Philip Dick - Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

“Yes,” Al said.

“He’s never wrong. If he goes into barbershop in a big way, you can bet it’ll be the next trend. Maybe it becomes a trend because he goes into it. I don’t know. And this relationship he has with reality spreads out to some extent through the whole organization. I swear my own luck has been substantially better since I met Chris Harman eight years ago. It’s good luck to meet him, even; you can date the process as starting there. Your good luck, Miller, has already begun. Don’t you feel that?”

“And how,” Al said.

“I mean, now you’re going somewhere. You’re not just standing still. You’ve been noticed.”

The French door opened and Chris Harman reappeared, in his blue and white robe, carrying a tray on which stood a silver Martini shaker and three frosty-looking Martini glasses, an olive in each.

“Here we are,” Chris said.

Jim Fergesson, on his first errand that morning, left his house and drove to the Bank of America. There, he transferred his money, except for ten dollars, from his savings account to his checking account. As he left the bank, he looked into his commercial passbook and read with satisfaction the sum $41,475.00.

Should he go back home? He wanted to be dressed right. I guess maybe I’ll stop and get a new tie, he told himself. One of those narrow ties. So he drove along San Pablo until he saw a clothing store; parking, he got out, taking care to move slowly and not to exert himself too much. Soon he was inside the store, examining the ties in the rack by the coats.

A plump young Chinese man in shirtsleeves came toward him, smiling. “Good day,” he said to Fergesson. He had on a good-looking tie: gray with bits of red. The old mart, searching, found a tie exactly like it in the group. It cost four-fifty, which seemed to him a lot for a tie. “That’s a nice one,” the Chinese man said. “That’s handmade by a fellow over in Sausalito. He’s got a patent on it.”

Fergesson bought several ties and left the store, feeling pleased.

But he still did not want to go home. Lydia was there, and he felt nervous at the idea of running into her. Seated in his car he opened the paper bag of ties; by use of the rear view mirror he began to fasten one of the new ties around the collar of his shirt. While he worked at it—he wore ties so seldom that his fingers got in the way and he could not make out the length to let the small end fall—he realized that the Chinese man had come out of his store onto the sidewalk and was nodding to him sympathetically. So he got out of his car and let the Chinese man fix the tie. The man did a good job, and his fingers felt deft and friendly.

“Thanks,” Fergesson said, a little embarrassed but at the same time gratified. “I have this big business appointment I have to get to.” He looked at his pocket watch to show how much pressure there was on him.

The Chinese smiled at him, and watched him get back into the car and start up. He wishes me luck, Fergesson thought as he drove away into traffic. It’s a good sign.

Now he felt better than he had in months. This is really an occasion, he said to himself.

He had bought over twenty-five dollars’ worth of ties, he realized. Wow! That was something; that proved something.

That’s a service they do, he thought, those Chinese. That’s how they make those little businesses pay; they add something extra for nothing; that a white man won’t do. I wouldn’t mind going in there for all my clothes. I know I’d get real individual attention.

He made a note of the location. So I can find it again, he thought.

I’ll bet that Chinese guy has made a lot of money, he thought as he made a left turn at an intersection.

This is really a nice day, he said to himself as he noticed the sky and the sun; he rolled down the car window and sniffed the air. I hope that damn smog doesn’t show up, he thought. That really slays people; it causes lung cancer as much as cigarettes.

I can’t feel this good all day, he said to himself. Already he was beginning to feel tired; the driving was hard on him, the having to watch other cars, the stops and starts. That’s what makes the smog, he thought. The car exhausts, all these buses and trucks; too many people moving into Oakland—too overcrowded.

Now he felt the weight of an enormous flu come onto him. It was like the time he had been laid up with the Asiatic virus; he had had it a week before he had realized that he was sick, because the symptoms of the thing did not so much make him feel different as just worse. It had made his fatigue greater, his irritability greater, his gloom, his sense of defeat, more overwhelming. He had gone around snapping at everyone, and been unable to do his work; he had stayed on his feet, and then one morning he had been too tired to get up from the breakfast table. So Lydia had kept him home.

Like that again, he thought, slowing his car. Heavy all over, his arms in particular; his hands flopped like cement gloves on the wheel. His head wobbled. Even my eye muscles, he thought; his view of the traffic ahead became disfigured. Objects merged and then separated. My God damn left eye is swimming off on its own, he reasoned. Walleyed. Muscles must be pooped.

Well, he thought, what I need is vitamin B-one. That’s that nerve vitamin. Keeping his car in motion he continued on until he could turn back on San Pablo; he made a left turn against a red light and swung over to the far lane. That’s what took care of me before, he said to himself. That and a couple of good steam baths. But he could not go get into a steam bath this time, because of his being taped up. He had to stay out of the water; the doctor had warned him. The vitamin would have to do.

There was a yellow zone in front of the drive-in, and he parked there. Getting out, he carefully made his way up the sidewalk to the health food store. His feet, he discovered, seemed to sink down into the sidewalk, as if the pavement had become ooze. Sinking down a full six inches, he said to himself, lifting his right foot back up and out, setting it down again, lifting his left; left, right, left, and so on, to the screen door of the health food store. Stuck there, for a moment he rested, grinned to himself with anger, and then opened the door with the side of his hand.

“Morning, Jim,” Betty said.

He sat down, dropping abruptly and grunting, on the first stool. He folded his arms on the counter and rested his head for a moment; he had done that, years ago, in school; he felt his forehead pressing his wrist. Like in the third grade, he thought. Midday nap. He beckoned to Betty and she came over.

“Listen,” he said. “How about a bottle of those health vitamins again. Those therapy vitamins.”

“Oh, now what did you have?” Betty murmured. “Was it the theragrams?” She moved away to the shelf. “Big red pills?”

He saw the bottle he wanted, pointed to it; she got it down.

“I remember,” she said. “The B-complex. The niacinamide and panthenol group. This is very good, Jim. This has the liver fraction in it; they use it with anemic people. But it doesn’t have B-twelve in it; that’s the only drawback.” She reached for another bottle. “This has your B-twelve, but it’s a little more expensive. They’re both hematinic formulas.” She eyed him, holding up both bottles.

“I just want the nerve one,” he said. “B-one.” He reached out for the familiar bottle and she handed it to him. “Can I have some water?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, going to fill a glass.

He took two of the vitamin pills there at the counter, and then, carrying the bottle, started from the store.

“We’ll put it on your bill,” Betty said, following after him. “I hope that does what you want, Jim. You do look very tired today. You know, you could take it as an elixir; you might find that handier.” She came out on the sidewalk with him.