seen deer around, that country being wild even in 1947), when I heard a frightening noise in the dark. It was a huffing and puffing. I thought it was a rhinoceros coming for me in the dark. I grabbed my gun. A tall figure appeared in the canyon gloom; it had an enormous head. Suddenly I realized it was Remi with a huge box of groceries on his shoulder. He was moaning and groaning from the enormous weight of it. He’d found the key to the cafeteria somewhere and had got his groceries out the front door. I said, “Remi, I thought you were home; what the hell are you doing?”
And he said, “Paradise, I have told you several times what President Truman said, we must cut down on the cost of living.” And I heard him huff and puff into the darkness. I’ve already described that awful trail back to our shack, up hill and down dale. He hid the groceries in the tall grass and came back to me. “Sal, I just can’t make it alone. I’m going to divide it into two boxes and you’re going to help me.”
“But I’m on duty.”
“I’ll watch the place while you’re gone. Things are getting rough all around. We’ve just got to make it the best way we can, and that’s all there is to it.” He wiped his face. “Whoo! I’ve told you time and time again, Sal, that we’re buddies, and we’re in this thing together. There’s just no two ways about it. The Dostioff skis, the cops, the Lee Anns, all the evil skulls of this world, are out for our skin. It’s up to us to see that nobody pulls any schemes on us. They’ve got a lot more up their sleeves besides a dirty arm. Remember that. You can’t teach the old maestro a new tune.”
I finally asked, “Whatever are we going to do about shipping out?” We’d been doing these things for ten weeks. I was making fifty-five bucks a week and sending my aunt an average of forty. I’d spent only one evening in San Francisco in all that time. My life was wrapped in the shack, in Remi’s battles with Lee Ann, and in the middle of the night at the barracks.
Remi was gone off in the dark to get another box. I struggled with him on that old Zorro road. We piled up the groceries a mile high on Lee Ann’s kitchen table. She woke up and rubbed her eyes.
“You know what President Truman said?” She was delighted. I suddenly began to realize that everybody in America is a natural-born thief. I was getting the bug myself. I even began to try to see if doors were locked. The other cops were getting suspicious of us; they saw it in our eyes; they understood with unfailing instinct what was on our minds. Years of experience had taught them the likes of Remi and me.
In the daytime Remi and I went out with the gun and tried to shoot quail in the hills. Remi sneaked up to within three feet of the clucking birds and let go a blast of the .32. He missed. His tremendous laugh roared over the California woods and over America. “The time has come for you and me to go and see the Banana King.”
It was Saturday; we got all spruced up and went down to the bus station on the crossroads. We rode into San Francisco and strolled through the streets. Remi’s huge laugh resounded everywhere we went. “You must write a story about the Banana King,” he warned me. “Don’t pull any tricks on the old maestro and write about something else. The Banana King is your meat. There stands the Banana King.” The Banana King was an old man selling bananas on the corner. I was completely bored. But Remi kept punching me in the ribs and even dragging me along by the collar. “When you write about the Banana King you write about the human-interest things of life.” I told him I didn’t give a damn about the Banana King. “Until you learn to realize the importance of the Banana King you will know absolutely nothing about the human-interest things of the world,” said Remi emphatically.
There was an old rusty freighter out in the bay that was used as a buoy. Remi was all for rowing out to it, so one
And he said, “Paradise, I have told you several times what President Truman said, we must cut down on the cost of living.” And I heard him huff and puff into the darkness. I’ve already described that awful trail back to our shack, up hill and down dale. He hid the groceries in the tall grass and came back to me. “Sal, I just can’t make it alone. I’m going to divide it into two boxes and you’re going to help me.”
“But I’m on duty.”
“I’ll watch the place while you’re gone. Things are getting rough all around. We’ve just got to make it the best way we can, and that’s all there is to it.” He wiped his face. “Whoo! I’ve told you time and time again, Sal, that we’re buddies, and we’re in this thing together. There’s just no two ways about it. The Dostioff skis, the cops, the Lee Anns, all the evil skulls of this world, are out for our skin. It’s up to us to see that nobody pulls any schemes on us. They’ve got a lot more up their sleeves besides a dirty arm. Remember that. You can’t teach the old maestro a new tune.”
I finally asked, “Whatever are we going to do about shipping out?” We’d been doing these things for ten weeks. I was making fifty-five bucks a week and sending my aunt an average of forty. I’d spent only one evening in San Francisco in all that time. My life was wrapped in the shack, in Remi’s battles with Lee Ann, and in the middle of the night at the barracks.
Remi was gone off in the dark to get another box. I struggled with him on that old Zorro road. We piled up the groceries a mile high on Lee Ann’s kitchen table. She woke up and rubbed her eyes.
“You know what President Truman said?” She was delighted. I suddenly began to realize that everybody in America is a natural-born thief. I was getting the bug myself. I even began to try to see if doors were locked. The other cops were getting suspicious of us; they saw it in our eyes; they understood with unfailing instinct what was on our minds. Years of experience had taught them the likes of Remi and me.
In the daytime Remi and I went out with the gun and tried to shoot quail in the hills. Remi sneaked up to within three feet of the clucking birds and let go a blast of the .32. He missed. His tremendous laugh roared over the California woods and over America. “The time has come for you and me to go and see the Banana King.”
It was Saturday; we got all spruced up and went down to the bus station on the crossroads. We rode into San Francisco and strolled through the streets. Remi’s huge laugh resounded everywhere we went. “You must write a story about the Banana King,” he warned me. “Don’t pull any tricks on the old maestro and write about something else. The Banana King is your meat. There stands the Banana King.” The Banana King was an old man selling bananas on the corner. I was completely bored. But Remi kept punching me in the ribs and even dragging me along by the collar. “When you write about the Banana King you write about the human-interest things of life.” I told him I didn’t give a damn about the Banana King. “Until you learn to realize the importance of the Banana King you will know absolutely nothing about the human-interest things of the world,” said Remi emphatically.
There was an old rusty freighter out in the bay that was used as a buoy. Remi was all for rowing out to it, so one
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