Your hero walks a tightrope.
A memoir must be sparing. And the writer has all rights. But suppose another wants a word? Emil’s allegory is insulting, the facts fanciful, the language improper. He has a half decent story? Let’s radically reduce that fraction!
The man won’t shut up. And like the bodies of a freeway crash, his fable has a morbid fascination. So against my better judgement, I will share his liberties with American history, but purged of incontinent expletive, erratic sidetrack, 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 last 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 only nourishment, but our rock 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, his cargo cradled in a tattered coat. Alas, the launch of his business career coincided with an early winter storm. 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. 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 arrived within the hour. A fine lady labored by, a wailing child in tow, and spied the gleaming red apple on an outstretched palm—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 cot, 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. Young determination failed to flag, and he returned home 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. But 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. A month passed and he had made his first hundred, a princely sum for the streets but just a promissory note in his book.
Winter wore on, 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, 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. But though the cash flow was miserly and ordeal unremitting, Rockefeller had invested too much to give up. If he could only make it to spring! Then his uncle had a heart attack and left him fifty mill.
The fable has a moral? Emil has none, insinuating that I lucked into my means of business. All right, the owner did inherit the purchase from a proverbial rich uncle, his childless godfather. But the good fortune was incidental, I have no need to insist. Buster is all bluster? Maybe so, but this is Anselm Merrywood, never forget. And think about it further, I am an experienced man of business, who nevertheless just drew from an account of shaky credit. When Houdini braved the tightrope, he must have been sure of his footing!
I was new to the marketplace. But the novice took over an established concern. Herzog and Herzog puffed up the oldest business in the borough, downplayed an acquaintance with Emil, and carried my novel from the first. The brothers jointly handled the affairs, but one Herzog discovered the pleasures of the other Herzog’s daughter, and a misfortune at a pedestrian crossing put paid to brotherly enterprise. The apostates still approved of a writer-owned bookstore and agreed to carry a loan, their long-suffering lawyer advising a quick sale. We actually drew up the contract before I heard of my windfall . . . at least, before the deed was done! 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 what about 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 hang over the accounting, but stormy weather is temporary trouble, as we all know. 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 ownership, the David of small bookshop facing the Goliath of the 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 no 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—their very words, I assure you! Not just a neighborhood institution, The Last Refuge enjoys a widespread 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, his nostrils would claim all benefit.
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! An atmosphere of mystery? Well, we keep the lamps down low. But a face lights up the premises.
“I saw the dame outside.” A handsome young pup had just trotted through the door, although our regular visitor favors another means of locomotion—Nick’s bike helmet protects against the 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. The daredevil indulges a little cheddar on occasion.
I continue the introductions. A shepherd has his flock? Well, unlike the customers, some characters flock to the store. And the owner is extending the hospitality. So he must ask you to brace yourselves. The Last Refuge hides a terrible secret? Let’s not get completely carried away! But I have found your favor, and such respect makes an assumption, which it is now my duty to disavow. I do have full ownership of the business. But the man is not in charge. The ménage has a manager!
“There’s nothing like a dame.” She manages her manners, when talking to some men. “And Agatha does catch the eye.” The manager was shamelessly making eyes at young Nick. Should age not bring wisdom? “Chuck can’t stop singing her praises.” Jill is a towering presence, Chuck her worthy husband. “I do get a little fed up, I have to say.” The tower does not lean. “If only The Last Refuge shone so brightly!”
Don’t listen to her! 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. The scoundrel had to grovel, beg permission to place his plaque? Mind you own business, for a change! The manager might tower, but also kowtows, to my knowledge of the classics. And you will do the same.
We offer complimentary candy. The gang was sitting round the counter, the bowl within easy reach.
“Animal house is open, Nick.” The manager never loses an opportunity.
“Monty nibbling on Little Women again?”
“Annie treats him like a pet, but lots of customers are scared of a mouse.”
“So are elephants.” I will not be denied. “We need to think ahead, in case they break out of the zoo.”
“A last refuge”—Jill could have more respect—“or insane asylum!” Who writes her damn paychecks?
“Not a bad crowd last night.” The cyclist had a fistful of Tootsie Rolls. He stops by on his 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.” Jill is the pillar of our establishment. “This mule is so set in his ways.” Some pillars have a confounding bent for change. “My husband is just the same.”
“The missionary has his position!” I walked a tightrope? Well, the mule will not give up the fight, altogether.
“Chuck brushes his teeth with baking soda.” My better brushes off my bravado with ill-disguised disdain. “‘Jill dearest, if it was good enough for my mother!’”
“Yes Ma’am, you have to adapt to survive. The Last Refuge needs a web presence.” Nick does speak some gibberish.
“The last refuge of the scoundrel?” Jill plays on the same team. “Of an old fossil, more like!” Our pillar is tall enough to make the ladies basketball squad, a circumstance that restores order whenever the book-loving public gets out of hand.
“Mr. Anselm is escaping the modern world!”
“Stone Age man liked his cave.” A tireless member of the offense, the manager will take her shot, with an assist from another player, to be named later.”
“The cave was quite cozy.” I played along. “If it weren’t for the neighbors. Damn Neanderthals, keep the noise down!”
“Don’t worry Nick, the dinosaur didn’t last forever.”
The times they are a changin? Thank you Bob, but it’s really nothing to sing about, in my opinion. The Last Refuge was under threat? Well, the dinosaurs never knew what hit them. But one old fossil was forewarned.
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 not pay the bills? Well, the next Faulkner waits tables at Emil’s while working on the dream.
“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, 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 esteem, as you notice.
“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 sandwich in a mosque. His wife, who introduced herself as his publicist, applied a press that overcame my better judgment; the 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 respectful 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! She didn’t even have the wit to grasp the concept of police intervention. Fortunately, Ivan took a liking to her, and she fled out the door.
“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, shyly showing me each newly finished chapter.
“My boy, the novel has been pronounced dead more often than you pounce on our candy.” I will take the pulpit, when my congregation has the need. “No matter how routine the obituary, the doomsayers are blind to metaphysics. Fiction, the very idea is misleading. A novel brings us people as real as you and me, their world as solid as the clay beneath our feet.” Some speech? I was rehearsing my thesis; you will read the full account. “That world will as soon disappear as planet Earth.”
“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. But neither Nick nor Ivan are members of the club, would not benefit from my scheduled presentation.
The club? My lips are sealed!