Voices From the Street

  Fergesson arose. “Let’s get out of this,” he said to Hadley. “All this activity.”

  “Good idea,” Hadley agreed.

  The older man waddled grouchily toward the long couch in the living room, and Hadley came along behind. They sat down facing each other across the room. The room was cool; Fergesson had installed an elaborate air-conditioning system down in the basement. A faint breeze licked around them. Outside the house the August night was hot and close; a few people moved listlessly along the sidewalks, men in their undershirts, women in sweat-stained shorts and drooping halters.

  “What do you think of my air-conditioning system?” Fergesson asked.

  “Seems to work.”

  “I dug out the whole damn basement myself. I really worked on this place. I put in new foundations—I must have carted out ten tons of dirt. I built up a patio in the backyard with it.”

  “I remember when you took time off from the store.”

  “I put in this air-conditioning thing just in time. God, the heat used to blister the wallpaper in here. We get the glare off the Bay. It hits us full blast from nine in the morning until noon. And I put in radiant heating.” Proudly, Fergesson indicated the tile floor. “The hardwood in here was pitted, anyhow. I like this tile. I laid the pipes and then the tile over it. Works pretty good.”

  “You’ve done a lot,” Hadley said thoughtfully. After a moment he asked: “What does it give you? A sense of permanence?”

  Fergesson shrugged. “Any job worth doing is worth doing well. You ought to know that—instead of piddling around, you should finish what you start. You’re always leaving half-finished jobs around the store. Everybody cleans up after you.”

  Ignoring him, Hadley made a gesture that took in the room, the floor, the whole house. “You feel more rooted? Fixing this up gives you a sense of being anchored? Having a center?”

  Fergesson frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Let it go,” Hadley said.

  “It gives me a feeling of pride. When you can look around and know you did things yourself…you know you’re not dependent on somebody else.”

  Hadley licked his lips and said: “When you’re on your own you have a chance to work out ideas…you can get something accomplished.”

  “What sort of things?” Fergesson demanded doubtfully.

  A glow crossed Hadley’s face, an expression of feverish need. “You can set things into motion.” He raised his hands in a compulsive gesture. “Now you take Modern; there’s a lot of improvements that have to be made. Modern—that’s a laugh. Modern has one of the oldest fronts on the street.”

  “It’s good enough,” Fergesson answered shortly.

  “Twenty years ago, maybe. But things have changed! Things have to expand! You can’t sit still—”

  “I’m not sitting still,” Fergesson interrupted. “I just took over O’Neill’s place; you call that sitting still?”

  Hadley’s hand gestures increased spasmodically. “You don’t see Modern the way some guy barreling through town in a big yellow Cad sees it. Here’s this narrow old store, and all these modern places; naturally he’s not going to stop and park and go into a dingy, dirty store; he wants a tilt-front window; he wants good modern lighting…” Hadley was beginning to warm to a fever pitch. “You’ve seen those places that have brick up to around your knees, or maybe some kinds of stone? And then a level of flowers; a bunch of plants, sort of a long windowsill? And then the tilt-front glass…and recessed lighting that shoots up from among the flowers; not a glaring spot but a sort of radiance. And inside the shop everything rises, so somebody coming past sees the merchandise sweep up. No stairs—a sort of gradual rise.”

  “Spending my money! You know what that sort of stuff costs? Thousands of dollars—and you know I don’t own the premises! Mason & McDuffy owns that; I’m just throwing it away. All I’ve got is a five-year lease; if they don’t renew—”

  “In two years you’ll make it all back,” Hadley interrupted impatiently. “Look, a front like I’m describing is the coming thing; you’ve got to have it. You haven’t improved the front since I’ve been there; only that coat of white paint.”

  In the kitchen, as the two women washed and dried the dishes, Ellen said rapidly: “I couldn’t get him to bring the sketches he made; if Jim could see them he’d understand what Stuart means. It’s so hard to explain… People just look at you blankly when you’re trying to create an ideal—and that’s what Stuart has: an ideal he wants to put over. He’s really creative, Alice. Most people are so—well, so sort of ordinary… They don’t have that spark; you know. They’re just sort of clods…they don’t see things; they don’t see how things can be improved and made lovely. Stuart has really such a wonderful sense of beauty; he could work with materials, like stones and building woods, and with flowers—he could work with plastics and fabrics. He has a real eye for color.” Blissfully, desperately, she finished in a rush: “Stuart’s a real artist, Alice. He’s got such wonderful sensitive hands…”

  “I know,” Alice said sympathetically. “But if you get a chance, tell him to go easy. You know how suspicious Jim is when anybody does a lot of talking. He thinks they’re trying to sell him something.”

  “But he has to understand!” Ellen cried, agonized. “I mean, Stuart could do so many things for that store—he really could, Alice. He could just transform it. It wouldn’t be the same store.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Alice said tartly. “Tell him to pipe down.”

  She laid the last dish on the drainboard and went to get the pots and pans from the stove. Ellen, with the dish towel in her hands, stood helplessly waiting, glancing now and then into the living room, trying to hear and gauge what was being said.

  “Sometimes it’s better not to try too hard,” Alice said to her mildly. “Just relax and take it easy. We’ll sit around for a while…try to keep them from turning this into a debate on store policies.” She added: “Especially a debate on how to deal with the Meyberg salesman.”

  They finished the pots and pans, cleaned up the sideboard and sink, removed their aprons, and strolled tautly into the living room.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Ellen said nervously to her husband. She sank down on the arm of his chair and put her soft arms around his neck.

  Alice seated herself on the couch and said: “Have you two finished yelling at each other? Or is there more?”

  “We weren’t yelling,” Fergesson explained. “We were discussing business problems.”

  “Have you finished?” Alice repeated.

  Fergesson stirred fitfully. “What do you mean by that? Of course we haven’t finished. How could we be finished? What do you want me to do, lie down and go to sleep, and let the stores fall apart? What kind of a businessman would I be? How long do you think we’d be able to pay our bills, and you could afford those damn frilly dresses and shoes and hats and things…” His voice trailed off dully. “I’m tired. I’ve got to get to bed early tonight.”

  Ellen blanched; her arms tightened convulsively around her husband’s neck. Hadley gently disengaged them. “Sure,” Hadley said aloud. “And I’ve got those Philcos coming through the door. I’ve got to clear room for them downstairs.”

  “Make sure the cartons are up off the ground,” Fergesson warned gloomily. “It’s okay now, but in a couple of months that whole damn back cellar will be dripping wet. Make sure there’s nothing touching the cement.”

  “We could make the city reroute that slough,” Hadley said. “It’s seepage into the soil; that’s why it starts so early. It’s not rainwater; it’s flow off the hills.”

  “Nonsense,” Fergesson contradicted. “Those pipes are sealed; my God, they go under fifty stores and a thousand houses—the whole town! If there was any leakage—”

  “Now look here,” Alice broke in, exasperated. “We’re not going to sit here yelling back and forth about city sewer mains.”

  For a time nobody sai
d anything. Finally Fergesson spoke up. “Can I ask Hadley if he called West Coast Supply about that damaged cabinet?”

  “I called them,” Hadley said. “They told me their inspector has to come out and examine it.”

  Fergesson nodded. “That’s fine.”

  “I think they’ll come through,” Hadley said. “We saved the carton, of course. They can see it was dropped.”

  “Gee,” Ellen said plaintively, “this is a lot like Christmas. Remember when we all got together that Christmas?”

  A flood of recollections swept over Alice. On Christmas Day it had been cold and wet; rain lashed against the windows; icy wind whipped through the tall cedars along the path. The big house had been full of people: Jack V. White, his wife, Peggy, and their two children; Stuart and Ellen; Joe Tampini and his girlfriend; Olsen and his wife; a handful of neighbors; relatives; and old friends. They had had a big turkey dinner at two tables, and then they had all sat around the living room listening to the rain and sipping little mugs of foamy eggnog. The FM had played Christmas music softly, a Bach Christmas cantata. Everybody and everything had been quiet and peaceful.

  “I remember that,” Fergesson said. He smiled at Alice. “Who were all those people? Friends of yours, I suppose.”

  “This is a lot like Christmas,” Ellen repeated. “Only it’s hot instead of wet, and there aren’t so many people here.”

  “It’s nicer this way,” Hadley said. He got to his feet and wandered over to the heavy radio-phonograph in the corner. After a moment he turned it on and stood dialing the knobs. There was only popular jazz, so he shut it off again.

  “The radio’s just terrible,” Ellen spoke up. “I have to hear it all day-nothing but soap operas and commercials. I hate those singing commercials; they drive me crazy.”

  “They’re supposed to,” Fergesson said.

  “That’s awful, if they’re supposed to,” Ellen answered. “What kind of a person thinks up things like that? There ought to be good music… Radio is so tasteless and cheap. Of course, I suppose the average man likes that sort of thing… They have to aim their programs at the greatest possible number.”

  “Which means morons,” Hadley added.

  Fergesson chewed his lip and asked: “Have you ever met anybody who liked singing commercials? If you took a poll of this country you wouldn’t find a damn person who likes singing commercials.”

  “Then why do they have them?” Ellen asked.

  “Because they sell products,” Fergesson answered. “They irritate—they’re repetitious. People hate them, but they remember the sponsor’s name. They work; that’s why they keep turning them out.”

  “Look,” Hadley said. “What about this? You ought to have a TV program or a radio program; you can’t reach enough people through newspapers. I mean,” he hurried on, “you don’t have to sponsor a program; all you have to do is pay for spot announcements. In the evening, maybe; around six or seven o’clock. Over one of the big S.F. stations, like KNBC. You could bring down people from the Bay Area, and people from the whole peninsula.” Enthusiastically, he finished: “KNBC is clear channel—people get it all the way down in Bakersfield.”

  Alice eyed him and wished he would stop having ideas for once in his life. It was easy to read the distrust on Jim’s face; he was suspicious of innovations, especially those which cost him money.

  Getting quickly to her feet she started for the kitchen. “I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder. From the refrigerator she got a bottle of chilled French apricot brandy and rapidly found small wineglasses. She poured four glasses full, set them on a tray, and briskly returned to the living room.

  Fergesson greeted the brandy with appreciation. “Fine,” he murmured gratefully, sitting up and reaching for a glass. Pleased and joking, he inquired: “How many for me? Two? Three?”

  “Just one,” Alice answered sternly, swooping the tray away from him and over to Stuart Hadley.

  “Thanks,” Hadley said; he accepted the brandy but did not drink it. Setting it down on the arm of the chair he sat gazing intently forward, his blue eyes cloudy with thought. He opened his mouth to speak, but Alice was instantly ahead of him.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have any,” she said to Ellen. “Or is it all right now?”

  “It’s all right,” Ellen said shyly, reaching for a glass. “Thanks a lot, Alice. It looks wonderful…” She sipped. “It tastes glorious.”

  Inwardly, Alice sighed. She took the last brandy glass and reseated herself.

  “I understand Joe Tampini’s going to get married,” Fergesson said. “That same girl?”

  “The same one,” Hadley said. “The cute redhead.”

  “I guess he’s going to want a raise,” Fergesson complained drearily. “Like you, when you got married.”

  “She’s a lovely girl,” Ellen said. “I always envy women with red hair like that.”

  “Redheads are either awfully pretty or ugly as hell,” Fergesson agreed. Turning to Hadley he said: “Remember that kid who used to come into the store when we had that pile of jukebox records? Green eyes, red hair… She liked those trumpet records.”

  “I remember her,” Hadley agreed. “Her name was—Joan something. I managed to get her name on an order card for a Bix Beiderbecke record once.”

  “She wasn’t over eighteen.”

  “Eighteen, hell. She was a high school kid.”

  Fergesson pondered. “I’ve been thinking we need a girl in at Modern…to make it more attractive to the family trade. It was okay during the war-all we did was repair radios. We had those big-tit calendars up on the walls and nobody kicked; it was mostly men we did business with. But now we’re getting more couples. If we had some girl in, maybe as a bookkeeper, or to wait on people… She could check tubes, make out service tags, answer the phone.”

  “A receptionist,” Hadley said.

  “Would there be enough work to keep her busy? I’m not paying any girl to stand around wiggling her ass at customers; she’s got to sweep and keep the place clean. I think a woman’s better at that; polishing and dusting is women’s stuff.”

  “Oh, sure,” Hadley agreed readily. “There’d be plenty of work she could do. Making out the bills, like you say. The riling, all the paperwork—”

  “But we don’t want her stuck up in the office,” Fergesson pointed out. “We want her down front, where people can see her.”

  “That’s a point,” Hadley said, “and it’s interesting, because I was thinking along those lines myself. The other day I had a thought on that; I’ll give it to you for what it’s worth. Maybe you won’t see anything in it, but I think we ought to put in an expanded record department. I’ll tell you why—it’ll bring a lot of people in, and we can turn them into TV and radio-phono sales. The two tie in together; we could knock out the back wall and use the storeroom for listening booths—maybe even partition it into a lot of booths.”

  Fergesson shook his head. “That’s out,” he said emphatically. “Modern will never do a real record business.” He peered up intently at the ceiling. “O’Neill is better. And there’s more display space. Records take too many counters and racks.” Sourly, he concluded: “Records break all the time.”

  “Not the new LPs,” Hadley reminded him.

  “Those scratch.” Fergesson studied his two hands, which were pressed tightly together. “Of course, I wouldn’t put you in O’Neill’s place…that’s for me. I’m keeping you at Modern.”

  “I know that,” Hadley said.

  “If I put in a full-sized record department I’ll get down some queer from Berkeley to run it…like you see in the Berkeley record shops. They know all those classics, those Lily Pons and Toscanini. I’m not messing with that.”

  “Right,” Hadley agreed. “That’s a specialty.”

  “So forget about the records. But we’ll think about getting some girl in. You think a high school girl could handle it?”

  “Better get one from the business college,” Hadley
said. “That place upstairs across the street from Modern. They’re older, more experienced. You know the ones I mean? Heels and sweaters—the ones you see in Woolworth at lunchtime.”

  “I thought they were secretaries.”

  “No, they’re going to that business school. They’re looking like hell for jobs.”

  “Fine,” Fergesson agreed. “I’ll go over there one of these days and see what we can scare up.”

  “I don’t know if I like this idea,” Alice said tartly. “You two are too darn interested.”

  “I don’t know either,” Ellen piped up, caught between joking and genuine concern. “I think Modern looks all right.”

  Ignoring the two women, Fergesson continued: “On second thought, maybe I’ll let you handle that. Do what you think best. We’d have to pay her two hundred a month—in a year that’s two thousand four hundred dollars…and that’s for a five-day week.”

  “True,” Hadley admitted. “There’s the state law.”

  “Would you rather have a couple of thousand to modernize the front? Maybe you could brighten it up more that way…new lighting fixtures, that glass you were talking about.” He waved his hand. “All that fancy stuff.”

  The room was abruptly silent. Everybody sat frozen, watching Hadley.

  “I’d have to check into construction costs,” Hadley said finally. Gripping the arms of the chair he said thickly. “Labor is the big item; all that stuff’s union.”

  “Well, it’s something to think about. There’s no rush on it.” Fergesson lifted his head and peered crookedly across the room at the blond young man. “But if you’re going to run that place you’ve got to learn to make decisions.”

  “Sure,” Hadley said huskily.

  Fergesson sat chewing on his cigar. The room was tense and strained; nobody dared move or breathe. Outside, some people walked along the dark sidewalk laughing and talking. The sounds died into silence and there remained only the whirr of the air-conditioning system Fergesson had installed with his own two hands.