A Young Man's City

There are close to fifty Lanes in the telephone directory. Fourteen of them were christened "James." But only one has the middle initial "B." He is proud of his initial, declares it every time he says his name. It is what separates him from the redundancy of the roll call, makes him unique in a city full of young men.

He signed the motel roster, "James B Lane," but the desk clerk didn't appreciate his uniqueness. Now, the unobservant kid raps on the room door and jiggles the knob. He seems impatient. It might suit him better to find a job that doesn't entail contact with people.

"Hey!" he shouts. "You in there? Open up, buddy!"

At the second or third volley of knocks, James B Lane rolls to the edge of the bed and stands. He shrugs a blue robe over his shoulders and answers the door.

"Checkout time's at eleven," the boy says, an angry sarcasm coloring his voice. "You know that. If you want another week, you have to pay for another week. You want me to get into trouble?"

James B Lane scratches his stubbled chin. He faintly remembers paying his eight dollars on Tuesday.

"All right," he says. "I'll be over to the office in an hour to pay."

The kid grumbles in acknowledgement and lets the door swing closed. James B Lane, a sturdy man who looks a decade younger than he is, shrugs the robe back off and pads into the bathroom. He shaves the scruffy whiskers from his chin and showers, looking down at his muscled, well-made body with sincere admiration. His snappy blue suit is wrinkled; he irons it. His shoes are scuffed; he shines them.

Today is Saturday, James B Lane's day off, and he plans to spend it well. In a young man's city, there are plenty of diversions.

"Ten dollars," the boy at the desk says mechanically.

"My God," James B Lane mumbles, counting the crisp bills from his wallet. "Keep raising the rent here and I'll be better off buying a house."

The boy ignores this. His mood noticeably improves after he shoves the money into the cash drawer. He even smiles at James B Lane and wishes him a good day.

James B Lane signs the guest register again. His name appears on every fifth line, as long ago as March, he surmises. Every signature boasts an extra-large "B" in the center.

"I'll go to that diner on Murphey Avenue," he says to himself on the sidewalk. "Once I get some food in me, I'll feel more like myself."

He walks toward Murphey, jingling the coins in his pocket. Blossoming girls and rough young men walk hand-in-hand to the park. Every few minutes, an old widow veers her automobile around a corner, singing, or scowling, to the dog in the other seat. He crosses against the light several times, then stops and looks vacantly at the street sign.

Transom? For a moment, he is bewildered, then: That's right. How silly of me. That café was in Biloxi. How strange I feel today! I need some ham and eggs.

James B Lane struts across Transom, then Olive, then Division, and swings through the door of a small restaurant. There is a counter and a modest scattering of booths to each side of the door. A pretty waitress in a skirt shorter than her hair maneuvers around him with a cup of coffee. There are three old men, an older frycook, and the girl.

One eye on the waitress, James B Lane sits at a booth. He sniffs the greasy, salty, ham-and-eggs air. He has almost forgotten the embarrassment of thinking he was still in Biloxi.

"What'll it be, Mac?" the leggy young woman asks, popping her cherry-flavored gum between white molars. Her pen is poised.

"Ham and eggs," he says. "The name is James B Lane." He over-pronounces the initial.

"Oh?" She tilts her hips; one hand smoothes her checkered skirt. "What's the 'B' stand for?"

"Bertrand," he replies, a smile of self-satisfaction and his usual jaunty manner showing.

"Wow, Mac," the waitress says with another crack of her gum. "That's some name."

She sways behind the counter with his order. He watches, pressing his hands to his thighs, then looks at the other patrons. They are sucking coffee and eggs through the permanently pursed lips of age. They might not have combed their hair before coming here.

The waitress sways back to James B Lane with a hot clay plate and a coffee mug. The ham looks like it was hit by a truck. It tastes good, though, and the eggs aren't too runny. He feels completely normal now. It must have been fatigue and hunger.

"What time do you get off work?" he asks the girl as she clears the table. "I don't have plans."

She laughs. He looks at her expectantly.

"You're serious?"

"Sure, I'm serious! With a sophisticated woman like you on my arm, who wouldn't envy me?" he says. The words are well used but don't sound too practiced.

She laughs again, more like a nervous reaction. One ankle crosses behind the other. Her blouse tugs a little when she inhales. Her eyes are fixed on him.

"Seven," she finally admits, breathing the word out with relief. Her mouth flows into the shape of a heart, disperses into a smile. She takes his money and sways back behind the counter.

James B Lane whistles on the way out.

There's a community park just a few blocks away. James B Lane parades in that direction, feeling incredibly handsome. He tries to cross at the corner and a woman in a new car brakes suddenly and honks. James B Lane smiles at her and waves, but is met by a frown. He doesn't let it bother him. In a city this size, there's bound to be a frigid old maid or two.

In the park, a man in a purple suit is giving pony rides. The rough young men pay their quarters to watch their innocent girls rock back and forth astride the beasts. James B Lane buys a newspaper and peers lewdly over it to watch a girl in a skirt getting a ride. Pigeons crowd his bench.

"How wonderful it is to be away from work!" James B Lane sighs. He folds his newspaper and closes his eyes, his neck resting on the back of the bench.

"What kind of work do you do?" An older woman, not ancient, but old, sits next to him on the bench. "I don't mean to intrude," she says when he doesn't answer right away.

"No, not at all," he says, extending his hand. He is not against indulging senior citizens. "James B Lane. I'm a writer for the Sterling Local, a columnist."

"James B Lane," she muses. "Yes, I remember reading your column. You have a singular talent, sir, if you don't mind my saying. Your opinion on rainy days is tacked up in my reading room. Quite clever."

She begins to crumble a cookie and toss the pieces to the birds. Every few moments she steals a piece of the wafer for herself. Her hands are far too thin, poor thing.

I should write another column on the elderly, he thinks. There seem to be an awful lot of pitiful folks in this end of the city.

The old woman suddenly turns. She pulls her gloves back on and presses the sides of her hairdo.

"Mr. Lane, I am overdue," she says ambiguously. "It was a pleasure sitting with you. I must say, I quite preferred your writings to those of the man who replaced you."

"What do you mean by that," he asks quickly, "man who replaced me?"

"At the Sterling Local. Surely you don't write there now, Mr. Lane. A Mr. Chidings writes in your space. He's far too gruff for me," she says simply, placing a small lace hat on her crown.

"But I do write there," James B Lane insists, taking hold of the woman's hand. "I worked Friday and will work again Monday."

The old lady's thin fingers are cold in his grip. She gathers the wrinkles in her brow. The other hand settles, spider-like, on the wrist of James B Lane. There is something like pity in her manner and voice.

"Of course, Mr. Lane, you would know better than I. I must be mistaken. Good day, sir," she concludes.

"Yes, good day," he echoes and lets her go.

What a queer old woman! he thinks to himself. She must read another paper. Old people are prone to confusion.

The man in the purple suit is now giving rides to small children; some won't go without their mothers. James B Lane checks his pocket watch: twelve thirty-five.

The street is far more crowded now. There might be five hundred other young men walking about. There might be forty-seven other Mr. Lanes looking for a nice place to have lunch. There might be thirteen other James Lanes traveling in blue suits. But there is only one James B Lane, separate from the rest.

James B Lane eats corned beef on rye toast under a sign with someone else's name. He walks back to the motel, changes his clothes - now a bright sport coat and lightweight slacks - and washes his face at a sink with no mirror. He naps and wakes in time to walk back to the diner.

The leggy waitress stares at him, her mouth open a little. Her hair is slightly disheveled, but she is still pretty. After a long moment, she begins to chew her gum again.

"Didn't think I'd show up?" James B Lane asks amusedly. "I thought we could catch the eight-thirty cinema. I'll buy drinks afterward. You are twenty-one, aren't you?"

"Listen, Mac, I - I can't go with you," the waitress stutters. "I have a boyfriend, and besides, you're old enough to be my father, twice! I humored you this morning, but enough is enough."

"What are you talking about? I'm not twelve years older than you."

She ignores him, pulls her coat tighter. It's starting to get dimmer outside. The city is fading to gray-blue. Without even an apology, she starts to walk away.

Out of impulse, James B Lane grabs her arm. She whirls around to face him, fear and anger widening her eyes and mouth.

"You'd better let go of me, Mac, or I'll scream. There's a cop patrol goes past this place every half-hour." She doesn't say it loudly, but there is something forceful and ominous in her voice.

He lets go. Her long legs take her down the street in record time. He starts in the opposite direction, toward the park.

For several minutes, James B Lane doesn't think of anything. Then, the tumblers click into place and the door nudges open just enough for him to glimpse himself.

"Hey, buddy!" a young man calls. James B Lane is sitting on a bench in the dark, looking into a tree with apathy. The young man, the desk clerk from the motel, sits next to him. He is panting.

"Thought I'd find you somewhere around here. Bad day? . . . Thought so when I saw you this morning. I'm sorry I was short with you. Friends?" he asks hopefully, holding out his hand.

James B Lane takes his hand and uses it as a crutch to stand. There is a new weakness in his knees. He peers around as if he has just woken up.

"Come on, buddy," the kid says gently, taking his arm. "My car's this way."

In his room, James B Lane carefully turns the sheet back. Avery - that is the kid's name; he remembers now - sets a steam-wreathed mug on the small table, along with an envelope.

"Your senility check came in the mail. They ought to turn the "SS" into dollar signs," he jokes, then looks away, shamefaced, and clears his throat. "Brought you some tea, buddy."

James B Lane sits in the thin chair and rubs his stubbled face. There is a begging look in his eyes. He turns them full onto Avery, starts to say something. His lip trembles and his hands fall into his lap.

The boy kneels at his side. He takes James B Lane's helpless hand and squeezes it. His smile is sick.

"You don't have to say anything, Grandpa," he says tenderly. "Everything's okay."

Avery closes the door on his way out, cutting off the sounds of a young man's city. The lamp goes out on forty-seven Lanes. Thirteen of them who answer to James stare out the window at the fingernail clipping of a moon. One nameless old man cries.