Murphy and Solly, Murphy’s longtime friend and
pawnbroker -- the faithful
custodian of his toaster, for lo these many years -- sat at meat, in that
temple of philosophical discourse,
Joe’s Bar.
Now
Solly -- a Jewish guy, and faithful to the faith of his fathers, though you’d
never know it to look at him -- he
and Murphy agreed on a lot of things;
and disagreed on a lot of things;
and on some things, they agreed that they had no way to either agree or
disagree -- just like there are some things that a dame knows, and a guy’s just
gotta take her word for it; and
some things a joe knows, and a dame just gotta put up with it: eternal mysteries. Like, Murphy, who had no head
for money -- no pockets for it, even -- just had to concede that Solly, who was
a whiz at that stuff, was the only one who could come up with a fair loan on a
pawn, and keep the total running in his head, and adjust when an item was (finally) redeemed, and add on
interest where applicable, or deduct the right discount on the Yom Kippur Day
Specials: Murphy simply held
forth the teevee, or the hotplate, or his last pair of shoes, and accepted in
complete confidence whatever Solly offered; it always felt fair. And Solly had to concede that, when it came to
things like One God oh no I actually meant Three; or water turning into wine, and wine into blood; and things acknowledged to be
completely incomprehensible even to priests, yet just as certainly true --
well, Solly would have to leave all that to Murphy; Solly, he was out of his league.
So
they’re washing down hot-dogs with the local stuff on draft, and settling
mighty questions of history and philosophy, of theology and of science, and
whether dames look best in tight sweaters -- which emphasize certain features
-- or in the most modest of costumes -- which emphasizes the eyes. And then when they had come to
the third round, both enjoying the combat, yet mellowed by the brew, Solly
ventured onto delicate territory:
for with these two, nothing was taboo.
“So
Murphy, tell me -- tell me true.
Right: You don’t do divorce
cases. Not saying you ought
to --- Oh, don’t remind me of my own divorce! -- Agreed agreed, they’re
unpleasant: but so is almost
everything we do. You
think I like taking some dame’s wedding ring in pawn? But she needs the money; what can you do. And I mean -- you do some stuff -- well I mean… Murphy…. You’re a grown man, you know
about Mine and Thine, and yet -- you keep helping yourself to other people’s
cars.”
“Well,
I don’t help myself when other people’s in
‘em -- I don’t jack. Plus it’s
just on a loan, Solly -- like the toaster.”
“Yeh
like that toaster; what I got on
and off in inventory these past fifteen years. A toaster what
don’t even work.”
“Yeh
okay okay; I got a weakness for
abandoned cars. They been
sitting there alone for an hour, they get to feeling lonesome, and
unappreciated, so I come along and appreciate them, and speak to them, and drive
them around. Okay. Your point.”
“The
point is, Murphy, the point is that
you do a lot of sketchy stuff.
Stuff on the edge. Stuff
that wouldn’t go down so good at the Country Club. Plus some…some really rough stuff, if what I hear around is
true.”
“Yeh
well, sometimes. This one time --
really really bad. But I repented
of that. Never did the same thing
again.”
“So
okay, with variations. But
the thing is: What is it with you
and divorce cases? Yeh they
stink, no argument; but are they really
worse than some stuff that you did -- and some stuff you did laughing -- like
playing at crime boss and heisting that truck full of heroin and using it to
run a patrol car into a ditch? I
mean -- Murphy!”
Murphy
was silent. What could he say?
“Y’see,
Murphy, me, I got this
theory. I don’t think you
stay away from divorce cases just because they’re dirty. Sure they’re dirty; it’s a dirty world. This part of town especially. But you -- no. With you it’s more than that. You steer clear of divorce
cases -- steer clear like the plague -- not for practical reasons, or aesthetic
reasons, or even… even moral reasons,
exactly… With you it’s…”
“It’s
for mystical reasons.”
Without inflection.
Sipping slowly; looking out
over the rim of the glass.
Solly
waited, letting that hang in the air.
“For… mysterious -- no: for
mystical reasons.”
“For
mystical reasons. Right.” Murphy took a chug and swallowed
hard -- for now swallowing was hard -- and looked stubbornly over at the
pinball machines.
“Okay,
fine: mystical reasons. Only -- help me out here, wouldja? You don’t get all…mystical…
about loving your country; or telling the truth; or taking your lumps as they come; though you’re about all
those things. But when it
comes to divorce -- you get mystical. Is it like, some kinda childhood thing, like that thing with your Pop and your Mom?”
“What
-- you mean, that Pop skipped out?
Sure, bad move; but me, I
never even met the guy. For
all I know, they never did divorce.
Fact -- for all I know, they were never even properly married. No, that ain’t it. Sorry Mr. Freud -- you
don’t win that kewpie doll.”
“So
what is it?”
Murphy
mumbling. “Hard t’explain…”
Now
Solly got thoughtful.
“Y’know… Just indulge me here, okay? Because I heard a rumor there’s this, some kind of Church
doctrine, in this general area -- I won’t even try to quote it, I’d just screw
it up: but something along
the lines of, like, a woman and a man, yadda yadda, and they get hitched up by
God, in just the right way: and
from then on, it’s like trying to
yank a horseshoe loose from the hoof -- or no: more like, trying to yank the blue right out of the sky.”
Murphy
raised a respectful eyebrow.
“That’s pretty much it, Solly.
That’s very well put.”
He nodded again, and savored.
The blue, right out of the sky.
“So
like -- Murphy -- that belief, I get it:
it’s a mystical belief. My people also understand what
that might mean, by the way, believe it or not. I mean, God spoke to Moses, right out of a burning
bush.”
“Guess
you had to be there,” Murphy said.
“Yeh
-- right.” Solly wasn’t sure
if Murphy was making blasphemous fun of the Torah, or whether he meant it
literally: as a fact, or even as a
wish. Anyhow he hurried on. “So this -- this doctrine, or
this dogma, or this whatever you guys call it -- phrase it however you like,
this mystical Thing: do you -- do
you believe it? You? Honest Injun?
For real?”
Murphy
frowned. “Look, Solly -- I
don’t want to squirrel out, here; but it’s kind of the wrong question. -- No I mean, it’s a perfectly
okay question, just on a friendly level, like Do you think Amanda’s hot, and
Whadaya think about the chances for Brooklyn this year. But nothing eternal depends upon your fluttering,
or my flickering, moods of belief or unbelief. And thank God for that! Plus even, let’s say, believing: we can believe
true things for wrong reasons; or
slightly off-kilter things for good reasons; or believe true things for what passes for sound reasons,
only fact is we don’t know what the heck
we’re talking about. Just
like what most everybody believes and ever has believed, about stuff in
science. You may
believe the planet Earth goes round and round the sun; and that your sandwich is made up of
atoms, and that the atoms are all stuck
together out of these little eentsy bits can’t nobody see ‘em; and that might be true; but brother, you
ain’t got a clue.”
Murphy
then took a long, and slow, reflective sip, of the splendid beverage in his
tall glass. It was
shaped like a long and slender cone;
and he eyed with discerning pleasure, how the level of the sparkling gold
went down, with each refreshing draught.
“Tell
you one thing, though -- I believe a lot more drunk, than I do sober. And that doesn’t mean I’m misbelieving
then, either.
“Give
you an example. You’ve heard of
Dutch Courage -- the bravery or bravado, of a man in his cups. Well, it’s not the best kind of courage
around: but it’s better than nothing; and it’s one helluva lot better than
cowardice.
“And
when I’m in my cups -- in my shot-glasses, in my beer-mugs -- then I have a
kind of courage that I might not have at other times. And I believe things that, at other times, I…I might still
believe… but am ashamed to believe.
“Like
-- You ask me if I literally believe what the Church teaches: that he and she who are united, in the
name of the Ghost, become indeed One Flesh -- yet of a flesh, a flesh more
fiery and more fleshly than this
sagging paunch and these dried-out wrinkles here -- a flesh such as that very
bread becomes, when it ignites and catches fire -- no, catches light…”
And
then, alarmingly, his eyes grew
red, like a mean drunk. And
suddenly he lunged across the table, grabbing Solly by his necktie.
“Yes, I believe it,
dammit! I believe it utterly, I believe it savagely.” Stunned by his own sudden violence, he relaxed his grip, and
settled back. “But when I’m in a
roomful of exquisitely educated reserved people, with their langorous manners
and their tight Princetonian smiles -- well, then, it sort of sucks to sound
like an idiot, or a caveman, or a…or a Christian.. so then I mumble something
and make excuses and they all nod and agree and say Well-spoken (for a working
man), and add On the one hand this and On the other hand that, sigh sigh, we’ll
never know, but isn’t it swell that in this great country of ours, each one is
free to celebrate his or her own unique and individual independent completely
made-up beliefs, all of them so
delightfully quaint, which none of us should ever criticize, since after all,
What is truth? We’ll never know.”
Again
the savage growl; Solly prudently
moved his chair back, as Murphy was again looking dangerous: though this time, for a broader and
absent enemy.
“’Cept
-- guess what -- You’ll know. You - will - know
-- we’ll all know. You may know by
Fire, or you might know by Light:
but you’ll know -- oh, trust me: you’ll know.”
-->
~
For the further
adventures of Solly and Murphy,
try this:
Murphy and the Magic Pawnshop
~
.
