Gigolo | Page 4

he do, he opens it. I come home, and the wife
says to me: 'Say, you better get busy and fix a new ketch on that gate to
the back porch. Little Elmer, first thing I know, he'd got it open to-day
and was crawling out almost.' Say, can you beat that for a kid sixteen
months----"
Nick had finished shaving, had donned his clean white soft shirt. His
soft collar fitted to a miracle about his strong throat. Nick's sartorial
effects were a triumph--on forty a week. "Say, can't you talk about
nothing but that kid of yours? I bet he's a bum specimen at that. Runt,
like his pa."
Elmer flung down his newspaper in honest indignation as Nick had
wickedly meant he should. "Is that so! Why, we was wrastling
round--me and him, see--last night on the floor, and what does he do,
he raises his mitt and hands me a wallop in the stomick it like to knock
the wind out of me. That's all. Sixteen months----"
"Yeh. I suppose this time next year he'll be boxing for money."

Elmer resumed his paper. "What do you know." His tone mingled pity
with contempt.
Nick took a last critical survey of the cracked mirror's reflection and
found it good. "Nothing, only this: you make me sick with your kids
and your missus and your place. Say, don't you never have no fun?"
"Fun! Why, say, last Sunday we was out to the beach, and the kid
swum out first thing you know----"
"Oh, shut up!" He was dressed now. He slapped his pockets.
Harmonica. Cigarettes. Matches. Money. He was off, his long-visored
cloth cap pulled jauntily over his eyes.
Elmer, bearing no rancour, flung a last idle query: "Where you going?"
"How should I know? Just bumming around. Bus is outa commission,
and I'm outa luck."
He clattered down the stairs, whistling.
Next door for a shine at the Greek bootblack's. Enthroned on the dais, a
minion at his feet, he was momentarily monarchial. How's the boy?
Good? Same here. Down, his brief reign ended. Out into the bright
noon-day glare of Fifty-third Street.
A fried-egg sandwich. Two blocks down and into the white-tiled
lunchroom. He took his place in the row perched on stools in front of
the white slab, his feet on the railing, his elbows on the counter. Four
white-aproned vestals with blotchy skins performed rites over the
steaming nickel urns, slid dishes deftly along the slick surface of the
white slab, mopped up moisture with a sly grey rag. No nonsense about
them. This was the rush hour. Hungry men from the shops and offices
and garages of the district were bent on food (not badinage). They ate
silently, making a dull business of it. Coffee? What kinda pie do you
want? No fooling here. "Hello, Jessie."
As she mopped the slab in front of him you noticed a slight softening of

her features, intent so grimly on her task. "What's yours?"
"Bacon-and-egg sandwich. Glass of milk. Piece of pie. Blueberry."
Ordinarily she would not have bothered. But with him: "The blueberry
ain't so good to-day, I noticed. Try the peach?"
"All right." He looked at her. She smiled. Incredibly, the dishes ordered
seemed to leap out at her from nowhere. She crashed them down on the
glazed white surface in front of him. The bacon-and-egg sandwich was
served open-faced, an elaborate confection. Two slices of white bread,
side by side. On one reposed a fried egg, hard, golden, delectable,
indigestible. On the other three crisp curls of bacon. The ordinary order
held two curls only. A dish so rich in calories as to make it food
sufficient for a day. Jessie knew nothing of calories, nor did Nick. She
placed a double order of butter before him--two yellow pats,
moisture-beaded. As she scooped up his milk from the can you saw that
the glass was but three quarters filled. From a deep crock she ladled a
smaller scoop and filled the glass to the top. The deep crock held cream.
Nick glanced up at her again. Again Jessie smiled. A plain damsel,
Jessie, and capable. She went on about her business. What's yours?
Coffee with? White or rye? No nonsense about her. And yet: "Pie all
right?"
"Yeh. It's good."
She actually blushed.
He finished, swung himself off the stool, nodded to Jessie. She stacked
his dishes with one lean, capable hand, mopped the slab with the other,
but as she made for the kitchen she flung a glance at him over her
shoulder.
"Day off?"
"Yeh."
"Some folks has all the luck."

He grinned. His teeth were strong and white and even. He walked
toward the door with his light quick step, paused for a toothpick as he
paid his check, was out again