What You Want

by O. Henry

　　

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Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known asBagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamourthat belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets,bazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filledwith the same kind of folk that so much interested our interesting oldfriend, the late Mr. H. A. Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundredyears nearer to the latest styles than H. A. saw in old Bagdad; but theywere about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you couldhave seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the Tailor,the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and FortyRobbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and all theold Arabian gang easily.But let us revenue to our lamb chops.Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks andbonds with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph youmust have money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by Mr.Rashid is not safe. If you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or aTurkish bath or a side street, and inquire into his private and personalaffairs, the police court'll get you.Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, moneyand everything. That's what makes a caliph--you must get to despiseeverything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want somethingthat you can't pay for."I'll take a little trot around town all by myself," thought old Tom,"and try if I can stir up anything new. Let's see--it seems I've readabout a king or a Cardiff giant or something in old times who used to goabout with false whiskers on, making Persian dates with folks he hadn'tbeen introduced to. That don't listen like a bad idea. I certainly havegot a case of humdrumness and fatigue on for the ones I do know. Thatold Cardiff used to pick up cases of trouble as he ran upon 'em and give'em gold--sequins, I think it was--and make 'em marry or got 'em goodGovernment jobs. Now, I'd like something of that sort. My money is asgood as his was even if the magazines do ask me every month where I gotit. Yes, I guess I'll do a little Cardiff business to-night, and see howit goes."Plainly dressed, old Tom Crowley left his Madison Avenue palace, andwalked westward and then south. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Fate,who holds the ends of the strings in the central offices of all theenchanted cities pulled a thread, and a young man twenty blocks awaylooked at a wall clock, and then put on his coat.James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishmentson Sixth Avenue in which a fire alarm rings when you push the dooropen, and where they clean your hat while you wait--two days. Jamesstood all day at an electric machine that turned hats around faster thanthe best brands of champagne ever could have done. Overlooking your mildimpertinence in feeling a curiosity about the personal appearance of astranger, I will give you a modified description of him. Weight, 118;complexion, hair and brain, light; height, five feet six; age, abouttwenty-three; dressed in a $10 suit of greenish-blue serge; pocketscontaining two keys and sixty-three cents in change.But do not misconjecture because this description sounds like a GeneralAlarm that James was either lost or a dead one._Allons!_James stood all day at his work. His feet were tender and extremelysusceptible to impositions being put upon or below them. All day longthey burned and smarted, causing him much suffering and inconvenience.But he was earning twelve dollars per week, which he needed to supporthis feet whether his feet would support him or not.James Turner had his own conception of what happiness was, just as youand I have ours. Your delight is to gad about the world in yachts andmotor-cars and to hurl ducats at wild fowl. Mine is to smoke a pipe atevenfall and watch a badger, a rattlesnake, and an owl go into theircommon prairie home one by one.James Turner's idea of bliss was different; but it was his. He would godirectly to his boarding-house when his day's work was done. After hissupper of small steak, Bessemer potatoes, stooed (not stewed) apples andinfusion of chicory, he would ascend to his fifth-floor-back hall room.Then he would take off his shoes and socks, place the soles of hisburning feet against the cold bars of his iron bed, and read ClarkRussell's sea yarns. The delicious relief of the cool metal applied tohis smarting soles was his nightly joy. His favorite novels never palledupon him; the sea and the adventures of its navigators were his soleintellectual passion. No millionaire was ever happier than James Turnertaking his ease.When James left the hat-cleaning shop he walked three blocks out ofhis way home to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On thesidewalk stands he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volumeof Clark Russell at half price.While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-downmiscellany of cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. Hisdiscerning eye, made keen by twenty years' experience in the manufactureof laundry soap (save the wrappers!) recognized instantly the poorand discerning scholar, a worthy object of his caliphanous mood. Hedescended the two shallow stone steps that led from the sidewalk, andaddressed without hesitation the object of his designed munificence. Hisfirst words were no worse than salutatory and tentative.James Turner looked up coldly, with "Sartor Resartus" in one hand and"A Mad Marriage" in the other."Beat it," said he. "I don't want to buy any coat hangers or town lotsin Hankipoo, New Jersey. Run along, now, and play with your Teddy bear.""Young man," said the caliph, ignoring the flippancy of the hat cleaner,"I observe that you are of a studious disposition. Learning is one ofthe finest things in the world. I never had any of it worth mentioning,but I admire to see it in others. I come from the West, where we imaginenothing but facts. Maybe I couldn't understand the poetry and allusionsin them books you are picking over, but I like to see somebody else seemto know what they mean. I'm worth about $40,000,000, and I'm gettingricher every day. I made the height of it manufacturing Aunt Patty'sSilver Soap. I invented the art of making it. I experimented for threeyears before I got just the right quantity of chloride of sodiumsolution and caustic potash mixture to curdle properly. And after I hadtaken some $9,000,000 out of the soap business I made the rest in cornand wheat futures. Now, you seem to have the literary and scholarlyturn of character; and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pay for youreducation at the finest college in the world. I'll pay the expense ofyour rummaging over Europe and the art galleries, and finally set you upin a good business. You needn't make it soap if you have any objections.I see by your clothes and frazzled necktie that you are mighty poor; andyou can't afford to turn down the offer. Well, when do you want tobegin?"The hat cleaner turned upon old Tom the eye of the Big City, which is aneye expressive of cold and justifiable suspicion, of judgment suspendedas high as Haman was hung, of self-preservation, of challenge,curiosity, defiance, cynicism, and, strange as you may think it, of achildlike yearning for friendliness and fellowship that must be hiddenwhen one walks among the "stranger bands." For in New Bagdad one, inorder to survive, must suspect whosoever sits, dwells, drinks, rides,walks or sleeps in the adjacent chair, house, booth, seat, path or room."Say, Mike," said James Turner, "what's your line, anyway--shoe laces?I'm not buying anything. You better put an egg in your shoe and beat itbefore incidents occur to you. You can't work off any fountain pens,gold spectacles you found on the street, or trust company certificatehouse clearings on me. Say, do I look like I'd climbed down one of themmissing fire-escapes at Helicon Hall? What's vitiating you, anyhow?""Son," said the caliph, in his most Harunish tones, "as I said, I'mworth $40,000,000. I don't want to have it all put in my coffin when Idie. I want to do some good with it. I seen you handling over thesehere volumes of literature, and I thought I'd keep you. I've give themissionary societies $2,000,000, but what did I get out of it? Nothingbut a receipt from the secretary. Now, you are just the kind of youngman I'd like to take up and see what money could make of him."Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the OldBook Shop. And James Turner's smarting and aching feet did not tend toimprove his temper. Humble hat cleaner though he was, he had a spiritequal to any caliph's."Say, you old faker," he said, angrily, "be on your way. I don't knowwhat your game is, unless you want change for a bogus $40,000,000 bill.Well, I don't carry that much around with me. But I do carry a prettyfair left-handed punch that you'll get if you don't move on.""You are a blamed impudent little gutter pup," said the caliph.Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by thecollar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; twobookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A copy came up,took an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house."Fighting and disorderly conduct," said the cop to the sergeant."Three hundred dollars bail," said the sergeant at once, asseveratinglyand inquiringly."Sixty-three cents," said James Turner with a harsh laugh.The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and changeamounting to four dollars."I am worth," he said, "forty million dollars, but--""Lock 'em up," ordered the sergeant.In his cell, James Turner laid himself on his cot, ruminating. "Maybehe's got the money, and maybe he ain't. But if he has or he ain't, whatdoes he want to go 'round butting into other folks's business for? Whena man knows what he wants, and can get it, it's the same as $40,000,000to him."Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face.He removed his socks, drew his cot close to the door, stretched himselfout luxuriously, and placed his tortured feet against the cold barsof the cell door. Something hard and bulky under the blankets of hiscot gave one shoulder discomfort. He reached under, and drew out apaper-covered volume by Clark Russell called "A Sailor's Sweetheart."He gave a great sigh of contentment.Presently, to his cell came the doorman and said:"Say, kid, that old gazabo that was pinched with you for scrapping seemsto have been the goods after all. He 'phoned to his friends, and he'sout at the desk now with a roll of yellowbacks as big as a Pullman carpillow. He wants to bail you, and for you to come out and see him.""Tell him I ain't in," said James Turner.

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What You Want was featured as TheShort Story of the Day on Thu, Feb 25, 2016

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