Joe Gould's Secret by Joseph; Mitchell Page A

entered it, at eleven, Gould was sitting on the first counter stool, facing the door and holding his greasy old pasteboard portfolio on his lap, and he looked the worst I had ever seen him. He was wearing a limp, dirty seersucker suit, a dirty Brooks Brothers button-down shirt with a frayed collar, and dirty sneakers. His face was greenish gray, and the right side of his mouth twitched involuntarily. His eyes were bloodshot. He was bald on top, but he had hair sticking out in every possible direction from the back and sides of his head. His beard was unkempt, and around his mouth cigarette smoke had stained it yellow. He had on a pair of glasses that were loose and lopsided, and they had slipped down near the end of his nose. As I came in, he lifted his head a little and looked at me, and his face was alert and on guard and yet so tired and so detached and so remotely reflective that it was almost impassive. Looking straight at me, he looked straight through me. I have seen the same deceptively blank expression on the faces of old freaks sitting on platforms in freak shows and on the faces of old apes in zoos on Sunday afternoons.
    I went over and introduced myself to Gould, and he instantly drew himself up. “I understand you want to write something about me,” he said, in a chipper, nasal voice, “and I greet you at the beginning of a great endeavor.” Then, having said this, he seemed to falter and to lose confidence in himself. “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” he said. “I didn’t get home. That is, I didn’t get to the flophouse I’ve been staying in lately. I slept on the porch at St. Joseph’s R.C. until they opened the doors for the first Mass, and then I went in and sat in a pew until a few minutes ago.” St. Joseph’s, at Sixth Avenue and Washington Place, is the principal Roman Catholic church in the Village and one of the oldest churches in the city; it has two large, freestanding columns on its porch, behind which, shielded from the street, generations of unfortunates have slept. “I died and was buried and went to Hell two or three times this morning, sitting in that pew,” Gould continued. “To be frank, I have a hangover and I’m broke and I’m terribly hungry, and I’d appreciate it very much if you’d buy me some breakfast.”
    â€œOf course,” I said.
    â€œFried eggs on toast!” he called out commandingly to the counterman. “And let me have some coffee right away and some more with the eggs. Black coffee. And make sure it’s hot.” He slid off the stool. “If you’re having something,” he said to me, “call out your order, and let’s sit in a booth. The waitress will bring it over.”
    We took a booth, and the waitress brought Gould’s coffee. It was in a thick white mug, diner style, and it was so hot it was steaming. Even so, tipping the mug slightly toward him without taking it off the table, he bent down and immediately began drinking it with little, cautious, quick, birdlike sips and gulps interspersed with little whimpering sounds indicating pleasure and relief, and almost at once color returned to his face and his eyes became brighter and his twitch disappeared. I had never before seen anyone react so quickly and so noticeably to coffee; brandy probably wouldn’t have done any more for him, or cocaine, or an oxygen tent, or a blood transfusion. He drank the whole mug in this fashion, and then sat back and held his head on one side and looked me over.
    â€œI suppose you’re puzzled about me,” he said. His tone of voice was condescending; he had got some of his confidence back. “If so,” he continued, “the feeling is mutual, for I’m puzzled about myself, and have been since childhood. I seem to be a changeling or a throwback or a mutation of some sort in a highly respectable old New England family. Let me give you a few