John Hollander
IN THE CREEP BLOCK, ONE WAS OBSERVED ...
There was no doubt about it. I personally thought that it
was the clock that was rigged, but the majority view held for one of
the skylights in the ceiling, and groups of men huddled together under
the blank panels between the areas of leaded glass overhead as
if
to
get out of a downpour. Particularly when anything peculiar was going
on, on which occasions I would usually sit down on the floor, with
my back against the wall, whistling all the verses of something and
tapping on the floorboards. Sometimes I thought that it was the noise
of the tapping that had landed me there in the first place. The other
tapping, I mean; but looking back on it, it was probably the white
cane that got me arrested.
The more authentic aluminum one (I had bought it weeks
be–
fore at one of the five Truss and Surgical Supplies in the neighbor–
hood) I had left in a cab on the previous day. The mirror sewn into
the peak of my cap had shown such an engrossing sight in the front
seat that I had completely forgotten the cane. Beside the driver were
an oak barometer, lying on the seat, a ball of twine and what looked
to be an odd volume of Pope's Homer. I was dividing my attention
between holding my head at the proper angle and rolling my eyes up
right, apparently unseeingly (I'd had to take off my smoked glasses
in the cool darkness of the cab), and actually trying to puzzle out
what the driver's little kit could possibly be
for.
By the time the cabby
said "OK, Sixth and Alvarado," I could only push a bill at him, await
his scrupulous return of change, go through all the jazz about pretend–
ing to feel out its denominations, and finally plunge across the hot ex–
panse of sidewalk into the musical interior of QUIMBY'S A CLEAN
PLACE TO EAT. Only halfway through my Quimburger and Thick
