Crowds
by Jack Anderson
A distinguished lawyer and I call
upon an aged lady, an immigrant from some obscure village in the
Balkans. The object which dominates her parlor is a sort of shrine
consisting of numerous photographs of crowds clipped from Life
Magazine interspersed with ancient icons. The immigrant lady
and I have tea in another room, and when we return the shrine is
gone, having been dismantled by the lawyer and the lady’s
daughter who contend that it was totally absurd. I defend the thing
as a piece of folk art and call for the restoration of at least
the icons. The lawyer, annoyed, snaps, “I thought I could
trust you implicitly in this.” The immigrant lady remains
silent.
The women leave and I strike up a fresh conversation with the old
lady’s grandson. He has red hair and a red beard. We undress
and have sex. When I am ready to go back, he helps me find my clothes
in what is a remarkably sloppy house. My coat is at the bottom of
a pile of dirty shirts and old icons in a corner of the dining room.
I discover my socks jammed into water tumblers. I am unable to locate
my new silk tie.
The grandson and I walk down the street and are jostled by a crowd.
Eventually, I lose track of him. I cannot even see his hair or his
briefcase. Now I come to a block which is closed to automotive traffic
by a police barricade. No stores are open on this block. No street
lights are shining. There are few people about. Then a crowd of
toughs comes up. The leader—better dressed, I note, than the
rest of the gang—takes off my belt and my pants fall the pavement.
He laughs, shaking the hair from his eyes. I shout for help. The
toughs disperse as a policeman with a not to be bothered look appears.
When he hears my story, instead of sympathizing with me, he berates
me for having distracted him from more important duties and accuses
me of having brought it on myself by hanging out with the wrong
crowd of people. The bystanders snicker.
As he walks off, one of the bystanders says, “You need a drink.”
Burly, bearded, and officious, he looks like a boring person, but
I do need a drink. He leads me into a crowded bar. Everyone there
soon learns what had happened. They buy me a drink and warn me against
dangerous acquaintances. They cite examples and we compare our experiences.
The conversation is dull, but not intolerable. The drink is okay,
but slightly watery. When I finish it I leave, having nothing further
to say to these people.
An important man and I go to the house of an older woman who is
not from this place. There is something unusual about her place,
but when I look again it is usual. I go to bed with red hair and
after trying to find something smooth I leave with someone swallowed
up by a crowd. Something is done to me, and I am taken someplace
else by someone with a beard. Something is given to me there and
we talk about instances. When I have finished, I leave.
I go someplace and something unpleasant happens. Then something
pleasant happens in the same place. Something unpleasant happens
in another place, and a neutral thing in a third place.
I go and do and leave. Then, as I am going, I meet, and after that
I meet again and go to some other and disappear, and so I am gone.
Jack Anderson is the author of two book and has received a National Endwoment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship for 1973-74. (Fall 1974)
