by Jack Finney
Ben then turned to Charley. Well, he said, draperies. What can we arrange about the drapery department?
But Charley was shaking his head. Not a thing, believe me, he said. I know that look in June's eye. She wants those draperies, and we'd better stand clear. He was glancing around the store as he talked. Now he nodded at the book department toward the rear of the store. We might find something over there, though, he said.
Such as what?
Oh — there's probably an interesting book title to be found and placed in the coat pocket with the title protruding. ‘What Every Young Man Should Know about Sex,’ or something.
Ben nodded. Yeah. Or we could come running after them, waving the book, Hey, lady, you dropped this! He began to stroll forward through the store, Charley beside him. After a moment Ben nodded at a sign over the stationery counter, Your letterhead printed while you wait. Might do something with that, he said.
Yeah, Charley nodded. June Howser, Fortunes Told. Or Ruth Callander, Harpsichord Lessons. He nodded toward a counter top crowded with purses. I'll tell you what. We could buy a cheap purse over there, maybe just a change purse. And pick up a two-bit diamond ring at a five-and-ten. Put it in the purse with a dollar bill and some change, a couple of movie-ticket stubs or whatever else we find in our pockets, then sneak up to wherever they are, and plant it where they'll be sure to spot it. It'd have 'em in a tizzy for the rest of the day. We could even, he stopped short, smiling, put a name and address in it. Somebody they don't know; Lennie Forbes, maybe; he'd be good. We brief him first, by phone, then they call up, dripping with righteousness, to report finding his purse, and he denounces them. Claims there was a hundred and two dollars in the purse, threatens to call the cops, and —
Ben was shaking his head. No, he said, that might work ordinarily, but not today. As things stand now, if they actually spotted a bona fide purse, they'd just kick it under a counter, figuring we'd planted it.
I guess you're right. They stood leaning back against a display case, eyes narrowed in thought.
Presently Charley said, How about this? June's usually pretty prompt, keeps an eye on the clock; it worries her to be late. So they arrive at the Top of the Mark at five, and we're not there yet. Only one thing to do; get a table, order a drink, and wait for us. We show up at five-fifteen, and meanwhile — we've got a good two hours — there's that big costume-rental place over on Market Street. We come walking in and join the ladies, with you in a moth-eaten admiral's outfit, maybe. One of those gold-plumed admiral's hats and a long sword on a belt. And me in I-don't-know-what. An Erich von Stroheim outfit, maybe; leather puttees, cap on backward, and a monocle.
Ben smiled as he considered this. Yeah, he said slowly, only then we'd have to sit there wearing those outfits. That first moment when we walk in would be good, but afterward — would you have the nerve?
Maybe not.
They were silent for some moments. Presently Ben said slowly, There's something bothering me about this; I'm not sure just what. But for one thing, though I don't doubt that we could come through with something pretty good, today they're expecting it. Almost anything we do will have lost the element of surprise — almost bound to be anticlimactic, and they'd get mad, maybe really mad. But that's not all — Frowning, he scratched his head, trying to find words. Then he said, Charley, I've sometimes wondered about this business of husbands pulling gags on their wives. I may be wrong, but I have the feeling that it's almost entirely an American custom. It's widespread here, and I've wondered what that might mean. Here's what I think. This may sound funny, but it seems to me that in an odd sort of way the gag I played on Ruth in the cafeteria today, for example, is — well-almost an expression of love. That somehow, strange as it sounds, that's just what it conveys, and that Ruth knows it. Certainly it wouldn't be possible with a woman you didn't love; if you were bored with her, or resented her, or — do you know what I mean?
Charley nodded. Yeah, he said quietly, I do. Somehow what you say is present in every one of the gags I play on June.
Yeah, said Ben. So here's what's bothering me. To have it turn into a sort of battle of the sexes is — well, it's always possible to win the battle and lose the campaign. Again Charley nodded, and Ben continued, So what I was thinking — he pushed himself erect from the showcase, and the two men began walking slowly toward the Post Street exit of the store — is something like this. It's only a rough idea, but see what you think. They walked on, Charley's head bowed in attention as Ben talked. After a dozen steps or so, Charley began to nod.
At two minutes of five, Ruth Callander and June Howser stepped out of the elevator into the great circular room on the very top of the Mark Hopkins Hotel. The late-afternoon sun was slanting in through the westernmost of the huge plate-glass windows that encircled the room, and the two women stood for a moment, blinking in the clear bright light, searching the vast room. Most of the tables were occupied, and the famous room was already filled with the murmur of conversation and the sound of soft music from loudspeakers set in the ceilings and walls. Then they saw their husbands rising to their feet, beckoning to them from a table for four near a great window overlooking San Francisco Bay.
They walked toward the table. The waiting men smiled in greeting. As they reached the table, Ben and Charley stepped courteously aside to allow the two women to slip into the boothlike seats beside the window.
Hi, Ben said, smiling at Ruth.
And Charley said, Did you get the draperies all right?
Yes, June said, and they're lovely; they'll be delivered Tuesday. She was looking warily from Charley to Ben; then she glanced at Ruth as though for reassurance.
Good, Charley said pleasantly. Swell, and he nodded as though genuinely pleased.
What about the chair? Ben said to Ruth. Find one?
Yes, but I'm going to think about it for a day or so. Then if I still like it, I'll phone and order it; I've got the number. She flicked a glance at June.
A red-coated waiter was approaching the table. As Ben looked up and saw him, he nodded at the man, and the waiter smiled and nodded back. Seeing this, Ruth watched the waiter intently. She saw that he was carrying two small white-wrapped packages, one in each hand, and she sat back to wait, glancing suspiciously from the waiter to Ben.
The man stopped at the table. Bowing smartly from the waist, he extended the two small pear-shaped packages to the two women. For the ladies, I believe, he said, smiling.
For a moment they didn't move, each glancing at the other; then, there being nothing else to do, they each reached slowly forward to take a package, smiling stiffly at the waiter in thanks.
Slowly the two women unwrapped their packages. Watch out, June said to Ruth, that it doesn't explode or squirt water in your face. Then, catching a glimpse of what the packages contained, the two women removed the wrappings completely. June held a tiny, foil-and-lace-paper-wrapped corsage of violets, their tiny petals beaded with droplets, and Ruth had an identically wrapped corsage of lilies of the valley. In the center of each of the little bouquets was thrust a small white card, each identically inscribed: From an Admirer.
After a moment Ruth looked up at Ben. Why, they're lovely, she said. There was still a hint of suspicion in her voice and face. As though to hide this, she ducked her head to sniff the bouquet. Thank you, darling, she said.
Ben smiled and reached out to put his hand on hers.
June thanked Charley for her corsage, and at that moment they heard the sound of a record from the speaker in the wall just above them. June looked at Charley, her face startled. Why, she said, that's —
That's right, Charley interrupted. Our song. He burlesqued the words slightly, but at the same time grinned fondly at June. Arranged with the head waiter at enormous expense, but worth it.
After a moment June said slowly, Yes, it is. It's been a long time since we heard that.
The waiter brought tall glasses of ginger ale, and when they'd all had a sip, Ruth said, Well, what've you boys be
en doing all afternoon?
Oh, Ben said, just wandering around. Looking in store windows. We saw a couple of things, incidentally, that we thought you ladies might like. He drew a small, square, flat package, white-tissue-wrapped, from his coat pocket, and at the same time Charley brought a tiny package out of his pocket.
Again — silently, wonderingly, glancing at each other — the two women unwrapped their packages. Then Ruth gasped with pleasure; in her hands she held a tiny slim wallet of exquisitely dainty petit point, a delicate pastel pattern of roses and swirling green leaves. Oh, Ben, it's beautiful! she said, and actually clutched it to her for a moment in pleasure.
Well, your old one was getting a little shabby, Ben said, and I saw this, so. … He shrugged and smiled a little sheepishly at her.
June was opening the little box she'd unwrapped, and now she brought out what seemed to be two tiny violets matching those in the miniature bouquet on the table beside her. Then she saw that they were earrings of enameled metal, the little flowers entirely lifelike. She exclaimed with pleasure, and Charley grinned at her.
When presently the two women had finished examining their own and each other's gifts, Ruth said, You know, maybe I shouldn't, but I feel sort of — ashamed. I can't help it; I really do feel ashamed.
Why? Ben said.
Oh, she paused, embarrassed, and took a sip of ginger ale. Then she continued, We came here, June and I, all primed with — jokes. To get even with you two. And not even very good jokes at that; we're just not very expert at that kind of thing.
June said, We stopped at one of those little magic-trick and joke shops, and Ruth got a pairs of glasses with a false nose attached, and — she smiled shamefacedly — I've got a big rubber cigar in my purse. We were just so sure you'd meet us with some kind of big gag, and —
And all the time you were thinking of us, Ruth said. Getting us these. She picked up her corsage, looked at it fondly, then began pinning it to her coat. And that. She nodded at her wallet. So I can't help it; I feel sort of ashamed.
Relax, Charley said. We thought about taking you ladies to the Cliff House for dinner, if that suits you. It's a little early, but it'll take us a while to get there, and we thought it would be nice arriving in time to sit there with you and watch the ocean sunset from a window table.
The women agreed to this, very pleased with the idea. Ben finished his drink, then picked up the check saying, I'll get this, Charley, and reached into his pocket. Ruth, tucking her new wallet into her purse, turned to look at Ben. As he glanced up, she pursed her lips at him, making the sound of a tiny kiss. He smiled, leaning back in the booth, his hand searching his pocket. Then, his brows rising, he said to her, I'm afraid I've blown most of my holdings on high living and gifts for expensive women; you got any money?
Still smiling at him fondly, she opened her purse again. Yes, maybe you'd better carry it, she said, and brought out a small roll of four or five bills. She extended the money to Ben, but he still searched through his pocket and did not appear to see it.
Here you are, she said, extending the roll of bills still further across the table. Now he saw it and grinned.
He reached out for it, his fingers opening to take the money. But he moved slowly, and then, not quite touching the bills, he stopped, his hand motionless in midair, just short of the bills in Ruth's hand. Suddenly, in a voice not precisely loud, but not soft either, and distinctly audible to the people at the three or four tables nearest them, he said, I'm just a gigolo! pronouncing the words very distinctly. At the tables around them, drinks were suspended in midair as conversations ceased and people turned to look, then grin. Ben's fingers had closed tightly on the money in Ruth's extended hand, and before she could let go and withdraw her hand, he continued, I'm selling each romance. That's what everyone is saying. He was holding the wad of bills up before his eyes now, gazing down at it and sadly shaking his head. June, pushing against a grinning Charley, was trying to scramble from the booth. Ruth, with her elbow, was forcing Ben to slide from the booth, as he still sadly shook his head and repeated, Just a gigolo.
The men were standing beside the booth now, Ben dropping a bill on the tray beside the check. The women, redfaced, swung their feet to the aisle. As June stood up and turned toward the elevators, Charley, his arm hanging loosely at his side, pinched her sharply just as she stepped forward. She jumped awkwardly, her hips shooting forward. Then the two women, lips pursed, faces flushed, walked on toward the elevators; the men, grinning happily, followed behind them.
In the lobby, waiting at the elevator doors, Ruth looked up at Ben standing beside her. I'll kill you, she said quietly. I mean it. I will absolutely murder — Then her eye was caught by the corsage on her coat, and her hand, involuntarily, moved up to touch it. Then she looked back at Ben and smiled.
Good Housekeeping, June 1957, 144(6):74-75, 134, 136, 138, 140, 142, 145-146, 148, 150
Fast Buck
A man and a woman sat — motionless — staring through the windshield of a parked automobile. It was an old car, a '48 Chrysler sedan, carefully but inexpertly painted dark green, and it was nosed in at the curb of a small-town main street in California. The day had been sunny and warm, but the street was nearly deserted now that the town was at supper.
The door of the store front just across the sidewalk opened — WIDE-AWAKE MATT MATTHEW, MARIN COUNTY REAL ESTATE, the sign on the window said — and a portly, gray-haired man, wearing a sport jacket, stepped out and closed the door. He tested the thumb latch to make sure the door was locked; then he walked on, glancing into the parked car as he passed it. Seeing the couple inside, he stooped a little to smile and flick a hand in farewell.
The man at the wheel lifted his chin in response, then turned to his wife beside him. He was young, about twenty-five, his hair dark at the sides of his snap-brim felt hat, his eyes light brown. Well, that's that, he said, and glanced at his watch. Six-thirty; every other real estate office in the county will probably be closed now, too. Be dark in an hour anyway. So I guess that does it. For today, anyhow.
His wife shook her head. Don't try to cheer me up, Sam, she said quietly, still staring ahead through the windshield. That does it for today and every day; we're not going to get our house.
He glanced at her — a dark-haired, rather pretty girl, a year or so younger than he, wearing a gray cloth spring coat and a little gray felt hat. Then his mouth grimaced angrily. All right, he said, I won't. You're right; you can't buy a house with what we've got. We sure found that out today.
Where in the world did you get the idea we could! She swung to face him. All this year I've been counting the days till we'd finally have twenty-five hundred dollars saved! This is the year, I've been thinking for months, that we'd get our house at last! And we couldn't have been more wrong.
I know, I know. He flung out his hands, lifting them momentarily from the steering wheel. I don't know where I got the idea! I just figured it would be enough, that's all. He sighed. But it takes one-third down; that's the rule of thumb, they all say. If you aren't a veteran, Laurie, you need about five thousand in cash to buy a fifteen-thousand-dollar house; and we haven't seen one all day for less. He reached to the inside breast pocket of his brown jacket and pulled out a slim rectangle of palegreen paper with Bank of America imprinted in one corner. There it is, he said dully. Twenty-five hundred bucks, a certified check, good as cash; a lot of money. It's more than half my pay for a full year's work! It took us four years to save! He flung the check onto the seat between them. And it's not enough! It doesn't even begin to be enough!
Well, it's not your fault. She reached out to pat his leg. What if you'd known? We still wouldn't have the money. It's just that I'm so terribly disappointed, Sam, that I couldn't possibly try to hide it. When we woke up this morning, I thought this would be one of the biggest days in our lives. Now look at us.
He nodded. Yeah, he said shortly, then glanced at his watch. Twenty-five of seven; we'd better get back and pick up Billy.
>
I guess so, she said dully. Oh, Sam! Suddenly she turned, gripping his arm. Are we going to have to wait four more years? I get Billy out as often as I can, but it's getting harder and harder to carry him up four flights of stairs. And when he's two, or three, or four, Sam — a growing, active boy! — will he still be living in a three-room apartment?
His jaw muscles tensed. Some kids do. And survive. And we could always rent a house.
Then we'd never get our own! Never, with the rent we'd have to pay! And it's not just Billy, Sam; it's both of us. It's you; you want your own home!
Sure, I'd like my own place. I'd like to work on it, add to it, improve it the way you can when you own it — the only way you can. You'd like it, too. But we can't have it! So what's the use of talking about it? Unless you know a way to double this money! He gestured savagely at the check on the worn seat cushion.
I'm sorry; I didn't mean to take it out on you. Come on; let's go home.
Listen. Would your mother keep Billy for the rest of the evening if you phoned and asked her? All night, in fact; we'd pick him up tomorrow.
Why … I guess so. Yes, sure she would, if she hasn't anything else planned. And I doubt if she has. Why?
Well. His eyes were suddenly excited and eager. When he paused, his wife had the feeling that he was revising what he'd been about to say. I was just thinking that — well, what are we going to do now? Just crawl home and lick our wounds? Spend one more Saturday night watching television, then to bed, and that's that — too bad about the house? Laurie, why don't we take a trip? I've got twenty-odd dollars in my wallet; payday's Monday, and ordinarily we'd be saving any money left over for the house. But I don't feel like doing that now — not tonight. Let's phone your mother, and if she'll keep Billy, we'll fill the car with gas — he grinned suddenly — I said fill it, for once. Instead of turning right for San Francisco, we'll turn left! North on One-O-One, off onto U.S. Forty, and up into the mountains. Clear up, over Donner Pass, and down into Nevada and Reno on the other side. Have a trip! Spend the night! Have a little fun for a change! We haven't been away by ourselves since Billy was born! Again he was speaking rapidly, excitedly. You ever been to Reno? You never have, have you?