Stanley Elkin - The Dick Gibson Show

“Well, that’s all very fine, Henry, but I really think you shouldn’t be by yourself.”

“If I had a little brother … They wouldn’t let me adopt one, do you think?”

“No, Henry.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Listen, Henry, I’d like you to make me a promise.”

“What?”

“Will you promise?”

“I’ll have to hear what it is first. I won’t step into anything blindfolded.”

“I want you to promise that first thing tomorrow you’ll get in touch with the authorities and tell them about your arrangements. Will you promise me that, Henry?”

“Certainly not. I can take care of myself. Listen, I pay my bills. I’m never behind on the gas or electricity. The phone’s always taken care of. I go for my checkups when I’m supposed to and I leave the cash with the nurse right after the examination. They never have to bill me. If I need a plumber or a roofer I know how to get in touch with one. I use the Yellow Pages. I’m fair with the merchants. Cash on the barrelhead — which is more than a lot of adults can say. I even give to charity.”

“Well, who do you play with, Henry?”

“I don’t play much. But I go to ballgames whenever I want. Last September I wanted to see the World Series, so I just hopped on a jet and went. I got the tickets from a scalper outside the stadium but they were good seats. Listen, I’m very responsible. I’m no wild kid or anything.”

“It’s your life, Henry, but I think you’re making a mistake.”

“Don’t get me wrong. It was fine living with my grandparents. They were nice people. When they died I had a good relationship with my executor. He was an old friend of the family and we got along very well. The man who took his place when he died, that’s another story. Well, he was a perfect stranger. I’m sorry he had the heart attack, of course, but I didn’t mourn or anything. I just don’t want anyone adopting me for my money. Listen, I’m all right.”

“Except you can’t sleep nights.”

“What? What’s that? Well, yes, but your program helps a lot. That’s why I called. I want to join a Listening Post. I mean, I listen to all these old people who call up and tell you their troubles and they try to put a good face on things but you can tell they’re scared and that their hearts are broken. They break my heart. They remind me of my first executor. He was terminal, just like that Mrs. Dormer who calls from Sun City. I think it would help if I could write some of those people. I don’t mean I’d give them advice — though I could probably give them some pretty good advice. I could tell them that it doesn’t matter, that it’s important to have courage, that that’s what matters. But I don’t mean advice. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t take it from a kid. But maybe I could help some of them with money — you know, to get their operations or bring their sons home from San Diego to see them before it’s too late. I have all this cash lying around. I don’t need much. I’d move into a smaller house like a shot, but I can’t put the estate on the market because I can’t enter into contracts yet. That’s the big hitch about being a kid and living by yourself, you can’t enter into contracts. I think I might move into a smaller house anyway and just close down the big one. Anyway, I’d like to join one of the Listening Posts. I probably have more in common with some of these people than you might expect, and — let’s face it — it would make me feel a whole lot better to be able to help out. So that’s why I called. I wanted to thank you too. You do very good work.”

“You’re a good boy, Henry,” Dick said, and he hung up after promising to send the materials as soon as he got the boy’s application.

Moved by Henry’s call, but not quite certain that it wasn’t a joke, he felt strangely troubled the rest of the evening. The callers seemed similarly affected; they were subdued and even the number of calls fell off sharply. Dick had to stretch out conversations with people he normally wouldn’t have kept on the air more than five minutes.

The Refugee called. He had come to the country before the war but that’s how he referred to himself. It was never clear what country he had emigrated from, and he spoke with no trace of an accent. He was a boring sort of refugee. The only clue to his foreign origin was that when he became excited — and being on the radio usually made him excited — he often confused the usages of “how” and “why” and of “good” and “well.” He would say that he liked his meat “good done,” and once he had made an impassioned speech in support of his local police. “It’s wrong, Mr. Gibson, why the public doesn’t support its policemen. The way these young punks scream ‘police brutality’ every time one of them is arrested is positively sickening. We should honor every last cop on the beat, and instead of castigating him we should get down on our knees and tell him ‘Good done, thou well and faithful servant.’” Maybe the Refugee was a joker too.

“Why are you tonight, Mr. Gibson?” the Refugee asked.

“Fine, and you?”

“Can’t complain. I’ve got my health and well name. What more could I want?”

“Not a thing.”

“That’s what I say. The important thing is to be merry, get along with your neighbors and show your wellwill.”

Dick wondered if the man was putting him on. Perhaps his callers were all unemployed actors.

“Are you still there, Mr. Gibson?”

“Here I am.”

“Good, as I was saying, it’s always a well idea to be friendly. It doesn’t cost a thing and it’s often good worth it.”

“Hmn.”

“That’s my thinking on it, anyway.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Sure I am. It doesn’t make sense to grouse and pout when you can wear a smile and be a well friend. I don’t know how these pessimists always look on the dark side of things. I ask myself how, but it just doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Good, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I just wanted to call and tell you why things are going.”

“Wellnight,” Dick Gibson said.

“Wellbye,” the Refugee said.

“Your feet stink.”

“Dick boy.”

“Mrs. Dormer?”

“Yes, Dick boy. That’s right, Dick boy.”

“How are you, Mrs. Dormer?”

“Not so fit as a fiddle. I don’t suppose it will be too much longer now.”

“That’s foolish, Mrs. Dormer. You’ve had these sieges before. You’ll get over this one just as you got over the others. Are you taking good care of yourself?”

“I’ve been in bed for the past week. Frances had to put the call through. I can’t hold the phone. Frances is holding it for me right now. I haven’t the strength.”

“How is Frances, Mrs. Dormer?”

“Frances is fine, Dick boy. I’m afraid I’ve been a terrible burden to her, but she’s a good girl. Do you know she missed Tom’s graduation to come out here when she heard?”

“She must be a comfort.”

She certainly is, Dick boy. She is a comfort, but I don’t see why she didn’t wait until her son graduated to come out. It would just have been a few days. That Dr. Pepper can be a terrible alarmist sometimes.”

“Well, he just wanted you to be comfortable, Mrs. Dormer.”

“I know that, Dick boy, but I’m thinking of poor Tom. He’s got no father and now here’s his mother who won’t even be at his graduation.”

“He’ll be fine, Mrs. Dormer.”

“Lord, I hope so. That’s my prayer, Dick boy.”

“You just try to be comfortable and don’t worry about anything. That way you’ll get better sooner.”