Broken Necks/The Wrong "Front"

Some years ago I did this man a favor. He was, at the time, a sodden looking creature with a red nose and the remains of a vocabulary. I encountered him while looking for something to write about in one of the West Side flops.

It was winter time. He was cold, hungry and garrulous. Sitting in a restaurant we got to talking, and he talked about literature. This was interesting. He had been a gentleman once, and events coupled with atrocious habits had landed him on his nose. It was curious to sit next to a tramp with a past, and while he talked I noted the snobbishness he cherished toward his former estate. Despite his hunger and lack of money and lack also of hope, he apologized to me for his dirty collar and sought nervously to shove his filthy cuffs out of sight.

These things were impressive, and after I left him I told the thing as an anecdote to a man with philanthropic leanings. My seedy and red-nosed tramp, Bartels, was given a job and a new outfit. And to cap the thing, I wrote a story about him in which I romanticized some of the facts.

Bartels had dropped out of my mind when one day a year later a rather distinguished looking gentleman, freshly barbered, red faced, newly linened and carrying a stick called on me at my office. It was Bartels. I failed to recognize him for a moment. And when I did, I became self-conscious.

"Well," I said, "this is quite a transformation. What’s up? Anything wrong?"

"Oh, no,"? Bartels answered, removing a pair of new gloves. "Just thought I’d drop in." And he sat down.

Somehow the conviction came to me that Bartels was in trouble, and wanted me to help him out. So to put him at ease I remarked cheerfully: "I’m certainly glad to see the improvement." He beamed, and I added, "And if there’s anything I can do . . . "

A frown came to his red face.

"I suppose you figured when you saw me that I'd come up to panhandle," he answered. I protested.

"Yes you did," he insisted. "I could tell. I'm awfully sorry you feel that way toward me. I just dropped in for a little chat with you— about books and things."

I apologized for my mistake and we sat in silence for a time and grew mutually embarassed. The certainty had come to me that the man was a terrible bore.

"Yes," he resumed with a desperate note in his voice, "I'm awfully interested in literature. You remember that talk we had in the cafe?"

I nodded.

"Well," he pursued, "conversations such as that are wonderful. Would you mind coming out to lunch with me. I owe you a lunch, you know." He paused and added, evidently to bribe me, "I owe you more than that. I owe you all this.” And he indicated himself.

His gratitude was unconvincing and obviously designed to seduce me into a long-winded literary discussion. I told him I was busy and that I would be glad to lunch with him some other day—to call me up, etc. When he left he appeared annoyed and disappointed, and I worried about him for two days. I remembered also I had forgotten to inquire what he was doing and how he had made his "comeback."

Three months later, when I had again totally forgotten the man, he appeared a second time—as barbered and resplendent as before. There was more assurance in his manner and a hail fellow intimacy to his tone. Remembering my omissions on his last visit, I started to inquire about his "return." But the thought came to me that the fellow would be embarrassed to be reminded of his past and of the unhappy circumstances in which I had first found him, so I gave it up.

It turned out that he had no purpose in his visit other than a pleasant chat about books and writers and things. I did my best this time to talk, but Bartel’s words seemed ridiculous evasions of something—as did my own. It dawned on me that whatever his present income and respectability the creature was still in my mind a tramp, and would always be one—and that anything I said to him would have to sound patronizing and dramatic. After fifteen minutes of ineffectual talk, his manner in fact seemed to collapse and he rose to go. Unfortunately, he left his cane behind, and I had to run after him, calling, "Just a minute," as he hurried to the elevator. "Here’s your stick." This made an unhappy impression on both of us.

I have since passed Bartels on the street a half dozen times. We greet each other with a nervous and even frightened "Hello, there," and walk on. Whenever I see him I worry for several days over the fact that I owe him something which he has no right to expect. "If I could sit down and talk to him as I would like to," I think, "it would be easy." We would talk about his life as a tramp—and old times, so to say. But it would be cruel to do that, inasmuch as he wants me to know him as he is—a gentleman with an enthusiasm for literature.

In the mail that came this Christmas I received an interesting card from him. It was engraved and expensive looking and wished me the usual compliments of the season. Scribbled across its back in an old man’s wavering hand was the sentence, "I would like to have a talk with you some time, but I presume this is impossible, for I am still 'out of character'."