“Okay,” Al said. Tootie nodded woodenly.
“I surprised at you,” she said in her small, delicate voice. “Both of you always quarreling; and tonight both of you sober, an’ still quarreling. It not do you either any good to stay sober, it look like.” She remained, while they stared down at the floor. “I tell you what ail you, Al Miller,” she said. “I listen to everything you say through the door while I clean the stove. What you not got is, you not got faith in God, like you ought to. I know you two sneak out of the kitchen because you know I start talking God-talk to you, but it too bad, because I talk it to you anyhow, whether you like it or not. Not any grown man any good to he fellow man unless he spend time in he church at least once a week meditating on the value of the word come down to earth. You know, Al Miller, the world going to pass away and there be an Armageddon one of these day soon. And the sky roll up like a scroll, an’ the lion lie down with the lamb.”
Tootie said, “Mary Ellen, you a nut. You go clean the stove and leave us alone. You worse than being married to some old grandma.”
“I tell you perfect truth,” Mary Ellen said. “It all written down in the weekly five-cent magazine, The Watchtower, which we Witnesses put out and distribute. Mr. Miller, you not leaving here until you fork over five cents for a Watchtower, which carry the word of God in ninety languages—I think it is—throughout the world.”
Tootie said, “She just come out of the jungle, I think sometimes. Like being married to a savage or something.” His face was contorted with shame and fury.
“I go home,” Mary Ellen said softly, bending down. “One day. Back to my home.”
Al said, “You mean Missouri?” He knew that she had been born there; had been in California only three years.
“No,” she said. “I mean Africa.” The door shut then; she had gone back to cleaning the stove.
“Christ,” Tootie said. “She calls Africa ‘home, and she’s never been east of Missouri. It’s that religious stuff, that Jehovah’s Witnesses. She never even met anyone from Africa, except at their meetings they have speakers from Africa who lecture.”
They grinned at each other.
“How about a drink?” Tootie said, rising. “Some Colonel St. Masterson, age one year.”
“Okay,” Al said. “With water.”
Tootie went into the kitchen to get glasses.
By the next morning, Saturday morning, Al Miller had decided to take the job.
As he unlocked the chain at Al’s Motor Sales and bent to pick up his mail, he realized that the first person to tell was not Julie, nor even Chris Harman, but the old man.
The doors of the garage had been opened; Jim Fergesson, as usual, was at work for at least the early part of Saturday. He would probably work until noon or one, depending on how much work had to be done.
And now, Al realized, is the time to tell him. As soon as possible, now that I’ve decided. In view of what I said to him about Chris Harman.
Accordingly, he left his lot and entered the garage by the side door. The old man had opened it to get more ventilation and light.
He found the old man in the office. Fergesson sat opening his mail; he glanced up at Al, his eyes red-rimmed, watery. In a hoarse voice, he said, “Long time no see.” His attention returned to the letter which he was reading. So Al sat waiting.
“Any news from your doctor?” Al said, when Fergesson had finished reading the letter.
Fergesson said, “He said I had a mild heart attack.”
“Hell,” Al said, with dismay.
“He’s making more tests.” The old man began to tear open another letter; Al saw that his hands were shaking. “Excuse me,” the old man said. “I have to read my mail.”
Taking a deep breath, Al said, “Listen. That guy Chris Harman. We were talking about him. Maybe I was wrong; maybe he’s not a crook at all.”
The old man raised his head; he stared at Al, blinking rapidly. But he said nothing.
“I’m no judge of people like that,” Al said, “that far up. I have no experience. I was relying on secondhand advice anyhow. He could be a crook. The point is, I don’t know. I can’t prove it either way; it’s a mystery to me.” He paused. “I was over there.”
The old man nodded.
“I had a long talk with him,” Al said.
“Oh yeah,” the old man murmured, as if preoccupied.
“Are you still sore at me?” Al said.
“No,” the old man said.
“I thought it’d make you feel better,” Al said, “if I came and honestly admitted that I don’t know one way or another about Chris Herman. You’ll have to make up your own mind.”
He had meant to go on then, to the part about his asking Harman for a job. But he did not get the chance.
“Listen,” the old man said, “get out of here.”
Oh God, Al thought.
“I’m not speaking to you,” the old man said.
“I thought this would make you feel better,” Al said, unable to grasp what was happening. “Now it makes you sore,” he said, “to have me say I don’t think he’s a crook.” It was the most incredible thing he had ever seen. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get out, you old nut.” He got quickly to his feet. “You want him to be a crook?” he said. “You want to be swindled? Is that it?”
The old man said nothing. He continued to read his mail.
“Okay,” Al said, “I’ll leave, The hell with you. You’re not speaking to me—I’m not speaking to you.” He started out of the office. “I don’t get it,” he said.
The old man did not look up.
“You’re really addled,” Al said, at the door of the office. “Your brains are scrambled. That heart attack must have done it. I read an article about that once. Eisenhower is the same way, a lot of people think. So long. I’ll see you. He unsteadily made his way to the entrance of the garage and out onto his lot.”
That’s the craziest thing I ever heard of, he thought. He really ought to be put away; his wife is right. She ought to get an attorney and have him put away.
I can understand a man getting sore when somebody tells him he’s getting swindled, he thought. But not a man getting sore when somebody tells him he’s not getting swindled. That’s not human. I ought to send away for one of those Mental Health pamphlets and drop it into his mailbox. It’s going to be hell staying around here with him, he said to himself. Working around a madman.
What a crazy world, he thought. The old man sells his garage without telling me—he ruins my life, puts me out of business—and then he winds up mad at me. Not speaking to me.
Going across the street to the coffee shop, he closed himself in the pay-phone booth and dropped a dime into the slot. He dialed his home phone number and presently Julie answered.
“I’m going to go ahead and accept that job,” Al said.
“Fine,” she said. “What a relief. I was so afraid you wouldn’t and it really does look good, doesn’t it?”
“It pays well,” he said. “And it looks as if it would be interesting. Anyhow, I have to do something. I can’t stick around here.”
“It took you so long to see that,” Julie said.
“Well,” he said, “I’m stuck here with a senile lunatic. Naturally I see it; there’s nothing else to see.” He rang off, paused, and then, putting in another dime, dialed the number of the Harman organization. The receptionist answered. “Teach Records.”
I never did get to tell him, Al thought. The old man. I went over there, and he didn’t give me a chance. “Let me talk to the man I was talking to before,” he said to the receptionist. “Mr. Gam, I think his name was.”
The girl said, “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Gam is no longer with us.”
Floored by that, Al said, “I was just talking to him. The other day.”
“Who would you like to talk to, sir?” the girl said. “Since I can’t connect you with Mr. Gam.”
“I don’t know,” he said, completely at a loss. “They offered
me a job. Mr. Gam had it all worked out.”
“Is this Mr. Miller?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Mr. Knight will talk to you,” the girl said. “Mr. Gam and Mr. Harman turned your name over to him. He’s familiar with the situation. Just a moment, Mr. Miller.” There came a series of clicks, then a long silence. Then, at last, a hearty man’s voice loudly in his ear.
“Mi. Miller!”
“Yes,” Al murmured.
“This is Pat Knight. Glad to meet you, Al.”
“Same to you,” Al murmured.
“Mr. Gam is no longer with us. A position came up he’d been waiting for, and he flew. He made his move. That’s the way it has to be. He’ll be in the office from time to time. Well, you’re going to join us?”
“Yes,” Al said.
Knight said, “Well, now, listen, Al. There’re a couple of things I’d better discuss with you. When Mr. Gam talked to you he was a little confused; he had a lot on his mind, this new spot he was after. He got you mixed up with another fellow that Harman was sending around, a Joe Mason or Marston—he never came in. He—that is, this Marston—used to be a retail dealer up in Spokane. We wanted him to handle our esoteric classical for us, and Gam got you involved in that. He got you picked out for that spot. He had the idea that was what Harman wanted.” Knight laughed.
“I see,” Al said, feeling parts of his mind fade out into numbness. They ceased to function; he merely stood at the phone nodding his head up and down, listening.
“We do have a spot for you,” Pat Knight said, more slowly and soberly. “Listen, I’ll level with you, Al. Right here and now on the phone. What we need is an aggressive, hard-working young man who isn’t afraid of rising above his fellows and making something of his life. Is that you?”
“Sure,” Al murmured.
“The profits are big,” Knight said. “So’s the responsibility. You’ll have to be able to meet the public. You can do that. I see by your file that you’re an automobile salesman.”
It occurred to Al that he should say he was not; it was not right. It had to do with a big new-car agency, with glass windows, new shiny cars, salesmen in striped suits standing around by potted palms…that’s not me, he wanted to say.
“I’m a dealer,” he said.
“What’s that?” Knight said.
“I have my own place,” he said.
“I’ll be darned,” Knight said. “Well you’re no doubt what we’ve been looking for. I can see why Mr. Harman told us to keep our eyes open for you. Well, I suggest you drop over and we’ll settle this. There’s been some confusion, here, but we can iron it out to everybody’s satisfaction. The spot we have is right up your alley, Al. I know you’ll really go for it.”
“What is it?” he said loudly.
“Now listen,” Knight said, in a slightly frigid voice. “I want to meet you face to face, Al. I have to see what kind of man I’m dealing with. I can’t just hand out jobs over the phone, like greetings cards.” He sounded huffy now. “When can I expect you?” he said in a brisk formal voice. “In about an hour? I can squeeze you in at exactly one-thirty, for about fifteen minutes.”
“Okay,” Al said. He nodded. “I’ll be over.” He hung up the phone and left the booth.
I’m helpless, he realized. They’ve got me like a bug in a mayonnaise jar. As soon as I said I wanted the job, they stabbed me.
They highballed me, he said to himself. The old trade-in trick. Every car dealer uses it. Quotes the customer such a high trade-in for his car that he has to come back; he can’t turn it down. And when he comes back he discovers that the offer has been withdrawn in the meantime; a new shipment has come in, or the salesman who made the offer isn’t with the firm anymore…and by this time the guy is hooked. He’s already made up his mind to wheel and deal.
Like me, Al thought. I’ve decided to join the Harman organization, even though I don’t know what the job is or what it pays. I know nothing, except that I’ve decided to make my move. It’s a Mutt and Jeff act, he realized. Between Harman, Gam, and Knight. And I fell for it; I fell so completely that I’m going over there and taking the job they have, the job they had for me from the start, no matter what it is. And I think I know what it is, he thought. It’s a salesman job. Selling records. That’s what they mean: a flunky with a bow tie, a crew cut, a briefcase and a glad-hand stuck out. They mean me; what I’m going to be in a little while. My destiny.
They saw me coming, he thought to himself as he recrossed the street to the lot. The boy from the country. The farm boy from St. Helena who has no chance, no hope, in the big city of Oakland, California.
Getting into one of the lot cars he drove home in order to change his clothes. In order to get a clean shirt and tie and suit, so that he could impress Mr. Knight.
This is how they break you, he realized. This is how they break your spirit bit by bit. They don’t come right out and make the offer; they don’t look you straight in the eye and say, We’ve got a salesman’s job for you; take it or leave it. No. They do a snow job on you; they sell you. And why not? They’re better salesman than you are. Look where they are; look who they are. And then look who you are.
I should have known, he thought. If Harman was smart enough to build up that organization, to have the kind of house and cars he has, to dress like he does, he’s smart enough to make mincemeat out of me. I should never have tried to take a confidence man, he said to himself. Harman knows a million tricks I never heard of. I’m an amateur. We all are, compared to him.
And they know I’m hooked, he thought. They know it’s too late for me to back out; I’ll take the job, whatever it is. They’re masters of manipulation, of using psychology.
I’m their white rat, he thought. And I’m deep in the maze by now. Far too deep to get out. And the cleverer I am, the smarter I act, the deeper I go. It’s fixed that way; that’s part of the system by which it works.
I’ve told my wife and my friends I’m getting a big-time job; they knew I’d say it, pass the word around. Now I have to pretend. I have to start living a lie; I have to keep telling them—and telling myself—that I’ve got a nifty job at nifty pay for a nifty outfit, that I’m going somewhere. But in fact I’m not going somewhere. However, I have to keep that quiet; I have to keep that to myself.
And the proof of how well they have me is that I will keep it to myself. I’ll be smiling all the time. I’ll have to be; from now on there’s no choice.
11
For over an hour, Al Miller had been sitting in Mr. Knight’s small, modern waiting room. He wore his best suit, his best tie and shirt, his best shiny black shoes. So far there had been no sign of Mr. Knight; his office door remained shut, although now and then sounds could be heard.
My mind knows what my body doesn’t, Al thought. My mind knows that this is all a plot, a hoax. But my body is geared along another line; it thinks this is a grand climax. This is success. All its hormones were released—on purpose, by those who know how to do it. They have control of my body, he realized. Only this one tiny part of my mind looks down and sees. Sees the lies and the mechanism.
Even this long wait. It’s to make you more and more helpless. More dependent. Praying they’ll see you. When the girl says that Mr. Knight will see me, I’ll be glad to go in. And I’ll be so glad to take the job; I really will be. It won’t be simulated. Because by now there is an even worse possibility. That I’ll have done all this in vain, for nothing.
“Mr. Knight will see you now,” the girl said, from her desk.
At once, like a machine, he was on his feet. He wheeled smartly and strode through the open door, into Knight’s office.
There sat a man only slightly older than himself, but with a round, smooth, pink, shaved, double-chinned face. A man with plenty of flesh on him, well-dressed, with beautifully manicured nails; a good-looking man in an easy-going mood. A relaxed man who had nothing to worry about or be gloomy about.
“Sit down,” Knight said, indic
ating a chair.
Al sat down.
“How are you today?” Knight said.
“Fine, thanks,” Al said.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Knight said.
“That’s okay,” Al said.
“You’ve never had any experience with the record business,” Knight said, tapping his pencil reflectively.
“No,” Al said.
Knight pondered. All at once he raised his eyes and scrutinized Al with silent ferocity. The man’s light-colored eyes took on such power that Al felt paralyzed; he could only gaze helplessly back.
“Okay,” Knight said. “We’ll go along with you, boy.” He rose from his chair. “It’s a deal. We’re not looking for experience. We’re looking for the right man.” It all came out in a rush now. “We have an idea that the next big thing in the record business—hell, in popular music on TV or whatever else you find it—is going to be barbershop.”
“I see,” Al said.
“Barbershop,” Knight said. “But not the old harmonizing; the old sentimental crooning in unison. This will be barbershop with the new sound, electronic barbershop. With plenty of presence. It’ll sweep the nation. Modern science will supply what barbershop has always lacked, a modern quality to which modern people, like teenagers, could relate. We’re starting a new line. It’ll be called Harman-E. It’ll be barbershop, and it’ll carry everything else inside six months.” Seating himself on his desk, Knight scrutinized Al again. “Do you know,” he said, “where the great artists in this medium are going to come from?”
“No,” Al said.
“From small towns,” Knight said. “Right here in California. From towns like Modesto, Tracy, Vallejo. Not quite the country and not quite the city. The real backbone of America, where we all came from and where we all want to go back.”
“I was born in St. Helena,” Al said.
“I know,” Knight said. “That’s why you were picked. Do you sing?”
“No,” Al said.