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strips from the morning and evening papers and sent them to his
friend each Sunday。 And every month he mailed a postal money
order。 But the long letters he wrote to Antonapoulos
accumulated in his pockets until he would destroy them。
When the four people had gone； Singer slipped on his
warm gray overcoat and his gray felt hat and left his room。 He always
wrote his letters at the store。 Also； he had promised to deliver a
certain piece of work the next morning； and he wanted to finish it
now so that there would be no question of delay。 The night was sharp
and frosty。 The moon was full and rimmed with a golden light。 The
rooftops were black against the starlit sky。 As he walked he thought
of ways to begin his letter； but he had already reached the store
before the first sentence was clear in his mind。 He let himself into the
dark store with his key and switched on the front lights。
He worked at the very end of the store。 A cloth curtain separated his
place from the rest of the shop so that it was like a small private
room。 Besides his workbench and chair there was a heavy safe in the
corner； a lavatory with a greenish mirror； and shelves full of boxes
and worn…out clocks。 Singer rolled up the top of his bench and
removed from its felt case the silver platter he had promised to have
ready。 Although the store was cold he took off his coat and turned up
the blue…striped cuffs of his shirt so that they would not get in his
way。
For a long time he worked at the monogram in the center of the
platter。 With delicate； concentrated strokes he guided the scriver on
the silver。 As he worked his eyes had a curiously penetrating look of
hunger。 He was thinking of his letter to his friend Antonapoulos。
Midnight had passed before the work was finished。 When he put the
platter away his forehead was damp with excitement。 He cleared his
bench and began to write。 He loved to shape words with a pen on
paper and he formed the letters with as much care as if the paper had
been a plate of silver。
My Only Friend：
I see from our magazine that the Society meets this year at a
convention in Macon。 They will have speakers and a four…course
banquet。 I imagine it。 Remember we always planned to attend one of
the conventions but we never did。 I wish now that we had。 I wish we
were going to this one and I have imagined how it would be。 But of
course I could never go without you。 They will come from many
states and they will all be full of words and long dreams from the182
heart。 There is also to be a special service at one of the
churches and some kind of a contest with a gold medal for the
prize。 I write that I imagine all this。 I both do and do not。 My
hands have been still so long that it is difficult to remember
how it is。 And when I imagine the convention I think of all the
guests being like you； my Friend。
I stood before our home the other day。 Other people live in it
now。 Do you remember the big oak tree in front？ The
branches were cut back so as not to interfere with the
telephone wires and the tree died。 The limbs are rotten and
there is a hollow place in the trunk。 Also； the cat here at the
store （the one you used to stroke and fondle） ate something
poisonous and died。 It was very sad。
Singer held the pen poised above the paper。 He sat for a long
while； erect and tense； without continuing the letter。 Then he
stood up and lighted himself a cigarette。 The room was cold
and the air had a sour stale odor—the mixed smells of
kerosene and silver polish and tobacco。 He put on his overcoat
and muffler and began writing again with slow determination。
You remember the four people I told you about when I was
there。 I drew their pictures for you； the black man； the young
girl； the one with the mustache； and the man who owns the
New York Cafe。 There are some things I should like to tell
you about them but how to put them in words I am not sure。
They are all very busy people。 In fact they are so busy that it
will be hard for you to picture them。 I do not mean that they
work at their jobs all day and night but that they have much
business in their minds always that does not let them rest。
They come up to my room and talk to me until I do not
understand how a person can open and shut his or her mouth
so much without being weary。 （However； the New York Cafe
owner is different—he is not just like the others。 He has a very
black beard so that he has to shave twice daily； and he owns
one of these electric razors。 He watches。 The others all have
something
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they hate。 And they all have something they love more than
eating or sleeping or wine or friendly company。 That is why
they are always so busy。）
The one with the mustache I think is crazy。 Sometimes he
speaks his words very clear like my teacher long ago at the
school。 Other times he speaks such a language that I cannot
follow。 Sometimes he is dressed in a plain suit； and the next
time he will be black with dirt and smelling bad and in the
overalls he wears to work。 He will shake his fist and say ugly
drunken words that I would not wish you to know about。 He
thinks he and I have a secret together but I do not know what
it is。 And let me write you something hard to believe。 He can
drink three pints of Happy Days whiskey and still talk and
walk on his feet and not wish for the bed。 You will not believe
this but it is true。
I rent my room from the girl's mother for 16 per month。 The
girl used to dress in short trousers like a boy but now she
wears a blue skirt and a blouse。 She is not yet a young lady。 I
like her to come and see me。 She comes all the time now that I
have a radio for them。 She likes music。 I wish I knew what it
is she hears。 She knows I am deaf but she thinks I know about
music。
The black man is sick with consumption but there is not a
good hospital for him to go to here because he is black。 He is a
doctor and he works more than anyone I have ever seen。 He
does not talk like a black man at all。 Other Negroes I find it
hard to understand because their tongues do not move enough
for the words。 This black man frightens me sometimes。 His
eyes are hot and bright。 He asked me to a party and I went。 He
has many books。 However； he does not own any mystery
books。 He does not drink or eat meat or attend the movies。
Yah Freedom and pirates。 Yah Capital and Democrats； says
the ugly one with the mustache。 Then he contradicts himself
and says； Freedom is the greatest of all ideals。 I just got to get
a chance to write this music in me and be a musician。 I got to
have a chance says the girl。 We are not allowed to serve； says
the184
black Doctor。 That is the Godlike need for my people。 Aha；
says the owner of the New York Cafe〃。 He is a thoughtful one。
That is the way they talk when they come to my room。 Those
words in their heart do not let them rest； so they are always
very busy。 Then you would think when they are together they
would be like those of the Society who meet at the convention
in Macon this week。 But that is not so。 They all came to my
room at the same time today。 They sat like they were from
different cities。 They were even rude； and you know how I
have always said that to be rude and not attend to the feelings
of others is wrong。 So it was like that。 I do not understand； so I
write it to you because I think you will understand。 I have
queer feelings。 But I have written of this matter enough and I
know you axe weary of it。 I am also。
It has been five months and twenty…one days now。 All of that
time I have been alone without you。 The only thing I can
imagine is when I will be with you again。 If I cannot come to
you soon I do not know what
Singer put his head down on the bench and rested。 The smell
and the feel of the slick wood against his cheek reminded him
of his schooldays。 His eyes closed and he felt sick。 There was
only the face of Antonapoulos in his mind； and his longing for
his friend was so sharp that he held his breath。 After some
time Singer sat up and reached for his pen。
The gift I ordered for you did not come in time for the
Christmas box。 I expect it shortly。 I believe you will like it and
be amused。 I think of us always and remember everything。 I
long for the food you used to make。 At the New York Cafe it
is much worse than it used to be。 I found a cooked fly in my
soup not long ago。 It was mixed with the vegetables and the
noodles like letters。 But that is nothing。 The way I need you is
a loneliness I cannot bear。 Soon I will come again。 My
vacation is not due for six months more but I think I can
arrange it before then。
185
I think I will have to。 I am not meant to be alone and without
you who understand。
Always；
JOHN SINGER
It was two o'clock in the morning before he was home again。
The big； crowded house was in darkness； but he felt his way
carefully up three flights of stairs and did not stumble。 He
took from his pockets the cards he carried about with him； his
watch； and his fountain pen。 Then he folded his clothes neatly
over the back of his chair。 His gray…flannel