Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

A few days later Douglas reported that he had a job in the produce department of Horkey’s Grocery. He was to run errands for the produce manager, sweep the floor, keep the vegetable bins stocked, spray the lettuce, shuck the corn, and so forth. It was legal, it was reasonably clean.

Before long everybody was sick of hearing about life in the produce department, and the threatening figure of the produce manager appeared regularly at the dinner table.

“I mean, and that’s just a single little example,” said Douglas one evening after a lengthy account of the boorishness, lack of imagination, stinginess, unintelligence, and hypocrisy of the produce manager. “What I mean is, well, listen, like today for instance, you know, we get this great huge shipment of lemons, see. Really, there was about ten billion lemons, at least. So anyhow this imbecile manager decides he better do something fast, because they’re just sitting there blocking traffic, and he can’t think of anything better so he decides to make somebody take them out of the crates and put them in littler boxes, so naturally I happen to be the first poor sucker he catches sight of, so he has me sorting these lemons for about a thousand hours. I almost didn’t get any lunch. I’m just sorting these lemons from about nine o’clock this morning, see? Well, and so anyhow after a while this dumb cluck can’t figure out anything to do himself, so he naturally has to stand around watching me. There’s this waste barrel, see, where the bad fruit goes. The rotten fruit you throw away because you can’t sell it and if you leave it in with the other stuff, why, pretty soon the rest of it gets rotten.”

“Come to the point,” his father said.

“I am, for gosh sakes. If you’ll just let me finish. I was just about to tell you what happened. So I’m there sorting these lemons and naturally I throw some of them away, so this produce manager comes marching over and picks up one of them I just dumped in the waste barrel and he says I just threw away the day’s profit! He wasn’t kidding, either. That’s really what he said. He said ‘You threw away the day’s profit.’ I thought he was kidding.” Douglas looked at his father to gauge the effect of this information.

Mr. Bridge looked around the table to see if anyone was ready for another piece of chicken.

“Anyhow, this lemon I threw away had a lot of white mold all over it, so nobody was going to buy it, that’s a cinch. Not exactly all over, I guess actually it wasn’t as bad as some of them, but it was going to get rotten in another day or two, so that’s how come I threw it away. But this dumb cluck practically has to hit the ceiling. He goes marching around like Captain Bligh just holding this lemon up between two fingers for everybody in the produce department to look at, like it was the crown jewels or something, and says if I don’t know how to do my job right he knows how to find somebody who does. Wow! I mean, how stupid can anybody get!”

“Were you paying attention to what you were doing?”

Douglas was insulted by this question. “Sure I was! Even suppose it was a fairly good lemon, is that any reason for a person to hit the roof like he did? What’s one lemon?” He took a deep breath as though he was about to begin another speech and quickly said, “Listen, Dad, I been thinking maybe I ought to quit. If I could get in some other department besides produce it wouldn’t be so bad, but this big, fat slob that manages produce thinks he knows everything, and he doesn’t know his—” Douglas hesitated. “Doesn’t know beans. Then old man Horkey has to come in about twice a week and peer around to find out if everybody’s doing their job right, and then this produce manager falls all over himself bowing and scraping and saying ‘Oh, oh, oh, g-g-good morning, Mr. Horkey!’ It’s enough to make me puke. So like I say, I’ve been thinking I’ll quit because he’s probably planning to fire me anyhow.”

“Young man, you listen to me,” said Mr. Bridge. “You have a job and you will do your best to keep it. We are not going to have two quitters in this house.”

“If Ruth can quit her job, why can’t I?”

“We will not go into that. You will do as I say.”

“I could get a better job that would pay better.”

“I doubt that.”

“You do?” Douglas said defiantly. “Why?”

“Jobs are not easy to find these days. You may not have an important job, but there are quite a few grown men in this country who would be delighted to have it.”

“They sure can have it.”

“Once or twice in the past,” Mr. Bridge said, “I have heard you use that tone. I have warned you about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Douglas said. “But is that all business is? I mean, one lemon? Is a person supposed to work his head off all day and make about two cents?”

“The man exaggerated. He was attempting to point out to you that you should learn to work conscientiously.”

“Ye cripes!”

“And that is an expression I have heard more often than I care to.”

“Okay, okay. It’s just that this whole thing is so stupid, if you ask me. All that work for one lemon.”

“You may or may not like your job, but I want you to keep it until school opens.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Because if you do not, son, I will cut your allowance in half.”

“You expect me to sort lemons the rest of my life?”

Mr. Bridge did not bother to reply.

“Bleh!” Douglas said.

“I mean it.”

“Ye cripes,” Douglas muttered. “I know you mean it.”

Ruth was ready to go out for the evening. Her mother commented on how nicely she was dressed. Mr. Bridge agreed, but he noticed that she was not wearing stockings. He told her to go upstairs and put them on. She said it was too hot to wear stockings.

He said, “Don’t tell me how hot it is! I have seldom been as uncomfortable in my entire life as I was downtown today. Court was like an oven. However, I presented myself as I invariably do despite the heat because it is important to appear respectable. And you will not leave this house looking like a tramp from the North End. You may stay at home and dress as you please, or you may go out when you are respectably dressed. Take your choice. I have nothing further to say.”

She gave him a baleful stare but went back up to her room. She was gone a long time. When she came down she was wearing stockings, but her attitude seemed different. He thought he knew why: she was planning to take them off as soon as she got away.

“And keep them on,” he said, pointing his finger at her so she would know he was not joking, and from the furious way she set her hands on her hips he knew that his guess had been correct.

His eyes opened and focused quickly, because something was wrong. The house was silent. At his side his wife breathed deeply and calmly. He could not hear anything except the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall and the wind soughing through the trees, but he thought somebody was downstairs. He got up, put on his robe and slippers, took a box of bullets out of the dresser, and emptied the bullets into his pocket. He slid his hand under the mattress and pulled out the gun. He loaded it and cocked it and started walking slowly along the hall, pausing every few steps to listen. He was standing at the top of the stairs when he heard somebody groan.

He placed one hand on the rail to steady himself and started down. At the bottom of the steps he raised the gun and looked around the corner into the living room. The drapes had been drawn apart. Moonlight spilled through the east window and he could see a man lying on top of Ruth. She opened her mouth and kicked her legs like a frog. The man lifted his head. He groaned again. She pushed at his face, and as mechanically as figures in an old film they rolled away from each other. She got to her feet briskly and pulled down on her skirt. She brushed the hair out of her eyes and stepped into her shoes. One of the sofa cushions was lying on the floor. She picked it up and dropped it on the sofa. At that moment the clock began to chime. Mr. Bridge wondered if he was asleep; he blinked and looked around, because he thought he remembered the sound of the front door closing. The man had disappeared.