594
PARTISAN REVIEW
site sex, George was one of the most human fixtures of the store, a kind of
innocent Falstaff. There was also Roland the bookkeeper and religious–
booksman, up on the second tier; Mosey, or Moses the packager, who
wrapped books for postal delivery in his corner of the basement; Bernie the
cynical assistant manager and night college student; and Lewis, ("not Lew," I
was told) the manager and owner, and son of the original founder of
Schulte's. All of them, and their eccentric predispositions, were indeed fixtures
of the place as much as any of the dusty old volumes themselves.
I came to work there when I was a senior in high school, taking the
IRT subway uptown after school in the depths of Brooklyn, and arriving
about an hour later at 14th Street in Manhattan. Climbing upstairs, I'd pass
the bustling world of dresses and coats "On Sale" always at Klein's Depart–
ment store, and then, walking a half-dozen blocks, descend to the seedy
planet of used fiction. I arrived about 1:30 or so, and stayed till closing time,
at six. I knew little about books, you understand. I was a reality-boy, much
more interested in the adventures of the streets, the schoolyards, the club–
rooms, than in those of the printed page. So to enter the domain of the dusty,
the vast underground of used books, was something new and strange to me.
All I knew was that it was private down there, and all mine; well, almost all
mine.
There were the clients of course, who periodically trickled down the
wooden stairs and wandered in the dark, airless basement. ([he two distant
windows were hardly ever opened, for some reason.) Then, in one far cor–
ner, Mosey, the light-skinned Negro with the pomaded hair and pencil
mustache, wrapped and weighed the books on his wooden table, before tak–
ing them to the post office at the end of each day. He and I struck it up okay,
right off, and I'd visit with him maybe once a day and shoot the breeze. Also,
once a week, there occurred the friendly card game, with Mosey, Roland,
and Bernie playing, during some very quiet hours. Usually George and I
looked on, as observers, and I also played chickee, or lookout, for Lewis,just
in case he should saunter on down, or need anything. Though he rarely ever
wandered down into our nether region.
I made about twenty or twenty-five dollars normally, and often an–
other five for extra hours; this enabled me to save quite a lot. For, after
giving my mother one-third for the house, spending another third on trainfure
and food, I saved nearly ten bucks a week. This added up, you know. And
one day, heading down Broadway towards Tenth Street, I passed an office
machines and furniture shop having a sale, and my eye was caught by a
portable Royal typewriter in one corner, priced specially at $69.95. My gut
reacted, and I knew suddenly what I was going to save for: my first type–
writer! Inside the store, the salesman said I shouldn't worry, he wouldn't run
