The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze Read Free Page A

very much to know his name. A writer is always wanting to get the reality of faces and figures. Iowa said, “I just got in from Salinas. No work in the lettuce fields. Going north now, to Portland; try to ship out.” I wanted to tell him how it was with me: rejected story from
Scribner’s
, rejected essay from
The Yale Review
, no money for decent cigarettes, worn shoes, old shirts, but I was afraid to make somethingof my own troubles. A writer’s troubles are always boring, a bit unreal. People are apt to feel,
Well, who asked you to write in the first place?
A man must pretend not to be a writer. I said, “Good luck, north.” Iowa shook his head. “I know better. Give it a try, anyway. Nothing to lose.” Fine boy, hope he isn’t dead, hope he hasn’t frozen, mighty cold these days (December, 1933), hope he hasn’t gone down; he deserved to live. Iowa, I hope you got work in Portland; I hope you are earning money; I hope you have rented a clean room with a warm bed in it; I hope you are sleeping nights, eating regularly, walking along like a human being, being happy. Iowa, my good wishes are with you. I have said a number of prayers for you. (All the same, I think he is dead by this time. It was in him the day I saw him, the low malicious face of the beast, and at the same time all the theatres in America were showing, over and over again, an animated film-cartoon in which there was a song called “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?”, and that’s what it amounts to; people with money laughing at the death that is crawling slyly into boys like young Iowa, pretending that it isn’t there, laughing in warm theatres. I have prayed for Iowa, and I consider myself a coward. By this time he must be dead, and I am sitting in a small room, talking about him, only talking.)
    I began to watch the Japanese boy who was learning to become a barber. He was shaving an old tramp who had a horrible face, one of those faces that emerge from years and years of evasive living, years of being unsettled, of not belonging anywhere,of owning nothing, and the Japanese boy was holding his nose back (his own nose) so that he would not smell the old tramp. A trivial point in a story, a bit of data with no place in a work of art, nevertheless, I put it down. A young writer is always afraid some significant fact may escape him. He is always wanting to put in everything he sees. I wanted to know the name of the Japanese boy. I am profoundly interested in names. I have found that those that are unknown are the most genuine. Take a big name like Andrew Mellon. I was watching the Japanese boy very closely. I wanted to understand from the way he was keeping his sense of smell away from the mouth and nostrils of the old man what he was thinking, how he was feeling. Years ago, when I was seventeen, I pruned vines in my uncle’s vineyard, north of Sanger, in the San Joaquin Valley, and there were several Japanese working with me, Yoshio Enomoto, Hideo Suzuki, Katsumi Sujimoto, and one or two others. These Japanese taught me a few simple phrases,
hello, how are you, fine day, isn’t it, good-bye
, and so on. I said in Japanese to the barber student, “How are you?” He said in Japanese, “Very well, thank you.” Then, in impeccable English, “Do you speak Japanese? Have you lived in Japan?” I said, “Unfortunately, no. I am able to speak only one or two words. I used to work with Yoshio Enomoto, Hideo Suzuki, Katsumi Sujimoto; do you know them?” He went on with his work, thinking of the names. He seemed to be whispering, “Enomoto, Suzuki, Sujimoto.” He said, “Suzuki. Small man?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “Iknow him. He lives in San Jose now. He is married now.”
    I want you to know that I am deeply interested in what people remember. A young writer goes out to places and talks to people. He tries to find out what they remember. I am not using great material for a short story. Nothing is going to happen in this work. I am