were guilty of some indecent or disorderly act which their own decent and orderly souls abhorred. Thus an old man—unmistakably, somehow, a waiter—came by, paused, stared, and went on shaking his head and muttering angrily in this way. The waiter was a man past sixty, Irish, but tall, lean, and dignified in appearance. He had silvery gray hair, really very white and fine spun, a long thin face, with handsome and dignified features, which were marked with long seamed lines of care, disappointment, and quiet bitterness and disgust, and a skin that could flame and flush up hotly in a moment and that was always a tender, choleric, rose-pink color.
Everything about this man spoke out its message of decorum, respectability, and ordered restraint. His manner, dress, and bearing said as plain as words: “I have always gone about my business in this world in a quiet and dignified and decent manner, held my tongue and kept my counsel, not mixed up with what did not concern me, went home to my wife and children every night when my work was over, and kept myself free from this low riff-raff and rabble all around me. If you want to keep out of trouble, take my advice and do likewise.”
The waiter was wearing upon his silvery hair a neat black derby hat; he had on a neat black suit, which was a little threadbare, but neatly brushed and pressed, and a dignified black overcoat, with a collar of black velvet, which was buttoned and set well on his long, thin, rather distinguished-looking figure. Finally, he was carrying a neat package wrapped up in a newspaper underneath one arm, and he wore long black patent-leather shoes, which looked very elegant, but which he had notched with vent-holes at the toes. He walked a trifle painfully, with a careful, somewhat flat-footed and gouty shuffle, which had all the old waiters in the world in it, and it was evident that, another day’s work being over, with all its disappointment, acrimony, and fatigue, he was going quietly and decently home to his quiet and decent family.
When the waiter saw the dead man and the ring of staring people, he paused, started angrily, and then his rose-pink face began to flame and burn with a choleric and almost apoplectic fury. For a moment he started, and even took a step forward toward the ring of people as if he was going to cuff their ears, then muttering angrily, he looked at them, shaking his head with a glance full of distaste, disgust, and affronted decency, as if they had done some shameful, deliberate, and ruffianly act against public order and propriety. Then, still shaking his head and muttering angrily under his breath, and without another glance in the direction of the dead man, the old waiter had shuffled rapidly away, his neck, his features, and his forehead rose-pink with fury to the roots of his silvery hair.
Meanwhile, three little Jewesses and a young Jewish boy had come in together, and pressed up in a group into the circle of the crowd. For a moment the girls stood there, staring, frightened, huddled in a group, while the boy had looked in a rather stupid and bewildered manner at the dead man, finally saying nervously in a high stunned tone of voice: “What’s wrong wit’ him? Have dey called duh ambulance yet?”
No one in the ring of silent people answered him, but in a moment a taxi-driver, a man with a brutal heavy night-time face, a swarthy, sallow, and pitted skin, and black hair and eyes, who wore a cap, a leather jacket, and a shirt of thick black wool—this man turned and, jerking his head contemptuously toward the boy without looking at him, began to address the people around him in a jeering and derisive tone:
“Duh ambulance!” he cried. “Duh ambulance! Wat t’hell’s duh use of duh ambulance! Jesus! Duh guy’s dead an’ he wants t’know if any one has called duh ambulance!” he cried, jerking his head contemptuously toward the boy again, and evidently getting some kind of security and assurance from his own jeering and derisive words. “Jesus!” he snorted. “Duh guy’s dead an’ he wants to know w’y some one doesn’t call duh ambulance!” And he went off snorting and sneering by himself, saying, “Jesus!” and shaking his head, as if the stupidity and folly of people was past his power of understanding and belief.
Meanwhile, the boy kept staring at the dead man on the bench with a dull, fascinated eye of horror and disbelief. Presently he moistened his dry lips with his tongue, and spoke nervously and dully in a bewildered tone:
“I don’t see him breathe or nuttin’,” he said. “He don’t move or nuttin’.”
Then the girl beside him, who had been holding his arm all this time, and who was a little Jewess with red hair, thin meager features, and an enormous nose that seemed to overshadow her whole face, now plucked nervously and almost frantically at the boy’s sleeve, as she whispered:
“Oh! Let’s go! Let’s get away from heah! . . . Gee! I’m shakin’ all oveh! Gee! I’m tremblin’—look!” she whispered, holding up her hand, which was trembling visibly. “Let’s go!”
“I don’t see him breathin’ or nuttin’,” the boy muttered dully, staring.
“Gee! Let’s go!” the girl whispered, pleading again. “Gee! I’m so noivous I’m tremblin’ like a leaf—I’m shakin’ all oveh! Come on!” she whispered. “Come on! Let’s go!” And all four of them, the three frightened girls and the stunned bewildered-looking boy, hurried away in a huddled group, and went down the incline into the tunnel.
And now the other people, who up to this time had only stood, looked uneasily at one another, and asked perplexed and troubled questions which no one answered, began to talk quietly and whisper among themselves, and one caught the sound of the word “dead” several times. Having spoken and heard this word, all the people grew very quiet and still, and turned their heads slowly toward the figure of the dead man on the bench, and began to stare at him with a glance full of curiosity, fascination, and a terrible feeding hunger.
At this moment a man’s voice was heard speaking quietly, and with an assurance and certainty which seemed to say for every one what they had been unable to say for themselves.
“Sure, he’s dead. The man’s dead.” The quiet and certain voice continued, “I knew all the time he was dead.”
And at the same time a big soldier, who had the seamed and weathered face of a man who has spent years of service in the army, turned and spoke with a quiet and familiar assurance to a little dish-faced Irishman who was standing at his side.
“No matter where they kick off,” he said, “they always leave that little black mark behind them, don’t they?” His voice was quiet, hard, and casual as he spoke these words, and at the same time he nodded toward a small wet stain upon the cement near the dead man’s foot where it had been drawn stiffly back—a stain which we had noticed and which, from his remark, was probably urine.
The little dish-faced Irishman nodded as soon as the soldier had spoken, and with an air of conviction and agreement, said vigorously:
“You said it!”
At this moment, there was a shuffling commotion, a disturbance in the crowd near the gate beside the turnstiles, the people pressed back respectfully on two sides, and the ambulance doctor entered, followed by two attendants, one of whom was bearing a rolled stretcher.
The ambulance surgeon was a young Jew with full lips, a somewhat receding chin, a little silky moustache, and a rather bored, arrogant, and indifferent look upon his face. He had on a blue jacket, a flat blue cap with a visor which was pushed back on his head, and even as he entered and came walking slowly and indifferently across the cement floor, he had the tubes of the stethoscope fastened in his ears and was holding the end part in his hand. The two attendants followed him.
About every move that the ambulance doctor made there was an air of habit, boredom, even weariness, as if he had been summoned too many times on errands such as this to feel any emotion of surprise, interest, or excitement any longer. As he approached the policemen, they separated and opened up a path for him. Without speaking to them, he walked over to the dead man, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open, bent, and then began to use the stethoscope, listening carefully and intently for some seconds, then moving it to another place upon the dead man’s tallowy, hairless, and ghastly-looking breast and listening carefully again.
During all this time his face showed no emotion whatever of surprise, regret, or discovery. Undoubtedly, the doctor had known the man was dead the moment that he looked at him, and his duties were only a part of that formality which law and custom demanded. But the people during all this time surged forward a little, with their gaze riveted on the doctor’s face with awe, respect, and fascinated interest as if they hoped to read upon the doctor’s face the confirmation of what they already knew themselves or as if they expected to see there a look of developing horror, pity, or regret which would put the final stamp of conviction on their own knowledge. But they saw nothing in the doctor’s face but deliberation, dutiful intentness, and a look almost of weariness and boredom.
When he had finished with the stethoscope, he got up, took it out of his ears, and then casually opened the half-shut eyelids of the dead man for a moment. The dead eyes stared with a ghastly bluish glitter. The doctor turned and spoke a few words quietly to the police who were standing around him with their note-books open, with the same air of patience, custom, and indifference, and for a moment they wrote dutifully in their little books. One of them asked him a question and wrote down what he said, and then the doctor was on his way out again, walking slowly and indifferently away, followed by his two attendants, neither of whom showed any curiosity or surprise. The dead man, in fact, seemed to be under the control of a regime which worked with a merciless precision, which could not be escaped or altered by a jot, and whose operations all of its servants—doctors, stretcher-bearers, policemen, and even the priests of the church—knew with a weary and unarguable finality.
The police, having written in their books and put the books away, turned and came striding toward the crowd again, thrusting and pushing them back, and shouting as they had before: “Go on! Go on! Break it up, now! Break it up!”—but even in the way they did this, there was this same movement of regime and custom, a sense of weariness and indifference, and when the people surged back into their former positions with the maddening mercurial resiliency, the police said nothing and showed no anger or impatience. They took up their station around the dead man again, and waited stolidly, until the next move in their unalterable program should occur.
And now the people, as if the barriers of silence, restraint, and timidity had been broken and the confusion and doubt in their own spirits dispersed by a final acknowledgment, and the plain sound of the word “death,” which had at last been spoken openly, began to talk to one another easily and naturally, as if they had been friends or familiar associates for many years.
A little to one side, and behind the outer ring of the crowd, three sleek creatures of the night and of the great street which roared above our heads—a young smooth Broadwayite wearing a jaunty gray hat and a light spring overcoat of gray, cut inward toward the waist, an assertive and knowing-looking Jew, with a large nose, an aggressive voice, and a vulturesque smile, and an Italian, smaller, with a vulpine face, ghastly yellow night-time skin, glittering black eyes and hair, all three smartly dressed and overcoated in the flashy Broadway manner—now gathered together as if they recognized in one another men of substance, worldliness, and knowledge. They began to philosophize in a superbly knowing manner, bestowing on life, death, the brevity of man’s days, and the futility of man’s hopes and aspirations the ripe fruit of their experience. The Jew was dominantly the center of this little group, and did most of the talking. In fact, the other two served mainly as a chorus to his harangue, punctuating it whenever he paused to draw breath with vigorous nods of agreement and such remarks as “You said it!” “And I don’t mean maybe!” or “Like I was sayin’ to a guy duh otheh day—” an observation which was never completed, as the philosopher would be wound up and on his way again:
“And they ask us, f’r Christ’s sake, to save for the future!” he cried, at the same time laughing with jeering and derisive contempt. “For the future!” Here he paused to laugh scornfully again. “When you see a guy like that, you ask what for? Am I right?”
“You said it!” said the Italian, nodding his head with energetic assent.
“Like I was sayin’ to a guy duh otheh day”—the other younger man began.
“Christ!” cried the Jew. “Save for the future! W’y the hell should I save for the future?” he demanded in a dominant and aggressive tone, tapping himself on the breast belligerently, glancing around as if some one had just tried to ram this vile proposal down his throat. “What’s it goin’ to getcha? You may be dead tomorrow! What the hell’s the use in saving, f’r Christ’s sake! We’re only here for a little while. Let’s make the most of it, f’r Christ’s sake!—Am I right?” he demanded pugnaciously, looking around, and the others dutifully agreed that he was.
“Like I was sayin’ to a guy duh otheh day,” the young man said, “it only goes to show dat yuh—”
“Insurance!” the Jew cried at this point, with a loud scornful laugh. “The insurance companies, f’r Christ’s sake! W’y the hell should any one spend their dough on insurance?” he demanded.
“Nah, nah, nah,” the Italian agreed gutturally, with a smile of vulpine scorn, “dat’s all a lotta crap.”
“A lotta baloney,” the young man said, “like I was sayin’ to a guy duh otheh—”
“Insurance!” said the Jew. “W’y, to listen to those bastuds talk you’d think a guy was gonna live forever! Save for the future, f’r Christ’s sake,” he snarled. “Put something by f’r your old age—your old age, f’r Christ’s sake,” he jeered, “when you may get what this guy got at any minute! Am I right?”
“You said it!”
“Put something by for a rainy day! Leave something for your children when you kick off!” he sneered. “W’y should I leave anything for my children, f’r Christ’s sake?” he snarled, as if the whole pressure of organized society and the demands of fifteen of his progeny had been brought to bear on him at this point. “No, sir!” he said. “Let my children look out for themselves the way I done!” he said. “Nobody ever did anything f’r me!” he said. “W’y the hell should I spend my life puttin’ away jack for a lot of bastuds to spend who wouldn’t appreciate it, noway! Am I right?”
“You said it,” said the Italian, nodding. “It’s all a lotta crap!”
“Like I was sayin’ to dis guy—” the young man said.
“No, sir!” said the Jew in a hard positive tone, and with a smile of bitter cynicism. “No, sir, misteh! Not for me! When I kick off and they all gatheh around the big cawfin,” he continued with a descriptive gesture, “I want them all to take a good long look,” he said. “I want them all to take a good long look at me and say: ‘Well, he didn’t bring nothing with him when he came, and he’s not taking anything with him when he goes—but there was a guy,’” the Jew said loudly, and in an impressive tone, “‘there was a guy who spent it when he had it—and who didn’t miss a thing!’” Here he paused a moment, grasped the lapels of his smart overcoat with both hands, and rocked gently back and forth from heel to toe, as he smiled a bitter and knowing smile.
