the torrents of loneliness - conclusion

by harold p sternhagen

part two of two

for part one, click here

illustrated by konrad kraus and eddie el greco

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

"so hush. little baby… dooon't you cryyyy…" the lyrics so compellingly sung by tess torrentina lingered in randolph's brain as his new friend and lookalike gordon rappaport outlined the duties he, randolph, would perform if he accepted gordon's offer of a job. a job making out reports to the aldebaran empire about conditions on planet earth. for ten thousand dollars a year - the stuff dreams are made of. "so, you see," gordon was saying, "you will only have to put in a couple of hours a week. or however long it takes you to make your report." "and this report was about - what again?" randolph asked. "anything. anything at all. what you earthlings call world news. the latest fashions. recipes for pies or cakes. what you had for lunch that day. people you see on the street. jokes, old or new. it doesn't matter what you put in, just as long as you put in something." randolph considered this. "could i just put in stuff from time magazine? or the readers digest?" "of course. that would work very well." gordon took a sip of his bloody mary. "but what is the point? surely you could obtain this information yourselves, without paying me." "well you see, it is necessary that a regular report on a planet be made by an actual inhabitant of the planet itself. otherwise, according to the aldebaran constitution the planet is not considered to be a valid component of the empire." "oh." randolph nodded. "i suppose that makes sense." "also, it has to do with the first law of the interconnectedness of all universal entities - something i am afraid is entirely beyond the comprehension of you earthlings." "i see." "nothing personal of course. it's just the way it is." "no, no, i am sure it is." randolph looked down at his empty martini glass and lifted it, but gordon did not take the hint and offer to buy him another. "and where am i to send the report?" randolph asked. "oh, you don't have to send it anywhere. just leave it on the desk in the office we will provide you with, and we will have someone come by and pick it up every thursday evening." "and my pay?'" "an envelope with two hundred dollars in it will be on the desk every tuesday morning. except on the second tuesday in june and the fourth tuesday in december. you can take those two weeks off." suddenly, as if waking from a dream, the whole thing seemed preposterous to randolph. aldebaran empire indeed! if the fellow had just said he was a red and wanted him to spy for russia… but what harm could there be in cutting things out of the readers digest…? but maybe that was only the beginning…? but two hundred dollars a week! if they made good on that, randolph would go along, and then… then if they wanted more…. if things got suspicious…. then - then randolph could go to the f b i! and be a hero, with his picture on the front page of the gazette, or the world-dispatch. undercover citizen smashes ring of reds! on the other hand, if this stuff about the aldebaran empire was on the level, he could go on collecting the two hundred a week. he couldn't lose! he decided to go for it. but not to be too anxious about it. randolph cleared his throat. "look here, you say this office is in brooklyn?" "yes, on 45th street in brooklyn, near sunset park. is that a problem?" "well you see i've always been a manhattan person, not a brooklyn person." gordon looked mildly annoyed. "for ten thousand dollars you can't go to brooklyn once or twice a week?" randolph gave in immediately. "oh, all right." "so it's settled then?" "yes." gordon started to hold out his hand for randolph to shake, then pulled it back. "oh, one more thing. in some ways, the most important thing." "and that is…?" "complete secrecy. you must not, under any circumstances, breathe a word of this to anyone." "oh." gordon smiled, showing all his teeth. for the first time randolph noticed how white they were. "of course you don't seem to have much contact or converse much with your fellow humans anyway. one reason we decided to ask you in the first place." "i see." suddenly randolph wanted another martini rather badly. "and of course, if you were to tell anyone, or try to tell anyone, what are the chances that they would believe you, eh? they would probably promptly escort you straight to - what is the charming phrase - the loony bin. eh? " "true," randolph answered. "but - but just out of curiosity, what would happen if i were to tell - or try to tell - anyone?" gordon shook his head. "i don't think you want to know." randolph hesitated. "let me ask you this - did you have someone on your payroll before me? or am i the first?" "oh yes, we had someone else." "and did he - did he run afoul of this prohibition on telling anyone?" "my, my, you're the clever one, randolph. very perspicacious indeed. that was in fact the case. i see we made a good choice in asking such a sharp fellow as yourself." they had both been talking in low voices, and the bartender had been at the other end of the bar. now randolph cleared his throat as loudly as he could and in a slightly croaking voice called out for another martini. gordon waited patiently, not even looking at randolph as his new drink was prepared and paid for. "we are still on, aren't we?" gordon asked when the bartender had departed, "you aren't going to show yellow on us, are you?" "oh no, no, not at all. i'm game." *** the office on 45th street just east of 7th avenue was over a tire wholesaler who did not seem to do much business. or even to be open most of the time. the buildings on either side were also quiet, though apparently not empty or abandoned. randolph found himself going over to brooklyn and visiting the office more than he had to. he felt strangely drawn to the place. on nights when tess torrentina was not singing at the purple parrot he went over and wrote up his report and then sat there in the dark looking out at the street. the two hundred dollars was always there on tuesdays as promised. the first time he had been afraid the bills might be suspiciously new, but they turned out to be forty well worn fives. the next payment was the same, and the ones after that. he bought himself a new suit and hat and a couple of new ties. he became the best dressed patron of the purple parrot. his employers made no new demands of him and he decided he was not going to become a hero or be written up in the newspapers for exposing them as a bunch of reds. he tried to feel some satisfaction in being the only person on earth to know of the aldebaran empire. surely, he thought, there must be some way he could turn this to his advantage. some way that would impress tess torrentina. whom he came to actually speak to a few times at the bar of the purple parrot, though he was never able to remember a word either of them said. and then one night - tess torrentina was gone. no longer appearing at the purple parrot. just like that, without a word of warning. the bartender showed no surprise or annoyance at randolph questioning him about her whereabouts. "i don't know, pal. she went somewhere. chicago, maybe, or havana. one of those places. you could check with her agent. hey, ralphie!" ralphie was a kind of odd job man who was always around. he emerged from the shadows. "manny markovitz - the booker. you know his address?" "brooklyn. 44th street, over by sunset park. he's in the yellow pages." *** mickey karpowitz and frenchie dolan had been keeping an eye on the guy. especially since he had started coming over and sitting in the dark over haslam's tires every night instead of just once or twice a week. they had a good thing there once before. finally the other guy came around. gordon. they made the same deal, same price. randolph never showed up again at the purple parrot. nobody noticed. a new singer, angelique le bon, "the argentine canary" , was booked and began appearing regularly. the customers came and went, as did the bartenders and the guys in the three piece band , though ralphie was almost always around. a guy named max johnson became a regular. max was a salesman, sold stuff on consignment - bibles, neckties, joke books, jewelry if he could get it, any damn thing. if he wasn't the loneliest guy in the world, he would do until the loneliest guy came around. the end

thanks again to Jackie Jones for the following video, taken from her extensive archive

the torrents of loneliness

by harold p sternhagen

part one of two

illustrated by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

randolph j marwell prided himself on being the loneliest man in the world. he realized it sounded a little silly to go around proclaiming himself as such. so he never did. except when he got really drunk. which he had been doing lately with increasing frequency. he decided to make a sincere effort to straighten himself out. randolph began patronizing a somewhat seedy nightclub called the purple parrot. he had fallen under the spell of the featured singer, "the one and only" miss tess torrentina, a young woman whose voice, while serviceable enough, and years, though still short of what a gentleman like randolph j marwell would think of calling advanced, indicated that she had climbed about as high on the slippery pole of show business as she was likely to. her voice was pleasant enough after a few martinis. and randolph found that the darkened nightclub, as opposed to a relatively bright neighborhood bar, provided fewer temptations to make embarrassing boasts and confessions to strangers. such as proclaiming himself the loneliest man in the world. the prices at the purple parrot were a little higher than at the joe's bars and o'hara's grills of the city, thereby reducing his chances of getting completely sloppy drunk. and the bartenders could actually make a half decent martini. so although it might be an exaggeration to say that randolph had "fallen under the spell" of the curvaceous miss torrentina - he hardly gave her a thought outside the confines of the club - he found himself returning again and again, if not exactly as a moth to a flame, perhaps as a mouse to a particularly warm corner of a kitchen. time was of little concern to randolph, as he had not worked a day in his life after leaving high school, during which time his grandfather had forced him to work after school hours at the family department store in indiana, to "test his mettle" - or was it to "get his feet wet"? - grandfather and his phrases were thankfully receding from memory. on reaching the age of eighteen randolph had come into a small income bequeathed by his great-grandmother, and had unhesitatingly abandoned the drudgery of work for the tedium of indolence. so, on one particularly dreary evening during the "holiday season" - with the streets outside coated with malevolent ice and slush - randolph found himself seated two stools away from a fellow who was glancing his way and otherwise exhibiting the signs of wishing to share a confidence. this was a more common occurrence during the holiday season. randolph accepted this as he accepted most things in life. he noticed something else about the man two stools away - that he looked somewhat like himself. not that randolph spent a lot of time looking at himself in mirrors - none at all, really. but the man looked uncannily like the photo on the passport he had obtained a couple of years ago to make his only trip outside the united states, to buenos aires. or had it been paris? in any case, he had taken the lesson from the experience that a bar was a bar, so what was the point of travel? he could be the loneliest man in the world in one place as well as another. on cue, the fellow turned to him. "you know, i bet i know what you are thinking." randolph nodded politely. "you don't say." "you are thinking that i look like you. not exactly, to be sure, but close enough." "well, they say that everyone in the world has a double." the conversation was already boring randolph. "oh, it has nothing to do with being a double," the man who looked like randolph replied. "no?" "no." now, predictably, the fellow moved one stool over to sit right beside randolph. he tapped the side of his head. "it has to do with this." "oh?" "mind power." what else? randolph had heard about mind power from other people before, most often from his grandfather. the only thing randolph knew about mind power was that his own mind didn't have any power. "it's the power of my mind," the man went on, "that makes you think i look like you. don't you believe me?" "of course, why would i not believe you." randolph took a sip of his martini. behind them the door of the club opened briefly, letting in a blast of cold air. "my name is gordon rappaport, by the way. as good a name as any, eh?" "i am sure it is. especially for someone with mind power." randolph glanced at the small dimly lit clock above the head of the bartender, who was leaning back with his arms folded and looked as if he might have fallen asleep. tess torrentina was due on the small stage in three minutes. the three piece band that backed her had already set up. the piano player plunked a few notes. if miss torrentina was on time - and she usually was - surely he could tolerate this gasbag for three minutes. "i'll get right to the point," said gordon rappaport, "i'd like to offer you a job." "a job?" despite not taking the fellow seriously, randolph was horrified. "i'm afraid you are talking to the wrong person altogether. you must be mistaking me for someone else." "not at all. let me explain. you see, i am from aldebaran. do you know where that is?" "uh - somewhere in south america?" "no, it is in what you call the constellation of taurus. not aldebaran itself of course, but its planets." "you mean from outer space?" "exactly." "i've never been interested in outer space." randolph turned back to his martini. "but look here, we've gone to a great deal of trouble - well, not really, but what you would call a great deal of trouble - to find the right person, and you seem to be just the chap we are looking for." "i don't think so." tess torrentina was due in two minutes. "we can make it worth your while. money is not a problem, so long as ostentation is not a problem." "ostentation?" "we wouldn't want you calling attention to yourself. but we don't see that as a problem with you. that's one reason we are making the offer." "um - what exactly do you think you know about me?" "everything. it's not a problem with us." "i see. and what exactly is this - 'offer'"? "ten thousand a year. to put in a few hours every week - well, maybe more than a few on occasion." ten thousand a year! suddenly the light dawned on randolph, and he laughed. "let me guess - i will have to put up a few thousand of my own to start - just as a gesture of good faith." for the first time gordon rappaport looked a little bewildered. "no, what on earth are you talking about? nothing like that. we will just pay you the ten thousand." "as a starting salary?" "i don't think i know what you mean. isn't the ten thousand enough?" a smattering of applause erupted in the shadows of the club. the bartender opened his eyes and straightened up. tess torrentina had appeared on the small stage. "excuse me," said randolph. "we can continue this discussion later." "of course. i have all the time in the world." gordon rappaport gestured to the bartender. tess torrentina began to sing. "summertime - and the living is easy." conclusion

"Steel Trap”

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo, LL.D*

illustrated by roy dismas

* Assistant Professor of Remedial English Composition, Olney Community College; author of Sternwall: The Forgotten Giant; A Biography for Younger Readers; the Olney Community College Press.

“Come in,” said the army doctor. “Sit down, uh, Mortimer –” “That’s me, sir. Mortimer. How ya doin’?” “Um, I’m fine, Mortimer. How are you?” “Never better, sir. Never better. Fit as a fiddle.” “Well, the results of your physical seem to show that you’re in pretty good shape. A trifle underweight maybe.” “I don’t really like to eat too much, Doc. You know why?” “No, Mortimer. Why?” “’Cause I got to keep my edge.” “Your edge?” “That’s right, Doc. My edge. I got to stay sharp in my line of work. That’s why I don’t drink nor smoke, neither. I got to stay sharp.” “And your line of work is –” “Elevator operator, sir. St Crispian Hotel. You ever stop there?” “Uh, no, I don’t think so.” “I didn’t think you ever did, Doc. ‘Cause I woulda remembered you. Like a steel trap my mind is. I remember every person ever stepped into my elevator.” “Every one?” “Every goddam one, sir, doctor, captain – what you want me to call you?” “You can call me Captain Katz, Mortimer.” “Captain then. Steel trap my mind is. Now for all I know you might’ve checked into the St Crispian when I was off duty, checked out when I was off-duty. Gone up and down the elevator while you was staying at the hotel and always when I was off-duty. It’s possible. It ain’t probable but it’s possible.” “I’ve never stayed at the St Crispian, Mortimer.” “That’s what I figured, Doc. Captain. Sir. There ain’t many people get in and out of that hotel I don’t know about. I ain’t saying there ain’t been nobody but I am saying they been few and far between. And I ain’t just blowing my own horn here. You ask anybody. You ask Raoul, you ask Roland, you ask Mr. Bernstein, you ask Mr. Nolan.” “And who are all these –” “You ask Mr. Brown. You ask Miss Charlton. Go ahead, ask them, I got nothing to hide.” “Okay. Well. If I may ask you a few questions, Mortimer.” “Ask away, Doc. I mean Captain. I got nothing to hide. An open book am I.” “Well, it says here that you've requested a deferment from the draft.” “That is correct, your honor.” “Captain.” “That is correct, Captain.” “And the reason you give is ‘war work’?” “That is also correct, Captain, sir.” “But – your work is operating a hotel elevator?” “I can see you have been paying attention, sir. Taking notes. That’s good.” “Well, okay. May I just ask you this, Mortimer: how is it that you consider operating a hotel elevator to be ‘war work’?” “You really want to know, Doc?” “Yes. I would, Mortimer.” “This is just between you and me and the walls of this office, right?” “This is confidential, yes, Mortimer.” “It’s the fivers, sir, Doc, your honor.” “The what?” “The fivers.” “The fivers?” “That’s right, sir. Fivers. Fifth columnists.” “Oh. Fifth columnists.” “That’s right, sir. Them fifth columnists. They come in sometimes. You can’t keep ‘em out. It ain’t the hotel’s fault. They look like anybody else. Like you. Like me. Well, maybe not like me, but some of ‘em look like you. Some of them.” “Fifth columnists?” “That is right, your honor. You know what a fifth columnist is, right?” “Well, a fifth columnist is someone who is secretly working for one of our country’s enemies.” “That is correct, sir. Bingo. I see you have done your homework.” “But, Mortimer, I still don’t quite see what your ‘war work’ consists of.” “My job, sir, is to keep an eye out for these fivers.” “Keep an eye out.” “That is correct, your honor. I keep an eye out for the fivers, and when I spy them I make a mental note of it.” “A mental note.” “I don’t write nothing down, Captain, sir. It’s all in here.” Mortimer tapped the side of his skull. “In here. The steel trap.” “So what you’re saying is – and, please, correct me if I’m wrong, Mortimer – is that in your work as a hotel elevator operator you’re able to, shall we say, spy on our country’s enemies? And that this is your ‘war work’?” “That is correct, sir. This is why I need you to give me an exemption from the draft. Hey, I am more than willing to go into the army. More than willing. But answer me this, your honor: I goes into the army, then who’s gonna keep an eye out for fivers what check into the St Crispian? Who? Jackson? Jackson wouldn’t know a fiver from a fruitcake. I go in the army who they gonna get to replace me? Some kid what don’t know nothing, or else some old guy don’t even know that much? Who they gonna get to spot the fivers?” “I don’t know, Mortimer.” “They gonna get nobody, that’s who, your honor. And then next thing you know that hotel is a hotbed of fivers.” “Like – German agents?” “Germans?” “Yes. Nazis.” “Possibly, sir. Possibly Germans and Nazis. But they ain’t what I’m worried about.” “No?” “No, sir. It ain’t the Nazis that we got to worry about.” “No?” “No, sir. It ain’t the Nazis and it ain’t the Japs. It ain’t the Eyeties and it ain’t the Bulgarians neither.” “No.” “It’s the people from out there.” “Out there?” “It’s them people who fly in from the other dimension. Dimension X.” “Dimension X?” “That is correct, your honor. I first read about Dimension X in a magazine in this article written by a personal friend of mine lives at the hotel, fella name of Fred Flynn. You ever hear of him?” “Fred – “ “Flynn. Fred Flynn. He wrote this magazine article, left it on one of them coffee tables in the lobby. ‘Invaders from Dimension X’ was the name of the article. And it was all about these fivers from this other dimension come to New York to take over.” “I see.” “My job, your honor, the way I see it, is keep an eye out for these fivers, from Dimension X.” “Keep an eye out for them.” “Keep an eye out for ‘em, keep an eye on ‘em. And if I hear they’re up to something I will report it to the proper authorities. In my case I guess that would be Mr. Nolan.” “And who is Mr. Nolan?” “He’s the house dick.” Captain Katz said nothing for a long moment. There was a packet of Old Golds on his desk. He picked up the cigarettes, took one out, and lit it with the Zippo lighter that had been sitting on the desk next to the cigarettes. *** “Well,” said Mr. Brown, “I hear you had an appointment at the draft board today, Mortimer.” “That is correct, Mr. Brown.” Mortimer pulled his lever that closed the cast-iron grillwork doors of the elevator. “And so how did it go? Are we to lose you to the army, my boy?” “No, sir, thank God that will not be the case, on account of I got a deferment, sir.” “Oh, really, Mortimer? What is it? Flat feet? Heart murmur?” “No, Mr. Brown, my feet ain’t flat and my heart don’t murmur.” “So why the deferment?” “War work, Mr. Brown.” “War work?” “War work, Mr. Brown. More than that I ain’t at liberty to say. Usual floor, sir?” “Uh, yes, usual floor, Mortimer. Thank you.” Mortimer pulled the lever that started the car, with its usual sudden lurch. They rode in silence up to Mr. Brown’s floor, the seventh, and Mortimer opened the elevator doors. “War work, Mr. Brown,” he said. “War work.” Mr. Brown stepped out of the car. “By the way, Mr. Brown?” “Yes, Mortimer?” “You see anything unusual around the hotel, anything at all, especially if I ain’t on duty at the time, I want you to feel free to tell me about it.” “Anything unusual?” “Anything at all, Mr. Brown. Feel free to come to me.” Mr. Brown had nothing to say to this, or at least nothing he could say at the moment. Mortimer pulled the big lever that closed the elevator’s doors. ****