Harlan Ellison - No Doors, No Windows

The way it turned out, that was the best thing ever happened to me. I mean, I got out and hadda start looking around for a job, and finally took my horn and got with the combo, and that was the start of my career. You know, Eddie, it was like it was supposed to’ve happened that way. Kismet, right?

Then when you graduated it was a natural for you to come on the combo with me, and be the business manager. I mean, I knew you needed a job — Christ, those were rough days for finding work, what with all them vets from the Nam climbing over each other trying to find slots — and I was glad to give you a hand for a change, when you needed it, and it could help.

That’s what friends do for friends, ain’t it?

Lucky we stuck together when the combo flopped, because you had quite a bit of dough saved. No, hell, I never paid any attention to what those other four creeps in the group said about mismanagement of funds and all that crap. What the hell did they know about friendship, right? You did a great job. You wouldn’t never shaft a buddy, I knew that.

Anyhow, it was for the best. I got in with Larry in the big time, and there we were, you my manager and all, just doing great, hanging tough; and I’ve never thought thirty per cent was a big enough cut for the way you pushed me. With solos and all like that. And then TV and that contract with Columbia and the flick we made. I mean, that was the greatest.

Then Bernice came along, and we got hitched, and it was all solid, man. I mean, she was just about all of it to me.

Sore? Hell no, I’ve told you a couple times I’m not sore. I mean, Bernice just couldn’t take me. The only thing is, after three years being married to one chick, you sort of get the blues when she goes over to someone else. I know you didn’t encourage her, Eddie. I mean, you’re my friend. It’s just that — well — you know, like she was the whole world for me. And when she decided she wanted a divorce so’s you two could get hitched, well, it kind of laid me back for good.

That’s why I came over here tonight.

You sure you’re alone, man?

Yeah. Well, like I haven’t got the horn in this case, y’know. Here, see, it’s this gun. Like I borrowed it from Stacey. You know Stacey. He’s the one with the spike, like he’s second trom.

Yeah. I want you to do me a favor.

Huh? Kill you? No, man, you don’t get it. Like, I know you’re my friend, and if I needed a favor you’d come by me and lay it on me. That’s why I brought up this gun. No, man, stop that jazz. I ain’t going to blow a hole in you. I want you to help me. I sort of found out I’m a really weak character, Eddie, and you’re stronger than me, and I wrote this good note here, see, and it’s got everything written right down in black and white, and I got my accounts all squared away so’s Bernice gets it all when I go.

I mean, you wear these gloves I brought along, wait a minute, I got ’em right here in my jacket pocket. Here. See? And when I’m down, you just stick the gun in my hand like I done it myself, no fingerprints. I mean, you got to help, Eddie. Like the guy at the used car joint says, “Let me work with you on this thing.”

I got to have someone help me, Eddie.

Without her, I’m nothing, just useless shit.

So I come to you. You’ll do it, won’t you?

I mean, Eddie, you’re my friend, ain’t you?

A matter of twenty dollars threatened Mr. Huggerson’s universe. This universe was fifteen feet by twenty-three feet long, on the second floor of a dingy building on Fourth Street: namely, a ten-dollar-per-week room in Harry Troyden’s flophouse. Mr. Huggerson had inhabited this particular corner of the universe for close to eight years, and it suited him just nicely.

But now, from the blue, Ralph had written him a very polite note — well, not written; typed, and at the bottom Mr. Huggerson had seen RH:et and that meant Ralph’s secretary had typed the note — and with understanding of the letter had come the cold wash of fear for Mr. Huggerson.

He lifted the single sheet of paper for the hundredth time that day, and read it through once more. He knew nothing would have changed on the paper, but he read it again, in hopes the shock might diminish if he searched the words many times. It did not, of course, but again he read:

“Dear Dad:

“You will notice that this month’s check is slightly less than usual. I’m really sorry about this, but I’ve had some awfully big expenditures out here on the Coast, and with that new McDonald’s I told you about opening up here, right across from the Van Nuys stand, giving me such stiff competition, every penny counts. And with the recession and all …

“So I’m sure you will understand, and not think too unkindly of me. Greta and the kids are just fine, and they send their love. Let us hear from you more often.

sLove, Ralph.”

The check had been for only fifty dollars. Slightly less? Twenty dollars less! With seventy a month, Mr. Huggerson had been able to pay his ten dollars a week for the room, and have thirty left over for food, cleaning and the newspaper every evening. But with fifty dollars, oh that was something else again. It had been just impossible to think what it meant at first; then the truth had slowly dawned on Mr. Huggerson.

It would mean Harry Troyden would turn him out if he could not pay the rent each Saturday. Turned away from the few friends he knew — the aging and toothless men who had, with almost lemming-like magnetism, come to Troyden’s to die away their last years.

Mr. Huggerson was a special case at Troyden’s. Where most of the other twenty-seven old men who resided there were kept in room and board by social security pittances, old army pensions, small returns from investments made years before, or company pension plans, Mr. Huggerson was supported solely by the gratuitous doles of his West Coast son, Ralph, owner of the Starburger chain. A chain of two stands in Los Angeles.

Mr. Huggerson had owned and operated a small grocery on the corner of Elm and Mitchell Streets for forty years, and had saved considerable money, which he had used to put Ralph through college and merchandising school; then, soon after Ralph had borrowed the remaining ten thousand in Mr. Huggerson’s account, to open the first Starburger, the conglomerate had opened a gigantic shining supermarket in the new plaza half a block away on Elm.

Mr. Huggerson had gone out of business within a year.

There was very little loyalty in the world these days.

After a frightening period of dislocation, and the eventual sale of the home Georgette and he had shared for twenty-nine years — and in which he had resided after her untimely death from pneumonia — he had come to Troyden’s. Ralph had been faithful about sending the seventy dollars each month, and Mr. Huggerson had settled into the warm sun and solitude of the flophouse, thinking this might not be such a bad way to end his days after all. For the other old men of the place were mild and interesting companions, bound together as they were in a sheaf of weariness and weak bladders and bannister-holding as they walked upstairs. They spent many evenings around the radio, listening to the remaining few shows they remembered from the old days. And when the air waves were filled with music, rock n’ roll and classical, they turned inward and poured warmth and reminiscence at one another. And, occasionally, television; but not often.

There were pleasant walks in the street, and gin rummy with Mr. Bonheim and Mr. Zeckhauser who had once been in the garment industry, and who talked knowingly of crushed velvet and cutting on the bias. All summed, it was a pleasant life; at seventy dollars a month.