Applause
by Weldon Kees
"Applause" has not been reprinted in any of the collections of Kees's short fiction.
It was first published in the Summer 1939 issue of Prairie Schooner.
Everything was just as it should be. It had been a good day at the office, things were picking up,
and here he was now,
in his own room in his own house, fresh from a cold shower, his face tingling from shaving lotion. On the bed were the
clothes he had laid out: a freshly-pressed suit and a new shirt. Conlee stood for a moment looking out of the window at
the cars that were going by, and then he began to get ready.
While he dressed, he kept thinking of the lecture he was going to that evening. For years he had hoped that some day he
might hear Walter F. Hoke, whose books had meant so much to him. Buttoning his shirt, Conlee remembered when he had first
read Life's What You Make It, and the inspiration he had felt for weeks. Frank Gruening had told him about that book; he
had recommended it to him.
And he, Ira Conlee, had been the one responsible for Walter F. Hoke's coming here to speak this evening. When he had
heard, months before, that the Junior League was planning a lecture series, he had phoned Lillian Jennings, the head of
the committee, urging her to get Walter Hoke. He was on a lecture tour. They couldn't possibly make a better choice than
Walter Hoke, he had said. And that's the way it had worked out, and tonight, in just a little while, he would be listening
to Walter Hoke's voice.
When he had finished dressing, he stood in front of the long mirror and threw his shoulders back and turned slowly
from one side to the other, He looked all right. He hummed a little as he went downstairs.
His wife was sitting under a bridge-lamp darning some socks; she looked up. "Ready?"
"All ready to go," he said. "You?"
"Any time." She put down her work. "It's almost eight."
"Well, we better get a move on. I want to get a good seat."
She got up and started putting on her hat, tucking in stray ends of hair. "Oh, Ira, don't forget the books," she said.
"Huh?"
"The books. Mr. Hoke's. You were going to get him to autograph them after the lecture, weren't you?"
"Say, I nearly forgot!" He went to the bookcase and took out Life's What You Make It and Making a Go of Living. "It's
a good thing you reminded me," he said. "I darn near forgot about them."
"You'd forget your head if it wasn't fixed on," his wife said.
"Oh, yeh?"
He locked the front door and tried the knob, and then they went out to the car. As they drove down to the auditorium,
his wife went on at some length about the neighbor's dog getting in her flowerbed, and he grunted occasionally to let her
know that he was listening. But it was difficult to pay attention with his mind on the lecture. What would Walter Hoke be
like? He had seen pictures of him, of course, but he had no idea of his height or build, what kind of lecturer he was, or
anything like that. His wife's voice went on steadily, repeating something about a dog in a flowerbed, and he knew from
the tone of her voice that she wanted sympathy.
"That's tough," he said.
"An animal like that should be penned up and that's all there is to it," his wife said.
He steered the car into a parking lot near the auditorium.
"You remembered the tickets, didn't you?" his wife asked.
He felt in his vest pocket. "Got them right here," he said. ‘You think I forget everything."
They had arrived just in time. As they entered the large hall, The president of the Junior League was beginning to
speak. The lights, except for those oN the stage, had been turned off. Conlee was disappointed to see that the place was
only about three-fourths filled. He thought that it was a shame that the people in his own town couldn't turn out in
larger numbers when a man with Walter Hoke's reputation came to speak.
They found seats near the center and leaned back to listen to the president of the Junior League, a thin woman in a
black evening gown. On the stage, with a pitcher of water and a glass on the table before him, was Walter F. Hoke. He
looked a lot like his pictures, Conlee thought, only fatter. He had thought of him as a thinner man.
When the Junior League president finally introduced Hoke, Conlee, applauded longer than anyone else. And while he
was striking his hands together noisily, he noticed that the man in front of him was not applauding. It was rather dark,
and Conlee could not see very well without his glasses, but there the man sat, not applauding at all, not making a sound.
Everyone else was applauding. It made Conlee angry. It made him go on, clapping his hands harder and faster. It was
irritating to think that a man would just sit there and not applaud a great figure like Walter Hoke.
After the applause had died away, Walter Hoke began to speak. As the lecture progressed, Ira Conlee told himself
that he was even better to listen to than to read. Such a rich, forceful voice, and the way he illustrated his points
with funny stories. A marvelous personality, Conlee thought, really about the best speaker he had ever heard.
"He's sure good, isn't he?" he whispered to his wife.
He relaxed, perfectly at ease except for the dying anger he felt for the man in front of him, listening to the smooth
flow of words that came from the platform. From time to time he laughed heartily at something Hoke said; other times,
he hunched forward in his seat, his mouth drawn and anxious. It gave him a special sense of importance to look over the
heads of the people in the audience and think that it was actually to him that gratitude was due: if he hadn't mentioned
Hoke's name to Lillian Jennings, none of them would have been there, hearing such an excellent lecture.
The lecture was almost over before he realized how much time had passed. Hoke was coming to the concluding part of
his speech, summing up what he had said, re-scoring his points. And when he finally made a short bow and said, "I thank
you," and went back to the table and poured a glass of water, Conlee was the first to applaud. There was the single slap
of his hands striking, and then, all around him, applause broke in a steady harsh wave. In front of him, the same man sat,
not moving, Conlee bit his lower lip. How in the hell did that man get off, he thought, just sitting there, not being
appreciative enough to applaud? It made him sore, got under his skin, and before he knew just what he was doing, he
leaned over and touched the man on the shoulder and said angrily, "What's the matter with you anyway, buddy?"
The man turned his head slowly and looked at Conlee for an instant. Conlee was trembling with exasperation, knowing
that his wife had stopped clapping and was watching him. He was boiling inside. Imagine a person listening to a wonderful
speech like that, and just sitting there, probably sneering at Walter Hoke. Some cynical no-account, who was totally
lacking in any kind of spirit, and didn't have anything better to do than to sneer at fine men like Walter Hoke.
"What's the matter with you, Ira?" his wife asked.
"Nothing's the matter with me!" he said loudly. He wanted the man in front of him to hear. "There's certainly
something the matter with certain other people around here, though!"
The applause was dying away now, and people began to stand up. A hum of voices grew in the hall. The house lights
came on, dimly at first, and then bright and glaring.
Then Conlee got a good look at the man who had been sitting in front of him. He was standing now, looking at Conlee
with an expressionless face. He was a young man with a sallow complexion and dark eyes, and he wore a dark suit with a
small pinstripe. The left sleeve of his coat hung limply from his shoulder, and was pinned neatly at the elbow. The
empty sleeve hung loosely, swinging lightly against his side.
Conlee looked away. The blood was rushing to his face, and he felt a horrible sinking in his stomach. He knew that
his wife was beside him, her mouth open and ready to speak. Whatever she said would be the wrong thing,
The man was gone. Conlee felt powerless, as though he would never be able to move again. People crowded the narrow
aisles, their voices growing, buzzing in the room, and he felt that all of them were staring at him. The books by Walter
Hoke had fallen to the floor, and he looked at them stupidly.
His wife's voice, when it came, was cold and distant.
"Come on, Ira," she said.
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