Brian Burns

Chapter 1 Excerpt:

The Bar Tab Also Rises vs. The Sun Also Rises

Chapter 1: Robert Cohn the Dance Champion

Robert Cohn was once interpretive dance champion of Princeton. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Wow, Princeton interpretive dance champion, that’s like being the most articulate mime at a silent film festival.” But it meant everything to Cohn. The man treated this accomplishment like he’d discovered the secret to human expression, when really he’d just learned to flail around dramatically while other trust fund babies sat in an auditorium pretending to understand his “emotional journey.”

He didn’t even like interpretive dance at first. This is like becoming a professional librarian because you hate books. But Cohn learned to dance because—and I’m not making this up—people were mean to him for his habit of critiquing everyone else’s complete ‘lack of authenticity’ and for spreading expensive condiments on everything he ate, including dessert, at Princeton. One such condiment was Beige Poupon—it was nothing more than expensive mustard. One bottle cost as much as someone’s monthly wage and Cohn made sure everyone knew he was using it.
His instructor, Madame Cordelia (and yes, she insisted on being called “Madame,” despite being from New Jersey), taught all her students to dance like they were channeling the spirits of dying swans. This was Cordelia’s brilliant philosophy: make everyone move like they’re having an emotional breakdown, regardless of whether they were expressing “the agony of unrequited love” or “the joy of a spring morning.”

But here’s the kicker: Madame Cordelia immediately entered Cohn into competitions he had no business being in, and he got his nose permanently flattened during a particularly ambitious interpretive piece about “the futility of modern existence.” Apparently, he collided with another dancer during what was supposed to be a graceful representation of “souls passing in the night.” Cohn learned to dance to feel better about himself, then immediately got his face rearranged while expressing his feelings about loneliness. It’s like writing a poem about all your childhood trauma that is immediately mocked. But somehow, this made Cohn feel better about interpretive dance. The man’s got the logic of a pretzel doing yoga.

Now, I have to admit something: I don’t trust anyone who dances. Especially when they’re telling me about their glory days while we’re sitting in a Parisian café at 2 PM on a Tuesday, somehow affording wine that costs more than most people’s rent. So, I went and checked with Madame herself. And wouldn’t you know it? The story was true. Madame not only remembered Cohn, but she’d also been wondering what happened to him. Probably because Cohn still owed her money.

Here’s where it gets really rich: Robert Cohn came from not one, but two kinds of wealthy families in New York. Through his father’s side, he was new money rich. Through his mother’s side, he was old money rich. This man hit the genetic lottery twice and still managed to develop an inferiority complex. It’s like complaining about having too many swimming pools.

At military school (because of course he went to military school), nobody cared about his pretentious critiques. He played football, made friends, and probably had his laundry done by servants—the works. But the minute he got to Princeton, suddenly everyone’s a critic. And instead of just ignoring these people Cohn decided, “Clearly, I need to express myself with dance.”

So, he danced his way through Princeton, graduated with a flattened nose and enough emotional baggage to fill a freight train, and immediately married the first woman who was nice to him. Because nothing says “healthy relationship foundation” like “she didn’t immediately insult my personality.”

Five years of marriage, three kids, and boom—he’s blown through most of his fifty-thousand-dollar inheritance. Fifty thousand! In 1920s money! That’s like spending a million dollars on… I don’t know, what do rich people waste money on? Probably gold-plated tennis rackets and caviar for their pets. Also, it turns out the “Cohn Dance Studio of Pretentious Emotions” wasn’t such a great use of the money.

Here’s the other thing that kills me: during all this time, Cohn’s mother had set him up with an allowance of three hundred dollars a month. Three hundred 1920s dollars! That’s like getting a monthly check for several thousand dollars today, just for existing. And we’re supposed to feel sorry for this guy?

But wait, I should give credit where it’s due—the man is a gifted narcissist. Case in point: All of a sudden, Cohn decided he wanted to leave his wife. In his warped mind, she was obviously stifling his artistic genius—because clearly the problem couldn’t be that he wasn’t any good at interpretive dance. No, it had to be someone else’s fault. So just when Cohn finally works up the courage to leave his wife—and I’m talking months of inner monologue here, like Hamlet but with more whining—she leaves him! For a miniature painter. Not even a regular-sized painter! A miniature painter! The ultimate insult: getting dumped for someone whose entire profession involves making tiny pictures.

The best part? Cohn had convinced himself that leaving would be “too cruel” because his wife couldn’t possibly survive without him. Meanwhile, she’s already packed her bags and moved in with someone who paints dollhouse portraits for a living.

So, what does our hero do? He moves to Broadway and immediately falls in with “Show People.” You know, the kind of folks who use “summer” as a verb and discuss the “authenticity” of their suffering while sipping champagne. Since Cohn still had some of daddy’s money left, he naturally became the financial backer of a Broadway show. Because nothing screams “I’m a serious artist” like buying your way in.

The show was nothing more than a two-hour solo interpretive dance by Cohn himself. If that’s not bad enough he thought dressing in a clown costume would add to the emotional effect. By the time it closed (because of course it closed), Cohn had gone from silent investor to sole producer. He discovered he liked having authority, although he was also his only employee.

But here’s where our story gets really interesting. A woman—let’s call her Frances, because that was her name—decided that Cohn and his show were her tickets to the big time. She “took him in hand,” which is a polite way of saying she managed his life like he was an expensive pet. And she had an expensive pet, a Pomeranian she called Poopsy-Pops, which she made Cohn take care of. And Cohn, being Cohn, was absolutely certain he loved her.
When Frances realized the show wasn’t going to make her famous, she did what any reasonable person would do: she convinced Cohn to move to Europe so he could “dance.” Because apparently, the only way to become a real dancer is to drink wine in Paris while complaining about Americans. It’s like a law or something.

They spent three years in Europe—one year traveling (because why settle down when you can afford to wander aimlessly?) and two years in Paris. During this entire time, Cohn had exactly two friends: Braddocks and me. Braddocks was his “dance friend” (translation: they discussed dance while drinking), and I was his “tennis friend” (translation: we hit balls around while drinking).

Meanwhile, Frances started noticing that she was getting older, and her attitude toward Cohn shifted from casual exploitation to desperate marriage plotting. Because nothing says “romantic commitment” like panicking about your expiring looks.

For two and a half years, I swear, Cohn didn’t look at another woman; with all that dancing no other woman was really looking at him either. He spent his time being “fairly happy” (which in Cohn-speak means “mildly dissatisfied but too polite to complain”), except for the fact that he’d rather be in America. You know, because living in Paris on an allowance while pursuing your artistic dreams is apparently such a hardship.
I got a glimpse into Frances’s warped mind one night after dinner. We’d eaten at Le Overpriced then went to Café de Pretentious for coffee and several rounds of after-dinner drinks. Because apparently, our biggest problem in life was not having enough places to drink.

Cohn had shown up wearing his cream-colored cable-knit sweater (the one with the little anchor pattern) and carrying a small jar of Beige Poupon, which he’d insisted on spreading on everything despite the waiter’s horrified expression. He was also carrying Poopsy-Pops, Frances’s ridiculous Pomeranian, in a tiny Louis Vuitton carrier. The dog was wearing a miniature beret that matched Frances’s outfit.

“Robert, darling, Poopsy-Pops needs her evening constitutional,” Frances had announced during dessert, which meant Cohn had to excuse himself to walk a five-pound furball around the block while we finished our cognac.
When he returned, Cohn started talking about taking a weekend trip—just the two of us guys, you understand. He wanted to get out of town and go fishing. I was shocked, Cohn actually wanting to do something normal? Though knowing him, he’d probably pack his Princeton interpretive dance varsity jacket and try to express the essence of trout through movement.

I suggested we go to Strasbourg and mentioned I knew a girl there who could show us around. That’s when Frances kicked me under the table. Hard. Poopsy-Pops let out a tiny yip of alarm from her lap.

I thought it was an accident and kept talking about this perfectly nice American girl who’d been living in Strasbourg for two years. Another kick. This time I looked up and saw Frances’s face transforming into something that belonged in a horror movie. Even Poopsy-Pops seemed to sense the danger and burrowed deeper into her tiny cashmere blanket.

“I mean who likes girls?” I said, quickly backtracking, “why go to Strasbourg? We could go to Chippendales or something.”

Suddenly, Cohn looked relieved, and the kicking stopped. Frances began cooing to Poopsy-Pops again, and the little dog poked her head out cautiously. 

Amazing how quickly the temperature can change when you accidentally threaten someone’s romantic monopoly.
After I said goodnight and left, Cohn followed me out, claiming he needed to buy a paper. He was still carrying the dog in the carrier and had somehow managed to get Beige Poupon on his sweater sleeve.

“Why did you mention that girl in Strasbourg?” he asked. “Didn’t you see Frances?”

“Well, I didn’t know she was a complete psychopath. You better watch out with that one.”

“It doesn’t make any difference. If any girl is there I couldn’t go.” He shifted the dog carrier to his other arm as Poopsy-Pops whimpered softly.

Any girl? Not even a specific girl he was interested in? Just the theoretical possibility of female companionship was enough to send Frances into full territorial mode.

“You don’t know Frances,” Cohn said. “Any girl at all. Didn’t you see the way she looked?” He glanced nervously back toward the café, where Frances was probably already planning his punishment for this conversation.

So, we settled on Senlis instead. A nice, safe, presumably girl-free destination where two grown men could take walks in the woods and pretend this was somehow meaningful. Though I had a feeling Cohn would end up carrying dog treats and a portable water bowl for Poopsy-Pops instead of fishing gear.

As I watched Cohn walk back to the café with his paper, still juggling the dog carrier and trying to wipe Beige Poupon off his sweater, I couldn’t help but think: this poor guy has gone from Princeton interpretive dance champion to trust fund dance studio owner to a kept man in Paris who’s basically a full-time dog nanny, and somehow he’s convinced himself this is all perfectly normal. Little did I know that winter would bring changes that would make his current level of annoying seem quaint by comparison.

But then again, who am I to judge? I’m sitting in cafés at midnight, drinking expensive liquor, writing about it, and calling it literature.

Chapter 1

Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not
think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it
meant a lot to Cohn. He cared nothing for boxing, in fact he disliked
it, but he learned it painfully and thoroughly to counteract the feeling
of inferiority and shyness he had felt on being treated as a Jew at
Princeton. There was a certain inner comfort in knowing he could knock
down anybody who was snooty to him, although, being very shy and a
thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym. He was Spider
Kelly’s star pupil. Spider Kelly taught all his young gentlemen to box
like featherweights, no matter whether they weighed one hundred and five
or two hundred and five pounds. But it seemed to fit Cohn. He was really
very fast. He was so good that Spider promptly overmatched him and got
his nose permanently flattened. This increased Cohn’s distaste for
boxing, but it gave him a certain satisfaction of some strange sort, and
it certainly improved his nose. In his last year at Princeton he read
too much and took to wearing spectacles. I never met any one of his
class who remembered him. They did not even remember that he was
middleweight boxing champion.

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories
hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had
never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had
stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or
seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young
child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly.
Spider Kelly not only remembered Cohn. He had often wondered what had
become of him.

Robert Cohn was a member, through his father, of one of the richest
Jewish families in New York, and through his mother of one of the
oldest. At the military school where he prepped for Princeton, and
played a very good end on the football team, no one had made him
race-conscious. No one had ever made him feel he was a Jew, and hence
any different from anybody else, until he went to Princeton. He was a
nice boy, a friendly boy, and very shy, and it made him bitter. He took
it out in boxing, and he came out of Princeton with painful
self-consciousness and the flattened nose, and was married by the first
girl who was nice to him. He was married five years, had three children,
lost most of the fifty thousand dollars his father left him, the balance
of the estate having gone to his mother, hardened into a rather
unattractive mould under domestic unhappiness with a rich wife; and just
when he had made up his mind to leave his wife she left him and went off
with a miniature-painter. As he had been thinking for months about
leaving his wife and had not done it because it would be too cruel to
deprive her of himself, her departure was a very healthful shock.

The divorce was arranged and Robert Cohn went out to the Coast. In
California he fell among literary people and, as he still had a little
of the fifty thousand left, in a short time he was backing a review of
the Arts. The review commenced publication in Carmel, California, and
finished in Provincetown, Massachusetts. By that time Cohn, who had been
regarded purely as an angel, and whose name had appeared on the
editorial page merely as a member of the advisory board, had become the
sole editor. It was his money and he discovered he liked the authority
of editing. He was sorry when the magazine became too expensive and he
had to give it up.

By that time, though, he had other things to worry about. He had been
taken in hand by a lady who hoped to rise with the magazine. She was
very forceful, and Cohn never had a chance of not being taken in hand.
Also he was sure that he loved her. When this lady saw that the magazine
was not going to rise, she became a little disgusted with Cohn and
decided that she might as well get what there was to get while there was
still something available, so she urged that they go to Europe, where
Cohn could write. They came to Europe, where the lady had been educated,
and stayed three years. During these three years, the first spent in
travel, the last two in Paris, Robert Cohn had two friends, Braddocks
and myself. Braddocks was his literary friend. I was his tennis friend.

The lady who had him, her name was Frances, found toward the end of the
second year that her looks were going, and her attitude toward Robert
changed from one of careless possession and exploitation to the absolute
determination that he should marry her. During this time Robert’s mother
had settled an allowance on him, about three hundred dollars a month.
During two years and a half I do not believe that Robert Cohn looked at
another woman. He was fairly happy, except that, like many people living
in Europe, he would rather have been in America, and he had discovered
writing. He wrote a novel, and it was not really such a bad novel as the
critics later called it, although it was a very poor novel. He read many
books, played bridge, played tennis, and boxed at a local gymnasium.

I first became aware of his lady’s attitude toward him one night after
the three of us had dined together. We had dined at l’Avenue’s and
afterward went to the Café de Versailles for coffee. We had several
_fines_ after the coffee, and I said I must be going. Cohn had been
talking about the two of us going off somewhere on a weekend trip. He
wanted to get out of town and get in a good walk. I suggested we fly to
Strasbourg and walk up to Saint Odile, or somewhere or other in Alsace.
“I know a girl in Strasbourg who can show us the town,” I said.

Somebody kicked me under the table. I thought it was accidental and went
on: “She’s been there two years and knows everything there is to know
about the town. She’s a swell girl.”

I was kicked again under the table and, looking, saw Frances, Robert’s
lady, her chin lifting and her face hardening.

“Hell,” I said, “why go to Strasbourg? We could go up to Bruges, or to
the Ardennes.”

Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said good-night and went
out. Cohn said he wanted to buy a paper and would walk to the corner
with me. “For God’s sake,” he said, “why did you say that about that
girl in Strasbourg for? Didn’t you see Frances?”

“No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg
what the hell is it to Frances?”

“It doesn’t make any difference. Any girl. I couldn’t go, that would be
all.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“You don’t know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn’t you see the way she
looked?”

“Oh, well,” I said, “let’s go to Senlis.”

“Don’t get sore.”

“I’m not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf
and take a hike in the woods and come home.”

“Good, that will be fine.”

“Well, I’ll see you to-morrow at the courts,” I said.

“Good-night, Jake,” he said, and started back to the café.

“You forgot to get your paper,” I said.

“That’s so.” He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. “You are
not sore, are you, Jake?” He turned with the paper in his hand.

“No, why should I be?”

“See you at tennis,” he said. I watched him walk back to the café
holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite a
life.