"Oh I'm afraid I couldn't-"
"Do you have lunch with Janet?"
"Yes."
"Then why not with me? Here I am, doing half Jan's work—taking calls for her-and what do I get out of it? A complaint from the phone supervisor. Is this justice, Patsy? We'll have half a lunch together. You can wrap up the other half and take it to Jan."
She laughed. It was a delicious laugh. "You are a charmer, aren't you? What's your name?"
"Howard."
"Howard what?"
"Patsy what?"
"You go first."
"I'm taking no chances. Either I tell you at lunch or I remain anonymous."
"All right," she said. "My hour's one to two. Where shall we meet?"
"Rockefeller Plaza. Third flagpole from the left."
"How glamorous."
"Third flagpole from the left. Got it?"
"Yes."
"One o'clock tomorrow?"
"One o'clock," Patsy repeated.
"You'll recognize me by the bone stuck through my nose. I have no last name. I'm an aborigine."
We laughed and hung up. I rushed out of the office to avoid my wife's call. I wasn't an honest man at home that night, but I was excited. I could hardly sleep. One o'clock next afternoon I was waiting in front of the third flagpole from the left at Rockefeller Plaza, rehearsing bright dialogue and trying to look my best. I knew Patsy'd probably look me over before she decided to reveal herself.
I kept watching the girls as they passed, trying to guess which she'd be. The loveliest women in the world can be found by the hundreds in Rockefeller Plaza during lunch hour. I had high hopes. I waited and rehearsed. She never showed up. At half past one I realized that
I'd failed to pass the examination. She'd looked me over and decided to forget the whole thing. I was never so humiliated and angry in my life.
My bookkeeper quit that afternoon, and deep in my heart I couldn't blame her. No self-respecting girl could have endured me. I had to stay late, hassling with the employment agency for a new girl. Just before six, my phone rang. It was Patsy.
"Are you calling me or Jan?" I asked angrily.
"I'm calling you," she said, just as angrily.
"Plaza 6-5000?"
"No. There's no such number and you know it. You're a cheat. I have to call Jan and hope the crossed wires get me through to you."
"What d'you mean there's no such number?"
"I don't know what kind of sense of humor you think you have, Mr. Aborigine, but I know you played a filthy trick on me today . . . keeping me waiting for an hour and never showing up. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"You waited for an hour? That's a lie. You never were there."
"I was there and you stood me up."
"Patsy, that's impossible. I waited for you until half past one. When did you get there?"
"One o'clock sharp."
"Then there's been an awful mistake. Are you sure you had it right? Third flagpole from the left?"
"Yes. Third flagpole from the left."
"We must have got our flagpoles mixed. I can't tell you how badly I feel about this."
"I don't believe you."
"What can I say? I thought you stood me up. I was so angry this afternoon that my bookkeeper quit on me. You aren't a bookkeeper by any chance?"
"No. And I'm not looking for a job."
"Patsy, we'll have lunch tomorrow, and this time we'll meet where we can't miss each other."
"I don't know if I want to."
"Please. I want to settle this business about there being no Plaza 6-5000. That doesn't make sense."
"There's no such number."
"Then what's this I'm using? A string telephone?"
She laughed.
"What's your number, Patsy?"
"Oh, no. It's like the last names. I won't give you mine if I don't know yours."
"But you know mine."
"No I don't. I tried to call you this afternoon and the operator said there was no such exchange. She—"
"She's crazy. We'll discuss it tomorrow. One o'clock again?"
"But not in front of any flagpole."
"All right. You told Jan you're around the comer from the old Tiffany building?"
"That's right."
"On Fifth Avenue?"
"Yes."
"I'll be on that corner at one sharp."
"You'd better be."
"Patsy . . ."
"Yes, Howard?"
"You sound even more wonderful when you're angry."
It rained torrents next day. I got to the southeast corner of Thirty-seventh and Fifth, where the old Tiffany building stands, and I waited in the rain from twelve-fifty to one-forty. Patsy never showed up. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe anyone could be mean enough to play a trick like that. Then I remembered her lovely voice and enchanting manner and I hoped the rain had kept her home that day. I hoped she'd called to warn me after I left.
I took a cab back to my office and asked if there were any phone messages. There were none. I was so disgusted and disappointed that I went down to the Madison Avenue Hotel bar and had a few drinks to ward off the chill and the wet. I stayed there, drinking and dreaming, calling my office every hour just to keep in touch. Once I had a brainstorm and dialed Prescott 9-3232 to speak to Janet. The operator cut into the line.
"What number are you calling, please?"
"Prescott 9-3232."
"I'm sorry. There is no such exchange listed. Will you consult your directory again, please?"
So that was that. I hung up, had a few more drinks, saw that it was five-thirty and decided to check in for the last time and go home. I dialed my office number. There was a click and a buzz and then Patsy answered the phone. I couldn't mistake her voice.
"Patsy!"
"Who's this?"
"Howard. What the devil are you doing in my office?"
"I'm home. How did you find my number?"
"I didn't. I was calling my shop and got you instead. The crossed wires must work both ways."
"I don't want to talk to you."
"You ought to be ashamed to talk to me."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Listen, Patsy, it was a dirty trick standing me up like that. If you wanted revenge you could have—"
"I did not stand you up. You stood me up."
"Oh, for God's sake, don't start that. If you're not interested in me, have the decency to say so. I got soaked standing on that corner. I'm still wet."
"Soaked? How do you mean?"
"In the rain!" I shouted. "How else could I mean?"
"What rain?" Patsy asked in surprise.
"Don't dummy up. It's been pouring all day. It's still pouring."
"I think you're crazy," she said in a hushed voice. "There's been nothing but bright sunshine all day."
"Here in town?"
"Of course."
"Outside your office?"
"Certainly."
"Bright sunshine all day at Thirty-seventh and Fifth?"
"Why Thirty-seventh and Fifth?"
"Because that's where the old Tiffany building is," I said in exasperation. "You're around the corner from it."
"You're frightening me," she whispered. "I-I think I'd better hang up now."
"Why? What's wrong now?"
"The old Tiffany building is at Fifty-seventh and Fifth."
"No, idiot! That's the new one."
"It's the old one. You know they had to move, back in 1945."
"Move?"
"Yes. They couldn't rebuild on account of the radiation."
"What radiation? What are you—"
"From the bomb crater."
A chill ran down my spine, and it wasn't from the damp and the cold. "Patsy," I said slowly. "This is serious, dear. I think maybe something more than telephone wires have been crossed. What's your phone exchange? Never mind the number. Just tell me your exchange."
"America 5."
I looked
at the list of exchange names before me in the booth: ACademy 2, ADirondack 4, ALgonquin 4, ALgonquin 5, ATwater 9. . . . There wasn't any AMerica 5.
"Here in Manhattan?"
"Of course, here in Manhattan. Where else?"
"The Bronx," I answered. "Or Brooklyn or Queens."
"Would I be living in occupation camps?"
I took a breath. "Patsy, dear, what's your last name? I think we'd better be honest about this because I think we're involved in something fantastic. I'm Howard Campbell."
She gasped.
"What's your last name, Patsy?"
"Shimabara," she said.
"You're Japanese?"
"Yes. You're Yank?"
"Yes. Were you born here, Patsy?"
"No. I came over in 1945—with the occupation unit."
"I see. We lost the war—where you are."
"Of course. That's history. But, Howard, I'm here. I'm here in New York. It's 1954. It-"
"But the sun is shining and you dropped the A-bomb on us and licked us and you're occupying America." I began to laugh hysterically. "We're on different time tracks, Patsy. Your history isn't my history. We're in alternate worlds."
"I don't understand you, Howard."
"Don't you see? Each time the world reaches a crossroad, it goes both ways. And both exist. Like if you wonder what would have happened if Columbus hadn't discovered America. Well, somewhere there's a world where he didn't. It's an alternate world, parallel to us. There must be thousands of parallel worlds in existence, side by side, and you're in another one from me. You're out of my world, Patsy. The telephone lines between our alternate worlds have gotten crossed. I'm trying to date a girl who doesn't exist—for me."
"But, Howard . . ."
"We're parallel but different, here and there—the phone exchanges, the weather, the war . . . . We've both got a Rockefeller Plaza and we were both standing there yesterday at one o'clock, but so far apart, Patsy darling, so impossibly far apart
At that moment the operator opened the line and said, "Your time is up, sir. Five cents for the next five minutes, please."
I felt in my pocket for change. "Patsy, are you still there?"
"Yes, Howard."
"I haven't any change on me. Tell the operator to reverse the charge. We've got to keep this line open. We may never get through again."
"But how can she—"
"Don't you understand? We're repairing the line here, and you're repairing it there, and sooner or later it'll be fixed. We'll be cut off forever. Tell her to reverse the charges, Patsy."
"I'm sorry, sir," the operator said. "We cannot reverse the charges. You may hang up and call again."
"Patsy, keep calling me, will you? Call Janet. I'll go back to my office and wait."
"Your time is up, sir."
"Patsy, what do you look like? Tell me. Quickly, darling. I—"
The phone went dead, and my dime rattled down into the coin box.
I went back to my office and waited until eight o'clock. She didn't phone or she couldn't phone. I kept an open line direct to my desk for a week and answered every incoming call myself. She never got through to me again. Somewhere, here or there, they had repaired that crossed wire.
I never forgot Patsy. I never got over the memory of her enchanting voice. I couldn't tell anyone about her. I wouldn't be telling you now, only I've lost my heart to a girl with lovely legs ice skating round and round while the music plays in Rockefeller Plaza.
The Dark Side Of The Earth, 1964
The Animal Fair
I went to the animal fair.
The birds and the beasts were there.
By the light of the moon,
The big baboon,
Was combing his golden hair.
The monkey he got drunk,
And climbed up the elephant's trunk.
The elephant sneezed
And fell on his knees,
But what become of the monk?
Traditional nursery song
There is a high hill in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, that is called Red Hill because it is formed of red shale. There is an abandoned farm on top of the hill which is called Red Hill farm. It was deserted many years ago when the children of farmers decided that there was more excitement and entertainment in the cities.
Red Hill farm has an old stone house with thick walls, oaken floors and the enormous fireplaces in which the cooking was done two hundred years ago. There is a slate-roofed smokehouse behind it in which hams should be hung. There is a small red barn cluttered with forgotten things like children's sleighs and pieces of horses' harness, and there is a big red barn which is the Big Red Schoolhouse.
Here the ladies and gentlemen who possess the farm in fact, if not in fee simple absolute, hold meetings by day and night to discuss problems of portent and to educate their children. But you must understand that they speak the language of creatures which few humans can hear or understand. Most of us learned it when we were young but lost it as it was replaced by human speech. A rare few can still speak both, and this is our story.
The meetings in the Big Red Schoolhouse are governed by the Chairman, a ring-necked cock pheasant who is all pomp and strut. He is secretly referred to as "The Sex Maniac" because he maintains a harem of five hens. The Professor is a white rat who escaped from the Rutgers University laboratories after three years of intensive education. He believes that he is qualified for a Ph.D. and is considering doing his dissertation "On The Relevance of Hot Water to Science."
George Washington Woodchuck is the peerless surveyor of Red Hill farm. He knows every inch of its forty acres and is the arbiter of all territorial disputes. The Senior Rabbit, who is occasionally called "The Scoutmaster," is the mentor of morality and much alarmed by the freedom and excesses of the Red Hill young. "I will not," he says, "permit Red Hill to become another Woodstock." He also deplores modern music.
There are many other members of the Big Red School-house—deer, who have darling manners, but are really awfully dumb. The intellectuals call them "The Debutantes." Moses Mole, who is virtually blind, as all moles are, is pestering the Professor to teach him astronomy. "But how can I teach you astronomy when you can't even see the stars?" "I don't want to be an observing astronomer. I want to be a mathematical astronomer like Einstein." It looks as though the Professor will have to introduce a course in the New Math.
There are a Cardinal and a Brown Thrasher who have mean tempers and are always picking fights. The Cardinal is called "His Eminence," of course, and the Brown Thrasher is nicknamed "Jack Johnson." It's true that Jack Johnson has a rotten disposition, but he sings beautifully and conducts regular vocal classes. On the other hand the voice of His Eminence can only be called painful.
The Chaldean Chicken is a runaway from a hatchery down the road, and she's a real mixed-up girl. She's a White Leghorn and had the misfortune to discover that Leghorn is a place in Italy. Consequently she speaks a gibberish which she believes is fluent Italian. "Ah, caro mio, come est? Benny I hope. Grazie. And with meeyo is benny too." She's called the Chaldean because she's spaced out on astrology, which infuriates the Professor. "Ah, you will never be sympathetica with him. You are Gasitorius and he is Zapricorn."
The cleverest, members of the Big Red Schoolhouse are crows, who are witty and and sound like an night party at a restaurant. Unfortunately, they are not respected by the Establishment, which regards them as "mere mummers who are likely to try to borrow something (never returned) and who turn serious discussions into a minstrel show. It must be admitted that when two crows get together they begin to behave like end men in search of an interlocutor, convulsing themselves with ancient gags.
"Which do you like, the old writers or the new writers?"
"My brother's got that."
"Got what?"
"Neuritis."
Caw! Caw! Caw!
"How many children do you have?
"I have five, thank you."
"Don't thank me, friend. Don't th
ank me."
Caw! Caw! Caw!
It was on an evening in May when the light is long and the shadows even longer that the Chairman entered the Big Red Schoolhouse attended by his harem. Everyone was there and deeply involved in a discussion of a proposal by the Professor. It was that they should establish an Underground Railroad, something like the Abolitionists, to enable other escapees to reach freedom. Moe Mole, who is rather literal-minded, was pointing out that it would be extremely difficult for him to dig tunnels big enough to accommodate railroad cars. "I saw one once. They're as big as houses." Jack Johnson was needling His Eminence to give flying lessons to all refugees, regardless of race, creed or species. Two black crows were cawing it up. In short, it was a typical Red Barn gathering.
"I call this meeting to order with important news," the Chairman said. "I say, Kaff Kaff, with vital intelligence. Flora, do sit down. Oh, sorry Frances, do sit—Felicia? Oh, Phyllis. Yes. Quite. Kaff Kaff. Do sit down, Phyllis. This morning a Cadillac drove up the lane leading to Red Hill farm—"
"Two hundred and thirty-five-point-nine yards," Geo. W. Woodchuck said, "bearing east-southeast. Latitude—"
"Yes, yes, my dear George. It was followed by a Volvo containing—"
"Which do you like, a Cadillac or a Volvo?"
"My father's got that."
"Got what?"
"A cadillac condition."
Caw! Caw! Caw!
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please! This is serious. The Cadillac contained a real estate agent. The foreign vehicle contained a man, a woman and an extremely small child, sex as yet undetermined. It is my judgment, Kaff Kaff, I say, my measured opinion that our farm is being shown for sale."
"May is a bad month for buying," the Chaldean Chicken declared. "Importanto decisions should be reservato for the Sign of Jemimah."
"The word is Gemini," the Professor shouted. "The least you can do is get your superstitions straight."
"You are a male chauvinist rat," Miss Leghorn retorted, "And I am going to form a Chickens' Lib."
"Yes, yes, my dear. And I will be the first to contribute to your worthy cause. Never mind that look, Frances—Oh, Fifi? There is no need for a Pheasants' Lib movement. You are already liberated. Kaff Kaff. Now, ladies and gentlemen, we are involved in, I say, we are committed to a struggle for the preservation of our property. We must not permit any strangers (I might almost call them squatters) to invade us. We must make the land as unattractive as possible, and this will demand sacrifices."