Modern Screen (Feb-Dec 1959)

skinny guy said in a mocking tone. ''Man," he continued, "we don't only want whiskey. We want . . ." and he snapped his fingers loudly to indicate they wanted cold cash. "Moola!" the short, silent one blurted out. "That's what we want. Moola!" "Moola?" I repeated stupidly, a lump in my throat. "Why?" I asked. "Do you need money?" "Are you kiddin'?" the leader said. "Perkins, we all have jobs. We're old enough to earn a buck, but when you want some fun, you have to think of something!" He told me they had figured out the liquor store was a perfect place for a small hold-up. The owner of the store was old and helpless. "Anyhow," the leader added, "what's he going to do with all that dough he's collected today? Hide it in the bank? Well, buddy boy, we can have a few kicks and spend a little of it." I looked out the doorway at the liquor store a few doors down. It was dimly lighted, a cubicle of a shop. The only other lighted storefronts on the block were the night club and a pizza parlor across the street from the liquor store. "Get wise Perkins!" But^ these guys weren't hoods. They weren't evil. Maybe they were troublemakers. Everybody is sometime or another in his life. "Have . . . have you fellows thought of the consequences?" I said, hating myself for sounding like some insipid high school teacher. ''Get wise, Perkins!" the leader barked. The mght may have been cold, but I was beginning to sweat. "All right," I said boldly. "I'm with you. I'll help. Let's go over to the pizza place where it's warm. We'll talk the whole thing over and you tell me what you want me to do — I'm buying. It's my treat." The guys slid into the old-fashioned, wire-backed chairs around a wooden table which was carved with customers' nicknames and Kilroy-was-here comments. A fat man with a black mustache and a soiled white apron came over and took the order. I asked for three pizzas— with the works. Then I told the fat man to^serve all the fellows a round of beers. u "Them?" he said, pointing to them all. T serve them next year when they're old enough." The drunken kid bristled. He stood up, his fists poised. u "Sit down, Stupid," the leader said. ' Can't you ever control yourself? Why get excited over this . . . this slob?" The fat man wasn't listening. He turned around to go to the hole-in-the-wall kitchen. Stupid sat back in his chair. I started talking to the guys about Hollywood and what it was like to be a movie star. It was a safe subject. The movie world "Man," the leader said, "you movie stars are always dating. Who fixes you up?" Sure, there were lots of dates, I toid him, but most of them were phony ones trumped up by press agents. "You know something?" I added. "Most of the fellows who are actors prefer to date a gal who isn't in showbusiness. Why? WeU, most of these showbusiness gals expect you to take them to places where they'll be 'seen.' They're never satisfied with a ride and a hamburger at some drive-in diner." In a while the fat man served us our pizzas, three big tin trays topped with cheese and tomatoes and salami, and I ordered a glass of milk for myself. A couple of the guys did the same. The leader told Stupid to drink some coffee to sober up "Oh all right," he grumbled disgustedly. The guys wanted to know if Tony Perkins was my real name. I said it was. Sitting at the far end of the table, I was able to look out into the shadowy street through the moisture-streaked windows. Across the way, I saw the liquor store lights go out, and I knew the owner was leaving. We continued to talk about Hollywood and after a while, I said, "If any of you guys get to Hollywood, don't forget to look me up." I got up from my chair and paid the fat man for the pizzas, milk and Stupid's cup of coffee. "It's late," I said. Nobody mentioned the store ^ When we walked outside, I wondered ror a moment if they might not gang up on me and tell me I tricked them but nobody said a word. All of them could see the liquor store was closed, but nobody mentioned it. They walked me to the street corner, past the burlesque nightclub where the jazz trombonist played and Miss Lotus Leaf peeled nightly, and we said good-bye. I waved a yellow cab, and the cabdriver stopped with a screech. I stepped into it and said, "Remember, look me up if you ever come out to California." I slumped back in the cab, exhausted, but I couldn't help thinking about how fate had sent me there, brought me to four kids who didn't really want to be delinquents. They wanted someone to talk to. The taxi stopped at my apartment on West 55th Street where my dog, Punky was waiting for me. He was looking out the front window, his feet perched on the window sill. It was good to be home. 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