Easy and Hard Ways Out (14 page)

“I hear he does a terrific number of bends,” said Cohen quietly.

“Well, I do more!” snapped Dorfman. “I can surpass him in anything. Anything he does. All you guys with your niggling cheapness …”

“It's not cheapness, Sheldon,” said Cohen. “It's just the application of sound engineering principles in everyday life.” He knew he had Dorfman now; he could play him like a piano. “For instance, my toothbrush. I never wash it anymore. I calculated that by making use of the toothpaste residues that remain after brushing, I save myself an entire tube every two years. It's just sound management.”

“We're approaching the bridge,” said Potamos.

“More of your engineering insanity,” said Dorfman. “You're all such strangulated, tight-assed, constricted individuals. You have no appreciation of the joys of life, or anything fine or artistic or various.”

“This strangulated, tight-assed individual is going to need a quarter,” intoned Potamos. Traffic began to slow.

“But you're one of us,” said Cohen.

“I'm not the same,” said Dorfman. “You'll see. This is just temporary for me. I'm taking courses—”

“Quarter!” said Potamos.

“I'm out of change,” said Cohen.

“Of course,” said Dorfman, handing a coin forward to Potamos. “Of course you're out of change, and of course he took the Throggs Neck instead of the Whitestone. Of course. What can I expect?”

They rode awhile in silence, Cohen smirking in the darkness. After some minutes, he said, “It was my wife's birthday, two days ago. You know what I bought her?”

Dorfman did not answer.

“Two snow tires,” said Cohen. “I mean I figured—”

“I don't want to hear it,” said Dorfman.

e. Listen, God, I Know You 're Busy, But I'm Busy Too

In his office, Rupp sat quietly behind his desk and stared out his window at the blackness outside, at the occasional cars that passed through the parking-lot gate. He wondered where his daughter Francine was on this night. Fifteen years old, she left home for days. Uncontrollable. How often had he searched for her in filthy Greenwich Village apartments, in bowling alleys, in cars parked in lovers' lanes? What the hell was there to do? And his crazy wife, who made his sex life unbearable, denying him what he wanted most. To see, to inspect feverishly, to pore over her female parts with clinical microscopic fervor. He prayed briefly to God to let his latest subminiaturized camera-mirror system work.
Just one good close-up shot of her urinating, God. That's all I ask
. Quickly, however, he added a few lower-priority things about his daughter, and his boat that was being repaired in the machine shop, and the deadline on the F24BZ. He'd begun to pray regularly thirty years earlier, after a friend who got B's in physics had told him of a mathematical proof that God existed. Rupp, impressed, had quickly developed a rapid-fire, sniveling prayer style, his deity a short-tempered, celestial kingpin with little time, who became angry at requests for too many personal treats. Impulsively now, Rupp threw in a last fervent line about world peace.

Finished, he turned back to his desk, to the pile of papers that confronted him. Help from divine sources was unreliable. He preferred to depend on himself, his own ingenuity, to find out things, his own energy and dedication to stay on top and in the know. From the beginning, his mother had explained that life was competition, other people trying to get you before you could turn the tables. In elementary school he'd passed questioning notes to the other students just to acquire samples of their handwriting. Now he tapped phones, had his wife trailed by a private detective, used disguises to mingle with the workers. He especially enjoyed when they had a gripe session about management and, disguised as a machinist or security guard or assembler, he could say, “And you know who's the worst? That Rupp.” And then mentally note who would snigger, and later write down the names on a piece of paper. A steady climb up the executive ladder: hard work and know thine enemy; life was competition.

He began again to concentrate until suddenly he became aware that he was hungry, terribly hungry, and that he missed being home in his kitchen, missed talking to his wife, his daughter, really missed them now. He hardly spoke to them anymore, they'd grown apart so fast … Jesus, Jesus, where did the time go? He turned again to the window.

f
.
The Man with Only Four Sick Days

He was on the second leg of his trip, the Long Island Railroad. First had come the ride to the station, next would be the subway, and finally the walk home. He felt tired, slightly feverish even, but refused to admit it to himself. “I had only four sick days the whole year,” Rocco liked to tell the boys. “Four. The Rock is healthy as they come.” The train bumped and chunked jarringly, metal parts worn to sloppy fits, pitted surfaces, rust—Rocco intuited these things instantly, made repairs. Grinding operations swam through his head, refinishing, lapping, polishing. He thought of the walnut desk he'd made for his daughter-in-law, how beautiful and perfect it was. The display cabinet he'd made for his son's rifle collection. The patio that had taken six weeks. “Thanks,” they'd said. One word. One word for six weeks. A thought about the Accounting men's room flashed through his mind. Yes, he'd opened the circuit breakers. This time he was sure. Why don't you retire already, Dad, his son had asked him. Retire for what, he thought now. Retire so I can build you more cabinets. He remembered how he'd explained the construction to Eddie and little Gino, how rapt their attention had been when he told them about the miters and the glue and the special stains. The kids, they appreciate, he thought. Why the hell should a man with only four sick days retire?

g. Glances

Some, like Mills, weren't even going home, were headed to schools instead, grimly forgoing an evening's rest to sit in classroom rows of wooden seats, straining to hear, to fight off the daze, taking groggy notes. For a few, there was the peculiar loneliness of those who remain after hours in lighted office buildings on cold autumn nights. But mostly, for the remainder, mostly there was numbness, a lazy swirl of office replays, a robotic travel routine, a thought of someone at home, and perhaps, on very rare occasions, a fleeting moment of disorientation, a lifting up of the head and a quick, puzzled glance around.

AUERBACH LABORATORIES

Inter-Office Memorandum
11/26/66

From: S. Rupp

To: S. Brine

cc: ——

Subject: Anonymous letter

I have recently received three unsigned letters accusing one of the engineers in the Microwave section, Harvey Brank, of being responsible for the prank paging. Kindly check into this, but focus the investigation as well on determining who wrote the anonymous notes, since these accusations are often spiteful retaliations resulting from personal feuds or jealousies. The letters are available in my office for your examination.

S. Rupp

SR:sr

X
³
+5Y
²
=ALMOST

When the others had gone, he began to work in his notebook, writing numbered lines of equations alternating with passionate
I love you, Chris
's written very small but very intensely. The process reminded him of occasional dreams he had in which women's sex organs were mixed with mathematical formulae, the idea in the dream seeming to be that if he could somehow solve the technical problems he would be permitted access to the organs. He slammed the notebook shut as Christine entered the office.

“I'm ready to leave now, Dr. Brundage, if you are,” she said.

“Yes. Fine,” said Brundage, walking over to the clothing rack to get his overcoat. He helped her on with her coat, a whorish-looking, belted vinyl one, touching her shoulder awkwardly and dropping his own coat as he did so.

“Thank you,” she said, and Brundage grunted as he bent down.

They walked rapidly through the halls, Brundage concentrating desperately to avoid getting lost before they reached an exit. At the door finally, Chief of Security Brine asked to inspect Brundage's briefcase.

“Sorry ta bother ya, Doc, but we've had a little problem lately—some sonofabitch been sneaking out pieces of soap from the men's rooms.”

Brundage opened the briefcase. “That's quite serious,” he said. “Perhaps the Russians are trying to copy our Lifebuoy.”

Christine smiled.

“All right,” said Brine, “so it's amusing. Today soap, tomorrow the H-bomb.”

He handed back the briefcase, and Brundage and Christine walked out the exit. In the car, instead of seating herself near the door, she sat close to him, brushing his overcoat and making his legs tingle. She gave him directions and he started out. She lit a cigarette.

“There are seat belts, if you want to use one,” said Brundage for no reason.

“No,” she said.

It was dark out, nighttime, and he drove awhile in silence.

“He's a funny guy,” she said suddenly.

“Who?”

“Mr. Brine.”

“Oh. Yeah. Brine. Yeah, he's peculiar. He's very serious. He carries a gun. He's very serious. He's a maniac.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, sure. Most of them are here. They're all maniacs. Have you ever seen them drive in the parking lot? Like ants hit with boiling water. Crazy. Random.”

“I guess I haven't been here long enough.”

“Oh. Well, yes, maybe. How long have you been here now, by the way?”

“Eight months.”

“Oh. Well, that's certainly not much. Do you like it here?”

“Yes. I like working in your department.”

“I'm flattered.”

“I find it exciting.”

“Well, heh, I'm really flattered.” He noticed her brushing away some crumbs from his lunchtime sandwich. “Would you like the radio on?” he asked.

“Okay,” she said.

He put on some soft music. “It's somewhat unusual for a woman to make a career in your field,” he said. “Not that it's not an admirable accomplishment,” he added quickly.

She smiled.

“What, uh, what line is your, uh, husband in, if I may ask?”

She seemed, for the first time, a bit flustered. “Oh, my husband? Oh. Oh, well, he, uh … Well, he's in, uh, driving. Tony drives a truck. He's a driver.”

“Oh. Uh-huh. Oh.”

She lit another cigarette. “Are you married, Dr. Brundage?”

“Please, why don't you call me Kenneth.”

“Oh, fine, fine. Well then, are you married, Kenneth?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. Uh-huh.”

She directed him to a side street, and he turned and pulled up in front of a six-story apartment building. It had begun to drizzle.

“This is it,” she said, making no move to leave. He became conscious of her perfume, flower-scented, but thicker, and probably mixed with her natural perspiration.

“I have a son,” he blurted as she seemed to squeeze even closer. “He visits once a month, he and his wife. He tells me I should move. He tells me I live wrong, I need an air conditioner, I should be a dentist. He criticizes the pictures on the walls even, can you imagine?”

The radio was playing Sinatra and her huge, liquid, limpid eyes suddenly became rainbow-colored puddles, and then very quickly her slightly too-thick lips were pressing wetly against his and chilled vinyl was thrilling his skin and inch-long fingernails were engraving his back.

She withdrew. “Oh, Dr. Brundage, forgive me. Oh, I don't know what—Oh, please, I'm so terribly ashamed. I—”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Oh, no, please,” and surprising even himself he reached for her and pulled her toward him. He felt her tongue frantically writhing in his mouth and he drew it gently inward as he ran his hands over her coat and pawed clumsily at the encased treasures.

“I've always been helpless for intelligent men,” she gasped as they parted for an instant. “I don't know what it is. It's just something I can't resist.”

“And I've always thought you made the best thin films I've ever seen,” he said crazily. “I'm desperately sincere about that; Christine.”

They hugged again, passionately, and then she said, “Come, let's go up.”

In the elevator: “I don't want you to misunderstand. I love my husband, Dr. Brundage. Tony's a wonderful man—kind, a good provider, the best. It's just that ever since I was a child my father always stressed education, intellect, and somehow over the years I felt I was missing some vital—”

“You needn't explain, Christine, really. I mean, I love my wife, too. I won't say there aren't problems, and her shape isn't exactly svelte, but still, you just don't throw out all those years. Look, let's be honest. All I want here is to commit a little clean, straightforward adultery. Nothing tricky or perverted. Am I right to think that's what we're here for?”

“Yes.”

As they entered the apartment, Brundage felt marvelously aboveboard, almost civic-minded. He got a fleeting impression of three small rooms. Hall foyer with fish tank. Wooden kitchen table. Pole lamp in the living room. He removed his coat and realized that, idiotically, he'd brought his briefcase up with him. She led him into the bedroom and he laid it down near a dresser, then threw his coat on the floor.

“He won't be home for two hours,” she said. She had her coat off and one knee up on the bed.

“You know,” said Brundage, “there are times when I think about the whole sex experience in a rational way and find it quite difficult to become aroused. I mean, I say to myself, what is an erection anyway but blood engorging normally flaccid tissue. And why should the mere sight of, say, a breast or vagina cause such a reaction? I mean, really, when you consider it, what is the female external organ but a rather unattractive, hair-covered, often foul-smelling opening into the body? I mean, why should anyone be expected to find that arousing?”