Joe Gould's Secret

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  Joe Gould’s Secret

  Joseph Mitchell

  To my sisters

  Elizabeth Mitchell Woodward

  Linda Mitchell Lamm

  and Laura Mitchell Braswell

  with love

  Introduction

  BY WILLIAM MAXWELL

  The two parts of Joe Gould’s Secret were originally published, with a twenty-two-year interval between them, as Profiles in The New Yorker. They were then published as a book, with an author’s note that is brief but revealing: It begins “This book consists of two views of the same man, a lost soul named Joe Gould.” Consider the word “views”—the farthest possible remove from the dogmatic, though as a portrait the two Profiles are surely definitive. Gould was a Greenwich Village character who, when he was not pursuing the bee in his bonnet, went from bar to bar cadging money and drinks off friends and strangers. He must have been known to hundreds of people, few of whom would have been charitable enough to describe him as a lost soul, though he unquestionably was one.

  Over a period of many years Joseph Mitchell listened to him, in saloons and cafeterias, sometimes for eight or ten hours at a stretch and once until four o’clock in the morning. His description of Gould—“an odd and penniless and unemployable little man who came to the city in 1916 and ducked and dodged and held on as hard as he could for over thirty-five years” reminds me of the sound carpenters make when they are building a house. Bung, bung, bung, kapung, kapung, kapung. No hesitations. No bent nails. Every word driven, so to speak, all the way into the wood.

  In the second section of the book, the process of interviewing, as a rule impersonal and unemotional, was neither of these things. It has so much about Mitchell—his habits and scruples, what he hoped to accomplish and what he was afraid might happen—that it seems at times to be as much about him as it is about Gould, and could almost be taken for a double Profile. To the best of my knowledge this had never been done before and constitutes a breakthrough: the Reporter as Human Being.

  Usually when Profile reporters have published a piece they sever whatever personal ties they have formed with the subject and what may have seemed like the beginning of a friendship, but year after year Mitchell went on handing out small sums of money and listening to Gould, out of courtesy. This can perhaps be accounted for by his Southern upbringing. His father was a cotton buyer and owned a tobacco and cotton farm. Mitchell grew up in comfortable circumstances in North Carolina. His ancestors were fanning in the region before the American Revolution. Or it could have been merely a reflection of his own nature. If pressed, and especially in the face of prying questions about work in progress, he could be fierce and formidable, but he was essentially a sweet-natured man. I loved talking to him. He seldom managed to finish his sentences because of all the relevant qualifying thoughts that rushed into his mind. It didn’t matter. It was still communication, but of a higher, all-inclusive kind. I loved looking at him because of the light in his eye and his smile, which became broad and joyful when he remembered some extreme oddity of human behavior. He didn’t appear to be anywhere near his age and moved with a lightness uncommon in old men. Though he no longer believed in the theological tenets of the Baptist Church, he continued to look at life from a religious viewpoint. Mortality was something he never lost sight of, and nothing gave him more pleasure than to wander about in an old graveyard reading the inscriptions on the tombstones.

  I can’t prove it but I suspect that he made a religion out of literature, with the great Irish novelist James Joyce as the presiding deity. In any case, writing—the art and practice of writing—didn’t with him take second place to anything. I don’t think he meant to outwrite everybody else in sight or much liked the worshiping admiration of younger New Yorker writers. He had a marvelous ear for speech and knew how to use it to project character, dramatize a moment, or frame a revelation. What more do you need to know in order to understand Joe Gould than his simple confession: “In my home town I never felt at home. I stuck out. Even in my own home, I never felt at home. In New York City, especially in Greenwich Village, down among the cranks and the misfits and the one-lungers and the has-beens and the might’ve-beens and the would-bes and the never-wills and the God-knows-whats, I have always felt at home.”

  As for Mitchell himself, it is somewhat odd that a person who could say “I have always deeply disliked seeing anyone shown up or found out or caught in a lie or caught red-handed doing anything” should have chosen to be a newspaper reporter. He solved the problem by giving way to his delight in and respect for people on the fringes of society. Gypsies, anarchists, quirky bartenders, Indians, deaf-mutes, street preachers, bearded ladies, child prodigies and prodigies of all kind he handled with the gentleness and protectiveness that you would handle a child.

  In his story “The Cave Dwellers” Mitchell tells how, in the year 1933, the rock bottom of the Great Depression, he was working as a reporter on “a newspaper whose editors believed that nothing brightened up a front page so much as a story about human suffering.” They sent him to breadlines, to relief bureaus, to evictions, and to stand beside the Salvation Army bell-ringers. Somebody wrote in to the paper about an unemployed carpenter and his wife who in the dead of winter were living in a cave in Central Park. By the time Mitchell caught up with them a good Samaritan had lodged them in a furnished room. Mitchell’s piece about them, about their efforts to keep from starving or freezing to death, ran just before Christmas and brought a flood of letters, some of them containing money or a check, and two telegrams offering a job. When Mitchell went to see them two days later the landlady appeared to be angry and told him that people who had seen the article had been bringing food and money all day. When he got upstairs he found their room in disorder and the cave people quite drunk.

  “It’s that sneak from the newspaper,” the woman said.

  “What do you mean printing lies about us in the paper?” the man said. “You said we had only seven cents left, you liar.”

  “I told you we had seventy cents,” the woman said.

  The man got a good grip on a bottle of gin and Mitchell said, edging toward the door, “Wait a minute. I brought you some money.”

  “I don’t want your money,” the man said. “I got money.”

  “Well,” Mitchell said, holding out the telegrams, “I think I got a job for you.”

  “I don’t want your help,” the man said. “You put a lie about us in the paper.”

  Mitchell closed the door and hurried toward the stairs. When he got as far as the landing of the second floor, the gin bottle struck the wall above his head and he was sprayed with gin and pieces of wet glass. When he got downstairs the landlady said, “What happened? What was that crash?”

  “Mr. Holman threw a bottle of gin at me,” Mitchell said. He was laughing.

  He was one part angel.

  Author’s Note

  This book consists of two views of the same man, a lost soul named Joe Gould. Both were written as Profiles for The New Yorker. I wrote the first, “Professor Sea Gull,” in 1942, and it came out in the issue of December 12, 1942. Twenty-two years later, in 1964, I wrote the second, “Joe Gould’s Secret,” and it came out in the issues of September 19 and 26, 1964.

  Professor Sea Gull

  Joe Gould is a blithe and emaciated little man who has been a notable in the cafeterias, diners, barrooms, and dumps of Greenwich Village for a quarter of a century. He sometimes brags rather wryly that he is the last of the bohemians. “All the others fell by the wayside,” he says. “Some are in the grave, some are in the loony bin, and
some are in the advertising business.” Gould’s life is by no means carefree; he is constantly tormented by what he calls “the three H’s”—homelessness, hunger, and hangovers. He sleeps on benches in subway stations, on the floor in the studios of friends, and in quarter-a-night flophouses on the Bowery. Once in a while he trudges up to Harlem and goes to one of the establishments known as “Extension Heavens” that are operated by followers of Father Divine, the Negro evangelist, and gets a night’s lodging for fifteen cents. He is five feet four and he hardly ever weighs more than a hundred pounds. Not long ago he told a friend that he hadn’t eaten a square meal since June, 1936, when he bummed up to Cambridge and attended a banquet during a reunion of the Harvard class of 1911, of which he is a member. “I’m the foremost authority in the United States,” he says, “on the subject of doing without.” He tells people that he lives on “air, self-esteem, cigarette butts, cowboy coffee, fried-egg sandwiches, and ketchup.” Cowboy coffee, he says, is strong coffee drunk black without sugar. “I’ve long since lost my taste for good coffee,” he says. “I much prefer the kind that sooner or later, if you keep on drinking it, your hands will begin to shake and the whites of your eyes will turn yellow.” While having a sandwich, Gould customarily empties a bottle or two of ketchup on his plate and eats it with a spoon. The countermen in the Jefferson Diner, on Village Square, which is one of his hangouts, gather up the ketchup bottles and hide them the moment he puts his head in the door. “I don’t particularly like the confounded stuff,” he says, “but I make it a practice to eat all I can get. It’s the only grub I know of that’s free of charge.”

  Gould is a Yankee. His branch of the Goulds has been in New England since 1635, and he is related to many of the other early New England families, such as the Lawrences, the Clarkes, and the Storers. “There’s nothing accidental about me,” he once said. “I’ll tell you what it took to make me what I am today. It took old Yankee blood, an overwhelming aversion to possessions, four years of Harvard, and twenty-five years of beating the living hell out of my insides with bad hooch and bad food.” He says that he is out of joint with the rest of the human race because he doesn’t want to own anything. “If Mr. Chrysler tried to make me a present of the Chrysler Building,” he says, “I’d damn near break my neck fleeing from him. I wouldn’t own it; it’d own me. Back home in Massachusetts I’d be called an old Yankee crank. Here I’m called a bohemian. It’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.” Gould has a twangy voice and a Harvard accent. Bartenders and countermen in the Village refer to him as the Professor, the Sea Gull, Professor Sea Gull, the Mongoose, Professor Mongoose, or the Bellevue Boy. He dresses in the castoff clothes of his friends. His overcoat, suit, shirt, and even his shoes are all invariably a size or two too large, but he wears them with a kind of forlorn rakishness. “Just look at me,” he says. “The only thing that fits is the necktie.” On bitter winter days he puts a layer of newspapers between his shirt and undershirt. “I’m snobbish,” he says. “I only use the Times.” He is fond of unusual headgear—a toboggan, a beret, or a yachting cap. One summer evening he appeared at a party in a seersucker suit, a polo shirt, a scarlet cummerbund, sandals, and a yachting cap, all hand-me-downs. He uses a long black cigarette holder, and a good deal of the time he smokes butts picked up off the sidewalks.

  Bohemianism has aged Gould considerably beyond his years. He has got in the habit lately of asking people he has just met to guess his age. Their guesses range between sixty-five and seventy-five; he is fifty-three. He is never hurt by this; he looks upon it as proof of his superiority. “I do more living in one year,” he says, “than ordinary humans do in ten.” Gould is toothless, and his lower jaw swivels from side to side when he talks. He is bald on top, but the hair at the back of his head is long and frizzly, and he has a bushy, cinnamon-colored beard. He wears a pair of spectacles that are loose and lopsided and that slip down to the end of his nose a moment after he puts them on. He doesn’t always wear them on the street and without them he has the wild, unfocussed stare of an old scholar who has strained his eyes on small print. Even in the Village many people turn and look at him. He is stooped and he moves rapidly, grumbling to himself, with his head thrust forward and held to one side. Under his left arm he usually carries a bulging, greasy, brown pasteboard portfolio, and he swings his right arm aggressively. As he hurries along, he seems to be warding off an imaginary enemy. Don Freeman, the artist, a friend of his, once made a sketch of him walking. Freeman called the sketch “Joe Gould versus the Elements.” Gould is as restless and footloose as an alley cat, and he takes long hikes about the city, now and then disappearing from the Village for weeks at a time and mystifying his friends; they have never been able to figure out where he goes. When he returns, always looking pleased with himself, he makes a few cryptic remarks, giggles, and then shuts up. “I went on a bird walk along the waterfront with an old countess,” he said after his most recent absence. “The countess and I spent three weeks studying sea gulls.”

  Gould is almost never seen without his portfolio. He keeps it on his lap while he eats and in flophouses he sleeps with it under his head. It usually contains a mass of manuscripts and notes and letters and clippings and copies of obscure little magazines, a bottle of ink, a dictionary, a paper bag of cigarette butts, a paper bag of bread crumbs, and a paper bag of hard, round, dime-store candy of the type called sour balls. “I fight fatigue with sour balls,” he says. The crumbs are for pigeons; like many other eccentrics, Gould is a pigeon feeder. He is devoted to a flock which makes its headquarters atop and around the statue of Garibaldi in Washington Square. These pigeons know him. When he comes up and takes a seat on the plinth of the statue, they flutter down and perch on his head and shoulders, waiting for him to bring out his bag of crumbs. He has given names to some of them. “Come here, Boss Tweed,” he says, “A lady in Stewart’s Cafeteria didn’t finish her whole-wheat toast this morning and when she went out, bingo, I snatched it off her plate especially for you. Hello, Big Bosom. Hello, Popgut. Hello, Lady Astor. Hello, St. John the Baptist. Hello, Polly Adler. Hello, Fiorello, you old goat, how’re you today?”

  Although Gould strives to give the impression that he is a philosophical loafer, he has done an immense amount of work during his career as a bohemian. Every day, even when he has a bad hangover or even when he is weak and listless from hunger, he spends at least a couple of hours working on a formless, rather mysterious book that he calls “An Oral History of Our Time.” He began this book twenty-six years ago, and it is nowhere near finished. His preoccupation with it seems to be principally responsible for the way he lives; a steady job of any kind, he says, would interfere with his thinking. Depending on the weather, he writes in parks, in doorways, in flophouse lobbies, in cafeterias, on benches on elevated-railroad platforms, in subway trains, and in public libraries. When he is in the proper mood, he writes until he is exhausted, and he gets into this mood at peculiar times. He says that one night he sat for six or seven hours in a booth in a Third Avenue bar and grill, listening to a beery old Hungarian woman, once a madam and once a dealer in narcotics and now a soup cook in a city hospital, tell the story of her life. Three days later, around four o’clock in the morning, on a cot in the Hotel Defender, at 300 Bowery, he was awakened by the foghorns of tugs on the East River and was unable to go back to sleep because he felt that he was in the exact mood to put the old soup cook’s biography in his history. He has an abnormal memory; if he is sufficiently impressed by a conversation, he can keep it in his head, even if it is lengthy and senseless, for many days, much of it word for word. He had a bad cold, but he got up, dressed under a red exit light, and, tiptoeing so as not to disturb the men sleeping on cots all around him, went downstairs to the lobby.

  He wrote in the lobby from 4:15 A.M. until noon. Then he left the Defender, drank some coffee in a Bowery diner, and walked up to the Public Library. He plugged away at a table in the genealogy room, which is one of his rainy-day hangouts and which he says he pre
fers to the main reading room because it is gloomier, until it closed at 6 P.M. Then he moved into the main reading room and stayed there, seldom taking his eyes off his work, until the Library locked up for the night at 10 P.M. He ate a couple of egg sandwiches and a quantity of ketchup in a Times Square cafeteria. Then, not having two bits for a flophouse and being too engrossed to go to the Village and seek shelter, he hurried into the West Side subway and rode the balance of the night, scribbling ceaselessly while the train he was aboard made three round trips between the New Lots Avenue station in Brooklyn and the Van Cortlandt Park station in the Bronx, which is one of the longest runs in the subway system. He kept his portfolio on his lap and used it as a desk. He has the endurance of the possessed. Whenever he got too sleepy to concentrate, he shook his head vigorously and then brought out his bag of sour balls and popped one in his mouth. People stared at him, and once he was interrupted by a drunk who asked him what in the name of God he was writing. Gould knows how to get rid of inquisitive drunks, He pointed at his left ear and said, “What? What’s that? Deaf as a post. Can’t hear a word” The drunk lost all interest in him. “Day was breaking when I left the subway,” Gould says. “I was coughing and sneezing, my eyes were sore, my knees were shaky, I was as hungry as a bitch wolf, and I had exactly eight cents to my name. I didn’t care. My history was longer by eleven thousand brand-new words, and at that moment I bet there wasn’t a chairman of the board in all New York as happy as I.”

  Gould is haunted by the fear that he will die before he has the first draft of the Oral History finished. It is already eleven times as long as the Bible. He estimates that the manuscript contains 9,000,000 words, all in longhand. It may well be the lengthiest unpublished work in existence. Gould does his writing in nickel composition books, the kind that children use in school, and the Oral History and the notes he has made for it fill two hundred and seventy of them, all of which are tattered and grimy and stained with coffee, grease, and beer. Using a fountain pen, he covers both sides of each page, leaving no margins anywhere, and his penmanship is poor; hundreds of thousands of words are legible only to him. He has never been able to interest a publisher in the Oral History. At one time or another he has lugged armfuls of it into fourteen publishing offices. “Half of them said it was obscene and outrageous and to get it out of there as quick as I could,” he says, “and the others said they couldn’t read my handwriting.” Experiences of this nature do not dismay Gould; he keeps telling himself that it is posterity he is writing for, anyway. In his breast pocket, sealed in a dingy envelope, he always carries a will bequeathing two-thirds of the manuscript to the Harvard Library and the other third to the Smithsonian Institution. “A couple of generations after I’m dead and gone,” he likes to say, “the Ph.D.’s will start lousing through my work. Just imagine their surprise. ‘Why, I be damned,’ they’ll say, ‘this fellow was the most brilliant historian of the century.’ They’ll give me my due. I don’t claim that all of the Oral History is first class, but some of it will live as long as the English language.” Gould used to keep his composition books scattered all over the Village, in the apartments and studios of friends. He kept them stuck away in closets and under beds and behind the books in bookcases. In the winter of 1942, after hearing that the Metropolitan Museum had moved its most precious paintings to a bombproof storage place somewhere out of town for the duration of the war, he became panicky. He went around and got all his books together and made them into a bale, he wrapped the bale in two layers of oilcloth, and then he entrusted it to a woman he knows who owns a duck-and-chicken farm near Huntington, Long Island. The farmhouse has a stone cellar.