Voices From the Street

  “Modern TV,” he said into the telephone. Leaning back against the battery display, Hadley made himself comfortable, one hand on the thick yellow service-call book. From where he stood the bulging trash box under the counter was visible; he made a mental note to empty it. Dead batteries, wrapping paper crumpled in brown wads, bits of string, broken radio tubes, lay strewn on the floor around it. Polish rags, old tags, the moldy remains of someone’s lunch, endless empty coffee cups…

  “Hello,” the telephone said, a gruff man’s voice. “I brought my radio in last week; I wonder if it’s ready.”

  “Can you give me the number on your receipt?” Hadley said. “And what kind of radio was it?”

  He wandered downstairs to the service department. The basement was chill and cold; Olsen sat huddled on his tall stool, legs wrapped around the rungs, face screwed up in an intent scowl as he poked into the works of a little Philco upturned on his bench.

  “Goddamn it!” Olsen screamed, throwing the radio against the oscilloscope and leaping from the stool. “I’m through with the whole fucked-up mess! I’m getting out of here! The fuck with it!” He grabbed his coat from a hook over the bench and headed for the stairs: it was his way of going out to lunch. “What do you want, Hadley? What’s up your ass?”

  “I’m looking for a radio,” Hadley said, knee deep in a pool of repaired sets lumped across the cement floor. He gave Olsen the number and description. “Is it done?”

  Olsen’s rage knew no bounds. “Christ, the old fart just brought it in!” Purple with wrath, Olsen swept up the radio in question and savagely examined the tag. “Tell him to go stick it up his ass! Tell him next year. Shit, I’ll talk to him myself.” Olsen raced furiously for the stairs. “Where is he? Upstairs?”

  “On the phone,” Hadley said, grinning. “You go on and eat; I’ll take care of him. You think it’ll be ready tomorrow?”

  Dancing with fury, Olsen screeched: “Fix it your goddamn self! You’re such a goddamn big shot around here—you get all the credit, you might as well do some work.” As he disappeared up the stairs three at a time he shouted back: “Tell him late tomorrow. The hell with it—I’m never coming back. I’m going in the Army!”

  Hadley climbed the stairs and crossed the store to the phone. He informed the man that his radio was on the bench being worked on; the serviceman wanted to be sure it was all right and would like to keep it playing until tomorrow.

  “All right,” the man said. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

  As Hadley hung up the phone, Joe Tampini entered the store. “Sorry I took so long,” Tampini said. Dressed in a neat single-breasted suit, brown shoes, and silk tie, his curly black hair carefully oiled and combed, Tampini was an impressive sight. “Anything happen? Anybody buy anything?”

  “Those people you were showing the Admiral table model to came back,” Hadley said. He pushed the tag from the register onto the counter. “I closed it for you—it’s going out sometime this afternoon.”

  Tampini flushed happily. “No kidding?” Visibly, he added up his commission. “Gosh, that’s twelve bucks!”

  “You better check the set over,” Hadley said. “I think the vertical lock is off; I had it on for a couple minutes and the picture was foreshortened.”

  “Right,” Tampini agreed, searching behind the counter for the screwdriver. “Where’s the mirror? Probably in the truck. Will you be around, or were you going out? You’re pretty good at setting up this stuff.”

  Hadley remained long enough to help Tampini set up the Admiral. He pushed the uncompleted Zenith display to one side of the counter, carried the broom to the back closet, and then wandered out onto the hot, bright sidewalk.

  The familiar routine of the day had settled gradually into place. It was as it had always been; after the first hour, it seemed as if he had always been manager. There was really no difference. It was the same store; the same counter and displays, the same television sets, the cold basement, the filthy bathroom, the littered upstairs office, the ringing phone…everything was the same. The permanent reality of a small retail store.

  Lighting a cigarette, he stood by the gutter, his hands cupped around the match. Sleepily, he watched the people stroll past. Brightly dressed women. Hurrying businessmen in white shirts, crisp sleeves rolled up. Children on bicycles. Cars. He waved the match out, dropped it in the gutter, and crossed the sidewalk to the Health Food Store.

  The heavy odor of dried prunes and sacks of graham flour lay over the low stools and glass display cases, the scrubbed linoleum, the endless shelves of cans and jars and packages. He seated himself at the counter, by the marzipan display; only two other people were eating, a plump woman consuming a pear-and-cottage-cheese salad, and a small man with steel-rimmed glasses, sipping a tall glass of milk.

  “Stuart!” Horace Wakefield cried, pleased. He waved down the counter at Hadley, past the woman and her salad. Getting to his feet, he carried his glass of milk over and sat down on the empty stool beside Hadley. “How have you been?”

  “Fine,” Hadley said noncommittally.

  From the back, Betty pushed her way through the curtains and came wearily over. “Afternoon, Stuart,” she gasped. Her thick, pulpy face was wet with perspiration. She batted at a fly. “Well, it’ll be winter soon enough.” Resting her doughy hands on the counter, she asked: “What can I do for you? Some nice iced tea? Some brown Betty and hard sauce?”

  “Just coffee,” Hadley said, rolling a dime from his trouser pocket and up onto the counter.

  Carefully, Betty got down a white cup and saucer from the shelf behind the counter. As she poured the steaming coffee into it she said: “You know, Stuart, you have practically all of our cups over there. I wish you’d bring them back.”

  “I sure will,” Hadley answered. “You bet your life.”

  Putting the Silex back on the warmer, Betty said to Wakefield: “Things are going to be different. Stuart’s manager of Modern now. Did you know?”

  It was amusing to see Wakefield’s excitement. His small face alive with astonishment, he half rose from his stool, eyes wide, mouth open. “Stuart!” he shouted. “Is that so? you’re manager?”

  Hadley laughed. “Sure, why not?”

  “But—” Wakefield spluttered in confusion. “Why, that’s marvelous! Where’s Mister Fergesson? Did he retire?”

  “Jim bought another store,” Betty explained as she took Hadley’s dime and rang it up. “I don’t know the name of it, but it’s on the highway somewhere.”

  “O’Neill’s place,” Hadley said.

  Wakefield was still dazed. “I can’t get over it. My goodness, that’s just wonderful.”

  “And he has a sweet little baby boy named Pete,” Betty continued, beaming wearily and showing her false teeth. “Isn’t that nice?”

  Wakefield could only open and shut his mouth.

  “His wife looks so cute now, with her figure back,” Betty said. “She’s a lovely girl, Stuart. Look what you’ve got to be thankful for; yes, really have… You’ve got such a pretty little wife, and a fine healthy baby, and now you’re manager of a store.” She shook her head resignedly. “How’s Jim doing over at the new place?”

  “All right,” Hadley answered. “The place needs a lot of work; he’s putting in thirteen hours a day. But he likes it.”

  After Betty had gone, Wakefield continued: “I can’t get over it. Mister Fergesson must have a lot of faith in you, Stuart. That store’s been his whole life as long as I can remember. Twenty years, at least…a long time before you came. Why, you’ve just been working there a few years. I never thought Mister Fergesson would turn that store over to anybody else as long as he was alive.”

  “Well, he’s got the new place,” Hadley said absently. He was listening intently for the phone; it was dimly audible from where he sat. He wondered if he should forget his coffee break and go back… It was hard to know how his privileges stood, now that nobody was looking over his shoulder.

  “Say,” Wakefield s
aid awkwardly, “maybe you’ll let me pay for your coffee, as a sort of celebration.”

  Hadley laughed. “It’s already paid for.”

  “Then I’ll buy you a soyburger sandwich,” Wakefield offered eagerly. “You know, it certainly makes me feel good to see a young man get someplace so early in life. You take care of yourself, Stuart; like Betty says, you’ve got a lot to be thankful for. I certainly envy you…especially your family. I have my work, of course…” His voice wandered off, baffled and momentarily unhappy. “That’s something, at least. Not at the flower shop; I mean the real work down at the hall.”

  Hadley tensed as he sipped his coffee. “How are things coming?” he asked tersely. Pulling his cup toward him he half rose to his feet; he didn’t want to hear about the hall.

  “Things are fine,” Wakefield said. “You know, don’t you, that Mister Beckheim will be coming back down this way in a few days?”

  “No,” Hadley said rigidly. He braced himself. “I didn’t.”

  “We’re getting prepared for another lecture. You were at the last one, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I was,” Hadley said. A cold, fearful numbness crept over him and he settled down again on the stool. “I was there, as you know perfectly well.”

  Wakefield blinked at the sharpness in his voice. “What do you mean, Stuart? You weren’t disappointed, were you? My, I thought he was terribly impressive that time.”

  “I’ve got to get back to the store,” Hadley said bluntly; he was fighting up through the numbness. “The damn phone’s ringing.” This time he got all the way to his feet. “I’ll see you later. Take care of yourself.”

  But Wakefield refused to let him go. “Stuart, I guess with all your new responsibilities you won’t want to come. I was hoping maybe you’d like to come. As a matter of fact, it’s young people like you that ought to come. We old people won’t be around much longer, you know.”

  “None of us will be,” Hadley said harshly. “Isn’t the world going to come to an end?”

  “Of course,” Wakefield said, with dignity. “But not right away—not for a while. You know, Stuart, I think you’ve been a lot healthier since you went to hear Mister Beckheim. I was thinking that maybe there’s a relationship between your going and hearing him, and all the health you’ve been enjoying. It seems to me that you used to have a weak stomach. Didn’t you used to have a weak stomach?”

  “You bet,” Hadley agreed, “and I still do.”

  Wakefield was disappointed. “I thought it was gone. You know, Stuart, good health isn’t something we create; it comes directly from God. He gives it to us and He can take it away. I know the Christian Science people are always talking about having pure thoughts, but it seems to me—” He broke off. “I wish you’d come, Stuart,” he said plaintively. “There’re all those old women there, and I hate old women. I wish there were more men mixed up in this thing.”

  “I came,” Hadley said curtly. “I joined. I got a blue card.”

  Wakefield was doubtful. “Oh, no,” he disagreed. “You can’t join and get a blue card. Only Mister Beckheim gives out blue cards.” He brought out his wallet and showed Hadley his own membership card; it was perfectly white. “This is what you get when you join. Maybe later on, when you’ve been in the Society for years and years, then perhaps Mister Beckheim takes special notice of you and gives you a blue card. That’s something he does personally, for outstanding service.” He added wistfully: “I think he’s given out only a few dozen of them.”

  Hadley sat down slowly on the stool. “I didn’t know that,” he said. A terrible burning panic lodged in his windpipe and stayed there. “I thought it was just the regular card.”

  “Do you have it?” Wakefield leaned toward him curiously. “Can I see it? Let me look at it.”

  “I tore it up.”

  Wakefield giggled. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “Listen,” Hadley said sharply, “is that on the level, about the blue cards?”

  “Of course. But Beckheim himself would have had to give it to you; if somebody else gave it to you then it’s not really the genuine—”

  “He gave it to me. He wrote it out and handed it to me. For a dollar fifty.”

  For a moment Wakefield didn’t understand. His lack of comprehension infuriated Hadley; he was too busy with his own whirling thoughts to spell it out letter by letter for the little man. “I met Beckheim up in San Francisco,” he stated briefly. “What’s so great about that? Is he a deity or something? I just walked in and met him; that’s all. We talked and he wrote out a card. Later on I tore it up.”

  Wakefield licked his lips and said hoarsely: “I can’t imagine why you tore it up, Stuart.” He was visibly moved. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve never met him face-to-face; I’ve never talked to him. This is such a terrible thing…” His voice broke. “For heaven’s sake,” he quavered furiously, “will you have the decency to tell me why you tore it up?”

  Hadley had never seen little Horace Wakefield angry. Behind his glasses the man’s eyes swam; abruptly he jerked out his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose violently. He stuffed the handkerchief away and glared indignantly at Hadley, waiting for him to explain.

  Awkwardly, Hadley said: “I’m sorry, Horace; I don’t want to get mixed up in this thing. Don’t you understand?” Patiently, he traced a line of moisture on the surface of the counter. “I want to live a normal life—not a nutty life. Sorry if this offends you, but you asked me.”

  “Go on,” Wakefield whispered.

  Not wanting to hurt the little man’s feelings, Hadley stumbled over his words. “I want an ordinary existence, a wife and a family, a place to live. This job—it’s perfect.” But as he said it the words sounded hollow; he wondered if he really meant them after all. No, he didn’t mean them: the job wasn’t perfect. “Look,” he said fiercely, “I wanted to be a lot of things: I was going a long way. This isn’t much; running a television shop is damn small potatoes compared to what I was going to do. Compared to what I still want to do—I’ve still got a lot of plans and ideas. I’m going to make this store into something; Fergesson has held it back all these years and I’m going to cut it loose. This damn store is really going to travel; I’ve got big ideas and I know they’ll work. Anyhow, I’m going to give them a try.”

  “But that doesn’t mean—,” Wakefield began.

  “That means I’m staying clear of your damn Society!” Hadley snapped. “There’re a lot of things in this world I want to do; there’re a lot of wonderful people and places—before I’m ready to write them all off I want to look around. I want to stay here longer; I’m not ready to give up, not quite yet. I’m not ready for the end of the world.” Meaning it with all his soul, he finished: “I want to live a sane, meaningful life; I want my life to add up to something. Maybe I can find that here; maybe not. Meanwhile, I’m staving away from you nuts.”

  Wakefield winced. Fingers trembling, he straightened his tie, smoothed down his coat; he pulled himself upright and faced Hadley. “You can’t,” he said hoarsely. “You’re living in a crazy world, Stuart. It isn’t possible to cut out a neat little pattern; this is a world of war and lunatics, and you’re in it whether you like it or not.” Leaning toward Hadley, he grated: “In a crazy world, it’s the nuts who know what’s going on. You know we’re right; you know this store of yours, this job, everything is a joke! Selling television sets when they’re getting ready to drop A-bombs on us!”

  “It’s my job,” Hadley said defiantly. “I want it; I’m staying at it.”

  “You’ll be dead,” Wakefield whispered.

  Hadley got to his feet; he was shaking violently. “I told you I’m through with nut cults. End of the world—” Savagely he grabbed up his coffee cup and started toward the door. “A bunch of religious fanatics. You’re crazy—you’re crackpots!”

  The screen door slammed after him. He could see the small figure sitting frozen at the counter; Horace Wakefield was reaching automatically for
his glass of milk, trying to resume his routine. The heavyset woman, who had been listening to everything, gazed with frank curiosity after Hadley.

  Hadley entered Modern, the coffee cup teetering and sloshing coffee onto his hand and wrist. It was lukewarm. Furiously, he shoved the cup under the counter with the others and turned to face the small knot of customers standing by the cash register, waiting to be waited on.

  Alice Fergesson was sitting quietly in the upstairs office, a cigarette between her fingers, her purse resting on the littered desk. At first he didn’t notice her; the customers had been taken care of and he was fumbling in the back closet for a fresh roll of register tape when he realized she was there. She didn’t speak until he had climbed the stairs and stood facing her.

  “Hi,” he said, nettled. “How long have you been here?”

  “An hour or so,” Alice answered. Grave and thoughtful, she gazed up at him, a cloud of gray smoke drifting around her. Legs crossed, dressed in a light print skirt and white shirt, she had been calmly watching him come and go, overseeing the happenings, unnoticed by everyone.

  Sitting down on the railing where he could see the floor below, Hadley said: “I’m sorry; I’m pretty upset. That little man gets on my nerves.” Nervously, he ran his hands through his short-cropped blond hair. “Horace Wakefield; you know him?”

  “I’ve seen him over at the flower shop,” Alice answered. She seemed a little tired… She had been shopping.

  “He’s mixed up in that cult, that Watchmen Society. He got me to go to the first lecture; now he wants me to go again.” Hadley shut his mouth tight and abruptly stopped talking.

  After a moment Alice asked: “You went before?”

  “I went. I listened.” Angrily, Hadley said: “I’m not going to get mixed up with it again; once is enough. I wanted to know what it was about; is there anything wrong with that?”

  Alice studied him intently. “Is it important?”

  “Yes,” Hadley said simply. “I went a long way into it. I went all the way down.” In a sense he was exaggerating; he had not really gone so far…one lecture and a brief meeting with Beckheim. But he would have gone further, if he could; if it had been possible he would have gladly plunged the whole way down. Helplessly, he appealed to her: “Was that so stupid? My God, I used to get so damn tired standing around this store, day after day—” He broke off futilely. “I guess I shouldn’t rave.”