The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [62]
He spent much time in his pleasant room on the southwest corner of the house, with its view of the river and the roofs of the village, writing his journal. He meant to be honest and it seemed, in recording his past, that he was able to strike a level of candor that he had only known in his most lucky friendships. Young and old, he had always been quick to get out of his clothes, and now he was reminded of the mixed pleasures of nakedness.
Writer went to work day after confab about poor father (he wrote). Rose before dawn as usual. Got morning papers for delivery and looked at help-wanted ads. Vacancy at J. B. Whittier. Big shoe manufacturer. Finished newspaper route. Washed face. Put water on hair. Inked hole in sock. Ran all the way to Whittier’s office. They were on the second story of frame building. Center of town. First person there. Only little light in sky. Spring dawn. Two other boys joined me, looking for same job. Birds singing in trees of Common. Glorious hour. Clerk—Grimes—opened door at eight o’clock. Let in applicants. Took me to Whittier’s office. Half-past eight. Beard the lion. Heavy man, seated at desk with his back to door. He did not turn. Spoke over shoulder. “Can you write a letter? Go home and write a letter. Bring it in tomorrow morning. Same time.” End of interview. Waited in outer office and watched two applicants go in and out with same results. Watched other applicants go home. Asked clerk—slender-faced—for sheet of paper and use of pen. Obliged. Headed paper J. B. Whittier. Wrote imaginary creditor. Asked to see boss again. Clerk helpful. Bearded lion for second time. “I’ve written my letter, sir.” Reached for letter but did not turn. Read letter. Passed brown envelope over shoulder. Addressed to broker. Brewster, Bassett & Co. “Deliver this and wait for the receipted bill.” Ran all the way to broker’s. Caught breath while waiting for receipted bill. Ran all the way back. Gave bill to Whittier. “Sit down there in the corner,” he says. Sat there for two hours without being noticed. More despotism in business in those days. Merchants often erratic. Tyrannical. No unions. Finally spoke at end of two hours. “I want you in there.” Points to outer office. “Clean out the spittoons and then ask Grimes what to do. He’ll keep you busy.”
Pleasant memories all, even spittoons. Beginning business life. Full of self-confidence. Resolved to succeed. Kept journal of maxims. Always run. Never walk. Never walked in Whittier’s presence. Always smile. Never frown. Avoid unclean thoughts. Buy mother gray silk dress. Turn of century approaching. Progress everywhere. New World. Dirigible in Music Hall. Phonograph in Horticultural Hall. First arc light on Summer Street. Had to change carbon stick every day. Early demonstration of telephone at Concord and Lexington Festival. Cold. Big crowds. No food. Rode to Boston on rooftop of train coach. Whittier bona-fide merchant prince. Factory in Lynn. Office in Boston. Shoe prices from 67 cents a pair to $1.20. All sold to jobbers from West. South. Business in excess of a million a year. Worked from 7 to 6. Smiling. Running. Learning.
Grimes head clerk. Best friend in office. Slender man. Silky hair. Monkey fingered, horny minded, sad. At times tiresome. Spoke often of wife. Conjugal bliss. Color in eyes deepened. Licked lips. Knew about Turkish customs. French customs. Armenian customs, etc. Sometimes tiresome as already said above. Writer captivated by thought of wife. Golden headed. Slut perhaps? Went home with Grimes for supper to meet same. Excited. Grimes unlocked door. Woman spoke from parlor. Heavy voice. Excitement gone. Big broad-shouldered woman. Red cheeks. Heavy boots caked with mud. “There’s pork chops and greens for supper,” she says. “I want to be at the hall at eight.” Grimes puts on apron. Cooks supper. Runs between table and stove. Runs between stove and table. Wife stowes away big meal; big eater. Not much to say. Puts on heavy coat and tramps off to meeting in muddy boots. A feminist. Grimes washes dishes. Monkey-fingered man. Sad.
Found self, although not yet of legal age, powerfully attracted to opposite sex. Picked up hooker on riverbank. Big hat. Dirty linen. Girlish airs, but not young. What matter. Writer on fool