Sleep till Noon

by Max Shulman

  “Silly boy! Have I suggested that you leave your wife?”

  “No, but—”

  “Have I proposed any long-term arrangement between us?”

  “No, but—”

  “All I ask is that the two of us while away an idle hour with a very natural and pleasant act.”

  “It’s more than that. To me it’s one of the most beautiful and important things in the world.”

  “Who’s arguing?”

  “Well, then—”

  “Look. Do you know what repressions are?”

  “Sure. That’s when everybody’s out of work.”

  “No, no. Repressions.”

  “Oh.… No.”

  “That’s when you stifle a natural instinct. Very bad for you. Makes you nauseous.”

  “Maybe so, but I can’t do it. I can’t do anything that I can’t tell my wife about. I don’t think married people should have secrets.”

  “Ridiculous. Nobody tells his wife everything. There are certain things you do in private, like clipping the hairs in your nostrils.”

  “How did you know?”

  “So, you see, you really have no argument. Let’s get going.”

  “But I don’t love you.”

  “This has nothing to do with love. This is pure friendship. You are a fine, sensitive person, the kind I want for a friend, to be close to. And nothing brings people closer together than the act I propose.”

  “It does that,” I had to admit.

  “This above all, Mr. Riddle, to thine own self be true. Be true to the natural, normal instincts that are your strength, your very life—not to the bigotry and superstition and sickness that others would impose on you. That’s your choice here: between sickness and health, between progress and reaction, between light and darkness. Which will you choose?”

  I made a choice that all who prefer health to sickness, progress to reaction, and light to darkness would have to applaud.

  CHAPTER 12

  I sat in my office the following afternoon spinning in my swivel chair and thinking about Wrose Wrigley’s party and all the things I had learned about literature and repressions and outmoded morality. A man had come that morning and removed Dad Geddes’s stock tickers, so I was happily able to pursue my thoughts in quiet.

  There was a knock on my door and my secretary, Mrs. Hargreaves, entered. “Mr. Atterbury to see you,” she announced.

  “Show him in,” I cried cordially and gave him a warm handshake as he entered. “Splendid party last night, what?” I said.

  “Fine,” he agreed. “I was glad to see you didn’t say anything to anybody about my retaining you.”

  “Mums the word, P.A.”

  “Good boy. And remember, if anybody asks if you’re working for me, the answer is no.”

  “Roger,” I snapped.

  “How you getting along with George Overmeyer?”

  “Oh, famously.”

  “Good. Fine fellow, George. Well, I’ll be seeing you.” He started to leave.

  “Sir,” I called, “wouldn’t you like to look over the work I’ve been doing for you? I’ve got Webster’s New International Dictionary copied halfway through the E’s.” I pointed at a stack of papers on my desk.

  “That’s fine, boy. Keep up the good work. I’ll look at it some other time.” He left.

  What a yummy man, I thought. How fortunate that I should have found such a good client. On the other hand, how fortunate for him to have found a lawyer who would do such a bang-up job of copying the dictionary. Fortunate, both of us.

  I rang for Mrs. Hargreaves and she came in with her notebook. “Where did we leave off this morning?” I asked.

  She consulted her notes. “Erotetic,” she replied.

  I pulled the dictionary toward me. Mrs. Hargreaves settled herself on the leather divan, crossed her knees, and poised her pencil over her notebook. I found my place in the dictionary and began dictating. “‘Erotic (rŏt′ ĭk) adj. [Gr. erōtikos. See EROS.] 1. Of, pertaining to, or treating of, sexual love; amatory. 2. Strongly affected by sexual desire …’”

  And strongly affected I was this minute as I looked at Mrs. Hargreaves on the divan. Her sheer summer dress clung enviably to her abundant curves; the pretty pink tip of her tongue kept darting out of the side of her mouth as she concentrated on her Gregg. I glanced at her speculatively for a while. At length, “Why not?” I said to myself and rose from my desk. I walked over to her side.

  She looked up. “Yes?” she said.

  In lieu of reply I seized her in my arms and rained kisses on her bee-stung lips.

  She tore herself away. “You’re mad!” she cried hoarsely.

  “Yes. Yes. Mad for you.” I resumed my advances.

  “Mr. Riddle,” she said coldly, “please desist. I’m just not that kind of a girl.”

  “Nonsense. You’re a normal human being with normal impulses. Why deny them?”

  “May I remind you that I am a married woman?”

  “But what has that to do with us?”

  “Why, everything!”

  “I know what you’re going to say about fidelity and all that outmoded rot.”

  “Outmoded rot! Why, it’s the very foundation stone of marriage.”

  “Silly girl! Have I suggested that you leave your husband?”

  “No, but—”

  “Have I proposed any long-term arrangement between us?”

  “No, but—”

  “All I ask is that the two of us while away an idle hour with a very natural and pleasant act.”

  “It’s more than that. To me it’s one of the most beautiful and important things in the world.”

  “Who’s arguing?”

  “Well, then—”

  “Look. Do you know what repressions are?”

  “Sure. That’s when everybody’s out of work.”

  “No, no. Repressions.”

  “Oh.… No.”

  “That’s when you stifle a natural instinct. Very bad for you. Makes you nauseous.”

  “Maybe so, but I can’t do it. I can’t do anything that I can’t tell my husband about. I don’t think married people should have secrets.”

  “Ridiculous. Nobody tells her husband everything. There are certain things you do in private, like clipping the hairs in your nostrils.”

  “How did you know?”

  “So, you see, you really have no argument. Let’s get going.”

  “But I don’t love you.”

  “This has nothing to do with love. This is pure friendship. You are a fine, sensitive person, the kind I want for a friend, to be close to. And nothing brings people closer together than the act I propose.”

  “It does that,” she had to admit.

  “This above all, Mrs. Hargreaves, to thine own self be true. Be true to the natural, normal instincts that are your strength, your very life—not to the bigotry and superstition and sickness that others would impose on you. That’s your choice. Here: between sickness and health, between progress and reaction, between light and darkness. Which will you choose?”

  Confidently I closed in on her.

  She pushed me away. “But what if I get pregnant?” she said.

  “Hmm,” I said. This had not come up last night “Excuse me,” I said.

  I went to the phone and dialed Wrose Wrigley for instructions, but her maid said she was out buying hormones. There was nothing for me to do but ad-lib it.

  I returned to Mrs. Hargreaves. “What was your last statement again?” I asked.

  “I said what if I get pregnant.”

  “Oh.… Well, that’s better than being repressed.”

  That sounded a little lame.

  “And it’s too hot,” said Mrs. Hargreaves.

  “Heat’s nothing but a repression,” I said.

  That didn’t sound so good either.

  “Look,” she said, “if you feel this way, why don’t you go home to your wife?”

  “That’s all you know about it,” I replied
with a sad smile. Sighing, I got to my feet, “Well, we might as well go back to work.”

  We got all the way through the H’s that afternoon.

  CHAPTER 13

  Shortly after noon on a September Saturday, George Overmeyer dropped in and said, “What are you kids doing?”

  “Nothing much,” I said truthfully. I was leafing through my high-school annual. Miss Geddes was sticking pins in a wax image of me.

  “Come on over for lunch,” said George.

  “But aren’t you going to the races this afternoon?” I asked.

  “The track closed last week,” he answered. “I’ll have to lose my money on out-of-town races until next spring.”

  “How’s Agnes?” Miss Geddes inquired politely. “Too drunk to talk?”

  “She just got up,” said George. “She’ll be articulate for two, three more hours.”

  So we got into George’s car and drove over to his house, first stopping at his liquor store where he picked up several cases of whisky and took all the money out of the cash register. His store was a large, well-patronized establishment situated just outside Ivanhoe Gardens. There were no other liquor stores in the vicinity; George’s late father-in-law, who had taken an active interest in civic affairs, had succeeded in persuading the Board of Aldermen not to grant any more liquor licenses in the area after he got his.

  It was a warm afternoon and the pitcher of cold martini cocktails that awaited us at George’s house was more than welcome. A delicious light lunch was served—cantaloupe halves filled with bourbon—and then we repaired to the terrace for brandy.

  The conversation started lazily. “I hear,” said Mrs. Overmeyer, “that Ethel had her ovaries cut out”

  “Green?” said Miss Geddes.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Overmeyer.

  “It’s just as well,” I said. “Green ovaries can be mighty dangerous.”

  “Schmuck,” said Miss Geddes. “The woman’s name is Green.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “I kind of envy Ethel,” said Mrs. Overmeyer. “One thing is sure: she won’t be having any goddam kids.”

  “Surely you can’t mean that,” I protested. “Children are the most wonderful thing in the world. I’d love to have one—or at least the chance to try for one.”

  “No, Schmuck,” said Mrs. Overmeyer to me, “you’re better off without ’em. I know. I’ve got one, and she’s nothing but trouble.”

  “But how can she be?” I asked. “You’ve got a fine big house and yard, a nurse to take care of her—”

  “That’s not the point,” replied Mrs. Overmeyer. “Did you see The Snake Pit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lady in the Dark? Spellbound? All those other psychological things?”

  “Yes.”

  “In every single one of those pictures, people go nuts because of something their parents did to them when they were kids.”

  “But what has that to do with you?” I asked. “You and George would never treat a child unkindly or cruelly.”

  “You don’t get the idea at all,” answered Mrs. Overmeyer. “In those movies the parents weren’t unkind or cruel. They were perfect bricks to their children. And yet they did some mild little thing—something so unimportant they didn’t even notice it—and twenty years later the kids end up in the laughing academy. Remember Lady in the Dark? Remember what knocked the heroine off her trolley? When she was a little girl, her mother was all dressed up to go to a party. The girl wanted to kiss the mother good night, but the mother wouldn’t let her because she was afraid the girl would muss her hair. The next thing you know, the girl’s got a neurosis as big as the Ritz.”

  Mrs. Overmeyer poured herself another brandy and continued. “Who knows what goes on in their goddam subconsciouses? Anything can be traumatic, and it’s always the parents’ fault. It doesn’t matter what you do for a kid—you buy him toys and candy and clothes; you send him to camps, take him to shows, bring him on trips; you never say a hard word to him—and then one day you happen accidently to scowl at him and—wham!—he thinks he’s Napoleon.”

  She sighed mightily. “How do you cope with something like that? Take our daughter Linda—a mean little bastard if you ever saw one. A good clout in the chops is what she needs. But how can we risk it? We’re scared even to raise our voices to her. How do we know what would happen? We yell at her today and ten years later she’s exposing herself on streetcars.”

  “Ahem, ahem,” said George loudly, casting a meaningful glance in the direction of the doorway.

  We turned and there stood Linda herself, accompanied by a heavily bandaged nurse. She was a beautiful child, fair, blond, and blue-eyed.

  “Linda! Linda darling!” cried Mrs. Overmeyer. “Come in and say hello to everybody. You know Esme—and this is her husband, Mr. Riddle.”

  “How do you do, little lady?” I said with a warm smile.

  “You’re ugly and I hate you,” replied Linda. “I would like to tear your skin off in big, ragged patches.”

  “Perhaps you can some afternoon, dear,” said Mrs. Overmeyer.

  “I don’t know,” I said quickly, “I’m pretty busy.”

  “Come here to Mommy, sweetheart,” said Mrs. Overmeyer. “Would you like to muss Mommy’s hair?”

  “Shut your big dumb mouth,” said Linda.

  “All right, dear,” said Mrs. Overmeyer. “But you be sure to let Mommy know whenever you want to muss her hair. Mommy loves you very much, and so does Daddy. Don’t you, Daddy?”

  “Passionately,” said George. “Come over here, little succubus, and tell Daddy what you’ve been doing all afternoon.”

  “I’ve been up in your bedroom,” said Linda. “I found some dollars on your dresser and I flushed them down the toilet.”

  “Agnes,” said George, “listen to me. The Snake Pit, Lady in the Dark, all those others—they were just movies. What makes you so sure they’re accurate?”

  “They had technical advisers,” replied his wife. “Now, George, you know what to say.”

  “All right,” mumbled George. He patted Linda on the head. “I cannot find words to describe my exultation at learning that you have flushed all my dollars down the toilet,” he said. “Tomorrow, unfortunately, is Sunday, so I am unable to go to the store and get any more dollars for you to flush. However, I do have some negotiable securities in the house, and those are at your disposal.”

  “See how much Daddy loves you?” said Mrs. Overmeyer. “And so does Mommy. Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like to muss Mommy’s hair before you go up for your nap?”

  “I want to hear a story before I go to sleep,” said Linda, “or else I’ll burn the house down.”

  “Of course, dear,” replied her mother. “Miss Wilkins will tell you one. Won’t you, Miss Wilkins?”

  The nurse shook her head dumbly. Her face was taped right up to the eyes.

  “I hit her with an educational toy,” giggled Linda.

  “Well, then Daddy will tell you a story.”

  Linda pointed at me. “I want him to come too. I want to pinch him while I’m listening.”

  Not wishing to contribute to any possible trauma, I agreed. Up to the nursery we went, and while the child raised welts on my midriff, George told the following story:

  Once upon a time there was a little creep who lived in a mailbox. One night while he was fast asleep, a truck from the post office drove up. The driver got out, opened the mailbox, dumped the contents in a sack, and threw the sack into the truck. This happened so fast that the little creep didn’t have time to cry out. Before he could open his mouth, the truck was moving. “Let me out! Let me out!” cried the little creep. But the truck was making so much noise—brrrm, brrrm, brrrm, brrrm—that nobody could hear the little creep.

  In a little while the truck stopped. The sack was taken out and thrown into an airplane. This happened so fast that the little creep didn’t have time to cry out. Before he could open his mouth, the airplane was flying. “Let me out! L
et me out!” cried the little creep. But the airplane was making so much noise—rrrrouwho, rrrrouwho, rrrrouwho, rrrrouwho—that nobody could hear the little creep.

  By and by the airplane landed. The sack was taken out and thrown into another truck. This happened so fast that the little creep didn’t have time to cry out. Before he could open his mouth, the truck was moving. “Let me out! Let me out!” cried the little creep. But the truck was making so much noise—brrrm, brrrm, brrrm, brrrm—that nobody could hear the little creep.

  Pretty soon the truck stopped. The sack was taken out and thrown into a train. This happened so fast that the little creep didn’t have time to cry out. Before he could open his mouth the train was moving. “Let me out! Let me out!” cried the little creep. But the train was making so much noise—clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack—that nobody could hear the little creep.

  After a while the train stopped. The sack was taken out and thrown into another truck. This happened so fast that the little creep didn’t have time to cry out. Before he could open his mouth the truck was moving. “Let me out! Let me out!” cried the little creep. But the truck was making so much noise—brrrm, brrrm, brrrm, brrrm—that nobody could hear the little creep.

  Presently the truck stopped. It stopped in front of a post office. The sack was carried inside. The postmaster opened the sack and shook it out on the counter. Then he saw the little creep.

  “Well, what have we here?” said the postmaster.

  “Please, sir,” said the creep, “I’m a creep.”

  The postmaster held the creep up and looked at him very closely. “Hmm,” he said. “No postage, no address, no return address. I will send you to the dead-letter office.”

  “But, sir,” said the creep, “I’m not a letter. I’m a creep.”

  The postmaster took out a revolver and shot the creep right between the eyes.

  “In that case,” said the postmaster, “I will send you to the dead-creep office.”

  George and I left Linda sitting upright and blinking rapidly. “If I cant belt her,” said George, “I can at least confuse her.”

  CHAPTER 14

  I knocked lightly on the door. “Miss Geddes,” I called. “Miss Geddes.”