MILES

A young man stumbles on long repressed rage and guilt and find he must resolve the two.

They thought they knew all there was to know. They thought they knew almost everyone worth knowing. They couldn’t yet be fully aware of it, but to a large extent the perfection of their youth was beginning to flower: the vigor, the good health, the vital confidence as yet unjustifiable, the arrogance unfounded. But to paraphrase Thomas Wolfe, with whose Web and the Rock many of our classmates walked about for the months it took them to read the tome, they were the lords of life. They were plunging into their twenties, the threshold of adulthood, and they were the lords of life.1

That year in graduate school saw a definitive dilution of academia, as well as of interesting and lively characters. I did befriend, for only a brief interval, a thoughtful and perceptive young man. He was older than I and seemed to have already suffered a sampling of what the cruel side of life had in store. He had been in the Merchant Marine and told of an old salt whom he recalled jawing with on the bridge as he was being relieved of his watch. The old sailor said to him: “You know, lad, there’s only one thing you have that I don’t have…and that’s your youth. And that will soon be gone.” Perry said its truthful ring gave him the chills and it was something he hadn’t forgotten. 2

At the party Perry had invited me to, I encountered the usual suspects, as students’ panache preceded their flaunted forms. It was difficult to know whether conversations on essence preceded those on existence, or whether those on existence preceded those on essence. It made no difference, of course, but was taken seriously by those participating. Rye and Gingers grew flat, CC and sodas got warm, as ice melted. The room grew smokier as introductions going nowhere persisted. The evening dissolved.3

There were no fresh nor pretty faces that night so I hacked a path through the crowd to the door. It was open, and beyond the exit’s bottleneck the yawning hallway gaped hollow and depressing. It was there, at this social bottleneck, that I ran into Manny Dunzler. I hadn’t seen Dunzler since Junior High School in Washington Heights and we had advanced, apparently by a neighborhood or two and several years. Hopefully, we had also matured somewhat. Dunzler was likeable enough and offered a genuine smile as we shook hands and did a quick catching up. But he had initiated a pointless incident years ago for which I detested him. From the warmth of his greeting it seemed as if he had forgotten all about it, about as justifiably as when he precipitated it. But I had not forgotten.4

I had been on my way back to school for the afternoon session after lunching alone on 181st street, at the Horn & Hardart Automat. From across the street I heard a yell. It was Manny Dunzler and two of his friends. Although we were not fast friends I stopped to wait. One of Dunzler’s pals grabbed me from behind and Dunzler, without provocation, punched me in the gut. I struggled uselessly and glowered at him. Before his buddy would let me go Dunzler extended his hand in friendship.5

“Hey,” he said. “I’m really sorry. You ok? If he lets go, you wanna shake?” And here he gestured with his extended hand. It made no sense, but I didn’t seem to have much choice and in view of being outnumbered it seemed to be a way of cutting my losses. 6

“Ok,” I said. And the boy behind me loosened his hold around my arms. Dunzler smiled. I shook his hand. He tightened his grip and swiped me in the face with his fist. He took a few skipping steps backward and, with his cohorts, ran away as I felt the warm trickle of blood from my nose. I never forgot Dunzler’s leering face and my indignity of having been so badly duped. I had seen him in hallways and staging areas for the next few months spent at JHS 115, but our unresolved rancor was never addressed. Whatever may have instigated the incident remained a mystery which seemed eventually to dissolve, but, like after much evaporation, left a residue. 7

I was saying goodbye to Dunzler, nice having run into him and all, when a tall, lean redheaded young man, a late comer, stepped into the apartment. The guy looked more than familiar although I had not seen him in at least a dozen years. He appeared handsome and distinguished in his dark overcoat, as well as successful. Holy cow! It was old Zack Miles. They called him Miles in the old neighborhood. His real name was Milowitz. 8

“Say,” I said to him as he looked, perplexed, at me. “Aren’t you Zack Miles?” For years I thought his first name was actually Miles. It was only later that I learned his first name was Zack and only later still that his real last name was Milowitz. I introduced myself and complimented my name with a mention of the old neighborhood. Recognition dawned as he smiled and extended a hand in friendship, if only for old times. We shook hands, showcasing our matured grips.9

“Of course,” he said. “I remember. How have you been? What are you doing?” He had just graduated from Law School and was on the road to life. It had an enviable ring to it. We did the abbreviated little party dance, tagged with the door thing, underscored in its absurdity, considering I would never see most of these people again. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the sofa people still engrossed in their existential discussions. Almost through the crush at the door, I was overheated, and couldn’t wait to leave and breathe fresh, night air. Miles removed his coat, made his way into the party and I left.10

The hallway was dark. The hum of the elevator remained in my ear, well into the street. The subway was several blocks away and, at one in the morning, seemed even more distant. As I approached the desolate station I became aware of the dull but persistent throb of a growing headache. 11

There weren’t many passengers aboard the train when it finally arrived. I sat quietly as the long trip to my downtown Manhattan destination began. The passenger across from me was a homeless man, not especially menacing, but whose type had always stirred a kind of romantic wonder in me. Where was he from? What had brought him to this point in his life? Where was he going? Would he get there? Was the responsibility his? But instead of contemplating the man with romantic wonder, I found his quiet presence to cause in me growing anxiety and a distress. The more I tried to ignore it the worse my headache became. The pulsating did not abate.12

When I arrived home I threw myself on the mercy of my bed. But the headache would not let me rest. I took aspirin and had a tall icy cola but the pain lingered. I went back to bed and tossed. The throbbing grew worse. When, I thought, did this start? What could have precipitated it? It was accompanied by a dreadful anxiety and a growing nausea. I felt extremely miserable. And it seemed to have been an uneventful, if not otherwise pleasant evening. Or was it? I thought it through. Seeing Manny Dunzler had annoyed me, was unpleasant, and raised some tension. But I had been aware of that. In truth, I didn’t want to shake his hand; I would rather have taken a whack at his face. But although I contained my feeling, I hadn’t really repressed it. I knew all along who he was, and I still didn’t like him. I was going through the motions. Being civil; grown up.13

The headache seemed to get worse. Like a migraine. It was almost as if it were trying to tell me something. Then I remembered. There was a sudden surge of awareness; a release of pressure. Zack Miles. I had shaken hands with him, too. It happened so soon on the heels of Dunzler; too quickly for me to have regained my psychological bearings. 14

For at least a couple of Halloweens, the celebrations had ceased to be fun and had given way to a kind of mini-terrorism. Venturing out and onto the streets of the neighborhood meant becoming prey to the older kids. The younger ones laid themselves open to a number of taunts. Zack Miles’ favorite weapon was a long sock filled with ground chalk. He stalked the neighborhood and you never knew where he would appear. If he saw you, you were chalk dust. New jacket, suede jacket, wool jacket: Casper. Zack was my terror of Halloween. 15

It was a few days following a chalk drubbing that Zack extended a hand in friendship toward me. I was only about six years old but had my misgivings about any peace offering from him. I was, furthermore, well aware of the neighborhood’s latest trick which could be perpetrated on an unsuspecting dupe by a more savvy wise guy. 16

“You’re going to twist my arm,” I said. 17

“No I won’t,” said Zack. “I promise.”18

I had just got a new cap gun, one of the few, new, metal guns made after the war. 19

“I know you’ll twist my arm,” I insisted.20

“I swear I won’t hurt you,” said Zack. “If I do, you can hit me back.” He extended his hand.21

I shook Zack Miles’ hand and he ducked beneath the two hands, turning about, twisting my arm. He no sooner had let it go than I swung wildly at his head…with my cap gun. Miles moved back but the pistol smacked his nose. It bled. He stood in shock. I said, “You said I could,” but I had not foreseen the bloody consequence of my action. I regretted what I had done. And I think from that day I had been a pariah to Zack Miles. 22

The moment I recalled the event, the migraine vanished. I opened my window replacing the headache with fresh, night air.23

Some years later, passing a Walden bookshop in a mall, I wondered what had become of us lords of life. Whimsically, I thought, I would check the passage in Wolfe’s Web and The Rock. I remembered, on his 21st birthday, George Webber stood at the foot of the 42d Street Library. He was “the Lord of Life.” There was no such volume in the section marked “Literature”. I asked the manager.24

“Thomas Wolfe, of course. Follow me.” 25

He took me all the way to the back of the store, to a section marked Social Studies. Social Studies? Reaching down he retrieved a copy of Tom Wolfe’s “A Man in Full.”26

“Wrong Wolfe,” I said.27

“Oh. Sorry. I don’t know the other.28

Obviously, I thought. So much for the lords of life. All of them.29
 

Reviews

[Rain]

Loved it. I agree with Jenny, who is a good read of talent. I like the feel of it..the nostalgia. This is well written and interesting. It can also see it expanded. You did a great job with this piece ,Gary...very descriptive. Rain..

[Jenny Davis]

Haha...it's funny what we construe as the be all and end all when we are younger...how those that were looked at as heros are nothing more than humans with issues themselves. This was a great, intelligent and even somewhat sarcastic (not in a negative way,) look at life. The bits about the anxiety got my attention. It seems that little hints of something from years ago certainly play a part in anguish. What a train ride thank you! :)