Flowers for Algernon

'It's not sculpture,' I insisted. I opened the door to Algernon's living-cage attached to the maze, and let him into the maze opening.

'My God!' she whispered. 'Sculpture with a living element. Charlie, it's the greatest thing since junkmobiles and tincannia.'

I tried to explain, but she insisted that the living ele­ment would make sculpture history. Only when I saw the laughter in her wild eyes did I realize she was teasing me. 'It could be self-perpetuating art,' she went on, 'a creative experience for the art lover. You get another mouse and when they have babies, you always keep one to reproduce the living element. Your work of art attains immortality, and all the fashionable people buy copies for conversation pieces. What are you going to call it?'

'All right,' I sighed. 'I surrender….'

'No,' she snorted, tapping the plastic dome where Al­gernon had found his way into the goal-box. 'I surrender is too much of a cliche. How about: Life is just a box of mazes?'

'You're a nut!' I said.

'Naturally!' She spun around and curtsied. 'I was wondering when you'd notice.'

About then the coffee boiled over.

Halfway through the cup of coffee, she gasped and said she had to run because she had a date a half-hour ear­lier with someone she met at an art exhibit.

'You wanted some money,' I said.

She reached into my half open wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill. 'Till next week,' she said, 'when the check comes. Thanks a mill.' She crumpled the money, blew Al­gernon a kiss, and before I could say anything she was out the window onto the fire escape, and out of sight. I stood there foolishly looking after her.

So damned attractive. So full of life and excitement. Her voice, her eyes—everything about her was an invita­ tion. And she lived out the window and just a fire escape away.

June 20

Perhaps I should have waited before going to see Matt; or not gone to see him at all. I don't know. Noth­ing turns out the way I expect it to. With the clue that

Matt had opened a barbershop somewhere in the Bronx, it was a simple matter to find him. I remembered he had sold for a barber supply company in New York. That led me to Metro Barber Shop Supplies who had a barbershop ac­count under the name of Gordons Barber Shop on Went-worth Street in the Bronx.

Matt had often talked about a barbershop of his own. How he hated selling! What battles they had about it! Rose screaming that a salesman was at least a dignified occupa­tion, but she would never have a barber for a husband. And oh, wouldn't Margaret Phinney snicker at the 'bar­ber's wife.' And what about Lois Meiner whose husband was a claims examiner for the Alarm Casualty Company? Wouldn't she stick her nose up in the air!

During the years he worked as a salesman, hating every day of it (especially after he saw the movie version of Death of a Salesman) Matt dreamed that he would some­day become his own boss. That must have been in his mind in those days when he talked about saving money and gave me my haircuts down in the basement. They were good haircuts too, he boasted, a lot better than I'd get in that cheap barbershop on Scales Avenue. When he walked out on Rose, he walked out on selling too, and I admired him for that.

I was excited at the thought of seeing him. Memories were warm ones. Matt had been willing to take me as I was. Before Norma: the arguments that weren't about money or impressing the neighbors were about me—that I should be let alone instead of being pushed to do what other kids did. And after Norma: that I had a right to a life of my own even though I wasn't like other children. Always de­fending me. I couldn't wait to see the expression on his face. He was someone I'd be able to share this with.

Wentworth Street was a rundown section of the Bronx. Most of the stores on the street had 'For Rent' signs in the windows, and others were closed for the day. But halfway down the block from the bus stop there was a barber pole reflecting a candy cane of light from the window.

The shop was empty except for the barber reading a magazine in the chair nearest the window. When he looked up at me, I recognized Matt—stocky, red-cheeked, a lot older and nearly bald with a fringe of gray hair bor­ dering the sides of his head—but still Matt. Seeing me at the door, he tossed the magazine aside.

'No waiting. You're next.'

I hesitated, and he misunderstood. 'Usually not open at this hour, mister. Had an appointment with one of my regulars, but he didn't show. Just about to close. Lucky for you I sat down to rest my feet. Best haircut and shave in the Bronx.'

As I let myself be drawn into the shop, he bustled around, pulling out scissors and combs and a fresh neckcloth.

'Everything sanitary, as you can see, which is more than I can say for most barbershops in this neighborhood. Haircut and shave?'

I eased myself into the chair. Incredible that he didn't recognize me when I knew him so plainly. I had to remind myself that he had not seen me in more than fifteen years, and that my appearance had changed even more in the past months. He studied me in the mirror now that he had me covered with the striped neckcloth, and I saw a frown of feint recognition.

'The works,' I said, nodding at the union-shop price list, 'haircut, shave, shampoo, sun-tan…'

His eyebrows went up.

'I've got to meet someone I haven't seen in a long time,' I assured him, 'and I want to look my best.'

It was a frightening sensation, having him cut my hair again. Later, as he stropped the razor against leather the harsh whisper made me cringe. I bent my head under the gentle press of his hand and felt the blade scrape carefully across my neck. I closed my eyes and waited. It was as if I were on the operating table again.

My neck muscle knotted, and without warning it twitched. The blade nicked me just above the Adam's apple.

'Hey!' he shouted. 'Jesus… take it easy. You moved. Hey, I'm awful sorry.'

He dashed to wet a towel at the sink.

In the mirror I watched the bright red bubble and the thin line dripping down my throat. Excited and apologiz­ing, he got to it before it reached the neckcloth.

Watching him move, adroit for such a short, heavy man, I felt guilty at the deception. I wanted to tell him who I was and have him put his arm around my shoulder, so we could talk about the old days. But I waited while he dabbed at the cut with styptic powder.

He finished shaving me silently, and then brought the sun-tan lamp over to the chair and put cool white pads of cotton soaked in witch hazel over my eyes. There, in the bright red inner darkness I saw what happened the night he took me away from the house for the last time….

Charlie is asleep in the other room, but he wakens to the sound of his mother shrieking. He has learned to sleep through quarrels—they are an everyday occurrence in his house. But tonight there is something terribly wrong in that hysteria. He shrinks back into the pillow and listens.

'I can't help it! He's got to go! We've got her to think about. I won't have her come home from school crying every day like this because the children tease her. We can't destroy her chance for a normal life because of him.'

'What do you want to do? Turn him out into the street?'

'Put him away. Send him to the Warren State Home.'

'Let's talk it over in the morning.'

'No. All you do is talk, talk, and you don't do any­thing. I don't want him here another day. Now— tonight.'

'Don't be foolish, Rose. It's too late to do anything… tonight. You're shouting so loud everyone will hear you.'

'I don't care. He goes out tonight. I can't stand look­ing at him any more.'

'You're being impossible, Rose. What are you doing?'

'I warn you. Get him out of here.'

'Put that knife down.'

'I'm not going to have her life destroyed.'