Philip Dick: Mary And The Giant

"But none of your business."

Returning to the Negro, Schilling said, "What's a good place to walk? Up toward the hills?"

"There a couple of parks. One of them just down there; you could walk over. It small, but it shady." He pointed the direction, glad to be helpful, glad to be of service to the large, well-dressed white gentleman.

The large, well-dressed white gentleman looked about him, his cigar between his fingers. His eyes moved in such a way that the Negro knew he was seeing past the car wash and the Foster's Freeze drive-in; he was seeing out over the town. He was seeing the residential section of estates and mansions. He was seeing the slum section, the tumbledown hotel and cigar store. He was seeing the fire station and high school and modern shops. In his eyes it was all there, as if he had caught hold of it just by looking at it.

And it seemed to the Negro that the white gentleman had traveled a long way to reach this one town. He had not come from nearby; he had not even come from the East. Perhaps he had come all across the world; perhaps he had always been coming, moving along, from place to place. It was his cigar: it smelled foreign. It wasn't made in America; it came from outside. The white gentleman stood there, giving off a foreign smell, from his cigar, his tired tweed suit, his English shoes, his French cuffs made of gold and linen. Probably his silver cigar cutter came from Sweden. Probably he drank Spanish sherry. He was a man of and from the world.

When he came, when he drove his big black Dodge up onto the lot, it was not merely himself that he brought. He was much bigger than that. He was so immense that he towered over everything, even as he stood bending and listening, even as he stood smoking his cigar. The Negro had never seen a face so far up; it was so far that it had no look, no expression. It had neither kindness nor meanness; it was simply a face, an endless face high above him, with its smoking, billowing cigar, spreading out the whole world around him and his assistant. Bringing the whole outside universe into the little California town of Pacific Park.

Leisurely, Joseph Schilling walked along the gravel path, his hands in his pockets, enjoying the activity around him. At a pond children were feeding bread to a plump duck. In the center of the park was a bandstand, deserted. Old men sat here and there, and young, full-breasted mothers. The trees were pepper and eucalyptus, and they were extremely shady.

"Bums," Max said, trailing behind him and wiping his perspiring face with a pocket handkerchief. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere," Schilling said.

"You're going to talk to somebody. You're going to sit down and talk to one of these bums. You'll talk to anybody-you talked to that coon."

"I've fairly well made up my mind," Schilling said. "You have? About what?"

"We'll locate here."

"Why?" Max demanded. "Because of this park? There's one like it in every town up and down-"

"Because of this town. Here there's everything I want."

"Such as girls with big knockers."

They had reached the edge of the park. Stepping from the curb, Schilling crossed the street. "You can go find yourself a beer, if you prefer."

"Where are you going?" Max asked suspiciously.

Ahead of them was a row of modern stores. In the center of the block was a real estate office. GREB AND POTTER, the sign read. "I'm going in there," Schilling said. "Think it over."

"I've thought it over."

"You can't open your store here; you won't make any money in a town like this."

"Maybe not," Schilling said absently. "But-" He smiled. "I can sit in the park and feed bread to the duck."

"I'll meet you back at the car wash," Max said, and shambled resignedly off toward the bar.

Joseph Schilling paused a moment, and then entered the real estate office. The single large room was dark and cool. A long counter blocked off one side; behind it, at a desk, sat a tall young man.

"Yes, sir?" the young man said, making no move to rise.

"What can I do for you?"

"You handle business rentals?"

"Yes, we do."

Joseph Schilling moved to the end of the counter and regarded a wall map of Santa Clara County. "Let me see your listings." From between his fingers appeared the white edge of his business card. "I'm Joseph R. Schilling."

The young man had risen to his feet. "I'm Jack Greb. Glad to meet you, Mr. Schilling." He extended his hand warily. "Business property? You're looking for a long-term lease on a retail outlet?" From under the counter he got a thick, stave-bound book and laid it open before him.

"Without fixtures," Schilling said.

"You're a merchant? You have a California Retail Sales License?"

"I'm in the music business." Presently he added, "I used to be in the publishing end; now I've decided to try my hand at record retailing. It's been a sort of dream of mine-to have my own shop."

"We already have a record shop," Greb said. "Hank's Music Bar."

"This will be a different type of thing. This will be music for connoisseurs."

"Classical music, you mean."

"That's what I mean."

Wetting his thumb, Greb began spiritedly turning the stiff yellow pages of his listings book. "I think we have just the place for you. Nice little store, very modern and clean. Tilted front, fluorescent lighting, built only a couple of years ago. Over on Pine Street, right in the heart of the business section. Used to be a gift shop. Man and his wife, nice middle-aged couple. He sold out when she died. Died of stomach cancer, as I understand."

"I'd like to see the place," Joseph Schilling said.

Greb smiled slyly back across the counter at him. "And I'd like to show it to you."

At the edge of the concrete loading platform of California Readymade Furniture an express truck was taking on stacks of chrome chairs. A second truck, a P.I.E. van, waited to take its place.

In faded blue jeans and a cloth apron, the shipping clerk was lethargically hammering together a chrome dinner table. Sixteen bolts held the plastic top in place; seven bolts kept the hollow metal legs from wobbling loose.

"Shit," the shipping clerk said.

He wondered if anybody else in the world was assembling chrome furniture. He thought over all the things people could be imagined doing. In his mind appeared the image of the beach at Santa Cruz, the image of girls in bathing suits, bottles of beer, motel cabins, radios playing soft jazz. The pain was too much. Abruptly he descended on the welder, who, having slid up his mask, was searching for more tables.

"This is shit," the shipping clerk said. "You know it?"

The welder grinned, nodded, and waited.

"You done?" the shipping clerk demanded. "You want another table? Who the hell would have one of these tables in his house? I wouldn't give them toilet space."

One gleaming leg slipped from his fingers and fell to the concrete. Cursing, the shipping clerk kicked it into the litter under his bench, among the bits of rope and brown paper. He was bending to pluck it back out when Miss Mary Anne Reynolds appeared with more order sheets ready for his attention.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said, knowing how clearly he could be heard in the office.

"The hell with it," the shipping clerk said, as he got down a fresh leg. "Hold this, will you?"

Mary Anne put down her papers and held the leg while he bolted it onto the chair frame. The smell of his unhappiness reached her, and it was a thin smell, acrid, like sweat that had soured. She felt sorry for him, but his stupidity annoyed her. He had been like this a year and a half ago, when she started.

"Quit," she told him. "Why keep a job you don't like?"

"Shut up," the shipping clerk said.

Mary Anne let go of the completed table and watched the welder fuse the legs in place. She enjoyed the sputter of sparks: it was like a Fourth of July display. She had asked the welder to let her try the torch, but he always grinned and said no.