418
PARTISAN REVIEW
minute, and you don't want to. A man asks you for help. Don't think
of the Market. It won't run away. Show your respect to the old boy.
Go ahead. That may be more valuable."
"Take me," said the old chicken merchant again.
Greatly annoyed, Wilhelm wrinkled his face at Tamkin. He took
the old man's big but light elbow at the bone. "Well, let's step on it,"
he said. "Or wait-I want to have a look at the board first to see how
we're doing."
But Tamkin had already started Mr. Rappaport forward. He was
walking, and he scolded Wilhelm, saying, "Don't leave me standing in
the middle of the sidewalk. I'm afraid to get knocked over."
"Let's get a move on. Come," Wilhelm urged him as Tamkin went
into the broker's.
The traffic seemed to come down Broadway out of the sky, where
the hot spokes of the sun rolled from the south. Hot, stony odors rose
from the subway grating in the street.
"These teen-age hoodlums worry me. I'm a-scared of these Puerto
Rican kids, and these young characters who take dope," said Mr. Rap–
paport. "They go around all hopped up."
"Hoodlums?" said Wilhelm. "I went to the cemetery and my
mother's stone bench was split. I could have broken somebody's neck
for that. Which store do you go to?"
"Across Broadway. That La Magnita sign next door to the Automat."
"What's the matter with this store here on this side?"
"They don't carry my brand, that's what's the matter."
Wilhelm cursed, but checked the words.
"What are you talking?"
"Those damn taxis," said Wilhelm. "They want to run everybody
down."
They entered the cool, odorous shop. Mr. Rappaport put away
his large cigars with great care in various pockets while Wilhelm mut–
tered, "Come on, you old creeper. What a pokey old character! The
whole world waits on him." Rappaport did not offer Wilhelm a cigar,
but holding one up he asked, "What do you say at the size of these,
huh? They're Churchill-type cigars."
He barely crawls along, thought Wilhelm. His pants are dropping
off because he hasn't got enough flesh for them to stick to. He's almost
blind, and covered with spots, but this old man still makes money in
the market. Is loaded with dough, probably. And I bet he doesn't give
his children any. Some of them must be in their fifties. This is what
keeps middle-aged men as children. He's master over the dough. Think–
just think! Who controls everything? Old men of this type. Without
needs. They don't need therefore they have. I need, therefore I don't
have. That would be too easy.
"I'm older even than Churchill," said Rappaport.
Now he wanted to talk! But if you asked him a question in the
Market, he couldn't be bothered to answer.
"I bet you are," said Wilhelm. "Come, let's get going."
