Screw-job of the Magi

By request, a seasonal oldie:

Screw-job of the Magi

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

–        O. Henry, “Gift of the Magi”

So what have we got?  We’ve got no watch and some useless-ass combs.  What was I thinking?  Had I ever seen her wear hair combs?  Hair-ribbons, yes, once or twice.  But combs?  No.

This kind of thing happens to us way too often.  Two Christmases ago, for instance, when I sold my gold fillings for a silver brush and mirror and Della sold her hair for a big box of taffy.  Then there’s this past anniversary, which left me shoeless and her, again, with short hair.  We’re like two ships passing in the night, with me on my way to the pawn shop and her always on the way to the hair-buyer.

Della’s friend Hank was particularly interested in this latest disaster.  Shocker.  Hank’s what you might call an “aspiring writer.”  I would amend that to “accomplished asshole.”  What he said once about our money situation was typical Hank.  “This instigates in one the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.”

Seriously, he talks like this all the time.

Della collects weirdos like normal people collect Hummels or those little Spoons of the World.  Freaks walk in and out of here like they own the place.  We don’t even own the place.  We just pay the $8 a week to stay here, which is nearly half my weekly paycheck.  I told Della, “One day we’re going to come home and find everything gone.”  She said, with no meanness in her voice, “How would we know?”

So any given day, I’ll bump into Jobless Actor Andy on my way home from work.  Then I’ll turn into the courtyard and there comes Clinically Depressed Tom.  Or Suspiciously Cheerful Debbie.  In the apartment, maybe Beverly-Who-Talks-to-the-Dead is making eggs, or One-armed Rubin’s helping Andy run lines.  (Jobless Actor Andy; he uses the fire escape.)  It’s a regular drop-in center we’ve got here.

I’m the only one who works.  When I get home, all I want to do is sit down, crack open an ale, and listen to the victrola.  Except I sold the victrola for something a while back, I don’t remember what.  Probably something hair-related.  Damn that woman’s beautiful hair.  Cascading, rippling, shining.  It does all the things you think a woman’s hair is supposed to.  The fact that she looks less appealing with it short just makes it more painful every time she cuts it off.  Although it grows back amazingly fast.  And, of course, I want to give her hair-things to encourage her to grow it back.  It’s a vicious circle.  Cycle?  Circle.

Worst of all the deadbeats is good buddy Hank.  He’s always marveling over our superabundant generosity and multitudinous selflessness.  Meanwhile, he’s happy to stand selflessly behind Della in step class and help himself to generous amounts of bustle-gazing.

Hank’s in New York “getting his life together” (Della’s words) after a rough patch in Texas.  He used to run a bank, now he lives two doors down from McGuirk’s Suicide Hall.  Why am I the only one who finds this suspicious?

But, really, that’s Della for you.  She’s rich—or would be, if she hadn’t run off with me.  And by “run off,” I mean “convinced me to clamber up to her window in the middle of the night and help her climb down so as to ensure maximum horror the next morning.”

Again, I say: Damn that woman’s hair.

That night we ran, I didn’t look at her until we were halfway down Park Avenue.  When I did, I realized she had only pair of dresses balled under one arm.  Her hair flowed behind her like flags waving from a battlement.

“Packed a little light, didn’t you?” I said.

She looked surprised.  “What?  I have my clothes and my beautiful tresses.  What else could I need to survive?”

How right she was.

My mother always told me I should try hard not to live like anybody else.  For the longest time, all through the ’90s, the way to do that was to be poor.  We were poor already, so I’m sure my mother meant something far different for me.  Still, it was fine for a while.  Being poor in the country’s a dirty business.  Poor in New York City is still a dirty business, but also kind of romantic.  In the midst of squashing roaches, or monthly bill-terror, you may feel a strange little thrill, like a breath across the back of your neck.  At those moments, you are no longer an American, or an Irishman; you are a New Yorker.

But now that everybody’s doing the poor thing, I’d like nothing more than to be in a taller building.  Something granite, lots of windows, like a Sphinx gazing over everything south of 14^th Street.  I’d look down at these acres of yellow, gaslit apartment windows and think to myself, I wonder what the poor people are doing to-night?

I set this scene once for Della, and she began flapping her hands in excitement.  “Oh, James,” she said.  “I used to think that very thing!  And now I’m here!  Isn’t that grand?”

The day after Christmas I’m still depressed over my lost watch, so I go for a walk alone.  Hank comes with me.  We wander all the way up into the 30s, where all the big, shiny stores are open early to handle returns and exchanges.  We make an odd pair.  I’m the tall one in the worn-out coat and too-short suit.  Hank’s the little guy in the dirty t-shirt and Texas-shaped belt-buckle; no overcoat.  The thing about Hank, though: as slobby as he gets, his nails are always pink and spotless.

“Shame about your grandfather’s watch,” he says.  He’s caught on: the more normal he speaks in my presence, the more I’ll talk back.

“It was my uncle’s, actually, my dad’s brother.”  Della always tells people it belonged to my father and grandfather.  I’m never sure if she thinks it sounds more devastating if I gave up my grandfather’s watch for her, or if she just doesn’t have what you’d call an eye for detail.

“He’s deceased, your uncle?” says Hank.

He looks at me hard, like he’s concentrating, making sure he remembers.  Oh, so that’s it: the aspiring writer.  “No,” I say.

Suddenly he’s several feet ahead of me, walking stiffly away.  For a moment, I wonder if my answer was too terse, too clear.  Did I actually push him away this time?  If so, I nearly feel bad about it.  Then I realize someone behind us has been calling Hank’s name for the last minute.

I turn around and through the heavy crowd I see a large, red-cheeked man in a black stovepipe hat.  He’s got his chin up, huge hands parenthesizing his mouth.  “Hey, Hank!” he yells.  “It’s Walter!  Walter Beardsley!  From Texas?”

I watch this man another moment, then run to catch up with Hank.  Only he’s not in sight.  What I don’t need is him scurrying back to the $8 apartment to tell Della I abandoned him.  By luck I glance down 33^rd Street.  There, shivering against a building, is a coatless man with perfect nails.

“Hank, did you realize someone was calling you?”

“Oh, were they?” he says.  His eyes ferret all around, avoiding mine.  “Ha-ha.  Is it tax-season already?  Or perhaps a friendly representative from the mendicancy squad.”  More nervous titters.

“Bullshit,” I say.  “That guy knew you.  He said Texas, even.”

He smiles a bit longer, then drops it.  “Okay,” he says.  “I made some king fuckups in my former lifetime as a banker.  Trouble in the head office, let’s say.  Good money, bad thoughts.  That man you saw?  He and I were on the same cell block in prison.”

“Prison!  Holy shit, I knew it!”

“Please.  Don’t tell Della.  I would wither and die if the generous light from that good woman’s regard were to wane even in the—”

“Cut the crap, Hank.  Is that the kind of guy you think I am?  This is between Della and you.”  And, of course, in my mind I tuck it away like an emergency bank note.

“Oh, James,” he says, and he takes my hand in those smooth little mitts of his.  “You are a true friend.  My only wish is that one day I can have the good fortune you have.”

And of course, now I feel guilty as hell.

At the corner of 34^th and 7th, there’s a little  wooden cart set up with brown glass bottles of all sizes.  A swarthy-looking man sits beside it on an upturned apple crate.

“Soaps?” he says in a strange, thick-tongued accent.  “Shampoos?  Ablutions?  Unguents?”

I turn away before he can catch me with his good eye.  That’s how they get you.  Then a flash: Della lying on our bed, naked and sleeping, hair splayed across the pillows like a silk-spun fan.  Do I love her?  I’m not sure.  Does she drive my every cell sick with lust, to the point where I’m willing to trade my money, my integrity, my teeth?  Stupid question.  I turn back and point at the bottles.  “Which one’s the shampoo?”  Della’s hair is shorter than mine right now.  I realize this.  But in three, six months.

Behind me, Hank clucks his tongue.

Back at the apartment, Della greets us.  Her eyes are red and her mouth is tight and twitchy.  This is the less appealing side of Della, the emotional side.  She’s been having another of her episodes, a case of the Why-Are-We-So-Poors.  She never does this in front of me.  She knows the first words out of my mouth would be, “Honey, it’s okay.”  And then, “So call your rich family, please, and get us the hell out of here.”  For some reason, though, this to Della is worse than the $8 room.

“Della,” says Hank, sliding past me into the living area.  “I deduce by your countenance that as regards the ratio of smiles to sniffles, you are feeling considerably deficient in the former.”

I’m about to say something shitty to him when, amazingly, Della’s pout breaks like a cloudy sky.

“Oh, Henry,” she cries.  “You always know just the words to cheer me up.”

Hank works hard at it, but he can’t keep his black mustache from curling up over those big teeth.

“Really,” he says.  “It is my sole duty and compulsion to recompense the fates as best I can, in exchange for the literary talents awarded me.  My method of payment, which is thrice the value of gold and more reliable than any cheque, is to ensure that happy times continue within these…meager walls.”  He glances at me.  “For true love is like a four-leaf clover: much-storied, but seldom seen.”

Della gives a little sigh, the kind I’ve only ever heard in the dark.  She smiles at Hank, and he smiles back, fixing those tiny black eyes on her.  And then I see: it goes way deeper than looking down blouses or checking out asses in bustles.  This son of a bitch wants my wife.

I think fast.  “You know Hank, others say love is like the Loch Ness monster,” I say.  “An ancient thing many have seen, but difficult to prove.”  I don’t know what it means either, but Della gives me a look of surprise and delight.

Hank clears his throat.  “Still others say love is the one vocation where working too hard may result in loss of employment.”

What the fuck?  “Love is like honey: delicious and sweet, but a dangerous thing to try and take for your own.”  I mean because of the bee-stings, but I can’t work the bees in and Hank’s already coming back at me, too fast, too fast.

“Love is like an Arabian tapestry: rich and made with great care, but all too often mistaken for a rug.”  Della, seated now, claps her hands and bounces.  She knows what this is.  She’s always enjoyed sports.

“Love is more like a pair of rabbits,” I say.  “If you leave it alone, it’ll multiply a hundredfold.”

“Love is like wood: abundant…easily procured, but only an artist knows how to make something beautiful with it.”

Della is gazing at Hank now in a way I really do not like.  Is she actually listening to the words?  For what I can only now admit isn’t the first time, I realize there’s very little I know about my wife.  Still, damned if I’m going to let this die in Hank’s court.

“Love is like cheese,” I say.  “How many books you read in prison, Hank?”

“Four hundred thirty s—”  And he stops, eyes shifting between Della and me.  His mouth hangs open, miraculously silent.

Got him.

Della’s the first to speak.  “Were you…in prison, Hank?”

“For a time,” he says quietly.

“I’m sorry, Hank,” I say.  “It just slipped out.”

“Oh that’s quite all right,” he says, and he actually smiles.  “I’m sure it’s for the best.”

Six months later I run into Hank on the street.  It’s summer, but he’s wearing a long black topcoat.  Odd man.

“So,” I say.  “How’s Della?”

“Marvelous,” he says.  “Her hair’s growing back.  Amazing the speed at which those chestnut follicles regenerate.”

He’d known it all along: the only thing that could excite Della more than a poor man was a poor man who’d been in prison.

“Seeing anyone yourself?” he says.

“Just a girl from work,” I say.  This is Charlene I’m talking about.  She’s very nice.  Decent hair, nothing to write home about.  Which, in my case, is probably for the best.

“Well,” I tell him, and begin to turn away.

“Wait,” says Hank.  He digs in the pocket of his topcoat.  “I published a story last month, and it’s given me cause to carry something for you on my person.”

“Oh, Hank.  No offense, but you took my wife.  I don’t want to read one of your stories.”

“Not that,” he says, and he hands me a pocket watch.

It could be my uncle’s gold watch, except it’s, well, silver.  And with Roman numerals.  And a missing fob.  And a naked lady etched on the inside of the cover.

“Della described it perfectly,” says Hank.

“Gosh, how did she even know where to find it?” I say.  I’d sold mine to a guy in Washington Square Park.

“Della knew the establishment where this treasure was enshrined amid other priceless yet undervalued objects.  The story I wrote was inspired, shall we say, by certain events.  The pay was pitiful, but still enough to snatch this artifact from the beak of the hock-bird.”  He blinks, obviously waiting for me to acknowledge the awful play on hawk-hock.  I give him nothing.  Finally, he says, “Anyway.  Now your watch and chain may finally be joined in union.”

Looking at the watch, I begin to laugh.

“You must tell me the source of your bewildering amusement,” Hank says, attempting to jump-start his own laughter.

But I can’t stop.  We’re beside a building, and I slump against it, shaking.  He stands, shifting from foot to foot, mustache twitching in annoyance.  There’s so much I want to tell him.  I want to tell him Della’s not interested in any situation that doesn’t make her feel either desperately wanted or just plain desperate, and that there’s no formula for figuring out which it is at any given moment.  I want to tell him 60 percent of what he says makes no sense, and the other 40 is just boring.  I want to tell him to make sure Della never meets a poor ex-con in a wheelchair, because that’ll be the end of Hank.

I want to tell him the chain Della traded her hair for is now the property of my divorce lawyer.

Instead, I curl my fingers around the watch and I use it to break Hank’s jaw.

 

(2004)