Adios, Scheherazade

Well, it was driving me crazy, it was like an evil spirit in an old fairytale, forcing me to write write write, fifteen pages at a time, five thousand words at a time, it wouldn’t let me stop, it kept getting me in trouble and making me say things I didn’t particularly want to hear, so I finally decided, Let somebody else inherit the curse. So I left it at the desk on the way out, a donation, no don’t thank me, I want to be anonymous, just a little token of my esteem, a little acknowledgment of my appreciation of the good work you boys are doing here. So when I came back and the silence set in, the emptiness set in, I couldn’t concentrate on reading, there was nothing to do, I didn’t even have the lousy typewriter to save me.

Then I remembered the dumpling saying he had a television set, and I figured I could handle myself in the situation okay, forgive the sexual reference, so I went down to his room to watch television for a while. And there wasn’t any trouble or anything, he didn’t try any physical pass at all. I think he’s just lonely, too, the faggot business is simply because he figures in order to get companionship he should pay for it somehow.

Anyway, I was in there watching television with the dumpling when we heard this racket out in the hall. There was a Bob Hope special on, from UCLA, it made me think of you, that’s what we were watching. One of those groups of plastic clean youths was singing, I think they honest to God call themselves The Kids Next Door, it was that kind of show. But later on the late show on Channel 2 was going to be Look Back in Anger, I was kind of looking forward to that.

Only I didn’t get to see it. When the ruckus started in the hall, the dumpling got a kind of prissy expression on his face, the busybody look, you know, and went out to see what people were doing in his hall. He was gone a couple minutes, and when he came back he was pale. He shut the door and whispered, “It’s the police.”

I knew right then. I didn’t say anything, didn’t ask questions, I just looked at him.

He whispered, “They’re in your room.”

“They must know I’m in the building,” I said. “The clerk must have told them.”

He was popeyed, in a muted way. He whispered, “What did you do?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” I said. I got wearily to my feet. In a way, I was glad the decision had been taken out of my hands. I was prepared to go out and meet my unmakers.

But the dumpling rushed forward to close both hands around my forearm, whispering, “I’ll hide you! I’m sure you couldn’t have done anything really bad, I’ll hide you!”

“They’ll look in all the rooms up here,” I told him. “You’ll just get yourself in trouble.”

He looked around, trying to find a hiding place. He wanted to repay me for my silent companionship in front of the TV, I suppose. Also, he was apparently a fan of the kind of television show where people hide each other from the police all the time — Run for Your Life was going to be on after Bob Hope, a fact he’d announced with an expectant sparkle in his eye — so I guess it was a big moment for him, participating in the same kind of plot in real life.

I know I’m being snotty about the poor guy, but who else do I have to feel superior to?

Anyway, his eye finally lit on the window, and he cried, “The fire escape!” When I pointed out this was the front of the building, and the street below was well traveled, he quick told me to go up to the roof and down the fire escape on the back of the building.

I’m turning this goddam letter into a chapter, complete with action and dialogue. I tell you, I’m cracking up. And the clerks here are beginning to give me the fish eye. The typewriters are here for prospective customers to type on, and here I am on my third page, and they’re beginning to think maybe I’m not a prospective customer after all. I only lasted two pages at Macy’s, but they weren’t as busy over there.

All right, let me rush this. I did like he said, up and over the roof, and I felt like a nut. Particularly with that slight fear of heights I have, you know about that. Remember the time I was a kid and I couldn’t get down from Mr. Armbreiter’s garage roof? And they had to call the fire department? That’s all I kept thinking about, up there on that roof in the dark. Here I am a grown man, and I’m running around on a YMCA roof in the middle of the night — actually, it was about twenty to ten — with policemen under my feet, searching for me, my wife gone, my livelihood gone, and now my typewriter gone.

I am now at Stern’s. These tiny ironies keep tweaking my nose. I typed the phrase “my typewriter gone,” and just as I finished, a snotty clerk came over and asked me if I was considering a purchase. So I left Gimbels and walked up 6th Avenue to 42nd Street, and here I am at Stern’s. I’ve got to finish this letter soon. It can’t be fifteen pages long, it just can’t.