The Great American Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

can’t always have what you want.”
    â€œSuppose what I want is for them to admit THE TRUTH!”
    â€œWell, what may seem like the truth to you,” said the seventeen-year-old bus driver and part-time philosopher, “may not, of course, seem like the truth to the other fella, you know.”
    â€œTHEN THE OTHER FELLOW IS WRONG, IDIOT!”
    â€œSmitty,” said the slit, who last year they gave an award and a special dinner for being the best at Valhalla at handling tantrums and rages, “what difference does it make anyway? Suppose they don’t know it’s the truth. Well, they’re the ones who are missing out, not you. Actually, you ought to think of yourself as fortunate and take pride in the fact that where others are mistaken, you are correct. If I were you, I wouldn’t be angry with them; I would feel sorry for them.”
    â€œWell, you ain’t me! Besides, they know the truth as well as I do. They are only pretending not to.”
    â€œBut, Smitty, why? Now you can be a reasonable and intelligent man, at least when you want to. Why would they want to do a thing like that?”
    â€œBecause the truth to them has no meaning! The real human past has no importance! They distort and falsify to suit themselves! They feed the American public fairy tales and lies! Out of arrogance! Out of shame! Out of their terrible guilty conscience!”
    â€œNow, now,” says the slit, “you don’t really think people are like that, do you? How can you, with your wonderful love of baseball, say such things while standing here in the Hall of Fame?”
    I would have told her—and anybody else who wants to know—if I had not at that moment seen coming toward me down the stairway from the Babe Ruth Wing, the Commissioner himself, Mr. Bowie Kuhn, and his entourage. Looking for all the world like the President of General Motors. And she asks me why they feed the people lies. Same reason General Motors does. The profit motive, Mr. Chairman! To fleece the public!
    â€œCommissioner! Commissioner Kuhn!”
    â€œYes, sir,” he replies.
    â€œNo, no!” says the slit, but I free myself from her grasp by rapping her one on the bunions.
    â€œHow do you do, Commissioner. I would like to introduce myself, in case you have forgotten. I am Word Smith, used to write the ‘One Man’s Opinion’ column for the Finest Family Newspapers back in the days of the Patriot League.”
    â€œSmitty!”
    â€œI see,” said Kuhn, nodding.
    â€œI used to be a member of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America myself, and until 1946 voted annually in these Hall of Fame elections. Then, as you may recall, I was slandered and jailed. Cast my vote in the very first election for Mr. Ty Cobb.”
    â€œI see. For Cobb. Good choice.”
    By now a crowd of geezers, gaffers, and codgers, including the six and ten puerile Methuselahs of my own party, are all pushing close to get a look at the Commissioner and the crackpot.
    â€œAnd I am here,” I tell him, “to cast another vote today.” Here I extracted from my vest the small white envelope I had prepared the previous day and handed it to Mr. Bowie Kuhn.
    To my astonishment, he not only accepted it, but behind those businessman’s spectacles, his eyes welled up with tears.
    Well, fans, so did mine. So do they now, remembering.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Smith,” he said.
    â€œWhy, you’re welcome, Commissioner.”
    I could have burst right through my million wrinkles, I was so happy, and Kuhn, he couldn’t tear himself away. “Where are you living these days?” he asked.
    I smiled. “State Home for the Aged, the Infirm, the Despondent, the Neglected, the Decrepit, the Incontinent, the Senile, and the Just About Scared to Death. Life creeps in its petty pace, Commissioner.”
    â€œDon’t mind him, Mr. Kuhn,” someone volunteered from the crowd,