Train Tracks Read Online Free PDF Page B

rope for a belt. And where the other men put giant padlocks on their
wooden booths when they swung the boards up at night, Monk would tie a rope
around, a little string around his stall, as if to laugh at everybody. Years
afterwards, I learned that during the Sabbath a string was tied around the
shtetl, or villages, of the Carpathian Mountains. Mere strings to keep intruders
from violating the day of rest. So Monk would tie up his merchandise with
string.
    Monk was a drinker. He was the strongest one in the
market, and he was totally nonviolent, totally against war. He was the only guy
to talk to me realistically. Where he’d get mad at me, the other guys would play
with me at this and that. What did I know? I’d say things like, “Monk, you got
any guns?” I was six and into guns. You know, being around antiques and used
things I never knew what was coming in next, and that’s what made that life
interesting. There was always hope that the next lot of junk might contain
something that I wanted. So I’d say, “Hey, Monk, do you got any guns, any
pistols, or anything like that? Rifles, you know—” “What do you need guns for,”
he’d ask. “Guns are for one thing only—killing. Don’t be a monster! Go away!
Don’t talk to me about guns!” he’d say, his broad face scowling.
    Anyway, I liked Monk. Now, Monk had reputedly been
a very, very powerful man in his youth. Once in a while he’d get very drunk.
Sometimes he’d drink an entire bottle in a day; he was one of those guys. He
always kept a quart of whiskey under his stand, and he’d lift it up by its neck,
straight up to the ceiling, and he’d go “Glug, glug, glug,” you know, and then
put it down, wipe his mouth, and then go “ahh,” and everyone would move
back.
    You’ve got to picture him: He was broad more than
tall, he wore an undershirt in winter—he dressed like a clown, he looked like
Chaplin but broad and wide with a severe, fierce, Carpathian Mountains face.
    And what did he sell? Now, Monk looked like he was
selling garbage. See, my father, in the stand, had his merchandise built up,
with bronze figures on the near shelves and large candelabra towards the rear
reaching to the plaster-cracked ceiling, like a stairway to heaven. At the top
were the most expensive things, as in Coney Island booths. My father sold on an
old principle: cheap things up front and expensive things in the rear. See, that
way he could get you for lunch money, at least. But Monk had his merchandise on
a one-tier stand, and it was all mixed up. There was no order to it. He didn’t
even try to lay it out. He would take a box of goods and spill it out on the
table. Now, who would buy from Monk? A surprisingly large number of doctors,
really; some important men. One of them happened to be the head of a major
hospital. Years later, I learned that he was the chief of staff. The old
chiseler would come down to the market on Saturdays, on his day off, and he
would bargain with Monk, because Monk would play games with the world. He would
take gold and silver and mix it in with tin just to watch the chiselers go
through it for hours, through the small pieces of jewelry, like rats scratching
at the earth, waiting to pull the gold from the midst of the junk. If Monk was
in a bad mood, he might do anything. His customers might ask, “Hey, Monk—how
much is this?” He’d look at the guy, knowing that the piece might be gold or
silver, and if he was in the mood he might say, “Ten cents,” just to see their
reaction, just to see them shake. As they paid the dime for gold, Monk would
draw his true payment—derision. On the other hand, an inexpensive piece of
jewelry might be priced out of all proportions. “How much is this?”—“You can’t
buy it.” Or, if a woman wanted a tin bracelet: “It’s not for sale.” He would do
just