Philip Dick - In Milton Lumky Territory

“Fine,” she said. “Listen,” she said, as she bolted the screen door after them. “You go to your room and I’ll go back to mine. Mrs. Poppinjay has a key, and while she’s supposed not to come until nine or so, we might oversleep.”

“Okay,” he said, more interested in sleep. The time was four-thirty and his fatigue had become an ache.

Going off toward her room she paused long enough to blow him a kiss. Good night , her mouth declared soundlessly, and then he lost sight of her as each of them opened a door.

What a night, he thought as he climbed into the still warm, damp rumpled, nice-smelling bed.

Marriage, he thought.

And yet the idea did not disturb him. It had a naturalness, as if it could be anticipated in the ordinary course of things.

I guess that would make Taffy my step-daughter, he thought to himself. And what about the office. R & J Mimeographing Service, my job there. Would I inherit part of it…become part owner?

It all sounded good to him. He went to sleep pleased, his mind on tomorrow.

The next morning, at ten-thirty, he and Susan drove downtown together in his Merc, to the office.

As they parked across the street, out of the two-hour zone, Susan said, “Listen, I have to run down and see about some dress material. You go on in and I’ll see you there in about half an hour.” Shading her eyes she peered and said. “The door’s unlocked. Zoe must be in there. If she’s too obnoxious, just walk out and sit here in the car, or wherever you want. But I don’t think she will be. She probably just won’t say much to you; she’ll probably be busy typing.”

“Is there anything you want me to say to her?” he asked, feeling vaguely nettled.

“No,” she said, standing on the sidewalk and closing the car door on her side. In her suit she looked quite chic and well-groomed. “Of course,” she said, bending down to lean in the car window, “don’t mention about your living at the house or anything about last night.”

Susan hurried off. He locked up the car, crossed the street, and with a great deal of uneasiness, entered the office.

As Susan had said, Zoe paid no attention to him. In the back at one of the desks she worked determinedly at the old, massive typewriter, turning out one page after another. For a time he hung around in the front, where the customers evidently were supposed to be, and then he took the bull by the horns and passed back of the counter, by the several desks. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” Zoe said.

He said, “I’m going to be working here.”

“Ah,” she said, in a merry, brisk voice. “So Susan tells me.” Glancing momentarily in his direction she said, “Of course that has little or no importance to me since I’ll be leaving.”

“I see,” he said, nodding as if it were news to him.

“Probably in the next few days. I’ve been wanting to get out of this dead-end for at least a year.” She ceased typing and swiveled her chair around so that she faced him. More slowly and forcefully she said, “We’ve lost money steadily, as you probably know. I imagine Susan told you all that. She has as little faith in this business as I have. I don’t know why she wants to go on. There’s a dime store across the street that sells paper and ribbon and carbon paper; we can’t compete with them because they buy so much at once. The big drugstore on the corner sells portables. That doesn’t leave anything but renting machines and doing manuscript typing and mimeographing, and there isn’t any money in that. Even if she had money to invest it wouldn’t do any good, not unless she plans to move to some other location, and if she does that she’ll lose almost everything we put into fixing this place up.”

He said nothing. It threw him somewhat.

“What, exactly, did she hire you to do?” Zoe said. “Just do general work around here? Can you type? She certainly doesn’t plan to do the typing and stencil-cutting herself… I’ve been doing most of it.” Refined triumph appeared on her wrinkled, middle-aged face. She had no sympathy for him or Susan; she had become heartless now that she knew she was going to leave.

He asked, “What are your plans after you leave?”

“Oh, I believe I’ll open a little place down near Dallas. I have friends living there.” She whacked out a few more sentences.

“Well, I wish you luck,” he said.

In a firm voice, Zoe said, “I wish you luck, too, working with Susan. Have you known her very long? If you can make a go of this place, it’ll be up to you and not to her—she has absolutely no aptitude or concern. She merely wants to be able to draw enough out of it to meet her needs.” Abruptly she stopped talking to him and returned to her work. Time passed, and then she said, “Have you had experience in retail selling?” She asked in such a manner as to suggest that it would not surprise her if he had years of it, that Susan had snared someone who could take over and manage the place with utmost efficiency. In spite of her dislike for him she obviously had respect for him, almost an awe. As if, by replacing her, he had already proved himself better equipped for the job. And of course he was a man. He felt, watching her and studying her, that she automatically conceded superiority to men. It would be a failing, a weakness in her. Part of the situation that had retarded them in trying to do business, in dealing with wholesalers and customers.

Two women trying to run a business. A disadvantage.

“I’d like to look over the last few months’ invoices,” he said.

“They’re in the file, in the cabinet. Alphabetically.”

Seated at a vacant desk he inspected the invoices, seeing how their costs broke down.

“Are you seeing what our profits have been?” Zoe asked, once.

Almost at once he saw that Susan and Zoe had been buying in the worst possible fashion, little driblets each month at the highest per unit cost. He saw, too, that they never picked their supplies up; they always had things delivered.

“What about returns?” he asked Zoe. “Defective stuff that goes back.”

“You’ll have to ask Susan about that,” Zoe said.

Probably they were missing out on the possibilities of clearing their inventories through periodic returns. He wandered about the office, poking into the supply cupboards, the shelves of reams of typing paper, boxes of ribbon, flat packets of carbon paper, and the weary old typewriters which rented for five dollars or less a month. He could tell at a glance that these ancient machines took up most of the storage space; they lined two entire walls, from ceiling to floor. Most of them had a layer of dust on them. The window space, too, was filled up by machines for sale, all second-hand, nothing new. Like a junk store, he thought morbidly. His experience went entirely against used merchandise; it made him feel queasy even to touch dusty, dirty-looking objects in second-hand shops. He liked things new, in sanitary cellophane packages. Imagine buying a used toothbrush, he thought to himself. Christ.

Lighting a cigarette and meditating, he began to wonder about franchises. If new typewriters were being sold nearby, the manufacturers might be unwilling to open more dealerships. But…there were always ways to get hold of merchandise. As long as the buyer had cash, and preferably a means of immediate transportation.

He began to thrill to the notion of it. Transforming this place.

“I think I can do her a lot of good here,” he said.

Zoe did not answer.

At noon Susan breezed into the office carrying an armload of parcels. She stopped by Zoe and began to show her different items. Bruce, conscious of her, continued working. Eventually she came over to him.

“Hi,” she said.