How to Talk Dirty and Influence People Page 10

  Which is where we were to differ.

  I felt that modern-day priests and rabbis were doing about the same thing as that reporter, and no one saw anything wrong with it. Maybe this is the sort of thing I was cut out for. I could assume the role of a “priest” and raise money for the leper colony. It would be better than going about it in the amateur manner I had previously employed.

  The lepers would benefit, and so would the good people who contributed. And I would keep 50 percent for my efforts. It was no more—and certainly much less—than the majority of charitable institutions take out for their efforts. They hire professional collecting organizations, advertising agencies, fellows who really know how to get the gelt. I might even employ some novice “priests” myself if business got good.

  Of course it was dishonest and corrupt, and I don’t fool myself by saying there are degrees of corruption. Just as the old cliché goes, “There is no such thing as being a little bit pregnant,” stealing is stealing. But, I rationalized, what is the difference between a real priest and me?

  Instinctively, I knew that for a true man of God with a crystal-clear set of ethics, there could be no compromise.

  There are people living on the verge of—and dying of—starvation in this country. In New York City, in the vicinity of Lexington Avenue and 110th Street, there are ten or twelve people living in one rat-infested room. This is not copping out on the “starving masses of India and China,” although that, too, is nonetheless true, but it is too far removed for people to grasp the horror of children eating out of maggot-infested garbage cans somewhere else in the world.

  Conditions of unspeakable poverty, filth and humiliation exist right here in “the richest country in the world.” This country, which magnanimously balms its conscience by helping Greek orphans and buying bonds for Israel, but manages to pass up the appeal for bail-bond money needed desperately by sixth-generation Negro Americans fighting for their human rights.

  The Daughters of the American Revolution have supplied enough status and respect due to people for such an honorable heritage; well, some of the Negroes now serving time in jail for the terrible offense of wanting to sit at lunch counters are sixth-generation Americans, too.

  Nikita Khrushchev, when he visited the United States in 1959, received obsequious, oversolicitous treatment wherever he went, but my fellow Americans who fought and died for their country are denied the privilege of using a toilet if it is not in the proper geographical location.

  I did not doubt for a moment then that if Christ were to come down at that moment, he would go immediately to headquarters and ask the Pope, “What are you doing wearing that big ring? What are those gold cups encrusted with diamonds and other jewels for? Don’t you know that people are starving all over the world? At this very moment a poor pregnant Negress is standing with swollen ankles in the back of a bus in Biloxi.”

  And if Moses were to come down, wouldn’t he order all the rabbis in their Frank Lloyd Wright shuls to sell their tallith for rags and melt down the mezuzahs for bail money for all the Caryl Chessmans that sit in gas chambers or electric chairs or walk in the blue-gray shadow of the gallows? Would not Moses say to them, “Why have you mocked the Ten Commandments? What is your interpretation of ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’? It’s not, ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill But . . .’”

  I knew in my heart by pure logic that any man who calls himself a religious leader and owns more than one suit is a hustler as long as there is someone in the world who has no suit at all.

  So I made up my mind. I would become a priest.

  Chapter Twelve

  I spent two weeks hanging around a rectory, trying to observe the mannerisms of the Holy Men.

  I noticed that the priests had the same attiude toward their lessers as do most successful businessmen: they treated them like illiterate children, not by kissing them and giving them ice cream, but rather by giving them the kind of treatment which makes the receiver feel as though he had graduated from third grade only with the help of political influence.

  And then, too, they had their friends with whom they would have a few beers when they were off duty. They even enjoyed telling each other off-color stories.

  With others, they were able, chameleonlike, to fit into the Pat O’Brien stereotype.

  I found an ingenious method of hanging around the rectory without being picked up for vagrancy. I sold The Watchtower.

  Daily, I learned more about how to behave in the manner of men who have the world by the tail . . . no income tax, no traffic tickets, you live in a world on its best behavior, a wonderful, rosy world . . . instead of cursing, everybody pours his soul out to you.

  I would stand there every day watching visitors go in and out, and I observed, sadly, that most of them were little old ladies; the ones who actually needed help—soothing love—would never come. And, since the priests didn’t go out looking for needy cases, the purpose and the end result seemed quite paradoxical to me.

  After a couple of weeks of observation, I realized that I couldn’t bring myself to start the basic operation; because of years of moral conformity I couldn’t bring myself to break into a church and steal the uniforms.

  And, unfortunately, Klein’s didn’t stock them.

  But, as I pondered this problem, I noticed something else about priests that made my uniform-heisting task much easier—both morally and technically. Their attitude with strangers was similar to any successful, busy merchant—curt and direct. This was the direct opposite of the behavior pattern that Christ was supposed to have followed. So, not only was their life like the successful businessman’s, it was even a little better: Everything was delivered.

  On Monday, Carmelo the barber would come.

  On Tuesday, the Peerless Laundry man would come.

  On Wednesday, the Paris Dry Cleaners man would come. This visit interested me most of all. The man from Paris Dry Cleaners was a rather nondescript chap with a strong Boston accent. He would rap sharply on the door with a two-bit Leonard Bernstein tempo, an overture that was the cue for a cheerful, red-faced father to appear with a bundle of soiled holy garments. The man from the dry cleaners would come at nine A.M. sharp, every Wednesday.

  A week later, at ten minutes to nine, I appointed myself as Guest Conductor, substituting my own knock—da de da, da de da da da (the opening bars to Joe and Paul, a dirty Jewish folk song)—for the regular pickup man’s “shave-and-a-haircut” rapping. I waited a moment, and a handsome young priest appeared with a bundle of priest uniforms that he would never see again.

  He studied me quizzically, then said, “Haven’t you been selling The Watchtower in front of the rectory?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but I didn’t agree with their editorial policy, and I got a job instead with the Paris Dry Cleaners.”

  I noticed his white collar. Where the hell would I get white collars? They weren’t included in the bundle of soiled uniforms.

  Being an inventive, if corrupt, genius, I said, “Father, do you know the owner of the Paris Dry Cleaners?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  “Well, it’s supposed to be a surprise, Father, but he wants to present Monsignor Martin with a dozen handmade Irish-linen collars.”

  “Well, isn’t that lovely—I’m sure he will appreciate them.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Father, I don’t want to be pushy,” I said, jamming my head between the oak sill and the copper binding of the door, “but Mr. Kepnews, the owner, wanted to use Monsignor Martin’s collar for a sample.”

  “Oh, that would be impossible. To touch anything in the Monsignor’s room is unthinkable. However, you could ask Father Langford. He is the same size as Monsignor Martin.” He pointed to a cottage at the end of the rectory yard.

  As my feet crunched the gravel, I imagined it turning into red-hot coals. I saw Walter Huston, the Devil himself, laughing at me from above, where he was sitting on a tree limb.

  I was about to knock at Father Langford’s door when I
noticed a brass plate that announced the residence of Monsignor Martin. The door was ajar. I strolled leisurely in, whistling Ave Maria, and was in and out before you could say, “Blessed are they who give . . .”

  I had a neat haul: twelve collars and, believe it or not, seven of the farthest-out Tillie and Mac books I’d ever seen, plus one of the numbered editions of Henry Miller’s Black Spring.

  I left the grounds with movielike timing. I heard the disbelief in the voices of the real man from Paris Dry Cleaners and the priest as they exchanged the dialog that always follows the discovery of an unusual theft: “Why would anyone . . . ?” “How could a person be so . . . ?” “Now if they had some use . . .” “This is just a case of wanton stealing for no earthly reason . . .”

  I had learned my first important lesson in theology: Always insist on an official receipt for your dry cleaning.

  The next few weeks were spent with a battery of lawyers getting a charter from New York State which legalized the Brother Mathias Foundation. This licensed me to solicit and disburse funds to the leper colony—which was not at all illegal, for I meant to do just that . . . after “operating costs” had been deducted.

  I had it made: a priest with a disease—an unbeatable combination.

  The first place in which I chose to solicit funds was Miami Beach. Honey was stripping there, at the Paddock Club, and I was working at the Olympia Theater in Miami. We were living at the Floridian Hotel.

  Honey was in bed, eating a breakfast that consisted of an orange pop and a hot dog with Everything on it. I had had Monsignor Martin’s pants taken in at the seat and the legs let out. I had three suits all nicely tailored, cleaned and pressed. They fit perfectly. They hung in lovely incongruity: the clerical costumes and the G string, side by side.

  The sun poured through the room and bounced off the beaded G string. The prism formed a halo as I walked out of the room in my somber black outfit.

  I was just about to get into Honey’s 1949 convertible Chevrolet with the leopardskin seat covers when I heard it for the first time, loud and clear: “Good morning, Father.”

  The voice came from a sensual-looking, buxom woman of about 35. They bounced when she walked. Ooooh, Daddy! I stood looking at her, both reverent and horny at the same time.

  “I’m Mrs. Walsh,” she said. “Are you at the Floridian, Father?”

  “Yes, I’m with the Brother Mathias Foundation, and we’re in this area to collect money for the poor unfortunate lepers in British Guiana.”

  “Well, I don’t have my checkbook with me———”

  “Oh, no,” I interrupted, “a donation was the farthest thing from my mind.”

  “I know that, Father, but I want to give you something. I’m going to my room—417. When you return, give me a knock, won’t you?”

  “Well, yes, if you insist.”

  I watched her do her little-girl pout. Some women can pout so that it looks as if they’re putting in a diaphragm at that very moment.

  “You won’t forget, will you, Father?”

  “No, I shan’t forget.”

  With all the sublety of an exhibitionist exposing himself in a subway station, she telegraphed: “My husband better not keep sending me down here alone.”

  I drove away as Honey scowled out the window, devouring another one with Everything on it.

  I started to drive north from the Floridian, heading my winged chariot, which had a conventional shift that stuck, toward the wealthy homes.

  A priest driving a convertible with the top down would cause a lot of comment in Boston, but here, in the domain of David and Celia, I went unnoticed. I whizzed past the markets which proclaimed “Goodman’s Noodles” and “Hebrew National,” past the theater which advertised “Saturday Night Only—Cantor Rosenblatt, Naftula Brandywine, Yetta Stwerling, Direct from Second Avenue, in A Mema’s Hartz—Jewish Drama.”

  Always the same problem with a little plot twist, like a pretzel. The Jewish girl marries a gentile boy and the Jewish girl’s family immediately goes into mourning. The gentile husband stays drunk and beats her throughout the entire second act. The third act has the usual happy ending, where the girl gets pregnant, the drunken husband leaves her, and she goes blind working in a sewing-machine factory. The child grows up to be a brilliant physician who naturally, is a genetic representation of his mother’s side; but he stutters terribly because of the gentile blood in him. At the end of the third act, his kindly old Jewish grandmother, who has been searching for him, meets him unexpectedly while sitting on a bench waiting for an offstage bus. He kisses her and whispers stutteringly in her ear, “I love you”—in Hebrew . . . but the evil gentile part of him comes out and he bites her ear off as the curtain falls on the little theater off Times Square. About 40 blocks off Times Square.

  As I stopped for a pedestrian to pass, a rabbi drove by and gave me a friendly wave. I wondered, do rabbis and priests always wave at each other, just like people in sports cars?

  I reached a wealthy section a few blocks away which, interestingly enough, was inhabited almost exclusively by gentile families. I parked the car at the curb and knocked at the first door.

  If you have ever done any door-to-door selling, whether it be encyclopedias, siding, shingles, baby pictures, or Avon cosmetics, you know that you receive rejection 95 percent of the time. I’ve always assumed that one would have to be a dedicated masochist to pursue this type of employment.

  As a kid, I studied the color transference of a buttercup while lolling on a lawn retreat between soliciting subscriptions for the Long Island Daily Press. I would commune with nature to recoup my stamina and morale between houses. Actually, I was a door-to-lawn salesman.

  It sure was uncomfortable standing on a porch, looking through a screen door at a shadowy figure bent over struggling with a mohair davenport while the roar of an unattended vacuum cleaner bellowed and wheezed. A nine-year-old salesman hasn’t learned the refinements of the game . . .

  The first telephone call: “Hello, Mrs. Harding? I hope I’m not disturbing your dinner. . . . Ha, ha, ha—well, I won’t keep you a minute; I know it must be delicious. My name is Schneider. Your neighbor, Mrs. Wilson, gave me your number. Now, before you hang up, don’t get the idea that I’m trying to sell you anything. Certainly not! You are very fortunate, indeed, because my company is engaged in a market-research project and, providing you qualify according to our strict specifications, I may be able to offer you a most valuable service, free of charge—absolutely free—which will not cost you one single penny . . . that is, of course, providing you do pass our strict qualifications . . .”

  The strict qualifications being that she doesn’t hang up.

  But I cannot indict the system. It is no more corrupt than any other form of selling. The term itself, “selling,” implies talking the customer into purchasing an article he has not previously had any need or desire for.

  When I was nine years old, I would find myself standing on a strange and unfriendly porch, getting the breath scared out of me by some dopey chow dog who always leaped out at me from nowhere. Luckily he would just miss me by the six-inch strain on his chain. Dogs seem to take a particular delight in scaring nine-year-old boys. I think it’s really a game with them, harmless enough, like fetching sticks, because they are certainly capable of killing you if they wanted to. They don’t, though; they just nip at your heels when you ride past on your bike. It’s all in fun. For them. I didn’t understand the rules of the game when I was nine years old. I was a prepubic spoilsport.

  I must admit that when you stand on that porch and they leap out, it does serve some useful function. If you have sinus trouble, your nasal passages are cleared up in seconds. I imagine that’s what the cave men must have done instead of taking nose drops. If a kid’s nose was stuffed up, they just stood him in front of a cave until a dinosaur stuck his head out.

  By 1951 I had considerably refined my sales approach. I still had no “opener” telephone call to ease my introduction, but I
did have a uniform.

  A uniform is an important means to instant acceptance.

  A man is no longer just a man; he is part of an institution—milkman, postman, diaper man—he has conquered the suspicion of being a stranger by acquiring a kind of official anonymity. He is associated with a definite mission. He means business.

  I learned that from my experience in the Navy, the merchant marine and, of course, the WAVEs. Now, my priest uniform overshadowed General Eisenhower’s in commanding respect.

  I walked up to that $90,000 bay-front home with the yacht parked in the back, and the chow dog lay down just the way Daisy used to in the Blondie movies. That’s what preacceptance does for you. Androcles had achieved it for me thousands of years before, taking that thorn out of the lion’s foot.

  The door opened even before my foot touched the first step. A flustered maid, wiping her hands on her apron, gulped: “Good morning, Father, won’t you come in? Mrs. McKenery will be right down.”

  The house was immaculate. The maid led me to the music room. In the center was a beautiful Baldwin grand, the grandest piano I had ever seen. It probably hadn’t been played since the little girl whose picture stood on top of it had grown up.

  I conjured up a mental picture of the mistress of the house. People usually look like their homes. This house was spotless, but not the crisp, white-kitchen cleanliness with yellow-flowered curtains and a cute Donald Duck-clock decor with which some reflect themselves. This house smelled of wood polished with linseed oil.

  Some women are Clorox scrubbers; others are dusters or straightener-uppers. Mrs. McKenery was a banister polisher.

  She entered, a woman in her 60s, with slightly oily skin, satiny as the furniture. She probably used some expensive monkey-gland preparation for the purpose of preservation, and it certainly served its function; all of her wrinkles were well-preserved.

  Within half-an-hour, all I was able to contribute to the conversation was, “I am from the Brother Mathias Foundation, and we are in this area receiving contributions for the unfortunate lepers in British Guiana. . . .” And I had to fight to get that in. She had taken a deep breath when she sat down and didn’t stop for another one as she treated me to the most intimate revelations of her life. First she related the details of all the Good Work she had ever done—the organizations to which she gave unstintingly of her services. Then she concentrated on her real sacrifices—being married to an insensitive, cruel man and remaining with him only for the sake of their daughter so that she could have a normal upbringing.