TWO MORNING MONOLOGUES
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moreover. I know a great deal about myself, in as well as out–
privately, that is, as well as statistically. I'm very nearly sunk.
What sort of getting away would that be? Total it any way, top to
bottom, reverse the order, it makes no difference, the sum is always
sunk.
The old man refuses to give in. He shakes his head at the
dinner table. To him it seems reasonable that.... He has it all
figured out. So and so's son is working for so much and so much.
A dumbell. So why not ... ? Things are this way and this way. He
insists against bewilderment. It seems simple to him. And he never
tires.
"You're a teacher, aren't you. Five years in college. The
best. Alright, you can't get a teacher job? the market is flooded?
So get another job for a while." His formulation against every·
thing. When it happens that he's not working and we are at home
together he feeds on it continually, grinding and grinding. "But
then," you say, "a lot of people are out of work," Imagine it! To
have to say something like that! "Oh sure." He nods. He knows
that. Millions. It's true. But for some reason he never seems able
to connect that with me. It's true for others; absurd for me.
Those ads were funny, very funny. The old woman and I
both pleaded with him to keep my name out. "Jacob, it's enough
the telephone number. They don't do like that. He's right, listen
to him better." The first one was horrible. Let's hope nobody noticed
it. I didn't want my name in the paper. I've always avoided
parading it. I can't stand that. I can't remember a time in my life
when I didn't swallow before saying it. And together with that
ad....
It's the same every morning. Between my parents, between
the same circumstances, between the f ems and the mohair couch,
smell of sleep and coffee, the old woman over the sink cleaning a
pot or cutting oranges, the old man cooling his tea. It's the same
alley, post in the alley, tin plate on the post reading 666. And it
was the same before I went to school, then in grade school, high
school, college. Perhaps the stairs have become darker, more
buckled and gap-jointed. But that's all. I brought my books home
and read them on the kitchen table. Same for Dapple Gray, Walter
Scott and the
Counterfeiters.
My father bought this house before
