Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

“Grind the face of the poor,” Douglas muttered, and Carolyn jabbed him with her elbow.

“I was asked to do a thing I have not the slightest intention of doing, now or at any time in the future.”

“Uk, yuk, yuk!” said Douglas.

“Mother,” Carolyn said, “can you please excuse him from the table? Why do we have to put up with him? Daddy’s trying to tell us what happened, and this moron keeps interrupting.”

“Ho-ho-ho, who’s talking!” Douglas said. “Old fat frumpy rumpy, in person.”

“We’ll have no more of that,” Mrs. Bridge said instantly. “You certainly will be excused from the table.”

Douglas clasped his hands. “Velly solly, velly solly. Numbel one boy excluse, pliz.”

“Behave yourself,” his mother said. Then she returned the conversation to her husband. “What a dreadful experience that must have been! You read about these things, but you simply can’t imagine them happening.”

Ruth asked if there were any witnesses.

“As far as I know, there were none,” he said.

“How come you didn’t take it?” Douglas asked.

Mr. Bridge considered his son. Then he said, “You do not let yourself get mixed up with such people. Not under any circumstances.”

“For two thousand smackeroos? Ho, ho, ho!”

“Explain yourself.”

“Everybody’s got his price.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I don’t know. It’s true, though. Everybody’s got his price. So what’s yours? Fifty grand?”

“I have no price. I am not for sale.”

“How about a hundred grand?”

Douglas and his father looked at each other for a long time.

“Holy cats,” Douglas mumbled, “it was a joke.”

“I don’t care for your sense of humor. Hereafter find a more appropriate subject.”

“Solly. Excluse again, pliz.”

With his friends Tipton and Vandermeer, Douglas went to see The Dawn Patrol, and before the movie ended all three of them had sworn to become pilots. It was obvious to them that aviators were in every possible way infinitely superior to other men.

Just two things were required to become pilots: money, of course, for flying lessons, and their parents’ permission. After the show they agreed to arrange for these things so they could go to Fairfax Airport the following Saturday to take the first lesson.

As he wandered home Douglas reasoned that if he could get permission he could raise the money. There was not much left of his inheritance from crazy Lulu; however, there were the ten shares of stock in the Kansas City Power & Light Company. That ought to be enough. So the important problem was how to get permission. As he walked from the streetcar line to the house he was arguing aloud with his father. His argument was successful: his father admitted he was right and not only gave permission but offered to pay for the lessons. This was the way the argument ought to go, he could think of no reason it should not go this way; nonetheless, he decided to approach his mother first. She would tell him to speak to his father, because that was how she always responded to certain kinds of questions; just the same it would help if she could be persuaded. And it would make very little difference if she could not be persuaded.

She did not believe he was serious. She told him that if he was still anxious to become a pilot when he was twenty-one years old — well, they could discuss the matter again. He reminded her that he would not be twenty-one for another nine years. She then suggested he talk to his father.

He went outside and climbed a tree in order to meditate. He plucked at the bark and dangled his feet and considered his argument. From where he sat he could see into the study. As usual, his father was at the desk working on some papers and turning the pages of a big book. Without knowing just why, he knew it would be a mistake to suggest selling the Kansas City Power & Light stock to pay for flying lessons. The money must be raised some other way.

After about fifteen minutes he climbed halfway down, dropped the rest of the distance to the ground, landing on all fours, picked himself up, brushed off his pants, and returned to the house.

Mr. Bridge listened solemnly to his son’s proposition: if he could borrow enough for flying lessons he would repay the money out of his allowance with fifty per cent interest; furthermore, he would get a job raking leaves after school and shoveling snow as soon as it began to snow, so all the money would be paid back very soon. He was talking fast. The first request, which was for permission, had been slipped in as though it was of no consequence, as though both of them understood this permission was going to be granted. The emphasis was on the money.

“Now, what you say is all very interesting,” Mr. Bridge remarked when his son stopped talking, “and I have no doubt you intend to do whatever you promise toward paying me back. But there is another aspect of the situation which perhaps we ought to discuss.”

Douglas attempted to look puzzled.

Mr. Bridge leaned back in his chair. He formed a steeple of his fingers and asked: “How old are you?”

Douglas gestured vaguely. He had been expecting this. He hooked his thumbs in his belt to give himself courage, and he said, “There’s one thing you didn’t think about.”

“Which is?”

“If Tipton and Vandermeer and me take flying lessons we can get to be the youngest pilots in the country.”

“I have a bit of sad news,” Mr. Bridge said.

“What?”

“You are not going to be the youngest pilot in the country.”

It was all over, of course; he knew he had never had a chance. But because he had nothing further to lose he decided to keep trying. He asked if his father had seen The Dawn Patrol. Mr. Bridge had not. This answer somehow proved beyond doubt that all was lost. He scratched the back of his neck and took a deep breath. He could not think of anything else to say. He scraped at the rug with his toe.

“Ah,” Mr. Bridge said. “Ah ha! I begin to see.”

“It’s about these English guys and these Germans. It’s at the Uptown. I thought maybe you saw it.”

“Your mother and I seldom go to movies. When did you see it?”

“I just got back.”

“And it was about airplanes, was it?”

“Yeh, it was about the World War. These guys were dogfighting all over the place, and then this one German guy flew over the field and dropped this other guy’s scarf and helmet after he shot him down.”

“It sounds like a good show.”

“Yeh. They had these old rickety crates. But you don’t care anything about planes.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Just don’t think you do,” Douglas mumbled without lifting his head.

Mr. Bridge studied his son for a few moments. “I have no romance in my soul. Is that what you mean?”

Douglas thrust his hands into his hip pockets. The word “romance” made him uncomfortable. He said, “I just asked to take flying lessons is all. I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“There is not a thing wrong with it except your youth. When you are grown you may take all the flying lessons you can stomach. You may discover you don’t care much for them. Flying can be an exceptionally disagreeable experience.”

“How would you know?” Douglas demanded. “What do you know?”

“Let’s have a different tone of voice,” Mr. Bridge said. “I didn’t like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Douglas said. “But you don’t know the first thing about planes, so how do you know what it’s like?”

“I’ve been up.”

“I don’t mean in a big transport. I mean like those planes they had in The Dawn Patrol, where they did Immelmann turns and loops and stuff. Being in a transport doesn’t count anything. That’s about the same as being in some old boxcar.”