Free Boswell by Stanley Elkin Page B

Alice,” I said. “I’m sorry.” There were carbon smudges on her fingers, little bits of eraser rubber under her nails.
    “Did you come here from work?” I asked as gently as I could.
    She nodded. “Where’s Marty? Where is he?”
    “Were you here earlier this afternoon?”
    “On my lunch hour,” she sobbed. “I had to take a cab.”
    Everybody was always coming up to Penner’s place in a cab. It might have been the Ritz.
    “Please don’t cry,” I said. “Please don’t.” I wanted to touch her, to hold her like a little girl in my lap, to squeeze her behind. I wanted to change her life, to cure her asthma, to give her talent and lovers and irony and wealth. I have always had an unreasonable sympathy for certain unmarried working girls. Not waitresses, not stewardesses, not even girls who work in stores—but office girls, girls out of high school who become clerks and typists, girls who file things. (Frequently I am sorry for people without realizing that my own circumstances are substantially the same as theirs; the thought of people having to live in apartment buildings depresses me, yet I have lived in them and they aren’t bad.) When I see such girls on a bus or overhear them on their lunch hour in a cafeteria they make me sad. Where will they meet the fellows, I wonder. Do church functions really work? Who will mix with them at mixers? How about stamp clubs? Pen pals? Travelers Aid?
    Alice continued to cry, her sobs coming in dry little wheezes. Her nose was running. I thought of the man in the bar whose hand had to be guided to my arm. I thought of my muscles. Who had given them to me? I had. Free enterprise had. Let Alice lift weights. Didn’t Weinbuhr himself say that compassion is the retreat of the impotent?
    “Alice,” I said, “suppose Marty comes in? You don’t want him to see you like this.” Now I was speaking her language. She stopped sobbing and looked up at me gratefully. I helped her to her feet. “Don’t chase him, Alice,” I said. “A man doesn’t respect a woman who chases him.”
    “That’s right,” she said.
    “Of course,” I said. “And a girl’s got to look attractive for her friend. Nobody looks good with puffy red eyes and a runny old nose.”
    “That’s for sure,” she said.
    “Now you go on home and when Marty comes in I’ll talk to him.”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “That’s better,” I said. I opened the door for her. “Go on home now.” I winked at her as she went out. “And, Alice—”
    “Yes?”
    “Wash those fingernails, sweetie.”
    Penner came in about ten minutes after Alice went out .
    “You’re not at the gym,” he said for a greeting.
    “No.”
    He took off his coat and immediately began to prepare his dinner. When he pulled out the coffee can he saw the eggs I had bought. Without a word he put one egg in the pan.
    Alice, I thought, you don’t know how lucky you are.
    I let Penner scramble his egg in peace. When it was ready he took the pan and sat down on the bed. “Father,” he said, “for that which I am about to receive I thank Thee.” He chewed the egg solemnly, and when he had finished he brought the pan to the sink, scraped some bits of egg into a small bag, and washed out the pan. Then he took the bag and went to the window. “When you came last night, I forgot about the birds,” he said. He emptied the egg onto the ledge, then returned to the bed. Seeing the newspaper I had crumpled, he picked it up, smoothed it out and turned the pages.
    “Where’s the classified section?”
    “It’s all there,” I said.
    “Oh yes, I missed it before.” He opened it up and went down a few columns with his finger. “Nothing tonight,” he said, as if to himself. He looked relieved.
    “Are you looking for a job?”
    “No.”
    “A new place? Look, Penner, if I’m making you uncomfortable I’ll get out.”
    “No, of course not,” he said.
    I must have looked skeptical.
    “No,” he told me, “I like having you.