The Spiked Heel

In 1944, when he was eighteen, the Army called him. Danny Quinn was twelve at the time, rapidly learning the secrets of the hallways from the younger sisters in the sorority of the Idas, the Marys, and the Bettys. Danny gave Griff a silver identification bracelet when he went away, a bracelet which Griff lost later in France, or which — more accurately — was stolen from his wrist as he lay fighting the chills and fever of dysentery in a field hospital outside Cherbourg. He survived the dysentery, and he survived the lesser dangers of the march through France, the exploding hand grenades and mortar shells, the strafing aircraft, the frightening experience of a line of heavy tanks advancing and firing. All these, he survived.

He was recalled from France when his mother died in October of 1944. The Army flew him to New York, and he buried his mother on a cold, rainswept day.

He was not sent back overseas. The Army sent him to Dix, where he spent the duration as a small-arms instructor. When he was discharged in 1946, he went back to Julien Kahn and asked for his old job. He was immediately rehired. He did not know why he didn’t go to college now. His mother was dead, and he had no further financial responsibilities. The G.I. Bill would have paid for his education. But somehow, college seemed like a frivolous thing now. He could not visualize himself being hazed or wearing a beanie. He was twenty years old, only twenty, but, like so many others of his generation, he felt much older. He dedicated himself to his job. He was a good worker. He liked Julien Kahn, and the company liked him. Occasionally, while watching a football game, he was attacked with a deep nostalgia for the alma mater he had never known, but the nostalgia passed, replaced by a contentment with the work he was doing.

He still read, and he still occasionally thought back to his childhood on 138th Street, pleased that he had risen above it, if only in a small way.

He went back to the old neighborhood when Danny was called into the Army. He had thought that his war would be the last war, and he was surprised and shocked with the flare-up in Korea. He bought Danny a silver identification bracelet, and then he went to the party in the now-heated tenement. He felt nothing for the old neighborhood, oh, perhaps a passing wistfulness, but nothing that lingered. He had gone to see off an old friend, and he met other old friends there, but there was nothing deader than a dead friendship.

He should have told Danny about picking up souvenirs. There had been a lot of souvenirs lying around in France, but he’d never touched any of them.

Danny, on the other hand, wanted something to bring back to the old neighborhood. He had stooped to pick up a souvenir Tokarev in Korea, and the pistol had set off a land mine, giving him a bigger souvenir than he’d bargained for. The souvenir was still lodged in his left leg, and Danny had discovered upon his discharge from the Army that not many prospective employers backed up the respect they mouthed for the symbol of the Ruptured Duck when the duck was in reality ruptured. He’d worn out a good many pairs of shoes, limping despondently from one unresponsive office to the next, until Griff had finally located him with Julien Kahn. The job had done wonders for Danny, restoring his badly demolished confidence. He’d married Ellen, a girl from the old neighborhood, and they were now expecting their first child.

“I was just coming in to show you this,” Danny said, extending a memo sheet toward Griff. Griff read it quickly.

EFFECTIVE MARCH 1. SINCE FIRE REGULATIONS PERTAINING TO SMOKING IN THE FACTORY PART OF THIS BUILDING WHERE HIGHLY INFLAMMABLE CHEMICLES ARE USED DO NOT EXTEND TO COVER SMOKING IN THE NINTH FLOOR OFFICES, I CAN SEE NO REASON FOR FURTHER PROHIBITION IN THOSE OFFICES. IT WILL NO LONGER BE NECESSARY TO VISIT THE REST ROOMS WHENEVER A CIGARETTE IS DESIRED. EMPLOYEES MAY FEEL FREE TO SMOKE AT THEIR DESKS, NOR WILL AN OCCASIONAL CUP OF COFFEE THERE BE FROWNED UPON, EITHER. A RELAXED ATMOSPHERE SHOULD MEAN A HIGHER RATE OF PRODUCTION, AND THAT’S WHAT WE ARE SHOOTING FOR.

SIGNED:

J. MANELLI, COMPTROLLER

“That pompous ass,” Griff said. “It will no longer be necessary to visit the rest rooms,” he mimicked. “This is Joe’s way of saying too many people have been goofing off on company time.”