Rich Man, Poor Man

“We’ll just have to take that chance,” he said, getting up from the table. He left her weeping.

It was a cold, clear day, the sun a bright wafer in the pale winter sky. He dressed warmly, in a fleece-lined surplus Air Force jacket, a knitted wool cap, and goggles, and took the motorcycle out of the garage. He hesitated about which direction to take. There was nobody he wanted to see that day, no destination that seemed promising. Leisure, the burden of modern man.

He got on the motorcycle, started it, hesitated. A car with skis on its roof sped down the street, and he thought, why not, that’s as good a place as any, and followed, the car. He remembered that Larsen, the young man in the ski department, had told him that there was a barn near the bottom of the tow that could be converted into a shop for renting skis on the weekend. Larsen had said that there was a lot of money to be made there. Rudolph felt better as he followed the car with ski rack. He was no longer aimless.

He was nearly frozen when he got to the slope. The sun, reflected off the snow, dazzled him and he squinted at the brightly colored figures swooping toward him down the hill. Everybody seemed young, vigorous, and having a good time, and the girls, tight pants over trim hips and round buttocks, made lust a healthy outdoor emotion for a Sunday morning.

He watched, enjoying the spectacle for awhile, then became melancholy. He felt lonely and deprived. He was about to turn away and get his machine and go back to town, when Larsen came skimming down off the hill and made a dashing, abrupt stop in front of him, in a cloud of snow.

“Hi, Mr. Jordache,” Larsen said. He had two rows of great shining white teeth and he smiled widely. Behind him two girls who had been following him came to a halt.

“Hello, Larsen,” Rudolph said. “I came out to see that barn you told me about.”

“Sure thing,” Larsen said. Supple, in one easy movement, he bent over to free himself from his skis. He was bare headed and his longish, fine, blond hair fell over his eyes as he bent over. Looking at him, in his red sweater, with the two girls behind him, Rudolph was sure that Larsen hadn’t dreamt about any boat pulling away from a pier the night before.

“Hello, Mr. Jordache,” one of the girls said. “I didn’t know you were a skier.”

He peered at her and she laughed. She was wearing big green-tinted snow goggles that covered most of her small face. She pushed the goggles up over her red-and-blue woolen hat. “I’m in disguise,” she said.

Now Rudolph recognized her. It was Miss Soames, from the Record Department. Jiggling, plump, blonde, fed by music.

“Good morning, good morning,” Rudolph said, somehow flustered, noticing how small Miss Soames’s waist was, and how well rounded her thighs and hips. “No, I’m not a skier. I’m a voyeur.”

Miss Soames laughed. “There’s plenty to voyeur about up here, isn’t there?”

“Mr. Jordache …” Larsen was out of his skis by now, “may I present my fiancée? Miss Packard.”

Miss Packard took off her goggles, too, and revealed herself to be as pretty as Miss Soames, and about the same age. “Pleasure,” she said. Fiancée. People were still marrying.

“Be back in a half hour or so, girls,” Larsen said. “Mr. Jordache and I have some business to transact.” He stuck his skis and poles upright in the snow, as the girls, with a wave of their hands, skied off to the bottom of the lift.

“They look like awfully good skiers,” Rudolph said as he walked at Larsen’s side back toward the road.

“Mediocre,” Larsen said carelessly. “But they have other charms.” He laughed, showing the magnificent teeth in the brown face. He made sixty-five dollars a week, Rudolph knew. How could he be so happy on a Sunday morning on sixty-five dollars a week?”

The barn was about two hundred yards away, and on the road, a big, solid structure, protected from the weather. “All you’d need,” Larsen said, “is a big iron stove and you’d be plenty warm. I bet you could rent a thousand pairs of skis and two to three hundred pairs of boots out of this place a weekend, and then there’re the Christmas and Easter vacations and other holidays. And you could get two college boys to run it for beans. It could be a gold mine. If we don’t do it, somebody else sure as hell will. This is only the second year for this area, but it’s catching on and somebody’s bound to see the opportunity.”

Rudolph recognized the argument, so much like the one he had used that week on Calderwood, and smiled. In business you sometimes were the pusher and sometimes the pushee. I’m a Sunday pushee, he thought. If we do it, I’ll get Larsen a good hike in salary.

“Who owns this place?” Rudolph asked.

“Du

Poor Larsen, Rudolph thought, not made for business. If it had been my idea, I would have had an option to buy it before I said a word to anyone. “There’s a job for you, Larsen,” Rudolph said. “Find out who owns the barn, whether he’ll rent it and for how much, or sell it and for how much. And don’t mention the store. Say you’re thinking of swinging it yourself.”

“I get it, I get it,” Larsen said, nodding seriously. “Keep ’em from asking too much.”

“We can try,” Rudolph said. “Let’s get out of here. I’m freezing. Is there a place to get a cup of coffee near here?”

“It’s just about time for lunch. There’s a place a mile down the road that’s not bad. Why don’t you join me and the girls for lunch, Mr. Jordache?”

Automatically, Rudolph almost said no. He had never been seen outside the store with any of the employees, except once in awhile with one of the buyers or a head of a department. Then he shivered. He was awfully cold. He had to go in someplace. Dancy, dainty Miss Soames. What harm could it do? “Thanks, Larsen,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

They walked back toward the ski tow. Larsen had a plowing, direct, uncomplicated kind of walk, in his heavy ski boots with their rubber bottoms. The soles of Rudolph’s shoes were of leather and the way was icy and Rudolph had to walk delicately, almost mincingly, to keep from slipping. He hoped the girls weren’t watching him.

The girls were waiting, their skis off, and Miss Soames was saying, “We’re starrrving. Who’s going to nourish the orphans?” even before Larsen had a chance to say anything.

“Okay, okay, girls,” Larsen said commandingly, “we’re going to feed you. Stop wailing.”

“Oh, Mr. Jordache,” Miss Soames said, “are you going to dine with us? What an honor.” She dropped her lashes demurely over freckles, the mockery plain.

“I had an early breakfast,” Rudolph said. Clumsy, he thought bitterly. “I could stand some food and drink.” He turned to Larsen. “I’ll follow you on the machine.”

“Is that beautiful thing yours, Mr. Jordache?” Miss Soames waved toward where the motorcycle was parked.

“Yes,” Rudolph said.

“I yearn for a ride,” Miss Soames said. She had a gushy, cut-up ma

“It’s pretty cold,” Rudolph said stiffly.

“I have two pairs of long woolen underwear on,” Miss Soames said. “I guarantee I’ll be toasty. Be

There was nothing Rudolph could do about it and he led the way to the machine while Larsen fixed the three pairs of skis on the rack on a brand-new Ford. How does he do it on sixty-five dollars a week? Rudolph thought. For an unworthy moment he wondered if Larsen was honest with his accounts at the ski shop.

Rudolph got onto the motorcycle and Miss Soames swung lightly on behind him, putting her hands around his waist and holding on firmly. Rudolph adjusted his goggles and followed Larsen’s Ford out of the parking lot. Larsen drove fast and Rudolph had to put on speed to keep up with him. It was much colder than before, and the wind cut at his face, but Miss Soames, holding on tighter than ever, shouted in his ear, “Isn’t this bliss?”