Time and the Riddle: Thirty-One Zen Stories (8 page)

“A hundred shares of Telephone—sure. You have an account with us. Buy a hundred shares. Don't be greedy—”

They stalked out while Gibson was talking. The next stop was Doris's brother, who was a lawyer and made a good living out of it and could have gone on living if he never saw Martin Chesell again.

“I should underwrite six million of credit for you? You got to be kidding.”

“I'm not kidding, I'm dead serious,” Martin replied, telling himself, “You, you son of a bitch, what a pleasure it would be to toss you out on your fat ass if you came pleading to me. Time—just give me time.”

“Am I permitted to ask what for?” his brother-in-law said.

“To make an investment in the market,” Martin said. “I am desperate. It is eleven o'clock. This is the first real chance I ever had. Please,” he pleaded, ‘‘do you want me to get down on my knees?”

“It would be an interesting position for a snotty guy like you,” the brother-in-law said. “I should be happy to underwrite seventy-five cents for you, Martin. For a whole buck, I write it off immediately.”

“You may be my brother,” Doris said, “but to me you are a louse. May I spell it—l-o-u-s-e.”

It was eleven-thirty when they got to the branch of the Chase Manhattan on upper Madison. Martin had been in college with the son of the present manager, and once he had introduced himself and Doris, the manager listened politely.

“Of course, we would be happy to lend you the money,” he agreed. “In any amount you wish—providing you offer acceptable collateral.”

“Would American Telephone stock be acceptable collateral?” Doris asked eagerly.

“The very best. And I think we might even lend you up to eighty percent of the market value.”

“See, Marty!” Doris exclaimed. “I knew we'd do it! Now can we get the money immediately?”

“I think so—at least within fifteen minutes. Do you have the stock with you?”

Doris' face fell, while Martin explained that they were going to use the money to buy the stock.

“Well, that's a little different, isn't it? I am afraid it makes the loan impossible—unless you have sufficient stock already in your possession. It doesn't have to be American Telephone. Any listed security—”

“You don't understand,” Martin pleaded, watching the clock on the wall. “We got to buy that stock before two o'clock.”

“I am sure you have good reason to. But we can't help you.”

“Lousy crumb,” Martin said when they got outside. “He stinks! The whole lousy Chase Manhattan stinks! You got a friend at Chase Manhattan, you don't need enemies. You know what I'd like to do—go in there up to the window and—stick 'em up!—that's what I'd like to do.”

Neither First National City nor Chemical New York proved any more flexible on the question of collateral, nor was Merrill Lynch disposed to open an account and plunge into a massive day sale. One forty-five
P.M.
found them back at the offices of Smith, Haley and Penderson, pleading anew with Frank Gibson.

“I got a job,” Gibson told them. “You may not believe me, but being a customer's man just happens to be a job. I don't interfere with you, so just let me do my job.”

“It's a quarter to two,” Martin begged him.

“Oh, Jesus—show him the damn
Wall Street Journal,”
Doris snapped.

“Why don't you drop dead?”

“Why don't you get one little brain in your head? It's ten minutes to two. Show him the paper.”

Martin took out the paper and shoved it at Gibson. “There—tomorrow's
Wall Street Journal
. All markets—complete closing prices.”

“You're both out of your minds. What do I have to do? Make a scene? Call the cops?”

“Just look at the date? Am I asking so much? Jesus God, if I was drowning would you stretch out a hand for me? I'm asking you to look at the date.”

“O.K.—so I look at the date.” Gibson picked up the paper and looked at the date. Then he stared at the date. Then he turned the paper around and looked at the date on the back page. Then he opened it.

“Marty, where did you get this?”

“Now you believe me. Now Marty's not a lousy creep any more. Now Marty's your buddy boy. Now will you buy the goddamn stock?”

“Marty, I can't. Even if I thought this paper wasn't phony—”

“Phony! Do you know—”

His voice died away. Gibson was staring at the screened flash news at the front of the office, where suddenly the news had appeared that the directors of American Telephone had decided upon a two-for-one stock split, pending approval of stockholders.

“Will you buy the stock?” Martin whimpered. “Oh, dear Jesus, will you please buy the stock?”

“Marty—I can't.”

“It's up two points already,” Doris said. “Why don't I kill myself? Oh, no—I couldn't jump in front of a subway train or anything like that. No sir—not me. I had to marry Chesell.”

At three-thirty, when the market closed, American Telephone was four points over its opening price. At four-fifteen, the Chesells had one of their minor fights. If they had not been so done in with the day, it might have been a major fight. As it was, there was nothing physical, only a few recriminations, one word leading to another. Doris began the peroration by concluding:

“Drop dead—that's all.”

“So long as you understand the feeling is mutual.”

“Lovely—and I have had it, ducky. Words cannot portray my feelings for you. You disgust me. You also turn my stomach. You also stink—and now I intend to have a nap. So just get out of here!”

Martin went into the living room, and she slammed the door behind him—and there was a gentle knock at the door to the apartment. Martin opened the door, and there was the devil.

“Greetings, my lad,” he said with a great good nature.

“You got one hell of a nerve!” Martin exclaimed. “You miserable son of a bitch—after what you did to me, to come back here!”

“What I did? Martin, Martin, you are understandably angry—but that kind of wild talk—not good.”

“You tricked me into that.”

“Martin, my boy,” the devil said kindly, “did we or did we not make an honest trade, a bargain in kind, merchandise given, merchandise taken? Did we not?”

“You knew what would happen.”

“And just what did happen, Martin? Why get so upset? I gave you the
Wall Street Journal
for tomorrow and you found yourself not unexpectedly short of cash. Lesson number one—money makes money. How easily learned—and you complain.”

“Because I blew my one lousy chance,” Martin said. “One lousy chance out of a while lifetime, and I blew it. One chance to come out on top, and I threw it away.”

“Martin.”

“No, it doesn't matter to you. Well—me, I am sick and tired of you, so out. Just get the hell out!”

“Martin,” the devil said placatingly.

“Out!”

“Really, Martin.”

“Are you trying to tell me you didn't know what would happen?”

“Martin, of course I knew what would happen. I have been at this so long, and people are so wretchedly predictable. But what happened today is of no importance.”

“No importance?”

“None whatsoever. The really important thing is that you sold me your soul, Martin. That's the nitty-gritty of it. Riches? No problem. Wealth, power, success? No problem, Martin. It all follows. Once you have sold your soul to me, everything comes to you—everything, Martin. Dear lad—you look so blue, so morbid. Cheer up. The
Wall Street Journal
—who needs it? Do you want a tip for tomorrow? Cimeron Lead—four dollars a share. It will close at seven. Buy a few shares; pin money, but buy a few shares.”

“With what?” Martin asked sourly.

“Money—dear Martin, there is money wherever you look. For example, you have a bit of insurance on your wife, don't you?”

“We each have a policy for twenty thousand.”

“Very nice beginning money, Martin. Fortunes have been built on less. And you don't really like her at all, do you?”

“Why wouldn't you make a deal for her soul this morning?” Martin asked suddenly.

“Dear Martin—her soul is worthless. In the five years of your marriage you have shriveled it to nothing. You have a talent for destruction, Martin. Her soul is almost nonexistent, and she's not very pleasant to be with, is she, Martin?”

Martin nodded.

“And she's so despondent today—it would be understandable that she should leap from an eleventh-story window. Poor girl, but some win and some lose, Martin,”

“I wouldn't collect on the insurance for ten days,” Martin said.

“Good thinking. I like that. Now you are using your head, lad. Rest assured,. I have a better tip for next week. Tips, opportunities, good liquor, rich food, uncomplaining women, and money—so much money. Dear Martin, why do you hesitate?”

Martin went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. There were the sounds of a short scuffle—and then a long, awful scream. When Martin came out of the bedroom, the devil sighed and said, “Poor boy, you'll be despondent tonight. We must dine together. You will be my guest—of course. And to console you—”

He took out of his inside breast pocket a neatly folded copy of the
Wall Street Journal
. “For a week from Wednesday—ten days,” he said.

6
A Matter of Size

M
rs. Herbert Cooke—Abigail Cooke—was a woman with a social conscience and a sense of justice. She came from five generations of New Englanders, all of whom had possessed social consciences and devotion to justice, qualities not uncommon in New England once the burning of witches was gotten over with. She lived in a lovely old Colonial house on fifteen acres of land in Redding, Connecticut; she forbade any spraying of her trees, and she gardened ecologically. She believed firmly in mulch, organic fertilizers, and the validity of the New Left; and while she herself lived quietly with her teen-age children—her husband practiced law in Danbury—her heart and small checks went out to a multitude of good causes. She was an attractive woman, still under forty, an occasional Congregationalist, and a firm advocate of civil rights. She was not given to hysterics.

She sat on her back porch—unscreened—on a fine summer morning and shelled peas and saw something move. Afterward she said that it appeared to be a fly, and she picked up a flyswatter and swatted it. It stuck to the flyswatter, and she looked at it carefully; and then she began to have what amounted to hysterics, took hold of herself, thanked heaven that her children were at day camp, and, still unable to control her sobbing, telephoned her husband.

“I've killed a man,” she said to him.

“You what? Now wait a minute,” he replied. “Get hold of yourself. Are you all right?”

“I'm all right.”

“Are the children all right?”

“They're at day camp.”

“Good. Good. You're sure you're all right?”

“Yes. I'm a little hysterical—”

“Did I hear you say that you killed a man?”

“Yes. Oh, my God—yes.”

“Now please get hold of yourself, do you hear me, Abby? I want you to get hold of yourself and tell me exactly what happened.”

“I can't.”

“Who is this man you think you killed? A prowler?”

“No.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No. I can't.”

“Why not? Abby, are you all right? We don't have a gun. How on earth could you kill someone?”

“Please—please come home. Now. Please.”

In half an hour Herbert Cooke pulled into his driveway, leaped out of his car, and embraced his still shivering wife. “Now, what's all this?” he demanded.

She shook her head dumbly, took him by the hand, led him to the back porch, and pointed to the flyswatter.

“It's a flyswatter,” he said impatiently. “Abby, what on earth has gotten into you?”

“Will you look at it closely, please?” she begged him, beginning to sob again.

“Stop crying! Stop it!”

Convinced by now that his wife was having some kind of nervous breakdown, he decided to humor her, and he picked up the flyswatter and stared at it. He stared at it for a long, long moment, and then he whispered, “Oh, my God—of all the damn things!” And then, still staring, he said to her, “Abby, dear, there's a magnifying glass in the top drawer of my desk. Please bring it to me.”

She went into the house and came back with the magnifying glass. “Don't ask me to look,” she said.

Herbert placed the flyswatter carefully on the table and held the magnifying glass over it. “My God,” he whispered, “my God almighty. I'll be damned. A white man, too.” “What difference does that make?”

“No difference—none at all. Only—my God, Abby, he's only half an inch tall. I mean if he were standing up. Perfectly formed, the blow didn't squash him, hair, head, features—naked as the day he was born—”

“Must you carry on like that? I've killed him. Isn't that enough?”

“Honey, get a grip on yourself.”

“I though it was a fly. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I saw it and swatted it. I'm going to throw up.”

“Stop that. You didn't kill a human being. A human being isn't half an inch tall.”

“I'm going to throw up.”

She raced into the house, and Herbert Cooke continued to study the tiny object under the magnifying glass. “Of all the damn things,” he muttered. “It's a man all right, five fingers, five toes, good features, blond hair—handsome little devil. I can imagine what the flyswatter felt like, like being trapped under one of those iron blasting mats. Squashed him a bit—”

Pale, but more in command of herself, Abigail returned to the porch and said, “Are you still looking at that dreadful thing?”