Backteria and Other Improbable Tales (10 page)

Which goes off with a glorious, ceramic detonation, pelting kaleidoscopic teeth just everywhere.
Strike three
! You are fulfilled.

“There!” you yell.

Whirling, profanations dancing on your tongue, you rush from the shop, laughing. (a laugh not wholly wholesome)

“HEY!” you cry. “HEY-EY!” You shuck out curses at the peopleless stretch of Main Street. You jump into a running car and drive along the sidewalk for a block, making a right turn into the window of a furniture store.

“Look
out
!” You bound into the ruins and begin to topple chairs and sling sofa cushions at the chandeliers. “I said Hel-
LO
!” You kick in coffee table tops. You pick up porcelain lamps and pitch them at the walls. “HEL-L-
O
!”

And so on—hoary thing.

When next seen, hours later, you have run amuck, an abstract lamp shade for a hat, an ermine wrap around your camel’s hair clad shoulders. You have burst into a supermarket with an axe and chopped pies and breads and cookies into floatsam. You have sent thirty cars running toward the neighboring town. You have thrown fistfuls of hundred dollar bills off roofs. You have set fire to the fire department, then driven its ladder truck on Main Street, knocking over hydrants and lampposts, leaving it, finally, red and running, in the lobby of the
Gaiety Theatre
.

And now you sit, wearied with rage’s labor, sprawled on a contour chair you’ve dragged into the street; watching your town go up in smoke. Thinking: Who cares, gawdammit, anyway,
who cares?

Mr. William O. Cook decided that afternoon—it was raining and he was coming home from work on the bus—that it would be pleasant to be two people. He was 41 ½, 5’ 7”, semi-bald, oval-bellied and bored. Schedule depressed him; routine gave him a pain where he lived. If, he visioned, one only had a spare self, one could assign all the duller activities of life—i.e. clerkship, husbandry, parenthood, etc.—to the double, retaining for ones own time, more pleasurable doings such as bleacher viewing, saloon haunting, corner ogling and covert visits to Madame Gogarty’s pleasure pavilion across the tracks; except, of course, that, with a double, the visits wouldn’t have to be covert.

Accordingly, Mr. Cook spent four years, six months, two days, $5,228.20, six thousand yards of wiring, three hundred and two radio tubes, a generator, reams of paper, dizzying mentation and the good will of his wife in assembling his duplication machine. This he completed one Sunday afternoon in autumn and, shortly after pot roast dinner with Maude and the five children, made a double of himself.

“Good evening,” he said, extending his hand to the blinking copy. His double shook hands with him and, shortly after, at Mr. Cook’s request, went upstairs to watch television until bedtime while Mr. Cook climbed out the window over the coal bin, went to the nearest bar, had five fast, celebratory jolts, then took a cab to Madame Gogarty’s where he enjoyed the blandishments of one Delilah Phryne, a red-headed former blonde of some twenty-seven years, thirty-eight inches and diverse talents.

The plan set in motion, life became a song. Until one evening when Mr. Cook’s double cornered him in the cellar work room and demanded surcease with the words, “I can’t stand it anymore, dammit!”

It ensued that he was as bored with that drab portion of Mr. Cook’s life as Mr. Cook himself had been. No amount of reasonable threats prevailed. Faced with the prospect of being exposed by the sullen double, Mr. Cook—after discarding the alternate course of murdering himself by proxy—hit upon the idea of making a second duplicate in order to give the first one a chance to live.

This worked admirably until the second duplicate grew jaded and demanding. Mr. Cook tried to talk the two copies into alternating painful duty with pleasurable diversion; but, quite naturally, the first duplicate refused, enjoying the company of a Miss Gina Bonaroba of Madame Gogarty’s too much to be willing to spend part of his time performing the mundane chores of everyday.

Cornered again, Mr. Cook reluctantly made a third duplicate; then a fourth, a fifth. The city, albeit large, soon became thick with William O. Cooks. He would come upon himself at corners, discover himself asking himself for lights, end up, quite literally, beside himself. Life grew complex. Yet Mr. Cook did not complain. Actually, he rather liked the company of his facsimiles and they often enjoyed quite pleasant bowling parties together. Then, of course, there was always Delilah and her estimable charms.

Which was what, ultimately, brought about the disaster.

One evening, on arriving at Madame Gogarty’s, Mr. Cook found duplicate number seven in the willing arms of Delilah. Protest as the poor girl would that she had no idea it wasn’t him, the infuriated Mr. Cook struck her, then as it were, himself. Meanwhile, down the hall, copy number three had come upon copy number five in the overwhelming embrace of both their favorite, a Miss Gertrude Leman. Another fist battle broke out during which duplicates number two and four arrived and joined in fiercely. The house soon rang with the cries of their composite battlings.

At this juncture, an incensed Madame Gogarty intervened. Following the breaking up of the brawl, she had Mr. Cook and his selves trailed to their house in the suburbs. That night, a trifle before midnight, there was an unexplained explosion in the cellar of that house. Arriving police and firemen found the ruins below strewn with bits mechanical and human. Mr. Cook, amidst hue and cry, was dragged to incarceration; Madame Gogarty was, grimly, satisfied. After all, she used to tell the girls over tea in later years, too many Cooks spoil the brothel.

“Has it come yet?”

“No.”

“Well—good Lord, where
is
it?”

“The man has other mail to deliver beside ours,” she said.

“Well,” he fumed, “I have to get to work.”

“So get to work,” she said. “Is it so important?”

“I like to look at it,
yes
,” he said.

Rachel sighed. She went back into the livingroom and switched on the vacuum cleaner. Harold watched her for a moment, then glanced at his wrist watch irritably.

“Where in the name of?” he muttered.

Rachel looked up as he shouted. She switched off the vacuum cleaner.

“What?” she asked.

“I said I’m going.”

“Goodbye,” she said.

It was on the dining room table when he got home that evening. Rachel had set it on his plate with a pink ribbon tied around it.

“Very funny,” he said.

She didn’t reply. Harold took the envelope into the livingroom and sat down, trying to look blasé. He heard Rachel go into the kitchen and, with a quick smile, he tore open the envelope and withdrew its contents. The bulletin fluttered open.

SELECTED United States Government PUBLICATIONS
.

Harold’s smile broadened. He wondered what sort of unusual pamphlets and booklets would be offered in this issue.

Could he help it if it intrigued him to run his eye down those lists? They had such fascinating titles.
The Pea Aphid And Its Control; Vitreous China Plumbing Fixtures; Hexagon-Head Cap Screws (Simplified Practice Recommendation); Table Of The Gamma Function For Complex Arguments; What You Should Know About Rigid Vinyl Chloride
. Things like that. Bracing nuggets of information. Bracing, at least, to any open-minded person.

He’d learned a lot since subscribing to the bulletin. He knew, for instance, the geology of the Bighorn Canyon in Wyoming. He knew about intestinal coccidiosis in chickens, about the preservation of rocks, about auxiliary combustion, Lagrangian Coefficients, bunker silos and bituminized fibre sewer pipes. Rachel simply didn’t understand. These were things people should be interested in.

Harold ran his eye down the new list penciling a mark beside
Weather Problems, 1924; Simple Cattle Breeding
and
The Preparation Of Domestic Slime
.

Then he saw it.

Exciting Sex Practices In 1984 ½

Open-mouthed, he read the explanatory paragraph.

Designed to bring together in a convenient form certain basic information regarding the strangely varied and exciting sex practices in 1984 ½. The primary purpose of this study is to provide male Americans with an adequate preparational survey of this vital subject and, in general, to present an objective appraisal of private participation possibilities
.

“Ulp,” said Harold.

He closed his mouth but it opened again. He felt his chest shudder with unnatural breath.

“
Lord
,” he said.

He twitched violently as Rachel came out of the kitchen and said, “Soup’s on.”

Folding the bulletin hastily and sliding it into his trouser pocket he stumbled upstairs to wash his hands.

“Anything interesting in the bulletin?” asked Rachel tartly as they began to eat.

“No. No,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on his breaded cutlet. “That is,” he amended, “there’s a brochure on sorgum culture that looks good.”

“How nice,” said Rachel.

It was not possible.

True, he’d seen listed in the bulletin such pamphlets as
Astronomical Phenomena, 1959
and
The American Nautical Almanac For 1958
. These were explicable. Men of science were limitedly prescient.

But 1984 ½? And—
that
?

Impossible. It was a misprint. What it was supposed to read was
Exciding S.E.C. Practices in 1944 1/2
. Something like that. The compositor, myopic (or waggish—or both) had bungled the spelling.

That was all.

Harold stood brushing fluoric foam across his teeth and staring vacantly at his reflection. In the bedroom Rachel bubbled in sleep. It was after midnight.

No, I am
not
going to send for it!—declared Harold mentally. What, patronize base inclination? Obviously, the pamphlet did not exist;
could not
exist. Was he to send for it then and expose himself as a gross-thinking fool? Thousands of male bulletin subscribers would do that very thing, he doubted not. Perhaps even a few female ones.

Well, not
me
, decided Harold Rumsey.

A moment later he slid in beside Rachel and settled back on his pillow.

He came upon himself staring fixedly at the ceiling.

1984 ½?

“Last night in your sleep,” said Rachel, “you said ‘I
will
send for it’.”

Harold dropped his English muffin.

“I who?” he said.

“You said ‘I
will
send for it,’” said Rachel. “Send for what?” “That, that, that, that—” machine-gunned Harold.

“What?” asked Rachel.

“That booklet on sorghum culture,” Harold examined the depths of his Postum.

“Oh.” Rachel finished her coffee and stood. She began to clear off the table.

“Lamb patties all right for tonight?” she asked.

“S-sure,” said Harold.

“
No
,” he muttered.

“You spoke?” inquired Miss Finch.

Harold looked up from his desk, blinking. “Ma’am?”

“I believe you spoke,” Miss Finch suggested.

“No,” said Harold. “That is, I—I must have been daydreaming.”

“I see.” Miss Finch returned to her work. Dreams of whatever variety were unacceptable to her.

Harold removed his rimless glasses and polished at the lenses with a trembling Kleenex. Detestable, he thought. He must put the matter from his mind this instant.

And, in general
, he read over lunch,
to present an objective appraisal of private participation
—

“
—possibilities
,” breathed Harold, unable to consider his peach-topped cottage cheese.

Well—by Heaven!—if such intangibles could be predicted almost thirty years ahead of their time, so, also, might others, reasoned Harold as he filled out the order form.

After all, wasn’t it just possible that men
could
extrapolate into the distant future? And, as a cognizant human being, wasn’t he obligated to investigate such momentous possibility? Of course! Beside, wasn’t he sending for three other booklets too? It wasn’t as if he was interested in only that one subject, was it?
No
!

He did hope it wouldn’t arrive in one of those awful plain wrappers shrieking
PERSONAL
.

It didn’t.

There was nothing on the envelope but
Mr. Harold Rumsey, c/o Gabler & Karloff, Suite 209, Beloher Building, Los Angeles, Calif
. Well, was there any point in having it sent to the house? What if Rachel saw it? She was terribly naïve. No point in shocking her.

He didn’t look at it all morning. He kept shoving the envelope from one part of his desk to another as if it were in the way. Finally, he shoved it into his topcoat pocket with a pettish “
There
.” Now maybe he could get some work done. (Confounded envelope)

At noon, having accidentally incorporated the figure 1984 1/2 seven times into this business calculations, Harold retired to a back table in
Bishop’s Cafeteria
where, fronted by untouched spoon, cooling soup and warming salad, he withdrew the booklet from its envelope.

“Did you say yi?” inquired a passing busboy moments later.

Harold recoiled in his chair.

“
I beg your pardon
,” he said.

“Nothing. I just thought you said yi,” said the busboy.

Harold shut the booklet with vibrating fingers. He closed his eyes. Then he opened his eyes and the booklet and read again. Then he closed his eyes again and began to quake.

“Oh, yi,” he whimpered.

As he hung up his topcoat that evening, the booklet fell out.

“What’s that?” asked Rachel.

“A booklet entitled
You And The Alfalfa Weevil
,” declared Harold. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.

“Me and the alfalfa weevil?” Rachel asked.

“No,
you
,” said Harold, heading for the stairs. “The
general
you.”

In the bathroom he held his wrist under cold water. “
Lord
,” he muttered. That was a close one. Well, he had to protect her, didn’t he? She was too fine to be exposed to such—such
saturnalia
.