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PARTISAN REVIEW
that," I admitted. "But I'm working on it. Boy, you live all the way over in
Jersey. How come?"
"It's not exactly France, you realize," he oflered. "A little less than an
hour, and I'm here. How long does it take you, trom Brooklyn?"
"Maybe a little longer," I nodded.
"Have you been on the other side ofthe Hudson?"
Like the other side ofAmericana? I wondered. "Never in Jersey, no."
"You're invited then. By the way, I think I have the perfect book for
you to take on your voyage. Let's see if it's in." He curled around the aisles,
turning into the D's. "Look, we got lucky." He handed it over to me. "A go–
ing-away present trom me.
I'll
buy it upstairs."
I read,
"Two Years Before the Mast,
Richard Henry Dana. We never
get calls for that."
He shook his head. "An American boy's classic, in my time. I don't
know ifit's read much anymore. Too bad. You try it, and tell me what you
think."
"Thank you. I will." And later, after he had given me the book, and
shaken my hand goodbye, I noticed he had signed it, with an inscription. The
small legible script said, "To Aaron, a fine fiction boy on his way to great
adventures, Cordially, Charles Edmund Barrett. Schulte's, April 1955." Well,
that excited me sort of, and I decided to include it along with my other valu–
able signatures, like those of Robinson, Reese, Campanella. Oh, I would hate
to miss the baseball season, with the Bums so terrific, but it had to be.
Carefully I set aside Mr. Barrett's home phone and address, and placed
Two
Years
into my knapsack, along with two pads and a pen and pencil case f()r
theuip.
When the passport arrived the second week in May, I think I grew six
inches trom excitement, for it seemed, in its oflicial manila envelope with the
United States ofAmerica printed in the corner and a warning to "Return to
Sender" ifAaron Scholsberg wasn't there to accept it
himself~
that my jour–
ney, my "great adventures," were actually beginning.
On my way to work on that Thursday afternoon, I stopped again at
the SSI, and amidst a blur of seamen's advice and gossip, white index cards
with exotic destinations, Norwegian and Swedish accents, and my own leap–
ing blood, I signed on to leave the next morning at 9:30 a.m., f()r the Ivory
Coast of Africa, with stops at Dakar, Lagos, Monrovia, Lobito, Loando,
Matadi, among others.
I didn't have too much time, did I? ...
