The Cool School by Glenn O'Brien

except that in some vague way I realized that the punishment meted out to him would be greater than the crime merited. Even at that tender age I felt that punishment was criminal. I couldn’t understand why people should be punished—I don’t yet. I couldn’t even understand why God had the right to punish us for our sins. And of course, as I later realized, God doesn’t punish us—we punish ourselves.
    Thoughts like these were floating through my head when suddenly I became aware that people were leaving the table. The meal wasn’t over yet, but the guests were departing. Something had happened while I was reminiscing. Pre-civil war days, I thought to myself. Infantilism rampant again. And if Roosevelt is assassinated they will make another Lincoln of him. Only this time the slaves will still be slaves. Meanwhile I overhear some one saying what a wonderful president Melvyn Douglas would make. I prick up my ears. I wonder do they mean Melvyn Douglas, the movie star? Yes, that’s who they mean. He has a great mind, the woman is saying. And character. And savoir faire. Thinks I to myself “and who will the vice-president be, may I ask? Shure and it’s not Jimmy Cagney you’re thinkin’ of?” But the woman is not worried about the vice-presidency. She had been to a palmist the other day and learned some interesting things about herself. Her life line was broken. “Think of it,” she said, “all these years and I never knew it was broken. What do you suppose is going to happen? Does it mean war? Or do you think it means an accident?”
    The hostess was running about like a wet hen. Trying to rustle up enough hands for a game of bridge. A desperate soul, surrounded by the booty of a thousand battles. “I understand you’re a writer,” she said, as she tried to carom from my corner of the room to the bar. “Won’t you have something to drink—a highball or something? Dear me, I don’t know what’s come over everbody this evening. I do hate tohear these political discussions. That young man is positively rude. Of course I don’t approve of insulting the President of the United States in public but just the same he might have used a little more tact. After all, Mr. So-and-so is an elderly man. He’s entitled to some respect, don’t you think? Oh, there’s So-and-so!” and she dashed off to greet a cinema star who had just dropped in.
    The old geezer who was still tottering about handed me a highball. I tried to tell him that I didn’t want any but he insisted that I take it anyway. He wanted to have a word with me, he said, winking at me as though he had something very confidential to impart.
    “My name is Harrison,” he said. “H-a-r-r-i-s-o-n,” spelling it out as if it were a difficult name to remember.
    “Now what is your name, may I ask?”
    “My name is Miller—M-i-l-l-e-r,” I answered, spelling it out in Morse for him.
    “Miller! Why, that’s a very easy name to remember. We had a druggist on our block by that name. Of course. Miller. Yes, a very common name.”
    “So it is,” I said.
    “And what are you doing out here, Mr. Miller? You’re a stranger, I take it?”
    “Yes,” I said, “I’m just a visitor.”
    “You’re in business, are you?”
    “No, hardly. I’m just visiting California.”
    “I see. Well, where do you come from—the Middle West?”
    “No, from New York.”
    “From New York City? Or from up State?”
    “From the city.”
    “And have you been here very long?”
    “No, just a few hours.”
    “A few hours? My, my . . . well, that’s interesting. Very interesting. And will you be staying long, Mr. Miller?”
    “I don’t know. It depends.”
    “I see. Depends on how you like it here, is that it?”
    “Yes, exactly.”
    “Well, it’s a grand part of the world, I can tell you that. No place like California, I always say. Of course I’m not a native. But I’ve been out here almost thirty years now. Wonderful climate. And wonderful people,