Philip Dick - Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

Leaving the office, he walked out of the garage and down the sidewalk. A moment later he was opening the door of the health food store, greeting Betty at the same time.

“Hi, Jim,” she said, rising and going to get the Silex coffeemaker. “How are you, today?”

“I’m okay,” he said, seating himself at the counter. There were a couple of other customers, middle-aged women whom he did not know. He glanced around, but there was no one whom he recognized, except of course Betty.

“Anything with your coffee?” Betty asked. “A roll?”

“Okay,” he said, turning the stool so that he could watch the entrance of the garage. “Listen,” he said, “you heard about me, did you? About what I did?”

At the shelf of rolls, Betty halted. “You told me about selling your garage,” she said.

The old man said, “Listen, I bought another garage.”

The wrinkled, elderly face showed pleasure. “I’m glad,” she said. “Where is it?”

“In Marin County,” he said. “A new one. I’m putting up a great deal of money, more than I got for the old garage. I got an inside tip. I can’t tell you exactly where it is, naturally. You’ll find out in due time. These things take time.”

“I’m really pleased,” Betty said. “I’m so glad.”

Accepting his cup of coffee from her, the old man said, “I guess you know this guy Chris Harman. He always brings his cars to me; he drives a ’58 Cadillac. Very well-dressed man.”

“I may have seen him,” Betty said.

The old man said, “I’ll tell you; I’m taking a real risk. A real risk. Here’s the risk.” He felt more and more excitement; his words came out almost faster then he could speak them. “I have to keep my eye on this guy Harman. A lot of people wouldn’t take the chance.” He winked at Betty, but she gazed back without comprehension. “He’s got a reputation,” he said.

“What kind of reputation do you mean?”

“A lot of people think he’s a big-time crook,” the old man said.

Her face showed dismay. “Jim,” she said. “Be careful.”

“I’m being careful,” he said, chuckling. “Don’t worry about me. He’s really a well-known crook. He’s skinned a lot of people. He may skin me. I wouldn’t be surprised. It could happen.” He laughed out loud; now her face showed both worry and agitation. “Maybe I’ll wind up with no garage and no money,” he said. “Wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing? Things like that do happen; you read about them in the paper every day.”

“Jim, you be careful,” Betty said. “You watch your step. You spent years acquiring the money that you have.”

“Oh, he might get me,” the old man said. “He’s smart.” He drank down more of the coffee, then set the cup back down. “I have to get back,” he said. “I just came over to break the news to you.” Getting carefully to his feet, avoiding any too-sudden movement, he started to the door. “If you see me going by with a tin cup,” he said, pausing at the door, “you’ll know why.”

“Make sure you think everything out,” Betty was saying to him as he shut the door of the health food store after him and started down the sidewalk, back to the garage.

They’re all talking, he thought to himself. They know I’m possibly going to get swindled out of everything I have. That’ll give them something to talk about for a long time. They know Harman is a big-time swindler, a real professional; you can tell by the way they dress, by the expensive clothes. The tailoring and the car; look at the car he drives, a ’58 Cadillac. There’s nothing smalltime there, he realized. And the house he owns, and his business connections and enterprises; he has his hand in just about every kind of thing. He’s really a big man. An important businessman.

They know he’s made a lot of money. He’s really rich; he might even have a couple of hundred thousand dollars. Maybe he owns the whole of Marin Gardens outright. Maybe there isn’t even somebody named Bradford, or if there is, he’s just a front. Somebody Harman hired to represent him, like he hired Carmichael.

But there’s one thing to be sure about, he said to himself as he re-entered his garage. There’s nobody over Harman; there’s nobody he’s taking orders from. He’s the real boss of the whole thing. I’ve known him for years, and he’s nobody’s servant. He’s in charge.

I wonder who else I can tell, he thought. Maybe the barber across the street. He could go over for a haircut later on.

The exhilaration which had come over him after reading the anonymous letter continued to grow; it had gotten into every part of him. It made his hands and feet twitch with the need to do something, to be active. This is really something I’m involved in, he said to himself.

For a moment he stood in the doorway of his garage, listening to see if the phone were ringing; at the same time he peered into the gloom to see if any customers had entered and were waiting around. He heard no one and saw no one, so, after a moment, he went on down the sidewalk to Al’s Motor Sales. I’ll drop in on old Al, he said to himself, and see what he has to say.

However, to his surprise, he found that Al’s Motor Sales was closed up; the chain that linked the corner posts of the lot was still in place from the night, and the door of the little building had its lock on it. Also, he saw, a few items of mail stuck from beneath the door; Al had not shown up at all today. He had never arrived to open his lot, and here it was almost ten-thirty now.

Standing there, the old man felt disappointment. God damn him, he said to himself. His previous anger returned. The hell with him, he thought as he turned and started back to his garage.

I don’t know why I should be talking to him anyhow, he decided. What did he do, but cast aspersion on everything I’m involved in? Some of Al’s words of the night before returned to him, and he felt his ears and neck become hot. Let him go his way and I’ll go mine, he told himself. He’ll sink down and I’ll rise, because we’re different; we’re at opposite ends of the spectrum.

There’s no way we can talk to each other, he thought as he entered the garage once more. We’ve got nothing to say. Not if he’s going to take the line he does, begrudging, as he always does, another person’s success because he’s so bitter about his own failure to amount to anything. It’s the same old story; if you get anywhere in the world, all you incur is envy and malice. Everybody hates you because they wish they were you, and they know they never will be. That’s why they all hate Chris Harman, and that’s why they hate me.

As he re-entered his office, he thought, Al’s probably home sleeping off a morning-after. When he left my house he probably went directly to a bar; it would be typical of him. And now he can’t make it to open up his lot. He’s probably still in bed. And his wife is out at her job, supporting the two of them; supporting that bum.

And he’ll never change, the old man thought. He’ll never grab opportunity and rise; he’ll always be the bum he is now, until the day he dies.

That morning, at ten o’clock, Al Miller sat in his car parked at the corner of 25 thStreet and Pershing Avenue. Across from him the three-story Teach Records, Inc. building dominated the neighborhood, making much more of a showing than the medical-dental building next to it, or the accounting offices of a chain of supermarkets.

For half an hour he had been sitting in his car, with the motor off, watching Teach Records, smoking, noticing the people going in and out and along the sidewalk and the trucks pulling up and leaving.

Should I go in? he asked himself.

If I do, he thought, it’ll change my life. I have to be sure I want to; I have to decide now, because once I’m in there, it’ll be too late. The thing only works one way; it only goes in, not out.