破碎故事之心（中英對照）
賈斯汀?霍根施拉格，周薪30美元的印刷小工，每天有差不多60來個陌生女人從他眼前經過。由此推算，在霍根施拉格住在紐約的這幾年里，眼前要經過大約75120個不同的女人。在這75120個女人里，大概有25000個在15~30歲之間。在這25000個里只有5000個體重在105~125磅之間（注：約為47.6~56.7公斤）。在這5000個里只有1000個長得還過得去。只有500個有一定魅力；只有100個相當迷人；只有25個能引來一聲長而緩的口哨聲。但只有一個讓霍根施拉格一見鐘情。
通常，有兩種女人可稱為“致命的女人”。有種致命的女人是通殺型的，也有種致命的女人不是通殺型的。
這個女人的名字是雪莉?萊斯特。她二十歲（比霍根施拉格小十一歲），身高五英尺四英寸（注：約1.62米）（個頭差不多到霍根施拉格眼睛這里），體重117磅（注：約53公斤）（輕得像片羽毛）。雪莉是個速記員，和她媽媽阿涅絲?萊斯特住在一起，她要贍養這個老納爾遜?艾迪（注：美國影星，師奶殺手）的粉絲。提到雪莉的長相，人們總會這樣說：“雪莉美得像畫里的人?！?/p>
一天早晨，在第三大道的公車上，霍根施拉格挨著（微微俯瞰）雪莉?萊斯特站著，幾乎死蟹一只。這都是因為雪莉的嘴以一種奇妙的方式張開著。雪莉在讀車壁上的一則化妝品廣告；在她讀的時候，她的下巴也隨之略微放松了。在雪莉張著嘴、雙唇微啟的那一小會兒里，她可能是全曼哈頓最有殺傷力的女人了。霍根施拉格在她身上找到了治愈孤獨的靈丹，這只巨大的孤獨怪獸自他到紐約后一直潛伏在他內心周圍。啊，多么痛苦！俯瞰著雪莉?萊斯特卻不能俯身輕吻她微啟的雙唇，多么痛苦。難以言傳的痛苦！
* * *
以上是我給科利爾周刊寫的小說的開頭。我打算寫一個溫柔動人的言情故事。這樣比較好，我覺得。這個世界需要“當男孩遇上女孩”這樣的故事。但真要寫它一個，很不幸，作者先要處理怎么讓男孩遇上女孩。我寫不下去了。也不知道要怎樣才能讓它合情合理。我沒法讓霍根施拉格和雪莉按套路相遇。以下是原因：
很顯然讓霍根施拉格俯身并真誠地說出這些話是不可能的：
“請原諒。我太愛你了。你讓我瘋狂。我很清楚這點。我會用一生去愛你。我是一個印刷助理，每周能賺30美元?？?，我怎么那么喜歡你。你今晚有空嗎？”
這個霍根施拉格有夠蠢的，但還算不上大傻蛋。這種人活在過去尚有可能，在今天肯定是絕跡的。你總不見得讓科利爾的讀者咽這種蹩腳貨吧。畢竟，人家也是花了錢的。
當然，我也不能冷不丁地給霍根施拉格來一針滑頭血清，由威廉?鮑威爾（注：美國演員，以老于世故的形象著稱）的舊煙盒和弗雷德?阿斯泰爾（注：美國演員，一代舞王）的舊禮帽混合而成。
“請別誤解我，小姐。我是雜志的插畫家。這是我的名片。我這輩子從沒有如此想描繪一個人，但我真的很想給你畫副速寫。也許我們都能從中得益。我今晚能打電話給你嗎？但愿越快越好。（短促、爽朗的笑聲）我希望我沒有聽起來太急不可耐。（再次大笑）也許我真的有點，嗯。”
啊，小伙子。以上這段話要伴隨著一抹疲倦、但有點愉快、還有點冒失的微笑說出。要是霍根施拉格能這么說話該多好啊。雪莉自己，自然也是老納爾遜?艾迪的粉絲，同時還是拱心石流動圖書館的積極成員。
也許你開始理解我要面對的問題了。
是的，霍根施拉格可能這么說：
“不好意思，你不是威爾瑪?普麗恰德嗎？”
雪莉會一邊冷淡地回答，一邊在車廂的另一側找個不受干擾的立足點：
“不是。”
“這真奇了怪了，”霍根施拉格會繼續說道，“我前面還暗自發誓你一定是威爾瑪?普麗恰德呢。有沒有一點可能，你是從西雅圖來的？”
“沒有?！薄惹懊娓涞?。
“西雅圖是我的故鄉?！?/p>
不受干擾的立足點。
“很棒的小鎮，西雅圖。我是說那真是個很棒的小鎮。我到這里——我是說紐約——才四年。我是個印刷助理。我叫賈斯汀?霍根施拉格。”
“我一點興趣也沒—有?！?/p>
哎，憑這種開場白霍根施拉格就別想了。他一沒長相二沒魅力，也沒穿得體面點，好在這種情形下引起雪莉的興趣。他全無機會。而且，像我之前說過的，要寫一個絕妙的“當男孩遇上女孩”的故事，最好是讓男孩主動出擊。
也許霍根施拉格會暈過去，并試圖抓點什么來穩住自己：可能是雪莉的腳踝。他可能撕壞人家的長筒襪，沒準還撕出一條漂亮的抽絲線。人們會給倒霉的霍根施拉格騰出地方來，而他則會站起身來，嘟囔著：“我沒事，謝謝，”接著，“啊，天哪！我太抱歉了，小姐。我把你的絲襪扯壞了。請一定讓我賠。我現在手頭現金不夠，麻煩把你的地址留給我?！?/p>
雪莉不會給他地址。她只會變得又窘又結巴?！皼]事，”她會說，心里想他怎么不去死啊。不僅如此，這整個構思都很脫線。霍根施拉格，一個西雅圖小伙，做夢也不會想到去抓雪莉的腳踝。至少不是在第三大道的公車上。
更符合邏輯的可能是霍根施拉格會鋌而走險。至今仍有一些人愿意為愛鋌而走險。也許霍根施拉格是其中之一。他也許會奪過雪莉的手提包，奔向最近的車門。雪莉會尖叫。人們會聽到她，并想起《邊城英烈傳》或其他什么?；舾├竦臐⑻?，姑且這么說，終于被制止了。汽車停了下來。威爾遜巡警——他很長時間都沒逮住過什么人了——在現場問話。這里發生了什么事？警官，這個男人想偷我的錢包。
霍根施拉格被拖進法庭。雪莉，自然，也要參加庭審。他們上報了各自的地址；因此霍根施拉格得知了雪莉的神圣居所之所在。
伯金斯法官——他在自己家中連一杯好點的、香濃的咖啡都喝不上——判處霍根施拉格一年監禁。雪莉咬著嘴唇，但霍根施拉格已經被帶走了。
在獄中，霍根施拉格給雪莉?萊斯特寫了這樣一封信：
“親愛的萊斯特小姐：
我真的不是有意要偷你的錢包的。我這樣做是因為我愛你。我只是想認識你。你有空的話能不能給我寫信？這里非常孤獨，我好愛你，但愿你有空的話能來看看我。
你的朋友，
賈斯汀?霍根施拉格”
雪莉把這封信給她朋友都看了。他們說，“哈，這挺可愛的，雪莉。”雪莉同意在某種程度上這也算是一種可愛。也許她會回信?！皼]錯！回信吧。給他一個機會。你會有什么損失呢？”所以雪莉給霍根施拉格回了封信。
“親愛的霍根施拉格先生：
我收到了你的來信，并為發生的一切感到抱歉。很遺憾事到如今我們也無能為力了，但想到這曲折的隱情我就很難過。還好，你的刑期不算長，很快就能出來了。祝好運。
你誠摯的
雪莉?萊斯特”
“親愛的萊斯特小姐：
你不知道收到你的回信我有多么歡欣鼓舞。你一點也不用難過。這都是我的錯，是我太瘋狂了，因此你完全不用這么想。我們這里每周都能看一次電影，所以真的不算壞。我今年31歲，來自西雅圖。我到紐約有4年了，只有在偶爾寂寞難耐的時候才會懷念那個小鎮，真是個很棒的小鎮。你是我見過的最美麗的姑娘，即使算上西雅圖的也是。我希望你能在哪個周六下午來看我，探視時間是兩點到四點，我會付你火車票錢。
你的朋友，
賈斯汀?霍根施拉格”
雪莉會照樣把這封信給她的朋友都看一下。但她不會回這封了。誰都看得出這個霍根施拉格是個傻帽。歸根結底就是這么回事。她已經回過一封了。要是她再回復這封愚蠢的信，那就真的要經年累月沒完沒了了。她對這個男人已然仁至義盡。還有這算什么名字啊。霍根施拉格一剛。
此時，獄中的霍根施拉格正備受煎熬，即使他們每周能看一次電影。他的獄友是獵鳥?摩根和切片機?巴克，這兩個男的住在里屋，他們覺得霍根施拉格長得很像某個曾經背叛過他們的芝加哥小赤佬。他們已經確信那個鼠臉?費列羅（注：老鼠rat也有叛徒之意）和賈斯汀?霍根施拉格是同一個人。
“但我不是鼠臉?費列羅，”霍根施拉格對他們說。
“屁啊，”切片機說，隨手把霍根施拉格僅有的一點食物打翻在地。
“兜伊瘤，”獵鳥說。（上海話，打他的頭）
“我跟你們說我之所以進來只是因為我在第三大道公車上偷了一個姑娘的錢包，”霍根施拉格辯解道?！爸徊贿^我并不是真的要偷。我愛上了那個姑娘，只有這樣我才能認識她?！?/p>
“屁啊，”切片機說。
“兜伊瘤，”獵鳥說。
一天，十七名囚犯試圖越獄。在操場上放風的時候，切片機?巴克誘騙了看守的侄女，八歲的麗絲貝斯?蘇，并緊緊抓住她。他用他八乘十二的大手抱住小女孩的腰，舉起來讓看守看到。
“喂，看門的！”切片機叫道?！鞍验T打開，不然我做掉這小孩！”
“我不怕的，伯特叔叔！”麗絲貝斯叫道。
“放下那個孩子，切片機！”看守命令道，虛弱之極。
但切片機知道現在看守已經在他的掌控之中了。十七個大男人和一個金發小孩走出大門。十六個大男人和一個金發小孩安全地走了出去。一個高塔上的守衛自認為找到了將切片機一槍爆頭的絕佳時機，結果破壞了整個越獄隊伍的隊形。但他打偏了，成功擊中了跟在切片機后頭抖抖霍霍的小個男人，一槍斃命。
猜猜是誰？
于是乎，我為科利爾周刊寫一篇“當男孩遇上女孩”的小說——一個柔情、刻骨的愛情故事——的計劃，因為男主角的死而流產了。
好了，要不是雪莉遲遲不來的第二封信讓霍根施拉格陷入絕望和恐慌，他是絕不會成為那亡命十七人中的一個的。但事實仍舊是她沒有回他的第二封信。就算等上一百年她也不會回的。我沒法改變這事實。
真丟臉啊。多可惜，霍根施拉格在獄中沒有給雪莉?萊斯特寫下下面這封信：
“親愛的萊斯特小姐：
我希望我的話不會讓你煩惱或尷尬。我寫下這些，萊斯特小姐，是因為我想讓你知道我不是尋常意義上的小偷。我想讓你知道，我偷你的包，是因為我在公交車上對你一見鐘情。我想不出任何辦法來認識你，除了做出這輕率的——確切的說也是愚蠢的——舉動。可你知道，戀愛中的人總是愚蠢的。
我愛上你雙唇微啟的樣子。你為我揭開了萬事萬物的謎底。自從我四年前來到紐約，我從來沒有不開心過，但也沒有開心過。說起來，我和紐約成千上萬的年輕人沒什么區別，都只是活著罷了。
我從西雅圖來到紐約。我想要變得有錢有名有款有型。但四年過去了，我意識到我不會變得有錢有名有款有型。我是個優秀的印刷小工，僅此而已。有天印刷員病了，我就替他的活。我把事情搞得一團糟啊，萊斯特小姐。根本沒人聽我的。我叫排字員去工作時，他就咯咯亂笑。我不怪他。我命令別人的時候挺傻的。我想我不過是那數百萬從沒想過要發號施令的人之一。但我真的無所謂了。我老板剛雇了個23歲的小子。他才23歲，而我已經31了，并且在同一個地方做了四年。但我知道有一天他會變成印刷主管，而我還是當他的小工。但就算這樣我也無所謂了。
愛你是我唯一重要的事，萊斯特小姐。有人認為愛是性，是婚姻，是清晨六點的吻，是一堆孩子，也許真是這樣的，萊斯特小姐。但你知道我怎么想嗎？我覺得愛是想觸碰又收回手。
我想對于一個女人來說，嫁給一個外人看來是富有、英俊、聰明或者受歡迎的男人是很重要的。我連受歡迎都談不上。甚至沒有人討厭我。我只是——我僅僅是——賈斯汀?霍根施拉格。我從沒讓人感到愉快、難過、生氣，哪怕厭煩。我想人們覺得我是個好人，僅此而已。
我小時候從來沒人說過我可愛、陽光或是好看。如果他們非得說些什么，他們會說我的腿雖然短還蠻結實的。
我不指望你會回信，萊斯特小姐。雖然你的回信是我在這個世界上最想要的東西，但坦白說我真的不指望。我只想讓你知道實情。如果我對你的愛只是把我帶向新的沉痛，那也是我活該。
也許有一天你會理解并且原諒我這個笨拙的仰慕者，
賈斯汀?霍根施拉格”
而以下這封信自然也是同樣不可能寄出的了。
“親愛的霍根施拉格先生：
我收到你的信了，非常喜歡。知道事情竟然是這樣的，我感到內疚而難過。如果你開口對我說話而不是搶走我的包，那該多好！但如果真的那樣，我大概也只會對你的攀談冷漠置之吧。
現在是午餐時間，我獨自待在辦公室里寫信給你。今天中午我想一個人呆著。我覺得要是我非得和女同事們一起去自助餐廳吃午飯，聽她們像往常一樣嘴里含著東西嘰嘰喳喳講話，我一定會失聲尖叫起來的。
我不在乎你不是所謂的成功人士，不在乎你沒錢、沒名、沒款、沒型。換作以前我會在乎的。當我還是個高中生的時候，我總是愛上那些Joe Glamor里的男孩子（注：此應為作者虛構的偶像團體，類似F4）。唐納德?尼克爾森，他會在雨中漫步，能將莎翁的十四行詩倒背如流。鮑勃?雷西，他很帥，能從底線投籃命中，鎖定比分讓對手無力翻盤。哈利?米勒，他很害羞，有一雙漂亮的棕色眼睛，很耐看。
但我人生中的那段瘋狂歲月已經結束了。
你辦公室里那些對你的命令咯咯亂笑的家伙，他們已經上了我的黑名單了。我從沒有這樣恨過什么人，但我恨他們。
你看到的是我精心打扮過的樣子。擦掉這些脂粉，相信我，我一點也不漂亮。請寫信告訴我你什么時候能接待訪客。我想讓你重新看看我。我要確信你不是被我虛假的外表給騙了。
啊，我多希望你當時能告訴法官你偷我錢包的原因??！我們會在一起，談論所有那許許多多我們可能擁有的相通之處。
請告訴我什么時候能來看你。
你誠摯的，
雪莉?萊斯特”
但賈斯汀?霍根施拉格永遠不可能認識雪莉?萊斯特了。她在56號街下了車，而他在31號街下車。那天晚上，雪莉?萊斯特和霍華德?勞倫斯一起去看電影，她很愛他?；羧A德覺得雪莉是個討人喜歡的姑娘，但僅此而已。同晚，賈斯汀?霍根施拉格宅在家里，收聽力士香皂播送的廣播劇。他整晚都在想雪莉，第二天接著想，之后的整個月都頻繁地想起她。突然，他被介紹給了多麗絲?希爾曼，這個女人已經開始擔心自己要嫁不出去了。但在賈斯汀?霍根施拉格了解到這點之前，多麗絲?希爾曼和其他事情讓他把雪莉?萊斯特拋之腦后。而雪莉?萊斯特，以及對她的念想，全都無影無蹤了。
這就是為什么我從沒給科利爾周刊寫一個“當男孩遇上女孩”的故事。在一個“當男孩遇上女孩”的故事里，總是該男孩主動出擊的。
J. D. Salinger
The Heart of a Broken Story
Esquire XVI, September 1941, Page 32, 131-133
EVERY day Justin Horgenschlag, thirty-dollar-a-week printer’s assistant, saw at close quarters approximately sixty women whom he had never seen before. Thus in the few years he had lived in New York, Horgenschlag had seen at close quarters about 75,120 different women. Of these 75,120 women, roughly 25,000 were under thirty years of age and over fifteen years of age. Of the 25,000 only 5,000 weighed between one hundred five and one hundred twenty-five pounds. Of these 5,000 only 1,000 were not ugly. Only 500 were reasonably attractive; only 100 of these were quite attractive; only 25 could have inspired a long, slow whistle. And with only 1 did Horgenschlag fall in love at first sight.
Now, there are two kinds of femme fatale. There is the femme fatale who is a femme fatale in every sense of the word, and there is the femme fatale who is not a femme fatale in every sense of the word.
Her name was Shirley Lester. She was twenty years old (eleven years younger than Horgenschlag), was five-foot-four (bringing her head to the level of Horgenschlag’s eyes), weighed 117 pounds (light as a feather to carry). Shirley was a stenographer, lived with and supported her mother, Agnes Lester, an old Nelson Eddy fan. In reference to Shirley’s looks people often put it this way: “Shirley’s as pretty as a picture.”
And in the Third Avenue bus early one morning, Horgenschlag stood over Shirley Lester, and was a dead duck. All because Shirley’s mouth was open in a peculiar way. Shirley was reading a cosmetic advertisement in the wall panel of the bus; and when Shirley read, Shirley relaxed slightly at the jaw. And in that short moment while Shirley’s mouth was open, lips were parted, Shirley was probably the most fatal one in all Manhattan. Horgenschlag saw in her a positive cure-all for a gigantic monster of loneliness which had been stalking around his heart since he had come to New York. Oh, the agony of it! The agony of standing over Shirley Lester and not being able to bend down and kiss Shirley’s parted lips. The inexpressible agony of it!
* * *
That was the beginning of the story I started to write for Collier’s. I was going to write a lovely tender boy-meets-girl story. What could be finer, I thought. The world needs boy-meets-girl stories. But to write one, unfortunately, the writer must go about the business of having the boy meet the girl. I couldn’t do it with this one. Not and have it make sense. I couldn’t get Horgenschlag and Shirley together properly. And here are the reasons:
Certainly it was impossible for Horgenschlag to bend over and say in all sincerity:
“I beg your pardon. I love you very much. I’m nuts about you. I know it. I could love you all my life. I’m a printer’s assistant and I make thirty dollars a week. Gosh, how I love you. Are you busy tonight?”
This Horgenschlag may be a goof, but not that big a goof. He may have been born yesterday, but not today. You can’t expect Collier’s readers to swallow that kind of bilge. A nickel’s a nickel, after all.
I couldn’t, of course, all of a sudden give Horgenschlag a suave serum, mixed from William Powell’s old cigarette case and Fred Astaire’s old top hat.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Miss. I’m a magazine illustrator. My card. I’d like to sketch you more than I’ve ever wanted to sketch anyone in my life. Perhaps such an undertaking would be to a mutual advantage. May I telephone you this evening, or in the very near future? (Short, debonair laugh.) I hope I don’t sound too desperate. (Another one.) I suppose I am, really.”
Oh, boy. Those lines delivered with a weary, yet gay, yet reckless smile. If only Horgenschlag had delivered them. Shirley, of course, was an old Nelson Eddy fan herself, and an active member of the Keystone Circulating Library.
Maybe you’re beginning to see what I was up against.
True, Horgenschlag might have said the following:
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Wilma Pritchard?”
To which Shirley would have replied coldly, and seeking a neutral point on the other side of the bus:
“No.”
“That’s funny,” Horgenschlag could have gone on, “I was willing to swear you were Wilma Pritchard. Uh. You don’t by any chance come from Seattle?”
“No.”—More ice where that came from.
“Seattle’s my home town.”
Neutral point.
“Great little town, Seattle. I mean it’s really a great little town. I’ve only been here—I mean in New York—four years. I’m a printer’s assistant. Justin Horgenschlag is my name.”
“I’m really not inter-ested.”
Oh, Horgenschlag wouldn’t have got anywhere with that kind of line. He had neither the looks, personality, or good clothes to gain Shirley’s interest under the circumstances. He didn’t have a chance. And, as I said before, to write a really good boy-meets-girl story it’s wise to have the boy meet the girl.
Maybe Horgenschlag might have fainted, and in doing so grabbed for support: the support being Shirley’s ankle. He could have torn the stocking that way, or succeeded in ornamenting it with a fine long run. People would have made room for the stricken Horgenschlag, and he would have got to his feet, mumbling: “I’m all right, thanks,” then, “Oh, say! I’m terribly sorry, Miss. I’ve torn your stocking. You must let me pay for it. I’m short of cash right now, but just give me your address.”
Shirley wouldn’t have given him her address. She just would have become embarrassed and inarticulate. “It’s all right,” she would have said, wishing Horgenschlag hadn’t been born. And besides, the whole idea is illogical. Horgenschlag, a Seattle boy, wouldn’t have dreamed of clutching at Shirley’s ankle. Not in the Third Avenue Bus.
But what is more logical is the possibility that Horgenschlag might have got desperate. There are still a few men who love desperately. Maybe Horgenschlag was one. He might have snatched Shirley’s handbag and run with it toward the rear exit door. Shirley would have screamed. Men would have heard her, and remembered the Alamo or something. Horgenschlag’s flight, let’s say, is now arrested. The bus is stopped. Patrolman Wilson, who hasn’t made a good arrest in a long time, reports on the scene. What’s going on here? Officer, this man tried to steal my purse.
Horgenschlag is hauled into court. Shirley, of course, must attend session. They both give their addresses; thereby Horgenschlag is informed of the location of Shirley’s divine abode.
Judge Perkins, who can’t even get a good, really good cup of coffee in his own house, sentences Horgenschlag to a year in jail. Shirley bites her lip, but Horgenschlag is marched away.
In prison, Horgenschlag writes the following letter to Shirley Lester:
“Dear Miss Lester:
“I did not really mean to steal your purse. I just took it because I love you. You see I only wanted to get to know you. Will you please write me a letter sometime when you get the time? It gets pretty lonely here and I love you very much and maybe even you would come to see me some time if you get the time.
Your friend,
Justin Horgenschlag”
Shirley shows the letter to all her friends. They say, “Ah, it’s cute, Shirley.” Shirley agrees that it’s kind of cute in a way. Maybe she’ll answer it. “Yes! Answer it. Give’m a break. What’ve ya got t’lose?” So Shirley answers Horgenschlag’s letter.
“Dear Mr. Horgenschlag:
“I received your letter and really feel very sorry about what has happened. Unfortunately there is very little we can do about it at this time, but I do feel abominable concerning the turn of events. However, your sentence is a short one and soon you will be out. The best of luck to you.
Sincerely yours,
Shirley Lester”
“Dear Miss Lester:
“You will never know how cheered up you made me feel when I received your letter. You should not feel abominable at all. It was all my fault for being so crazy so don’t feel that way at all. We get movies here once a week and it really is not so bad. I am 31 years of age and come from Seattle. I have been in New York 4 years and think it is a great town only once in a while you get pretty lonesome. You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen even in Seattle. I wish you would come to see me some Saturday afternoon during visiting hours 2 to 4 and I will pay your train fare.
Your friend,
Justin Horgenschlag”
Shirley would have shown this letter, too, to all her friends. But she would not answer this one. Anyone could see that this Horgenschlag was a goof. And after all. She had answered the first letter. If she answered this silly letter the thing might drag on for months and everything. She did all she could do for the man. And what a name. Horgenschlag.
Meanwhile, in prison Horgenschlag is having a terrible time, even though they have movies once a week. His cell-mates are Snipe Morgan and Slicer Burke, two boys from the back room, who see in Horgenschlag’s face a resemblance to a chap in Chicago who once ratted on them. They are convinced that Ratface Ferrero and Justin Horgenschlag are one and the same person.
“But I’m not Ratface Ferrero,” Horgenschlag tells them.
“Don’t gimme that,” says Slicer, knocking Horgenschlag’s meager food rations to the floor.
“Bash his head in,” says Snipe.
“I tell ya I’m just here because I stole a girl’s purse on the Third Avenue Bus,” pleads Horgenschlag. “Only I didn’t really steal it. I fell in love with her, and it was the only way I could get to know her.”
“Don’t gimme that,” says Slicer.
“Bash his head in,” says Snipe.
Then there is the day when seventeen prisoners try to make an escape. During play period in the recreation yard, Slicer Burke lures the warden’s niece, eight-year-old Lisbeth Sue, into his clutches. He puts his eight-by-twelve hands around the child’s waist and holds her up for the warden to see.
“Hey, warden!” yells Slicer. “Open up them gates or it’s curtains for the kid!”
“I’m not afraid, Uncle Bert!” calls out Lisbeth Sue.
“Put down that child, Slicer!” commands the warden, with all the impotence at his command.
But Slicer knows he has the warden just where he wants him. Seventeen men and a small blonde child walk out the gates. Sixteen men and a small blonde child walk out safely. A guard in the high tower thinks he sees a wonderful opportunity to shoot Slicer in the head, and thereby destroy the unity of the escaping group. But he misses, and succeeds only in shooting the small man walking nervously behind Slicer, killing him instantly.
Guess who?
And, thus, my plan to write a boy-meets-girl story for Collier’s, a tender, memorable love story, is thwarted by the death of my hero.
Now, Horgenschlag never would have been among those seventeen desperate men if only he had not been made desperate and panicky by Shirley’s failure to answer his second letter. But the fact remains that she did not answer his second letter. She never in a hundred years would have answered it. I can’t alter facts.
And what a shame. What a pity that Horgenschlag, in prison, was unable to write the following letter to Shirley Lester:
“Dear Miss Lester:
“I hope a few lines will not annoy or embarrass you. I’m writing, Miss Lester, because I’d like you to know that I am not a common thief. I stole your bag, I want you to know, because I fell in love with you the moment I saw you on the bus. I could think of no way to become acquainted with you except by acting rashly—foolishly, to be accurate. But then, one is a fool when one is in love.
“I loved the way your lips were so slightly parted. You represented the answer to everything to me. I haven’t been unhappy since I came to New York four years ago, but neither have I been happy. Rather, I can best describe myself as having been one of the thousands of young men in New York who simply exist.
“I came to New York from Seattle. I was going to become rich and famous and well-dressed and suave. But in four years I’ve learned that I am not going to become rich and famous and well-dressed and suave. I’m a good printer’s assistant, but that’s all I am. One day the printer got sick, and I had to take his place. What a mess I made of things, Miss Lester. No one would take my orders. The typesetters just sort of giggled when I would tell them to get to work. And I don’t blame them. I’m a fool when I give orders. I suppose I’m just one of the millions who was never meant to give orders. But I don’t mind anymore. There’s a twenty-three-year-old kid my boss just hired. He’s only twenty-three, and I am thirty-one and have worked at the same place for four years. But I know that one day he will become head printer, and I will be his assistant. But I don’t mind knowing this anymore.
“Loving you is the important thing, Miss Lester. There are some people who think love is sex and marriage and six o’clock-kisses and children, and perhaps it is, Miss Lester. But do you know what I think? I think love is a touch and yet not a touch.
“I suppose it’s important to a woman that other people think of her as the wife of a man who is either rich, handsome, witty or popular. I’m not even popular. I’m not even hated. I’m just—I’m just—Justin Horgenschlag. I never make people gay, sad, angry, or even disgusted. I think people regard me as a nice guy, but that’s all.
“When I was a child no one pointed me out as being cute or bright or good-looking. If they had to say something they said I had sturdy little legs.
“I don’t expect an answer to this letter, Miss Lester. I would like an answer more than anything else in the world, but truthfully I don’t expect one. I merely wanted you to know the truth. If my love for you has only led me to a new and great sorrow, only I am to blame.
“Perhaps one day you will understand and forgive your blundering admirer,
Justin Horgenschlag”
Such a letter would be no more unlikely than the following:
“Dear Mr. Horgenschlag:
“I got your letter and loved it. I feel guilty and miserable that events have taken the turn they have. If only you had spoken to me instead of taking my purse! But then, I suppose I should have turned the conversational chill on you.
“It’s lunch hour at the office, and I’m alone here writing to you. I felt that I wanted to be alone today at lunch hour. I felt that if I had to go have lunch with the girls at the Automat and they jabbered through the meal as usual, I’d suddenly scream.
“I don’t care if you’re not a success, or that you’re not handsome, or rich, or famous or suave. Once upon a time I would have cared. When I was in high school I was always in love with the Joe Glamor boys. Donald Nicolson, the boy who walked in the rain and knew all Shakespeare’s sonnets backwards. Bob Lacey, the handsome gink who could shoot a basket from the middle of the floor, with the score tied and the chukker almost over. Harry Miller, who was so shy and had such nice, durable brown eyes.
“But that crazy part of my life is over.
“The people in your office who giggled when you gave them orders are on my black list. I hate them as I’ve never hated anybody.
“You saw me when I had all my make-up on. Without it, believe me, I’m no raving beauty. Please write me when you’re allowed to have visitors. I’d like you to take a second look at me. I’d like to be sure that you didn’t catch me at a phony best.
“Oh, how I wish you’d told the judge why you stole my purse! We might be together and able to talk over all the many things I think we have in common.
“Please let me know when I may come to see you.
Yours sincerely,
Shirley Lester”
But Justin Horgenschlag never got to know Shirley Lester. She got off at Fifty-Sixth Street, and he got off at Thirty-Second Street. That night Shirley Lester went to the movies with Howard Lawrence with whom she was in love. Howard thought Shirley was a darn good sport, but that was as far as it went. And Justin Horgenschlag that night stayed home and listened to the Lux Toilet Soap radio play. He thought about Shirley all night, all the next day, and very often during that month. Then all of a sudden he was introduced to Doris Hillman who was beginning to be afraid she wasn’t going to get a husband. And then before Justin Horgenschlag knew it, Doris Hillman and things were filing away Shirley Lester in the back of his mind. And Shirley Lester, the thought of her, no longer was available.
And that’s why I never wrote a boy-meets-girl story for Collier’s. In a boy-meets-girl story the boy should always meet the girl.
