CHAPTER VII. THE ROOST

Your hero counts his chickens.

The Last Refuge welcomes you back. Ivan was idling at the counter, for all the world to see. Emil prolonged his rear secretion. Would that the exceptional silence set to steady rule! His favorite fable, how many times do I have to listen!

A memoir is a record. And the writer has all rights. But suppose another would have a word? I am also a generous man, so I will open up the book. Emil’s allegory is insulting, the facts fanciful, the language improper. He has a half decent story? Let’s radically reduce that fraction!

I promised to tell the tale. So shelving my reservations, I will now share his liberties with American history, but purged of incontinent expletive, senseless digression, and infinite loop.

The Rockefeller story: Our legendary banker’s fortune disguised ragged origins, running with ne’er-do-wells on the Lower East Side. The ravenous crew could only afford the price of a grubby apple, one cent apiece on the curbside barrow. Forged of finer metal, the future tycoon would neither admit defeat nor allow despair. He tendered his only penny, but with the vision that set him apart and paved the yellow brick road. The other urchins, slaves to immediate gratification, sank greedy chops into their small nourishment, but our hero steeled himself against the growl of stomach, fixing on greater reward. The lad swaddled his purchase in a discarded newspaper, took leave of the gang, and set off across town, cradling the cargo in a tattered coat. Alas, the launch of his business career coincided with an early winter storm. The wind howled, freezing rain lashed his cheeks and pooled on the sidewalk. Starving, shivering, muttering to himself, the boy bent into the gale, splashed through icy puddles, and trudged the interminable length of unfamiliar avenue, a migratory bird homing by instinct on a more clement destination.

His compass was true. Hours later the clouds parted, and he found himself gazing at sunlit rows of uptown mansions, visual confirmation of street legend. His threadbare coat, inherited when a brutish father succumbed to tuberculosis, did not belong, but the ragamuffin installed himself on a busy street corner, polished up his apple, and boldly hawked his wares to passersby in varnished carriage or custom footwear. A novelty in these splendid environs, the spectacle generated amusement and open ridicule. But manifesting in embryo the discipline, grit, and self-assurance that would spur a relentless rise to the top, Rockefeller refused to relent. Satisfaction settled within the hour. A fine lady labored by, a wailing child in tow, and spied the gleaming red apple on an outstretched palm. She took possession; a colorful distraction might quiet infant cacophony. Bowing to his first customer, the nascent magnate pocketed his earnings, wearily retraced his steps, and it was nightfall before he collapsed into his rough cot, puffed up by his feat, two cents beneath his pillow, fairytale mansions before his eyes.

Force of will overcame protests of the flesh. The following morning Rockefeller hobbled back to the humble barrow. Selecting two apples of retail promise, he walked the goods uptown on blistered feet, beating a blighted path that would become a road to riches. A patrolling policeman approached his first choice of location, administering the boot. But his young determination failed to flag, and he returned home in the afternoon with a hard-won four cents. In just two days, a quadrupling of seed money, with continuing exponential prospect. The subsequent trajectory of his profit deviated from that curve. Already an astute salesman, he gauged the apple-buying public and varied his asking price to suit. But sales growth experienced interruption. Several days passed with no commerce. The policeman returned and exacted a bribe. Local hoodlums emptied his pockets and boxed his ears for good measure—anticipating the misfortune, he had stowed a goodly portion of his earnings in his shoes. The sun continued to shine, and at the end of a week his initial investment had increased twentyfold.

A business model must adapt. In due course he was dealing in quantity and able to extract disgruntled concessions from the apple vendor. Bulky merchandise requires supplemental transport. A delinquent orphan of his acquaintance suffered from pronounced limp and ugly cheek scar, to the prevention of gainful employment. The villain demanded five cents for a day’s work, but Rockefeller knocked him down to three and so had to endure the cripple’s constant cussing as they staggered under the bulge of sack. Contracting out the haulage increased his sales volume but proved a mixed blessing: While Rockefeller was conducting a difficult negotiation, his miscreant porter helped himself to the goods, forcing the entrepreneur into regular inventory. A month passed and he had made his first hundred, a princely sum for the streets but just a promissory note in his book. Success requires singleness of purpose. Resisting the urge to flaunt, he folded back all gain.

Winter wore on and turned bitter. The apprentice quit, the money inadequate compensation for the misery. Rockefeller’s bare hands could barely grip the produce as he braved snow and ice for the convenience of an affluent clientele. The city stayed indoors and business plummeted. Customers’ heavy fur coats, much less his own flimsy threads, were no match for biting cold. Holes threatened the integrity of his boots, his only cap vanished in another ambush, and his coat shredded under the weight of canvas sack. His imagined future allowed little indulgence; new garments would have to wait until he acquired his own cart. But though the cash flow was miserly and his ordeal unremitting, Rockefeller had invested too much to give up. If he could only make it to spring. His uncle had a heart attack and left him fifty mill.

A preposterous implication! Okay, I did inherit the purchase of my store from a proverbial rich uncle, my gambling godfather, but the good fortune was incidental. I took over an established concern: Herzog and Herzog claimed the mantle of oldest business in the borough and had supported my novel from the first. The brothers did solid business, but one Herzog discovered the pleasures of the other Herzog’s wife, and a misfortune at a pedestrian crossing put paid to the joint enterprise. Their lawyer urging a quick sale, they were taken with the idea of a writer-owned bookstore and agreed to carry a loan. We signed the contract before I even heard of my windfall. Emil scoffs, but has he ever tried to keep an honest house? Tell that to the city tax collector, he gloats. All right, I was a wanted man, but so was Dr. King! Big Brother is pitiless, bureaucracy blind to the finer things. Although officialdom has the sharpest eye for unlicensed liquor.

We have seen better days? Stuff and nonsense, your fine old leather shoes are only more comfortable for the wear. Clouds might hang over the accounting, but stormy weather is a temporary trouble. Emil casts further stones and they too fall short. Yes, the owner does place his book at the front of the window, but the display is no vanity, a novel never goes out of date. We sold a copy only last month. Yes, business has been more robust, but through no fault of management, the David of small bookshop facing the Goliath of chain store and death star of the internet. Yes, the couch is slightly worn, carpet faded in places, lighting somewhat dim, and cobwebs occasionally string the shelves, but the neglect is deliberate, allowing customers a comforting trip back in time, recalling the old study where grandpa hung his grainy photographs. The partial prove a pudding, and Monty’s daily sightings confer his seal of approval. Emil insinuates that the back section keeps us afloat. What does the creature know? That rare retreat captures his squalid sensibility like anus a mongrel’s snout, but makes little impression on our bank balance.

No matter the future! I have nurtured one of the few surviving bastions of fine books, runner-up in voting for best independent bookstore in the city a mere four years ago. We maintain a grove of literature in a wasteland of juice bars, video game outlets, and yoga studios. We feature inspired collections: Where else could you find the amusement of The Scoundrel’s Pick, The Gentile Reader, The Western Cannon? Yours truly is something of a local celebrity, women customers disposed to dally, as you would be sure to remark. And book lovers appreciate the opportunity to talk to a real writer, listen to me on NPR, browse their best hours away. At least they should. Not just a neighborhood institution, The Last Refuge enjoys a worldwide name, my photo adorning an in-flight magazine, to give just one instance. I can recall just two unattended book readings, the first due to a misprinted flyer. If Emil came into some money, a proboscis would be the principal payee.

‍ ‍

A considerate host? Yes, I gave the reassurance. I also claimed a crew of characters; you have only met a few. Your captain will now make good on the guarantee, take command of the introductions.

We keep the lamps down low. But an appealing face lights up a place of literature. “I saw the dame outside.” The handsome young bird had just flown in, although the regular visitor favors another means of motion. Nick’s bike helmet protects against the plentiful perils of the precinct. “Figured you wouldn’t be far away, Mr. Anselm.”

“No choice. The ladies won’t leave me alone.” I was attending to lunch, my daily cottage cheese and lettuce sandwich. “Agatha will have to wait her turn.” But I am no dull creature of habit, whatever they say. The adventurer has been known to chew a little cheddar.

The faces will become familiar. Birds of a feather? Well, a flock needs a place to roost, and The Last Refuge provides a home away from home. And continuing the introductions, our menage has some manager!

“There’s nothing like a dame.” She manages her manners, when talking to some men. “And Agatha does catch the eye.” The mature woman was shamelessly making eyes at young Nick. Should age not bring wisdom? “Chuck can’t stop singing her praises.” Jill is an imposing presence, the pillar of the establishment, Chuck her no less worthy husband. “I do get a little fed up, I have to say.” The stalwart is not shy of opinion, I am not reluctant to observe. “If only The Last Refuge shone so brightly!”

Don’t listen! Management ignores my monthly maintenance. Our executive branch also questions my nose for business, you will be dismayed to discover. The house only took cash before her regime, but my filibuster failed to stave off the inevitable defeat. I had to beg permission to signal the scoundrel? Not so fast, I am the boss, don’t forget. She bows to my encyclopedic knowledge of books. At least she should.

“The menagerie is open, Nick.” The manager never loses an opportunity.

“Monty nibbling on Little Women again?”

“It’s great that Annie is an animal lover, but some customers are scared of mice.”

“So are elephants.” I will not be denied. “We need to think ahead, in case they break out of the zoo.”

“Not a bad crowd last night.” The cyclist was helping himself to a fistful of mints. He stops by on the way to work to talk writing and maintain his blood sugar level.

“A two-pot night. Though what a circus.”

“No boss, von pot. First pot no good.” The Terrible is a stickler for the truth. Brewing coffee for book readings remains his one dedicated responsibility, though customer acclaim does not inevitably greet the execution.

“Not a bad crowd, but we could do better. This mule is so set in his ways.” The manager has an unfortunate fetish for change. “My husband is just the same. Chuck still brushes his teeth with baking soda. ‘My dear, if it was good enough for my mother!’”

“Yes ma’am, you have to adapt to survive. The modern business needs a web presence.” Nick does speak some gibberish.

“And the pope should rap his next homily?” Although somewhat traditional of temperament, I keep up with the tunes.

“We’re not called The Last Refuge for nothing.” Jill plays on the same team as Nick. Our pillar is also tall enough to make the ladies basketball squad, a daunting presence that restores order whenever the book-loving public gets out of hand.

“Mr. Anselm is escaping the modern world?”

“Stone Age man found a cave quite comfortable.” A tireless member of the offense, the manager always gives it a shot, with an assist from another player, to be named later.

“If those damn Neanderthals would just keep the noise down!”

We could do better! I had it coming? Well, who said that the women’s team always plays fair! ‍

Nick hails from Mississippi. A stately southern lilt sets off his aspiration as man of letters, although the creative writing program that peddled his diploma has since folded. The graduate retains the green Converse high tops, regulation backpack, and unsullied idealism of a permanent student, while a handsome visage buffs the humble verdict. And please suspend the suspicion, I am not remotely inclined that way, trust me. I might give him the occasional hug, but are fatherly feelings really any fodder? And you should really hold no grudge: Good looks may raise the eyeballs, but they only lower the estimation, in matters of the mind. Does a winning smile pay the bills? The next Faulkner waits tables at Emil’s while developing his métier.

“Nick, they’ll rot your teeth.” Jill dotes on the appealing young man. I cast no aspersions; she has no son and I have no doubt that her affection—like mine—is parental. “I don’t suppose Emil has a dental plan.”

Our youthful visitor returned the favor, brushing crumbs from her lapel. We compete for his attention? Please, if you’re looking for soap opera, you should pick up the remote. And the door is over there.

“Emil uses Mr. Anselm’s services, his own word. What did he mean by that, sir?” Nick holds me in special esteem.

“My literary expertise?”

“Annie loves the mystery section. I’ve heard him making some arrangement with Emil, but he won’t give.” The manager, too, has her suspicions. They have no need to know.

“So, the novel is dead?” The wishful writer is a regular at the readings.

“Poor thing.” I lowered my head. The previous night’s speaker, a city resident, had published a book of critical essays that was as likely to sell to our faithful as a bacon butty in a mosque. His wife, who introduced herself as his publicist, applied a press that overcame my better judgment; the letters on the cover of paperbacks optimistically piled on his table spelled my mistake. Michael Jackson’s voice impediment little hindered his searing indictment of the literary establishment, a diatribe greeted with quiet dissent from a handful of familiar attendees, but howls of laughter from an alien corner. The large and loudly dressed woman had found the book reading under the direction of evident mental distress, hooting in anticipation, drowning out the speaker with a discordant Billie Jean is not my lover. The more I insisted, the more unshakeable her conviction. I was the latest agent of a worldwide conspiracy! Fortunately, she had sufficient wit to grasp the concept of police intervention.

“I’m not giving up yet.” Nick carries a manuscript in the jealously guarded backpack. The stirring swain has some decency, will not open the zipper for just anybody. He bestows a special favor on his mentor, self-consciously showing me each newly completed chapter.

“The novel has been pronounced dead more often than you’ve had fried chicken, my boy.” I will take the pulpit, when my congregation has the need. “No matter how routine the obituary, the doomsayers are blind to metaphysics. The very idea of fiction already makes a misleading assumption; the novel brings us people as real as you and me, their world as solid as the clay beneath our feet.” I was rehearsing my thesis; you will read the full account. “That world will as soon disappear as planet Earth. Fiction is the gospel truth.”

“Mama!” Ivan keeps a record, as I already noted.

“I bring the glad tidings. You’re here to spread the news.”

“Big news, boss zink Pickvick real.” To the further security of his employment, The Terrible shares my fondness for the Papers. But his eyes betrayed a more ancient dalliance, my sainted namesake.

“And the proof needs no theological contrivance.” I acknowledged his page of concentration. Neither Nick nor Ivan are members of the club and so would not benefit from the scheduled presentation.

The club? It’s a secret!