Silk Stockings - 5

The War Drinks, And Goes on Drinking After it Ends

The war changed people, and it changed the government: before the war and the Great Depression, you got bupkis, zilch, zip, nada – capisce? (My father would spell it with 3, not 2 sylLABles, the way Verdi would have done) After the war either you were showered the chances - or you got a nice warm bunk, either in the prison or the loony ward. The reason was simple – the war drank, and if nice people didn't want stories too gruesome to be told – they had to find ways to shut their trap. Everyone who went after them got a less glorious version of the free ride.

We were subterranean in the light - like George Sanders in The Moon and Sixpence.

It was still, just, '57. It was, in a sense, an old world come clambering now. Both in big ways - the Giants and Dodgers would be playing in California - and in the myriad of ways that graduated the G.I. Generation. New things would be discovered across every field imaginable - including one might add crime – which was on everyone’s bill. It was the quintessence of the new form of government - words may have changed little, but the expense was completely different.

In my little corner of the world, that chunk of Boston which remained the of Hub the Solar System, if it did say so itself – orders would come down from on high. I would follow them conscientiously, we as most of the brotherhood did not. The problem was, that neither following them precisely nor being lax had any better result once one looked at the larger picture. Let me take an example from that Christmas of '57 – the Christmas my car was on loan to Tony.

I was in the Back Bay – a side of the town, which was filled in along the Charles River, back when the city was booming – it seems a long time ago because no one had heard of the Two World Wars. It had been built up in neat grid streets, along with a nest of money from the Brahmins. I was down toward Gloucester St. and the long street - Marlborough St. It was like a park – which was true of the middle section which was a wide pedestrian way - but the people who built it were building the place to run the establishment. I found sent downstairs, to the almost required brick entrance to the building. Every building was unique, in that it had different features, from arch to particular features of the door. How anyone like Joe could end up in a place like this - well actually I knew, if only by intimation. The owner of the building had problems, and Joe had gotten him out. Joe is not the smartest person in the world, but he knows which wheels to grease to make things run a bit more smoothly. And he charges for that.

I had bounded by way of the front stairs and through the steps to the very top, I pushed the button and waited. I brushed some snow off of my coat, which was finally made, and which had been given to me by a merchant whose doorway would no longer be bothered by certain riffraff. Eventually, the door opened, and Joe showed me in with his free hand and motioned me to take his seat. The division between the room - which was elegant - and the furnishings, which were not, struck the eye immediately. There was also a small line of wine bottles on the floor, having no rug to ameliorate their position – a litter of debauchery. Hard-ons and bring-downs are frequent.

 It was Joe who started the conversation, dropping his plastic glasses down: “I need to get out of here within 2 weeks.” There was no reason to ask why.

The kind of abrupt start was common with him - I was rather used to it. The outside reflected the inside: all the world from Joe's point of view revolved around him, though I knew better I did not try to correct this misplaced view. It was clear that he was slightly inebriated, and if I had arrived half an hour later would have been intoxicated beyond any possible use. This was also part of Joe's personality, he could wind up in a glorious apartment, and then drink on the stairs, and did not care what kind of furniture he had. The other tenants demanded that he leave. It would be interesting to find out where Joe landed. So, it goes.

“Maybe should do the rounds tomorrow, you look slightly the worse for wear.”

“Nonsense, there is at least one that we have to restrain today.” He looks over at me with a leer.

Joe meant that one of our appointments had missed the deadline, probably at least twice, and Joe was going to hit him hard for his disobedience. It was the nature of things. Now, me, I would have done things by the numbers - and alcohol for afterwards, but Joe could not leave the stuff alone. Probably instead of running his errands, he was busy collecting bottles from establishments that owed him one favor or another. From season tickets the BoSox to the 11th tawdry book that everyone-who-was-no-one had prayed was a break-out hit. He didn't read books – but he had a friend at Harvard who was into nosebleeds – ifyouknowwhatimean.

“Then let us some moka what you want now into you.” I have learned to find espresso far superior and bought a Bialetti for the purpose. The same could not be said of my compatriot. Coffee was only to be used to get undrunk. Wakey-wakey.

Back on the street, with Joe slightly inebriated and with 3 cups of coffee in him, we jogged towards the MTA station, where our 1st stop was just after Boston University. The University at this time was a small affair, not the way it would come to dominate after the 1960s. We went down underneath Copley and returned to the surface after Kenmore. During that time, I looked at Joe with cold eyes and decided that if there was anything called for that could be regarded as unusual, then I would take the lead. I am not sure whether Joe realized this or not. One could never know because drunk people have unusual habits. At least he was dressed up in a conservative blue suit, I think that his boss insisted on this. But his habits were another issue because he sprawled over to seats and had his legs wide open. Through all of this, he was nonstop prattling, and I did not say a word. A lost Italian of platonic conversationalists jumping all the stoops off fire escapes with three Sancta Marias, and you are back on the street.

 We left the train early – because Joe wanted the blather at many. In the evening, I would steamer roller my opinions right back – but during the daylight hours, I was business – the threatening business. And as to say went – business was good. As we walked along the sidewalk – he pontificated on how to find a girl – The difference was girls think they want to be married, whereas women have the dress picked out, and are looking for a man who will just stand there grinning in the photo. Even if it is a line from Hemingway, he had renewed interest because of the novella The Old Man and the Sea. You could tell girls who want to fuck him, and Joe could tell them more than most. You do not need to read the 100 best books; just skim through the ones you need for fornication. As the French say: “Rien ne van plus.”

 “Joe, has it ever occurred to you to keep your mind on work?”

 “No - has ever occurred to you?” with a serious smile.

 “All the time.” I let having the real point, that I had made my bones - and he had not even been considered.

 “Look, you want to rise very far very fast in the office. I don't - just note to make my dough, and flirt with the local broads. Is that so much to ask for?”

 “What happens if a capo decides you need to be wasted?”

 “I plan to make good with the local bosses, know what they like, and where to get it for them. I am sure that read somewhere a character like that.”

 “All Quiet on the Western Front comes to mind. The Sarge knows where to get such things.”

 “Well, I am like him.”

 “He dies out at the end of the book.”

 “Then he must have had a woman that he loved or a young man he was protecting. I will do any of these things myself.” That couldn't be argued with – Joe was about himself.

 Then we veered off of Commonwealth Avenue, looking back on Kenmore Station's myriad of mute neon signs – especially the “Cities Service”. Joe led was in control – veering down one. The difference was striking, as soon as we had reached 2 blocks in, there were maples and oaks in abundance. The houses were shaded by this, and a more softened tone enwrapped them. It was in one of these houses that the first visit was waiting for us. As we turned to go up the stairs, Joe turned to me, and with a mumble that shook him to his core, he announced that he would go in and that I would wait out here. This did not sit well with me, and I tried to voice my objections, but all that came out of my throat was a sort of dull rattling, and at this point, Joe was in, and the door was closed.

  So, I 1st stood there, then sat on the concrete stairs, then laid back almost to the point of passing out... The snow had stopped, and my eyes were opened. Gathering my knees, I started up softly - though the editors of the Saturday Evening Post would not cooperate.

  Opening up the door, picking a lock as easily as could be done, I sashayed through the inner door. Once there in the foyer, I scraped off my shoes, because my mother would heartily disapprove. At that point, there was what seemed like a human voice, only in a drone - a Dharma bum, if ever there was a sound parable.

  In the living room, I saw Joe and another man passing a bottle back and forth and recounting stories of their time in the war. The man was counting his time on Guadalcanal. He was telling a tale of a vicious fight to save Henderson Field - which was regarded as paramount for the efforts to rid the Solomon Islands of the Jap invaders. At this point, both of them stopped, and Joe stuttered out: “I would like you to meet my friend Sal.”

 “I thought going to talk to them and then leave, it has been more than an hour.”

 “He offered me a drink, and then we started talking war stories.”

 “He owes money, has he paid it?”

 “No, of course not, but he has a line on some women's costumes that I can use to bargain...”

 “This isn't a private visit.”

 “You run your appointments your way, and I'll run mine my way.” Then he turned back to Sal and made a motion with his hands to continue. Now in a movie, I have just taken my firearm and just shot Sal, with buckets of blood going everywhere - but I was still too polite for that.

 However, I was still caught, Joe had disobeyed orders - and likely be punished if I reported this incident, instead, leave seemed the best option.

 Later, when I discussed this with the old man, he told me that Joe would figure out a way to get what he wanted, and all the debts were going to be squared. It then occurred to me, that doing things the right way was only possible when one did not have a better way. It is also clear, that being able to have a craft of wine or a flagon of beer with an old buddy from the war would like you to make bread and solve the problem a different way.

  It was at this point that I realized that the war had not ended, and I should be looking for a different road to employment. The war ended long before I was old enough to serve, and no machination would make up for that. The more glamorous version of the free ride beckoned.