Ah, Sweet mystery Of Life.
Michaela Roessner.
The length of the bar took just a few broad pen strokes to render. The long mirror behind it was inadequate to the task of making the narrow, cramped railway station beer hall appear larger, more like the expensive taverns in uptown Chillicothe.
Just as well, for the clientele was meager too. Folks for whom Chillicothe was the final destination caught a coach into town as soon as they disembarked. Those leaving the town arrived at the station with barely enough time to check their baggage and depart. Through the saloon window Mac could see them bustling about in the chill March air.
The bar was scattered lightly with wayfarers like Mac, folks stranded for an hour or so waiting for a connecting train. Far better to tarry warm, surrounded by the yeast-and-hops smell of half-emptied steins, the rich odors of sausages, bread and pickled herring wafting from the free lunch cage.
Mac looked from the bar to the piece of paper before him and slashed in diagonal lines to suggest the mirror's reflective quality. Then he lightly sketched himself in behind the strokes; a regular bourgeois leprechaun a" pen raised and poised to draw, dapper suit smartly draped onto his small tidy frame, a quizzical expression neatly tucked onto pixie features.
He glanced at the drawing, then restlessly shuffled the papers beneath it a" the five sketches he'd already completed since seeking refuge here from the cold spring outside. Flipping finally, as he'd been doing over and over again, to the newspaper which lay beneath.
To this new thing; a strip of pictures a" wonderful, wonderful pictures, such as he himself might draw. Such as he had been imagining and preparing for the last five years. But not drawn by him. These were created by a man named Outcault. The drawings were entitled The Yellow Kid.
Mac's heart was pitted with envy and desire. His distress was so great that it interrupted his ceaseless, habitual drawing. The year was 1896, and he knew that no one else understood what a miracle and a turning point this was, four years before the great "Turn of the Century" everyone else was yammering about.
He riffled the sketches back in place on top of the newspaper, irritated at his self-indulgent jealousy, then looked critically at the drawing he'd been working on. It still seemed sparse.
He glanced up again. The far end of the mirror just barely caught the image of the free lunch cage behind him. Most of the saloon's other customers a" such as they were a" lined up there, loading plates from its bounty of pickled herring, liverwurst and other sausages, bread and hard-boiled eggs. It was understood that the spread was designed as much to stimulate thirst as to satisfy hunger.
Mac smiled as an image occurred to him: Dimly behind the veiling reflection a line of stalwart men crawled groaning through a desert of salty provender, wailing their way past dry crackers, pickles and bratwurst in a Sisyphean attempt to reach tall cool steins of ale, stout and beer. The mugs, however, wore seagulls' wings. They flitted, soared and dove just beyond the grasp of the thirsty men. In desperation the miserable fellows turned to the salty foods around them, as a shipwrecked man will at last drink even seawater. But now the food turned fickle too, and bound away on kangaroo and gazelle legs.
Would the concept work? Mac wanted to convey the idea as a ghostly tableau, submerged like a dream behind the surface of the long mirror, haunting the few drinkers bellied up, like himself, to the bar. But by preserving the mirror's refractive, elusive quality he wouldn't be able to render the image in the detail it deserved; the picture would be too vague. His comrades at the Masonic lodge, with their finely honed taste for symbol and mystery, might grasp it. But the average newspaper reader? No.
A loud gasp from behind broke Mac's scribbling reverie. He looked up to see a movement in the mirror before him: A sausage link arced through the air, reached an admirable altitude, then plunged out of sight below the lower edge of the mirror. Then a pickle mysteriously launched; a loaf of bread; two hard-boiled eggs; three pickled herrings; a veritable fireworks display of food. Mac's fantasy had come to life.
Mac's eyes, reflected in the mirror as he stared, resembled the hard-boiled eggs. A shiver like an electric current coursed up and down his spine, followed by a sensation like an empty whistling wind a" the swift hollow feeling of dj vu. He remembered in an instant all that his Masonic fellows and Grandmasters had ever told him about the ability of the power of thought to attain reality.
The electric current, the whistling wind, the transcendent moment evaporated as Mac heard more gasps at his back, then cries of alarm. In the mirror before him comestibles still bounded and frolicked. He spun around on the bar stool.
The other bar patrons were standing back aghast from a cyclone of commotion at the bar cage.
A greedy young man had evidently overloaded his plate. Items of food were rolling off it. In dropping down to catch the overflow before it hit the floor he had crashed into the bar cage, causing the edibles there to become upwardly propelled. As he scrambled after this second batch he bumped into a fellow diner, causing yet another egg to take wing without benefit of hatching proper equipage. Hoarsely shouting, the clumsy youth snatched it out of the air and thrust it back onto its nest-plate, colliding with the lunch cage again.
This time a chain of Polish sausages snaked up and away. The bumbling maniac grabbed the last link, snapping the meaty string like a whip around a plummeting pickle, then depositing it on another diner's platter. That fellow, a stout man embrined in bourboned melancholy, looked down and said mournfully, "But I don't like pickles."
"My apologies, my good man. I'd noticed a resemblance so I thought it was yours," the troublemaker wheezed as he threw himself after a cracker cartwheeling across a table, thus freeing himself from disastrous proximity to the free lunch cage. "As soon as I get a free hand I'll come back and rectify matters."
Mac realized he'd been holding his breath and began to let it out in relief. Prematurely . . . for all the young man had done was broaden his field of operations.
The miscreant collided into tables, sending new articles from his own plate into orbit. The other bar patrons clutched their food and drinks to themselves and scuttled away from his progress.
Without thinking Mac reached for a fresh sheath of pages. His pen flew across paper. Out of the corner of one eye he saw the barkeep, initially as paralyzed as the rest of the room, hustle red-faced around the back of the bar and head purposefully toward the one-man catastrophe.
Who by then was meandering about the far end of the saloon near the windows, still executing amazing feats of contortion in his quest to control the rain of food. He had already richocheted into the hanging slate advertising the daily specials. Chalk sticks and an eraser joined the more appetizing airborne fare. People outside were gathering to stare through the windows.
Over near the wall sat the establishment's sole female patron; a sour woman Mac guessed to be a retired boarding house landlady. Horror froze her features as she watched the one-man disaster bear down haphazardly but steadily upon her. She appeared to be paralyzed; only her eyes moved as they traced the course of a particularly large, fat mackerel spiralling downward, downward, directly towards her.
Two inches short of her face a brisk hand extricated it from the air and plopped it back on the plate it had escaped from. "A thousand pardons, madam. Of course I would never allow this brash fish to sully your delicate personage," the youth rasped. With an enormous flourish he snatched his derby from his head with the hand not clutching his plate and bowed low, sweeping the hat behind him, revealing a full head of hair corn-silk light and fine.
The woman didn't acknowledge the courtesy. Her pasty face resembled the dead fish she'd been rescued from. Once again only her eyes moved. This time they followed the course of a baked potato as it descended behind the maniac. The youth continued to gaze at her face, but behind him his hat twitched two inches to the left; the potato fell into it tidily. The woman, Mac, and the entire room breathed a sigh of relief.
The fellow turned back towards the bar. Trembling, he delicately set the laden plate on the edge of a nearby table and extricated the potato from his hat.
In that brief moment of quiet Mac finally got a good look at him. The bumbler was of average height with a strong bone structure, but he was not as substantially fleshed as he might have been. In profile the fellow looked to have a broad, pleasant face; not unhandsome except for the knobby, indistinct shape of his nose.
Just then the barkeep reached the fellow. He grabbed hold of the adventurer's lapel, pulling him around. Full face, the bungler proved to be even younger. He was just an overgrown kid.
"Are you daft?" the saloonkeeper shouted in the unfortunate's face. "What ails you to carry on like that?"
The boy raised his hands and tried to back away. "Most felicitous proprietor," he cawed, his voice hoarse as any raven's. "Is indeed the fault all mine? If you restrained yourself from the excess enthusiasm of overwaxing these fine floors perhaps a fellow could negotiate them safely."
Curious at the ruckus, people crowded in at the door, spilling into the bar.
"And if your provender was not so excellent and bountiful, would I have overladen my plate? Oops!"
The barkeep had backed him up to the overhanging platter, which flipped over. The boy ducked away and down just in time to catch the china before it crashed to the floor, but all the food had lofted upward once again, achieving admirable height.
"Great Godfrey Daniel!" brayed the youth, and scrambled after. Mac's pen sprang back to life.
The boy now had a full crowd at the door to threaten. But fate was merciful. One by one the youth shepherded the errant objects back to the plate, all but three: A dinner roll shot away to the left, a bratwurst to the right, and an egg directly above him. The bartender slid one of the heavy maple chairs at him; whether to help him or trip him, Mac couldn't tell.
The young fellow hopped onto the chair's seat and looked up helplessly. He still clutched the plate, so even if he could grab the egg and one of the other two victuals, it would be too late for the third. A sharply drawn gasp from all present tugged at the walls. The boy's face sagged with despair. The bratwurst and roll kept arcing away. The egg began to descend.
Suddenly the plate was perched on the derby. The youth's arms shot straight out right and left, grabbing the sausage and bread at the exact instant the egg nestled into its proper place on the plate. A moment of stunned silence, then the room erupted into cheers, applause, whistles and stamping feet.
The boy stepped elegantly down from the chair, plate still balanced on hat. "Aaaah yas. Thank you, thank you good people," he snored graciously. He opened his coat and pulled handbills from an inner pocket. "You have just witnessed a performance by Bill Duke, most royal of jugglers. Majestic as my abilities are, I'm forced by honest modesty to say that I am but one of a troupe of similarly stellar artists who make up the Fabulous Harry McSneed Travelling Burlesque Show. We will be performing in your fair township tonight, should you care to be entertained and delighted by even greater feats of prowess, and to weep and laugh to excess at our excellent thespian fare."
By now the barkeep was frowning again. The lad coughed and added, "And speaking of most excellent fare, it would have been impossible for me to have accomplished the energetic display you just observed without the sustenance of this establishment's most excellent food and drink."
The saloonkeeper smiled behind his walrus moustache as some of the crowd drifted further in and perched at tables and barstools, talking among themselves as they examined the handbills. The bartender hurried around to the other side of the bar to take advantage of his new customers.
The boy meandered through the throng, making sure that everyone received a flyer. Now and then he reached up to the plate on his head to grab a quick bite of pickle or sausage. In spite of his promotion of the beerhall's food and drink, he'd obviously had no time to eat before launching into his promotional stunt.
Mac turned back to his drawings. Pages and pages of lines of motion: one frantic curve suggested an arm reaching for a spiralling pickle. Another a dive for a herring plummeting to the floor. Mac buried himself in the papers, fleshing out the images with elaborate pen strokes. He chuckled to himself as in one sketch of tumbling chalk and erasers he elaborated the chalk stubs writing cryptic messages and symbols in the air as they flew, the juggler trying to erase them as he followed behind.
"Excuse me, my good fellow. You seem to be laboring so diligently there. A hardworking businessman such as yourself could surely use the release of an evening's pleasant, harmless, yet educational and thrilling diversion."
Mac turned and looked up into the face of his model. Modulated to conversational levels, the boy's voice lost much of its abrasiveness and was surprisingly pleasant to the ear, like the rusty purr of an old tomcat. He held out a flyer to Mac, smiling with an open, outgoing charm. But something behind the goodnatured grin was hard and his eyes were guarded.
Mac smiled back and reached for the proffered handbill. "I wish I could see your act. I'm just waiting here for a connecting train to Logan. By any chance will your troupe be performing in Cincinnati?"
The youth didn't answer. He was staring over Mac's shoulder at the sketches spread along the bar. "Are those me?" he whispered.
Mac nodded.
"May I look at them?"
Mac blushed. He pushed the drawings together and slid them toward the boy.
With impeccable grace the youngster perched on the stool next to Mac and slid the plate from the top of his hat. Up close the derby proved to be worn and shabby, of the slightly flattened style, that while probably of excellent design for the bearing of platters, always looked too small on a wearer's head.
The boy shuffled the drawings back and forth. "Aaah yas, aaah yas," he chuckled sonorously when he reached the cartoon of the boarding-woman's encounter with the mackerel. Mac had captured to perfection the way the woman's features mimicked the dead, astonished expression of the fish. The juggler continued to browse through the sketches. When he finally looked up again something had changed. He seemed younger. It was the eyes. They had dropped their guard, reflecting awe and wonder.
The boy returned Mac's gaze, looking the diminutive artist's form up and down with respect.
"My good man, these are spectacular." He jumped off the stool and thrust out his hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am William Claude Dukinfield, juggler extraordinaire. But all my friends call me Whitey, as befits my tonsorial equipage." He doffed his hat and gestured to his cornsilk hair.
Mac didn't climb down from his own perch. Standing, he would have felt dwarfed by this overgrown boy. But he grinned and clasped the juggler's hand, noticing as he did how chafed and scarred it was. "Zenas Winsor McCay," he replied in kind. "Newspaper illustrator extraordinaire on assignment for the Cincinnati Commercial Tribune. Everyone calls me Mac . . . from my last name," he finished lamely. He couldn't keep up with the youngster's verbal flair.
Whitey didn't seem to notice. He had turned back to the drawings with shining eyes. "How, how . . . ? To conjure these up while I juggled, to draw so fast, so exactly right . . . it has all the appearances of magic."
Mac shrugged. "No more so than your performance." He blushed. "It just comes from working at it all the time. I can't remember a time when I didn't draw. I can't stop myself. Eventually all that practice adds up to a kind of skill. That's all it is."
The boy smiled shyly and sat down again. "Just so myself. I taught myself to juggle by trial and error, mostly error. Working away on it over and over and over. I could show you scars on my feet from trying to catch a double cigar box back drop with my toes. My whole act too is nothing but years and years of practice."
He signalled to the barkeep with a raised index finger. The mustached man nodded and slid him a ginger beer. Whitey caught it deftly and winked at Mac, the cynical showman sliding back into place behind his eyes. "Not a bad bargain, eh? A chance to perform, extra publicity for the troupe, and a free drink and food in the bargain."
But Mac was thinking about what the boy had said before. Years and years? "Excuse me for asking, but how old are you?"
"Sixteen," the boy replied. "I'll turn seventeen next month. Been juggling professionally for nigh on five years. My first engagement was for a churchful of Methodists at the tender age of eleven. The scoundrels didn't pay me afterwards, so I had to whip around to the back of the church and reimburse myself from their collection plate."
Mac smiled. "Your proficiency speaks of more experience than five short years."
Whitey nodded. "Throwing things around while keeping up a line of patter goes back farther than I can remember. Pater Familia hawked produce on the street. He owned a ramshackle cart and a broken down old horse called White Swan. He started taking me around with him to help out when I was three. My first memories are of lofting oranges, apples and quince."
Mac fondly recalled the costermongers of his childhood; the vendor's colorful cries and antics drawing attention to their wares. "Housewives must have been drawn like flies to a cute little tyke with an act like that," he said. "You must have been quite an asset."
"Yes and no," Whitely said drily. "I'd get bored with the standard cries that honestly described our merchandise. I was far more attracted by the rococo alliteration possible with more exotic fare." He began to sing in a soft falsetto that indicated that his voice had not always been so ruinously raspy: "Hey-o, hey-o.
Come for our fine fruit-o.
Nothing nicer
Than our fine spices.
You've never seen
The likes of our greens a"
Basil, borage and burnett
Coriander, cardoon and kale
Rutabaga, rhubarb and runions
Shallots, salsify, saffron and saaaaage."
He drew out the last note.
"Runions aren't a vegetable," Mac objected. "Aren't they a fish?"
Whitey shrugged. "Sounds like onions. The good wives of Philadelphia couldn't differentiate. But they did get peeved with my father when they ran out of their kitchens only to find that we had none of the afore-sung delicacies. My father would placate them, then give me a thorough drubbing as soon as we rounded the corner."
"He beat you for that?" Mac exclaimed, appalled. "That's monstrous!"
Whitey cocked an eyebrow. "Don't impugn my honest father for such a trifle. Why, I owe much to that capital fellow, such as my lightning reflexes and excellent timing. The old man had a formidable backhand. He lacked the little finger on his left hand; a deprivation he attributed to the Crimean War. A blow with that hand was particularly painful. We would have long conversations . . . or rather, monologues on his part." Whitey sat sideways to Mac, barely looking at him. "They went something like this: " 'Eaven 'elp me, Claude!" Whitey whacked at Mac's face, striking a hair short of his cheek.
"You've a roof over your 'ead." Whack!
"Food in your gut to make you 'appy." Whack!
"Yet you carry on something 'ellish." Whack!
"Would the king be proud of that?" Whack whack whackity whack!
By the end of this soliloquy Whitey had built up a nice rhythm and Mac had stopped flinching. "He was a full-blooded Cockney," Whitey said, explaining the dropped h's and reference to the king. "Of course, he actually made contact. Under his tutelage I learned not to duck, or he'd just hit harder the next go-around. I honed my responses to pull back just enough so I was spared the worst of it but he still achieved sufficient satisfaction. A most equitable arrangement for both of us."
Mac winced more than he had during the demonstration. He eyed the overgrown boy speculatively. "Surely he doesn't do that anymore?"
"Not for years," Whitey admitted. "He thrashed me one time too many. I ambushed him one morning from the eves of our workshed when I was eleven. Dropped a big crate on his head. It knocked him out cold. I lit out. I've never been back."
"Never?"