The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [65]
Pleasant memories all, even spittoons. Beginning business life. Full of self-confidence. Resolved to succeed. Kept journal of maxims. Always run. Never walk. Never walked in Whittier’s presence. Always smile. Never frown. Avoid unclean thoughts. Buy mother gray silk dress. Turn of century approaching. Progress everywhere. New World. Dirigible in Music Hall. Phonograph in Horticultural Hall. First arc light on Summer Street. Had to change carbon stick every day. Early demonstration of telephone at Concord and Lexington Festival. Cold. Big crowds. No food. Rode to Boston on rooftop of train coach. Whittier bona-fide merchant prince. Factory in Lynn. Office in Boston. Shoe prices from 67 cents a pair to $1.20. All sold to jobbers from West. South. Business in excess of a million a year. Worked from 7 to 6. Smiling. Running. Learning.
Grimes head clerk. Best friend in office. Slender man. Silky hair. Monkey fingered, horny minded, sad. At times tiresome. Spoke often of wife. Conjugal bliss. Color in eyes deepened. Licked lips. Knew about Turkish customs. French customs. Armenian customs, etc. Sometimes tiresome as already said above. Writer captivated by thought of wife. Golden headed. Slut perhaps? Went home with Grimes for supper to meet same. Excited. Grimes unlocked door. Woman spoke from parlor. Heavy voice. Excitement gone. Big broad-shouldered woman. Red cheeks. Heavy boots caked with mud. “There’s pork chops and greens for supper,” she says. “I want to be at the hall at eight.” Grimes puts on apron. Cooks supper. Runs between table and stove. Runs between stove and table. Wife stowes away big meal; big eater. Not much to say. Puts on heavy coat and tramps off to meeting in muddy boots. A feminist. Grimes washes dishes. Monkey-fingered man. Sad.
Found self, although not yet of legal age, powerfully attracted to opposite sex. Picked up hooker on riverbank. Big hat. Dirty linen. Girlish airs, but not young. What matter. Writer on fool’s errand. Red hair. Green eyes. Talked. “What a pretty sky,” says she. “My how nice the river smells,” says she. Very ladylike. River smells of mudbanks. Bad breath of the sea. Low tide. French kissed. Groin to groin. Put hand in front of dress. Little boys in bushes giggled. Tomfools. Walked in dusk, hip to hip. “I have a little room on Belmont Street,” she says. No thanks. Took her to railroad embankment. Cinders. Cornflowers. Stars. Big weeds like tropical vegetation. Samoa. S——d her there. Grand and glorious feeling. Forget for an hour all small things. Venalities. Money worries. Ambitions. Felt refreshed, generous toward sainted old mother. Hooker named Beatrice. Met often afterwards. Later went to New York. Rattled her glass rings on Twenty-third Street windows. Winter nights. Tried to find her later. Disappeared. Above may be in bad taste. If so, writer apologizes. Man born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.
Smells. Heat. Cold. All things like that most clearly remembered. Air in office fetid in wintertime. Coal stoves. Walking home to supper through cold. Joyous. Air in streets straight from snowcapped mountains. Washington. Jefferson. Lafayette. Franconia. Etc. Like mountain city in winter. Inhale smell of dead leaves on Common. Inhale north wind. Sweeter than any rose. Never get enough of sun and moon. Always sad to shut door. Got week’s vacation in July. Grimes informed writer purpose was to give another boy—relation of Whittier’s—chance at job. No good. Went to St. Botolphs with mother. Stayed with cousins. House still empty. Porch falling down. Garden overgrown. Few roses. Swam in river. Sailed. Caught three-pound trout in Parson’s Pond. Much pleasure walking on lonely beaches. Happy hours. Waves roar, rattle like New York, New Haven & Hartford. Underfoot dead skates. Sea grass shaped like bull whips, flowers, petticoats. Shells, stones, sea tack. All simple