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The Common Man
It would, of course, take a trio of Ivory Tower scientists to conceive of tracking down that statistical entity, the Common Man, and testing out an idea on him. And only the Ivory Tower type would predict that egregiously wrongly!
by Guy McCord
Illustrated by Schelling
Frederick Braun, M.D., Ph.D., various other Ds, pushed his slightlycrooked horn-rims back on his nose and looked up at the two-story woodenhouse. There was a small lawn before it, moderately cared for, and onetree. There was the usual porch furniture, and the house was going toneed painting in another six months or so, but not quite yet. There wasa three-year-old hover car parked at the curb of a make that anywhereelse in the world but America would have been thought ostentatious inview of the seeming economic status of the householder.
Frederick Braun looked down at the paper in his hand, then up at thehouse again. He said to his two companions, "By Caesar, I will admit itis the most average-looking dwelling I have ever seen."
Patricia O'Gara said impatiently, "Well, do we or don't we?" Her hairshould have been in a pony tail, or bouncing on her shoulders, or atleast in the new Etruscan revival style, not drawn back in its efficientbun.
Ross Wooley was unhappy. He scratched his fingers back through hisreddish crew cut. "This is going to sound silly."
Patricia said testily, "We've been through all that, Rossie, goodheavens."
"Nothing ventured, nothing ..." Braun let the sentence dribble away ashe stuffed the paper into a coat pocket, which had obviously been usedas a waste receptacle for many a year, and led the way up the cementwalk, his younger companions immediately behind.
He put his finger on the doorbell and cocked his head to one side. Therewas no sound from the depths of the house. Dr. Braun muttered, "Bell outof order."
"It would be," Ross chuckled sourly. "Remember? Average. Here, let me."He rapped briskly on the wooden door jamb. They stood for a moment thenhe knocked again, louder, saying almost as though hopefully, "Maybethere's nobody home."
"All right, all right, take it easy," a voice growled even as the dooropened.
He was somewhere in his thirties, easygoing of face, brownish of hair,bluish of eye and moderately good-looking. His posture wasn't the bestand he had a slight tummy but he was a goodish masculine specimen byMid-Western standards. He stared out at them, defensive now that it wasobvious they were strangers. Were they selling something, or in whatother manner were they attempting to intrude on his well being? His eyeswent from the older man's thin face, to the football hero heft of theyounger, then to Patricia O'Gara. His eyes went up and down her figureand became approving in spite of the straight business suit sheaffected.
He said, "What could I do for you?"
"Mr. Crowley?" Ross said.
"That's right."
"I'm Ross Wooley and my friends are Patricia O'Gara and Dr. FrederickBraun. We'd like to talk to you."
"There's nobody sick here."
Patricia said impatiently, "Of course not. Dr. Braun isn't a practicingmedical doctor. We are research biochemists."
"We're scientists," Ross told him, putting it on what he assumed was theman's level. "There's something on which you could help us."
Crowley took his eyes from the girl and scowled at Ross. "Me?Scientists? I'm just a country boy, I don't know anything aboutscience." There was a grudging self-deprecation in his tone.
Patricia took over, a miracle smile overwhelming her air of briskness."We'd appreciate the opportunity to discuss it with you."
Dr. Braun added the clincher. "And it might be remunerative."
Crowley opened the door wider. "Well, just so it don't cost me nothing."He stepped back for them. "Don't mind the place. Kind of mussed up. Factis, the wife left me about a week ago and I haven't got around togetting somebody to come in and kind of clean things up."
He wasn't exaggerating. Patricia O'Gara had no pretensions to thehousewife's art herself, but she sniffed when she saw the condition ofthe living room. There was a dirty shirt drooped over the sofa back andbeside the chair which faced the TV set were half a dozen empty beercans. The ashtrays hadn't been emptied for at least days and the floorhad obviously not been swept since the domestic tragedy which had sentMrs. Crowley packing.
Now that the three strangers were within his castle, Crowley's instinctsfor hospitality asserted themselves. He said, "Make yourselfcomfortable. Here, wait'll I get these things out of the way. Anybodylike a drink? I got some beer in the box, or," he smirked at Patricia,"I got some port wine you might like, not this bellywash you buy by thegallon."
They declined the refreshments, it wasn't quite noon.
Crowley wrestled the chair which had been before the TV set around sothat he could sit facing them, and then sat himself down. He didn't getthis and his face showed it.
Frederick Braun came to the point. "Mr. Crowley," he said, "did it everoccur to you that somewhere amidst our nearly one hundred millionAmerican males there is the average man?"
Crowley looked at him.
Braun cleared his throat and with his thumb and forefinger pushed hisglasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose. "I suppose that isn'texactly the technical way in which to put it."
Ross Wooley shifted his football shoulders and leaned forward earnestly."No, Doctor, that's exactly the way to put it." He said to Crowley, veryseriously, "We've done this most efficiently. We've gone throughabsolute piles of statistics. We've...."
"Done what?" Crowley all but wailed. "Take it easy, will you? What areyou all talking about?"
Patricia said impatiently, "Mr. Crowley, you are the average American.The man on the street. The Common Man."
He frowned at her. "What'd'ya mean, common? I'm as good as anybodyelse."
"That's exactly what we mean," Ross said placatingly. "You are exactlyas good as anybody else, Mr. Crowley. You're the average man."
"I don't know what the devil you're talking about. Pardon my language,Miss."
"Not at all," Patricia sighed. "Dr. Braun, why don't you take over? Weseem to all be speaking at once."
* * *
The little doctor began to enumerate on his fingers. "The center ofpopulation has shifted to this vicinity, so the average American liveshere in the Middle West. Population is also shifting from rural tourban, so the average man lives in a city of approximately this size.Determining average age, height, weight is simple with government dataas complete as they are. Also racial background. You, Mr. Crowley, arepredominately English, German and Irish, but have traces of two or threeother nationalities."
Crowley was staring at him. "How in the devil did you know that?"
Ross said wearily, "We've gone to a lot of trouble."
Dr. Braun hustled on. "You've had the average amount of education,didn't quite finish high school. You make average wages working in afactory as a clerk. You spent some time in the army but never sawcombat. You drink moderately, are married and have one child, which isaverage for your age. Your I.Q. is exactly average and you vote Democratexcept occasionally when you switch over to Republican."
"Now wait a minute," Crowley protested. "You mean I'm the only man inthis whole country that's like me? I mean, you mean I'm the average guy,right in the middle?"
Patricia O'Gara said impatiently. "You are the nearest thing to it, Mr.Crowley. Actually, possibly one of a hundred persons would have servedour purpose."
"O.K.," Crowley interrupted, holding up a hand. "That gets us to thepoint. What's this here purpose? What's the big idea prying, like, intomy affairs till you learned all this about me? And what's this stuffabout me getting something out of
it? Right now I'm between jobs."
The doctor pushed his battered horn-rims back on his nose with hisforefinger. "Yes, of course," he said reasonably. "Now we get to thepoint. Mr. Crowley, how would you like to be invisible?"
The three of them looked at him. It seemed to be his turn.
Crowley got up and walked into the kitchen. He came back in a momentwith an opened can of beer from which he was gulping even as he walked.He took the can away from his mouth and said carefully,