“I wasn’t thinking about dinner,” he said with baleful dignity.
“No? Then what on earth are you mad about?”
“I can’t stand women who get drunk.”
“Who was drunk?”
“You.”
“I was not,” she said indignantly.
“No? Who had to be undressed and put to bed like a kid?”
“Who was too dumb to take off my pearls?” she countered. “They broke and I slept on pebbles all night.
I’m covered with black and blue marks. Look. Here and here and—”
“Linda,” he interrupted sternly, “I’m just a plain guy from New Haven. I got no use for spoiled girls who run up charge accounts and all the time decorate theirselves and hang around society-type saloons getting loaded.”
“If you don’t like my company, why do you stay?”
“I’m going,” he said. He climbed out and began drying himself. “I’m starting south this morning.”
“Enjoy your hike.”
“I’m driving.”
“What? A kiddie-car?”
“The Chevy.”
“Jim, you’re not serious?” She climbed out of the pond, looking alarmed. “You really don’t know how to drive yet.”
“No? Didn’t I drive you home falling-down drunk last night?”
“You’ll get into awful trouble.”
“Nothing I can’t get out of. Anyway, I can’t hang around here forever. You’re a party girl; you just want to play. I got serious things on my mind. I got to go south and find guys who know about TV.”
“Jim, you’ve got me wrong. I’m not like that at all. Why, look at the way I fixed up my house. Could I have done that if I’d been going to parties all the time?”
“You done a nice job,” he admitted.
“Please don’t leave today. You’re not ready yet.”
“Aw, you just want me to hang around and teach you music.”
“Who said that?”
“You did. Last night.”
She frowned, pulled off her cap, then picked up her towel and began drying herself. At last she said,
“Jim, I’ll be honest with you. Sure, I want you to stay a while. I won’t deny it. But I wouldn’t want you around permanently. After all, what have we got in common?”
“You’re so damn uptown,” he growled.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s simply that you’re a guy and I’m a girl, and we’ve got nothing to offer each other. We’re different. We’ve got different tastes and interests. Fact?”
“Absolutely.”
“But you’re not ready to leave yet. So I tell you what; we’ll spend the whole morning practicing driving, and then we’ll have some fun. What would you like to do? Go window-shopping? Buy more clothes? Visit the Modern Museum? Have a picnic?”
His face brightened. “Gee, you know something? I was never to a picnic in my whole life. Once I was bartender at a clambake, but that’s not the same thing; not like when you’re a kid.”
She was delighted. “Then we’ll have a real kid-type picnic.”
And she brought her dolls. She carried them in her arms while Mayo toted the picnic basket to the Alice in Wonderland monument. The statue perplexed Mayo, who had never heard of Lewis Carroll. While Linda seated her pets and unpacked the picnic, she gave Mayo a summary of the story and described how the bronze heads of Alice, the Mad Hatter, and the March Hare had been polished bright by the swarms of kids playing King of the Mountain.
“Funny, I never heard of that story,” he said.
“I don’t think you had much of a childhood, Jim.”
“Why would you say a—” He stopped, cocked his head, and listened intently.
“What’s the matter?” Linda asked.
“You hear that bluejay?”
“No.”
“Listen. He’s making a funny sound; like steel.”
“Steel?”
“Yeah. Like … like swords in a duel.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Honest.”
“But birds sing; they don’t make noises.”
“Not always. Bluejays imitate noises a lot. Starlings, too. And parrots. Now why would he be imitating a sword fight? Where’d he hear it?”
“You’re a real country boy, aren’t you, Jim? Bees and bluejays and starlings and all that …”
“I guess so. I was going to ask; why would you say a thing like that, me not having any childhood?”
“Oh, things like not knowing Alice, and never going on a picnic, and always wanting a model yacht.”
Linda opened a dark bottle. “Like to try some wine?”
“You better go easy,” he warned.
“Now stop it, Jim. I’m not a drunk.”
“Did you or didn’t you get smashed last night?”
She capitulated. “All right, I did; but only because it was my first drink in years.”
He was pleased by her surrender. “Sure. Sure. That figures.”
“So? Join me?”
“What the hell, why not?” He grinned. “Let’s live a little. Say, this is one swingin’ picnic, and I like the plates, too. Where’d you get them?”
“Abercrombie & Fitch,” Linda said, deadpan. “Stainless Steel Service for Four, thirty-nine fifty. Skoal.”
Mayo burst out laughing. “I sure goofed, didn’t I, kicking up all that fuss? Here’s looking at you.”
“Here’s looking right back.”
They drank and continued eating in warm silence, smiling companionably at each other. Linda removed her madras silk shirt in order to tan in the blazing afternoon sun, and Mayo politely hung it up on a branch. Suddenly Linda asked, “Why didn’t you have a childhood, Jim?”
“Gee, I don’t know.” He thought it over. “I guess because my mother died when I was a kid. And something else, too; I had to work a lot.”
“Why?”
“My father was a schoolteacher. You know how they get paid.”
“Oh, so that’s why you’re anti-egghead.”
“I am?”
“Of course. No offense.”
“Maybe I am,” he conceded. “It sure was a letdown for my old man, me playing fullback in high school and him wanting like an Einstein in the house.”
“Was football fun?”
“Not like playing games. Football’s a business. Hey, remember when we were kids how we used to choose up sides? Ibbety, bibbety, zibbety, zab? “
“We used to say, Eenie, meenie, miney, mo. “
“Remember: April Fool, go to school, tell your teacher you’re a fool? “
“I love coffee, I love tea, I love the boys, and the boys love me. “
“I bet they did at that,” Mayo said solemnly.
“Not me.”
“Why not?”
“I was always too big.”
He was astonished. “But you’re not big,” he assured her. “You’re just the right size. Perfect. And really built, I noticed when we moved the piano in. You got muscle, for a girl. A specially in the legs, and that’s where it counts.”
She blushed. “Stop it, Jim.”
“No. Honest.”
“More wine?”
“Thanks. You have some, too.”
“All right.”
A crack of thunder split the sky with its sonic boom and was followed by the roar of collapsing masonry.
“There goes another skyscraper,” Linda said. “What were we talking about?”
“Games,” Mayo said promptly. “Excuse me for talking with my mouth full.”
“Oh, yes. Jim, did you play Drop the Handkerchief up in New Haven?” Linda sang. “A tisket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket. I sent a letter to my love, and on the way I dropped it …”
“Gee,” he said, much impressed. “You sing real good.”
“Oh, go on!”
“Yes, you do. You got a swell voice. Now don’t argue with me. Keep quiet a minute. I got to figure something out.” He t
hought intently for a long time, finishing his wine and absently accepting another glass.
Finally he delivered himself of a decision. “You got to learn music.”
“You know I’m dying to, Jim.”
“So I’m going to stay awhile and teach you; as much as I know. Now hold it! Hold it!” he added hastily, cutting off her excitement. “I’m not going to stay in your house. I want a place of my own.”
“Of course, Jim. Anything you say.”
“And I’m still headed south.”
“I’ll teach you to drive, Jim. I’ll keep my word.”
“And no strings, Linda.”
“Of course not. What kind of strings?”
“You know. Like the last minute you all of a sudden got a Looey Cans couch you want me to move in.”
“Louis Quinze! “ Linda’s jaw dropped. “Wherever did you learn that?”
“Not in the army, that’s for sure.”
They laughed, clinked glasses, and finished their wine. Suddenly Mayo leaped up, pulled Linda’s hair, and ran to the Wonderland Monument. In an instant he had climbed to the top of Alice’s head.
“I’m King of the Mountain,” he shouted, looking around in imperial survey. “I’m King of the—” He cut himself off and stared down behind the statue.
“Jim, what’s the matter?”
Without a word, Mayo climbed down and strode to a pile of debris half-hidden inside overgrown forsythia bushes. He knelt and began turning over the wreckage with gentle hands. Linda ran to him.
“Jim, what’s wrong?”
“These used to be model boats,” he muttered.
“That’s right. My God, is that all? I thought you were sick or something.”
“How come they’re here?”
“Why, I dumped them, of course.”
“You?”
“Yes. I told you. I had to clear out the boathouse when I moved in. That was ages ago.”
“You did this?”
“Yes. I—”
“You’re a murderer,” he growled. He stood up and glared at her. “You’re a killer. You’re like all women, you got no heart and soul. To do a thing like this!”
He turned and stalked toward the boat pond. Linda followed him, completely bewildered.
“Jim, I don’t understand. Why are you so mad?”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“But I had to have house room. You wouldn’t expect me to live with a lot of model boats.”
“Just forget everything I said. I’m going to pack and go south. I wouldn’t stay with you if you was the last person on earth.”
Linda gathered herself and suddenly darted ahead of Mayo. When he tramped into the boathouse, she was standing before the door of the guest room. She held up a heavy iron key.
“I found it,” she panted. “Your door’s locked.”
“Gimme that key, Linda.”
“No.”
He stepped toward her, but she faced him defiantly and stood her ground.
“Go ahead,” she challenged. “Hit me.”
He stopped. “Aw, I wouldn’t pick on anybody that wasn’t my own size.”
They continued to face each other, at a complete impasse.
“I don’t need my gear,” Mayo muttered at last. “I can get more stuff somewheres.”
“Oh, go ahead and pack,” Linda answered. She tossed him the key and stood aside. Then Mayo discovered there was no lock in the bedroom door. He opened the door, looked inside, closed it, and looked at Linda. She kept her face straight but began to sputter. He grinned. Then they both burst out laughing.
“Gee,” Mayo said, “you sure made a monkey out of me. I’d hate to play poker against you.”
“You’re a pretty good bluffer yourself, Jim. I was scared to death you were going to knock me down.”
“You ought to know I wouldn’t hurt nobody.”
“I guess I do. Now, let’s sit down and talk this over sensibly.”
“Aw, forget it, Linda. I kind of lost my head over them boats, and I—”
“I don’t mean the boats; I mean going south. Every time you get mad you start south again. Why?”
“I told you, to find guys who know about TV.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I can try. Why don’t you explain what you’re after—specifically? Maybe I can help you.”
“You can’t do nothing for me; you’re a girl.”
“We have our uses. At least I can listen. You can trust me, Jim. Aren’t we chums? Tell me about it.”
· · · · ·
Well, when the blast come (Mayo said) I was up in the Berkshires with Gil Watkins. Gil was my buddy, a real nice guy and a real bright guy. He took two years from M.I.T. before he quit college. He was like chief engineer or something at WNHA, the TV station in New Haven. Gil had a million hobbies. One of them was spee—speel—I can’t remember. It meant exploring caves.
So anyway, we were up in this flume in the Berkshires, spending the weekend inside, exploring and trying to map everything and figure out where the underground river comes from. We brought food and stuff along, and bedrolls. The compass we were using went crazy for like twenty minutes, and that should have give us a clue, but Gil talked about magnetic ores and stuff. Only when we come out Sunday night, I tell you it was pretty scary. Gil knew right off what happened.
“By Christ, Jim,” he said, “they up and done it like everybody always knew they would. They’ve blew and gassed and poisoned and radiated themselves straight to hell, and we’re going back to that goddamn cave until it all blows over.”
So me and Gil went back and rationed the food and stayed as long as we could. Finally we come out again and drove back to New Haven. It was dead like all the rest. Gil put together some radio stuff and tried to pick up broadcasts. Nothing. Then we packed some canned goods and drove all around: Bridgeport, Waterbury, Hartford, Springfield, Providence, New London … a big circle. Nobody. Nothing. So we come back to New Haven and settled down, and it was a pretty good life.
Daytime, we’d get in supplies and stuff and tinker with the house to keep it working right. Nights, after supper, Gil would go off to WNHA around seven o’clock and start the station. He was running it on the emergency generators. I’d go down to the Body Slam, open it up, sweep it out, and then start the bar TV set. Gil fixed me a generator for it to run on.
It was a lot of fun watching the shows Gil was broadcasting. He’d start with the news and weather, which he always got wrong. All he had was some Farmer’s Almanacs and a sort of antique barometer that looked like that clock you got there on the wall. I don’t think it worked so good, or maybe Gil never took weather at M.I.T. Then he’d broadcast the evening show.
I had my shotgun in the bar in case of holdups. Anytime I saw something that bugged me, I just up with the gun and let loose at the set. Then I’d take it and throw it out the front door and put another one in its place. I must have had hundreds waiting in the back. I spent two days a week just collecting reserves.
Midnight, Gil would turn off WNHA, I’d lock up the restaurant, and we’d meet home for coffee. Gil would ask how many sets I shot and laugh when I told him. He said I was the most accurate TV poll ever invented. I’d ask him about what shows were coming up next week and argue with him about… oh… about like what movies or football games WNHA was scheduling. I didn’t like Westerns much, and I hated them high-minded panel discussions.
But the luck had to turn lousy; it’s the story of my life. After a couple of years, I found out I was down to my last set, and then I was in trouble. This night Gil run one of them icky commercials where this smart-aleck woman saves a marriage with the right laundry soap. Naturally I reached for my gun, and only at the last minute remembered not to shoot. Then he run an awful movie about a misunderstood composer, and the same thing happened. When we met back at the house, I was all shook up.
“What’s the matter?” Gil asked.
> I told him.
“I thought you liked watching the shows,” he said.
“Only when I could shoot ‘em.”
“You poor bastard,” he laughed, “you’re a captive audience now.”
“Gil, could you maybe change the programs, seeing the spot I’m in?”
“Be reasonable, Jim. WNHA has to broadcast variety. We operate on the cafeteria basis; something for everybody. If you don’t like a show, why don’t you switch channels?”
“Now that’s silly. You know damn well we only got one channel in New Haven.”
“Then turn your set off.”
“I can’t turn the bar set off; it’s part of the entertainment. I’d lose my whole clientele. Gil, do you have to show them awful movies, like that army musical last night, singing and dancing and kissing on top of Sherman tanks, for Jezus’ sake!”
“The women love uniform pictures.”
“And those commercials; women always sneering at somebody’s girdle, and fairies smoking cigarettes, and—”
“Aw,” Gil said, “write a letter to the station.”
So I did, and a week later I got an answer. It said: Dear Mr. Mayo: We are very glad to learn that you are a regular viewer of WNHA, and thank you for your interest in our programming. We hope you will continue to enjoy our broadcasts. Sincerely yours, Gilbert O. Watkins, Station Manager. A couple of tickets for an interview show were enclosed. I showed the letter to Gil, and he just shrugged.
“You see what you’re up against, Jim,” he said. “They don’t care about what you like or don’t like. All they want to know is if you are watching.”
I tell you, the next couple of months were hell for me. I couldn’t keep the set turned off, and I couldn’t watch it without reaching for my gun a dozen times a night. It took all my willpower to keep from pulling the trigger. I got so nervous and jumpy that I knew I had to do something about it before I went off my rocker. So one night I brought the gun home and shot Gil.
Next day I felt a lot better, and when I went down to the Body Slam at seven o’clock to clean up, I was whistling kind of cheerful. I swept out the restaurant, polished the bar, and then turned on the TV to get the news and weather. You wouldn’t believe it, but the set was busted. I couldn’t get a picture. I couldn’t even get a sound. My last set, busted.
So you see, that’s why I have to head south (Mayo explained)—I got to locate a TV repairman.
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 53