Best Man... donna matte curran Dazed and confused from the effects of the ceremony, David moved down the aisle of the church with the other wedding guests. He could still see the white form of the bride, gliding softly with the procession. The bride Eleanor who should have been his bride. The fresh air hit him suddenly as he came out of doors, making him realize how emotionally upset he really was. He actually felt weak. He was a fool to have come, but it had been necessary to convince himself that she was gone forever and with her his old familiar life. He'd have to rebuild, start over. How could he with that empty, helpless feeling inside of him? He wondered if the crowd around him understood his little act. He was standing with them now, waiting to throw rice at the happy couple and send them on their way. Did people really think he didn't care? How could one know a girl like Eleanor, love her as he had, and then suddenly not care? One couldn't at least, he couldn't. A new thought came to him now. He wondered if she'd be happy, really happy. Up to this point he had been concerned mainly with his own loss. He was suddenly filled with anxiety for her future. His chief goal in life had always been that of making her happy; if by this marriage she were permanently content, fully satisfied, his purpose had been indirectly accomplished. He could have made her happy, though, if she had just let him try. He'd never been able to tell her all this. He wondered if it would have made any difference. She knew he loved her, of course; but did she know how much? Did she know he thought more of her than life itself? He strained his eyes for the first glimpse of her appearance. Finally she came. She had exchanged hei white satin for a soft, smart outfit of blue. She looked especially beautiful in blue. Two orchids bounced on her shoulder. She was radiant; she'd be happy, there was no doubt about it. She passed directly in front of him, almost so close that he could reach out and touch her soft hair. A swish of perfume, the soft hum of a powerful motor, acclamations and congratulations and she was gone forever. The crowd dwindled until it became a mere handful of people. David was standing in the same spot looking after the vanished car when someone put a hand on his shoulder. "Handsome couple, aren't they? Tom's a good friend of mine. The bride looks very nice; do you know her?" David's voice was strained and hushed, "Eleanor. Yes, I know her." He turned to face his intruder who occupied the place Eleanor had just left, then moved again to gaze in the direction the car had traveled. "She is, indeed, a lovely girl." He opened a tightly clenched fist as he walked slowly down the street. A few grains of rice dribbled to the sidewalk TEN Right Will Triumph... grant neuteboom My number was 26606, but within the familiarity of my own little circle I was called "Six." I want it to be severely understood from the outset that I hold no enmity toward the police or the guards and overseers who, in my brief incarceration in the local Hall of Tears, always showed a sympathetic understanding of my acts and my philosophy toward life. On the other hand I would not be the fearless realist that I am did I not reiterate my belief that I was the recipient of a raw deal; and a raw deal will rankle in the breast even of one who believes he has achieved that intellectual tolerance of outlook which is so essential to the modern spirit of things. I will never forget that inauspicious morning when the two great steel doors opened before me and I was swallowed up into the gloomy precincts of the city jail, to be known henceforward by an anonymous nom de plume, if I may be permitted to spin a quip between such serious thoughts. A tall, pale trustee tersely asked if I wanted my clothes too big or too little, and if I liked those vacated by Negroes, Chinese or Republicans. I replied in Esperanto that I did not believe in racial differences. He thereupon slung me some duds which he said were recently owned by an electrocuted salesman of obscene literature. The pants had a nice press. They bid me take a bath. I didn't need a bath, but took it anyway, fearing official censure. To my immense lack of delight the water was stone cold. I was then ushered into the barber shop, where I was politely asked in what fashion I desired to have my hair cut. Had I studied their faces with more profit, I would have known that this was but one of their barbarous (to again unconsciously perpetrate a bon mot) jokes. I was locked in a cell. A screw (prison parlance for a guard or overseer) came over and engaged me in conversation, asking about my rap, et cetera. I replied in my friendliest fashion, wishing to make friends in a friendly way, thus paving the course of my stay with the bonds and willing gestures of friendship's social niceties. I will attempt to reproduce his remarks. He said, "You'll get used to this here place, 206, and you'll find it ain't so bad like some people make out. Mind your own business, and you will find us overseers is not the ruf' fians or got the hearts of stone which some would entice you to believe. Do your work good and nobody will have nothing to say to you. Keep your cell clean of verminous insects, stay away from these clicks that congregate around, obey orders, and especially don't get into no fights, and before you can say Jack Robertson, you'll be out in the fresh sunshine, tasting the glorious delights of liberty." After the stout and friendly screw had left me to my solitude, I dwelt rather bitterly upon the raw deal I had been given. I was speculating in the spirit of intolerant bitterness when a man garbed in the dunnage of a convict like myself appeared before my cell door. "So you're a kidnaper," he said rather flippantly, apropos of nothing in particular, as the French gaily put it. "Whom are you?" I questioned, looking up. (I had no particular wish, you understand, to peruse the social obituaries.) "I'm 23045," he replied nastily, and if my readers, if such there be, do not believe that the number 23045 can be replied nastily, I will make an affidavit to the same. I volunteered one of the pleasantries of social interlude. "I'm very happy to know you, sir," I said, smiling. "Your gate locked?" "It is not locked, but the guard told me to keep it closed " "He did?" "Yes." The man 23045 seemed to be thinking of something, if a stupid-looking lowbrow such as 23045 could be accused of such an unfamiliar act. At last he wrinkled his brow sillily. "How," he asked me seriously, "would you like a punch in the nose?" There are times when one with the best will in the world must feel himself the victim of being nonplused. Combining what intelligence I possess with the disposition to be perennially friendly and good-natured, I rejoined, "Well, to tell you the truth, 23045, I don't think I would." "Nevertheless," he said firmly, opening my gate, "that is what you are going to get." I felt myself being uniquely punched on the nose. I know my readers will be disgusted with this account of a crude and vulgar brawl, but such are the incidents that make up the routine of prison life. I promised that I would reveal the narrative of my incarceration in all its nude horror and brutality, and to such a literary resolve I would never play false, though the heavens smash down upon my humble brow and the critics dub me a sterner realist than Bailey himself. As I picked myself up from the floor I beheld for the first time the vast amounts of whitewashed wall that surrounded me. Immediately all of the potential Michaelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci came to my fingertips and blended noiselessly with the Shakespeare and John Milton already there. Hanging in the southeast corner of my apartment I noted a rust encrusted nail suspended on a string from the ceiling. On the wall directly beneath it a sign cautioned: "Please write with me if write you must, But leave me for the cause that's just. Another's sorrows will I stress, In proving freedom of the press." Thus inspired, I feverishly scratched "Slug Neuteboom, 1940," above the bed. I have penned this manuscript upon a filched Keeley's napkin, parchment made from a tanned rat's skin and the jail luncheon menu. I corked it up tightly in a Four Roses bottle, knowing that sooner or later it would find its way into collegiate hands, and then tossed it out the window. ELEVEN