Robert Bloch

by Atoms

  “Of course not.” Harry sighed. “But nobody ever tried to pretend he did. When you saw him on the stage or in the movies, you knew it was make-believe. Now they try to get you to think it’s real. That’s what bothers me.”

  “But it is real. You saw it!”

  Harry Jessup shook his head. “No I didn’t. And neither did you. All we saw was a wave-pattern, reproduced. You don’t really see a picture on TV; your eyes merely interpret it that way. Same as moving pictures—they don’t move. I was reading all about it in—”

  Marge sniffed again. “Did it ever occur to your precious intellect that maybe what you read is phony, too? Just because it’s printed somewhere, that’s no reason you have to believe it any more than if you saw it.”

  Harry blinked. “I never thought of that angle before.”

  Marge saw her advantage and pursued it. “Well, suppose you think about it before you sound off any more. How do you know it’s true Sloucho has four writers? That could be a lie, too.” She smiled triumphantly.

  “Yes.” Harry didn’t smile back. “Yes, it could be, couldn’t it? But why—that’s what I want to know. What’s the meaning of it?” He paused and stared down at Marge’s foot.

  Marge noticed his stare and stopped tapping. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to get on your nerves.”

  “Well, it does,” Harry declared. “I wish you wouldn’t wear those heels. You’re five-feet-two. Why must you pretend to be five-feet-four?”

  Marge went over and put her hand on Harry’s forehead. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “What’s gotten into you?” she asked. “Don’t you feel well?”

  Harry reached up and clasped her hand. He pulled it down to eye-level. “Nail polish,” he muttered. “Pretending you have red nails. Don’t understand it.”

  “You’re sick. You’ve got a fever—” Marge rose. “I’ll get the thermometer and we’ll see.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t need any thermometer.”

  Marge decided to humor him. “Just for fun,” she said. “After all, it’s a brand-new one. I just bought it, and we might as well get some use out of it.”

  “New one. That’s just the trouble. It might be a phony, too. Built to register fever when there isn’t any.”

  “Harry!”

  “I’m going to bed.” He stood up and shuffled over to the door. “You asked what’s gotten into me,” he said. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s honesty.”

  Marge knew better. Harry had a fever, all right. He went to work Friday, but when he came home his face was flushed and his eyes were red. He didn’t say very much, either.

  They sat down to eat, and Harry stared at his plate. “What’s this?” he asked in a harsh voice.

  “Mock chicken legs.”

  “Mock chicken?” Harry pushed his plate away. “Why can’t we have real chicken for a change?”

  “I don’t know, I just thought—”

  Harry was looking over the table now, muttering to himself “White bread. You know how they make white bread these days? Take all the nourishment out and then fortify it artificially with vitamins. Oleo instead of butter. Process cheese. That’s synthetic, too. And instant coffee—”

  “But you know how much regular coffee costs nowadays, dear.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Suppose it was beer instead of coffee. Same thing. Brewed with chemicals instead of the old way. Even the water isn’t water any more—it’s something filled with chlorine and fluorine and heaven only knows what.”

  Harry pushed back his chair.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out for a walk.”

  Marge drew in her breath. “You aren’t going down to the tavern?”

  He made a barking sound, then caught himself. “What’s the matter with me?” he said. “Can’t I even come up with a genuine laugh any more? It’s getting me fast, the thing’s contagious, isn’t it?”

  “Harry, you promised you wouldn’t go to that tavern—”

  “Don’t worry about me.” He smiled. “Tavern! It isn’t a tavern, it’s a saloon. No such thing as a real tavern, you know. Just a name they use to make it sound fancy. In a real tavern you used to be able to drink whisky. Nowadays you get something called a blend-65 per cent or 72 per cent neutral spirits, artificially aged in imitation-charred casks. Fake!”

  Marge came over to him, but he pushed her away, “Why do you use perfume?” he asked. “You don’t smell that way, really.”

  “Lie down,” she whispered. “I’ll call Doctor Lorentz.”

  “Don’t want a doctor. Just going for a walk. Got to think.” Harry looked at the wall. “Quit my job today.”

  “Quit your job?” She was suddenly tense. “Why?”

  “Tired of it. Tired of making brassieres. Falsies. That’s what they call them and that’s what they are—false. I want to get into something real.”

  He backed over to the door. “Don’t worry. We’ll work things out. I’ll figure a way, if there is a way.”

  Then he was gone.

  For a moment, Marge watched him through the window, then bit her lip and hurried to the telephone.

  Harry came back in about an hour. Marge met him at the door.

  “Feel better, dear?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m all right.”

  “Good.” She smiled. “Ed Myers is in the living room.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Just dropped in to visit. Thought he’d like to talk to you, I guess.”

  “You guess!” Harry stepped back. “You told him to come over, didn’t you?”

  “Well—”

  “Lies,” he muttered. “All lies. Oh, what the hell, I’ll see him.”

  He strode into the living room.

  “Hello, Harry,” said Ed Myers. Myers was a big, blond, jolly, fat man with round baby-blue eyes. He sat there in the easy chair, puffing on a cigarette.

  “Hi,” Harry said. “Want a drink?”

  “No, thanks. Just dropped in for a minute.”

  Harry sat down and Myers grinned amiably. “How’s tricks?” he asked.

  “Tricks! It’s all tricks.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You heard me. You ought to know. You and this ‘just dropped in for a minute’ routine. Marge called you over, didn’t she?”

  “Well—”

  “What did she tell you?” Harry leaned forward, his expression angry.

  “Nothing, really. That is, she said you’d been sort of under the weather lately. Figured there might be something on your mind you’d like to talk about. And seeing as how I’m a friend of yours—”

  “Are you?”

  “You know that, pal.”

  “Do I? I’m beginning to wonder if I know anything. Maybe that’s it—I didn’t know, but I’m starting to find out.”

  “I don’t get it, Harry.”

  “Just took a walk. Walked around the block a couple of times, then down to the corner. What did I see?”

  “You got me, pal. What did you see?”

  “Fakes. Phonies. Frauds.”

  “This doesn’t sound like you, Harry.”

  “How do you know what I sound like? Really, I mean?” Harry Jessup bit his lip. “Listen, and I’ll try to explain. I walk down the street and I look back at this house. This house—what is it? They call it a ‘ranch house.’ Why? It’s not on a ranch. It’s not the kind of a house anybody ever built on a real ranch. Just a five-room crackerbox with a fake gable in front and a fake chimney to indicate a non-existent fireplace. This neighborhood is full of them. A thousand neighborhoods are full of them. Must be five, maybe ten million such places built in the last few years.”

  “So why get excited over a thing like that?”

  “I’m not excited. Just curious. About a lot of things. Skyland Park, for instance. That’s the name of this suburb, isn’t it? But it’s not a park, and there’s no view of the sky around here. Everything’s blotted out by TV
aerials. People sitting in the dark, watching something that’s not real, but pretending to themselves that it is.”

  Ed Myers chuckled. “Marge told me about Sloucho Marks,” he said. “Mean to say you let a little thing like that get on your nerves?”

  “It isn’t a little thing, Ed. At least, I don’t think so. Everything’s like that nowadays. I didn’t understand at first when I came back, but I get the picture now. I got it tonight. The TV all over, and men standing outside washing their cars. Hundreds of average men, but none of them own an average car.”

  “How’s that again?”

  “Ever stop to think about that, Ed? No average cars any more. Everbody’s got a Commander, or a Land Cruiser, or a Coup de Ville, or a Roadmaster, or a Champion. Even the poorest slob owns a Super Deluxe Model. Aren’t there any plain, old-fashioned automobiles any more? I haven’t seen any. Just millions of Hornets and Ambassadors and Strato-jets, driven by people who have no place to go. No real place, that is. They drive to a grocery store built like an Italian Doge’s palace which calls itself a Supermarket and offers Below Cost Bargains, yet still makes a profit, and—”

  “Dig this!” Ed Myers chuckled again. “You talk like a Commie.”

  “How do you know how a Commie talks?” Harry retorted. “You ever hear one? Did you ever see one in the flesh?”

  “Why, no, but I read the papers; everybody knows about Communists.”

  “You mean everybody is told about them. You read what’s printed, that’s all. How do you know any of it ever happened?”

  “Hey, wait a minute, Harry!”

  “You read about the President’s latest speech, but he didn’t write it—some team of ghost writers ground it out. You read about the war, and what you read is censored. You read about some movie star, and it turns out to be a planted publicity story, concerning an interview that never occurred. How do you ever know what actually happens? Or if anything is actually happening?”

  “Say, you are serious, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I walked and walked tonight, trying to figure things out. Nothing makes sense. Ed, I saw the kids in the street. Little kids running around playing cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, playing war. It scared me.”

  “Why should it scare you, pal? Didn’t you do those things when you were a kid?”

  “Sure. Of course I did. But I didn’t play the same way. I knew it was a game, just make-believe. I’m not so sure about the kids today. I swear, from the way they act, they think it’s real.”

  “Harry, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “That’s the fashion, isn’t it? If I really knew how, I could become quite wealthy in these times. Anybody who can take a molehill and persuade people into thinking it’s a mountain is right in style. Look at that!”

  Ed Myers was lighting another cigarette, but Harry snatched it out of his mouth.

  “Here you are,” he said. “Perfect example. The world’s finest tobacco, isn’t it? Mildest, choicest, most expensive blend. That’s how it’s advertised. Do you believe it? Do you realize there are a hundred brands that cost more, taste better?”

  “But everybody knows about advertising—”

  “I’m not talking about advertising. It used to be bad enough, when advertising was the only big offender. But things like this are happening all over. We’re losing the truth, Ed. The truth about everything. Politics, government, world affairs, business, education—we get it all through a filter, selected and distorted. Where has reality disappeared to?”

  “You’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing,” Ed Myers said. “What you need is a vacation, little relaxation.”

  “Relaxation? How? I watched television last Sunday. Jack Benny. He did a show which was supposed to take place ten minutes before he went on the air. In the middle of the program he pretended he was going on the air and got himself introduced all over again. Then in a few minutes, during the pretended show, he was supposed to go over to visit the home of a cast member. By this time I couldn’t even follow what he was pretending to pretend.

  “Movies are worse. Did you ever see that oldie, ‘Jolson Sings Again’? Larry Parks plays Jolson, of course, but Jolson did the singing. That’s par for the course these days. But then, in the middle of the picture, Parks as Jolson is supposed to meet Parks as Parks. And he plays both parts. Parks-Jolson talks to Parks-Parks about making a picture of Jolson’s life, and then the picture of Jolson’s life goes on to show how a picture of Jolson’s life was made. Only what is shown isn’t what really happened to begin with, so—”

  “Calm down, boy!” Myers grinned. “It’s all in fun.”

  “I’m calm, but I’m not so sure about the fun part. Not any more. This is getting serious. I happen to like real things. And everything is ersatz.”

  “You’re just picking out a few examples and magnifying them all out of proportion.”

  “Proportion? How do we know what proportion is? You’ve got to have something to measure against. Pontius Pilate asked ‘What is Truth?’ I’m still worried about the answer.”

  “Well, if you want to drag religion into it—”

  “I’m not dragging religion into it. Look at yourself, for example.” Harry Jessup was on his feet now, almost shouting. “You’re wearing a sports jacket. You a sportsman by any chance? No. Examine those pearl buttons. Are they made of pearl? Not on your life. That gold watchband—it’s not gold, is it? Regimental stripe tie. You ever belong to the Coldstream Guards? Your shoes, with the leather heels that you aren’t even conscious of any more. CPA, that’s your job. Filling out fake income tax returns for fake businessmen who contribute sums for fictitious government expenditures—”

  “Harry, you’re shouting!” Marge came into the room. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything.” He went over to her now and his finger stabbed again and again. He talked for Ed Myers’ benefit. “Look at her. Blonde, curly hair. Know why? Bleach and a permanent wave. Two false teeth in front. Foundation garment to disguise her shape. Been married to her for almost a year, and I swear I’ve never seen her real face —just a lot of make-up. Make-up and fake mannerisms, that’s all she is!”

  Marge started to cry. “You see,” she sobbed. “That’s what I meant. He’s been like this ever since last night.”

  Ed Myers wasn’t smiling any more. He nodded gravely. “Maybe we ought to call some specialist and—”

  “Wait a minute,” Harry said. “Wait a minute! You think I’m cracking up, don’t you? You think I’m real gone in the head.”

  Myers shrugged. He didn’t say anything.

  “All right.” Harry lowered his voice with an effort. “All right. Maybe I’d better tell you the rest.”

  “The rest?” Marge stopped sniffling. Ed Myers hunched forward, picking at his ear.

  “Yeah. I never said anything about it before, because I thought it was just a lot of malarkey when I heard it. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Heard what?” Myers asked.

  “About the bombs.” Harry took a deep breath. “Last year, when I was in service abroad, this rumor came along. Nobody ever found out how it started. Anyway, we all heard it. According to the way it went, the Russians came over and bombed the United States. Bombed hell out of it. That was one story. At the same time, we heard another. This one was different. According to the second rumor, it wasn’t the Russians at all. Some of our own scientists came up with a new kind of bomb. They tested it, but there was a chain-reaction, a big one. Blew up the whole damn country!”

  “A specialist—” Myers began.

  “Wait. Let me finish. Then you can call your specialist, if you want to. Somebody ought to be able to give me an answer.”

  Marge came over to Harry and put her hand on his arm. “Listen to me, Harry,” she said. “Are you trying to tell me you think the country was destroyed while you were in service?”

  “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I don’t know what I’m trying to tell you,
or myself, either.”

  “Be reasonable, Harry. Think for a moment. You’re here, aren’t you? And so are we. We’re in this country. So how could it be destroyed? Do you see any ruins, any signs of bombing?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t. Not if all the real things were gone and the fakes remained. You can’t destroy what actually doesn’t exist.”

  Ed Myers stood up. He glanced significantly at Marge. “Let me use your phone,” he said.

  Marge waved her hand. “Wait. Not yet. Give him a chance to explain.”

  “Thanks.” Harry smiled up at her gratefully. “You know, this business of seeing things proves nothing. They say when you’re born, you see things upside down. I don’t understand it, but the image is supposed to be received on the retina that way, and then translated by the brain so that you think it’s right-side up. The whole business of seeing is cockeyed, anyhow. This thing that looks like a table, as I remember it, is just trillions and trillions of little particles jumping up and down in waves. All our senses are playing tricks on us; smell, hearing, everything. Lots of people get hallucinations—”

  “Don’t they, though?” Myers glanced again at Marge, and picked at his right ear once more.

  “Please,” Marge whispered.

  Harry went on. “So maybe none of us ever comes close to Reality, after all. We just sort of agree amongst ourselves that certain things are real and certain things are not real. We base those agreements on the evidence of our senses; if we all get just about the same reactions, we decide to believe or disbelieve accordingly. You follow me?”

  “I think so,” Marge said. “But doesn’t that prove you’re living in a real world?”

  “Not any more. Not since this phony stuff took over, the way it has in the last ten years or so. I said our senses can play tricks. Maybe they’ve gotten so used to the fakes they can’t detect the difference any more. Maybe there’s a sort of a balancing point somewhere. As long as 50 per cent of our environment is real, we’re safe. We can still recognize it, use it as a gauge to judge our surroundings. But when there isn’t 50 per cent left—when more than half of the things we see, or hear, or say, or do, or own, or experience are false—then how can we tell? Maybe we reached that point a long time ago and didn’t know it. Maybe we’re all hypnotized into believing in the existence of a lot of things. If that was so, then the real world could actually disappear and we’d never even suspect it. Because all the illusions we’ve come to think of as reality would still remain.”