Is That What People Do?

by Robert Sheckley

  “Hi,” Baxter said sourly.

  “You got that bread for my man?”

  “I told Dinny I’d have it Monday.”

  “He told me I should remind you, ‘cause he don’t want you should forget.”

  “I’ll have it Monday,” Baxter said, and walked on. It was a lousy hundred dollars that he owed Dinny Welles, Stretch’s boss. Baxter resented being braced for it, especially by an insolent black bastard in an ice-cream suit. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  At the Clinton Cut-Rate Liquor Store he ordered a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch to celebrate his new job, and Terry Turner, the clerk, had the nerve to say, “Uh, Charlie, I can’t do this no more.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?” Baxter demanded.

  “It ain’t me,” Turner said. “You know I just work here. It’s Mrs. Chednik. She said not to give you any more credit.”

  “Take it out of this,” Baxter said, coming across with his last twenty.

  Turner rang up the sale, then said, “But your tab—”

  “I’ll settle it direct with Mrs. Chednik, and you can tell her I said so.”

  “Well, all right, Charlie,” Turner said, giving him the change. “But you’re going to get into a lot of trouble.”

  They looked at each other. Baxter knew that Turner was part owner of the Clinton and that he and Mrs. Chednik had decided to cut him off until he paid up. And Turner knew that he knew this. The bastard!

  The next stop was the furnished efficiency he called home over on River Road Extension. Baxter walked up the stairs to the twilight gloom of his living room. A small black-and-white television glowed faintly in a corner. Betsy was in the bedroom, packing. Her eye had swollen badly.

  “And just where do you think you’re going?” Baxter demanded.

  “I’m going to stay with my brother.”

  “Forget it,” Baxter said, “it was only an argument.” She went on packing.

  “You’re staying right here,” Baxter told her. Her pushed her out of the way and looked through her suitcase. He came up with his onyx cufflinks, his tie clasp with the gold nugget, his Series E savings bonds, and damned if she hadn’t also tucked away his Smith & Wesson .38.

  “Now you’re really going to get it,” he told her.

  She looked at him levelly. “Charlie, I warn you, never touch me again if you know what’s good for you.”

  Baxter took a step toward her, bulky and imposing in his newly pressed suit. But suddenly he remembered that her brother Amos worked in the DA’s office. Would Betsy blow the whistle on him? He really couldn’t risk finding out, even though she was bugging him beyond human endurance.

  Just then the doorbell rang sharply, three times—McGorty’s ring—and Baxter had ten dollars with McGorty on today’s number. He opened the door, but it wasn’t McGorty, it was a tiny Chinese woman pitching some religious pamphlet. She wouldn’t shut up and go away, not even when he told her nice; she just kept at him, and Baxter was suddenly filled with the desire to kick her downstairs, along with her knapsack of tracts.

  And then Betsy slipped past him. She had managed to get the suitcase closed, and it all happened so fast that Baxter couldn’t do a thing. He finally got rid of the Chinese lady and poured himself a tumblerful of whiskey. Then he remembered the bonds and looked around, but that damned Betsy had whipped everything away, including his goldnugget tie clasp. His Smith & Wesson was still on the bed, under a fold of blanket, so he put it into his suit pocket and poured another drink.

  He ate the knockwurst special at the Shamrock, had a quick beer and a shot at the White Rose, and got to the South Camden Shopping Mall just before closing. He sat in a luncheonette, had a coffee, and watched Conabee and his employees leave at seven-thirty. He sat for another half hour, then let himself into the shop.

  It was dark inside, and Baxter stood very still, getting the feel of the place. He could hear a lot of clocks going at different rates, and there was a high-pitched sound like crickets, and other sounds he couldn’t identify. He listened for a while, then took out his pocket flashlight and looked around.

  His light picked out curious details; a scale-model Spad biplane with ten-foot wings, hanging from the ceiling and tilted as if to attack; a fat plastic beetle almost underfoot; a model Centurion tank nearly five feet long. He was standing in the dark in the midst of motionless toys, and beyond them he could make out the dim shapes of large dolls, stuffed animals, and, to one side, a silent jungle made of delicate, shiny metal.

  It was an uncanny sort of place, but Baxter was not easily intimidated. He got ready for a long night. He found a pile of cushions, laid them out, found an ashtray, took off his overcoat, and lay down. Then he sat up and took a cellophane-wrapped ham sandwich, slightly squashed, from one pocket, a can of beer from the other. He got a cigarette going, lay back, and chewed, drank, and smoked against a background of sounds too faint to be identified. One of the many clocks struck the hour, then the others chimed in, and they kept going for a long time.

  He sat up with a start. He realized that he had dozed off. Everything seemed exactly the same. Nobody could have unlocked the door and slipped in past him, yet there seemed to be more light.

  A dim spotlight had come on, and he could hear spooky organ music, but faintly, faintly, as though from very far away. Baxter rubbed his nose and stood up. Something moved beside his left shoulder, and he turned his flashlight on it. It was a life-size puppet of Long John Silver. Baxter laughed uncertainly.

  More lights came on, and a spotlight picked out a group of three big dolls sitting at a table in a corner of the room. The papa doll was smoking a pipe and letting out clouds of real smoke, the mama doll was crocheting a shawl, and the baby doll was crawling on the floor and gurgling.

  Then a group of doll people danced out in front of him. There were little shoemakers and tiny ballerinas and a miniature lion that roared and shook its mane. The metal jungle came to life, and great mechanical orchids opened and closed. There was a squirrel with blinking golden eyes; it cracked and ate silver walnuts. The organ music swelled up loud and sweet. Fluffy white doves settled on Baxter’s shoulders, and a bright-eyed fawn licked at his fingers. The toys danced around him, and for a moment Baxter found himself in the splendid lost world of childhood.

  Suddenly he heard a woman’s laughter.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  She stepped forward, followed by a silvery spotlight. She was Dorothy of Oz, she was Snow White, she was Gretel, she was Helen of Troy, she was Rapunzel; she was exquisitely formed, almost five feet tall, with crisp blond curls clustered around an elfin face. Her slight figure was set off by a frilly white shift tied around the waist with a red ribbon.

  “You’re that missing doll!” Baxter exclaimed.

  “So you know about me,” she said. “I would have liked a little more time, so that I could have gotten all the toys performing. But it doesn’t matter.”

  Baxter, mouth agape, couldn’t answer. She said, “The night Conabee assembled me, I found that I had the gift of life. I was more than a mere automaton—I lived, I thought, I desired. But I was not complete. So I hid in the ventilator shaft and stole materials in order to become as I am now, and to build this wonderland for my creator. Do you think he will be proud of me?”

  “You’re beautiful,” Baxter said at last.

  “But do you think Mr. Conabee will like me?”

  “Forget about Conabee,” Baxter said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s crazy,” Baxter said, “but I can’t live without you. We’ll get away from here, work it out somehow. I’ll make you happy, babe, I swear it!”

  “Never,” she said. “Conabee created me and I belong to him.”

  “You’re coming with me,” Baxter said.

  He seized her hand and she pulled away from him. He yanked her toward him and her hand came off in his grip. Baxter gaped at it, then threw it from him. “Goddamn you!” he screame
d. “Come here!”

  She ran from him. He took out his .38 and followed. The organ music began to wander erratically, and the lights were flickering. He saw her run behind a set of great alphabet blocks. He hurried after her—and then the toys attacked.

  The tank rumbled into action. It came at him slow and heavy. Baxter put two slugs into it, tumbling it across the room. He caught a glimpse of the Spad diving toward him, and he shot it in midair, squashing it against the wall like a giant moth. A squad of little mechanical soldiers discharged their cork bullets at him, and he kicked them out of the way. Long John Silver lunged at him, and his cutlass caught Baxter under the ribcage. But it was only a rubber sword; Baxter pushed the pirate aside and had her cornered behind the Punch and Judy.

  She said, “Please don’t hurt me.”

  He said, “Come with me!”

  She shook her head and tried to dodge him. He grabbed her as she went past, catching her by the blond curls. She fell, and he felt her head twist in his hands, twist around in a full, impossible circle, so that her body was turned away from him while her pretty blue eyes still stared into his face.

  “Never!” she said.

  In a spasm of rage and revulsion, Baxter yanked at her head. It came off in his hands. In the neck stump he could see bits of glass winking in a gray matrix.

  The mama and papa and baby dolls stopped in mid-motion. Long John Silver collapsed. The broken doll’s blue eyes blinked three times; then she died.

  The rest of the toys stopped. The organ faded, the spotlights went out, and the last jungle flower clinked to the floor. In the darkness, a weeping fat man knelt beside a busted doll and wondered what he was going to tell Conabee in the morning.

  HOW PRO WRITERS REALLY WRITE—OR TRY TO

  Like most authors of science fiction, I was an avid reader first. Back then, as an aspiring writer as well as a fan, I wanted to know how professional writers actually do their jobs. How do they develop their ideas, plot their stories, overcome their difficulties? Now, twenty-five years later, I know a little about it.

  Professional writers are extremely individualistic in the ways they approach their task. If you are among a lucky few, it is relatively simple. You get an idea, which in turn suggests a plot and characters. With that much in hand, you go to a typewriter and bash out a story. When it’s done, a few hours later, you correct the grammar and spelling. This editing usually results in a messy-looking manuscript, so you type out the whole thing again. For better or worse, your story is now finished.

  That’s pretty much how I went about it early in my career. If anyone asked, I would explain that plotting a story consists merely of giving your hero a serious problem, a limited amount of time in which to solve it, and dire consequences if he fails to do so. You preclude all easy solutions, The hero tries this and that, but all his efforts serve only to sink him into deeper trouble. Time is soon running out and he still hasn’t defeated the villain, rescued the girl, or learned the secret of the alien civilization. He’s on the verge of utter, tragic defeat. Then, at the last moment, you get him out of trouble. How does this happen? In a flash of insight your hero solves his problem by logical means inherent in the situation but overlooked until now. Done properly, your solution makes the reader say, “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?” You then bring the story to a swift conclusion—and that’s all there is to it.

  This straightforward approach sow me through many stories. Inevitably, however sophistication set in and I began to experience difficulties. I began to view writing as a problem and to look for ways of dealing with that problem.

  I looked to my colleagues and their individual methodologies. Lest Del Rey, for example, told me that he wrote out his stories in his head—word, for word, sentence for sentence—before committing them to paper. Months, even years, would be devoted to this mental composition.

  Only when he was ready to type out a story would Lester go to his office, which was about the size of a broom closet, though not so pretty. He had built it in the middle of the living room. After cramming himself inside, Lester would be locked in place by a typewriter that unfolded from the wall into his lap. Paper, pencils, cigarettes and ashtray were there, and a circulation fan to keep him from suffocating. It was much like being in an upright coffin, but with the disadvantage that he was not dead.

  Philip Klass, better known as William Tenn, had many different work methods back in those days. He developed them in order to cope with a blockage as tenacious and enveloping as a lovestricken boa constrictor. Phil and I used to discuss our writing problems at length. Once we invented a method that would serve two writers. The scheme involved renting a studio and furnishing it with a desk, typewriter, and heavy oaken chair. The chair was to be fitted with a chain and a padlock. According to our scheme, we would take turns in the studio. When it was, say, Phil’s turn to write, I would chain him to the chair, leaving his arms free to type. I would then leave him there, despite his piteous please and entreaties, until he had produced a given amount of cogent prose. At that point I would release him and take his place.

  We never did carry out our scheme, probably because of the unlikelihood of finding a chair strong enough to restrain a writer determined to escape work. But we did try something else. We agreed to meet at a diner in Greenwich Village at the end of each day’s work. There we showed each other the pages we had done. If either of us had failed to fulfill his quota for the day, he would pay the other ten dollars.

  It seemed foolproof, but we soon ran into a difficulty. Neither of us was willing to let the other actually read his rough, unfinished copy. We got around this by presenting our pages upside down. But this procedure made it impossible to tell if we had really written new copy that day or if we were showing pages from years ago. It became a point of honor for each of us to present new copy that the other could not read. We did this for about a week, then spontaneously and joyously reverted to our former practice of just talking about writing.

  As the years passed, my own blockage became wider, deeper and blacker. I thought I knew what my trouble was, however. My trouble was my wife. As soon as I did something about her, I reasoned, everything would be okay. Two divorces later, I knew it was not my wife.

  The trouble, I next decided, was New York. How could I possible work in such a place? What I needed was sunshine, a sparkling sea, olive trees, and solitude. So I moved to the island of Ibiza. There I rented a three-hundred-year-old farmhouse on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean. The house lacked electricity, but it did have four rooms, any one of which I could use as my office. First, I tried to work in the beautiful, bright rooms upstairs. Alas, I couldn’t concentrate on my writing here because I spent too much time admiring the splendid view from the window. So, I moved downstairs to a room that had only one narrow window, with bars over it in case of attack by pirates. Formerly a storage place for potatoes, the room was dark and dank. There was nothing to divert my attention. But I couldn’t work here either. There was no electricity and my kerosene lamp gave off too much smoke.

  At last I saw what the real trouble was. It stemmed from my working indoors. Henceforth, I would toil outdoors, as it was meant to be. So I set up on the beach—only to be frustrated again, this time by the heat of a searing sun and by the ceaseless onshore breeze blowing sand into my typewriter. I tried composing under a shady tree, but the flies drove me away. When I tried to do my writing in a café, the waiters were too noisy.

  I gave up on Ibiza and moved to London, firmly convinced that my problem was a shortage of self-discipline. I began to search in earnest for ways of doing by artifice what once I had done naturally. Here, in no particular order, are a few of the methods I have utilized.

  When I am blocked, my tendency is to avoid writing. That’s quite predictable. But the less I write, the less I feel capable of writing. A sense of oppression increases as my output dwindles, and I begin to dread writing anything at all. How to break this vicious cycle? The hard truth is that it can only b
e done by writing. I must practice my craft regularly if I am to maintain any facility at it. I need to produce a flow of words. How am I to achieve that flow when I am blocked?

  To solve this dilemma, at one juncture I set myself to type five thousand words a day. Type, now write. Wordage was my only requirement. The substance of what I wrote did not matter. It could be anything, even gibberish, even lists of disconnected words, even my name over and over again. All that mattered was to produce daily wordage in quantity.

  Perhaps that sounds simple. It was not, I assure you. The first day went well enough. By the second, however, I had exhausted my ready stock of banalities. I found myself creating something like this:

  “Ah, yes, here we are at last, getting near the bottom of the page. One more sentence, just a few more words…that’s it, go baby, go, do those words…Ah, page done. That’s page 19, and now we are at the top of page 20—the last page of the day—or night, since it is now 3:30 in the bloody morning and I have been at this for what feels like a hundred years. But only one page to go, the last, and then I can put aside this insane nonsense and do something else, anything else, anything in the whole world except this. This, this, this. Damn, still three-quarters of a page to go. Oh words, wherefore art thou, words, now that I need you? Come quickly to my fingers and release me from this horror, horror, horror…Oh, God I am losing my mind, mind, mind…but wait, is it possible? Yes, here it is, the end of the page coming up. Oh, welcome, kindly end of page, and now I am finished, finished, finished!”

  After a few days of this, I realized I was working very hard and not getting paid for it. Since I was turning out five thousand words a day anyway, and since I was getting tired of typing long meandering streams of meaningless verbiage, I asked myself why I shouldn’t write a story.

  And I did just that. I sat down and wrote a story. And it was easy!

  Could it be that I had the master key to writing at last? I wrote another story. This was not so easy, but it was not unduly difficult, either. So there I was with two complete stories on paper, and each had taken only a day to wrap up. I thought proudly of these stories for a year afterward. I’ve never employed this technique to get anything else written, but I know it works. Someday, when I’m feeling desperate enough, I’ll probably rely on it again. Meanwhile, however, I’m still seeking a less agonizing method.