Chapter 5

On the night that Shylock and Noble drank, the same night that Noble, by himself, wandered the strip of Waspachick in the dark, evading the silent sentry of police cars by walking quickly in some direction, perhaps weaving from the edge of the sidewalk to the shop fronts, with images of his mother erased by the stale coldness which usually haunts the traveler while drunk, as though he were treading a walk of shame, he retreated South, away from the ghostly emptiness of the strip.

The town always shut down at the precise moment Noble wished it open. He wished it stirred with pub-crawling women. But Waspachick at night offered no such luxury. The walk of shame brought him to the household.

He expected his father asleep, but a light showed from the front-door windows. His father was a fierce, loyal conservationist of electricity, and immediately Noble sensed trouble. He would have crawled through his window, but he kept it locked. In the shape he was in, he dreaded seeing his father, a drunkenness which required sleep but provided instead an intense throbbing at the temples. He could tiptoe, but the door squeaked. The door always squeaked, and the noise would wake the entire street. He mustered what little courage he had, since the liquor lent him more than usual, and he entered the house nonchalantly, routinely, as though he had just gone out for milk. McCoy McCloud was slumped on the couch, a bottle of whiskey half-empty and a glass half-full on the side table. Noble shuffled as quickly as he could to his room, but he was caught by a slow voice.

“Noble, come here boy, I want to tell you something,” through the slurring of intoxication. The deep baritone sounded fatherly. He had rarely heard this voice before.

Noble approached him cautiously, wanting to share his whiskey, but his father never shared much with him, especially his private stock. He did recall a time when he shared a few extra dollars aside from his allowance, but this was years ago, and in the shadowy light he stood over the slumped figure. His father never waited up for him before.

“Twenty-nine years. Twenty-nine years,” mumbled McCoy McCloud.

Noble was fearful of extracting any information. His father would have barked, so he let him sit there, words dribbling from a dyke, his flesh rotting.

“The shaft. That’s what they call it, and the shaft hit me hard today ... Twenty-eight years, and they cut you like a whimp from the football team, whimps, all of them cowards and brats, it’s damn unpatriotic. I’m the best fucking collector in this state, and then they say: ‘you don’t collect enough, hit the fucking road.’ No one, and I mean no one presses these delinquents more than me. There’s no one in this state who does the job better...”

Noble was surprised. Over the slow dribble of words, almost a mumble, he understood that things were about to change, but he couldn’t penetrate his father’s rationale. It was leading up to something, but he couldn’t determine what it was. His father actually spoke like a human being, exposing his weaknesses, and Noble, who was still quite drunk, thought of twisting the knife within his open wounds. He had never done so before, and naturally he was frightened of doing so. He wasn’t at all curious how his father had lost the job. He heard pain in his voice and wanted it to continue, exacting blow for blow. But this revenge existed within the mind, where all of his aggressions were stored. The movement from thought to action to deed never extended beyond his mind. And his father continued, most likely relieved to be heard.

“ ... nothing but a bunch of whimps. Back when I headed the place I hired the best bug-up-your-ass men in the state, and now they want soft and nice and correct. Well, McCoy McCloud ain’t done yet. That whole place is going to hell anyway. Without me they don’t know what it takes to survive. Bunch of sissies. No, I’m not done yet...”

Noble did his best to contain himself. He could have cried the urge to laugh was so great, but he knew his father could react quickly and impose some sort of penalty, physical or financial. He kept calm. He again buried this dubious but delicious pleasure. It was wrong to laugh in his time of greatest need, but a hideous chuckle echoed from ear to ear. He stood in front of McCoy McCloud like a rock, not certain how to react.

“Now, I’m out of work, and that means cutting back, and you’re included in these cut-backs. You waste the electricity, the water, the food. Maybe you’ll learn how to be a man like your old man who started out with the shirt on his back and a dollar bill in his pocket. I started with nothing...”

‘And you still have nothing,’ thought Noble.

“ ... and I had that whore of a wife, and now it’s you. I want you out of the house in forty-eight hours...”

“Dad, don’t you think you’re...”

“Damn it, I want you out,” he seethed, anger resuscitating him. “Find a job like every decent law-abiding citizen. Save your money, shack up with a woman, and survive damn it. I’ve been babying you for too long, so long that you’ll probably turn out a pinko-Commie sissy. And don’t expect a dime from me. Go on, get lost.”

Noble shut the door and turned on the stereo. He put on something mellow and smooth, and he clawed under his mattress for the cellophane bag. He toked on a joint until his head grew light, the guitar chanting in a wistful undulation. Things were indeed changing for Noble, but finally he had been given the order to leave, a permission slip, and this newfound liberation blunted the excitement of his father’s failure. He reflected in that time, which elapsed very slowly, that leaving the home had been inevitable, that it was better to leave than to be beaten whenever orders weren’t followed. He wouldn’t have to live in fear any longer, wondering if his father were asleep or awake, home or out drinking at the fabled bar on the North side. And no longer would he have to accept his threats.

Perhaps this is exactly what he needed, to be out of the house, alive and free, with his music, his laundry, and his thin coat. Yet a fear encroached upon his reflections. As we already know, Noble had but seven or eight dollars, and in forty-eight hours he would be without a place to live. He needed money for a hotel, but there were no hotels in Waspachick or its surrounding townships. And this fear multiplied with each chord. His fragile skull was soon to be cracked by dirty looks, snobbery, and the aggression of the outside world. But this was far better than living with his father. A sense of doom, however, came with the next association: getting a job.

Money. He needed money quickly, but he wasn’t about to throw away his fantasy of becoming a guitarist. This was the goal: to become a guitarist, and Shylock’s vow had assured this, but getting a job meant forsaking music. His all or none approach had a certain merit. It was brave. He had reasons for avoiding a job. He observed its effects on people, especially in Waspachick. It blocked empathy, compassion, and conscience in favor of an insect pathology. But he couldn’t handle a job even if he wanted one. He attributed this to hypersensitivity, an opposing pathology. Any sensitivity at all ruins the man. He had expected the beatings from his father, but the cruelty of others he could not bear, as though he sought acceptance unconditionally from the strangers wandering the strip. Such is the nature of the terribly abused, both men and women alike. They look for acceptance in the eyes of those who cannot possibly accept them. A job was simply out of the question. It would threaten his guitar-playing and his own thin shell. He could go on welfare, but with the latest round of reforms the paychecks would be small and a job certain. But then there was Shylock Winston, and suddenly all seemed calm.

Noble would simply live with Shylock for a while, maybe a couple of months until his guitar playing proved lucrative, and until then he would practice daily, and he would leave Shylock’s place when he came home in the evenings, just to give him breathing room. He had forty-eight hours. It was Shylock’s place or a homeless shelter; Shylock, as we have mentioned, had an one-bedroom on the West side of Waspachick, next to a real estate agency, as the town was full of them. Even one person cramped the apartment, but they could manage. They would have to manage, and after learning the guitar he could play the Manhattan night clubs and earn enough for his own place, and a record executive sitting in the crowd of dancing maidens would sign him to a modest record deal, providing a sizable advance, and he would move through the music world like an express train, if only Shylock would agree to it. In return Shylock would receive all the benefits of Noble’s success. Yes, the plan had to work, and Noble was prepared to go the distance. He vowed to himself and the Gods above that he would never stop, and gainful employment only obstructed his success. He would make it like every big name in the business.

Despite his disbelief in natural talents, he estimated two months before playing the night club circuit. He would start small, at the bar from last night, and then he would branch to the city beyond the tranquil Hudson, to a tired night club where the beer ran free and the women danced until sunrise. And then to the stage, a modest but popular auditorium, and finally to a stadium where thousands jived below a raised platform. He had one stadium in mind, but as the guitar jam on the stereo quickened, he knew this vision outlandish, even for his own overactive imagination. The main goal was the record deal. He needed this to pay the bills; the essentials of food and drink and lodgings. But first he had to find the right words to break Shylock.

He pulled from memory all the things he had done for him. Unfortunately Noble could only recall giving him half a sandwich in middle school and the BMX bike. Sad but true, but what Noble would promise him was unbelievable. Why, he would hand him wealth, women, wine, and of course, a song. Why, he’d dedicate an entire album to him. Yes, this was the plan, and the universe bent to his dreams, dreams which need to be acted upon. And if one does not act, then the negation degrades the man to the common insect. Dreams and their fulfillment were the only principles he knew of, so long as the dream had some sort of positive social benefit.

There are those dreams which exclude the benefit of others, and Noble sensed that these negative dreams never come true. But dreams in which others may benefit, even to a fractional degree, must have the sanction of higher powers operating in the universe. Human beings, individual or collectivized, were not as powerful as these universal elements which bend towards the positive dream. Noble saw the woman in the front row, her golden locks afire, and her body shaking in celebration, her ecstasy easing the pains of everyday existence. And once the dream is delivered, then he could rest.

The night soon ended, and he lay in an embryonic position on his small bed, half asleep, half awake. He was awoken at daybreak by McCoy McCloud who ordered him to take out the trash and sweep the hallway from bedroom to bedroom. Noble listened patiently and fought the urge to say ‘Do it yourself,’ but a bit of hope surfaced when stodgy, stocky McCoy McCloud failed to remind him of his eviction. Maybe his father had forgotten. They were both very drunk.

Noble closed his door slowly and paced his room like a worrisome school boy awaiting punishment. But sure enough, McCoy McCloud reminded Noble, first to get up from his “lazy ass” and clean the place, and second to vacate the house within forty-eight hours. McCoy’s voice resonated upon this order, and Noble got packing. He stopped midway, though. He needed clean clothes.

He did his laundry at the local Laundromat. He felt silly carrying his entire wardrobe in a heavy sack along the busy strip. The Laundromat itself was too unsightly to be a part of the strip. Instead it was tucked away on a side street towards the eastern end of town. Carrying the sack in the biting cold was a nuisance, but he endured. He forced both loads into one machine. He hadn’t the money for detergent.

Many of the townsfolk avoided the Laundromat. It was an eyesore in an otherwise pristine town. In fact, the town council at one time revoked the owner’s zoning license, but the owner slapped the town with a lawsuit and was allowed to open the business. Noble seemed like the only person in Waspachick who benefited from the litigation. He sat on the metal bench, the washer spinning. Rarely did anyone enter the place, but once in a while people from the South side used the machines. Strangely enough he looked down upon these wayward stragglers just as he looked down upon himself. But the Laundromat was unpeopled at this early hour, an electric hum of industrial washers and dryers forming its own harmonies. He strategized for a bit, wondering how in the world Shylock would take him in and pay for a guitar and amplifier in the same breath. His boredom deepened as the washer commenced its final cycle, the imbalance of the double load banging and thumping. The place was at least warmed by these machines.

He transferred clothes to the dryer, and then it happened. The universe bent towards him. A woman entered with a light load of clothes. It was she. Her features were unmistakably North end. He wasn’t dreaming. The fair and lofty Alexandra Van Deusen placed her dainty load on one of the tables. Blue jeans hugged her curves. His eyes were fixed upon her with a pleasant shock bordering on a manic and mystical belief that this coincidence was a sign from the heavens, the universe bending, the stars hearing and thus responding to his wishes. He had heard of socializing in Laundromats, but this was all-too ridiculous. What would a woman of this caliber be doing in a joint shunned by the entire town? He really didn’t care. He could have fainted, but he acted as though nothing happened.

He piled the wet laundry into the dryer. He wished he had a book or newspaper to hide his preoccupation, but he simply sat on the uncomfortable bench while the fair Alexandra worked quickly towards washing and then vanishing. Being caught in the Laundromat would be social suicide. She must have known this, because her dumping of clothes into the washer proved frantic.

He looked at her from a short distance. Her beauty frightened him. He sat like a rock. She paid him no attention, and Noble reciprocated; a quiet retaliation. But the silence proved too much. He searched for an opening line, all of them hackneyed clichés. Ah, the shyness! That horrendous rejection without even trying, the self-defeat. A curse, he thought. The universe no longer bent towards him but cursed him once again. He was the thirsty man who cupped the water only to let it slip through his fingers. She dumped her clothes and left. Noble was partially thankful. It gave him time to devise an opening line: ‘Would you have any fabric softener by any chance?’ Yes, those flimsy, waxy tissues which did nothing for one’s laundry. He would ask her for it.

Inevitably she would return. And in that space of time he imagined her smiling and flirting with him. They dine at the pasta and steak house near the railway station, drink a jug of wine, and they kiss passionately- while then men along the Strip during mating season gawk in jealousy. Noble is piqued by their overtures, and he gets into a fight, the pure measure of manhood, and the fair Alexandra comes between them. She’s a one-man woman, and Noble is her choice. Although she insists fighting solves nothing, she finds Noble all the more attractive for defending her against the muscular hunk who tries to steal her away, and again they kiss and drink another jug of wine.

During this reverie Alexandra Van Deusen returned, alone and hurried. Noble had been monitoring her machine, and it was on the last spin cycle. She didn’t look at him at all. She waited at the machine, most probably eyeing the glow of the indicator light, her back turned, and what a back it was, as shapely as a backside could be. To think she was without a boyfriend was a lapse of all mental faculties. Yet she was alone, and Noble had to say something, anything.

“Excuse me,” said Noble finally, his heart racing, “would you by chance have any fabric softener?”

“No,” she replied,” but I think you’re laundry’s done.”

“Wow! Didn’t notice that, but I’ve seen you some place before. Where was it, I can’t really say...”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s where it was. I saw you at the bar outside Waspachick. I remember you.”

“I go there quite a bit, as a matter of fact.”

“So do I. Great place, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw a great band there the other night.”

“Listen, I don’t mean to cut you off or anything, but I’m in a real hurry.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to hold you up,” said Noble quietly.

The deepest blow came when he noticed the indicator light was still on. He retreated to the dryer where he unloaded his wardrobe and stuffed it hastily in his cotton sack. He left the Laundromat thereafter, the universe shrinking him with every slab of sidewalk. The universe had offered meaningful signs, but then betrayed him. He had no one to blame but the cloudy sky, its comatose silence the only possible object of his anger. The man who blames himself blames more the universe which created him, the skies torpid and bleak. He should have known better than to approach a beautiful woman. Any other man would have easily recovered.

He returned to the house, his father gone luckily. He shut himself in his room. He commiserated with dark guitar jams and more herb. He was about out. This isolation sparked thoughts of grandeur once again, standing upon the stage, women everywhere but nowhere.

Later that afternoon Noble composed his presentation for Shylock on his way to the coffee shop. He at least did his laundry. He wore a clean shirt and trousers and walked in the cold towards the main avenue. Sure enough, Shylock was in the coffee shop sweeping, and he approached him carefully, forgetting the intricate proposal and its hypothetical delivery.

“Why, isn’t it our rock n’ roll star,” called Shylock.

“Not too busy, eh?” said Noble.

“Man, this shop is never busy when you come around. Maybe it’s a curse.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“C’mon, I’m buying you the damn guitar, remember?”

“Yeah, Shy. I appreciate all your efforts.”

“All I know is that you better pay me back, and soon. I’ve got a week’s salary invested in you. We’ll go to the music shop tonight, and you better practice every day and night.”

They sat in their usual places overlooking the Strip. No more than a handful of people meandered the windswept Waspachick streets.

“Let’s go tonight, the House of Music by the highway,” said Shylock, “and what’s the matter? You seem so down all the time. Why don’t you smile? You’re not as hung-over as I am.”

“Shy, you’re my friend, right?”

“That depends,” said Shylock suspiciously.

“Why don’t women like me, Shy? You know, I hear all those songs about taking the guy with the lonely eyes, and yet, they turn away. I can’t understand it. Is it something about me they don’t like? I mean, maybe I am cursed like you said.”

“Aww, quit it. I’m sick of hearing about your women problems.”

“No, I’m being serious. I tried to pick up a woman in the Laundromat, and she blew me off. It’s a horrible feeling.”

“So? You get up from that self-pity, and you try again like every adult in the human race, but there’s something else that’s bothering you, isn’t there?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Don’t shit me, Noble. There’s something wrong when you ask a friend if he’s really your friend, and besides, you’re not that hung-over. C’mon, out with it.”

He paused for a moment and gulped at his coffee.

“Shylock, I’m in trouble,” said Noble.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Well, it’s hard to say. Where do I begin?”

“No, Noble, not again.”

“Shy, I’m in big trouble. After we went out last night, my father, well, basically, he, well, he sort of ... kicked me out.”

“He what?!”

“He kicked me out. I’ve got forty-eight hours to find a place, and the clock’s ticking, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh Noble,” said Shylock while patting his shoulder, “you’ll figure something out. You always do. Time to get real. Time to get a job.”

“Actually, I was thinking about another way...”

“ ... I mean, you and your father have always had a rough relationship from the get-go, and maybe it’s better that he kicked you out. Now you’re able to see the reality, approach things more realistically, and now at least you don’t have to worry about your father breathing down your neck all the time...”

“I was thinking about one particular way...”

“ ... and besides, now you can move into the world like the rest of us, get a job somewhere in Waspachick. There are tons of jobs listed in the classifieds, and pretty soon you’ll be able to afford an apartment. Believe me, things are much better this way, Noble, better for you, better for me...”

“This particular idea which has been in my mind ever since he kicked me out...”

“ ... better for everyone concerned. I mean now you’ll be an adult about things, establish yourself, get a job, a paycheck, maybe even a good dental plan, you know, put that degree to work, and soon, you’ll be able to put down a down-payment for a car, or even take the bus to work...”

“ ... and I think this idea has some merit, and it involves...”

“ ... there are a lot of hot women on the bus, Noble, and if you can’t take the bus, you can walk. Hell, I walk to work everyday, and I find the morning air invigorating, and I wake up with a cup of house blend and a newspaper. Yes, the newspaper is so terribly important...”

“ ... some real delicate negotiations with my friends in the area, and since I’ll be moving out soon, I know that my friends...”

“ ... and it’s a good and vital source of information...”

“ ... will help me, and I know I could count on you, Shylock.”

“Ah, bullshit, Noble! Bullshit! Don’t you dare ask me. The answer is absolutely not, no, zip, zilch, absolutely, positively no. Do you hear me? No, Noble McCloud, no. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“But I haven’t even asked you anything. Yet.”

“The answer is no,” said Shylock angrily.

“If you would just hear me out. Let me just present to you a plan that will work for the both of us...”

“Whaddaya mean ‘us?’ It’s not ‘us,’ Noble, it’s ‘you,’ it’s ‘you,’ not ‘us,’ not ‘we,’ not ‘ours,’ it’s all ‘you,’ and only ‘you.’ Get that through your thick skull, okay? You get a job, and you become a part of what everyday society forces you to become.”

“Shy, I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you so much money.”

“Oh yeah? Fine, where’s the money?”

“I have it all planned out, see, once I get the advance money...”

“Wait a minute,” chuckled Shylock, “wait a second. Advance money? You mean from, like, a record contract?”

“Exactly. A record deal when I land one, and every cent will go to you, I promise.”

“This is unbelievable!” as Shylock pounded the table, “this is unbelievable. You mean that you will pay me once you get a record deal?”

“Exactly, and once I get it, you will be the beneficiary. I will pay you right when I get the check.”

“Oh yeah? You mean to tell me that you, first off,” as he counted his fingers, “don’t even know how to play the guitar, and second, you don’t even have a guitar to begin with, and third, you’ll get some sort of record deal without any clue how to play the guitar, and without even owning a guitar? Tell me, Noble, have I lost my mind, or have you completely gone bezerk? I mean, tell me, am I the foolish one here? And of course, you’ll blame it on me, oh yes, I’m not the victim, you are...”

“It’s all so perfect, just let me tell you what my plans are before making a decision. First, I’ll earn lots of money from the deal, and I’m optimistic that someone will discover me. I have faith. I’m the perfect candidate. Second, I’ve been seeing the signs everywhere. Really, the forces are with me on this one.”

“Noble, you cannot stay at my place,” said Shylock, articulating every word.

Noble finished what remained of his coffee. Shylock’s words, despite their lucidity, drifted over his head.

“It’d just be for a few weeks,” he tried, “and once I learn how to play, I’ll go out on the club circuit, and all that money will go for the rent.”

“See, Noble. Now you’re the victim, and I’m the one victimizing you. You pull this shit on me every time I see you. When does it end? Why can’t you get a job? What’s so wrong with having a good, honest job? So what if the boss yells at you? So what if you got fired from your first job?”

“I can’t get a job. It would compromise my artistic values, and besides, I couldn’t handle it.”

“Artistic values? You don’t even have the fucking guitar yet! The answer is ‘no,’ Noble, and you should seriously think about a job.”

And after a prolonged silence, Shylock asked:

“What happens next?”

“I guess I go to the homeless shelter.”

“Okay. You’ve got to do what you have to do, don’t you?”

“Yes. Well, first I’ll have to, well, find some sort of telephone number to the shelter, and I suppose I’ll have to throw away the things that I don’t need, like my record collection, and my CD’s, and maybe my stereo, yes, I’ll have to throw that away...”

“Damn you, Noble. You are not the victim here. I am. Every time I wipe your nose clean when you get in trouble.”

“Shylock, it would only be for a few weeks.”

“I need a definite deadline here. I mean who do you think I am? What do you think this is?”

“Please, Shy, don’t get upset over this. Just take me in until I can get a few gigs, and once the advance comes, you’ll be paid for every day I spend at your place.”

“My place is tiny. How would we both fit? It’ll be terrible, and what about the food? Who’s gonna do the grocery shopping? Noble, can’t you get a job? I mean these are the realities. You need to support yourself. Nothing in this world comes for free. It will take you months before you learn the guitar. Months, and I can’t keep you for months, only a few days until you get a job and settle on your own. Y’know I do have a life apart from you.”

“If you do this for me, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

They both fell silent again. Noble stared out the window. He understood the gravity of the request, but thought it part of the necessary progression of the guitarist. He also needed reconfirmation of Shylock’s promise to buy him the guitar. But for some reason he didn’t feel any guilt for imposing. Shylock was always there for him, and this he took for granted. His confidence in his guitar-playing abilities, however, soared. He was certain thinks would work out, that a record deal floated on the horizon. Getting kicked out of the house, being blown off by Alexandra Van Deusen, encountering Shylock’s resistance and skepticism were all subtle signs of his ability and potential. If one were to make a case study of all the great guitarists of his time, Noble would somehow fit into the profile, or at least that’s what he tried to show Shylock who sat in utter disbelief.

“I mean who cares if I’m out on the street,” said Noble, “I mean why would it affect you of all people. You don’t care, right, if your best friend is homeless.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Oh, really? Then what is the point? That I have a shot at something, and all I need is a place to stay to keep me afloat? That’s okay, because I don’t need any help from you or anybody.”

“Oh, yes, like I’m problem, I’m the one who gets in the way of your dreams, like I’m the one who caused the world of shit you find yourself in. See, you turn the tables to make me look like the bad guy.”

“That’s how I see it. You are the one who could help me out, and to think all those times I helped you out. No gratitude at all.”

Shylock banged the counter in disgust, and the two fell frigidly silent.

“All right, Noble, all right,” said Shylock finally, “you can stay at my place for a little while.”

“And the guitar? You’ll buy me the guitar?”

“You’re really testing our friendship. It’s not a one-way street.”

“I promise, Shy, I’ll pay you back.”

“Yes, Noble, in your heart you’d pay me back.”

A smile surfaced on Noble’s lips. He patted Shylock’s hand as though giving comfort to a bereaved relative.

“You won’t be sorry,” he said.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. Noble, by the way, are you retarded? I mean are you playing with a full deck? Are all you’re marbles accounted for? Has a horse left the corral? Or maybe it’s me, I’m the retarded one, for letting an idiot like yourself, and you are an idiot, wait, no, I’m the idiot...”

And Shylock rambled in this manner for quite some time. Noble, on the other hand simply looked out the window. He was relieved in all senses of the word. He could keep his record collection, his tapes, his CD’s, and his stereo, and soon all of this would be complemented by a guitar and an amplifier. Soon he would be practicing late at night, then the night club, the small auditorium, the arena, and the stadium. It was all planned and preordained.