The plot against America by Philip Roth Page A
Authors: Philip Roth
Tags: United States, Fiction, Literary, Political, Jewish, Jewish fiction, Alternative History, Jews, Alternative histories (Fiction), Presidents - United States, Presidents, Political Fiction, Jewish Families, Newark (N.J.), Election, Presidents - Election, Antisemitism, Lindbergh; Charles A, Political fiction; American, Newark (N.Y.), Jews - United States
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him. But all I could do when she offered me a hand was to take it and clutch it like the unripened being I was, a boy whose stamp collection still represented nine-tenths of his knowledge of the world.
In the car, Mr. Taylor plotted the rest of our day. We'd go back to the hotel, nap, and at quarter to six he'd come to pick us up and drive us to dinner. We could return to the cafeteria near Union Station where we'd had our lunch, or he could recommend a couple of other popular-priced restaurants whose quality he could vouch for. And after dinner, he'd take us on the tour of Washington by night.
"Nothing fazes you, does it, Mr. Taylor?" my father said.
He replied only with a noncommittal nod.
"Where you from?" my father asked him.
"Indiana, Mr. Roth."
"Indiana. Imagine that, boys. And what's your hometown out there?" my father asked him.
"Didn't have one. My father's a mechanic. Fixed farm machinery. Moved all the time."
"Well," said my father, for reasons that can't have been clear to Mr. Taylor, "I take my hat off to you, sir. You should be proud of yourself."
Again, Mr. Taylor gave only a nod: he was a no-nonsense man in a tight suit and with something decidedly military about his efficiency and his bearing—like a hidden person, except there was nothing to hide, everything impersonal about him being plainly visible. Voluble talking about Washington, D.C., close-mouthed about everything else.
When we got back to the hotel, Mr. Taylor parked the car and accompanied us in as though he were not just our guide but our chaperone, and a good thing it was, because inside the lobby of the small hotel we discovered our four suitcases standing beside the front desk.
The new man at the desk introduced himself as the manager.
When my father asked what our bags were doing downstairs, the manager said, "Folks, I have to apologize. Had to pack these up for you. Our afternoon clerk made a mistake. The room he gave you was being held for another family. Here's your deposit." And he handed my father an envelope containing a ten-dollar bill.
"But my wife wrote you people. You wrote us back. We had a reservation months ago. That's why we sent the deposit. Bess, where's the copies of the letters?"
She pointed to the bags.
"Sir," said the manager, "the room is occupied and there are no vacancies. We will not charge you for what use you all made of the room today or for the bar of soap that is missing."
"Missing?" Just the word to send him right off the rails. "Are you saying we stole it?"
"No, sir, I am not. Perhaps one of the children took the soap as a souvenir. No harm done. We're not going to haggle about something so small or start looking through their pockets for the soap."
"What is the meaning of this!" my father demanded to know, and under the manager's nose pounded his fist on the front desk.
"Mr. Roth, if you're going to make a scene here. . ."
"Yes," my father said, "I am going to make a scene till I find out what's up with that room!"
"Well, then," replied the manager, "I have no choice but to phone the police."
Here my mother—who was holding my brother and me around the shoulders, shielding us alongside her and at a safe distance from the desk—called my father's name, trying to prevent him from going further. But it was too late for that. It always had been. Never could he have consented to quietly occupying the place that the manager wished to assign him.
"This is that goddamn Lindbergh!" my father said. "All you little fascists are in the saddle now!"
"Shall I call the District police, sir, or will you take your bags and your family and leave immediately?"
"Call the police," my father replied. "You do that."
There were now five or six guests aside from us in the lobby. They'd entered while the argument was under way and they were lingering to find out what was going to come of it.
It was then that Mr. Taylor stepped up to my father's side and said, "Mr. Roth, you are perfectly in the right, but the
In the car, Mr. Taylor plotted the rest of our day. We'd go back to the hotel, nap, and at quarter to six he'd come to pick us up and drive us to dinner. We could return to the cafeteria near Union Station where we'd had our lunch, or he could recommend a couple of other popular-priced restaurants whose quality he could vouch for. And after dinner, he'd take us on the tour of Washington by night.
"Nothing fazes you, does it, Mr. Taylor?" my father said.
He replied only with a noncommittal nod.
"Where you from?" my father asked him.
"Indiana, Mr. Roth."
"Indiana. Imagine that, boys. And what's your hometown out there?" my father asked him.
"Didn't have one. My father's a mechanic. Fixed farm machinery. Moved all the time."
"Well," said my father, for reasons that can't have been clear to Mr. Taylor, "I take my hat off to you, sir. You should be proud of yourself."
Again, Mr. Taylor gave only a nod: he was a no-nonsense man in a tight suit and with something decidedly military about his efficiency and his bearing—like a hidden person, except there was nothing to hide, everything impersonal about him being plainly visible. Voluble talking about Washington, D.C., close-mouthed about everything else.
When we got back to the hotel, Mr. Taylor parked the car and accompanied us in as though he were not just our guide but our chaperone, and a good thing it was, because inside the lobby of the small hotel we discovered our four suitcases standing beside the front desk.
The new man at the desk introduced himself as the manager.
When my father asked what our bags were doing downstairs, the manager said, "Folks, I have to apologize. Had to pack these up for you. Our afternoon clerk made a mistake. The room he gave you was being held for another family. Here's your deposit." And he handed my father an envelope containing a ten-dollar bill.
"But my wife wrote you people. You wrote us back. We had a reservation months ago. That's why we sent the deposit. Bess, where's the copies of the letters?"
She pointed to the bags.
"Sir," said the manager, "the room is occupied and there are no vacancies. We will not charge you for what use you all made of the room today or for the bar of soap that is missing."
"Missing?" Just the word to send him right off the rails. "Are you saying we stole it?"
"No, sir, I am not. Perhaps one of the children took the soap as a souvenir. No harm done. We're not going to haggle about something so small or start looking through their pockets for the soap."
"What is the meaning of this!" my father demanded to know, and under the manager's nose pounded his fist on the front desk.
"Mr. Roth, if you're going to make a scene here. . ."
"Yes," my father said, "I am going to make a scene till I find out what's up with that room!"
"Well, then," replied the manager, "I have no choice but to phone the police."
Here my mother—who was holding my brother and me around the shoulders, shielding us alongside her and at a safe distance from the desk—called my father's name, trying to prevent him from going further. But it was too late for that. It always had been. Never could he have consented to quietly occupying the place that the manager wished to assign him.
"This is that goddamn Lindbergh!" my father said. "All you little fascists are in the saddle now!"
"Shall I call the District police, sir, or will you take your bags and your family and leave immediately?"
"Call the police," my father replied. "You do that."
There were now five or six guests aside from us in the lobby. They'd entered while the argument was under way and they were lingering to find out what was going to come of it.
It was then that Mr. Taylor stepped up to my father's side and said, "Mr. Roth, you are perfectly in the right, but the
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