Read Online Martin Dressler: The Tale of an American Dreamer by Steven Millhauser - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steven Millhauser
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to eat. What Martin wanted was the kind of lunchroom that would attract a man who wasn’t hungry.
“You want to lure ’em in, do you?” Dundee said, looking at Martin with amusement.
“I want more than that,” Martin said. “I want to keep ’em in. I want people to return. I want them to be unhappy when they’re not here.”
“That’s a tall order,” said Dundee.
“It’s a tall city,” Martin said quickly.
One Saturday about a week after workmen began to arrive at the Paradise Musée, Martin took Bill Baer to look at the work. He had spoken to Walter Dundee about his friend, with a view to including him somehow in the project, and as he stepped among workmen’s tools and piles of lumber and old sawhorses he tried to make Baer see thenew lunchroom—the gleaming windows, the curve of the polished oak counter, the pedestal tables, the steady glow of electric lights. Later, at dinner, he made his proposal: Bill would give up the cigar stand and come to work on the first of the year for Martin and Dundee. They needed a man to oversee the daily operation of the lunchroom and billiard parlor, to keep close track of expenses and profits, to be on the premises, to settle problems and keep his eyes open—to serve in short as a kind of managing assistant, at a salary nearly double his present one. Martin, who had expected to see a look of bewildered gratitude on Bill Baer’s face, was puzzled to see him stare down at his plate with a small tense frown. He looked up and said, “It’s not for me.”
Martin gave an impatient little lift to his shoulders and turned both hands palm up.
Bill said, “Oh, I could probably learn the ropes well enough, and not shame myself or let anyone down. And God knows I can use the money. But I’d never feel—it would never suit me, Martin. I’d always feel I was in over my head. Cigars are what I know—it’s in my blood. I’m a cigar man, every inch of the way.”
“You’re any kind of man you damn well want to make yourself,” Martin said, surprised by the sharpness in his voice.
“Then I damn well want to be a cigar man.”
“Then what you damn well want—,” Martin began, but gave it up. Bill was explaining how he wanted to have a cigar store of his own one day, maybe down in the oldneighborhood; he was saving like crazy. He too broke off and looked sharply at Martin.
“Look here, Martin. Say someone offered to let you run a carriage factory, or a big city bank. The whole shebang. Would you do it?”
“Like that,” Martin said, snapping his fingers.
Bill burst out laughing. “I think you really would.” He shook his head. Martin expected him to say something more but Bill took a long drink of beer, and the next day, as Martin reported the conversation to Walter Dundee, he didn’t know what irked him more: the sharp tone he had taken with his friend, or Bill’s bewildered, slightly sorrowful shake of the head. Dundee, who had had misgivings about hiring an amateur, was visibly relieved, and Martin turned his attention to a part of the business that Dundee had failed to consider at all.
Martin had been studying the rows of advertising cards that adorned the inside of every car on the horse railway lines, for he had immediately sensed their tremendous power: people trapped in the slow-moving cars, with nothing to look at except the face of some stranger across the way, let their gaze drift to the advertisements, which attempted to seize their attention with bold lettering and clever pictures calculated to make a sharp, decisive impression. The Jap-a-lac lady in her white apron, painting a window frame and smiling at the viewer over her shoulder, or the man in the ad for Sapolio soap, staring at his face reflected in the shiny back of a pan, were the daily companions of thousands of horsecar riders, who saw the same adsin daily papers and weekly magazines, on cards in shop windows, on posters stuck on hoardings and the walls of El stations, until they
“You want to lure ’em in, do you?” Dundee said, looking at Martin with amusement.
“I want more than that,” Martin said. “I want to keep ’em in. I want people to return. I want them to be unhappy when they’re not here.”
“That’s a tall order,” said Dundee.
“It’s a tall city,” Martin said quickly.
One Saturday about a week after workmen began to arrive at the Paradise Musée, Martin took Bill Baer to look at the work. He had spoken to Walter Dundee about his friend, with a view to including him somehow in the project, and as he stepped among workmen’s tools and piles of lumber and old sawhorses he tried to make Baer see thenew lunchroom—the gleaming windows, the curve of the polished oak counter, the pedestal tables, the steady glow of electric lights. Later, at dinner, he made his proposal: Bill would give up the cigar stand and come to work on the first of the year for Martin and Dundee. They needed a man to oversee the daily operation of the lunchroom and billiard parlor, to keep close track of expenses and profits, to be on the premises, to settle problems and keep his eyes open—to serve in short as a kind of managing assistant, at a salary nearly double his present one. Martin, who had expected to see a look of bewildered gratitude on Bill Baer’s face, was puzzled to see him stare down at his plate with a small tense frown. He looked up and said, “It’s not for me.”
Martin gave an impatient little lift to his shoulders and turned both hands palm up.
Bill said, “Oh, I could probably learn the ropes well enough, and not shame myself or let anyone down. And God knows I can use the money. But I’d never feel—it would never suit me, Martin. I’d always feel I was in over my head. Cigars are what I know—it’s in my blood. I’m a cigar man, every inch of the way.”
“You’re any kind of man you damn well want to make yourself,” Martin said, surprised by the sharpness in his voice.
“Then I damn well want to be a cigar man.”
“Then what you damn well want—,” Martin began, but gave it up. Bill was explaining how he wanted to have a cigar store of his own one day, maybe down in the oldneighborhood; he was saving like crazy. He too broke off and looked sharply at Martin.
“Look here, Martin. Say someone offered to let you run a carriage factory, or a big city bank. The whole shebang. Would you do it?”
“Like that,” Martin said, snapping his fingers.
Bill burst out laughing. “I think you really would.” He shook his head. Martin expected him to say something more but Bill took a long drink of beer, and the next day, as Martin reported the conversation to Walter Dundee, he didn’t know what irked him more: the sharp tone he had taken with his friend, or Bill’s bewildered, slightly sorrowful shake of the head. Dundee, who had had misgivings about hiring an amateur, was visibly relieved, and Martin turned his attention to a part of the business that Dundee had failed to consider at all.
Martin had been studying the rows of advertising cards that adorned the inside of every car on the horse railway lines, for he had immediately sensed their tremendous power: people trapped in the slow-moving cars, with nothing to look at except the face of some stranger across the way, let their gaze drift to the advertisements, which attempted to seize their attention with bold lettering and clever pictures calculated to make a sharp, decisive impression. The Jap-a-lac lady in her white apron, painting a window frame and smiling at the viewer over her shoulder, or the man in the ad for Sapolio soap, staring at his face reflected in the shiny back of a pan, were the daily companions of thousands of horsecar riders, who saw the same adsin daily papers and weekly magazines, on cards in shop windows, on posters stuck on hoardings and the walls of El stations, until they
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