Stanley Elkin - The Dick Gibson Show

“Well, I’m glad they got it before somebody was hurt,” Dick Gibson said.

“Sure,” the man said. “This didn’t happen yesterday or last week.”

“No? From the way you were talking I thought it was a recent experience.”

“No. This was three years ago. I’m retired eight years and this was five years after I retired. It’s been three years since this happened.”

“I see.” He was anxious to take the next call. Perhaps Behr-Bleibtreau was trying to get through.

“There’s order,” the old man said.

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s order. There’s procedure. There’s records on everything. There’s system.”

“I suppose there is.”

“You bet your life. When I was in Anniston that time I asked my son-in-law to take me through the Pepsi-Cola bottling plant. He showed me how everything worked. I asked a lot of questions. I couldn’t take it all in just that one time, so I went back. I had to go back two or three times. I found out all about it. There’s system, there’s order. I’m in a gas station anywhere in the country and I look at the bottom of the soda bottle and I see where it came from and I know how it got there. I know what happens to that bottle when they take it back. I look for certain tell-tale signs and I know approximately how many more times they’ll be able to use it. I know what happens to the glass when they throw it away.

“Then there’s cans. I know about them too. It’s what I do now. I find out about things. If I don’t understand something I get somebody to explain it to me till I do. I don’t rest till my curiosity is satisfied. I know how a letter gets from this place to that, just what the zip code does, who handles it. There’s organization, there’s process, procedure. There’s steps — like that check list I made up for the men in my plant. There’s a system and intersecting lines and connections. There’s meaning. My son-in-law gave me a shirt for Father’s Day. I put it on yesterday for the first time. You know what I found in the pocket?”

“What?”

“A slip of paper. ‘Inspected by Number 83.’ The shirt’s a Welford, 65 percent polyester, 35 percent cotton. It’s union-made in Chicago. I read the tags on it, the instructions they give you for washing. How can some shirt outfit you never heard of have eighty-three inspectors? And I’m taking eighty-three as an inside figure, mind you; probably the numbers go higher. I’m going to find out. I’ll find out what that number actually represents. I wrote Eighty-Three today. If I don’t get an answer I’ll write Eighty-Two. I’ll find out. I’ll see how it works, how it’s all connected. Everything’s connected. There’s order, there’s process, there’s meaning, there’s system. It ain’t always clear, but just stick with it and you’ll see. Then you’ll be amazed you never saw it. It’ll be as plain as the nose on your face. If it was a snake it would bite you.”

Behr-Bleibtreau didn’t call.

Richard Swomley-Wamble called.

“How are you, Henry?” Dick asked distantly.

“You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“Oh, well.”

“It no longer makes any difference whether you trust me or not,” Henry said. There was a catch in his voice.

“Come on, Henry,” Dick Gibson said, “you needn’t cry just yet. We’ve barely started our conversation.”

“I’m a child. Children cry.”

“Very well. Let’s drop it. What’s been happening, Henry?”

“Richard’s my name.”

“Richard, then.”

“I’m active.”

“Your charities?”

“You make it sound ignoble. Please don’t pick on me. Why must we always be so irritable with each other? I’m not saying all of it’s your fault. I’m responsible too. If I’ve been fresh, I apologize. I respect my elders — I do, though I suppose sometimes I say things that gives them the impression I’m conceited or think I know more about life than they do. I know you have experience and maturity, whereas I have only my idealism. Children can be pretty narrow sometimes. Look, I’m really very grateful to you. You took me into the Listening Post when I needed it very badly. I’ll never forget that. I’d really like very much for us to be friends.”

“All right,” Dick said, “so would I.” It was true. He had been uncertain of his ground with Richard from the first; even as he had baited him he felt himself in the wrong. And he had other things to worry about. “What have you been doing?” he asked.

“These past two weeks have been wonderful,” the boy said enthusiastically. “The Mail Baggers have been marvelous. You know, a lot of them just want to be cheered up, or if they do need something it’s usually very small. There’s a woman in Lakeland who’s bedridden. Her TV picture tube blew out last month and she wrote to ask if I could let her have thirty-five dollars to replace it. Thirty-five dollars may not be much to you or me, but when you’re trying to live on just your Social Security payments I guess it can seem like all the money in the world. I didn’t replace the tube but I did get her a new color set.”

“That was very kind of you, Richard.”

“I hope she doesn’t think I throw my money around to impress people. I thought she’d enjoy it.”

“I’m certain she does.”

“There’s just one thing—”

“What’s that?”

“Color sets require adjustment. That can be pretty hard on someone who’s bedridden. The set can’t be too close to the bed because of the radiation. I hope I didn’t make a mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I bought three motorized wheelchairs last week and two hospital beds. I’ve arranged with several mothers who can’t afford it for their children to have music lessons. They rent the instruments and the rental is applied toward the purchase if the kids are still taking lessons two years from now. I put the rest of the money in escrow for them. Another mother wanted dancing lessons for her little girl and I arranged for those too. I bought two gross of imported dashikis and distributed them throughout the inner city. I’m sponsoring a Little League team in the Sarasota ghetto. Everyone will have his own uniform, even the kids on the bench. I bought some bicycles for people who have no way to get to work in the morning. I’m having some people’s plumbing fixed.”

“That was very thoughtful, Richard.”

“It robs people of their dignity when their toilets don’t flush properly.”

“You know, Richard, it sounds to me as though you’ve been spending a lot of money.”

“Oh, well.”

“No, I mean it,” Dick said. “I know you want to help and I realize that three-quarters of a million dollars is a great deal of money, but that money has to last until you’re twenty-one. At the rate you’re spending it might be very close.”

“That’s not a problem,” Richard said quietly.

“Oh?”

“It’s not a problem.”

“What is it, son? Has something happened?”

“Oh, Mr. Gibson,” the boy sobbed, “I’d hoped this call would be a happy one, that we’d just chat about people’s dreams coming true.”

“Well, fine, Richard.”

“No,” the boy said manfully. “I have a duty. I was fooling myself when I thought this could be a happy call.”

“What is it, Richard?”

“I really called to ask people not to write me any more. I won’t be able to help them.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry if I got their hopes up.”

“What is it, Richard? Isn’t there any three-quarters of a million dollars?”

“Yes,” the boy said, suddenly fierce. “There is. It isn’t that.”

“I see. All right.”

“I can’t have them writing me any more, that’s all. I won’t be picking up my mail. They’d just be wasting their postage, and they can’t afford it.”