A Touch of the Creature

by Charles Beaumont

  “What do you mean, a goner,” I asked him.

  “Just that, boy. A goner. Clem got the spoon this time.”

  I figured the old boy for a looney, but it burned me to see that ignorant jerk steal the march on me. So I asked Grandpa what he was talking about. The girl was facing me, over there on the opposite side of the room, and Lon Chaney with the beard was honeying her up. When she smiled her teeth were the whitest I’d ever seen, and her mouth kind of crinkled at the sides. When I looked down and saw she didn’t have any shoes or stockings, brother, that blew the whistle.

  “Are you speaking about that very attractive young girl in the corner?”

  “Sure I am, son—who else would I be talking about? You seen her, the second she opened the door. But t’won’t do ya no good, ’cause she’s a goner. For tonight, anyway. Clem must’ve rented the spoon.”

  “Clem, I imagine, is the fellow seated with the young lady?”

  “You imagine right, young feller. Ugly hound, ain’t he!”

  The old boy was right. That guy Clem was one of the biggest, stupidest-looking yokels I’d seen in quite a while. But the way she looked at him you’d think he was Clark Gable. I mean, Bernie, that was a disturbing thing to have happen—especially to Harry Jackson. The longer I sat there looking at her, the more appealing life got. She didn’t bat an eye, though. Just went on grinning and gushing over this other guy—and he leaned back like it was in the bag. Then I saw him take the wrapping off his little package. It was nothing but a dirty wooden spoon, the kind Phil sports at his bistro.

  The old fella pulls my ear over again and wheezes, “That’s it. They’ll be leaving soon, you watch.”

  And sure enough, the second the babe pipes this piece of equipment, she looks like she’s going to faint. Buster gets up, flings a buck or so to the barkeep, and in three seconds they’re out the door. From the window I could see him put his arm around her waist—and she didn’t look like she cared one little bit.

  Bernie, you don’t know how screwy that looked. The big guy was uglier than the Swedish Angel, with more hair than a gorilla. And yet he picks up that gorgeous job in ten minutes flat. And all the while, he’s waving this filthy spoon around like it was a wand or something.

  The old boy kept on chuckling and he could see I was interested.

  “That’s the first time I’ve seen the spoon for twenty, thirty years. The Hermit said he’d never rent it out, after what happened ’tween Jake Spiker and that politician’s daughter. Clem must have talked him into it.”

  “I don’t exactly understand you, sir,” I said. “Do you mean that young lady was not acquainted with the gentleman?”

  “Oh, she’d seen Clem around a few times, and he’s got a hankering for her. Everybody knows that. Guess he knew she’d show up at the Spa—it’s the only place open this late.”

  “Well, what’s this about a spoon?” I asked.

  “Mean you never heard of the Hermit’s Junemoon Spoon? It was given him by his daddy, and he got it from his daddy—and they was all black ones in the heart. Anybody got hold of that spoon, they ain’t no girl can resist him. Hermit used to rent it out, but it caused a lot of trouble so he figured to keep it to hisself.”

  “Just a minute. Do you mean that that big fellow made time with the lady just because he had that dirty old spoon?”

  “Well, son, you seen Clem yourself. Did he look like the kind of feller any girl’d go for? And you seen the look in Julie’s eyes. Yessir, she’s a goner.”

  Well, Bernie, it sounded crazy to me—but that babe was too beautiful to forget about. Now, I don’t take any stock in charms—they’re for suckers. I know, I used to sell them—but there had to be something on that guy’s side.

  I decided to talk more to the old buzzard.

  “Sir, do you think this Clem has met success only because of that spoon?”

  The geezer just laughed.

  “Well, boy, you don’t need to give up hope. If Clem could talk the Hermit out of it, a good salesman like you probably could too. Clem’ll have to bring it back tomorrow morning—it can’t ever go out for more than one night. If you’re interested, I can tell you where the Hermit lives.”

  I was about to say nix, but then I remembered about the girl. The way that blue dress creeped around her and how those blonde curls fell over her shoulders. I used my head and tried to look indifferent.

  “Of course, I am staying for a few days here,” I said, “and a little female company certainly wouldn’t do any harm. Naturally, I can’t quite believe this ‘Junemoon Spoon’ story—but if you could give me the young lady’s address . . . ?”

  “That wouldn’t do any good, boy. Julie hates all men, normally, ever since her husband run off. You’ll have to get the spoon, if you want to make time. And Julie comes in here for a glass of milk almost every night.”

  Well, we sat there for a while, and then the old guy got up to leave. I couldn’t let this slip through my fingers, so—I don’t know exactly why—I asked him for this Hermit bird’s address.

  “Go down Shell Road till you hit the Bear turn-off. Up about three, four miles is a little cabin. That’s where the Hermit lives. You can’t miss it, son.”

  I said thank you. He got up, pulled out the bottle of junk I’d sold him, and said, “Boy, maybe I get this medicine on me, I’ll feel like taking on Julie myself, eh?”

  I told him sure and he went out, cackling and rubbing the stuff on his face. After a while I walked back to the hotel and spent the night dreaming of this babe.

  Words fail me, Bernie. There just aren’t any bundles as cute as that, anywheres!

  The next day I covered the joint, but thoroughly. When I was finished, there wasn’t a drugstore or cafe that didn’t stock my pills and jellies. Even wised a gas station to it, and the guy there took the last of the bottles. In two weeks, Bernie, I’d picked up a cool grand. And that’s good, even for Harry Jackson, and considering the merchandise I had to unload.

  But, somehow, my heart wasn’t in it. Like I said, I been around—but this tomato, well, she was something more than special. I couldn’t shake her out of my head and believe me, I tried hard. But what the heck, business was over and I figured pleasure could begin.

  So, after classing up at the hotel, I took Bessie up a couple of dirt roads, past Blacktown and wide stretches of nothing, till I came to a lot of woods and stuff. I hoofed it on from there till I came to an old shack out of Tobacco Road.

  The door was opened by a bunch of whiskers with a face behind it somewheres. An ancient model, creaking at the axle, waved me to a rickety old stool and said a lot of stuff I couldn’t get at first.

  You understand, I was taking all this as a joke. I thought maybe there was some screwy southern tradition that I hadn’t heard about—and with that babe straining at the throttle, I’d give anything a try.

  I saw her in town that day, with a yellow dress she was poured into. She didn’t know Harry Jackson from Adam’s grandmother, but you can take it from me, Harry Jackson knew her. I started to think of her and me in Hollywood—she’d knock any two-bit press agent back on his heels.

  The antique was spouting “y’all’s” a mile a minute, but I finally­ managed to ask him about that spoon gimmick. He cackled away and dug the thing out of a dirty box on the shelf.

  The Hermit said he didn’t want to rent it out, but of course, when Harry Jackson turns on the old persuasion, look out! I felt silly doing all this, but the yokel looked real serious and said the “Junemoon Spoon” couldn’t fail. Said I’d be squiring this chick without any trouble at all, long as I kept the gimmick close to me and waved it in front of her face every now and then.

  Well, I talked to him fast and solid and I finally got him to rent the thing to me for the night. It wasn’t easy, but a five spot helped. I knew it was money down the drain, but what the heck, how many times do you live? I kept thinking, too, that when I was through with it, I might be able to push the spoon off onto somebody else for quite
a nice wad. To that Clem hick, maybe.

  So anyway, I got into Bessie and drove back to the hotel for a little last minute repair work. By the time I got to the Spa it was nine-thirty or so and there was the same bunch gathered. They gummed and jawed and I sat down with a beer. It wasn’t easy waiting.

  Twenty minutes later, the dish walks in. It’s a hot night so she is dressed very cool indeed. A pair of Levi’s, rolled up past her knees and a faded old shirt, pulled out and made into one of those midriff things—and as far as I could see, that’s all. Harry Jackson didn’t breathe too easy.

  Well, the ugly customer isn’t around anywhere, and she sits over in a corner by herself with a glass of milk. So, slapping a smile on the kisser, I beat it over and introduce myself.

  “Excuse me, young lady, my name is Harry Jackson. I’m new to this town and I wonder if you’d mind a little company for a few moments—I hope you won’t think it brash of me.”

  She starts to give me the cold shoulder, when I remember the gimmick. So before she can wave goodbye, I pull the spoon out where nobody but her could see it.

  You never saw such a change, Bernie. Right away, the second she lays her eyes on that lousy piece of wood, her whole face lights up and she smiles up at me like Harry Jackson was the only guy alive.

  What do I do? I sit down. It’s made. She tells me her name, she tells me where she lives, all alone, she—but why go into that, know what I mean?

  We go over to her place, she shows me her family album (while I’m waving this stick around like crazy) and things really look rosy. Just then, when the Jackson stock is at its peak and I think things couldn’t get better, there’s a knock at the door.

  Julie—that’s the babe’s name—rushes over and lets in a scroungy pair of females who say they’re relatives and want to chat. So there I am, stuck in a house with the most beautiful girl in the world and I got to talk about somebody’s cow and why poor Mrs. Fleabody had to go to a foot specialist. It’s killing me, you can bet on that, pal. And the kiss-off is when these biddies say they want to spend the night. Spend the night, can you beat it!

  Well, I didn’t get sore. After all, I figured, it wasn’t Julie’s fault. She was willing. And before I left she said she’d meet me the next night at the same place. She wouldn’t be home to anybody that night, she said. Anybody, that is, but Harry Jackson.

  So, I didn’t feel too bad when I left. I had plenty of time. And what’s more, I started to think more and more about Hollywood, and what Mattie Glickstein would say to something like this Julie gal. So long peddling; hello swimming pool and easy living. Yeah, Bernie, I didn’t feel bad at all . . . then.

  I steered Bessie back to the shack the next morning and told the Hermit geezer that I wanted to rent his charm again. I ain’t ever been much of a philosopher, and what’s more, I never believed in good-luck charms. But the way that thing worked—whether it was a custom or a tradition or what the hell it was—I needed it again.

  But the old guy said nix. “One night only, absolutely, that’s all,” he said. So I spieled and argued myself blue in the face, but he wouldn’t budge. Here was a chance to get the swellest looking blonde alive plus a million bucks in Hollywood and a ninety year old hermit was standing in my way. Not for Harry Jackson, I said.

  There wasn’t any question in my mind. If I could get Julie to Hollywood—and I could with that spoon!—I’d be in gravy for good. It’d be perfect. So after we hemmed and hawed for an hour and I saw I couldn’t talk him into renting it to me I asked if he’d sell it.

  The old hick hesitated, like he wouldn’t dream of such a thing. Then, when I turned on the pressure, he mellowed up.

  “All right, son,” he said. “But it’s going to be expensive. Very expensive.”

  I said I didn’t care, thinking he’d slap a twenty or thirty dollar tag on it. Thirty bucks would have made him rich, the way it looked to me.

  And you could have knocked me over when he straightens up and says, “Very well. You may purchase the Junemoon Spoon for three thousand dollars.”

  It floored me, you can bet. But I kept thinking of Julie and that swimming pool and Mattie Glickstein’s face, so I started to bargain with him.

  Bernie, you never run up against such a customer. I’ve sold a lot of stuff in my time and bargained for a lot, but this bird wouldn’t move. When I would mention half or two thirds, he’d turn away like he wasn’t interested at all. So I told him no-dice and walked out, hoping he’d stop me. He didn’t. So what could you do? There’d be no tonight, no future—and I meant no future, when I remembered the look in Julie’s eyes. Harry Jackson don’t go overboard on many things, but this babe’s promise was worth the whole three grand to me—even if it was half of what I had in the bank.

  I went back and he was waiting. A crazy looking galoot, with his filthy shirt and long white beard, but he’s the greatest salesman who ever lived. I hate his guts but you got to respect him.

  Ten minutes later he had my check and I had the Junemoon Spoon.

  Bernie, I’ll cut the rest short, because I don’t like to think about it. It shows what a filthy, dishonest, lousy life this is and I don’t want to turn you against humanity.

  By the time I got back to the hotel I was on top of the world. I had figured out just where I’d take Julie—Paramount first—when we’d leave, everything. I thought I’d ask her someday, after we were married, what the story was on this Junemoon Spoon pitch. I figured it was an old Southern custom, handed down from way back.

  Anyway, I got to the Spa by nine o’clock, feeling wonderful. I was out three G’s, but what was that to what I was getting? Peanuts. I was in for the California gravy. I got a beer and sat down to wait. I held the wooden spoon in my hands, looking at it.

  It wasn’t very unusual. Just an ordinary spoon, with teeth marks all over it.

  Then I saw everybody looking at me and sniggering like they’d heard a big joke, and that didn’t make me feel too good, but I didn’t give it much thought.

  After a while, Julie walks in. But is she different! Brand new dress, flowers in her hair—words fail, Bernie. She smiles around the joint, then she sits down with her glass of milk.

  Of course, it doesn’t take Harry Jackson a long time to get up and ankle over. But I’m just about to her table, when a great big hulking guy steps up, pushes me aside and sits down. He starts jawing like I wasn’t around.

  “Oh, Julie,” I said, “it’s Harry. You haven’t forgotten our date, have you?”

  She looks at me like death. And when that happens an ice chill goes right to my toes. The big bruiser looks around and I pretend to be ordering something. Then I grab the Spoon and hold it up where the tomato can see it. I wave it around my head, up and down and sideways. But she doesn’t even look up.

  Then everybody in the dump starts laughing and before I can think straight a greasy mauler comes up and grabs me by the pants and the next thing I know I’m sitting on the ground outside. I hear the place rocking with goofy laughter.

  Harry Jackson isn’t slow, Bernie. He wasn’t born day before yesterday. I took five seconds to get to Bessie and in just a little more time I’m knocking on the Hermit’s shack.

  “Come on, you dirty, cheap, swindling piker!” I call, but no one answers. I knock so hard the door flies open and I’m staring at an empty room. Empty like nobody had been in it for years.

  So I race all over town looking for the crook. But no one knows anything about it. Nobody ever heard of any hermit, like I was crazy in the head or something.

  And, Bernie, I’m just about to the point where I figure I am soft upstairs. I combed that town but good, but it was no use. Then, after I got tired and disgusted, I went back to my hotel. I saw Julie, that gorgeous, no good dish, walking arm in arm with the bruiser and it broke my heart.

  I took that lousy spoon and threw it as far as I could. But that wasn’t all, not by a long shot. When I got back to the hotel room, I found it piled high with all that junk I’d peddled. All th
ose stinking bottles, every one that I unloaded in Sneadville, were heaped on the floor.

  Not much else to it, Bernie. It was a dirty, crooked trick to play on me but somehow that ain’t what bothers me so much. I keep thinking of that beautiful hunk of merchandise. I keep remembering how her hair fit around her shoulders and how the sides of her mouth crinkled up when she smiled. Can you imagine Harry Jackson out three G’s and he thinks about a dame?

  No justice in this world, I tell you. None.

  Time and Again

  His manner was courteous and, I thought, a little sad at the task before him—which was to cheat me. He glanced away from the books nervously. “Of course, you understand, Mr. Friedman,” he said, “there’s practically no call whatever for this sort of thing these days.”

  I nodded. He was a bright lad: the meaning of my smile did not go by him. He averted his eyes. I think it was this gesture—of sweeping the eyes downward, of profound embarrassment—that first set me to wondering where our paths might have crossed before.

  “The universities aren’t buying much any more; that could have been an outlet. Can’t even sell them folklore, though. Which makes it rough, you see.” He drew a deep breath. “To tell you the truth, sir, we actually couldn’t use your library at all and, frankly, I’d be taking a big chance to make you any kind of an offer.” The words came out hyphenated: an unhappy schoolboy’s mumbling fulfillment of the week’s elocution assignment. His ears were burning.

  “However,” he went on, “since-I’m-here-I’ll-take-the-risk-just-to-get-them-off-your-hands.” He had unconsciously withdrawn a pristine copy of Breasted’s excellent study; his fingers ran along the finely tooled leather. It was an example of Bayntun’s­ best work.

  “That is very kind of you,” I said, “under the circumstances.”

  He blushed. It was amusing, how carelessly he replaced the book, suddenly conscious of the tactical error. He took a checkbook from his pocket. “Five—” His voice quavered a moment and then switched to a defensively arrogant authoritativeness. “Five hundred dollars is the limit we could possibly go,” he said, still looking at the rug.