Philip Dick - Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

“Any news from your doctor?” Al said, when Fergesson had finished reading the letter.

Fergesson said, “He said I had a mild heart attack.”

“Hell,” Al said, with dismay.

“He’s making more tests.” The old man began to tear open another letter; Al saw that his hands were shaking. “Excuse me,” the old man said. “I have to read my mail.”

Taking a deep breath, Al said, “Listen. That guy Chris Harman. We were talking about him. Maybe I was wrong; maybe he’s not a crook at all.”

The old man raised his head; he stared at Al, blinking rapidly. But he said nothing.

Tm no judge of people like that,” Al said, “that far up. I have no experience. I was relying on secondhand advice anyhow. He could be a crook. The point is, I don’t know. I can’t prove it either way; it’s a mystery to me.” He paused. “I was over there.”

The old man nodded.

“I had a long talk with him,” Al said.

“Oh yeah,” the old man murmured, as if preoccupied.

“Are you still sore at me?” Al said.

“No,” the old man said.

“I thought it’d make you feel better,” Al said, “if I came and honestly admitted that I don’t know one way or another about Chris Harman. You’ll have to make up your own mind.”

He had meant to go on then, to the part about his asking Harman for a job. But he did not get the chance.

“Listen,” the old man said, “get out of here.”

Oh God, Al thought.

“I’m not speaking to you,” the old man said.

“I thought this would make you feel better,” Al said, unable to grasp what was happening. “Now it makes you sore,” he said, “to have me say I don’t think he’s a crook.” It was the most incredible thing he had ever seen. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get out, you old nut.” He got quickly to his feet. “You want him to be a crook?” he said. “You want to be swindled? Is that it?”

The old man said nothing. He continued to read his mail.

“Okay,” Al said. “I’ll leave. The hell with you. You’re not speaking to me—I’m not speaking to you.” He started out of the office. “I don’t get it,” he said.

The old man did not look up.

“You’re really addled,” Al said, at the door of the office. “Your brains are scrambled. That heart attack must have done it. I read an article about that once. Eisenhower is the same way, a lot of people think. So long. I’ll see you.” He unsteadily made his way to the entrance of the garage and out onto his lot.

That’s the craziest thing I ever heard of, he thought. He really ought to be put away; his wife is right. She ought to get an attorney and have him put away.

I can understand a man getting sore when somebody tells him he’s getting swindled, he thought. But not a man getting sore when somebody tells him he’s not getting swindled. That’s not human. I ought to send away for one of those Mental Health pamphlets and drop it into his mailbox. It’s going to be hell staying around here with him, he said to himself. Working around a madman.

What a crazy world, he thought. The old man sells his garage without telling me—he ruins my life, puts me out of business— and then he winds up mad at me. Not speaking to me.

Going across the street to the coffee shop, he closed himself in the pay-phone booth and dropped a dime into the slot. He dialed his home phone number and presently Julie answered.

“I’m going to go ahead and accept that job,” Al said.

“Fine,” she said. “What a relief. I was so afraid you wouldn’t and it really does look good, doesn’t it?”

“It pays well,” he said. “And it looks as if it would be interesting. Anyhow, I have to do something. I can’t stick around here.”

“It took you so long to see that,” Julie said.

“Well,” he said, “I’m stuck here with a senile lunatic. Naturally I see it; there’s nothing else to see.” He rang off, paused, and then, putting in another dime, dialed the number of the Harman organization. The receptionist answered. “Teach Records.”

I never did get to tell him, Al thought. The old man. I went over there, and he didn’t give me a chance. “Let me talk to the man I was talking to before,” he said to the receptionist. “Mr. Gam, I think his name was.”

The girl said, “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Gam is no longer with us.”

Floored by that, Al said, “I was just talking to him. The other day.”

“Who would you like to talk to, sir?” the girl said. “Since I can’t connect you with Mr. Gam.”

“I don’t know,” he said, completely at a loss. “They offered me a job. Mr. Gam had it all worked out.”

“Is this Mr. Miller?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Mr. Knight will talk to you,” the girl said. “Mr. Gam and Mr. Harman turned your name over to him. He’s familiar with the situation. Just a moment, Mr. Miller.” There came a series of clicks, then a long silence. Then, at last, a hearty man’s voice loudly in his ear.

“Mr. Miller!”

“Yes,” Al murmured.

“This is Pat Knight. Glad to meet you, Al.”

“Same to you,” Al murmured.

“Mr. Gam is no longer with us. A position came up he’d been waiting for, and he flew. He made his move. That’s the way it has to be. He’ll be in the office from time to time. Well, you’re going to join us?”

“Yes,” Al said.

Knight said, “Well, now, listen, Al. There’re a couple of things I’d better discuss with you. When Mr. Gam talked to you he was a little confused; he had a lot on his mind, this new spot he was after. He got you mixed up with another fellow that Harman was sending around, a Joe Mason or Marston—he never came in. He—that is, this Marston—used to be a retail dealer up in Spokane. We wanted him to handle our esoteric classical for us, and Gam got you involved in that. He got you picked out for that spot. He had the idea that was what Harman wanted.” Knight laughed.

“I see,” Al said, feeling parts of his mind fade out into numbness. They ceased to function; he merely stood at the phone nodding his head up and down, listening.

“We do have a spot for you,” Pat Knight said, more slowly and soberly. “Listen, I’ll level with you, Al. Right here and now on the phone. What we need is an aggressive, hard-working young man who isn’t afraid of rising above his fellows and making something of his life. Is that you?”

“Sure,” Al murmured.

“The profits are big,” Knight said. “So’s the responsibility. You’ll have to be able to meet the public. You can do that. I see by your file that you’re an automobile salesman.”

It occurred to Al that he should say he was not; it was not right. It had to do with a big new-car agency, with glass windows, new shiny cars, salesmen in striped suits standing around by potted palms . . . that’s not me, he wanted to say.

“I’m a dealer,” he said.

“What’s that?” Knight said.

“I have my own place,” he said.

“I’ll be darned,” Knight said. “Well you’re no doubt what we’ve been looking for. I can see why Mr. Harman told us to keep our eyes open for you. Well, I suggest you drop over and we’ll settle this. There’s been some confusion, here, but we can iron it out to everybody’s satisfaction. The spot we have is right up your alley, Al. I know you’ll really go for it.”

“What is it?” he said loudly.

“Now listen,” Knight said, in a slightly frigid voice. “I want to meet you face to face, Al. I have to see what kind of man I’m dealing with. I can’t just hand out jobs over the phone, like greetings cards.” He sounded huffy now. “When can I expect you?” he said in a brisk formal voice. “In about an hour? I can squeeze you in at exactly one-thirty, for about fifteen minutes.”