by Max Shulman
“It certainly was mud and hell,” I agreed. “I remember a night on Okinawa when—”
“Don’t try to talk about it, poopee,” said Nebbice.
“Brother, that isn’t what I was fighting for,” said Alaric. “No more of them damn jobs for me. I’m going into business for myself.”
“Where did you fight?” I asked.
“I was a guide in the Pentagon,” he said.
“Oh. And you think all jobs are bad?”
“Every damn one of them,” said Alaric. “And I’m speaking from experience. I’m a connoisseur of jobs. I never was one to take just any old job. Even before the war I was choosy. I took only those jobs that I thought would interest me—none of that factory or grocery-store stuff. And still I never found a job I wanted to keep.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“What did he not?” said Nebbice.
“To name a few,” Alaric began, “I’ve shilled for a traveling evangelist, been a news butcher on a scenic railway, laced corsets for a Wagnerian soprano, chased kids off a skylight at an art school, served as an amicus curiae in sodomy cases, been a spear bearer’s voice in a marionette show, inserted drawstrings at a pajama works, been a donor at an artificial-insemination clinic—Do you want to hear some more?”
“No,” I said. “Obviously you know what you are talking about when you talk about jobs. But what have you got in mind now?”
“I’m thinking of a small business that could be handled by a couple of intelligent, farsighted men. Us, for example. There are thousands of new ideas for small businesses. Do you remember the contest the Reader’s Digest conducted during the war? Some wonderful ideas were entered. Einar Nidrick of Sacred Mind, Kentucky, sent in a plan to make hatracks out of old banana stalks. The beauty part of it was that the hatrack withered in a few weeks and you had to buy another one. Secundus Pillory of Sod, West Virginia, suggested selling peppermint-flavored pebbles to people who wanted to be cured of stuttering. Noah Finster of Opportunity, Washington, had an idea for a mobile urinalysis booth in communities where there was a high incidence of diabetes, and Max Salvarsan of Bee Log, North Carolina, suggested using peach fuzz to resurface bank blotters.”
“American ingenuity,” I said simply.
“My idea for a postwar business,” continued Alaric, “goes further than these. I want to go into business with a new kind of product. My business will be with one of the brand-new commodities that science has developed. People are looking for new things. This is a new world.”
“Oh, I know! I know!” I cried. “A time of new horizons, new frontiers, of great social strides and the end of human misery, of the fulfillment of the universe’s dream.”
“What better time to get married,” said Nebbice, “to a fine, strapping woman?”
“All I need,” said Alaric, “is just a little capital, and then watch my smoke. Some intelligent, farsighted young man who financed me now would live in ease for the rest of his life.”
“Alaric,” I said, “I’ve only just met you tonight, and etiquette forbids that which I am about to say. But, after all, we are both, in a sense, veterans. You in the Pentagon, I in the Pacific. We have, after all, a kind of kinship.”
“Soon to be a legal one,” said Nebbice, and took my hand.
“Let the man talk,” said Alaric.
“Bluntly, Alaric, I want to ask you to let me invest in your plan. There. It’s said. If I have offended you I can only ask your pardon and leave as gracefully as I can.”
Alaric leaped up and locked the door. “Well, Asa,” he said, “this is kind of sudden. You understand that I don’t know you from Adam. Still, I’m a judge of character and I’d say you had an honest face.”
“He’s cute,” said Nebbice.
“Pshaw,” I mumbled, and reddened with confusion.
Alaric looked at me for a long moment. “Asa, I’m going to do it.” He extended his hand.
“My partner!” I cried, grasping his hand.
“My partner’s sister!” I cried, and grasped Nebbice’s hand.
“How much were you planning to invest?” asked Alaric.
I pulled out a silk purse Mother had made me out of a sow’s ear and counted my money. “There’s five hundred dollars here, but I’ll need some for room and board.”
“Indeed you won’t,” said Nebbice firmly. “You’re staying right here.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Nonsense. We’re partners now.”
And if my eyes were moist then, who can blame me?
chapter eight
“Have you ever played before?” asked Alaric.
“A little,” I said. “We used to have a table at the Y.M.C.A. and I played once in a while. They made me stop when I ripped the felt off.”
“I see. You understand the game, then? Each ball has a number, and when you knock it into the pocket, it counts as part of your score.”
“Oh, sure. I know that. And when the cue ball goes into the pocket, you call that an itch.”
“Yes,” said Alaric, “an itch. You know, of course, that it’s customary to place a little side bet on the game. Just to make it sporting.”
“How gay! How much shall we play for?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s keep it friendly. Say five dollars,” Alaric suggested.
“All right. That’s a nice friendly sum.”
We laughed.
“Who shoots first?” I asked.
“You usually decide by comparing cues. The man with the longest cue shoots first.”
“How ingenious. Let’s do that.”
“Well, I guess I’m the longest,” said Alaric.
“Yup, looks like it—Oops, wait a minute. You’ve got your cue standing on top of your toe. How silly of you.”
“I wonder how that happened? Well, you go first.”
“All right. Here I go. Whee! Look at all those balls fall in the pockets. There’s the nine, the fifteen, the three, the eleven—”
“You itched,” said Alaric.
“But you picked up the cue ball, Alaric.”
“It was going to itch.”
“It was? I thought it stopped in the middle of the table.”
“No, it was going to itch. You had a lot of English on it. It was rolling right for the pocket.”
“English, eh?”
“Yeah. I’ve never seen so much English. Are you sure you never played anywhere but the Y.M.C.A.?”
“Honest,” I chuckled. “I guess it just comes easy to me. Well, you shoot now.”
“Tomorrow,” said Alaric, shooting, “we’re going out and knock ’em dead. This postwar world is going to be our oyster.”
“I’m so glad I met you, Alaric, if a man may speak.”
“My feelings exactly, Asa. I’m lucky I ran into such an intelligent man. The market is ripe for a couple of guys like us. There goes the one ball.”
“Didn’t you hit the six ball first?”
“No,” said Alaric.
“English, eh?”
“Yeah, English. You know, we’re not going into this thing half cocked. I made a thorough survey of the consumer situation before I laid my plans.”
“Gee.”
“Yes sir. I got a report from the Bureau of Real Smart Economists that would knock your eye out. Here are the actual figures they got from a poll of the American public taken during the war: each family would spend an average of $7,800 for a helicopter, $9,000 for a new home, $768 for household appliances, $3,100 for property improvements, and $4,600 for river and harbor drainage. There go the eleven and twelve balls.”
“That English is amazing. How come they call it English?” I asked.
“It’s named after the Englishman who invented it, Guy Chickingcrut. Later, Sir Guy Chickingcrut, as the result of a witticism uttered at a London flower show, according to an account in the British tabloid, Carter’s Little Liverpool. Chickingcrut, the newspaper reported, was at the flower show and saw a bosomy young woman
in a low-cut gown bend over to smell a pot of roses. ‘Lucky for her they’re not snapdragons,’ he remarked. Fun-loving Edward the Seven happened to be passing by at that moment and knighted him on the spot.”
“Oh. The six and nine balls just fell in too,” I said.
“So they did. And here’s another figure that will give you something to think about: In 1900 four per cent of the population was sixty-five or older. In 1970 twelve per cent of the population will be sixty-five or older. On the other hand, in 1900 forty-four per cent of the population was twenty or younger, but in 1940 only twenty-seven per cent of the population was twenty or younger.”
“That sure is interesting. But what’s that got to do with postwar business?”
“It’s something to think about, isn’t it?”
“Oh, indeed it is,” I replied. “Indeed it is.”
“What do you know, there go four more balls.”
“Simpler pushing them in with your hand, isn’t it?” I said.
“So you see, Asa, everything is all set. The whole country is ready to buy things, new things, new scientific miracles. Science is ready to provide new things. And we are ready to sell. Perfect.”
“Exciting.”
“Whole new worlds are open to us, Asa. Products that people never dreamed of. Plastics. Electronics. Atomics. Supersonics. New alloys. New uses of energy. New transformations of matter. There goes the fifteen ball. That’s all I need. I win.”
“It sounds wonderful, Alaric. What are we going to sell?”
“Cooky cutters,” said Alaric.
chapter nine
“Is it any wonder they’re called Little Dandy?” asked Alaric.
I examined the box of cooky cutters. There were six in the box, all made of the new miracle material, Moron, the only plastic containing Vitamin A. One of the cooky cutters was shaped like a B-32, one like a penicillin flask, one like an atomic bomb, one like the Hayden planetarium, one like a radar antenna, and one like a relief tube.
“They sure are little dandies,” I said.
“What housewife is going to stick with hearts, clubs, and diamonds when we show her the cooky cutter of the future? The Little Dandy makes all other cooky cutters obsolete.”
“Progress,” I murmured.
“Do you know your sales talk, Asa? Are you ready to start?”
“Lead on,” I cried, my merry blue eyes twinkling.
“All right. You take this side of the street and I’ll take the other. Let’s go.”
I extended my hand and he clasped it silently. Then I walked up to the first door and pressed the bell. A sweet-faced, white-haired little lady answered. She was wearing a freshly starched printed cotton house dress and had an apron tied neatly around her waist.
“Hello, young man,” she said with a motherly smile. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you,” I said. I followed her into the sunny living room and laid my sample case on a chintz-covered sofa. “Madam,” I said, “I am the Postwar Man. I bring you your future today.”
“Land’s sakes,” she said.
“Yes. I have here the fruit of the labors of the finest scientific minds in the country, the result of year on year of painstaking research, the answer to humanity’s cry for better living—the Little Dandy cooky cutter.”
“Well, bless my soul. Sit down, young man, won’t you? Can I get you a glass of milk and some cookies? They’re homemade.”
“Oh, don’t bother—”
“No bother at all,” she said, and before I could protest she was back from the kitchen with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. “If you’d rather wait a little while, there’s a green-apple pie baking in the oven.”
“Oh no, thank you, this is fine.”
“I’ll bet you’re a veteran,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. Three years in the Pacific. I went through the battle of—”
“Don’t try to talk about it, son. Eat your cookies. My boy was a soldier too. He came home last week, but he left immediately for Brooklyn. He said he wouldn’t be back until fall. He said he’d been fighting for the right to boo the Dodgers.”
“These sure are good cookies,” I said, “even if their shape is obsolete. Why, next to cookies cut with a Little Dandy cooky cutter, these would look like a Stanley Steamer next to this year’s Ford.”
“Yes, son, I guess I’m just hopelessly old-fashioned.”
“Madam, there is no need for you to be. With the Little Dandy you could be baking the cooky of the future right now. Here, let me show you.” I opened a box of Little Dandies and gave it to her.
She looked them over carefully. She examined them inside and out, ran her finger tips over every inch of the surface, tugged and yanked at them, held them up to the light, sniffed them. Then, shaking her head, she returned the box to me.
“I’m sorry, young man,” she said. “I’m afraid these won’t do. They’re spot-welded at the seams, their tensile strength is not more than .005, the tolerance on the ratchets is off at least three millimeters, the tongue and groove joints have too much play, the aneroids don’t compensate automatically, and the threads on the expander rings are stripped.
“Here, son, put some cookies in your pocket before you go. And when you call on your next customer, make sure first that she didn’t spend the war working in a machine shop.”
Undaunted, I tried next door. A dripping matron wrapped in a bath towel answered the bell. “Did you work in a machine shop during the war?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“That’s all,” I said, and went to the next house. I got this one out of the tub too.
“Did you work in a machine shop during the war?” I asked.
“No. What do you want?”
“Ah, good. I am the Postwar Man. I bring you your future today. I have here the fruit of the labors of the finest scientific minds in the country, the result of year on year of—”
Her eyes, which had been staring at me with dull hostility, suddenly lit up. A smile transformed her face. “Are you,” she asked, “a salesman?”
“You might call me that,” I admitted.
“Am I glad to see you!” she cried. “Listen. I hate salesmen. Before the war so many salesmen used to ring this doorbell that sometimes months went by when I didn’t get a chance to finish a bath. I got to despise salesmen. The very sight of a salesman used to throw me into a frenzy. Finally, in desperation, I got a Salesman’s Bane door mat.”
“A Salesman’s Bane door mat?”
“Yes. You’re standing on it right now. I’ve never had a chance to try it out. I no sooner bought it when war came and all the salesmen either went into the Army or went to work in war plants. All through the war not a single salesman rang my bell. You’re the first salesman I’ve seen since 1941. Now at last I’m going to get to try the door mat. Will you stand still, please? I’ll go in and push the button.”
“Certainly,” I said.
She went inside. An instant later I felt the door mat thrust violently upward and backward. I went flying end over end across the porch, crashed through the trellis, caromed off a box elder, slid across a gravel path, and stopped in some brambles.
She came out smiling. “Works fine, doesn’t it? I was afraid it might have gotten rusty or something from lack of use. Do you think it needs oil?”
“Perhaps a drop,” I suggested.
“I’ll have my husband take care of it as soon as he gets home. Thank you very much.”
“Not at all,” I said, and limped off to the next house.
Here a man answered the door. “Is the lady of the house in?” I inquired.
“I’m a bachelor,” he said.
“Oh. Do any baking?”
“Some.”
“Cookies?”
“That’s what I do best.”
“Fine. I am the Postwar Man. I bring you your future today. I have here the fruit of the labors of the finest scientific minds in the country, the result of year on year of pai
nstaking research, the answer to humanity’s cry for better living—the Little Dandy cooky cutter. Next to the Little Dandy cooky cutter your old cooky cutter would look like a Stanley Steamer next to this year’s Ford. There’s—”
“Funny you should mention this year’s Ford,” he interrupted. “My business is selling this year’s Fords.”
“Quite a coincidence. Well, as I was saying—”
“I imagine a car would be a big help to a man in your line of business,” he continued. “You must cover a lot of territory.”
“Well, yes. But to get back to the Little—”
“There are three things a man who uses a car as much as you do should look for: mileage, durability, and comfort. The mileage and durability features of the Ford are so well known that I won’t insult your intelligence by commenting on them.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“As for comfort, I need only say that the birth rate among Ford owners is nearly two and a half times that of the general population.”
“Another feature of the Little Dandy,” I said, “is—”
“Triscuit is my name. Mishak Triscuit.”
“Hearthrug,” I said, taking his hand.
“Well, Mr. Hearthrug, you caught me at the right time. I just happen to have a brand-new Ford sitting out in the garage. Come along.”
I followed him around the house to the garage, where a new Ford was parked. “There she is,” he said proudly. “The new postwar Ford, combining all the features that our engineers developed in the war years, years in which science made its greatest advances.”
“Sure looks like the 1942 model, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Notice the streamlining,” he said. “And look at these features—sealed-beam headlights, chromium radiator grille and hubcaps, two taillights in the back, shatterproof glass in all windows.”
“It seems to me the 1942 model had all these things,” I said.
“Let’s take a look at the inside,” he said, opening the door. “Notice that comfortable front seat. Seats three easily. And no gearshift lever to make the fellow in the middle uncomfortable. No sir. Gearshift lever right under the steering wheel. Here’s another new development—the starter button on the dashboard. And look down there beside the clutch pedal. See that little button? That’s to dim your lights when somebody is coming toward you at night. Here we have windshield defrosters, and over here on the right under the dashboard is a heater. Notice also the dial-type speedometer and gas and oil gages. Look at the roominess of that glove compartment.”