Philip Dick - Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

“Okay,” Al said. He nodded. “I’ll be over.” He hung up the phone and left the booth.

I’m helpless, he realized. They’ve got me like a bug in a mayonnaise jar. As soon as I said I wanted the job, they stabbed me.

They highballed me, he said to himself. The old trade-in trick. Every car dealer uses it. Quotes the customer such a high trade-in for his car that he has to come back; he can’t turn it down. And when he comes back he discovers that the offer has been withdrawn in the meantime; a new shipment has come in, or the salesman who made the offer isn’t with the firm anymore . . . and by this time the guy is hooked. He’s already made up his mind to wheel and deal.

Like me, Al thought. I’ve decided to join the Harman organization, even though I don’t know what the job is or what it pays. I know nothing, except that I’ve decided to make my move. It’s a Mutt and Jeff act, he realized. Between Harman, Gam, and Knight. And I fell for it; I fell so completely that I’m going over there and taking the job they have, the job they had for me from the start, no matter what it is. And I think I know what it is, he thought. It’s a salesman job. Selling records. That’s what they mean: a flunky with a bow tie, a crew cut, a briefcase and a glad-hand stuck out. They mean me; what I’m going to be in a little while. My destiny.

They saw me coming, he thought to himself as he recrossed the street to the lot. The boy from the country. The farm boy from St. Helena who has no chance, no hope, in the big city of Oakland, California.

Getting into one of the lot cars he drove home in order to change his clothes. In order to get a clean shirt and tie and suit, so that he could impress Mr. Knight.

This is how they break you, he realized. This is how they break your spirit bit by bit. They don’t come right out and make the offer; they don’t look you straight in the eye and say, We’ve got a salesman’s job for you; take it or leave it. No. They do a snow job on you; they sell you. And why not? They’re better salesman than you are. Look where they are; look who they are. And then look who you are.

I should have known, he thought. If Harman was smart enough to build up that organization, to have the kind of house and cars he has, to dress like he does, he’s smart enough to make mincemeat out of me. I should never have tried to take a confidence man, he said to himself. Harman knows a million tricks I never heard of. I’m an amateur. We all are, compared to him.

And they know I’m hooked, he thought. They know it’s too late for me to back out; I’ll take the job, whatever it is. They’re masters of manipulation, of using psychology.

I’m their white rat, he thought. And I’m deep in the maze by now. Far too deep to get out. And the cleverer I am, the smarter I act, the deeper I go. It’s fixed that way; that’s part of the system by which it works.

I’ve told my wife and my friends I’m getting a big-time job; they knew I’d say it, pass the word around. Now I have to pretend. I have to start living a lie; I have to keep telling them—and telling myself—that I’ve got a nifty job at nifty pay for a nifty outfit, that I’m going somewhere. But in fact I’m not going somewhere. However, I have to keep that quiet; I have to keep that to myself.

And the proof of how well they have me is that I will keep it to myself. I’ll be smiling all the time. I’ll have to be; from now on there’s no choice.

For over an hour, Al Miller had been sitting in Mr. Knights small, modern waiting room. He wore his best suit, his best tie and shirt, his best shiny black shoes. So far there had been no sign of Mr. Knight; his office door remained shut, although now and then sounds could be heard.

My mind knows what my body doesn’t, Al thought. My mind knows that this is all a plot, a hoax. But my body is geared along another line; it thinks this is a grand climax. This is success. All its hormones were released—on purpose, by those who know how to do it. They have control of my body, he realized. Only this one tiny part of my mind looks down and sees. Sees the lies and the mechanism.

Even this long wait. It’s to make you more and more helpless. More dependent. Praying they’ll see you. When the girl says that Mr. Knight will see me, I’ll be glad to go in. And I’ll be so glad to take the job; I really will be. It won’t be simulated. Because by now there is an even worse possibility. That I’ll have done all this in vain, for nothing.

“Mr. Knight will see you now,” the girl said, from her desk.

At once, like a machine, he was on his feet. He wheeled smartly and strode through the open door, into Knight’s office.

There sat a man only slightly older than himself, but with a round, smooth, pink, shaved, double-chinned face. A man with plenty of flesh on him, well-dressed, with beautifully manicured nails; a good-looking man in an easy-going mood. A relaxed man who had nothing to worry about or be gloomy about.

“Sit down,” Knight said, indicating a chair.

Al sat down.

“How are you today?” Knight said.

“Fine, thanks,” Al said.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Knight said.

“That’s okay,” Al said.

“You’ve never had any experience with the record business,” Knight said, tapping his pencil reflectively.

“No,” Al said.

Knight pondered. All at once he raised his eyes and scrutinized Al with silent ferocity. The man’s light-colored eyes took on such power that Al felt paralyzed; he could only gaze helplessly back.

“Okay,” Knight said. “We’ll go along with you, boy.” He rose from his chair. “It’s a deal. We’re not looking for experience. We’re looking for the right man.” It all came out in a rush now. “We have an idea that the next big thing in the record business— hell, in popular music on TV or whatever else you find it—is going to be barbershop.”

“I see,” Al said.

“Barbershop,” Knight said. “But not the old harmonizing; the old sentimental crooning in unison. This will be barbershop with the new sound, electronic barbershop. With plenty of presence. It’ll sweep the nation. Modern science will supply what barbershop has always lacked, a modern quality to which modern people, like teenagers, could relate. We’re starting a new line. It’ll be called Harman-E. It’ll be barbershop, and it’ll carry everything else inside six months.” Seating himself on his desk, Knight scrutinized Al again. “Do you know,” he said, “where the great artists in this medium are going to come from?”

“No,” Al said.

“From small towns,” Knight said. “Right here in California. From towns like Modesto, Tracy, Vallejo. Not quite the country and not quite the city. The real backbone of America, where we all came from and where we all want to go back.”

“I was born in St. Helena,” Al said.

“I know,” Knight said. “That’s why you were picked. Do you sing?”

“No,” Al said.

“I do,” Knight said. “I sing barbershop. In fact I just got back from a barbershop balladeers’ convention in El Paso, Texas. Here.” He reached into his desk and brought out a glossy print, which he handed to Al.

The print showed Knight wearing a striped old-fashioned vest, along with three other men, all dressed exactly the same way. Each man held a derby hat in his hand.

“My group,” Knight said. “We sing three nights a week, for veterans’ organizations, hospitals, private parties, kids’ groups. And my wife—” Again he held out a print for Al to see. This one showed four young women wearing taffeta gowns, holding tiny parasols. “The one on the end is Nora,” Knight said. “The ear is an oscilloscope. Did you know that? It can detect sounds only two cycles a second apart. Yes, that’s a fact. Our music is tempered. Bach did that. What barbershop does is go back to the untempered music of Renaissance polyphony. You read barbershop from bottom to top, you know. Not from left to right. What we strive to do is get the chords to ring. That takes about five years of practice. A chord rings when the voices blend at no more than two cycles apart. The sounds reinforce. Here, I’ll show you.” He walked over to a large console phonograph in the corner of the office. “This group,” he said, as he picked up a long playing record and put it on the turntable, “won the International Barbershop Championship in 1959. The Aristotelians.”