So here he was, the first of autumn's celebrities. Next month it might be some abstractionist from Allentown who worked on a twelve-foot ladder shooting house-paint, in two colors only, blue and cloud-gray, from cake- decorators and insecticide-sprayers on canvas covered with layers of mucilage and coffee grounds, who simply needed appreciation to grow! or a Chicago tin-cutter of mobiles, aged fifteen, already ancient with knowledge. Mr. Garvey's shrewd subconscious grew even more suspicious when he made the terrible mistake of reading the avant-garde's favorite magazine, _Nucleus_.
«This article on Dante, now,» said Garvey. «Fascinating. Especially where it discusses the spatial metaphors conveyed in the foothills of the _Antipurgatorio_ and the _Paradiso Terrestre_ on top of the Mountain. The bit about Cantos XV?XVIII, the so-called „doctrinal cantos“ is brilliant!»
How did The Cellar Septet react?
Stunned, all of them!
There was a noticeable chill.
They departed in short order when instead of being a delightfully mass-minded, keep-up-with-the-Joneses, machine-dominated chap leading a wishy_washy life of quiet desperation, Garvey enraged them with opinions on _Does Existentialism Still Exist, or Is Kraft-Ebbing?_ They didn't want opinions on alchemy and symbolism given in a piccolo voice, Garvey's subconscious warned him. They only wanted Garvey's good old-fashioned plain white bread and churned country butter, to be chewed on later at a dim bar, exclaiming how priceless!
Garvey retreated.
Next night he was his old precious self. Dale Carnegie? Splendid religious leader! Hart Schaffner & Marx? Better than Bond Street! Member of the After-Shave Club? That was Garvey! Latest Book-of-the-Month? Here on the table! Had they ever tried Elinor Glyn?
The Cellar Septet was horrified, delighted. They let themselves be bludgeoned into watching Milton Berle. Garvey laughed at everything Berle said. It was arranged for neighbors to tape-record various daytime soap operas which Garvey replayed evenings with religious awe, while the Cellar Septet analyzed his face and his complete devotion to _Ma Perkins_ and _John's Other Wife_.
Oh, Garvey was getting sly. His inner self observed: You're on top. Stay there! Please your public! Tomorrow, play the Two Black Crows records! Mind your step! Bonnie Baker, now… that's it! They'll shudder, incredulous that you really like her singing. What about Guy Lombardo? That's the ticket!
The mob-mind, said his subconscious. You're symbolic of the crowd. They came to study the dreadful vulgarity of this imaginary Mass Man they pretend to hate. But they're fascinated with the snake-pit.
Guessing his thought, his wife objected. «They _like_ you.»
«In a frightening sort of way,» he said. «I've lain awake figuring why they should come see me! Always hated and bored myself. Stupid, tattletale-gray man. Not an original thought in my mind. All I know now is: I love company. I've always wanted to be gregarious, never had the chance. It's been a ball these last months! But their interest is dying. I want company forever! What shall I do?»
His subconscious provided shopping lists.
_Beer. It's unimaginative_.
_Pretzels. Delightfully «passe_.»
_Stop by Mother's. Pick up Max field Parrish painting, the flyspecked, sunburnt one. Lecture on same tonight_.
By December Mr. Garvey was really frightened.
The Cellar Septet was now quite accustomed to Milton Berle and Guy Lombardo. In fact, they had rationalized themselves into a position where they acclaimed Berle as really too _rare_ for the American public, and Lombardo was twenty years ahead of his time; the nastiest people liked him for the commonest reasons.
Garvey's empire trembled.
Suddenly he was just another person, no longer diverting the tastes of friends, but frantically pursuing them as they seized at Nora Bayes, the 1917 Knickerbocker Quartette, Al Jolson singing «Where Did Robinson Crusoe Go With Friday on Saturday Night,» and Shep Fields and his Rippling Rhythm. Maxfield Parrish's rediscovery left Mr. Garvey in the north pasture. Overnight, everyone agreed, «Beer's intellectual. What a shame so many _idiots_ drink it.»
In short, his friends vanished. Alexander Pape, it was rumored, for a lark, was even considering hot water for his cold-water flat. This ugly canard was quashed, but not before Alexander Pape suffered a comedown among the _cognoscenti_.
Garvey sweated to anticipate the shifting taste! He increased the free food output, foresaw the swing back to the Roaring Twenties by wearing hairy knickers and displaying his wife in a tube dress and boyish bob long before anyone else.
But, the vultures came, ate, and ran. Now that this frightful Giant, TV, strode the world, they were busily re- embracing radio. Bootlegged 1935 transcriptions of _Vic and Sade_ and _Pepper Young's Family_ were fought over at intellectual galas.
At long last, Garvey was forced to turn to a series of miraculous tours de force, conceived and carried out by his panic-stricken inner self.
The first accident was a slammed car door.
Mr. Garvey's little fingertip was neatly cut off!
In the resultant chaos, hopping about, Garvey stepped on, then kicked the fingertip into a street drain. By the time they fished it out, no doctor would bother sewing it back on.
A happy accident! Next day, strolling by an oriental shop, Garvey spied a beautiful _objet d'art_. His peppy old subconscious, considering his steadily declining box office and his poor audiencerating among the avant-garde, forced him into the shop and dragged out his wallet.
«Have you seen Garvey lately!» screamed Alexander Pape on the phone. «My God, go see!»
«What's _that?_»
Everyone stared.
«Mandarin's finger-guard.» Garvey waved his hand casually. «Oriental antique. Mandarins used them to protect the five-inch nails they cultivated.» He drank his beer, the gold-thimbled little finger cocked. «Everyone hates cripples, the sight of things missing. It was sad losing my finger. But I'm happier with this gold thingamajig.»
«It's a much nicer finger now than any of us can _ever_ have.» His wife dished them all a little green salad. «And George has the _right_ to use it.»
Garvey was shocked and charmed as his dwindling popularity returned. Ah, art! Ah, life! The pendulum swinging back and forth, from complex to simple, again to complex. From romantic to realistic, back to romantic. The clever man could sense intellectual perihelions, and prepare for the violent new orbits. Garvey's subconscious brilliance sat up, began to eat a bit, and some days dared to walk about, trying its unused limbs. It caught fire!
«How unimaginative the world is,» his long-neglected other self said, using his tongue. «If somehow my leg were severed accidentally I wouldn't wear a wooden leg, no! I'd have a gold leg crusted with precious stones made, and part of the leg would be a golden cage in which a bluebird would sing as I walked or sat talking to friends. And if my arm were cut off I'd have a new arm made of copper and jade, all hollow inside, a section for dry ice in it. And five other compartments, one for each finger. Drink, anyone? I'd cry. Sherry? Brandy? Dubonnet? Then I'd twist each finger calmly over the glasses. From five fingers, five cool streams, five liqueurs or wines. I'd tap the golden faucets shut. „Bottoms up!“ I'd cry.
«But, most of all, one almost wishes that one's eye would offend one, Pluck it out, the Bible says. It _was_ the Bible, wasn't it? If that happened to me, I'd use no grisly glass eyes, by God. None of those black, pirate's patches. Know what I'd do? I'd mail a poker chip to your friend in France, _what's_ his name? _Matisse!_ I'd say, „Enclosed find poker chip, and personal check. Please paint on this chip one beautiful blue human eye. Yrs. sincerely, G. Garvey!“»
Well, Garvey had always abhorred his body, found his eyes pale, weak, lacking character. So he was not surprised a month later (when his Gallup ran low again) to see his right eye water, fester, and then pull a complete blank!
