Now and on Earth (3 page)

"That wine won't make you feel any better. You'll have the grandfather of all hangovers in the morning."

"That's in the morning," I said. "Tonight-here's looking at you."

Frankie snapped open her purse and pitched me a half-dollar. "Go get yourself a half-pint of whisky. It won't tie you up like that wine will."

I looked at the money. "I don't like to take this, Frankie."

"Oh, go on. Hurry up and I'll have a drink with you." I put on my shoes and went out. When I came back Frankie was holding a letter in her hand, and her eyes were red.

"What do you think about Pop?" she asked.

"What about him?"

"Didn't Mom show you this letter she got today? I thought she had."

"Let me see it," I said.

"Not now. I want to take it back to the bedroom with me. You can read it tomorrow."

"Look," I said. "Whatever it is, it won't worry me any more to know about it than not to know about it, now that I know there's something wrong. Please don't argue. And if you're going to bawl, go hide some place. I've been laved in tears ever since I came home."

"You're a dog," said Frankie, wiping her eyes. She chuckled. "Did you hear the one about the rattlesnake that didn't have a pit to hiss in?"

"Shut up a minute."

I skimmed through the letter. It didn't say much. They didn't want to keep Pop at the Place he was in any longer. He was-he was too much trouble.

"We'll have to take him away, I guess," I said.

"Bring him out here, you mean?"

"Why not?"

Frankie gave me a look.

"All right, then," I said. "What do you suggest?"

"We can't have Mom live with him. Even if we did have the money for a place in the country and everything."

"What about his own folks? They've got dough."

"They were holding on to it, too," said Frankie, "at the last writing. You know how they are, Jimmie. You write one of 'em a letter, and he reads it dutifully, writes a note of his own, and sends the two on to another twig on the tree. The note, incidentally, begins exactly five spaces from the top right of one page, and ends five spaces from the left bottom of another. And of course it doesn't-it wouldn't-refer to Pop at all. That would be indelicate. Long before the sixteen-hundred-and-eightieth Dillon is reached, our letter is worn out and nothing but theirs remains. The result? Well-Aunt Edna's third-oldest girl, Sabetha, has her adenoids removed, and Great-Uncle Juniper gets a copy of
Emerson's Essays
."

That's about the way it would be. I've always believed that the Dillons originated the chain-letter.

"Let's have a drink and sleep on it," I said.

"Just a short one," said Frankie. "How do you like your job?"

"Swell."

"Got a good bunch to work with?"

"Oh, swell."

"Such enthusiasm. Let's have all the lurid details."

"Well, there are six of us altogether, counting the foreman-or leadman, as they call him. The stockroom is divided into two departments-purchased parts, that is, parts manufactured outside the plant, and manufactured parts-but we're all inside the same enclosure. The two fellows in Purchased Parts are Busken and Vail. Busken is dapper, very nervous. Vail is the sure, enigmatic type. They're two of a kind, however."

"O-oh," said Frankie.

"I was on my hands and knees all day, and naturally I was sweating a lot. At some time during the day these clowns in Purchased- they've got the stenciling machine in their department-taped a neat little chromo upon my buttocks. I must have worn it for hours. It said, WET DECALS. NO STEP."

Frankie laughed until the seams of her dress threatened to split.

"Why Jimmie! That's clever!"

"Isn't it? Then, there's Moon, our leadman. He came around tonight at quitting time and gave me a few words of comfort. He said not to worry if I didn't seem to be doing anything; the company expected to lose money on a man for the first month."

Frankie slapped her knees. "And you getting fifty cents an hour!"

"Oh, it's funny," I said. "Now for a really brainy fellow we have Gross, the bookkeeper. He's a graduate of the University of Louisiana and a former All-American. I asked him if he knew Lyle Saxon."

"Well?"

"He asked me what year Lyle was on the team."

"So that fixes him in your book." Frankie didn't laugh this time.

"The remaining member of our sextette," I said, "is named Murphy. He was laying off today so I didn't meet him."

Frankie picked up her shoes and got up. "You'll never make it down there, Jimmie. Not the way you feel. Don't you really think you can write any more?"

"No."

"What are you going to do, then?"

"Get drunk."

"Good-night."

"Good-night…"

I thought about Pop: Now what the hell will we do, I thought. I thought about Roberta, about Mom. About the kids growing up around me. Growing up amidst this turmoil, these hatreds, this-well, why quibble-insanity. I thought and my stomach tightened into a little ball; my guts crawled up around my lung and my vision went black.

I took a drink and chased it with wine.

I thought about the time I'd sold a thousand dollars' worth of stories in a month. I thought about the day I became a director for the Writers' Project. I thought about the fellowship I'd gotten from the foundation- one of the two fellowships available for the whole country. I thought about the letters I'd got from a dozen different publishers-"The finest thing we have ever read." "Swell stuff, Dillon; keep it coming." "We are paying you our top rate…"

I said to myself, So what? Were you ever happy? Did you ever have any peace? And I had to answer, Why no, for Christ's sake; you've always been in hell. You've just slipped deeper. And you're going to keep on because you're your father. Your father without his endurance. They'll have you in a place in another year or two. Don't you remember how your father went? Like you. Exactly like you. Irritable. Erratic. Dull. Then-well, you know. Ha, ha. You're damned right you know.

I wonder if they are mean to you in those places. I wonder if they put the slug on you when you get to cutting up
.

Ha, ha-ha, ha, ha. They'll give you a spoon to eat with, bud. And a wooden bowl. And they'll cut your hair off to save on shampoos. And after the first month they'll make you wear mittens to bed… They can't get you there? They got Pop there, didn't they? Not
they
. You. You and Mom and Frankie.

Remember how easy it was? Come on, Pop, we'll have a bottle of beer and go for a little ride. Pop didn't suspect. He'd never think his own family would do a thing like that to him. You had to? Of course you did! And they'll have to. And you won't know until it's too late- like Pop did.

Remember the startled look on his face as you sidled out the door? Remember how he knocked upon the panels? Knocked; then pounded? Clawed? Remember his hoarse voice following you down the hall? The quavering and cadenced tones-"Frankie, Jimmie, Mom, are you there? Mom, Frankie, Jimmie, are you coming back?" And then he began to cry-to cry like Jo might. Or Mack or Shannon.

Or you.

“M-mom I’m afraid, Mom. Take me out of here. T-take-me-out-of-here! Mom… Frankie… Jimmie… JIMMIE! Take-me out…”

I screamed and sobbed and my head rose to a peak and flopped back in a sickening mush.

“I’m coming, Pop! I won’t leave you! I’m coming!”

And Mom was shaking me by the shoulder, and the clock on the mantel said five-thirty.

The whisky flask was empty. So was the wine bottle.

"Jimmie," said Mom. "Jimmie. I don't know what in the world's going to become of you."

I staggered to my feet. "I do," I said. "How about some coffee?"

It wasn't so bad going down the hill. All I had to do was stand still and keep lifting my feet and the sidewalk rolled under them. But when I reached Pacific Boulevard, I began to have trouble. They've got six-lane traffic on Pacific, and every lane was filled with aircraft workers going to the plants. Most of them were in jalopies because cars are higher than get-out on the West Coast, and you knew their brakes couldn't be too good. And they were all traveling fast, bumping and crowding into each other to get to the plants ahead of the others. It was still early, but you have to get there early if you want a parking space within walking distance.

It would've been hard for me to get through that traffic even if I'd felt-well-normal, and I didn't. I wasn't just so sick and tired I wanted to lie down in the gutter and go to sleep. The wine was playing tricks on me. I couldn't coordinate my impulses with my limbs and muscles.

I'd start to step into the traffic, but my reactions were so slow that I couldn't move until the opportunity was gone. Several times I was unable to halt the impulse I'd started, and I walked into moving cars, banging my knees against fenders and wheels. I couldn't judge distance at all. A car that seemed to be a block away would, in the same instant, have its bumper against my legs, its driver shouting what the hell.

I can't say exactly how I got across. I remember falling down and skinning my knees and rolling, and there were a lot of horns blowing. And then I was on the other side. It was a quarter of seven, and I had a mile to go.

I started off at a trot down the dirt road that curved around the bay. There was a steady procession of cars passing me, moving not a great deal faster than I was and so close that they brushed my clothes. But none of them stopped. Their passengers looked out at me phlegmatically, and looked away again. And I jogged on and on, red-faced, nervous, tongue hanging out-jogged along like a hound dog with a threshing crew. I wanted to spit through their windows, or grab up a handful of rocks and stone them. Most of all I wanted to be some place else. Where it was quiet and there were no people.

Of course I knew why I wasn't asked to ride. No car could very well stop in that traffic. The cars behind would push it ahead, even with the brakes on and the motor off. And practically all of them were loaded; and they couldn't let me ride on the running board because there is a severely enforced ordinance against that.

Nevertheless, I hated them. Almost as much as I did myself.

I reached the plant just as the five-minute whistle was blowing. Actually, you're supposed to be inside, standing ready at your station when the five-minute blows; but there were hundreds besides myself who weren't. I fell into line in front of the gate that held my clock number. I was weak but I felt better. The sweating had done me good.

There was a steady snapping of metal and rustling of paper as the gate guards examined each man's lunch. One man, a new one doubtless, had his lunch wrapped in a newspaper. The line was held up while the guard untied the strings and unwrapped it.

When I reached the guard in our line, he glanced at my badge and pass. Then, holding the pass in his hand, he plucked the badge from my jacket and gave me a shove through the other lines.

"Over there. Chief's desk."

I didn't ask why. I thought I knew. For a moment it was in my mind to run. Then I thought, Well, if they really want me they'll get me. So I stood at the desk until the chief in his military cap and Sam Browne belt looked up. His face was fat and cold; his eyes shrewd.

"What number?"

"Huh?"

"Number, number. What's your clock number?"

"Oh." I told him what it was.

He reached into a drawer and pulled out another badge and a yellow isinglass enclosed card. It bore the picture they had taken of me the day before, my name, age, and a detailed physical description.

"This is your permanent badge, and number. Punch it hereafter. This is your identification card. Don't lose, lend, or forget either one. You'll need them to get through the gate and while you're inside. If you leave them at home, it'll cost you fifty cents for us to send a messenger after them. If you lose them, it will be a dollar. Understand? All right. Good luck."

I punched in, and walked through the crowded yard to the plant entrance… Relieved? That's not the right word. Maybe I'll tell you why some time.

The stockroom gate was locked, as usual. I could see Moon and Busken and Vail up in the Purchased-Parts section talking, but evidently they didn't see me. Gross, the bookkeeper, was on his stool, absorbedly manicuring his fingernails. I walked around to the window.

"How about letting me in?" I said.

He looked up. He is a handsome fellow, with his well-shaped head, dark eyes and hair, but so ruggedly built that he appears awkward. He was dressed impeccably in a doeskin jacket and brown whipcord pants.

"Crawl through the window," he suggested, pleasantly enough.

"How about the sign that says not to?"

"That don't mean anything. I crawl through all the time."

I scrambled through just as the seven-o'clock whistle was blowing, and bumped into Moon as I swung my feet to the floor.

"I wouldn't do that any more if I were you," he said. "There's a rule against it."

I looked at Gross. He was uncovering his typewriter, his back turned toward us.

"All right," I said. "What would you like to have me do today?"

"Get these parts off the floor the first thing."

"What-"

But he had turned away. Moon is something over six feet tall, very dark, and so thin that he seems to float rather than walk.

There was a short squat young man who looked like a Mexican moving around in the paper-carpeted area which held the night's accumulation of parts. As I came up, he picked up an armful and headed back toward the racks. I picked up another armful and followed him.

He disposed of his load, moving quickly along the shelves and cribs, and was going to pass me by on his way to the front.

I stopped him.

"Where do these go?" I said.

He glanced at them, pulled several pieces from my arms, and put them up.

"The others don't go here," he said, moving away again.

I moved along with him. "Where do they go, then?"

"Tank flanges to Welding; straps to Sub-assembly; compression-rib brackets to Sheet-metal."

"How come they were brought in here?"

"Oh, I don't know. Those straps used to be ours; used to put 'em on out in Final Assembly. Routing's wrong on the others."

We were back at the front now.

"Just put 'em down on the floor," he said. "I'll grab a move-boy pretty soon. Want to stack those ribs? They're all ours."

He pointed them out to me and indicated the racks in which they belonged. I loaded a hand-truck, wheeled them back to the racks, and began to unload. It was pretty slow work, and not entirely because of my hangover. The ribs had a tendency to catch on the paper, which had to be put down between layers, and shove it out the other side. And, despite their size, they were so light that a push on one would put the entire stack in disarray.

When noon came I hadn't disposed of more than two-thirds of the ribs, and I was so nervous that I forgot how weak and hungry I was. I went to the toilet and washed, and I had a couple of cigarettes in the yard. Then I came back in and went to work again.

I guess it was around one o'clock when the dark-skinned fellow dropped by. He seemed to have a few minutes to spare.

"How you doing?" he inquired. And, before I could answer, "Say! You're not mixing those together, are you?"

He fingered along the shelves, sliding out one here, one there. "Can't you see the difference in those two? One's slotted on one side and one on the other. And these-see?-the rivet holes are spaced differently. On one kind they come in pairs. In the other they're evenly spaced."

Well, and why the hell didn't you tell me there was more than one kind, I thought. But I just thought it.

"Any others I've mixed up?" I said, weakly.

"You ought to put part of these in your opposite rack. They're a right-hand rib, all right; but they use one of them in each left wing. The same thing goes for the left-hand rib of this type. You've got one left-right rib, and one right-left rib in each wing."

"Here's where I give up," I said. And I meant it.

"You'll catch on in time," he grinned. "That's all it takes is a little time."

"How am I going to straighten this out?"

"Well-" he looked over his shoulder, "I've got an order to throw out to Tailcone, but-but, well, I'll help you."

It must have taken him all of thirty minutes to do the job.

Moon came around just as he had finished.

"Got that tailcone stuff out yet, Murphy?" he said. "They're hollering for it."

I glanced at my dark-skinned acquaintance. Now I might make a mistake on ribs, I thought, but I know a Mexican when I see one. At least, he's certainly no Irishman.

"It's my fault if there's any delay," I said, as he hurried off. "I mixed these ribs up and Murphy was straightening me out."

"How'd you happen to mix 'em up?" asked Moon. "Where's the travelers on them?"

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know what a traveler is."

He turned and jerked his head for me to follow him. At the front counter he stopped, and I stopped. He reached down to the shelf beneath it, opened his lunch pail, and took out an apple. He bit into it, chewed and swallowed, and moved over to Gross's desk.

"Gross," said Moon-chomp, chomp-"did you find any wing travelers kicking around today?"

"Yeah," said Gross. "I picked up three-four, I guess it was."

"Let's see 'em."

The travelers were blue cardboard squares covered from top to bottom with print. "They carry every process that goes into the making of a certain part," Moon explained. "They follow the parts right down the processing line, and when they get here we put our count on 'em, and give 'em to Gross who enters 'em in the books… Yeah, those ribs you put up will have to be counted. Gross can do it after while."

"Why I can do it, "I said. "It was my mistake."

"Gross can do it. He's not very busy."

"I'll do it," said Gross.

Moon took a final mouthful of apple, pulled a wooden box up to the fence, and stepped up on it. About fifty feet away a guard was leaning against a pillar, his back to us. Moon took a slow unhurried look around the plant, brought his arm back deliberately, and hurled the apple core. It struck the guard on the framed front of his cap, pushing it down over his eyes, bounced high into the air and landed in the cockpit of a plane.

Moon stepped down, unsmiling. "Now, let's get busy," he said, "and sweep this place out."