Рэй Брэдбери - First Day

It was while he was eating breakfast that Charles Douglas glanced at his newspaper and saw the date. He took another bite of toast and looked again and put the paper down.

«Oh, my God,» he said.

Alice, his wife, startled, looked up. «What?»

«The date. Look at it! September fourteenth.»

«So?» Alice said.

«The first day of school!»

«Say that again,» she said.

«The first day of school, you know, summer vacation's over, everyone back, the old faces, the old pals.»

Alice studied him carefully, for he was beginning to rise. «Explain that.»

«It is the first day, isn't it,» he said.

«What's that got to do with us?» she said. «We don't have family, we don't know any teachers, we don't even have friends anywhere near with kids.»

«Yeah, but. .» Charlie said, picking up the newspaper again, his voice gone strange. «I promised.»

«Promised? Who?»

«The old gang,» he said. «Years ago. What time is it?»

«Seven-thirty.»

«We'd better hurry then,» he said, «or we'll miss it.»

«I'll get you more coffee. Take it easy. My God, you look terrible.»

«But I just remembered.» He watched her pour his cup full. «I promised. Ross Simpson, Jack Smith, Gordon Haines. We took almost a blood oath. Said we'd meet again, the first day of school, fifty years after graduation.»

His wife sat back and let go of the coffeepot.

«This all has to do with the first day of school, 1938?»

«Yeah,'38.»

«And you stood around with Ross and Jack and what's his―»

«Gordon! And we didn't just stand around. We knew we were going out in the world and might not meet again for years, or never, but we took a solemn oath, no matter what, we'd all remember and come back, across the world if we had to, to meet out in front of the school by the flagpole, 1988.»

«You all promised that?»

«Solemn promise, yeah. And here I am sitting here talking when I should be getting the hell out the door.»

«Charlie,» Alice said, «you realize that your old school is forty miles away.»

«Thirty.»

«Thirty. And you're going to drive over there and―»

«Get there before noon, sure.»

«Do you know how this sounds, Charlie?»

«Nuts,» he said, slowly. «Go ahead, say it.»

«And what if you get there and nobody else shows?»

«What do you mean?» he said, his voice rising.

«I mean what if you're the only damn fool who's crazy enough to believe―»

He cut in. «They promised!»

«But that was a lifetime ago!»

«They promised!»

«What if in the meantime they changed their minds, or just forgot?»

«They wouldn't forget.»

«Why not?»

«Because they were my best pals, best friends forever, no one ever had friends like that.»

«Ohmigod,» she said. «You're so sad, so naive.»

«Is that what I am? Look, if I remember, why not them?»

«Because you're a special loony case!»

«Thanks a lot.»

«Well, it's true, isn't it? Look at your office upstairs, all those Lionel trains, Mr. Machines, stuffed toys, movie posters.»

«And?»

«Look at your files, full of letters from I960, 1950, 1940, you can't throw away.»

«They're special.»

«To you, yes. But do you really think those friends, or strangers, have saved your letters, the way you've saved theirs?»

«I write great letters.»

«Darn right. But call up some of those correspondents, ask for some of your old letters back. How many do you think will return?»

He was silent.

«Zilch,» she said.

«No use using language like that,» he said.

«Is 'zilch' a swearword?»

«The way you say it, yes.»

«Charlie!»

«Don't 'Charlie' me!»

«How about the thirtieth anniversary of your drama club group where you ran hoping to see some bubblehead Sally or something or other, and she didn't remember, didn't know who you were?»

«Keep it up, keep it up,» he said.

«Oh, God,» she said. «I don't mean to rain on your picnic, I just don't want you to get hurt.»

«I've got a thick skin.»

«Yes? You talk bull elephants and go hunt dragonflies.» He was on his feet. With each of her comments he got taller.

«Here goes the great hunter,» he said.

«Yes,» she exhaled, exhausted. «There you go, Charlie.»

«I'm at the door,» he said.

She stared at him.

«I'm gone.»

And the door shut.

My GOD, he thought, this is like New Year's Eve.

He hit the gas hard, then released it, and hit it again, and let it slow, depending on the beehive filling his head.

Or it's like Halloween, late, the fun over, and everyone going home, he thought. Which?

So he moved along at an even pace, constantly glancing at his watch. There was enough time, sure, plenty of time, but he had to be there by noon.

But what in hell is this? he wondered. Was Alice right? A chase for the wild goose, a trip to nowhere for nothing? Why was it so damned important? After all, who were those pals, now unknown, and what had they been up to? No letters, no phone calls, no face-to-face collisions by pure accident, no obituaries. That last, scratch that! Hit the accelerator, lighten up! Lord, he thought, I can hardly wait. He laughed out loud. When was the last time you said that? When you were a kid, could hardly wait, had a list of hard-to-wait-for things. Christmas, my God, was always a billion miles off. Easter? Half a million. Halloween? Dear sweet Halloween, pumpkins, running, yelling, rapping windows, ringing doorbells, and the mask, cardboard smelling hot with breath over your face. All Hallows! The best. But a lifetime away. And July Fourth with great expectations, trying to be first out of bed, first half-dressed, first jumping out on the lawn, first to light six-inchers, first to blow up the town! Hey, listen! First! July Fourth. Can hardly wait. Hardly wait!

But, back then, almost every day was can-hardly-wait day. Birthdays, trips to the cool lake on hot noons, Lon Chaney films, the Hunchback, the Phantom. Can hardly wait. Digging ravine caves. Magicians arriving in the long years. Can't wait. Hop to it. Light the sparklers. Won't wait. Won't.

He let the car slow, staring ahead across Time.

Not far now, not long. Old Ross. Dear Jack. Special Gordon. The gang. The invincibles. Not three but four, counting himself, Musketeers.

He ran the list, and what a list. Ross, the handsome dog, older than the rest though they were all the same age, bright but no show-off, bicycling through classes with no sweat, getting high marks with no care. Reader of books, lover of Fred Allen Wednesdays radio, repeater of all the best jokes next day noon. Meticulous dresser, though poor. One good tie, one good belt, one coat, one pair of pants, always pressed, always clean. Ross. Yeah, sure, Ross.

And Jack, the future writer who was going to conquer the world and be the greatest in history. So he yelled, so he said, with six pens in his jacket and a yellow pad waiting to un-Steinbeck Steinbeck. Jack.

And Gordon, who loped across campus on the bodies of moaning girls, for all he had to do was glance and the females were chopped like trees.

Ross, Jack, Gordon, what a team.

Fast and slow he drove, now slow.

But what will they think of me? Have I done enough, have I done too well? Ninety stories, six novels, one film, five plays — not bad. Hell, he thought, I won't say, who cares, just shut your mouth, let them talk, you listen, the talk will be great.

What do we say first, I mean as soon as we show up, the old gang, by the flagpole? Hello? Hi. My God, you're really here! How you been, what's new, you okay, good health? Marriage, children, grandchildren, pictures, 'fess up. What, what?