Philip Dick - Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

Again Mr. Harman laughed. He seemed quite interested; he showed no sign of impatience, or wanting Al to hurry up and get to his point, or to leave; he seemed quite happy to go on listening.

“I mean,” Al said, “I’ll do anything to sell a car. I always regroove tires.”

“What is that?”

“Taking smooth tires—with no tread—and cutting right into the fabric with a hot needle. Putting fake tread on, and then painting the tire black, so it looks new.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Sure,” Al said. “If the guy so much as backs over a hot match, the tires’ll blow. But he thinks he’s getting a set of good tires, so he goes ahead and buys the car when he otherwise might not. It’s part of the business; everybody, or nearly everybody, does it. You have to move your stock. The main thing is to have a story that’ll explain everything. If you can’t get a car started, you always say it’s out of gas. If a window won’t roll up or down, you say the car came in just this morning and your boy hasn’t had a chance to go over it yet. You have to be able to come back. If the customer notices that the floor mat is worn from wear, you say the car was driven by a woman who wore high-heeled shoes. If the seat covers are torn up from wear, maybe from kids, you say the owner had a pet dog he took with him, and in a week the dog’s nails did it. You always give a story.”

“I see,” Harman said, paying attention.

“If the engine makes a lot of noise because of bad bearings, you say it’s just a tappet adjustment.”

Harman nodded.

“If the car won’t go into gear, you say its because you just had a new clutch put in, and it isn’t adjusted yet.”

Harman, considering, said, “Suppose the brakes don’t work? Suppose you allow a customer to drive one of your cars, and when he tries to stop it, the car simply won’t stop? What can you say?”

“You say some delinquent kids siphoned out the fluid,” Al said, “during the night. And you sound off about kids stealing cigar lighters and light bulbs and spare tires; you sound really angry.”

Harman nodded. “I see.”

“I’ve done a good business,” Al said. “I enjoy it, matching my wits against theirs. It’s exciting; it’s stimulating. I wouldn’t go into any other business. It’s my life-blood. I was born to it. I know all the tricks.”

“Apparently you do,” Harman said.

“But I have to get out of it.”

“Why?”

Al said, “It’s not big enough to hold me.”

“Ah,” Harman said.

“Listen,” Al said. “I’m live-wire. I have go. I can’t be held back by something small-time. For me, selling used cars has been a training ground. It’s taught me about the world. Now I’m ready for something worthwhile. Something that really tries my mettle. It used to be a challenge, but now it isn’t. Because—” He made his voice low and sharp. “I know I can win. Every time. They’re no match for me. I take them one and all. Once they step onto my lot—” He made a swiping motion. “I have them. No contest.”

Harman was silent.

“This is an expanding economy,” Al said. “A growing country with destiny. A man either gets bigger or smaller; he either goes up with the economy, or he goes down. He becomes nothing. I refuse to become nothing. I intend to tie myself in with the American system that has room for a man with drive and sincerity.”

Harman regarded him.

“That’s why I can do it,” Al said. “That’s why I can take them every time. Because I believe in what I’m doing”

Harman nodded slowly.

“It’s no job,” Al said. “No mere making a buck. Money means nothing to me in itself; it’s what money represents. Money is proof—proof that a man has ambition and determination, and that he isn’t afraid of opportunity when it knocks in his face. Money shows that he isn’t afraid to be himself. And he knows others like himself. He recognizes them because they have the same drive, the same unwillingness to be turned down or set back by defeat.”

Harman said, “What made you come by here, to Teach?”

“I met you,” Al said. “That’s the answer.” He made a gesture, showing that he would add nothing more.

There was silence.

“Well,” Harman said. “What do you want here? So far all you’ve done is detail your history.”

“I want to work for Christian Harman. It’s as simple as that.”

Harman raised his eyebrows. “There’s nothing open, that I know of.”

Al said nothing.

“What did you have in mind? You have no experience in the record business.”

“Shall I be frank?” Al said.

“Please.” Harman smiled once more.

“I don’t know records,” Al said. “Let’s be realistic. But a salesman doesn’t sell his product. He sells himself. And that’s what I know, Mr. Harman. I know myself. And with that I can sell anything.”

Harman considered. “You would take any job with us? By what you say, I gather you’re willing to—”

Interrupting, Al said, “Let me clarify. I intend to work for someone who can make use of me. I don’t intend to rot. I need to be used, and used properly. A man doesn’t grind valves with a hoe. A man doesn’t use a beautiful pistol, made by hand, by the finest European craftsmen, to shoot tin cans.” He paused. “But it’s you, Mr. Harman, who knows who goes where. It’s you who knows the organization and what it needs, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s the organization that comes first. Do I make myself clear?”

“I think so,” Harman said. “In other words, you’ll be willing to leave it up to me.”

“Precisely,” Al said.

“Well,” Harman said, scratching his nose, “I’ll suggest this. You can give the girl your name, and where we can reach you. I’ll talk it over with Mr. Knight and Mr. Gam, and we’ll see. Generally I let Gam do the hiring.”

At once, Al rose to his feet. “Thanks, Mr. Harman,” he said. “I’ll do that. And I won’t take any more of your time.” Holding his hand out to Harman, he waited. Mr. Harman reached up and took his hand; they shook, and then Al strode from his office.

Outside, he halted at the secretary’s desk. “Mr. Harman instructed me to give you certain information,” he said briskly.

The girl gave him a pad of paper and a pencil; however, he whipped out his ballpoint pen and wrote down his name and his address, and their apartment phone, which was listed under his wife’s maiden name. Then he smiled at the secretary and left the building.

As he came out on the street the bright sunlight smote him, and at once his head began to ache. The Anacin, he realized, was beginning to wear off. And so, too, were the Sparine and the Dexymil. Now he felt tired and let down; he walked slowly to his car, tugged the door open, and got in behind the wheel.

I wonder if I’ll hear from him, he thought.

Anyhow, I made my pitch. I did everything I could.

After a time he started up the car and drove away, in the direction of Al’s Motor Sales.

On Friday, when he had fairly well given up hoping, a car pulled over to the curb at Al’s Motor Sales, and a young man in tie and shirtsleeves got out.

“Mr. Miller?” he said.

Coming out of his little building, Al said, “Speaking.”

“I’m from Teach Records,” the young man said. “Mr. Gam has been trying to get hold of you. He’d like you to call him as soon as you can.”

“All right,” Al said. “Thanks.”

The young man got back in his car and drove off.

This is it, Al said. He walked across the street to the coffee shop and entered the pay-phone booth. A moment later he was connected with the switchboard girl at Teach Records.

“This is Mr. Miller,” he said. “Mr. Gam asked me to call.”