“What do you think you’ll do?” Olsen asked, slopping down coffee and wiping his chin. “You’re not going to stay with that ice rink, are you?”
“No,” Hadley agreed.
“And you’re not coming back to Modern? You really mean it?”
“I’ve been thinking,” Hadley said. “That job I had with the park… I liked working like that, outdoors.”
“What are you going to be,” Olsen raged, “a goddamn horse?”
After dinner, they sat around the living room. Pete was sound asleep in his bedroom; in the unused room the hot-water pump labored fitfully. “Here’s what I’ve been thinking,” Hadley said. “A lot of people are doing things for themselves now, things they used to pay to have done. They paint their own houses, they lay their own flooring, they do all the plumbing, they do their own wiring. Who has a man come in and sand the floors these days? You sand your own floors…if you can get hold of a sander.”
“People always did that stuff,” Olsen disagreed. “Guys always jigsawed little birdhouses out of plywood on their workbench in the garage.”
“I don’t mean that,” Hadley said, “that Popular Mechanics stuff. Hobbies on Saturday afternoon, knickknacks around the house. I mean the basic services of construction and maintenance…like pouring concrete. Two years ago nobody would have poured his own concrete…now everybody does.”
“If they can get hold of the mixer,” Ellen said quickly.
His hands clasped tightly together, Hadley went on: “A lot of that stuff takes equipment. To do a fifty-dollar job you need two thousand dollars’ worth of power-driven tools. If people had access to the tools, they could do almost anything…fix their own cars, pour their own roofing asphalt, lay concrete, sand their floors—Christ, they could build their houses and everything inside them. Practically weave their own clothes.”
“The women could do that part,” Ellen said. “And make bowls to eat out of. All you need is a revolving wheel and lots of clay.”
“Okay,” Hadley said. “So you want to make a bowl out of clay. You need a potter’s wheel—where are you going to get it?”
“I don’t know,” Ellen said; “I never tried.”
“There isn’t any place,” Hadley informed her. “Contractors own all the stuff; their own crews use them. Try to rent a mixer, a floor sander, heavy-duty paint sprayers, and they laugh at you. They have to laugh—if they loaned you the stuff they’d go out of business. There’s no end to what a man can do for himself if he has the tools.”
“I suppose you’re going to fix your own goddamn TV set,” Olsen said bitterly.
“If I ever get one again,” Hadley said mildly, “which is doubtful, I’ll build it. All you need for that is a two-dollar soldering iron and a pair of pliers.”
Olsen lapsed into gloomy silence. “Then what happens to me?”
Hadley leaned toward him. “Here’s what I want to do. I want to set up a place where people can rent all these tools. I sat in that pipe factory handing out tools to workmen all day long… When I worked for the city I drove power lawn mowers and compost grinders; I operated electric hedge clippers and sprayers—every kind of damn thing. At the ice rink I have a whole building full of pumps and coils and pulleys to take care of.”
“So?” Olsen said.
“I think I know what I’m doing. I need a little place near the center of town, some store, maybe with a lot for people to park and load stuff in trailer carts. I’ll rent out tools for everything; people won’t have to buy any tools at all. Everything from screwdrivers to pneumatic drills. Blasters, scrapers, power lathes, grinders—the works. Whatever work you want to do, I’ll have the tools to rent. By the hour, the day, whatever people want.”
“You’ll have to know a lot about tools,” Olsen said doubtfully. “You’ll have to service them all. It’ll be a bass-ackward headache.”
“I think I can do it,” Hadley said. He glanced up. “Don’t you think I can?”
“No, you haven’t had enough experience,” Olsen said bluntly. “You’d go broke. And it’ll take plenty of loot to get hold of those power tools; they cost like hell.”
“What do you think of the idea itself?”
“It’s great,” Olsen said. “It’ll eventually put me out of business, of course. Nobody’ll hire TV servicemen once this damn thing gets going.”
“Why don’t you come in with me?” Hadley asked. “You’ve had the experience… You know what you’re doing. All during the war you were operating a turret lathe—while I was sitting around wasting my time in college.”
Olsen’s face writhed with pain. “Damn it, I wish I could. It sounds wonderful.” He glanced wretchedly at Ellen. “I sure wish I could, but I can’t.”
“Why not?” Hadley asked. “You don’t have to put up any of the money; I can write back east and get it from my mother.”
“What, then?”
“Just your experience and common sense.”
Olsen reflected. “No,” he said emphatically.
“Why not? What are you risking?”
“I’m a bum,” Olsen said simply. “I’ve stayed at Modern too long… I have to be getting on, out of this town. You know that. I can’t stay in one place… I’d go in with you for a while, and then I’d pull out. It isn’t right; I’d leave you holding the bag.”
“You don’t think you’d find this satisfying?”
“I’m restless. I always was; I always will be.” Olsen got to his feet and paced unhappily around the room, a huge hunched-over man, his jaw blue and stubbled, his hair a tangled, weedy mass. “I’m sorry as hell. But I’m not dependable. I just can’t stay put.”
Hadley said thoughtfully: “Neither could I.”
“That’s different. You were looking for something; you wanted something better than a two-bit salesman job. That wasn’t for you… You’ve got something on the ball. But not me. I don’t have anything. If I had half the mind you’ve got.” He shrugged. “But I don’t.”
Ellen got to her feet and hurried into the kitchen for coffee.
In an old Chevrolet that Joe Tampini had helped them patch up, Hadley and Ellen drove out into the country. Ellen sat behind the wheel; Hadley gazed out the window at the dry brown fields and mountains. It was late July; the air was hot and breathless. A few cars moved here and there. A steady, unmoving blue haze hung over the coast range. In the fields, cows lay dozing under clusters of ancient oak trees.
“It’s peaceful out here,” Ellen remarked.
The road climbed a long range of hills; the valley lay spread out behind them, a checkerboard of brown and gray-blue, squares that were farms and pastures and fruit orchards. Ahead of the car a small country town squatted by the road. Decrepit, massive barns made up the bulk of the town. To the right stood a towering grain and feed store. To the left jutted a dilapidated hotel, a barbershop, a general supply store. At the far end of town was a modern shopping center: a supermarket, a drugstore, a soda fountain. Further on was a Shell station and a rotting garage. On the hills overlooking the stores were dotted gray and white houses.
Ellen parked the car. She and Hadley and Pete got out and roamed around. They crunched along a narrow gravel road; hot sunlight beat down on them and the expanse of brown fields.
“It’s hot,” Ellen said.
“We’re a long way from the city.” Hadley made out a sign on an old-fashioned yellow train depot; freight cars lay immobile on a siding.
WOODVALLEY STATION
“That’s what it’s called,” Ellen said, examining the map. “Woodvalley Station, elevation twelve feet. The nearest big town is Petaluma.”
Nobody stirred. The town was quiet, unmoving, sound asleep in the midday summer heat. To the right of the gravel road stood a small white and green bungalow; bushes grew up its sides, and in the backyard were gnarled apricot trees. A vast old woman sitting in a rocker on the front porch watched them mildly as they passed.
“That’s like back home,” Ellen said. “You see old
women sitting around on front porches everywhere.”
“You don’t see that everywhere,” Hadley said, indicating the backyard. Tied up among the fruit trees was a goat. The goat raised his head and glared belligerently at them until they were gone. Then he suspiciously resumed eating.
“If we lived out here we could have a goat.” Hadley set Pete down for a minute to light a cigarette. Pete, in his red and white summer suit, began staggering back toward the fence, back to the yard where the goat stood. “Pete would like that. He could drive the goat out into the forest every day and load him up with faggots.”
“Is that how we’d live?” Ellen asked, smiling. “That would be the problem… They don’t have very many ice rinks around here.”
After a moment Hadley said: “They don’t have anything. No shops of any kind, only groceries and farm supplies.”
“And the barbershop. And gas.”
“What happens when things break down? What do they do when their radios blow out tubes?”
“Maybe they don’t have radios,” Ellen said.
“All farmers have radios.”
“Then maybe that garage over there fixes them.”
Next to the drugstore was a tiny real estate office. Hadley and his family entered and seated themselves in front of the old-fashioned oak desk.
“What sort of property did you have in mind?” the scrawny dried-up old realtor asked, fitting on his glasses and scrutinizing them. He unscrewed his fountain pen and pushed aside papers on his desk. “This isn’t resort country, you know. That’s higher up, around the Russian River. I’ve got a wonderful cabin right on the river; city people like it up there, with all the redwoods.”
“I’m not interested in that,” Hadley said. “I want something here in the farm country.”
There was enough money in the bank for a lot, and nothing more. They left the realtor’s office clutching the deposit receipt, feeling awed and foolish.
“What are we going to do with it?” Ellen asked. “It’s just an empty lot—nothing but weeds and one old oak tree. We can’t live up here, can we?” Wistfully she took her husband’s arm, and he shifted Pete to the other side. “Can you build a house? You can’t build a house by yourself.”
“I can if you help,” Hadley answered.
“When?” Wildly, Ellen hurried to keep up with him as he strode back toward the car. “Right away?”
“Not for a while,” Hadley answered. “There’s no hurry. I want to find out what kind of services they lack here… I want to find out what this town needs that it hasn’t got.” He halted to peer around. “Did you see any sign of an ice plant?”
“An ice plant!”
“I’m just thinking,” Hadley said as he opened the car door. “Where do you suppose they go when they want shoes repaired?” On his face, on his ruined eroded face, was an expression of great seriousness.
“You can’t fix shoes,” Ellen said gently.
“It’s not up to me to decide. It depends on what they want.”
“Doesn’t it depend on—what you want? I think that’s important, too.” She added, “It is to me.”
“I should find out what they need,” he repeated, with conviction. “We’ll come back up here now and then… There’s no hurry. I’ll talk to people and find out. We’ll take our time.”
Ellen started up the motor and they sat listening to it, waiting for it to smooth itself out. Beside her, Stuart sat with Pete on his lap, his hands resting on the baby’s stomach. The serious expression remained; it had not gone away. Probably it was not going away. It was part of that face, part of that damaged bone and ruined tissue that Stuart Hadley had become.
Gently, she reached up and smoothed his blond hair back, away from his ears. The warm country wind had blown it there, disorganized it, undone the careful combing that he patiently practiced each morning of his life. Stuart smiled at the pressure of her fingers.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Can I kiss you?” she asked hopefully.
“Sure.” He bent down a little, still holding the baby. She leaned up toward him, steadying herself with one hand, turning her face up to his. For an interval her lips touched his; against her, his mouth was calm, not withdrawn, but almost without emotion.
Troubled, she sank back. “You’re not very—I mean, you seem so far away.”
“No,” he said. “I’m right here.”
And then she remembered what she had found there, that morning, as she bent over him in the instant of awakening. The terror that had risen then, the timid fright that had quivered across his mouth as she kissed him. The fear was gone now.
“You’re not afraid anymore,” she said wonderingly. “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s gone,” he agreed. “Finally.”
“Do you—,” she began haltingly. It was hard to say; she was afraid of the answer. “Do you really think you’d be happy here? Away from the city?”
The dreadful answer came without hesitation. “Yes,” he said.
In anguish, she protested: “There wouldn’t be much to do! There isn’t anything here… There’s nothing. It’s just a drab little country town.” Gazing fearfully up into his ruined face, she demanded: “Don’t you want more? Your ability—”
“Wrong,” Hadley said. “There’s plenty to do here.”
But she could see it there. And he did not seem to know or understand. That was the terrible part, the part she couldn’t bear. He did not seem to know that nothing of him had survived. None of the dreams, the driving fury that had made him strike out, frenzied and irrational, against the indestructible glass wall of the world. He had broken himself against that wall; the world had remained. And he didn’t even know it.
“Is there?” she asked wildly. “Is there really something for you here? You’d be satisfied?”
He took her hand; around her flesh his fingers were strong and hard. There was no bitterness in the pressure, only total certainty. He was without rancor. He blamed nobody, not himself, not her, no one and nothing. He was content.
“It isn’t anybody’s fault,” he said. “A thing like this is—” He grinned. “The result of natural law. You put your hand on the stove and you get burned. You bump into a door in the dark and you get a black eye.”
Blindly, Ellen released the brake and the car moved forward.
Gazing out the window, Hadley intently watched the tumbledown garage slide past. “A whole lot of things,” he said, preoccupied, absorbed, reciting something learned, repeating something cut into the deepest matrix of his mind. “A whole bunch of things to get done.”
Philip K. Dick, Voices From the Street
(Series: # )
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