Now and on Earth Page 20

  I was afraid that he’d say no, because being broke hadn’t changed him a bit. But he’d been a lawyer, and he knew that things like that were done every day. And it was a lot better for the stockholders to get part of their money back than none at all. So he said yes, he’d act as intermediary. And then he began to get as excited as I was. He’d put the money in trust for me, he said; well, maybe he’d borrow a little of it if I wanted him to.…And I said oh no, Pop, I want you to handle it all. And he straightened up, looking kind of proud and pleased and sure of himself. And I knew that everything was going to be all right between us—for all of us. That it wasn’t too late then to make a new start.

  I was supposed to be standing on the corner of Eighth and Houston Streets at seven-thirty that evening. Alone. S— would come by in a rent-a-car and pick me up. And we would drive from there to the Trinity River Viaduct on the north edge of town where Pop would be waiting. S— was no sucker, even if he was walking the mountain tops. In case of a double-cross, I’d be throughly mixed up in the deal. Another lousy bellhop trying to pull something crooked. He trusted Pop, yes, but he trusted him a lot more with his son as security.

  I went home. I told Mom I was too tired to go to school and to wake me up at six that night—I wanted to go to a show. Pop and I thought that story was best. Mom wouldn’t understand things, and she’d be scared, and Marge might spill something.

  Well—Mom called me at nine o’clock that night, after Pop had got worried and phoned the house. Mom said I was sleeping so soundly, and she guessed I needed my rest a lot more than I needed to see a show.

  That was the last of S— needless to say. He checked out without bothering to take his baggage.

  I went to Lincoln. I enrolled in the College of Arts and Sciences which was the logical—the only practical—place for me to enroll. Then I went around to the two newspapers and applied for a job, and they laughed at me heartily. Why they had applications from graduate students in journalism who were glad to work for the experience! I went to the Western Newspaper Union, not knowing that they only handled boiler-plate stuff, and they laughed heartily also. But a girl in the office took pity on me (or I wonder if it was pity). One of the biggest farm journals in the country was in Lincoln. Why didn’t I apply over there?

  I did.

  I walked in there in my brown Kuppenheimer suit and my snap-brim Stetson, and I was carrying a tweed topcoat I’d paid ninety dollars for. And the PBX girl said why certainly, any of the editors would be glad to talk to me.

  I was ushered upstairs and introduced to a young man of about my own age, and he said yes, it was entirely possible that they could do something for me. He was going to the University himself. Several of the editors there were. Just a moment and he’d call some of them in.…

  He called them in, and by God they acted like they were glad to meet me! They wrung my hand and looked at me like I was something good to eat, and they insisted that I “come out to the house” for dinner the next day, Sunday.

  Well, hell, I didn’t know about those things. I supposed maybe they all rented a house together to cut down on expenses. Two of them came by in a swank roadster and got me, and they took me out to the house, and it looked like they had about a hundred other guests. And I began to get wise then that I’d put my foot in something. But I still didn’t know what it was all about.

  I didn’t know until I’d had a swell dinner and five or six stiff drinks; until I’d been shaken by the hand and slapped on the shoulder and talked to by about fifty guys of the kind that I’d always wanted to talk to—or thought I had. Then in a small room upstairs, with half a dozen of them crowded around me, encircling me:

  “But don’t you like us, Dillon?”

  “Why—why, sure. And I appreciate your being so nice to me. But—”

  “But what? It’s surely not the money, is it? You’re the type of man who’s used to the better things of life. You couldn’t get decent board and room for much less.”

  “Well—but I really need a job, right now.”

  “Didn’t we tell you we’d help you? That’s what we’re here for, to help each other.”

  “And I’m already enrolled in Arts and Sciences.”

  “We get enrollments changed every day. Don’t need to worry about that at all. And even if you weren’t coming in with us, you ought to switch to Agriculture. You can still get English and Journalism, and—and you’ll really be prepared to do something then. You know how it is, yourself. You tried to get a job on the newspapers here. The only place that could give you a—any encouragement was the farm magazine.”

  I surrendered in the end. I hocked half of my wardrobe to get the immediate cash necessary to be pledged, and they enrolled me in the College of Agriculture. And I had a swell time from then on. Oh, swell.

  The good brothers taught me how to clean out the furnace and wash dishes, and every six weeks the “scholarship committee” applied barrel staves to my backside in an exasperated effort to make me remember the distinguishing points between rye and barley—or something else equally nonsensical. And I cut open the guts of turkeys looking for symptoms of blackhead. And I felt hens’ butts and tried to guess how many eggs they would lay—and they didn’t like it. And I cribbed so many problems in farm physics that I lost any sense of being a cheat.

  Well, how could they get me a job on a farm paper, dumb as I was?

  They got me a job in an all-night restaurant. I got the others myself.

  Hell, in case you’re interested, is actually the College of Agriculture of the University of Nebraska. You can take my word for it.

  I was going with Lois. She was wearing my pin. We hadn’t started fighting yet. I was very much in love with her and very humble. I knew that when I became uncomfortable or wanted to lash out, it was only because of the money angle, because I was on the defensive. I knew that if I could show any tangible assets, if I could assure her folks that I would complete my four years and have something for emergencies, their attitude would be completely different. They weren’t unreasonable. They simply didn’t want her to lose her head over someone who already had more than he could take care of, and who, admittedly, acted on impulse rather than logic.

  I knew this. And—then—I knew they were right. And…

  I almost didn’t open the letter. I thought someone was trying to sell me some stocks and bonds, and I didn’t want any. But I did open it, and it was from Blackie Martin.

  Blackie and I hopped bells together. He was a kind of stand-offish kid, and he didn’t stay at the hotel long. But he’d always liked me, and after he went to New York, he’d dropped me a card now and then. I didn’t always write back. The only time I’d written since I’d been in Lincoln was right after I joined the fraternity—when I wrote everyone I could think of on the fancy house stationery. I suppose he got the idea that I was in the money.

  He knew something. He wouldn’t say how, but he knew it. Cord Motors was going to take a hell of a jump. I was to get on it with as much as I could on as narrow a margin as I could. I—we—could clean up. He’d trust me to give him his split. He “knew I was honest.”

  Well, I started to laugh it off; but I couldn’t do it. Something told me that it was straight goods. Blackie wasn’t given to popping off, and I knew he’d always liked me. Everything fitted. He was working for a broker, he was on the level, and he liked me. And I had a hundred and fifty in the bank.

  I’d been saving it up to repay the student-loan I’d gotten when I first enrolled in school. The thing was long past due, and they’d been riding me pretty hard. I’d even drawn a check for the full amount the day before, and I’d intended mailing it. But they didn’t have anything but three-cent stamps at the confectionary across from the “house.” So I hadn’t. I’d be damned if I’d spend an extra penny for those birds.

  Well, I went down to the bank and I drew a check to “Cash” for the hundred and fifty. And the guy that had been standing behind me when I got it followed me right to the doo
r and stopped me. He was one of those big bony guys with a head like a quail-trap, and a little button of a nose, and a come-to-heaven smile, and the seat of his blue-serge pants looked like he’d been carrying books in it. I don’t know where guys like that come from. I don’t think they’re born. And I can’t figure out how they always get on the boards and committees of this and that and the other; how they always manage to run things. They do though, by God.

  “Ha, ha, Dillon,” he giggled. “I’ll bet you were looking for me, weren’t you?”

  “Now you don’t need to get sarcastic,” I said. “I’m going to pay your damned loan.”

  “Don’t swear, Dillon. I might lose my temper. Ha, ha. Give me that money.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said. “I’ll send you a check tomorrow. I’ve got to pay a hospital bill with this.”

  “You won’t need a hospital now, Dillon. Ha, ha.” And he took the money. He clawed it right out of my hand.

  I don’t know which made me maddest at the time—losing the money, or walking into a fast one like that.

  I knew by the end of the week when Cord jumped twenty-eight points in a day. If I’d had 150 shares at a dollar margin—but I didn’t have. When Blackie Martin wrote me, I marked the letter “Moved, address unknown” and sent it back.

  I know I mustn’t start thinking that way. But it’s hard not to at times. I didn’t need anyone to help me. I’ve never wanted anyone to. All I’ve ever asked is to be left alone. And no one will ever leave me alone. Someone is always doing what’s best for me; making me do what I should do, from their standpoint.

  But I mustn’t begin thinking that it was deliberate. That, badly, there is a plot against me. It is becoming harder not to, but I know I must not.

  I must not!

  23

  Moon hung up the phone. Before he could say it, I said.

  “I can’t stop her, Moon.”

  “Did you tell her I’d tried every place and couldn’t get the money?”

  “Yes, I told her.”

  “Well what does she keep calling for then?”

  “She’s old, Moon. And she’s mad and worried. You know how you’d feel.”

  “But it doesn’t do any good to keep calling, Dilly. It’ll just get me run out of here. And if I’m fired with that on my record, I can’t go to work any place else. Not in any kind of a job.”

  “I don’t suppose she cares much, Moon.”

  The moment the words were out of my mouth I knew I’d said the wrong thing. But it was true. Mom’s viewpoint was that she had everything to gain and nothing to lose by cracking down. She might force him to come through. If he didn’t, if he did lose his job, she’d partly evened scores. She’d tried to get Frankie to call, too, and even to come down to the plant. Of course, Frankie wouldn’t.

  “That’s just what I thought,” said Moon. “I thought you said you didn’t want my job.”

  “You should think it. I’ve only told you about fifty times.”

  “What makes your mother keep calling for, then?”

  “I’m through talking,” I said.

  “Well, if—”

  “I said I was through talking.”

  He turned away. “You won’t get it even if I am canned. I’ll see to that.”

  I didn’t answer him. Travelers were piled on my desk a foot deep. I still had some of the old inventory to transfer from the release books to the cards. Under the old system, you might show the same part in more than one place; for instance, in “Left-wing” and “Right-wing.” That is why, partly, things were balled up so badly. You couldn’t keep the thing evened up. The rack men would throw out parts for, say, the right wing, when you were carrying your inventory on the left, and, according to the records, you didn’t have the parts to throw.…Well, I have had to pick this stuff up—some parts are used in dozens of different places—and it hasn’t been easy.

  Moon went upstairs, I suppose. In fact I know he did because he didn’t use the telephone. When he came around again, he said that Production wanted a shortage report on every position by three-thirty.

  “That’s fine,” I said, without looking up. “It won’t hurt them to want.”

  “You’re not going to get them out?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “You used to be able to. You could do it when we were using the old release books.”

  “And I can do it now,” I said. “In a few days, at least. Right at the moment I don’t have any way of sorting my cards into positions.”

  “Fine system you dreamed up,” he said.

  And I began to boil a little. That system is—it’s almost like a piece of writing. It’s a damned sight better than the one they had. I told him so.

  “As soon as I’m able to sort the cards I can turn out reports three times as fast as I used to.”

  “The office wants ’em now.”

  “Did you tell them they wanted them?” I said. “You went up there and got them to tell you to have me get out the reports when you knew I couldn’t?”

  “Are you going to do it or not?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said, and headed for the stairs.

  I was watching the clock. It was just five minutes before the phone rang.

  “Dilly?” It was Baldwin.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you come up here a minute?”

  “I can,” I said. “But if it’s about those shortage reports, you’d better come down here.”

  He hesitated. “Okay. Be right down.”

  I dropped the receiver and snatched up the scissors and a handful of blank cards. I’d had the idea in my head for days, but I’d never got around to working it out.

  Moon unlocked the gate and Baldwin came skimming in ahead of him, pockets bulging with papers, bursting with impatience as usual.

  “Now what’s the matter here? Moon tells me you refused to obey orders. Why can’t you get out the shortage reports? What’s wrong with—”

  “In the first place you don’t need shortage reports,” I said. “I watch this stuff coming and going, and I know what I’m talking about. You don’t need them.”

  “That’s what you say,” said Moon.

  “That’s what I say,” I said.

  “Now hold up,” said Baldwin. “Let’s get to the bottom of this thing. Supposing we did need shortage reports, now. Why couldn’t we get them?”

  “I’ve got no way of sorting my cards. The parts were listed by position. Now we carry them chronologically and alphabetically.”

  Baldwin frowned and shook his head. “Not so good. I didn’t—didn’t you think of that when you were setting these cards up? God, if we can’t get them by position, they’re no good to us!”

  “All we need,” I said, “is a simple sorting device—”

  “Oh no you don’t!” said Baldwin, and his frown deepened and Moon tried to suppress a smile. “That stuff costs to beat hell! We’d never get an okay for one of those machines. Besides, they’ve got to be installed to fit the system, and it would take forever to get one—”

  “I don’t mean to buy one. I mean to make one.”

  “Make one? How the—”

  “Look,” I said, picking up the handful of cards. “It’s as simple as this. Here’s a card for each of the positions. The cards are slotted at the bottom in twelve places, a slot to each position. Starting at the left, all the slots are uniform except one which is lower than the others. On the next row it’s the same way, and the next, and all the way across. In each row eleven of the slots are alike; one is lower than the others.”

  I picked up a pencil and slid it under the first row of slots. “This is Position 1,” I said, and I raised the pencil. And Position 1 card rose up and the others remained stationary. I did the same thing on the other rows. “All we need is a file with a sliding lever running beneath it. It would probably cost all of a couple of dollars.”

  “Say,” said Baldwin. He took the pencil and ran it
back and forth in the slots. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said.

  Moon cleared his throat. “You’re just using a few cards now. It won’t work with two or three thousand.”

  “Why not?” said Baldwin.

  “It just won’t.”

  “I guess you and I went to different schools,” said Baldwin.

  He looked from Moon to me. “What’s the trouble between you birds, anyway?”

  “No trouble,” said Moon.

  “Everything’s okay with me,” I said.

  “Well—I’m glad to have you both here, but you’ll have to tie the fights outside, understand? Good. Moon, we’ll let those shortage reports slide.”

  And he was on his way again.

  Moon and I didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

  I hate it about Moon. He was kind to me here when I needed kindness badly. I feel somehow that it is I who have put him behind the eight-ball instead of the other way around.

  Marge was sitting on the steps that lead down to the walk (almost all San Diego houses are on terraced lots). I had wondered how long it was going to take her to get there. At first she had stood in the doorway, then on the porch; then she sat on the porch steps. And now she was down to the street.

  I told Gross good night abruptly and slammed the door as Marge arose. For a moment we were like two people who meet on the street and can’t determine which way the other is going. In actions, that is. I knew which way Marge was going, and I kept in front of her. She rose on her toes and peered over my shoulder as Gross’s car roared away angrily.

  “Now, Jimmie!” she said, stamping her foot and showing the whites of her eyes. “Why do you always do things like that?”

  I could understand her being cross. She was dressed in green—a leaf-green tweed sports coat, sea-green street slacks, green socks, and snakeskin oxfords that had cost twenty-two dollars and a half. I knew what they had cost because Walter had written his last note to her on the back of the bill, and she had showed it to us. Her hair was freshly tinted. Her face was a flawless cream and pink mask. It must have taken her at least six hours to fix herself.