he had a group of appliances in working order, he would wander the streets shouting “Better ’n new! Better ’n new!” until he had customers enough to go around. Inside of three months the junk shop he had dealt with could not supply him sufficiently, so he struck a bargain with another, then another. By January the toolroom in the garage was too small, so he rented a loft and set to work there, working nights now, straining his brute’s body to the limit. “ ... if you would only apply yourself, Phineas ... if you would only try ...”
Phineas tried.
The brain that lurked behind the darting eyes grew tired of sleeping; day and night it burned. P.T. slaved sixteen hours a day, and in November 1918, when the war was over, the image of the soldier was dead. He watched the returning heroes as they marched the streets of St. Louis and he felt neither envy nor pain. Because he had money now. And he was going to have more. By his twentieth birthday he could afford the highest-priced girls at Randy’s on a biweekly basis, and how many who were twenty could do that? Damn few. Damn few. He had a staff now, three mechanics working under him, and they worked, not as hard as he did, of course, but he was P.T. Kirkaby and look out up there. Before he was twenty-two he opened his first store, on a side street in East St. Louis. (He wasn’t ready to make the move across the Mississippi yet; not quite yet.) Painted across the entirety of the store front, in great white letters, was his name—K I R K A B Y—and underneath that, in letters slightly smaller, BETTER ’N NEW. The store did surprisingly well, but not well enough for P.T., and, several months later, when a sales representative thought to interest him in buying new appliances in large lots and selling them for less than standard price, P.T. was way ahead of him. But he feigned doubt, got a better deal, and from then on there was no stopping him. He sold decent stuff and he sold cheap, so the housewives loved him. He had three stores before another year went by, and the week of his twenty-fifth birthday P. T. Kirkaby rented a suite in the Park Plaza Hotel, where the rich people lived. It was a glorious day for him, the only difficult moments being caused by his father, who did not understand much of what was going on and who was deathly afraid of elevators. The old man tried fleeing across the lobby, and P.T. had to grab him and lift him into the elevator, where his father trembled, eyes closed, until the journey to the eleventh floor was safely over. P.T. had six stores by that time, half of them in St. Louis proper (he had crossed the Mississippi now), the largest of all being right on Maryland Avenue in the midst of the most expensive shops in town. He never failed to smile when he saw, at night, his name—KI R K A B Y—flashing red on Maryland Avenue.
On their second date P.T. took Emily Harding to watch the Cardinals play the Giants. He bought peanuts and hot dogs and when the game was about to begin he nudged her, gesturing toward the Giant manager. “There he is,” P.T. said, awed. “There’s McGraw.”
“Yes,” Emily said. “Of course.”
“You never heard of John McGraw?” P.T. was stunned. McGraw was one of his special heroes, along with Fairbanks and (privately) John McCormack. Shaking his head, he handed her some peanuts.
“Thank you,” she said, but it was immediately evident that she did not know what to do with them. She glanced several times at P.T.’s big hands, at the way his fingers pressed sharply on the proper seam, making the shell split. Then she tried it herself, suddenly talking very fast. “I had no idea baseball could be so much fun. I really never thought it. I’m not much of an athlete, I’m afraid. Of course I played field hockey at school, but then everyone played field hockey at school.”
“Like this.” P.T. demonstrated his peanut technique.
“Oh yes, I see now,” but she still could not do it. Finally she
Phineas tried.
The brain that lurked behind the darting eyes grew tired of sleeping; day and night it burned. P.T. slaved sixteen hours a day, and in November 1918, when the war was over, the image of the soldier was dead. He watched the returning heroes as they marched the streets of St. Louis and he felt neither envy nor pain. Because he had money now. And he was going to have more. By his twentieth birthday he could afford the highest-priced girls at Randy’s on a biweekly basis, and how many who were twenty could do that? Damn few. Damn few. He had a staff now, three mechanics working under him, and they worked, not as hard as he did, of course, but he was P.T. Kirkaby and look out up there. Before he was twenty-two he opened his first store, on a side street in East St. Louis. (He wasn’t ready to make the move across the Mississippi yet; not quite yet.) Painted across the entirety of the store front, in great white letters, was his name—K I R K A B Y—and underneath that, in letters slightly smaller, BETTER ’N NEW. The store did surprisingly well, but not well enough for P.T., and, several months later, when a sales representative thought to interest him in buying new appliances in large lots and selling them for less than standard price, P.T. was way ahead of him. But he feigned doubt, got a better deal, and from then on there was no stopping him. He sold decent stuff and he sold cheap, so the housewives loved him. He had three stores before another year went by, and the week of his twenty-fifth birthday P. T. Kirkaby rented a suite in the Park Plaza Hotel, where the rich people lived. It was a glorious day for him, the only difficult moments being caused by his father, who did not understand much of what was going on and who was deathly afraid of elevators. The old man tried fleeing across the lobby, and P.T. had to grab him and lift him into the elevator, where his father trembled, eyes closed, until the journey to the eleventh floor was safely over. P.T. had six stores by that time, half of them in St. Louis proper (he had crossed the Mississippi now), the largest of all being right on Maryland Avenue in the midst of the most expensive shops in town. He never failed to smile when he saw, at night, his name—KI R K A B Y—flashing red on Maryland Avenue.
On their second date P.T. took Emily Harding to watch the Cardinals play the Giants. He bought peanuts and hot dogs and when the game was about to begin he nudged her, gesturing toward the Giant manager. “There he is,” P.T. said, awed. “There’s McGraw.”
“Yes,” Emily said. “Of course.”
“You never heard of John McGraw?” P.T. was stunned. McGraw was one of his special heroes, along with Fairbanks and (privately) John McCormack. Shaking his head, he handed her some peanuts.
“Thank you,” she said, but it was immediately evident that she did not know what to do with them. She glanced several times at P.T.’s big hands, at the way his fingers pressed sharply on the proper seam, making the shell split. Then she tried it herself, suddenly talking very fast. “I had no idea baseball could be so much fun. I really never thought it. I’m not much of an athlete, I’m afraid. Of course I played field hockey at school, but then everyone played field hockey at school.”
“Like this.” P.T. demonstrated his peanut technique.
“Oh yes, I see now,” but she still could not do it. Finally she
Similar Books
