Broken Necks/Gratitude

The avenue bubbled brightly under the grey rain.

The afternoon crowd had melted from the sidewalk, washed into hallways and under awnings by the downpour.

It began to look like evening. A refreshing gloom settled over the street.

The wind leaped out of alley courts and byways and raced over the pavement, accompanied by spattring arpeggios of rain.

Moisse, the young dramatist, turned into the avenue. His voluminous black raincoat, reaching from his ears to his shoe tops, flapped in front of him.

By exercising the most diligent effort, however, he managed rather to saunter than walk, and he kept his eyes raptly fixed upon the deserted stretch of shining cement.

As he moved peacefully along he repeated to himself:

"The rain leaps and pirouettes like a chorus of Russian elves. It jumps. It bounces. It hops, skips, and runs. Flocks of little excited silver birds are continually alighting around my feet and chattering in a thousand voices. I should have been a poet."

Removing his gaze from the ground he looked at the faces which lined the buildings and floated like pale lamps in the darkened vestibules.

"Everyone is watching me," he thought, "for in my attitude there is the careless courage of an unconscious heroism. I stroll along indifferent to the rain. It splashes down my neck. It takes the crease out of my trousers. It trickles off the brim of my hat.

"And all this stamps me momentarily in these afflicted minds as an unusual human.

"That one with the side whiskers is wondering what a queer fellow I am.

"What can it be that engrosses my attention to the point of making me so oblivious to the rain?

"And that fat woman with the face like a toy balloon is certain I will catch my death of cold.

"The little girl with the wide eyes thinks I am in love.

"There is an infinite source of speculation in my simple conduct."

The water was making headway down the back of his neck, but Moisse hesitated and abstained from adjusting his collar more firmly.

"They will notice it," he thought, "and immediately I will lose the distinctive aloofness which characterizes me now."

So moving leisurely down the avenue, Moisse, the young dramatist, progressed, his eyes apparently unconscious of the scene before him, his soul oblivious to the saturated world, and his mind occupied with distant and mysterious thoughts.

The downpour began to assume the proportions of a torrent. Moisse persisted in his tracks.

Someone touched his elbow.

He turned and found a little old man with faded eyes and threadbare, dripping clothes, smiling earnestly at his side.

The little old man was bent in the shoulders. His shirt had no collar. His brown coat was buttoned to his neck.

His face, screwed up by a sensitiveness to the cataract of drops beating against it, was round and full of wrinkles.

It had the quizzical, good-natured look of a fuzzy little dog.

His wet eyes that seemed to be swimming in a red moisture peered at Moisse, who was frowning.

"I'm hungry," began the little old man, "I ain't had anything to eat——"

"How much do you want?" inquired Moisse.

"Anything," said the beggar.

The young dramatist felt in his pocket. A single half-dollar encountered his fingers.

"I've only got a half-dollar," he said, "I'll get it changed. Come on."

The two of them walked in silence, Moisse still sauntering, the little man bent over and looking as if he wanted to speak but was afraid of dissipating a dream.

"Wait here," Moisse said suddenly, "I'll go in and get change."

He stepped into the box office of one of the large moving-picture theaters on the avenue and secured change.

The little old man had followed him inside the building, his eyes watching him with an eager curiosity.

Moisse turned with the change to find the beggar at his elbow.

He handed him fifteen cents.

"What's the matter?" he inquired. "Been drinking?"

"No, no," said the beggar.

"Why haven’t you?" persisted Moisse frowning; "don't you know there's nothing for you but drink? That's what drink is for. Men like you."

The faded eyes livened.

"Now, you go and get yourself three good shots of booze," went on Moisse, "and you'll be a new man for the rest of the day."

The beggar had become excited.

His lips moved in a nervous delight, but he uttered no sound. With the fingers of his right hand he picked at the blackened and roughly-bitten nails of his other. He cleared his throat and then as if suddenly inspired removed his drenched hat and raised his eyebrows.

Touched by the sincerity of the little old man's emotions, the young dramatist reached into his pocket and brought forth another ten-cent piece.

"Here," he said, "buy two more drinks."

The little man seemed about to break into a dance. His face became tinged with the pink of an old woman's cheek.

The red moisture ran out of his eyes in two white tears. Moisse fastened his eyes upon the top of the little old man's head, which seemed dirty and bald despite the pale hair, and alive.

"Perhaps you had ambitions and then some commonplace occurred and you lost them. And now you float around begging nickels. That’s interesting. A little old man begging nickels in the rain."

The beggar smiled eagerly and then ventured a slight laugh.

He came closer to Moisse and stood trembling.

"Asking for crumbs," went on Moisse with a deepening frown. "Cursed at night, when alone, by memories that will not die. Eh?" He looked suddenly into the faded eyes and smiled.

The little old man nodded his head vigorously. He caught his breath and stood looking at Moisse with his mouth open and his cheeks wrinkled as if he were about to cry.

His breath struck the young dramatist who averted his nose.

"Strange," resumed he, "now you have a quarter and I have a quarter and still we remain so different. Isn't it strange, old man? Yet it is the inevitable inequality of men that makes us brothers."

The beggar was about to speak. Moisse paused and looked with interest at the round face, the quivering nostrils and the lips that were twitching into speech.

"No one has talked to me like you," he said, "no one."

And he caught his breath and stared with a strange expression at his benefactor.

He bit at a finger nail and lowered his head. He seemed suddenly in the throes of a great mental struggle, for his face had become earnest.

It endured for a moment and then he looked at Moisse.

"You—you want me to come along with you," he said and he scratched at the back of his ear.

"I'Il come along if you want me to," he repeated.

"Come along? Where?" Moisse asked, his eyes awakening.

"Oh, any place," said the little old man. "I ain't particular, if you ain't."

He was breathing quickly and he reached for the palm of his patron.

A deep light had come into his face. His faded eyes had grown stronger. Their quizzical look was gone and they were burning in their wet depths.

They looked now with a maternal intensity into the eyes of Moisse and their smile staggered the sophistication of the young dramatist.

The little old man continued to breathe hard until he began to quiver.

He suddenly assumed command.

"Come," he said, seizing Moisse amorously by the palm and squeezing it. "I know a place we can go and get a room cheap and where we won't be disturbed. It ain't so nice a place, but come."

He squeezed the palm he held for the second time.

The deep light that had come into his little dog’s face softened and two tears rolled again out of his eyes.

He caught his breath in a sob.

"I—I don’t drink," he said; "I’m hungry—but I can wait . . . until we get through."

He was beaming coquettishly through his tears and fondling the young dramatist's hand.

"I can wait," he repeated, raising his blue lips toward Moisse, his face transfigured and glowing pink.

"I see," said Moisse, withdrawing his hand with an involuntary shudder. He was about to say something, but he turned, again involuntarily, and hurried away, breaking into a run when he found himself in the rain.

The little old man’s face drooped.

He walked slowly staring after him.

He stood bare-headed while the rain bombarded his drenched figure and he looked at the young dramatist running.

While he stood gazing after him, his face, serewed up, was suffused with a strange tenderness and the tears dripped out of his eyes.