Puttering About in a Small Land

by Philip K. Dick

  “What an attractive kitchen you have,” Chic said.

  “It’s small,” she said. “But it’s warm in here.”

  Roger said, “Why would you want to go into retail selling? You’ve got a good set-up.”

  “I’m interested,” Chic said.

  “You won’t make much money. There’s too many guarantee repairs on TV sets. Service eats up the profit.”

  “It isn’t the money,” Chic said. “It’s the idea that I’d be in a line where I could experiment. I want the experience. I feel it would give me room to turn around in.” He told them, then, about his own work. On and on he droned. Virginia ceased to listen, but her husband seemed to care, at least enough to keep his eyes open and on Bonner. But his look of scorn remained. His lack of real attention. The subject did not seem to rouse anything deep in him, the exciting notion of the business merger and expansion.

  What a little view, she thought to herself. Puttering about in a small land. Happy, she thought, at polishing one TV set in the morning, another in the afternoon. The ring of the phone…he dwelt in such a piddling kingdom.

  “In TV,” Roger was saying, interrupting Chic, “it’s the big tube that has to be handled with kid gloves. If that cracks, stand back.”

  “I’d imagine,” Chic said.

  “Usually it cracks back at the neck. That’s not too serious. Of course, you’re out fifteen or twenty bucks, wholesale.”

  “Every business has its occupational hazards,” Chic said. “In any foodstuffs it’s the problem of spoilage and contamination.”

  “In the old days,” Roger said, “we were more scared of the picture tube than anything else, even the high voltage. I remember hearing about a workman on the assembly line; one of the big tubes busted and the socket end, with the male prongs, went through the guy’s stomach and out the other side.”

  Chic then told about the rat that was baked into the loaf of bread and sold to an old lady in Sacramento. “She collected something like forty thousand,” he said. “Rats are a problem.”

  A sound caused Virginia to turn her head.

  “Hi,” Liz said. She had come out of the bedroom. Now she stood drowsily in the doorway, leaning with her arm against the wall. “The coffee smell woke me up,” she said.

  “How do you feel?” Virginia said.

  “Better.” Steadying herself, she walked over to Chic and he patted her, drawing her to him. “Can I have some coffee?” she asked Virginia. “I’ll pour it; don’t you get up.”

  “Don’t you want anything to eat?” Chic said to her.

  “No,” Liz said, fumbling at the sink with the coffee pot and cups. “Is this a meat loaf, Virginia?” she said. “It doesn’t look like anybody ate any of it.”

  “I forgot about it,” Virginia said. “We got to talking.”

  To his wife, Chic said, “You look awful. You better go slap some cold water in your face.”

  Returning to the table with her cup of coffee, Liz said, “I never could make good coffee, Virginia.”

  “There’s nothing to it,” she said. “Just get the exact amount of water and coffee, and when you reheat it, make sure you don’t let it boil.”

  “How do you know when it’s ready?”

  “You have to time it,” she said.

  To Chic, Liz said, “You’re not going too fast with this partnership business, are you?”

  Roger said, “What do you think about it?”

  “What do you mean,” Liz said, “what do I think? Do you mean, do I approve of it?”

  He nodded.

  Liz said, “I don’t think anything. How can I? It’s too soon to talk about it, either way. If Chic wants to look at your store, that’s fine. But it’s your store.”

  “Maybe so,” Roger said.

  “That’s not the question,” Virginia said.

  Chic said, “You don’t know anything about it; you have no idea of the situation.”

  “I know it’s silly,” Liz said.

  After a moment Roger said, “Well, as Liz says, there’s no hurry.”

  Chic said to his wife, “On what are you basing your statement? Have you any knowledge or experience of business relationships?”

  “Common sense tells me that,” Liz said. “Look at Gilbert and Sullivan; they wound up not even speaking to each other.”

  Chic said, in Roger’s direction, “They made an awful lot of money.”

  “Did they?” Liz said.

  “Personally,” Chic said, “I’m not too concerned with whether I’m going to be speaking to my partner or having him to dinner or swapping trout flies with him. I’m primarily concerned with whether he’s a competent and reliable business partner.”

  “But we couldn’t help getting tangled up,” Liz said to him.

  “You’d both be working together in the store—both Virginia and I would be coming in.”

  “Yes,” Virginia said. “But it’s natural. Partners’ wives always go in and out of the store. Employees’ wives, too. Isn’t that right, Roger?”

  Roger said, “Somewhere I heard something to the effect of, don’t do business with your friends or they won’t stay your friends.”

  “This is all so pessimistic,” Virginia said. “There’s no reason why we should assume we’re going to lose anybody’s friendship.”

  To Liz, Chic said, “We were doing fine until you came in.”

  “Thanks,” Liz said, sipping her coffee.

  “Anyhow,” Roger said, “we don’t have to carry it any farther tonight.”

  “Shall I call you?” Chic said. “Sometime tomorrow or the next day?”

  “No,” Roger said. “It’s hard to get me in the store. I’ll call you, maybe some evening.”

  Clearly disappointed, Chic said, “I’ll be expecting to hear from you. If I don’t hear from you in a couple of days, maybe I’ll take some time off and drop by the store.”

  “Suit yourself,” Roger said, with no evident interest.

  I could just kill you, Liz Bonner, Virginia said to herself. I’d like to get my hands around your throat for coming in here and spreading gloom and doom. What’s the matter with you? Why, when everyone else is involved in something serious, do you have to appear with your idiotic remarks? What do you know about anything?

  You are a stupid woman, she thought. A pretty, young-looking, big-chested, empty-headed woman. Go home and get into your own kitchen where you belong.

  “Why are you so gloomy?” she said to Liz.

  “I’m not gloomy,” Liz said. “Maybe it would work fine. But its easier to get into a thing like that than to get out.”

  “Are you afraid to take a chance?” Virginia said. “That’s the only way anyone ever got anything in the world.”

  “Especially the business world,” Chic said.

  Both Liz and Roger stared down at their coffee cups.

  “Well,” Chic said, “I guess we better hit the road, Virginia. We’ll give you people a call, maybe in the middle of the week.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Did you have a coat?”

  “Mine’s in the living room,” Chic said, standing up. “I think Liz had one.”

  “Yes,” Virginia said. “I put it in the closet; I’ll go get it.” Leaving the table, she strode down the hall and into the bedroom to the closet. She took down Liz’s coat. The bedroom was dark, but she made out the wrinkled bed, the indentation that Liz’s body had left. What a lump, she thought to herself. She tossed Liz’s coat over a chair and spent a few minutes remaking and smoothing the bed.

  When she came out of the bedroom she saw Chic standing at the front door of the house with his coat over his arm, waiting for his wife. “I like the idea,” she said to him.

  “Thanks, Virginia,” Chic said. “I wouldn’t pay much attention to Liz. She just wants to be able to say something on the subject.”

  Virginia went along the hall and to the kitchen. In the kitchen, Roger and Liz stood facing each other by the kitchen table. A cigarette stuck from Ro
ger’s mouth, and he patted his pockets, searching for his lighter.

  “I have it,” Liz said. She opened her purse and brought out his lighter.

  “Thanks,” he said, accepting the lighter and lighting his cigarette.

  “Here’s your coat,” Virginia said to Liz.

  As Liz put on her coat, Virginia thought to herself, What was that? Why did she have my husbands lighter?

  He must have given it to her on the trip, she decided. He was driving, she asked him if he had a match, he said no, here, take my lighter, and she never got around to returning it.

  But how peculiar, she thought to herself. It was in the way they spoke to each other. The directness.

  “Let’s go,” Chic said, from the open front door.

  “Coming,” Liz said. To Virginia, she said wearily, “Thanks for the aspirin.”

  “How’s the headache?”

  “It’s better,” Liz said. Roger moved along with the two women, until they had all three joined Chic. They moved down the path—Virginia switched on the porch light—to the sidewalk. Liz and Chic started towards the red Ford station wagon.

  “Good night,” Chic said. “We’ll see you.”

  As Roger waved good night and started back toward the house, he thought to himself, There she goes. Off with her husband. Back to her own house.

  When again? he wondered. Already, he longed for her. His hands and arms ached. He needed her now, as he started back into the house with his wife.

  “Oh God,” Liz said, from the station wagon. “I forgot something.” Her heels clicked on the pavement. “Roger,” she called, “I forgot the goddamn telescope.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, halting on the porch. In the back seat of the Oldsmobile; she had wanted to get it. “It must still be in the car.”

  “What’s that?” Virginia said, beside him.

  “Walters toy telescope,” he said. “He left it in the car.”

  At the Oldsmobile, Liz tugged at the door handle. “Its locked.”

  “I’ll open it for you.” He walked down the path and along the sidewalk, to the car. With his key he unlocked the door; Liz squeezed into the car and rummaged in the back. The engine of the Ford station wagon came on; Chic switched on its headlights. Back on the porch of the house, Virginia waited for him, shivering.

  Softly, Liz said, “I’ll call you.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. At the store.” She found the telescope. “Here it is,” she said. “Thanks.”

  Cheered up, Roger returned to the house and his waiting wife.

  As she shut the front door and put off the porch light, Virginia said, “She always forgets something, doesn’t she?”

  “The boys forgot it,” he said.

  “I don’t care much for her,” Virginia said. “Why is she so set against things that would benefit somebody other than herself?”

  “Like what?” he said.

  “Let it go,” Virginia said.

  16

  Monday, the entire day, passed without any call from Liz. That night he drove home in a mood of morbidity. He did not notice what he ate for dinner or what Virginia said to him; he placed himself before the television set in the living room and watched, without understanding, hour after hour of programs until it was time to go to bed.

  I’ll call her, he said to himself. But I can’t. How can I call that number? Chic Bonner would answer.

  Then, he said to himself, I’ll say something about his damn designs.

  While Virginia was occupied, he picked up the telephone and dialed part of Liz’s number.

  No, he decided. He hung up. If she wanted to call she would have called during the day. Something had gone wrong.

  The next morning, she called him at the store.

  “For God’s sake,” he said, when he recognized her voice. “I’ve been going nuts.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said airily. “I intended to call you yesterday, but things kept happening. The man was here all afternoon working on the refrigerator. Do you know anything about refrigerators? It got so it didn’t defrost.”

  “How are you?” he said. He had carried the phone off, away from the counter, to the limit of its cord. Squatting down on his haunches, he held the phone on his lap, keeping his eyes on Pete Bacciagalupi who had gone behind the counter to wait on customers.

  “I’m fine,” Liz said.

  “Did Chic say anything?”

  “About what?”

  “About,” he said, “anything at all.”

  “No,” Liz said. “He was sore at me because I don’t think his big schemes amount to anything. He’d like it if I raved about every idea of his.” She sighed. “You know, Roger—can you talk, by the way? Is this a good time?”

  “Yes,” he said, ignoring the customers waiting at the counter.

  “I’m lying here,” Liz said. “In the bedroom. We have an extension in the bedroom, by the bed. I feel very lazy, today. I really feel good. Do you think Virginia suspects anything?”

  “No,” he said.

  “She kept looking at me funny. I really had to get out of there—I couldn’t think of any other way except to go lie down. I certainly felt strange lying down on her bed. Your bed, I mean. Do you see? It’s certainly complex…how’d we ever get into it?”

  He said, “Do you want to get out of it?”

  “Oh no,” she said. “Roger, that was really wonderful. What we did. It was never like that between me and Chic. That’s the truth.”

  The store had filled up with customers. Olsen had appeared from the basement to talk to a man about repairs. The din of a TV set made it impossible for Roger to hear; he settled back against the wall, evading the racket.

  “What’s all that?” Liz asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Go on.”

  “What do you think Virginia would do if she found out? She’s so sweet…she’s one of the most adorable women I’ve ever known. I wish she liked me better.”

  He said, “When can I see you again?”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  Her tone made him apprehensive. “How about tonight?” he said.

  “Roger,” she said, “is this really right?”

  “Christ,” he said, “this is not time to start talking like that.”

  “No,” she agreed. “You’re right. I just wanted to make sure how you felt. You know Roger, you can get out of this any time you want. You understand that, don’t you?”

  He said, “When can I see you?”

  “Well,” she said, mulling. He could imagine her, her scratchy hair, the heat of her skin. The elaborate convolutions of her ear, the short, stiff fuzz growing at the back of her neck. She cut her hair herself, she had told him. “You know what I have on?” she said. “All I have on is the bottom part of my swimsuit. I’ve been lying out in the garden, getting some sun… I came in to change and then I decided to call you. I was afraid to call; it wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I’m not used to this. I don’t know how to act. It was so strange—you and me sitting here in your kitchen, only a foot or so from each other, and I couldn’t say anything to you or touch you. I wanted to touch you so bad…once I almost reached out and touched you. But God—if Chic saw that. Or Virginia. Wasn’t that strange…the four of us gabbing away about nothing, and all the time I was just yearning to throw my arms around you and hug you.”

  “When?” he repeated.

  “What about tomorrow night?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Chic has to go to a business meeting. He goes every Wednesday. He takes the car.”

  “What time?”

  “I’ll call you when he leaves.”

  “Not at home,” he said. “I’ll come down here to the store. When? Seven or seven-thirty?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And then you can come over here. Or I can meet you somewhere. Only, he’ll have the car.”

  “Is it safe for me to come there?” he said, thinking about neighbors and thinking about Chic coming
home.

  “I think so,” she said. “Or you can pick me up and we can go somewhere.” Suddenly her voice took on urgency. “Somebody’s at the door; I have to go. I’ll call you Wednesday at the store.”

  “Good-bye,” he said.

  “Good-bye,” she said, and the phone clicked dead.

  That evening, Tuesday evening, Virginia heard him say from the other room, “I better get down to the store. I gotta get some sets set up.”

  “Oh?” she said, feeling herself grow wary.

  But he remained in the house, reading a magazine, going over some order sheets. At nine o’clock he said, “I guess I won’t go down tonight. I’m too tired.”

  “Have you thought any more about what Chic said?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Are you going to call him?”

  “That horse’s ass,” he said.

  “Don’t use expressions like that,” she said, her wariness becoming anger.

  “I think he is,” Roger said. “He’s nothing but a fat soft jerk who’s had things easy all his life. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.”

  “How absurd,” she said.

  “Him and his schemes. I know what kind of ideas he has; he’d put me out of business in a week. He’d have gardenias for the ladies and dishes and spotlights—he’d hire salesmen to stand around doing nothing. Potted palm salesmen, we call them. I see them down in those department stores. All a bunch of fairies.”

  Her indignation was so great that she gave up talking to him; she went off into the kitchen and sat at the kitchen table, smoking.

  “I hate guys like that,” his voice sounded, along the hallway. “They’re like pants salesmen. Oily.”

  “Chic isn’t oily,” she said.

  “No, but he’d hire them. I know Chic—he’s the kind of fat well-dressed partner you see in stores; hanging around the back somewhere. They’re always hanging around. They don’t do anything they’re just there. He wouldn’t get up off his ass all day long, except to go down front when the newspaper boy brings the paper in. Believe me, I know that type.”