Time Out of Joint (20 page)

As he and Vic left, the waitress seated herself with a paper-bound book and resumed her reading at a flattened page.

"What an ordeal," Vic said. They walked along, both of them eating the last of their sandwiches. "Those kids. Those ghastly damn kids."

Lunatic, Ragle thought. Did they recognize me?

At the corner he and Vic stopped. "What now?" Vic said. "Anyhow, we can use our money. And we’ve got some of theirs." He lit his cigarette lighter to inspect one of the wafers. "It’s plastic," he said. "Obviously a substitute for metal. Very light. Like those wartime ration tokens."

Yes, Ragle thought. Wartime ration tokens. Pennies made out of some nondescript alloy, not copper. And now, tokes. Tokens.

"But there’s no blackout," he said. "They have their lights on."

"It’s not the same any more," Vic said. "Lights was when—" He broke off. "I don’t understand," he said. "I remember World War Two. But I guess I don’t, do I? That’s the whole point. That was fifty years ago. Before I was born. I never lived through the ’thirties and ’forties. Neither did you. All we know about it—they must have taught us."

"Or we read it," Ragle said.

"Don’t we know enough now?" Vic said. "We’re out. We’ve seen it." He shuddered. "They had their teeth filed."

Ragle said, "That was almost pidgin English they were talking."

"I guess so."

"And African tribal markings. And garments." But they looked at me and one of them said, Hey, you lunatic. "They know," he said. "About me. But they don’t care." Somehow, that made him feel more uneasy. Spectators. The cynical, mocking young faces.

"It’s surprising they’re not in the army," Vic said.

"They probably will be." To him, the boys had not appeared old enough. More like sixteen or seventeen.

As he and Vic stood on the corner, footsteps echoed along the dark, deserted street.

Two shapes approached them.

"Hey, you lunatic," one of them said. Leisurely, the two boys emerged in the street light of the intersection, their arms folded, their faces blank and impersonal. "Hold youself stop-stop."

THIRTEEN

The boy on the left reached into his robe and produced a leather case. From it he selected a cigar and a small pair of gold scissors; he cut off one end of the cigar and placed the cigar in his mouth. His companion, with equal ritual, brought forth a jeweled cigar lighter and lit his friend’s cigar.

The boy smoking the cigar said, "Necktie-fellows, you carry dead chuck-chuck. Wait-lady, she make foul-up-goweewee."

The money, Ragle understood. The waitress shouldn’t have accepted it. The boys had told her to, but they had known what the driver had known; it was no longer legal tender.

"So what?" Vic said, also following their broken jargon.

The boy with the jeweled lighter said, "Bigchiefs, they fixee. No? No? So." He held out his hand. "Big-chief fixee, necktie-fellows fixee fat chuck-chuck."

"Give him some of the tokens," Vic said, under his breath.

Ragle counted four of the six tokes into the boy’s open hand.

The boy bowed from the waist; his topknot grazed the sidewalk. Beside him his companion stood impassively upright, ignoring the transaction.

"You necktie-fellows, you got woojy?" the boy with the lighter said emotionlessly.

"Necktie-fellows eyeball on pavement," the boy with the lighter said. Both he and his companion nodded. Now they had taken on a somber air, as if something important had entered into the questioning. "Flop-flop," the boy with the cigar lighter said. "Right, necktie-fellows? Flop-flop." He clapped his hands, back to back, like a seal. Both Ragle and Vic watched in fascination.

"Sure," Vic said.

The two boys conferred. Then the first, puffing on his cigar and scowling, said, "Dead chuck-chuck for plenty woojy. You go joe no?"

"No," his companion put in quickly, striking him on the chest with the flat of his hand. "Baby go joe no chuck-chuck. Flop ina flop, ina flop-flop. Necktie-fellows flop-flop youself." Wheeling, he started off, craning his neck and weaving his head from side to side.

"Wait a minute," Ragle said, as the other boy prepared to do the same. "Let’s talk it over."

Both boys halted, turned and regarded him with amazement.

Then the boy with the cigar held out his hand. "Dead chuck-chuck," he said.

Ragle got out his wallet. "One bill," he said. He handed the boy a dollar bill; the boy accepted it. "That’s plenty."

After the boys had again conferred, the one with the cigar stuck up two fingers.

"Okay," Ragle said. "Do you have any more ones?" he asked Vic.

Digging into his pocket Vic said, "Be sure you want to go along with this."

The alternative, as he saw it, was to remain on the street corner, with no idea where they were or what to do. "Let’s take a chance," he said, accepting the bills and passing them over to the boy. "Now," he said to the boys. "Let’s have the plenty woojy."

The boys nodded, bowed from the waist, and stalked away. He and Vic, after hesitating, followed them.

The journey took them down damp-smelling, twisting alleys, across lawns and up driveways. At last the boys led them over a fence and up a flight of steps, to a door. One of the boys rapped on the door. It opened.

"Necktie-fellows quickly walkinachamber," the boy whispered, as he and his companion squeezed inside.

Unstable brown light filled the room. To Ragle, it appeared to be a commonplace, rather barren apartment. He saw, through an open door, a kitchen with sink, table, stove, refrigerator. Two other doors had been left shut. In the room sat several boys, all on the floor. The only furniture was a lamp, a table, a television set, and a pile of books. Some of the boys wore the robes, sandals, topknots, and bracelets. The others wore single-breasted suits, white shirts, argyle socks, oxfords. All gazed at Ragle and Vic.

"Here woojy," the boy with the cigar said. "You makum sit-sit." He indicated the floor.

"What did you say?" Vic said.

Ragle said, "Can’t we take the woojy with us?" "No," one of the seated boys said. "Sniff sitinachamber."

The boy with the cigar opened a door and. disappeared into the other room. After a time he returned with a bottle which he handed to Ragle. Everyone watched as Ragle accepted the bottle.

As soon as he had unscrewed the lid, he recognized it.

Vic, sniffing, said, "It’s pure carbon tet."

"Yes," Ragle said. They’ve been sitting around sniffing carbon tet, he realized. This is woojy.

"Sniff," one of the boys said.

Ragle sniffed. Off and on, during his life, he had had occasion to get a noseful of carbon tet. It had no effect on him, except to make his head ache. He passed the bottle to Vic. "Here," he said.

"No thanks," Vic said.

One of the boys in a suit said in a high-pitched voice, "Necktie-fellows bedivere."

Everyone smiled cuttingly.

"That’s a girl," Vic said. "That one there."

Those in suits, oxfords, shirts and argyles were girls. Their hair had been shaved right to their scalps. But, by their smaller, more delicate features, Ragle recognized them as girls. They wore no make-up. If one of them hadn’t spoken, he would not have known.

Ragle said, "Pretty sissy woojy."

The room became silent.

One of the girls said, "Necktie-fellow, him play strange fruit by-an-by."

The faces of the boys had darkened. At last one of the boys arose, walked over to the corner of the room, and picked up a tall slim cloth bag. From the bag he slipped a plastic tube with holes spaced along it. He placed one end of the tube in his nose, covered the holes with his fingers, and then humming, began to play a tune on the tube. A nose-flute.

"Sweet flute-flute," one of the girls, in her suit, said.

The boy lowered the flute, wiped his nose with a small colored cloth which he drew from his sleeve, and then said in the general direction of Ragle and Vic, "How’s it feel being a lunatic?"

The jargon has lapsed, Ragle thought. Now that they’re sore. The others in the room, the girls especially, stared at Ragle and Vic.

"A lunatic?" one of the girls said faintly. "Really?" she asked the boy.

"Sure," the boy said. "Necktie-fellows lunatic." He smirked. But he, too, looked uneasy. "Isn’t that right?" he demanded.

Ragle said nothing. Beside him Vic ignored the boy.

"You by yourselves?" another boy asked. "Or are there any more of you around?"

"Just us," Ragle said.

They stared at him wildly.

"Yes," he said. "I admit it." It seemed to command respect from them, unlike anything else. "We’re lunatics."

None of the kids moved. They sat rigidly.

One of the boys laughed. "So necktie-fellows lunatic. So what?" Shrugging, he too went over and got his nose-flute.

"Strike up the flute-flute," a girl said. Now three flutes had started to whine.

"We’re wasting our time here," Vic said.

"Yes," he agreed. "We better leave." He started to open the door, but as he did so, one of the boys removed the flute from his nose and said,

"Hey, necktie-fellows."

They stopped.

The boy said, "MP after you. You go outadoor, MP catch." He resumed his fluting. The others nodded.

"You know what MP do with lunatic?" a girl said. "MP give dose of c.c."

"What’s that?" Vic said.

All of them laughed. None of them answered. The fluting and humming continued.

"Necktie-fellows pale," a boy said, between breaths.

Outside, on the stairs, a tread made the floor shake. The fluting ceased. A knock.

They have us now, Ragle thought. No one in the room moved as the door opened.

"You darn kids," a raspy voice muttered. A gray-haired elderly woman, immense in a shapeless silk wrapper, peered into the room. She had furred slippers on her feet. "I told you no piping after ten o’clock. Cut it out." She glared at them all, from half-shut eyes. At that point she noticed Ragle and Vic. "Oh," she said, with suspicion. "Who are you?"

They tell her, Ragle thought, and then she flounders back down the steps in a state of panic. And the tanks —or whatever the MPs come in—arrive at the bottom. Ted the driver has had plenty of time, by now. So has the waitress. So has everyone.

Anyhow, he thought, we’ve been out and we’ve seen that it is 1998, not 1959, and a war is in progress, and the kids now talk like and dress like West African natives and the girls wear men’s clothing and shave their heads. And money as we know it has dropped out somewhere along the line. Along with diesel trucks. But, he thought with sudden pessimism, we didn’t learn what it’s all about. Why they set up the old town, the old cars and streets, kidded us for years...

"Who are these two gentlemen?" the elderly woman inquired.

A pause, and then one of the girls, with a mischievous grin, said, "Looking for rooms."

"What?" the old woman said, with disbelief.

"Sure," a boy said. "They showed up here looking for a room to rent. Stumbling around. Don’t you gotcha porch light on?"

"No," the old woman said. She got out a handkerchief and wiped at her soft, wrinkled forehead; under the pressure the flesh yielded. "I had retired." To Ragle and Vic, she said, "I’m Mrs. McFee. I own this apartment house. What kind of rooms did you want?"

Before Ragle could think of an answer, Vic said, "Anything will do. What do you have?" He glanced at Ragle, showing his relief.

"Well," she said, beginning to waddle back out onto the stairs, "if you two gentlemen will follow me, I’ll just show you." On the stairs, she gripped the railing and swung her head to peer back at them. "Come on," she said, gasping for breath. Her face had swollen with exertion. "I’ve got some very attractive property. You wanted something together, the two of you?" Eying them doubtfully, she said, "Let’s step into my office and I can chat with you about your employment and—" she started on down again, step by step— "other particulars."

At the bottom, with much muttering and gasping she located a light switch; a bare bulb winked on, showing them the path that led along the side of the house to the front porch. On the porch an old-fashioned cane rocking chair could be seen. Old-fashioned even from their standpoint. Some things never change, Ragle thought.

"Right in here," Mrs. McFee called. "If you will." She disappeared into the house; he and Vic trailed after her, into a cluttered, dark, clothy-smelling living room filled with bric-a-brac, chairs, lamps, framed pictures on the walls, carpets, and, on the mantel, greeting cards by the score. Over the mantel, knitted or woven in many colors, hung a streamer with the words:

ONE HAPPY WORLD BRINGS BLESSINGS OF JOY TO ALL MANKIND

"What I’d appreciate knowing," Mrs. McFee said, lowering herself into an easy chair, "is if you’re regularly employed." Leaning forward she tugged a massive ledger from a desk, onto her lap.

"Yes," Ragle said. "We’re regularly employed."

"What sort of business?"

Vic said, "Grocery business. I operate the produce section of a supermarket."

"A what?" the old woman gasped, twisting her head to hear. In its cage a black and yellow bird of some variety squawked hoarsely. "Be quiet, Dwight," she said.

Vic said, "Fruits and vegetables. Retail selling."

"What sort of vegetables?"

"All kinds," he said, with annoyance.

"Where do you get them?"

"From truckers," Vic said.

"Oh," she said, grunting. "And I suppose," she said to Ragle, "you’re the inspector."

Ragle said nothing.

"I don’t trust you vegetable men," Mrs. McFee said. "There was one of you around—I don’t think it was you, but it might have been—last week. They looked good, but oh my, I would have died if I’d eaten any. They had r.a. written all over them. I can tell. Of course, the man assured me they didn’t grow top-top; came from way down in the cellars. Showed me the tag that swore they grew a mile down. But I can smell r.a."

Ragle thought, Radio-activity. Produce grown up on the surface, exposed to fallout. There’ve been bombings, in the past. Contamination of crops. Understanding rushed over him; the scene of trucks being loaded with food grown underground. The cellars. Dangerous peddling of contaminated tomatoes and melons ...

"No r.a. in our stuff," Vic said. "Radio-activity," he said under his breath, for Ragle’s benefit.

"Yes," Ragle said.

Vic said, "We’re—from a long distance from here. We just got in tonight."

"I see," Mrs. McFee said.

"We’ve both been ill," Vic said. "What’s been happening?"

"What do you mean?" the old woman said, pausing in her task of flipping the pages of her ledger. She had put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses; behind them her eyes, magnified, had a shrewd, alert glint.

"What’s been happening?" Ragle demanded. "The war," he said. "Will you tell us?"

Mrs. McFee wet her finger and again turned pages. "Funny you don’t know about the war."

"Tell us," Vic said fiercely. "For Christ’s sake!"

"Are you enlisters?" Mrs. McFee said.

"No," Ragle said.

"I’m patriotic, but I won’t have enlisters living in my house. Causes too much trouble."

We’ll never get a straight story from her, Ragle thought. It’s hopeless. We might as well give up.

On a table rested an upright frame of tinted photographs, all of a young man in uniform. Ragle bent to examine the photographs. "Who is he?" he said.

"My son," Mrs. McFee said. "He’s stationed down at Anvers Missile Station. I haven’t seen him in three years. Not since the war began."

That recently, Ragle thought. Perhaps the same time that they built the —

When the contest began. Where Will the Little Green Man Be Next? Almost three years ...

He said, "Any hits, down there?"

"I don’t understand you," Mrs. McFee said.

"Never mind," Ragle said. Aimlessly, he roamed about the room. Through a wide arch of dark-shiny wood he could see a dining room. Solid central table, many chairs, wall shelves, glass cupboards with plates and cups. And, he saw, a piano. Wandering over to the piano he picked up a handful of the sheet music resting on the rack. All cheap popular sentimental tunes, mostly to do with soldiers and girls.

One of the tunes had the title: