about the same to me. No worse than usual, that is. What I do remember is that the light at the far end of the bar appeared to be a bit dimmer than it ordinarily was. I couldn’t seem to get a sharp clear image of Fred. But the room was pretty smoky at the time and I thought nothing of it. I made some reply to Casserman, glanced up to see if a bulb had burned out—apparently none had—and then turned toward the door as my friend, Henry Kalk, the rewrite man, came in.
Two or three nights later Casserman leaned over and shook his head again. ‘I guess Fred’s gettin’ worse.’
I looked toward the end of the bar. Fred was no longer there. I was startled; the little runt almost never left till closing time.
‘I didn’t see him leave,’ I said rather pointlessly.
Casserman’s big shoulders bunched. ‘Left without touchin’ his beer.’ A wry grin turned the corners of his mouth. ‘And didn’t leave any dime either!’
For a few minutes, before the rest of the gang came in, I thought about Fred. He was obviously sick and something should be done. I resolved to ask about him somewhere. Then the city room slaves burst in and I’m afraid I forgot all about it as usual.
But the next night, when I returned to my midnight refuge, I did recall Casserman’s comment. I looked toward the end of the bar and there sat Fred as usual, still and white. He glanced up and then quickly looked away and I was rather shocked at his appearance. His face seemed terribly drawn and sunken; he appeared years older than he had a few weeks before. I got the impression that he was seriously ill and just going ahead on will power alone.
I caught Casserman’s attention later. ‘He ought to be in the hospital,’ I said.
Casserman nodded uneasily. ‘Yeah. But what can you do? The guy just sits there and won’t talk. Just sits and don’t even drink his beer anymore.’ He shrugged with an uncomfortable air. ‘It gives me the jitters.’
I don’t know what prompted me to ask the question, but I did. Lowering my voice, I leaned across the bar. ‘Is he leaving his dime?’
Casserman shook his head. ‘Just forgets, I guess. Hell, I don’t care much about that. He’s been comin’ here for years. It’s only that he’s beginning to get on me nerves a bit.’
Again, the exact sequence of time and events eludes me. But I have the impression that the next evening Fred sat at the far end of the bar as usual. The place was extra busy and I didn’t get to talk to Casserman.
I had a late, rush assignment the following night and didn’t make it to Casserman’s. But the subsequent night I strolled in at the regular time and there sat the runt, pale, silent and really sick looking. His eyes met mine and I nodded. This time, surprisingly, his return nod was actually perceptible. His eyes even held for a few moments and, again, I fancied that I read a mute but desperate and mounting appeal in them.
I was almost impelled to walk to the end of the bar and speak to him, but I didn’t. He looked away at the last moment, I hesitated, and the impulse passed. I sat down at my usual place.
A few minutes later, when the tavern had begun to fill up, Casserman leaned across the bar. ‘Still not touched his beer. Holy Jesus! He looks like a walkin’ corpse!’
‘We ought to do something,’ I said.
Casserman shrugged unhappily. ‘He don’t talk anymore, don’t say a word. Maybe before closin’ time, you could try to get somethin’ out of him?’
I hesitated. ‘Yeah. I’ll see.’
Although I had been impelled to speak to the runt only a few minutes previously, I now found that my desire to do so had ebbed away. I’m not sure why. Pure selfishness maybe. I suppose I just didn’t want to disturb the pleasant aura of late evening which alcohol, companions and a familiar refuge combined to create. Beyond that, I think I felt convinced that the little runt would probably repel my attempts at solicitude with a wall of silence and the
Two or three nights later Casserman leaned over and shook his head again. ‘I guess Fred’s gettin’ worse.’
I looked toward the end of the bar. Fred was no longer there. I was startled; the little runt almost never left till closing time.
‘I didn’t see him leave,’ I said rather pointlessly.
Casserman’s big shoulders bunched. ‘Left without touchin’ his beer.’ A wry grin turned the corners of his mouth. ‘And didn’t leave any dime either!’
For a few minutes, before the rest of the gang came in, I thought about Fred. He was obviously sick and something should be done. I resolved to ask about him somewhere. Then the city room slaves burst in and I’m afraid I forgot all about it as usual.
But the next night, when I returned to my midnight refuge, I did recall Casserman’s comment. I looked toward the end of the bar and there sat Fred as usual, still and white. He glanced up and then quickly looked away and I was rather shocked at his appearance. His face seemed terribly drawn and sunken; he appeared years older than he had a few weeks before. I got the impression that he was seriously ill and just going ahead on will power alone.
I caught Casserman’s attention later. ‘He ought to be in the hospital,’ I said.
Casserman nodded uneasily. ‘Yeah. But what can you do? The guy just sits there and won’t talk. Just sits and don’t even drink his beer anymore.’ He shrugged with an uncomfortable air. ‘It gives me the jitters.’
I don’t know what prompted me to ask the question, but I did. Lowering my voice, I leaned across the bar. ‘Is he leaving his dime?’
Casserman shook his head. ‘Just forgets, I guess. Hell, I don’t care much about that. He’s been comin’ here for years. It’s only that he’s beginning to get on me nerves a bit.’
Again, the exact sequence of time and events eludes me. But I have the impression that the next evening Fred sat at the far end of the bar as usual. The place was extra busy and I didn’t get to talk to Casserman.
I had a late, rush assignment the following night and didn’t make it to Casserman’s. But the subsequent night I strolled in at the regular time and there sat the runt, pale, silent and really sick looking. His eyes met mine and I nodded. This time, surprisingly, his return nod was actually perceptible. His eyes even held for a few moments and, again, I fancied that I read a mute but desperate and mounting appeal in them.
I was almost impelled to walk to the end of the bar and speak to him, but I didn’t. He looked away at the last moment, I hesitated, and the impulse passed. I sat down at my usual place.
A few minutes later, when the tavern had begun to fill up, Casserman leaned across the bar. ‘Still not touched his beer. Holy Jesus! He looks like a walkin’ corpse!’
‘We ought to do something,’ I said.
Casserman shrugged unhappily. ‘He don’t talk anymore, don’t say a word. Maybe before closin’ time, you could try to get somethin’ out of him?’
I hesitated. ‘Yeah. I’ll see.’
Although I had been impelled to speak to the runt only a few minutes previously, I now found that my desire to do so had ebbed away. I’m not sure why. Pure selfishness maybe. I suppose I just didn’t want to disturb the pleasant aura of late evening which alcohol, companions and a familiar refuge combined to create. Beyond that, I think I felt convinced that the little runt would probably repel my attempts at solicitude with a wall of silence and the
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