"I don't think I can imagine that," I said.
"All right—" he said, "what's the biggest thing that could possibly happen to you in your line of work?"
I had to think a while. "I guess it would be if I sold the Conners Hotel on putting Fleetwoods on every window. That must be five-hundred windows or more," I said.
"Good!" he said. "You've just made the sale. You've got real money in your pocket for the first time. You've just had a fight with your wife, and you're thinking mean things about her, feeling sorry for yourself. And the manager of the hotel is Gloria Hilton—Gloria Hilton looking the way she does in the movies."
"I'm listening," I said.
"Say you started putting up those five-hundred Fleetwoods," he said, "and say every time you put up another storm window, there was Gloria Hilton smiling at you through the glass, like you were a god or something."
"Is there anything left to drink in the house?" I said.
"Say that went on for three months," he said. "And every night you went home to your wife, some woman you'd known so long she was practically like a sister, and she would crab about some little thing—"
"This is a very warm room, even without storm windows," I said.
"Say Gloria Hilton all of a sudden said to you," he said, " 'Dare to be happy, my poor darling! Oh, darling, we were made for each other! Dare to be happy with me! I go limp when I see you putting up storm windows! I can't stand to see you so unhappy, to know you belong to some other woman, to know how happy I could make you, if only you belonged to me!'"
After that, I remember, Murra and I went outdoors to look for thistles. He was going to show me how to grab thistles without getting hurt.
I don't think we ever found any. I remember pulling up a lot of plants, and throwing them against the house, and laughing a lot. But I don't think any of the plants were thistles.
Then we lost each other in the great outdoors. I yelled for him for a while, but his answers got fainter and fainter, and I finally went home.
I don't remember what the homecoming was like, but my wife does. She says I spoke to her in a rude and disrespectful manner. I told her that I had sold five-hundred Fleetwood windows to the Conners Hotel. I also told her that she should look up the statistics on teenage marriages sometime.
Then I went upstairs, and I took the door off our bathtub enclosure. I told her Murra and I were trading doors. I got the door off, and then I went to sleep in the tub. My wife woke me up, and I told her to go away. I told her Gloria Hilton had just bought the Conners Hotel, and I was going to marry her.
I tried to tell her something very important about thistles, but I couldn't pronounce thistles, so I went to sleep again.
So my wife poured bubble-bath powder all over me, and she turned on the cold water faucet of the bathtub, and she went to bed in the guest room.
About three o'clock the next afternoon, I went over to Murra's to finish putting up his windows, and to find out what we'd agreed to do about the bathtub enclosure door, if anything. I had two doors on the back of my truck, my door with a flamingo and his door with Gloria Hilton.
I started to ring his doorbell, but then I heard somebody knocking on an upstairs window. I looked up and saw Murra standing in the window of Gloria Hilton's bathroom. My ladder was already leaning against the sill of the window, so I went up the ladder and asked Murra what was going on.
He opened the window, and he told me to come in. He was very pale and shaky.
"Your boy showed up yet?" I said.
"Yes," he said. "He's downstairs. I picked him up at the bus station an hour ago."
"You two hitting it off all right?" I said.
Murra shook his head. "He's still so bitter," he said. "He's only fifteen, but he talks to me as though he were my great-great-grandfather. I came up here for just a minute, and now I haven't got nerve enough to go back down."
He took me by the arm. "Listen—" he said, "you go down and sort of pave the way."
"If I've got any pavement left in me," I said, "I'd better save it for home." I filled him in on my own situation at home, which was far from ideal.
"Whatever you do," he said, "don't make the same mistake I made. You keep that home of yours together, no matter what. I know it must be lousy from time to time, but, believe me, there are ways of life that are ten thousand times lousier."
"Well," I said, "I thank the good Lord for one thing—"
"What's that?" he said.
"Gloria Hilton hasn't come right out and said she loved me yet," I said.
I went downstairs to see Murra's boy.
Young John had on a man's suit. He even had on a vest. He wore big black-rimmed spectacles. He looked like a college professor.
"John," I said, "I'm an old friend of your father's."
"That so?" he said, and he looked me up and down. He wouldn't shake hands.
"You certainly are a mature-looking young man," I said.
"I've had to be," he said. "When Father walked out on Mother and me, that made me head of the family, wouldn't you say?"
"Well now, John," I said, "your father hasn't been too happy, either, you know."
"That certainly is a great disappointment to me," he said. "I thought Gloria Hilton made men as happy as they could possibly be."
"John," I said, "when you get older, you're going to understand a lot of things you don't understand now."
"You must mean nuclear physics," he said. "I can hardly wait." And he turned his back to me, and he looked out the window. "Where's Father?" he said.
"Here he is," said Murra from the top of the stairs. "Here the poor fool is." He came creaking down the stairs.
"I think I'd better go back to school, Father," said the boy.
"So soon?" said Murra.
"I was told there was an emergency, or I wouldn't have come," said the boy. "There doesn't seem to be any emergency, so I'd like to go back, if you don't mind."
"Don't mind?" said Murra. He held out his arms. "John—" he said, "you'll break my heart if you walk out on me now—without-"
"Without what, Father?" said the boy. He was cold as ice.
"Without forgiving me," said Murra.
"Never," said the boy. "I'm sorry—that's one thing I'll never do." He nodded. "Whenever you're ready to go, Father," he said, "I'll be waiting in the car."
And he walked out of the house.
Murra sat down in a chair with his head in his hands. "What do I do now?" he said. "Maybe this is the punishment I deserve. I guess what I do is just grit my teeth and take it."
"I can only think of one other thing," I said.
"What's that?" he said.
"Kick him in the pants," I said.
So that's what Murra did.
He went out to the car, looking all gloomy and blue.
He told John something was wrong with the front seat, and he made John get out so he could fix it.
Then Murra let the boy have it in the seat of the pants with the side of his foot. I don't think there was any pain connected with it, but it did have a certain amount of loft.
The boy did a kind of polka downhill, toward the shrubbery where his father and I had been looking for thistles the night before. When he got himself stopped and turned around, he was certainly one surprised-looking boy.
"John," Murra said to him, "I'm sorry I did that, but I couldn't think of anything else to do."
For once, the boy didn't have a snappy come-back.
"I have made many serious mistakes in my life," said Murra, "but I don't think that was one of them. I love you, and I love your mother, and I think I'll go on kicking you until you can find it in your heart to give me another chance."
The boy still couldn't think of anything to say, but I could tell he wasn't interested in being kicked again.
"Now you come back in the house," said Murra, "and we'll talk this thing over like civilized human beings."
When they got back in the house, Murra got the boy to call up his mother i
n Los Angeles.
"You tell her we're having a nice time, and I've been terribly unhappy, and I am through with Gloria Hilton, and I want her to take me back on any terms whatsoever," said Murra.
The boy told his mother, and she cried, and the boy cried, and Murra cried, and I cried.
And then Murra's first wife told him he could come back home any time he wanted to. And that was that.
The way we settled the bathtub enclosure door thing was that I took Murra's door and he took mine. Actually, I was trading a twenty-two-dollar door for a forty-eight-dollar door, not counting the picture of Gloria Hilton.
My wife was out when I got home. I hung the new door. My own boy came up and watched me. He was red-nosed about something.
"Where's your mother?" I said to him.
"She went out," he said.
"When's she due back?" I said.
"She said maybe she'd never come back," said the boy.
I was sick, but I didn't let the boy know it. "That's one of her jokes," I said. "She says that all the time."
"I never heard her say it before," he said.
I was really scared when suppertime rolled around, and I still didn't have a wife. I tried to be brave. I got supper for the boy and me, and I said, "Well, I guess she's been delayed somewhere."
"Father—" said the boy.
"What?" I said.
"What did you do to Mother last night?" he said. He took a very high and mighty tone.
"Mind your own business," I said, "or you're liable to get a swift kick in the pants."
That calmed him right down.
My wife came home at nine o'clock, thank God.
She was cheerful. She said she'd had a swell time just being alone—shopping alone, eating in a restaurant alone, going to a movie alone.
She gave me a kiss, and she went upstairs.
I heard the shower running, and I all of a sudden remembered the picture of Gloria Hilton on the bathtub enclosure door.
"Oh my Lord!" I said. I ran up the stairs to tell her what the picture was doing on the door, to tell her I would have it sandblasted off first thing in the morning.
I went into the bathroom.
My wife was standing up, taking a shower.
She was just the same height as Gloria Hilton, so the picture on the door made kind of a mask for her.
There was my wife's body with the head of Gloria Hilton on it.
My wife wasn't sore. She laughed. She thought it was funny. "Guess who?" she said.
(1962)
DEER IN THE WORKS
THE BIG BLACK STACKS of the Ilium Works of the Federal Apparatus Corporation spewed acid fumes and soot over the hundreds of men and women who were lined up before the redbrick employment office. It was summer. The Ilium Works, already the second-largest industrial plant in America, was increasing its staff by one third in order to meet armament contracts. Every ten minutes or so, a company policeman opened the employment-office door, letting out a chilly gust from the air-conditioned interior and admitting three more applicants.
"Next three," said the policeman.
A middle-sized man in his late twenties, his young face camouflaged with a mustache and spectacles, was admitted after a four-hour wait. His spirits and the new suit he'd bought for the occasion were wilted by the fumes and the August sun, and he'd given up lunch in order to keep his place in line. But his bearing remained jaunty. He was the last, in his group of three, to face the receptionist.
"Screw-machine operator, ma'am," said the first man.
"See Mr. Cormody in booth seven," said the receptionist. "Plastic extrusion, miss," said the next man. "See Mr. Hoyt in booth two," she said. "Skill?" she asked the urbane young man in the wilted suit. "Milling machine? Jig borer?"
"Writing," he said. "Any kind of writing."
"You mean advertising and sales promotion?"
"Yes—that's what I mean."
She looked doubtful. "Well, I don't know. We didn't put out a call for that sort of people. You can't run a machine, can you?"
"Typewriter," he said jokingly.
The receptionist was a sober young woman. "The company does not use male stenographers," she said. "See Mr. Billing in booth twenty-six. He just might know of some advertising-and-sales-promotion-type job."
He straightened his tie and coat, forced a smile that implied he was looking into jobs at the Works as sort of a lark. He walked into booth twenty-six and extended his- hand to Mr. Billing, a man of his own age. "Mr. Billing, my name is David Potter. I was curious to know what openings you might have in advertising and sales promotion, and thought I'd drop in for a talk."
Mr. Billing, an old hand at facing young men who tried to hide their eagerness for a job, was polite but outwardly unimpressed. "Well, you came at a bad time, I'm afraid, Mr. Potter. The competition for that kind of job is pretty stiff, as you perhaps know, and there isn't much of anything open just now."
David nodded. "I see." He had had no experience in asking for a job with a big organization, and Mr. Billing was making him aware of what a fine art it was-if you couldn't run a machine. A duel was under way. "But have a seat anyway, Mr. Potter."
"Thank you." He looked at his watch. "I really ought to be getting back to my paper soon."
"You work on a paper around here?"
"Yes. I own a weekly paper in Borset, about ten miles from Ilium."
"Oh—you don't say. Lovely little village. Thinking of giving up the paper, are you?"
"Well, no—not exactly. It's a possibility. I bought the paper soon after the war, so I've been with it for eight years, and I don't want to go stale. I might be wise to move on. It all depends on what opens up."
"You have a family?" said Mr. Billing pleasantly.
"Yes. My wife, and two boys and two girls."
"A nice, big, well-balanced family," said Mr. Billing. "And you're so young, too."
"Twenty-nine," said David. He smiled. "We didn't plan it to be quite that big. It's run to twins. The boys are twins, and then, several days ago, the girls came."
"You don't say!" said Mr. Billing. He winked. "That would certainly start a young man thinking about getting a little security, eh, with a family like that?"
Both of them treated the remark casually, as though it were no more than a pleasantry between two family men. "It's what we wanted, actually, two boys, two girls," said David. "We didn't expect to get them this quickly, but we're glad now. As far as security goes—well, maybe I flatter myself, but I think the administrative and writing experience I've had running the paper would be worth a good bit to the right people, if something happened to the paper."
"One of the big shortages in this country," said Billing philosophically, concentrating on lighting a cigarette, "is men who know how to do things, and know how to take responsibility and get things done. I only wish there were better openings in advertising and sales promotion than the ones we've got. They're important, interesting jobs, understand, but I don't know how you'd feel about the starting salary."
"Well, I'm just trying to get the lay of the land, now—to see how things are. I have no idea what salary industry might pay a man like me, with my experience."
"The question experienced men like yourself usually ask is: how high can I go and how fast? And the answer to that is that the sky is the limit for a man with drive and creative ambition. And he can go up fast or slow, depending on what he's willing to do and capable of putting into the job. We might start out a man like you at, oh, say, a hundred dollars a week, but that isn't to say you'd be stuck at that level for two years or even two months."
"I suppose a man could keep a family on that until he got rolling," said David.
"You'd find the work in the publicity end just about the same as what you're doing now. Our publicity people have high standards for writing and editing and reporting, and our publicity releases don't wind up in newspaper editors' wastebaskets. Our people do a professional job, and are well-respected as journalists." He stood
. "I've got a little matter to attend to—take me about ten minutes. Could you possibly stick around? I'm enjoying our talk."
David looked at his watch. "Oh—guess I could spare another ten or fifteen minutes."
Dilling was back in his booth in three minutes, chuckling over some private joke. "Just talking on the phone with Lou Flamer, the publicity supervisor. Needs a new stenographer. Lou's a card. Everybody here is crazy about Lou. Old weekly man himself, and I guess that's where he learned to be so easy to get along with. Just to feel him out for the hell of it, I told him about you. I didn't commit you to anything—just said what you told me, that you were keeping your eyes open. And guess what Lou said?"
"Guess what, Nan," said David Potter to his wife on the telephone. He was wearing only his shorts, and was phoning from the company hospital. "When you come home from the hospital tomorrow, you'll be coming home to a solid citizen who pulls down a hundred and ten dollars a week, every week. I just got my badge and passed my physical!"
"Oh?" said Nan, startled. "It happened awfully fast, didn't it? I didn't think you were going to plunge right in."
"What's there to wait for?"
"Well—I don't know. I mean, how do you know what you're getting into? You've never worked for anybody but yourself, and don't know anything about getting along in a huge organization. I knew you were going to talk to the Ilium people about a job, but I thought you planned to stick with the paper another year, anyway."
"In another year I'll be thirty, Nan."
"Well?"
"That's pretty old to be starting a career in industry. There are guys my age here who've been working their way up for ten years. That's pretty stiff competition, and it'll be that much stiffer a year from now. And how do we know Jason will still want to buy the paper a year from now?" Ed Jason was David's assistant, a recent college graduate whose father wanted to buy the paper for him. "And this job that opened up today in publicity won't be open a year from now, Nan. Now was the time to switch—this afternoon!"
Nan sighed. "I suppose. But it doesn't seem like you. The Works are fine for some people; they seem to thrive on that life. But you've always been so free. And you love the paper—you know you do."
Palm Sunday, Welcome to the Monkey House Page 21