Part 1

Chapter 14,249 wordsPublic domain

Transcriber’s note:

This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects. Italics are delimited with the '_' character as _italic_. The illustrations with a caption have been replaced with [Illustration: caption].

The few minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

THE

SEVEN

STAIRS

Stuart Brent

THE

Houghton Mifflin Company Boston

SEVEN

The Riverside Press Cambridge

STAIRS

Nineteen Sixty-Two

First Printing

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 62-8119 The quotation on pages 89 and 90 is from _The Literary Situation_ by Malcolm Cowley. Copyright 1954 by Malcolm Cowley. Reprinted by permission of the Viking Press, Inc.

The Riverside Press Cambridge · Massachusetts Printed in the U.S.A.

To my mother and father

Acknowledgments

In a real sense, this book is an acknowledgment to all who have had a part in shaping my life and being. Since their names appear only incidentally and accidentally—if at all—in the course of the text, I hope with all my heart that they will accept this collective note of gratitude for all their help.

In particular, however, I wish to mention Hardwick Moseley for his encouragement when the going was rough; Milton Gilbert who made the Seven Stairs possible in the first place; Henry Dry, one of the few men I know who understand the meaning of forbearance; Goldie and Kalmin Levin (Jennie’s mother and father) for their devotion and unfailing help; Robert Parrish for his blue penciling; and Hope, who after giving birth to our son, Joseph, tenderly cared for the unstrung father through the pangs of giving birth to _The Seven Stairs_.

S. B.

Contents

1. And Nobody Came 1

2. “Read Your Lease. Goodbye.” 5

3. How to Get Started in the Book Business 15

4. Building the Seven Stairs 29

5. The Day My Accountant Cried 49

6. The Man with the Golden Couch 58

7. Farewell to the Seven Stairs 75

8. On the Avenue 87

9. Bark Point 110

10. Hope and I 130

11. My Affair with the Monster 141

12. Life in the Theatre 169

13. Writing and Publishing 179

14. Books and Brent 195

THE

SEVEN

STAIRS

1 And Nobody Came

I might as well tell you what this book is about.

Years ago I started to write a memoir about a young fellow who wanted to be a book dealer and how he made out. I tore it up when I discovered the subject had already been covered by a humorist named Will Cuppy in a book called, _How to Become Extinct_.

Now I’m not so sure. I’m still around in my middle-aged obsolescence and all about us the young are withering on the vine. Civilization may beat me yet in achieving the state of the dodo. The tragedy is that so few seem to know or really believe it. Maybe there just isn’t enough innocence left to join with the howl of the stricken book dealer upon barging into the trap. Not just a howl of self-pity, but the yap of the human spirit determined to assert itself no matter what. There’s some juice in that spirit yet, or there would be no point in submitting the following pages as supporting evidence—hopefully, or bitterly, or both.

Let there be no doubt about my original qualifications for the role of Candide. With three hundred dollars worth of books (barely enough to fill five shelves), a used record player, and some old recordings (left in my apartment when I went into the army and still there upon my return), I opened the Seven Stairs Book and Record Shop on the Near North Side of Chicago.

The shop was located in one of the old brownstone, converted residences still remaining on Rush Street—a fashionable townhouse district in the era after the Great Chicago Fire, now the kind of a district into which fashionable townhouses inevitably decline. One had to climb a short flight of stairs above an English basement (I thought there were seven steps—in reality there were eight), pass through a short, dark hall, and unlock a door with a dime store skeleton key before entering finally into the prospective shop. It was mid-August of 1946 when I first stood there in the barren room. The sun had beaten in all day and I gasped for air; and gasping, I stood wondering if this was to be the beginning of a new life and an end to the hit-or-miss of neither success nor failure that summed up my career to the moment.

It all fitted my mood perfectly: the holes in the plaster, the ripped molding, the 1890 light fixture that hung by blackened chains from the ceiling, the wood-burning fireplace, the worn floor, the general air of decay lurking in every corner. Long before the scene registered fully upon my mind, it had entered into my emotions. I saw everything and forgave everything. It could all be repaired, painted, cleaned—set right with a little work. I saw the little room filled with books and records, a fire going, and myself in a velvet jacket, seated behind a desk, being charming and gracious to everyone who came in.

I saw success, excitement, adventure, in the world I loved—the world of books and music. I saw fine people coming and going—beautiful women and handsome men. I saw myself surrounded by warmth, friendship and good feeling, playing my favorite recordings all day, telling my favorite stories, finding myself.

I ran my fingers over the mantelpiece. “I want this room,” I said to myself. “I want it.”

I built shelves to the ceiling and bought all the books I could buy. There was no money left to buy the velvet jacket. Every morning I opened the store bright and early. Every night I closed very late. And no one came to visit me. Morning, noon, and night it was the same. I was alone with my books and my music. Everything was so bright, so shiny, so clean. And the books! There were not very many, but they were all so good! Still nobody came.

How do you go about getting people to buy books? I didn’t know. I had been a teacher before the war. My father was not a business man either, nor his father. No one in my family knew anything about business. I knew the very least.

Every morning I walked into the shop freshly determined: today I will sell a book! I hurried with my housekeeping. And then, what to do? Phone a friend or a relative. I couldn’t think of a relative who read or a friend who wouldn’t see through the thin disguise of my casual greeting and understand the ulterior purpose of my call.

One late afternoon it happened. One of the beautiful people I had dreamed about _came in_.

She stood on the threshold, apparently debating whether it was safe to venture further. “Is this a bookstore?” she said.

“Please come in,” I said. “It’s a bookshop.”

She was solidly built and had a round face above a heavy neck with the fat comfortably overlapping the collar of her white dress. Her legs were sturdy, her feet were spread in a firm stance, she was fat and strong and daring.

“Do you have a copy of _Peace of Mind_?” said my daring first customer.

Everyone was reading the rabbi’s book that summer—except me. It was a bestseller; naturally I wouldn’t touch it. But here was a customer!

“Lady,” I said, opening my business career on a note of total capitulation, “if you’ll wait here a moment, I’ll get the book for you.” She nodded.

“Please,” I added, running out the door.

I sprinted four blocks to A. C. McClurg’s, the wholesaler from whom I bought my original three hundred dollars’ worth of books, and bought a single copy of _Peace of Mind_ for $1.62. Then I ran back to complete my first sale for $2.50.

The realization overwhelmed me that I was totally unprepared to sell a book. I had no bags or wrapping paper. I had no cash register or even a cigar box. It seemed highly improper to accept money and then reach into my pocket for change. It was a long time, in fact, before I could get over the embarrassment of taking anyone’s money at all. I found it very upsetting.

2 “Read Your Lease. Goodbye.”

The near North Side of Chicago is a Greenwich Village, a slum, and a night life strip bordered by the commerce of Michigan Boulevard and the Gold Coast homes and apartments of the wealthy.

Into a narrow trough between the down-and-out losers of Clark Street and the luxurious livers of Lake Shore Drive flows a stream of life that has no direction, organization, or established pattern. Here are attracted the inner-directed ones struggling with their own visions, along with the hangers-on, the disenchanted and emotionally bankrupt. It is a haven for the broken soul as well as the earnest and rebellious. The drug addict, the petty thief, the sex deviant and the alcoholic are generously mixed in among the sincere and aspiring. There are the dislocated wealthy, the connivers and parasites, abortionists and pimps. There are call girls and crowds of visiting firemen, second hand clothing stores and smart shops, pawn brokers and art supply stores.

Gertrude Stein once wrote about Picasso’s reply to a young man who was seeking advice on the best location for opening a Parisian bookstore: “I would just find a place and start selling books.” Well, I found a place, uniquely unfavored as a crossroads of commerce (during the day, virtually no one was on the street), but teeming with the malcontents, the broken, the battered—the flotsam and jetsam of urban life, along with inspired or aspiring prophets, musicians, artists, and writers. What more could one ask?

The original dimensions of the Seven Stairs were fifteen feet by nine feet. A single bay window looked onto Rush Street. At the other end of the room stood a small sink. The bathroom was on the second floor and seldom worked. Three ashcans on the sidewalk by my window served the building for garbage disposal. Occasionally the city emptied them.

Across the hall was a hat shop—a blind for a call girl establishment. The woman who ran it was actually a hat maker and made hats for her girls. She was a heavy woman with enormous breasts, who wore immense earrings, always dressed in black silk, and changed her hair dye regularly: red, jet black, once silver-grey. She had a small, bow-shaped mouth, garishly painted, and in the four years I knew her an improper word never passed her lips. She was filled with commiseration for cats, at least a dozen of which wandered in and out of the hall daily. Once in a while, she would buy a book, always with a fifty dollar bill, and then was very apologetic for the inconvenience when I had to run to the drug store for change.

Behind my shop was another studio occupied by a charming hypochondriacal ballet dancer and a boy friend who was the tallest, ugliest man I had ever encountered. Above were two more studios, occupied by a painter and a girl who wrote poetry. There were also two studios on the third floor, but to this day I have no idea who was there. A bricklayer lived in the basement with his odd and rather pretty daughter, who had bad teeth, a nervous tic, and huge, burning black eyes.

Over this assortment of humanity ruled an evil king who in my reasoned opinion was in fact Mephistopheles in the guise of a landlord. His life had its meaning in seeing that the innocent were punished, that neighbors were aroused to hate and distrust one another, and that needless disaster always threatened his subjects and often befell them.

It was amazing how he could achieve his devilish ends by the simple incantation, “Read your lease. Goodbye.” This was his message, whether in the inevitable phone call when you were a day late with the rent, or in answer to your call for help when the fuses in the basement blew or when on a bitter February night the sink broke and the shop began floating away.

The sink affair occurred at a point when my business had developed to the extent of a few regular accounts and come to a quiet stalemate. Once these faithful customers had come in, I was through for the month. I could scarcely stand the empty hours waiting for someone to talk with. It was bitter February, cold enough to keep any sensible soul off the streets. I sat before the fire, filled with self-pity, my doomed life stretching hopelessly before me. Finally I bestirred myself—and this was my undoing.

All I did was throw a carton up to a shelf—a sort of basketball toss that missed. The box hit the sink, tipped off, and, incredibly, broke an aged lead water pipe. To my horror, water began gushing over the floor. I tried to stuff a towel into the pipe. No good. My beautiful shop! All the beautiful books! Ruin!

Still holding the towel to the pipe with one hand, I dialed my father’s telephone number. He was a sound man concerning the mechanical world.

“Do you have a broom?” he said. “All right, cut it in two and make a plug for the pipe. Then call your landlord.”

I went to work frantically. All the time water was pouring across the floor. Finally I managed to whittle a temporary plug. Then I phoned the landlord.

He inquired of my business success.

“Please,” I said. “The pipe to the sink has broken. My store will be ruined. Where is the shut-off?”

“I don’t know where the shut-off is,” he said. “You are responsible. Read your lease. Goodbye.”

I turned to the City Water Department next. By the time I explained to them what had happened and they examined their charts and discovered where the cut-offs might be located, I was standing in an inch of water.

Someone would be over, I was assured. But not right away. In a few hours perhaps. All the men were out on emergencies. However, I could try to find the cut-offs myself. They were outside near the street lamp about a foot from the curb.

I stuck my head out the door. It was about ten degrees above zero, and the ground along the curbing was covered with at least five inches of ice and snow. What to do? And all the time, more water was bubbling over the broom handle and splashing onto the floor.

Down at the corner there was a drug store owned by a man of infinite patience and understanding. No human act was beyond his comprehension or forgiveness, and he was always ready to help in moments of crisis. If a girl needed help, our man at the drug store was there. If she needed work, legitimate or otherwise, he could find the spot for her. If a man needed to make a touch, he could get it without interest. Our druggist was no fence or law breaker—but he was an answering service, a father confessor, and an unlikely guardian angel. I ran to him with my trouble.

He looked at me with his sleepy eyes, and, his soft lips forming quiet assurances, came up with a shovel, an ax, and a pail of hot water.

The problem was where to dig. I went at it blindly, saying to myself: “Shovel. Shovel. Die if you must. But shovel.”

When I had gotten an area of snow removed, I poured water over the ice and went at it with the ax. Finally I struck the top of the box containing the cut-offs and managed to pry open the lid. There were two knobs in the box, and having no idea which one related to my store, I turned them both shut.

After returning the hardware to the drug store, I sloshed back into my inundated establishment and began sweeping the water out with what was left of the broom. Working like a madman, I got most of the water out into the hall, out the door, and over the stairs, where it froze instantaneously. Never mind—tomorrow I will chop the ice away and all will be well.

By this time, my strength was exhausted and the shop was nearly as cold as the outdoors. I felt as though I had survived some kind of monstrous test. I dumped logs on the fire, waited until they were ablaze, then stripped off my wet shoes and socks and wrapped my frozen feet in my coat.

I was sure I had caught pneumonia. I wouldn’t be able to open the store for weeks. The few accounts I had would surely be lost. It was the end of everything. How good it would be if only death would come now, while there was yet a little warmth to taste in a world which certainly wanted nothing of my kind.

Out of my reverie, I heard a bitter cry. It came from outside near my door. I jumped up and looked down the hall. Two men in evening dress were wrestling on the stairs. The screaming and cursing were awful. At last they scrambled up and started toward me.

“You son of a bitch,” one of them cried. “I’ll kill you!” His fall on the stairs had damaged his suit. Bits of ice had collected about his long nose, a few even glistened in his moustache. His hair practically stood on end. Snow and ice covered his jacket and patched his trousers. His black tie was crooked and his dress shirt sodden. The other fellow stared fiercely at me, restraining his partner with one hand, the other balled into a fist, threatening me. “Who put you up to this? Why do you want to ruin our business? You mother-raping bastard, I’ll cut your throat!” He took a step forward. I stepped back.

“Tell us or we’ll kill you here and now.”

I had never seen these men before in my life. As I retreated toward my desk, they swept the books off it onto the wet floor. They sat on the desk and stared at me, and everything became very quiet.

They were proprietors of the restaurant in the corner building, also owned by my landlord. In shutting off the water, I had turned off theirs, too. They also had called the landlord, and he told them that I was undoubtedly responsible. But he failed to tell them what had been happening to me.

Now I showed them the broken pipe, the floor still wet in spots, my hands which were raw and bruised. I picked up the books from the floor and took off the wet dust jackets. Here goes my profit for a week, I thought. I could tell their anger had cooled. Instead of being cruel, they looked almost contrite. I went outside again in my wet shoes and socks and coat and turned one of the shut-off keys. Naturally it was the wrong one. The restaurant man pounded at the window to attract my attention. I reversed my switches and restored their precious water.

I remained in the shop a while, too exhausted and heartbroken to leave. Where now, little man? I didn’t know. But I resolved never to call my landlord again—no matter what.

It was a fruitless resolve. One morning two inspectors from the Fire Department paid me a visit.

“Are those your logs under the stairs?” one of them asked.

“Those are my logs,” I said. “But they are not under the stairs. They are by a stone wall near the stairs.”

“That makes no difference. It’s a fire hazard and someone has filed a complaint. Get the logs out by tomorrow or we’ll close you up.”

I remembered my landlord’s visit a week earlier. He had commented that I had a good pile of logs which should make a warm fire. He twirled his cane and looked at me from cat-grey eyes, set in a flabby yellow face crushed in a thousand wrinkles. As he minced about on his tiny feet, encased in patent leather pumps, I expected any moment to see the walls part or the ceiling open for his exit. When he left in the normal way, wishing me good luck and great success, I was sure he doffed his black homburg to me. Almost sure.

Now I threw my resolutions to the wind and phoned him, determined to take the offensive at any cost.

“Why did you call those fire inspectors?” I demanded. “Couldn’t you have told me if I was breaking an ordinance?”

The more my voice rose, the more he chuckled.

Not long afterward a fat, tobacco chewing sloven entered the shop and stood looking around carefully, swaying on the balls of his feet. I thought he might be a tout, lost on his way to a bookie.

“Where does this wire go?” he finally asked.

“Go?” I said. “Who cares?”

“Don’t get snotty with me, buddy,” he said. “I’m going to close you up. I’m the city electrical inspector and we’ve got a complaint that your wiring is a hazard to the building.”

He continued to stand in the middle of the floor, his hands locked behind his back, swaying back and forth like the old Jews on High Holidays in the Synagogue.

When he had gone, I called my landlord and cried, “Listen, you are killing me with inspection. Wish me bad luck and bankruptcy and leave me alone!”

Of course I had to get an electrical contractor, whose workmen tore the shop to pieces, removed perfectly good wiring, and replaced it.

A week later a tall man in a Brooks Brothers suit and carrying an attaché case came to collect the bill for $375.00. His smugness was so overwhelming that I turned and walked away from him. As I moved along, inspecting my bookshelves, he followed closely behind. I could see myself walking down Rush Street, going to dinner, going home, with this persistent, immaculate young man silently in attendance. Suddenly, turning, I stepped squarely on his polished shoes.

Excusing myself, I said, “You know, the man to pay you for this work is my landlord. If the wiring was faulty between the walls, obviously I have nothing to do with it. I’ll call him up. You can talk with him.”

My landlord must have been surprised at my cheery voice. “I have an interesting gentleman here who wants to talk with you,” I said. “He is a genius. The work he did for you in the installation of BX wires between the walls is something to be seen to be appreciated. You’ll marvel at its beauty. Here he is.”

I handed over the receiver. The storm of words coming from the other end nearly blew the young man off his feet. I couldn’t contain my laughter. I lurched over to a wall, holding my guts and laughing till I cried. It was marvelous. Wonderful. I had reversed the tables at last.

Naturally, I paid the bill. My landlord had new electrical outlets, but our relations were different. He continued to take advantage of me, but not any longer under the guise of wishing me “good luck” or a “great success.”

My landlord helped me. He taught me to be on guard. He taught me that it is, in fact, cold outside. He put me on trial—rather like K in Kafka’s _The Trial_. I could not just go running for help when trouble came. I could no longer retreat into the fantasy of pretending that running a bookstore was not a business. He taught me that the world requires people to take abuse, lying, cheating, duplicity—and outlast them.

Now when my landlord came to visit me, it was on an entirely new emotional basis. Nothing was different in appearance, yet in feeling everything was changed because I was no longer afraid. When he cheated me now, it was only a cheap triumph for him. I was free because I had become inwardly secure. I did not beat the Devil, but I knew positively that the Devil exists, that evil is real. Let him do his worst—his absolute worst—so long as you can handle yourself, he cannot ultimately triumph. Where K failed in _The Trial_ was in his emotional inability to handle his threatened ego.

K’s trial is allegorical. So was my landlord. Only with the imagination can we see through into what is real. My landlord was one of the disguises of evil. I know now that had I let him throw me, I could never have withstood the trials of reality that were to come.

3 How to Get Started in the Book Business

I had decided to become a bookseller because I loved good books. I assumed there must be many others who shared a love for reading and that I could minister to their needs. I thought of this as a calling. It never occurred to me to investigate bookselling as a business.