Voices from the Street

by Philip Kindred Dick

  “It’s my job,” Hadley said defiantly. “I want it; I’m staying at it.”

  “You’ll be dead,” Wakefield whispered.

  Hadley got to his feet; he was shaking violently. “I told you I’m through with nut cults. End of the world—” Savagely he grabbed up his coffee cup and started toward the door. “A bunch of religious fanatics. You’re crazy—you’re crackpots!”

  The screen door slammed after him. He could see the small figure sitting frozen at the counter; Horace Wakefield was reaching automatically for his glass of milk, trying to resume his routine. The heavyset woman, who had been listening to everything, gazed with frank curiosity after Hadley.

  Hadley entered Modern, the coffee cup teetering and sloshing coffee onto his hand and wrist. It was lukewarm. Furiously, he shoved the cup under the counter with the others and turned to face the small knot of customers standing by the cash register, waiting to be waited on.

  Alice Fergesson was sitting quietly in the upstairs office, a cigarette between her fingers, her purse resting on the littered desk. At first he didn’t notice her; the customers had been taken care of and he was fumbling in the back closet for a fresh roll of register tape when he realized she was there. She didn’t speak until he had climbed the stairs and stood facing her.

  “Hi,” he said, nettled. “How long have you been here?”

  “An hour or so,” Alice answered. Grave and thoughtful, she gazed up at him, a cloud of gray smoke drifting around her. Legs crossed, dressed in a light print skirt and white shirt, she had been calmly watching him come and go, overseeing the happenings, unnoticed by everyone.

  Sitting down on the railing where he could see the floor below, Hadley said: “I’m sorry; I’m pretty upset. That little man gets on my nerves.” Nervously, he ran his hands through his short-cropped blond hair. “Horace Wakefield; you know him?”

  “I’ve seen him over at the flower shop,” Alice answered. She seemed a little tired . . . She had been shopping.

  “He’s mixed up in that cult, that Watchmen Society. He got me to go to the first lecture; now he wants me to go again.” Hadley shut his mouth tight and abruptly stopped talking.

  After a moment Alice asked: “You went before?”

  “I went. I listened.” Angrily, Hadley said: “I’m not going to get mixed up with it again; once is enough. I wanted to know what it was about; is there anything wrong with that?”

  Alice studied him intently. “Is it important?”

  “Yes,” Hadley said simply. “I went a long way into it. I went all the way down.” In a sense he was exaggerating; he had not really gone so far . . . one lecture and a brief meeting with Beckheim. But he would have gone further, if he could; if it had been possible he would have gladly plunged the whole way down. Helplessly, he appealed to her: “Was that so stupid? My God, I used to get so damn tired standing around this store, day after day—” He broke off futilely. “I guess I shouldn’t rave.”

  “I wish you would—talk. If you want.”

  For a moment he weighed the practical considerations; Alice was, after all, the boss’s wife.

  “I talk too much,” he said morbidly.

  “Why are you so disturbed?” Smiling, she said: “It’s a little late for that.”

  “I’m disturbed about what I did. I was taken in; there was something in it that attracted me . . . there still is. It gives me a strange feeling to hear about it. When Beckheim was talking I felt a sort of peace. I could sit back and close my eyes; I didn’t have to worry. I didn’t expect to wake up and find”—he groped for words—“find the world had collapsed one more notch. It felt as if he held things together around him. A sort of region that was firm.”

  “Then,” Alice said, “you feel—you usually feel that things are coming apart?”

  He nodded.

  “You feel that now?”

  “In a way, yes. Not here; not the store. Outside the store—everything else. The whole world . . . and eventually the store, too. The store seems firm enough to me. But—” He struggled. “I don’t know. There’s something wrong with the store. It’s firm enough, it’s solid enough . . . but it’s not a world. Is it? It’s not big enough to be a world. You can’t live in a store. Am I going to have to eat my meals up in the office here? Bathe down in the John? Shave and dress here—sleep here? I can’t live here; I can’t raise a family here. I have to go outside.” He raised his voice, baffled. “I don’t want to spend my life here! It’s too damn small!”

  “Yes,” Alice said. “You always had such big plans . . . You had something much bigger in mind.”

  “Sure, I always wanted to do a lot of things. It used to seem to me the world was large; there was so damn much a person could do. Opportunity . . . I don’t feel that anymore. That’s all over. The world’s a bleak place. Instead of opportunity it’s deserted hills and rusty beer cans.”

  Alice listened uncertainly. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s all shifting. You reach out for something and it vanishes. Opportunity—it’s a fraud. A bunch of lies they bring you up on, like popular songs. Meaningless words.”

  “But you have to live in this world.”

  “Live in spite of it, maybe. That’s all I hope for anymore. I’d be satisfied with that.”

  “When you and Ellen were over, when Jim turned the store over to you . . . that night you were excited. Your face was lit up the way it used to be.” Alice smiled wanly. “In fact, it was too lit up. You were back to all your old schemes and ideas.”

  “There wasn’t anything else I could do,” Hadley answered candidly. “What else was there? Where else could I go?”

  “Then,” Alice said, “you don’t really care about this. You didn’t really want the job. You took it because you had nothing else.”

  “I didn’t make up the things I said,” Hadley answered. “I forced myself to get excited; I wanted to be excited. I had to be excited. But I can’t keep it up.”

  “Do you think you might go back to this—Society?”

  Hadley searched his mind. “No,” he said finally.

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “I can’t go back to the Society. I can’t believe that stuff either.” Thoughtfully, unhappily, he said: “It makes less sense than this does. At least I understand this . . . I’ve been in the store so long I know everything there is to know about it. It’s part of my life; it is my life.”

  “And the Society—”

  “It’s alien to me. I wanted it; I was drawn to it; a lot of people believe it. If I had been taught it from the ground up maybe I could believe it, too. Wakefield believes it; he was taught the Bible and God his whole life. Not me; I was taught there isn’t any God. It’s too late now; I can’t believe that, even when I want to. And I did want to! I tried like hell.”

  “I see,” Alice said.

  “The word doesn’t even make sense—it’s worn out. Meaningless, empty. When Beckheim stood up there talking I felt it meant something; it meant something to him, and everybody else. But they’re different from me. I can’t grasp any of the old words; none of them make sense. God, country, the flag, all the old things that people believed in—it’s all just vague sounds, as hard as I try. Is that wrong?”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” Alice said.

  “I guess I heard about it too late. Now I try to think what the hell I heard instead, and I can’t. Nothing—there never was anything in my life. Ideas, maybe. I grew up with grand ideas instead of real things.”

  “Yes,” Alice agreed, “you always were attracted by ideas.”

  “I put too much faith in ideas. Now I know they’re not real. Words, talk . . . That’s what my life’s been. And it’s futile.”

  “Not completely.”

  Hadley grinned starkly. “No? Remember how you felt that night, when I was talking to your husband. Didn’t you sense it was a lot of meaningless hot air?”

  “I guess so. You could have toned it down . . .”
r />   “I was trying to believe in it again, giving it one last chance.”

  “And it didn’t work?”

  “Well,” Hadley said, “it got me the job. I’m here; I’m manager.”

  “How—long do you think you can stand it here?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”

  “Very long, do you think?” Alice went on: “Stuart, maybe you’ll find more in it than you expect. There can be a lot of satisfaction in a family; you have a son now; that means plenty. Maybe it’ll make all this meaningful; you’re not working for yourself, the way you were in college, earning some money for dates and beer and cars. You’re working for Pete and Ellen.”

  “You can’t have a family in a world like this.”

  Alice said bitterly: “Jim and I would give anything in the world to have a son. A little boy like Pete.”

  “No,” Hadley said. “There’s no use bringing children into this world. The world’s falling apart. I’ll be selling a TV set the day the A-bomb falls on us . . . acting out a meaningless routine, like a dumb animal.” Brooding, he murmured: “I won’t get out from under it . . . Maybe Pete will. I don’t know. Maybe somebody will survive.”

  “Yes,” Alice said quickly. “Somebody will; somebody always survives.”

  The man’s fists clenched. “But maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe it’s what we deserve . . . We brought it on ourselves. It’s our own fault; we’re being paid back for what we’ve done. The whole thing ought to be yanked down; it’s rotten and sick. It’s vicious. It ought to be wiped out . . . an ocean of water before, a lake of fire this time.” His voice trailed off, heavy with hatred and revulsion, the voice of a man weary with disgust. “Cleansing fire that wipes out everything. Until there’s only slag and ash. And maybe after that something better will come.”

  The two of them were silent.

  “I wish I could help,” Alice said. “I feel it’s my fault.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s all our faults. Mine and Jim’s—especially his.” Bitterly she said: “He’s been working with you all this time and he never understood how you felt. He never did anything.”

  “He’s all wrapped up in his stores,” Hadley said. “Getting another store, making the business a success.”

  Furiously, Alice stabbed out her cigarette. “Damn him. He’s so little and blind. He’s so small.”

  “Don’t blame him. He can’t help what he is, any more than I can help what I am. Trace my problems back to you; trace your problems back another step. Where does it go? Back forever.” Hadley slid from the rail; a customer had come into the store and was standing restlessly at the front counter. “I wish we had talked before . . . It’s so damn late in the game now.”

  “Is it too late?” Alice asked helplessly.

  “I don’t know. I think so. Most of the things have already happened; there isn’t much left. I’m here; I’m manager. I’ve got Pete and Ellen; I’m not going back to the Society.”

  He started toward the stairs; Alice suddenly called: “Stuart, maybe you ought to quit! Maybe you ought to leave here!”

  “No,” he said.

  “It’s wrong—this is too small for you. You don’t want to be this; you want more than this. It’s all right for Jim, but not for you. It’s as far as he can see . . . You don’t want to take over his little world!”

  “Where else can I go?” Hadley asked.

  “Out!”

  “Out where? There’s nothing out there. If I leave here it’s the end of me. This is the only world I know . . . This is the only place I can go. I left here and I came back. I know I can’t reach the Society, it’s closed to me. Other people can go there . . . Beckheim can save a lot of them. But not me. If I leave this store, I’ll die.”

  “You want to leave here!”

  “Yes,” Hadley said. “Of course I do.” He started down the stairs from the office.

  “Wait,” Alice said breathlessly, coming after him. “Don’t go down; stay and talk.”

  For a moment Hadley stood leaning against the stairwell. “What about the old man down there?” he said. “He has to be waited on.”

  “Why?” she demanded wildly. “Is he so important?”

  “He’s got a radio under his arm. He wants it fixed.”

  “Forget his radio.”

  “I can’t,” Hadley said, with irony in his voice. “He’s standing down there, waiting for me to come and take care of him. He’s sure it’s only a tube. Actually, it isn’t a tube; it’s a power transformer and it’ll cost him twelve dollars and fifty cents.”

  Alice was silent.

  “The set,” Hadley continued, “isn’t worth over ten. He and I will argue half an hour and then I’ll take it downstairs to the service department. Two weeks from now he’ll be back with it because it still won’t work.”

  “Why not?” Alice demanded miserably as he moved another step down.

  “Because Olsen wired the power transformer upside down.”

  “Why-did he do that?”

  “Because he threw away the service schematics Philco sent out for that model.”

  Rigidly, Alice asked: “Why did he throw them away?”

  “Because no fat-assed corporation is going to tell him how to fix sets.”

  Alice clutched at her purse. “Is there any more?” she asked, when Hadley didn’t go on.

  “No,” Hadley said. “No more.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Stay here as long as I can. As long as I can stand it.”

  “Can—I help?”

  “No,” Hadley said. “Nobody can help. I thought Beckheim could, but now I know he can’t. It isn’t his fault; he did what he could. But I’m not going back to him. That’s one thing I’m sure of . . . Seeing Wakefield and listening to him showed me that, once and for all.” He stepped another step down the stairwell.

  “Listen to me,” Alice said desperately. “I want to talk to you more; can’t we talk now? The old man can wait.”

  “He’s got a lot of errands to do. He’s in a terrible hurry.”

  “He can do his errands tomorrow.”

  “His legs are tired from standing.”

  “He can sit down on one of the television sets.” She moved after him. “You don’t want to talk to me! You’ve made up your mind—while you were standing here talking you made up your mind.”

  “No,” Hadley said, “I didn’t make up my mind. I’m not going to do anything.”

  “But you’re certain. You’re not undecided.”

  “I know I can’t be like Wakefield. I can’t live like that. If that’s the only way to survive, it’s out for me. The cross and the flag. Health foods, revival meetings, prayers and potted plants. And he knows it, too. It scares him . . . but he’s little. He’s tiny. He’s trivial. He’ll go on. I can’t. I’m finished. Out. Done. Wakefield, that’s what they mean by the meek. I’m not meek—I want a lot of things. Too many things, for myself and my family. For everybody. I wanted millions of things for millions of people. Big dreams. Big ideas. Bullshit.”

  “Don’t you believe in anything anymore?”

  “Nothing that exists. What I believe in is bullshit.”

  “Then what exists?”

  “Terrible things. Things I don’t want to have anything to do with. I’m fed up. Maybe I’m not getting enough sleep; maybe that’s it.” Wryly, he grinned up at Alice. “I could almost believe that. A good rest, plenty of fresh air, a good sermon at church on Sunday morning . . .”

  Alice shivered. “I’m sorry . . . I wish I could do something. Please, isn’t there anything?”

  “No, not now.”

  “Ever?”

  “Maybe never. Thanks.” He waved up at her. “It’s okay—don’t worry about it. You didn’t set up the universe. Maybe nobody did. It’s all random chance, without meaning. So don’t worry about it.”

  He stepped from the stairwell and walked slowly under the office, toward the front of the stor
e. The old man was still there waiting at the front counter; he had set down his radio and stood leaning heavily against the cash register, weary and resentful.

  “Yes sir,” Hadley said to him gaily. “What can I do for you?”

  It was still light as Hadley walked home that night. His jacket over his arm, he trudged along the evening streets, accepting the fresh, warm air into his lungs, gazing yearningly at the people and houses, the men watering their lawns, the boys scrambling and playing, the old people sitting quietly on their front porches.

  He dragged his feet. He walked as slowly as possible, savoring what he saw and smelled as long as he could, all the way to the door of his apartment house. For a time he stood looking back down the slight hill, toward the business section. It was a little past seven; the sounds of radios dinned from houses, mixed with the odor of cooking. Across the street an old woman was laboriously watering her flower garden with a bent sprinkling can. A tattered gray tomcat followed after her, smelling the damp leaves and stalks, standing up to sniff at the dripping petals.

  To Hadley, the ordinary sights of evening seemed vital and beautiful. He wanted to stand and look as long as he could; he was achingly aware that even as he watched, it was changing, fading, altering. The old woman finished watering and put the sprinkling can away. The gray tomcat lingered, urinated on some ferns, and then strolled off. One by one the children gave up playing and straggled into the house.

  It was getting dark. The summer air sank into coldness. Night was coming on, and with it came tiny dancing bits of opaqueness: the fluttering bodies of dark nocturnal insects. Here and there lights came on. The sounds of people dimmed and faded as windows were closed against the rising coolness.

  Hadley turned and entered the apartment building. He made his way silently down the carpeted, deserted corridor to his own door. A crack of light lay spread out; a heavy odor of frying lamb chops filtered out. When he entered he found the living room a blaze of light. Pete lay on the couch, wrapped in his blankets, sleeping fretfully. The fan whirred in the corner, on the bookcase; the evening had turned cool but Ellen had not yet remembered to turn the fan off. Hadley tossed down his coat and moved toward the kitchen. He could see Ellen moving around, fixing dinner. The splutter and hiss of frying, the mumble of boiling water, greeted him as he reached the door and stopped to stand for a moment, taking in the sight and holding on to it as long as possible.