Sobey lay impatiently on a Madison Square Garden bench, tossing and turning. Whenever the geese craned their necks to sing in the night sky
, when the woman lacking the sealskin coat doubled her warmth and affection for her husband, and when Sobey fretted and tossed and turned on the benches in Street Park
, it was understood that winter was near.
A dead leaf fell on Sobey's thigh, a card from Jack Frost1. Jack was very courteous to the permanent residents of Madison Square, and always preceded his annual visit with a greeting. At the head of the crossroads, he gave his card to the North Wind, the messenger of the Outdoor Mansion, so that the residents could be prepared.
Sobey realized that it was time for him to make up his own mind and organize a one-man finance committee immediately to
stave off the approaching cold, so he tossed and turned impatiently on the bench.
Sobey's overwintering ambitions were not exactly the highest; he had no desire to cruise the Mediterranean, nor to bask in the sleep-inducing sun in the south,
nor to drift in the Gulf of Vesuvius. All he dreamed of was spending
three months on the island and that would be enough. Three months of food, beds and like-minded companions, and
without the North Wind and the police. For Sobhi, this was the best thing he could have wished for.
For many years, the prison on hospitable Blackwell Island2 was Sobey's winter home. And just as better-off New Yorkers buy tickets to Palm Beach3 and the Riviera4 every winter, Sobey has to make the necessary arrangements for his
annual escape to the island. Now it's time again. Last night, he had slept on a bench next to the fountain in the old
Plaza, and had not been able to stave off the cold with three Sunday newspapers in his blouse, wrapped around his ankles, and covered his thighs, respectively. So, in his head, the image of the island
came back instantly and vividly. He cursed the rags
that were set up in the name of charity for the town's poor. In Sobey's eyes, the law was more generous than relief. There were many places he could go, municipal and
relief organizations of all sorts, where he could eat, live, and eke out a living, but to accept alms was an intolerable torment to a man of Sobey's lofty soul. To accept any little favor from the hands of a benevolent
institution, money certainly need not be paid, but you must suffer spiritual humiliation
in return. Just as Caesar did with Brutus,5 there are advantages and disadvantages to everything; to sleep in the bed of a charitable
institution, you must first be escorted to a bath; to eat a slice of bread from a charity, you must first give a clear account of your personal
origin and privacy. Therefore, it is much better to be a guest of the law. Although the law is ironclad and rules, at least it doesn't interfere too much with the private affairs of decent people.
Once the decision to go to the island had been made, Sobhi set about making it a reality. There were a number of easy ways to make good on one's wishes, the most comfortable of which was to go to one of the fancy restaurants and then
then
admit to being penniless and unable to pay, and be handed over to the police
quietly and unobtrusively. The rest is up to the negotiating vigilantes.
Sobey left the bench and paced out of the plaza, crossing the asphalt
green-paved flat pavement at the intersection of Broadway and Fifth. He turned toward Broadway Street and stopped
in front of a lighted café where the best of the grape, silk, and protoplasmic products were gathered every evening.6
Sobey was still quite confident in his vest from the bottom button up, he had had his face trimmed and his blouse was
still airy enough, and his neat black bowtie had been given to him by a church lady at Thanksgiving. As long as he was not second-guessed before he
arrived at the table, success was his. His exposed upper body on the tabletop would never make the waiter
suspicious. Sobey thought that a roast mallard would be just the thing--another bottle of Chablis (7), followed by camembert (8), a small cup of coffee and a cigarillo. A dollar a cigar would have sufficed. The price of the whole should not be too high, lest the café retaliate too vigorously; yet, eating this
meal would make his journey to the winter refuge a satisfying and carefree one.
But no sooner had Sobey's foot stepped through the door than the eyes of the usher's waiter fell upon his old pants and torn leather
shoes. Strong, swift palms pushed him around, and he was escorted silently out and pushed up the sidewalk
to save the poor mallard from a narrow escape.
Sobey left Broadway Street. It looks like the
approach of gorging your way toward the coveted island isn't going to work. It would take another idea to get into jail.
On the corner of Sixth Street, the merchandise in the large, brightly lit, intricately furnished glass windows was particularly
intriguing. Sobey picked up a pebble and smashed it against the glass window. People came running around the corner, led
by a patrolman. Sobey stood motionless, both hands in his pants pockets, smiling at the brass buttons
buttons.9
"Where did the guy who did this run off to?" The officer asked, exasperated.
"You don't think this has anything to do with me?" Sobey said, more or less in a mocking tone, but friendly,
as if he was having peachy luck.
The police didn't see Sobey as a perpetrator at all. Whoever destroyed the window would never have stayed at the scene to talk to the law
Law's favorites; he would have slipped away long ago. The policeman saw a man running to catch a car half a block away,
and pursued him with his truncheon. Sobey was so disgusted that he had to drag his feet and start wandering
again. Once again, he had miscalculated.
On the opposite side of the street, there was a less inviting restaurant that filled the stomach and didn't cost much.
Its bowls were rough, the air was murky, the soup and vegetables were watery, and the napkins were thin as silk. Sobhi stepped into the dining room in his cursed
cursed shoes and revealing pants, and, God forbid, didn't get a glare. He walked to the table
and sat down, ate steak, pancakes, doughnuts and pie. Then he told the waiter the truth: he
had never had any dealings with Mr. Money.
"Now, get the police," said Sobey. "Don't keep His Lordship waiting."
"There's no need to call the police," said the waiter, his voice as smooth as buttercream, his eyes as red as the cherries in a
Manhattan aperitif. "Hey, Con!"
The two waiters pushed him cleanly down onto the cold, hard sidewalk, landing on his left ear. Sobhi
hardly got up from the ground bit by bit, as if a carpenter had opened a folding ruler, and proceeded to pat the
dust off his clothes. The wish to be arrested was merely a beautiful dream; that island was too far away. In front of the drugstore, two storefronts
apart, stood a policeman, who smiled and headed down the street.
Sobey managed to get his arrested breath back after walking five blocks. This time it was a rare opportunity, and he thought it was a sure thing. A young woman, plainly but pleasantly dressed, stood in front of the window, staring with interest at the display of chamois cups and ink-bottle holders. And two yards away, a
big, burly policeman was leaning against the faucet, looking serious.
Sobey's plan was to dress up as a nasty, obnoxious "troublemaker". The gentleness of his subject, and the proximity of a loyal policeman, convinced him how pleasant it would be to have a policeman's hands on his
hands, and to spend the winter in his little island hideaway would be a guarantee
.
Sobey straightened the bowtie the church lady had given him, pulled out the cuffs of his indented shirt, tipped his hat
back, so crooked it almost fell, and sidled up to the woman. He leered at her, cleared his
throat, grunted and grinned and laughed, and performed all the dastardly deeds of a rascal with delightful delightful delightful delightful delightful
. He squinted and saw the policeman staring him dead in the face. The young woman moved a few steps away and
was again engrossed in looking at the chiseled mug. Sobey followed her, approached her boldly, raised his hat, and said, "
Ah-ha, Bidelia, don't you want to go out in my yard and have some fun?"
The policeman remained deadpan. All the slighted young woman had to do was wave her hand in the air and it was the same as being already on the
road to the island's comfort zone. In imagination, he already felt the comfort and warmth of the police precinct.
The young woman turned to face him and reached out a hand, catching the cuff of Sobey's blouse.
"Sure lo, Mike," she said cheerfully, "if you'll break down and buy me a beer
. I'd have talked to you if that cop hadn't been looking at me all the time."
The young woman clung to him like ivy to a great oak tree. Sobhi walked past the policeman, his heart
reeling. It seemed fated that he should be free.
Once he reached the corner, he dumped his female companion and took off running. He ran in one breath to a place far away.
Here, all night long, were the brightest lights, the lightest moods, the flippant vows and the lightest songs
drama. The ladies in their furs and the gentlemen in their overcoats walked merrily to and fro in the bitter cold
. Sobey felt a sudden pang of fear, that perhaps some terrible magic had held him back from
being arrested. The thought made his heart leap. But when he saw a policeman patrolling in front of a brightly-lit theater
in a grand manner, he was instantly saved by "disturbing the peace".
Sobey was on the sidewalk, cracking his gong-like voice and making noise like a drunk.
He jumped, he yelled, he screamed, and he did all sorts of things to stir up the heavens.
The policeman twirled his baton, twisted around with his back to Sobey, and explained to a citizen, "It's
a Yale kid celebrating a victory; they played Hartford College and bought someone a big goose egg.
It's a little loud, but it's not a problem. We have instructions from the top, so let them make a scene."
Sobey stopped his futile ruckus unhappily. Would there never be a police officer to lay hands on him
? In his hallucinations, the island seemed to have become an unattainable Arcadia⑩. He buttoned up
his thin blouse so as to ward off the biting wind.
Sobey saw a well-dressed man in the cigar and tobacco store lighting a cigarette into the fire. The man entered the store
leaning his silk umbrella against the door. Sobey stepped through the door of the store, picked up the silk umbrella, and retreated carelessly. The cigarette-lighting
man hurried after him.
"My umbrella," he snapped.
"Huh?" Sobey sneered; let's add an insult to petty theft and groping.
"Well wow, why don't you call the police then? That's right, I took. Your umbrella! Why don't you call the patrol
Police? There's one standing right there on the corner for miles."
The owner of the silk umbrella slowed his pace, and Sobey followed suit. He had a feeling that fate would
against him. The policeman looked at them both curiously.
"Of course lo," said the owner of the silk umbrella, "that's, oh, you know these kinds of misunderstandings sometimes occur ......
I . ...I hope you won't be offended if this umbrella is yours ...... I picked it up in the dining room this morning ......
If you recognize it as yours, then... . i hope you don't ......"
"Of course it's mine," said Sobey viciously.
The former owner of the silk umbrella backed away resentfully. The policeman scrambled to assist a tall woman in a
nightgown cloak with blonde hair across the cross street, lest a streetcar coming two blocks away
might touch her.
Sobey walked east, crossing a street made uneven by renovations. He angrily hurled his silk
umbrella violently into a pothole. He grumbled about the guys in helmets and batons.
Because all he wanted to do was to fall into the net of justice, and they were treating him as if he were the king who could do no wrong (11).
At last, Sobey came to a street leading to the East Side, where the lights were dimmed and the noise was if
there was any. He followed the street toward Madison Square, and even though his home was merely a park bench
the instinct to go home took him there.
But at an unusually quiet corner, Sobey stopped. Here was an old church,
quaint looking and seemingly fragmented, a building with a mountain wall. Soft light was reflected through the lavender windows
and no doubt the organist was practicing a familiar Sunday hymn. The pleasant sound of the music drifted into Sower
Bee's ears, drawing him in and gluing him to the spiraling bars.
The moon hung high in the night sky, glorious and still; pedestrians and vehicles were few and far between; the swallows
finches chirped a few times in their sleep under the eaves of the houses - there was for the moment the atmosphere of a churchyard in the countryside. The organist's playing of
hymns plucked at the heart-strings of Sobey, who was crouching on the railings, for he was well acquainted with hymns when he had in his life a mother's love, roses,
aspirations, friends, and a pure and innocent mind and a white collar.
Sobey's sensitive mood mingled with the sublimity of the old church, and brought about a sudden
wonderful change in his soul. He immediately awoke with horror to the depths into which he had fallen, the years of depravity,
disgraceful lust, pessimism, exhaustion of talent, and meanness of motives-all of which had constituted his whole life
.
In a moment this new state of mind thrilled him. A swift and strong impulse inspired
him to take on the rough and tumble of life. He would drag himself out of the quagmire, he would conquer the
demon that had once mastered him. It was not too late, he was still young enough to recapture the ambition of those days, and he was determined
to realize it. The solemn and sweet tones of the organ had already caused a revolution within him.
Tomorrow, he was going to look for work in the busy business district. A leather importer who had at one time offered him a job as a chauffeur had approached him tomorrow
to take the job. He was willing to be a man of great prominence. He would ......
Sobey felt a hand press on his arm. He whipped his head around haughtily, only to see the broad
faceplate of a policeman.
"What are you doing here?" The policeman asked.
"Nothing," Sobey said.
"Then come with me," the policeman said.
The next morning, the judge in the police court pronounced the sentence, "Blackwell's Island, three months."