Notes on a Cowardly Lion by John Lahr Read Free Book Online Page A

funnier than his calculated pranks. He rarely confided his family troubles to friends, but once he decided to run away from home. He got no further than the home of his nextdoor neighbor, “Butch” Berkowitz, who offered him a bed after hearing of his plight. He arranged for Lahr to sneak into the house around ten o’clock, just after Berkowitz’s father had gone to sleep. His room was to the right of the front door, so there would be little noise to disturb the family. Berkowitz quietly fixed a bed for his friend, bringing a cot up from the cellar. In his small room the cot and regular bed consumed the width of the floor.
    When Lahr arrived, he came complete with a pair of pajamas and a dime novel.
    â€œWhat’ya bring that for?” said Berkowitz.
    â€œI figured I’d read because I don’t sleep good.”
    â€œWe can’t use the lights, dummy. It might attract attention. We’ll just have to go to sleep. The cot’s yours.”
    Finally, the chatter tapered off. Berkowitz was asleep.
    Lahr tried to go to sleep, trying his mother’s remedy of thinking happy thoughts. He remembered diving into the East River, the curious silence under water, cutting off the city noises, and then surfacing, to a world miraculously fresh. He thought of Frank Merriwell, and horses’ hooves, a noise that captivated him on the riding paths of Central Park. He simulated the clip-clop with his tongue against the cavity of his cheek. He usually could lull himself to sleep, but not that night. He began to itch.
    â€œHey, Sammy—what’s on the cot? C’mmon, Sammy, wake up!”
    â€œShut up, Swedish, I was almost asleep. You’re dreamin’ or somethin’.”
    â€œNo kiddin’ Sammy, what’s wrong with this cot? I’m gonna scratch myself to death if you don’t tell me. Put on the light, will you.”
    Sammy got up and reached for matches.
    â€œThis’ll have to do,” he said, holding the flame above the cot.
    â€œLook at that!” Lahr stood up from the cot. “I told you I wasn’t dreaming—bugs.”
    â€œWell, what are we going to do about it?”
    â€œLook at the little things move. They’re walking from my cot right over to your bed.”
    â€œSo what’s your idea?”
    â€œLet’s just pull the beds apart, and then the lice will break their necks when they fall between.”
    They swept away the lice and returned to bed. Lahr lay awake. He could hear the low whine of a dog. It persisted for several minutes. Berkowitz remembers Lahr yelling, “That’s Fanny. That’s Fanny. She’s calling me.” Lahr ran to the window and pushed it open, thrusting his chest far out of the window and scanning the alley.
    â€œHere Fanny! Here Fanny!”
    â€œSwedish, will you shut up for chrissake, it’s nearly two o’clock.”
    â€œIt’s Fanny. I know it is. Listen. I’m sure it is. She misses me.”
    Lahr began to call again. When there was no answer, he grudgingly lay back on his cot.
    â€œI hope you’re satisfied, Lahrheim. You just woke up half the neighborhood with your yelling. Go to sleep and forget it.”
    â€œI’m tryin’, I’m tryin’.”
    He imagined Fanny being left unfed or perhaps being given away for messing up the living room floor as his mother sometimes threatened. Finally, Lahr jumped from the cot and groped for his clothes.
    â€œWhat’ya doin’ now, Swedish?”
    â€œGettin’ dressed.”
    â€œWhat the hell for?”
    â€œI’ve got to get some sleep,” he said. “I’m goin’ home.”
    Besides his father’s platitudes about idleness and the intimidation of the city he walked so often, school was the bane of Lahr’s early years. He had never been a good student, but at P.S. 40 in the Bronx, he seemed to get worse. His parents were outraged by his curious inaction. He