whole episode would turn out to be both awkward and embarrassing. In any event, I did nothing.
I suppose my decision to do nothing was the climax. In a sense the business about Fred ended right there, that same evening, no more than a half hour later. I’ll try to describe it as I recall it and you can accept or reject it as you see fit.
I can’t remember the exact time, right to the minute, but it must have been approximately quarter to one, I recollect, clearly, that for some reason I glanced up, toward the end of the bar. Fred was looking at me. His eyes lingered and once more I read a curious, despairing appeal in them. It was so intense and so apparent that it fixed my attention.
I was looking back, still undecided what I should do, when the little runt finally dropped his eyes. A moment later he got up and moved into the men’s room, at the rear of the building.
I hesitated for a minute and then acted on impulse. Perhaps, I must have reasoned, if I could speak to the poor little guy in private, he might be willing to talk. Maybe Casserman and I could help him somehow . Get him into a hospital or at least to a doctor.
I got up and walked into the men’s room. It was empty.
Let me emphasise two things. First, that I followed the runt into the men’s room no more than two minutes after he entered it—actually, I think it was just over a minute. If, in that brief time, he had emerged from the room, lie would have had to open the door, cross my field of vision—I sat staring at the door—and walk the entire length of the bar before leaving by the street entrance. Second, there was absolutely no way out of the men’s room except by the single door. There was a small window set in the rear wall, but some years previously someone had smashed through that window and rifled the cash register . Shortly after, Casserman had heavy steel bars set into the window frame. In addition, a thick wire-mesh screen had been placed over the entire window, bars and all, from the outside. Only an insect or a mouse could have gotten through that window without tearing off the wire screen and cutting through at least two or three of the steel bars.
There was a rear door, but it was in the opposite corner of the building, behind the bar. It was bolted and locked and Casserman carried the key. I don’t quite know how Casserman passed the fire marshal’s annual inspection, but the fact remains it would have been impossible for the runt to leave by that exit unless he went behind the bar and got the key from Casserman—which he did not do.
I stood in that dingy men’s room and looked around. The stall doors were attached by springs and they were all wide open. To keep them closed they had to be locked. From the inside. There was no place else in that room where anyone could stand, sit or crouch without being seen.
I walked to the barred window at the rear of the room and gazed out. The bars were in place, the wire screen intact, the window closed and locked.
Only a few yards behind Casserman’s place, a series of railroad tracks came together and ran off toward a sprawl of waterfront salt flats. As I stood at the window, frowning in bewilderment, I looked down those empty tracks and for a fleeting second I thought that I saw someone walking along them. I had the odd impression that although this figure was walking slowly, it was, paradoxically, receding rapidly into the distance. Then I decided that my eyes were deceiving me, that a blur of shadows in the moonlight was all that I had actually seen.
As I lingered at the window, looking down that shiny, dwindling road of steel track and wooden ties, a sense of the most indescribable desolation overcame me. I don’t possess the words to convey it. A sudden feeling of heart-stopping, overwhelming loneliness washed through me. It was not a mere physical sense of loneliness; it was a loneliness of the psyche, of the spirit, an abrupt and unaccountable conviction that I was alone and
I suppose my decision to do nothing was the climax. In a sense the business about Fred ended right there, that same evening, no more than a half hour later. I’ll try to describe it as I recall it and you can accept or reject it as you see fit.
I can’t remember the exact time, right to the minute, but it must have been approximately quarter to one, I recollect, clearly, that for some reason I glanced up, toward the end of the bar. Fred was looking at me. His eyes lingered and once more I read a curious, despairing appeal in them. It was so intense and so apparent that it fixed my attention.
I was looking back, still undecided what I should do, when the little runt finally dropped his eyes. A moment later he got up and moved into the men’s room, at the rear of the building.
I hesitated for a minute and then acted on impulse. Perhaps, I must have reasoned, if I could speak to the poor little guy in private, he might be willing to talk. Maybe Casserman and I could help him somehow . Get him into a hospital or at least to a doctor.
I got up and walked into the men’s room. It was empty.
Let me emphasise two things. First, that I followed the runt into the men’s room no more than two minutes after he entered it—actually, I think it was just over a minute. If, in that brief time, he had emerged from the room, lie would have had to open the door, cross my field of vision—I sat staring at the door—and walk the entire length of the bar before leaving by the street entrance. Second, there was absolutely no way out of the men’s room except by the single door. There was a small window set in the rear wall, but some years previously someone had smashed through that window and rifled the cash register . Shortly after, Casserman had heavy steel bars set into the window frame. In addition, a thick wire-mesh screen had been placed over the entire window, bars and all, from the outside. Only an insect or a mouse could have gotten through that window without tearing off the wire screen and cutting through at least two or three of the steel bars.
There was a rear door, but it was in the opposite corner of the building, behind the bar. It was bolted and locked and Casserman carried the key. I don’t quite know how Casserman passed the fire marshal’s annual inspection, but the fact remains it would have been impossible for the runt to leave by that exit unless he went behind the bar and got the key from Casserman—which he did not do.
I stood in that dingy men’s room and looked around. The stall doors were attached by springs and they were all wide open. To keep them closed they had to be locked. From the inside. There was no place else in that room where anyone could stand, sit or crouch without being seen.
I walked to the barred window at the rear of the room and gazed out. The bars were in place, the wire screen intact, the window closed and locked.
Only a few yards behind Casserman’s place, a series of railroad tracks came together and ran off toward a sprawl of waterfront salt flats. As I stood at the window, frowning in bewilderment, I looked down those empty tracks and for a fleeting second I thought that I saw someone walking along them. I had the odd impression that although this figure was walking slowly, it was, paradoxically, receding rapidly into the distance. Then I decided that my eyes were deceiving me, that a blur of shadows in the moonlight was all that I had actually seen.
As I lingered at the window, looking down that shiny, dwindling road of steel track and wooden ties, a sense of the most indescribable desolation overcame me. I don’t possess the words to convey it. A sudden feeling of heart-stopping, overwhelming loneliness washed through me. It was not a mere physical sense of loneliness; it was a loneliness of the psyche, of the spirit, an abrupt and unaccountable conviction that I was alone and
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