Philip Dick - In Milton Lumky Territory

Milt shrugged. “Not necessary,” he said, scowling.

“If we get to discussing it, can I have him phone you?” He felt guilty, but he could not afford to take chances with the matter.

Rousing himself, Milt said, “If you want. If you can get hold of me. There’s no phone here.”

“There’s one in the motel office.”

Milt nodded.

Seating himself in the chair in the corner, facing Milt in the bed, he tried to relax. But his restlessness grew. “Listen,” he said, standing up. “I think I’ll go roam around and maybe buy something to read. Do you want anything? A magazine or a book?”

Gradually Milt had sunk down in the bed. He opened his eyes and regarded him and then he said, “Bruce, there’s something I’ve been going to say to you. I’ve been thinking about it, trying to figure out what it is that’s wrong with you, why you’re the way you are. I think I’ve finally got you figured out. You don’t believe in God, do you?”

This time he did laugh. This time the question was too inane and too seriously asked; he began to giggle and once he had started he could not stop. He found himself lying back in his chair, his hand over his eyes, wheezing and weeping, gasping, while across from him Milt continued to watch him somberly. And still he could not stop. The more he tried to stop, the harder it became to stop. At last he lost the ability to make any sound at all. Even his laughing was soundless. Not since his grammar school days, not since Saturday afternoon at the Kiddies’ Matinee at the Luxury, watching a Three Stooges comedy: he had not laughed so much since then. He knew that Milt was kidding. Now he realized that Milt had been kidding before, in the car. The whole time he had been kidding straight-faced. Looking back, realizing that Milt had been pulling his leg, he laughed harder and harder, until his ribs ached and he had exhausted himself and become dizzy.

When he was able he got to his feet. “Excuse me,” he managed, and walked step by step into the bathroom. There he shut the door and rinsed his face with cold water. He rubbed his face with the towel, combed his hair, glanced at himself in the mirror, and then he returned to the room.

In the bed, Milt lay as before.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said shakily, sitting down again in the chair.

Milt said, “I must be dreaming or something. I ask you a perfectly simple question and you laugh your head off.”

“Not again,” he said weakly, lifting his hand.

“Not again what?”

“I can’t stand it.”

Milt stared at him and then he said with ferocity, “Are you out of your mind? Stand back and take a good look at yourself. What kind of a person are you to laugh at a question like that?” He sat up in bed and smashed the pillow into place behind him. His face had flushed and become wrinkled, as if the bones and teem had been removed, had slipped back down inside and been dissolved.

“I told you I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “What else can I say?” He got up and came over, holding his hand out.

Milt shook hands with him, and at the same time said, “I’m deeply worried about you. I wouldn’t try to talk to you seriously if I wasn’t worried about you.” He let go of his hand. “You’re smart and personable; there’s no reason why you won’t go far. I can’t stand seeing you settle for a compromise.”

“What compromise?” he said.

“Giving up what you really want. You’ve set your sights on a material life of getting a buy and making a profit. You were cut out for—” He searched for the word. “You ought to be after something spiritual.”

Bruce said, with difficulty, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to start laughing again.” His jaw began to tremble of its own accord; he had to sit with his chin in his hands to keep it still.

“Why does that strike you as funny?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“There’s only one reason why a person goes into business,” Milt said. “To make money.”

“No,” he said.

“What else, then?”

“There’s a satisfaction in it,” he said.

“Balls,” Milt said.

He said, “You mean I should be a fireman or a cowboy?”

“You should have some values in your life, something permanent.”

“Like you have?” he said, laughing, unable to stop laughing.

“I don’t want you to be like me,” Milt said.

“You shouldn’t have become a salesman, if you feel like that,” he said. “Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with it.”

“That’s what I mean.”

Bruce said, “Wanting to make a store run is a permanent value, for me. I’ve always wanted to do it. Since I was a kid.”

“Maybe you think that now,” Milt said. “That’s self-deception.”

“Wouldn’t I know? Better than you?”

“An outside person can tell better,” Milt said. “Nobody has any insight into themselves.”

“Can you tell me what I want better than I can?” he said. “You can’t read my mind. You don’t know what’s going on in my mind.”

“I can tell you what’s best for you. What you ought to be doing, instead of wasting your life.”

“I’m not wasting my life,” he said.

“Sure you are,” Milt said. “What are you, if not a punk kid trying to hustle some cheap Japanese typewriters. What’s there to be proud of in that?”

“The hell with you,” he said.

“Yes,” Milt said. “The hell with everyone. Me, Susan, everybody else. But face the truth about yourself. I know what’s the matter with you. You don’t have the maturity to care about anything but teen-age values. You’re selfish and immature. You’re a good kid and everybody likes you, but you’re just not an adult, as much as you’d like to be. You’re still a long way off, and if you expect to get there you better learn what’s worthwhile and spiritual in life.”

“Take your own advice,” he said.

“I know why you’re the way you are,” Milt said, nodding.

To Milt he said, “I guess I’ll go roam around and get something to read.” He opened the motel door; sunlight blinded both of them.

In his bed, Milt said nothing.

“See you later, then,” Bruce said, still lingering. But Milt said nothing more.

Stepping outside, he shut the door after him.

An hour or so later, when he re-entered the cabin with his magazine, he found Milt sitting up in bed writing a check.

“Here,” Milt said, handing the check to him. “This is what I promised you. Your wedding present.”

The check was made out for five hundred dollars.

“I can’t take this,” he said.

“You won’t get the machines without it,” Milt said. “Anyhow I’m not giving it to you; I’m giving it to Susan. This is my last chance to let her know how I feel.” He smiled slightly. “After this it becomes a crime. Anyhow, I’ve got plenty of money and no one to spend it on.”

Putting the check in his wallet, Bruce said, “Thanks.”

Neither of them said anything about their argument.

“Did I tell you I called Cathy?” Bruce said.

“No,” Milt said.

“She found the car key. So she can drive out here. I gave her the address of the place.”

Milt nodded.

“And the motel people are conscious that you’re sick. They have the names of local doctors; I was asking them about it.”

“Fine,” Milt said. “They probably can bring me what I need.” He seemed impassive.

“How would you feel, then,” he said, “if I did drive on?”

Milt said, “I told you to.”

“If you feel you’d be okay, I think I will.”

“Are you driving back this way after you finish up in Seattle?”

“No,” he said. “I thought I’d drive down the Coast and back up by US 26, through Oregon.”