Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

by Philip Kindred Dick

  “Make sure you think everything out,” Betty was saying to him as he shut the door of the health food store after him and started down the sidewalk, back to the garage.

  They’re all talking, he thought to himself. They know I’m possibly going to get swindled out of everything I have. That’ll give them something to talk about for a long time. They know Harman is a big-time swindler, a real professional; you can tell by the way they dress, by the expensive clothes. The tailoring and the car; look at the car he drives, a ’58 Cadillac. There’s nothing smalltime there, he realized. And the house he owns, and his business connections and enterprises; he has his hand in just about every kind of thing. He’s really a big man. An important businessman.

  They know he’s made a lot of money. He’s really rich; he might even have a couple of hundred thousand dollars. Maybe he owns the whole of Marin Gardens outright. Maybe there isn’t even somebody named Bradford, or if there is, he’s just a front. Somebody Harman hired to represent him, like he hired Carmichael.

  But there’s one thing to be sure about, he said to himself as he re-entered his garage. There’s nobody over Harman; there’s nobody he’s taking orders from. He’s the real boss of the whole thing. I’ve known him for years, and he’s nobody’s servant. He’s in charge.

  I wonder who else I can tell, he thought. Maybe the barber across the street. He could go over for a haircut later on.

  The exhilaration which had come over him after reading the anonymous letter continued to grow; it had gotten into every part of him. It made his hands and feet twitch with the need to do something, to be active. This is really something I’m involved in, he said to himself.

  For a moment he stood in the doorway of his garage, listening to see if the phone were ringing; at the same time he peered into the gloom to see if any customers had entered and were waiting around. He heard no one and saw no one, so, after a moment, he went on down the sidewalk to Al’s Motor Sales. I’ll drop in on old Al, he said to himself, and see what he has to say.

  However, to his surprise, he found that Al’s Motor Sales was closed up; the chain that linked the corner posts of the lot was still in place from the night, and the door of the little building had its lock on it. Also, he saw, a few items of mail stuck from beneath the door; Al had not shown up at all today. He had never arrived to open his lot, and here it was almost ten-thirty now.

  Standing there, the old man felt disappointment. God damn him, he said to himself. His previous anger returned. The hell with him, he thought as he turned and started back to his garage.

  I don’t know why I should be talking to him anyhow, he decided. What did he do, but cast aspersion on everything I’m involved in? Some of Al’s words of the night before returned to him, and he felt his ears and neck become hot. Let him go his way and I’ll go mine, he told himself. He’ll sink down and I’ll rise, because we’re different; we’re at opposite ends of the spectrum.

  There’s no way we can talk to each other, he thought as he entered the garage once more. We’ve got nothing to say. Not if he’s going to take the line he does, begrudging, as he always does, another person’s success because he’s so bitter about his own failure to amount to anything. It’s the same old story; if you get anywhere in the world, all you incur is envy and malice. Everybody hates you because they wish they were you, and they know they never will be. That’s why they all hate Chris Harman, and that’s why they hate me.

  As he re-entered his office, he thought, Al’s probably home sleeping off a morning-after. When he left my house he probably went directly to a bar; it would be typical of him. And now he can’t make it to open up his lot. He’s probably still in bed. And his wife is out at her job, supporting the two of them; supporting that bum.

  And he’ll never change, the old man thought. He’ll never grab opportunity and rise; he’ll always be the bum he is now, until the day he dies.

  That morning, at ten o’clock, Al Miller sat in his car parked at the corner of 25th Street and Pershing Avenue. Across from him the three-story Teach Records, Inc. building dominated the neighborhood, making much more of a showing than the medical-dental building next to it, or the accounting offices of a chain of supermarkets.

  For half an hour he had been sitting in his car, with the motor off, watching Teach Records, smoking, noticing the people going in and out and along the sidewalk and the trucks pulling up and leaving.

  Should I go in? he asked himself.

  If I do, he thought, it’ll change my life. I have to be sure I want to; I have to decide now, because once I’m in there, it’ll be too late. The thing only works one way; it only goes in, not out.

  To assist—but not guide—himself he had brought along an Anacin tin filled with pills. Now was the time. Opening the tin, he took out a flat green pill that looked like a candy heart; this one was a Dexymil, and he swallowed the whole pill, washing it down with Coke from a bottle he had brought along. Taking the Dexy made him feel better almost at once; it gave him a feeling of anticipation, because he knew, from experience, that before long a good mood would settle over him, and that out of this mood good things would come. But there was also the problem that, when he had taken a Dexy, he tended to talk too fast and too much. So to balance the little flat green candy-heart-shaped pill, he now swallowed down a round red shiny-coated pill, a Sparine, which looked like nothing so much as a ladybug with its feet drawn in. The Sparine was not a stimulant but a tranquilizer. He hoped that together the two pills would bring about the state he wanted, the state appropriate for what he was about to do.

  For good measure he also took two Anacin tablets. And that was it; he closed the tin and put it away in this pocket.

  The next he knew, he was crossing the street. Then he stood in a fluorescent-lit office, facing a girl at a desk and switchboard. The girl, pretty, young, with earrings, looked up and said, “Yes, sir.”

  He said, “I want to see Mr. Teach.”

  “Mr. Teach isn’t here,” the girl said. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead!” Al Miller said, amazed. “What happened? I didn’t know him, but what the hell happened?”

  “He was shot down in North Carolina,” the girl said. “By someone; I think his name was Mayhard or Maynard.” She waited, but he could think of nothing to say; he stood mutely in front of her desk. “You could see Mr. Knight,” she said. “He’s the manager. What was it about?”

  “Okay,” he said, but then he remembered that it was not Mr. Teach that he wanted to see at all; he had gotten the name from the sign over the building. It was Chris Harman that he wanted to see. “I want to see Mr. Harman,” he said.

  “Mr. Harman is tied up right now,” the girl said. “If you will give me your name and sit down, I’ll notify his secretary and find out for you if he has time to see you today.”

  He gave the girl his name and then went to sit down on one of the modern office chairs.

  In what seemed to him to be no time at all the girl began to beckon to him. He put down his Life and walked over.

  “Mr. Harman has a few minutes to see you now,” the girl said. “He can squeeze you in, if it doesn’t take too long.” She pointed to a hallway. “The first office on the right.”

  It was like a plastic and glass doctors’ office, with side cubicles. He found the office, and there sat Chris Harman.

  “Good day, Mr. Miller,” Mr. Harman said pleasantly, indicating a chair. “What can I do for you?”

  Seating himself, Al said, “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Teach. As I told the girl, I didn’t know him, but I know the Teach catalog, and—”

  “It happened a long time ago,” Harman said, smiling. “In 1718.”

  “Beg pardon?” Al said. “Oh, I think I see.” He laughed. It was a gag or something. He could not follow it, so he let the subject go. “You’re in charge?” he said. “You own this place?”

  Mr. Harman, smiling slightly, nodded.

  “Listen,” Al said, “do you remember me?”

 
“I think I do,” Harman said. “I know I’ve seen you before.” He glanced down, and Al knew that Mr. Harman was inspecting his clothing, his cloth jacket, slacks, shoes, sports shirt. Sizing him up by what he wore.

  “I’m a used-car salesman,” Al said.

  Mr. Harman nodded. “Ah, I see,” he said.

  “You remember, now?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’m a no-good crook,” Al said. “One of the worst used-car salesmen there is.”

  Mr. Harman ceased smiling, and his eyes became larger. His mouth fell open slightly. “Oh, indeed?” he murmured.

  “I feel I came here to be frank,” Al said.

  “Please be,” Harman said.

  “I do all the things I can to get a sale,” Al said. “It doesn’t matter one bit to me what condition the car is in, just so long as I sell it. Let’s face facts. The cars I have on my lot—”

  “Yes,” Harman interrupted. “You have a used-car lot. Al’s Motor Sales. I remember now.”

  “They’re turkeys,” Al said. “Dogs. They ought to be junked. Let me give you an example. Do you have the time?”

  Harman nodded.

  “I got in an ex-taxi cab the other day. The way you can tell is a cab always has four doors, and usually it’s either a Plymouth or a Studebaker. It’s got no accessories except a heater, and the cheapest car in the line. And they paint out the company name on the doors. And on the top there’s holes where they mounted the name-plate. So I knew this was a cab. It was a real wreck. It must have had three hundred thousand miles on it. I got it for a hundred bucks. I repainted it, cleaned it up, got it looking good, and then I made up a story to go with it.”

  “You set the speedometer back?” Harman said.

  “The odometer,” Al said. “Yes, back to eleven thousand miles. It was last year’s car.”

  Harman lit a Benson and Hedges cigarette with a gold-inlayed cigarette lighter; he offered the box to Al, but he declined. He was too involved in what he was saying to want to smoke.

  “What I said,” Al said, “is that it was my wife’s car.”

  Harman gray eyes sparkled.

  “I said she’s been driving it to school,” Al said. “She has a phobia about buses; she can’t stand to be shut in. I got it for her new from the Plymouth dealer up on Broadway; I got it wholesale, because I know the guy. So I can pass on the savings. I got it for her but we really didn’t need two cars. All she did was take it up to school once a day, and maybe shopping. And I had to wash and polish it: It just took up space in the garage on weekends, because when we went anywhere we took our Chrysler.”

  “I see,” Harman said.

  “So I finally told her we couldn’t keep it. I’d sell it and she could use the money for a vacation to Hawaii. So I wasn’t interested in making a profit. I’d let it go for thirteen hundred.”

  “Did you sell it?” Harman said.

  “Not the first time,” Al said. “Some guy came in, and I told him that. But he noticed that the car had been repainted, and that bothered him. I told him she picked the original color, elephant gray with pink, and she got tired of that right away and got the Plymouth people to repaint it during the original guarantee. But he noticed that the shock absorbers were no good, so he knew the car had been used a lot. Anyhow, I finally unloaded it.” He paused. “To a ubangi.”

  “Pardon?” Harman said, cupping his ear.

  “To a Negro.”

  “Ah,” Harman said. “Ubangi.” He smiled.

  “Naturally, he didn’t have cash. He put four hundred down. I financed it through my loan company across the street.”

  Harman laughed.

  “All I do is walk across San Pablo,” Al said, “to the West Oakland Guarantee Savings. I got twelve percent compound interest on the unpaid balance, including loan charges and other fees. And if we have to repossess the car, the ubangi is still liable for the entire unpaid balance. It’s a thirty-six-month contract. Actually, in all, the interest comes to a realistic twenty-four percent, because it’s what we call discounted.”

  “I think I understand that type of interest,” Harman said. “I believe I’ve run across it.”

  “So in all, I got almost two thousand dollars for the ex-taxi cab,” Al said. “Originally, it cost only about sixteen hundred, new. All I had to do was paint it and clean it. And when I painted it, I didn’t even have the rust sanded off, or the dents banged out; I had the dents filled with compound and painted over.”

  Again Mr. Harman laughed. He seemed quite interested; he showed no sign of impatience, or wanting Al to hurry up and get to his point, or to leave; he seemed quite happy to go on listening.

  “I mean,” Al said, “I’ll do anything to sell a car. I always regroove tires.”

  “What is that?”

  “Taking smooth tires—with no tread—and cutting right into the fabric with a hot needle. Putting fake tread on, and then painting the tire black, so it looks new.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Sure,” Al said. “If the guy so much as backs over a hot match, the tires’ll blow. But he thinks he’s getting a set of good tires, so he goes ahead and buys the car when he otherwise might not. It’s part of the business; everybody, or nearly everybody, does it. You have to move your stock. The main thing is to have a story that’ll explain everything. If you can’t get a car started, you always say it’s out of gas. If a window won’t roll up or down, you say the car came in just this morning and your boy hasn’t had a chance to go over it yet. You have to be able to come back. If the customer notices that the floor mat is worn from wear, you say the car was driven by a woman who wore high-heeled shoes. If the seat covers are torn up from wear, maybe from kids, you say the owner had a pet dog he took with him, and in a week the dog’s nails did it. You always give a story.”

  “I see,” Harman said, paying attention.

  “If the engine makes a lot of noise because of bad bearings, you say it’s just a tappet adjustment.”

  Harman nodded.

  “If the car won’t go into gear, you say its because you just had a new clutch put in, and it isn’t adjusted yet.”

  Harman, considering, said, “Suppose the brakes don’t work? Suppose you allow a customer to drive one of your cars, and when he tries to stop it, the car simply won’t stop? What can you say?”

  “You say some delinquent kids siphoned out the fluid,” Al said, “during the night. And you sound off about kids stealing cigar lighters and light bulbs and spare tires; you sound really angry.”

  Harman nodded. “I see.”

  “I’ve done a good business,” Al said. “I enjoy it, matching my wits against theirs. It’s exciting; it’s stimulating. I wouldn’t go into any other business. It’s my life-blood. I was born to it. I know all the tricks.”

  “Apparently you do,” Harman said.

  “But I have to get out of it.”

  “Why?”

  Al said, “It’s not big enough to hold me.”

  “Ah,” Harman said.

  “Listen,” Al said. “I’m live-wire. I have go. I can’t be held back by something small-time. For me, selling used cars has been a training ground. It’s taught me about the world. Now I’m ready for something worthwhile. Something that really tries my mettle. It used to be a challenge, but now it isn’t. Because—” He made his voice low and sharp. “I know I can win. Every time. They’re no match for me. I take them one and all. Once they step onto my lot—” He made a swiping motion. “I have them. No contest.”

  Harman was silent.

  “This is an expanding economy,” Al said. “A growing country with destiny. A man either gets bigger or smaller; he either goes up with the economy, or he goes down. He becomes nothing. I refuse to become nothing. I intend to tie myself in with the American system that has room for a man with drive and sincerity.”

  Harman regarded him.

  “That’s why I can do it,” Al said. “That’s why I can take them every time. Becaus
e I believe in what I’m doing”

  Harman nodded slowly.

  “It’s no job,” Al said. “No mere making a buck. Money means nothing to me in itself; it’s what money represents. Money is proof—proof that a man has ambition and determination, and that he isn’t afraid of opportunity when it knocks in his face. Money shows that he isn’t afraid to be himself. And he knows others like himself. He recognizes them because they have the same drive, the same unwillingness to be turned down or set back by defeat.”

  Harman said, “What made you come by here, to Teach?”

  “I met you,” Al said. “That’s the answer.” He made a gesture, showing that he would add nothing more.

  There was silence.

  “Well,” Harman said. “What do you want here? So far all you’ve done is detail your history.”

  “I want to work for Christian Harman. It’s as simple as that.”

  Harman raised his eyebrows. “There’s nothing open, that I know of.”

  Al said nothing.

  “What did you have in mind? You have no experience in the record business.”

  “Shall I be frank?” Al said.

  “Please.” Harman smiled once more.

  “I don’t know records,” Al said. “Let’s be realistic. But a salesman doesn’t sell his product. He sells himself. And that’s what I know, Mr. Harman. I know myself. And with that I can sell anything.”

  Harman considered. “You would take any job with us? By what you say, I gather you’re willing to—”

  Interrupting, Al said, “Let me clarify. I intend to work for someone who can make use of me. I don’t intend to rot. I need to be used, and used properly. A man doesn’t grind valves with a hoe. A man doesn’t use a beautiful pistol, made by hand, by the finest European craftsmen, to shoot tin cans.” He paused. “But it’s you, Mr. Harman, who knows who goes where. It’s you who knows the organization and what it needs, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s the organization that comes first. Do I make myself clear?”