Button, Button(46)

You believe that?" he asked.

"Why not?" I answered, wearily.

"Well," he said, "I guess you can figure the rest. Miranda tells me that day before I left: Is that why the bum is so quiet in bed? I have to stick a hat on him every night?

"I was embarrassed."

He paused and sighed.

"Things got bad after that," he went on. "Without a hat Charlie couldn't think. Without shoes he couldn't walk. Without gloves he couldn't move his fingers. Even in summer he wore gloves. Doctors gave up. A psychiatrist went on a vacation after Charlie visited him."

"Finish it up," I said. "I have to leave soon."

"There isn't much more," he said. "Things got worse and worse. Charlie had to hire a man to dress him. Miranda got sick of him and moved into the guest room. My brother was losing everything.

"Then came that morning . . ."

He shuddered.

"I went to see how he was. The door to his apartment was wide open. I went in fast. The place was like a tomb.

"I called for Charlie's valet. Not a sound. I went in the bedroom.

"There was Charlie lying on his bed still as a corpse, mumbling to himself. Without a word, I got a hat and stuck it on his head. Where's your man? I asked. Where's Miranda?

"He stared at me with trembling lips. Charlie, what is it? I asked.

"My suit, he said.

"What suit? I asked him. What are you talking about?

"My suit, he whimpered, it went to work this morning.

"I figured he was out of his mind.

"My gray pinstripe, he said hysterically. The one I wore yesterday. My valet screamed and I woke up. He was looking at the closet. I looked. My God!

"Right in front of the mirror, my underwear was assembling itself. One of my white shirts fluttered over the undershirt, the pants pulled up into a figure, a coat was thrown over the shirt, a tie was knotted. Socks and shoes went under the trousers. The coat arm reached up, took a hat off the closet shelf and stuck it in the air where the head would be if it had a head. Then the hat doffed itself once.

"Cut it this way, Charlie, a voice said and laughed like hell. The suit walked off. My valet ran off. Miranda's out.

"Charlie finished his story and I took his hat off so he could faint. I phoned for an ambulance."

The man shifted in his chair.

"That was last week," he said. "I've still got the shakes."

"That's it?" I asked.

"About it," he said. "They tell me Charlie is getting weaker. Still in the hospital. Sits there on his bed with his gray hat sagging over his ears mumbling to himself. Can't talk, even with his hat on."

He mopped some perspiration off his face.

"That's not the worst part," he said, sobbing. "They tell me that Miranda is . . ."

He gulped.

"Is going steady with the suit. Telling all her friends the damn thing has more sex appeal than Charlie ever had."

"No," I said.

"Yes," he said. "She's in there now. Came in a little while ago."

He sank back in silent meditation.

I got up and stretched. We exchanged a glance and he fainted dead away.

I paid no attention. I went in and got Miranda and we left.





The Jazz Machine


I had the weight that night

I mean I had the blues and no one hides the blues away

You got to wash them out

Or you end up riding a slow drag to nowhere

You got to let them fly

I mean you got to

I play trumpet in this barrel house off Main Street

Never mind the name of it

It's like scumpteen other cellar drink dens

Where the downtown ofays bring their loot and jive talk

And listen to us try to blow out notes

As free and pure as we can never be

Like I told you, I was gully low that night

Brassing at the great White way

Lipping back a sass in jazz that Rone got off in words

And died for

Hitting at the jug and loaded Spiking gin and rage with shaking miseries I had no food in me and wanted none I broke myself to pieces in a hungry night

This white I'm getting off on showed at ten Collared him a table near the stand And sat there nursing at a glass of wine Just casing us

All the way into the late watch he was there He never budged or spoke a word But I could see that he was picking up On what was going down He got into my mouth, man He bothered me

At four I crawled down off the stand

And that was when this ofay stood and put his grabber on my arm

"May I speak to you?" he asked

The way I felt I took no shine

To pink hands wrinkling up my gabardine

"Broom off, stud," I let him know

"Please," he said, "I have to speak to you."

Call me blowtop, call me Uncle Tom Man, you're not far wrong Maybe my brain was nowhere But I sat down with Mister Pink and told him-lay his racket