Philip Dick: Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

“ . . . You’re hiding from life,” Julie wound up. “You’re looking at life through a tiny hole.”

“Maybe so,” he said, feeling glum.

“Off here in this run-down district.” She gestured at the street of small stores, the barber shop, the bakery, the loan company, the bar across the street. The colon-irrigation outfit whose sign always upset her. “And I don’t think I can stand living in that ratty apartment much longer, Al.” Her voice had softened. “But I don’t want to put pressure on you.”

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe what I need is to get my colon irrigated,” he said. “Whatever that is.”

That evening, as Jim Fergesson walked up the cement steps to the front door of his house, the Venetian shade behind the glass of the door shivered, moved aside; an eye, bright, wary, peeped out. And then the door swung open. There stood his wife, Lydia, chuckling aloud with pleasure, blushing to see him as she always did when he got home; it was her habit, due perhaps to her Greek origins. She ushered him inside, into the hall, talking quickly.

“Oh I’m so happy that you are finally home. What sort of a day did you have this time? Listen, do you know what I’ve done? In my desire to please, and I know it will please, guess what I’ve put on the stove for you, and it’s cooking now!”

He sniffed.

Lydia said, “It’s chicken; stewed chicken and spinach.” She laughed as she led the way through the house ahead of him.

“I’m not hungry so much tonight,” he said.

Turning, she said, “I can see you’re in a bad mood.”

He halted at the closet to hang up his coat. His fingers felt stiff and tired; Lydia watched with an alert, bird-quick expression.

“But now you’re home, and so no reason to be in a grumbling mood,” Lydia said. “Is that not right? Did something happen today?” At once her face became anxious. “Nothing happened, I trust. I know fervently that nothing in the world could happen.”

He said, “I just had a little run-in with Al.” Going past her he entered the kitchen. “This morning.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding in a somber manner, showing that she understood. Over the years she had learned to catch his moods and to reflect them, to line herself up—at least in appearance— with them, so that a communication could be brought about.

His wife was very much for that, for a full discussion of his problems; sometimes she made out things in his problems that he had missed. Lydia had gone to college. In fact she still took courses, some by mail. Being able to speak Greek, she could translate philosophers. And she knew Latin, too. Her ability to learn foreign languages impressed him, but on the other hand she had never been able to learn how to drive, even though she had gone to a driving school.

Still, she listened to what he had to say about cars, even though many of the notions made no sense to her. He had never found her unwilling to listen, no matter what the topic.

The table in the dinette had been set, and now Lydia moved about the kitchen, getting pans from the stove and transferring them to the table. He seated himself on the built-in bench and began unlacing his shoes. “Time for me to take a bath?” he said. “Before dinner?”

“Naturally,” Lydia said, at once returning the pans to the stove. “You would no doubt feel much more at peace with the world if you took a bath.”

So he went to the bathroom to take his bath.

Hot water roared down on him as he lay soaking; he kept the water going, more for the noise than anything else. Here, with the door shut and the steam rising and the noise, he felt relaxed. He shut his eyes and permitted himself to float a little in the almost totally filled tub. The tiles sparkled with drops of condensation. The walls, the ceiling, became damp; the bathroom fogged over, making the fixtures dim shapes, dripping and tenuous. Like a real steam bath, he thought. A Swedish steam bath, with attendants waiting, and white robes and towels. He rested his arms on the sides of the tub, and, with his toes, shut the stream of water down to a trickle; he arranged it so that the incoming water was exactly balanced by that drawn off by the spillover drain.

Here, now, away from the garage, shut in by himself in the warmth and dampness of this familiar bathroom—he had lived in this house for sixteen years—he felt no trouble. What a solid old house this was, with its hardwood floors, its glass-doored cupboards. The timbers had become like iron over the years, soaking up the anti-termite compounds that he lavished on them in the early fall. Over the outer boards coats of paint had become themselves a second house protecting the first, the inner wooden one. Even this, the enamel house which he had built up layer by layer over the years, would have been enough; after all, wasps made houses out of paper, and no one bothered them.

This was no paper house that he lived in. They can take those pigs, he thought. Those three; I got them beat all the way around. I could tell them a thing or two, even that last one, the pig that got the credit. Let me ask how long that house of his stood up. This’ll be here long after. In those days, in the ’thirties, they really built. That was prewar; they didn’t use any green lumber.

And, as he lay in the tub working the controls with his feet, he began to think. He thought—he let his thoughts go there—on that old topic. It came to him that there was such a thing as gain.

Yes, he thought, look what I got. I got thirty-five thousand dollars. What a lot of money.

And there’s nothing I have to do, he thought. It’s already in; it’s in writing, a fact. Just lying here in this tub I’m waiting, and it’s getting closer. I can count on it, without any work now.

So now he did not have to think of work. It had been work that had forced itself into his mind, over the years. They can take their damn cars, he thought, and stick them up their ass.

I think I’ll never go back there, he decided. To the garage. I think I’ll stay home.

You couldn’t get me to go back there, he thought. And he looked with real anger on those who wanted to get him back; he felt real hate.

What’ll I do with this money? he asked himself. This enormous sum, a sort of fortune. I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll leave it to my wife. This big sum paid to me for everything that I’ve done— I’ll be dead, and she’ll be spending it. And she doesn’t even need it.

Has she stood by me? he asked himself. Worked at my side? I don’t see it, if she has. It’s the Oakland Public Library that she’s supported, not me. It’s the University of California and those professors, and especially those students in sweaters. They dress nice and keep their nails cut. They have plenty of time and training to know to do that.

At the door of the bathroom a faint noise attracted his attention. The knob turned, but the door did not open; it was locked.

“What is it?” he yelled.

“I wanted—” His wife’s voice, cut off by the noise of water.

He shut off the water. “It’s locked,” he yelled.

“Do you have a towel?”

“Yes,” he said.

After a pause she said, “Dinner is ready. I want it to be exactly right for you.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be out.”

Later, he sat across from Lydia at the dining table, drinking his soup. As always, she had fixed up the table; she had put on candles, a white tablecloth, and linen napkins. She wore a little jewelry, too, a necklace. And she had on rouge. Her black eyes shone and she smiled at him, an immediate smile as soon as she saw he was looking at her.

“Why so gloomy?” she said. “Is it not a lot more happier for yourself and all mankind to adopt a more pleasant exterior?” When he did not answer, she went on, “And eventually that affects the inner person, at least according to the magnificent psychology of William James and Lang.”