Humpty Dumpty in Oakland by Philip K. Dick
“Yes,” he agreed.
“I know him,” she said, “something like five year. Naturally I hear a lot of things. That my business. He come up in my business, the real-estate business, all the time. He buying and selling, like they say. He get in on things. What they call an operator.”
“I see,” Al said.
“He got quite a lot of—” She paused. Then, with a sudden broad smile, showing her ornamented gold front teeth, she continued, “Well, he ain’t like you, Mr. Miller; I mean, he ain’t worried he doing the world wrong.”
Al nodded. The woman’s mellow tone had altered, a flatness,, a surprising harshness had come into it. She really did not like Harman, he realized. Her feelings had come out because she was not a hypocrite. It was not possible for her to pretend to like someone she did not like.
“You think,” he said, “I ought to steer clear of Harman.”
Her smile had become softer, now. More pensive. “Well,” she said slowly, “that your business, of course. Maybe you know him better than I do.”
“No,” he said.
“I think you a honest man and he not.” She regarded him with calmness. And yet, behind the calmness, was agitation. So difficult, he thought, for a Negro. To sit here with a white man and discuss in unflattering terms another white man; at any moment the boom can fall on her. I can cut her off, dismiss her. But it was not precisely that that she feared; it was more that she feared he would cease to pay attention to her. That he would freeze up inside his white-man’s prejudice and ignore what she said.
“I know you have my interest at heart,” he said, but although it was deeply meant it had a phony ring. A phrase, merely.
She nodded her head up and down.
“I’ll watch my step,” he said.
5
Not long thereafter, as Jim Fergesson lay on the floor of his garage, beneath a Buick, he heard a car pull up not far from him and stop. By the sound of it he guessed it to be a new car. He wheeled himself out, and found himself facing the fender of a nearly-new Cadillac. The door had already opened and a man in a business suit and black shiny shoes was stepping forth.
“Hi there, Mr. Harman,” the old man said, sitting up. “I see you got back. I was out when you were by before. Not too much wrong with your car, is there? A nearly-new Cadillac like that.” He laughed nervously, because he did not want to get involved with Harman’s car to any extent; he had neither the tools nor the experience for this kind of car, this new expensive car with its interminable power assists and accessories.
Harman, smiling, said, “Every machine has bugs, Jim. As you’re always telling me.”
“That’s sure true,” Fergesson said.
“Nothing serious,” Harman said. “Just the greasing.”
“Okay,” Fergesson said, with relief.
Harman said, “Jim, they tell me you’re quitting business.”
“I’m taking a rest,” the old man said.
“For good?”
“It’s sold,” he said.
“I see,” Harman said.
“Listen,” the old man said, starting to put his hand on Harman’s shoulder and then quickly changing his mind; he stood wiping his greasy hands with a rag. “There’s a couple of good garages in town; you don’t have to worry. I know a couple of mechanics you can trust. These days, with these God damn labor unions—”
“Yes,” Harman interrupted. “The employers have to hire the men the unions send over. Whether they’re competent or not.”
“We’re both in business,” Fergesson said. “We know how it is.”
“You’ll get men,” Harman said, “who stand around and do no work at all. And when you go to fire them—” He gestured.
“It’s impossible,” Fergesson said.
“Illegal.”
“And that’s why you got nothing but leaf-rakers, like in the W.P.A. days. It’s socialism.” The old man felt excitement in him, a kind of frenzy. How pleasant it was to stand here like this with this man, his well-dressed customer Mr. Harman who drove a 1958 Cadillac, talking to him on an equal basis, one businessman to another. That was what it was; they were equals. His hands jumped about madly; the rag slipped away and he gave it a kick to free it from his trouser cuff. “I been in business a long time. And look what taxes have done to me. It’s part of their system to make it ridiculous for a man to devote his life to work because when he’s all done, what does he have? Income tax.” He spat on the floor.
“Yes,” Harman said in his cultured calm voice. “The income tax definitely is part of the share-the-wealth scheme.”
“They put it over on America,” the old man said. “During Franklin Roosevelt’s administration. Every time I think of that Roosevelt—and that son of his, that colonel.”
With a mild, good-humored smile, Harman said, “That takes me back. Thinking about Eliot as a colonel.”
“I’m keeping you,” the old man said.
“No,” Harman said.
“You got lots to do and so do I. I tell you, Harman, we both got too much to do. Only the difference between you and me is that you got the vitality and youth to do it, and I don’t. I’m worn out. I tell you the truth; I’m finished.”
“Hell no,” Harman said.
“It’s a fact.”
“Why? My God, when I came in—”
“Sure, I was down under that Buick. But listen.” The old man moved as close as possible to Harman—as close as he could without getting grease on him—and said in a low voice, “One day when I’m down under that; you know what? I’m going to have a heart attack and die.” He stepped back. “So that’s why I have to get out of here.”
“And with all your skill,” Harman said.
“It’s a shame,” the old man said. “But I have to listen to Fratt; that’s his business. I go to experts. I’m not a doctor. All I know is that for years now I had indigestion and I went to Fratt and at first he didn’t find anything, but then he took my blood pressure.” He told Harman what his blood pressure was. It was terrible, and he saw Harman’s face show the response.
“That’s a shame, Jim,” Harman said.
“But if I take it easy—I don’t mean loaf around the house—but find something less strenuous. It’s the lifting.” He paused.
Harman said, “Had you ever thought of hiring someone? To do the heavy work?”
“Could never find anyone to rely on.”
“Did you discuss it with your broker?”
“You mean Matt Pestevrides?”
“Your attorney,” Harman said. “Or your realtor. Who do you talk over your business matters with? Who did you consult before you sold your place?”
The old man was silent.
“Didn’t you discuss it with someone experienced in business matters? You could have gotten someone in to manage your shop for you, a foreman. It’s done all the time. Any good business consultant could have researched it for you and come up with someone reliable; that’s a matter of care and study, a matter of procedure.”
The old man could think of nothing to say.
“I’m surprised at your broker,” Harman said.
The old man said, “I just called him up and said I wanted to sell my garage, for health reasons.”
“A distress sale. Didn’t you take a loss?”
“Yes,” he said.
“If you don’t mind my asking, how much did you get for it?”
“Thirty-five thousand.”
Harman glanced about him at the building. “That seems a fair price.” He pondered, rubbing his lower lip with his knuckle. “Listen, Jim,” he said. “Obviously she’s crying over spilt milk to discuss any use you might have put your garage to. But you did get your price. You did cash yourself out.”
“Yes,” the old man said, feeling pride.
Glancing up acutely, Harman said, “I hope you didn’t take paper.”
“Paper?”
“Seconds. Second deeds of trust.”
“Oh no,” he said
“At what interest?”
The old man could not remember. “I’ll show you.” He led the way to his cluttered office; Harman followed with long strides. “Here.” From the desk drawer he got the papers; laying them out he stepped back to permit Harman to see.
For a time Harman examined the papers. “I think you did very well,” he said at last.
“Thanks,” the old man said, with relief.
Standing by the desk, Harman thumped the closed papers in a deeply absorbed manner. He thumped them again and again. “I tell you what. Listen. You want some—what’ll I call it? Not advice.” Lifting the papers open once more he leafed through them. “Over on the other side of the Bay. In Marin County. They’re doing a lot of building. They’re expanding.” He stared at the old man.
“Yes,” the old man said. He held his breath.
“They’re rebuilding parts of Highway 101 completely. A multimillion-dollar project that’ll take years. Have you been over there?”
“Not for a year or so.”
“There are several new shopping centers,” Harman said. “One at Corte Madera. A truly magnificent job. Now listen.” His voice had a harsh, brusque quality; it penetrated, and the old man went to close the office door, although Harman had not told him to do so. “Don’t kid yourself,” Harman said. “That’s where the growth is, not here. Not in the East Bay. The master plan—” He laughed. “There’s still no room. The East Bay is filled up. So is the peninsula. The only place you can grow and build is Marin County!” He stared at the old man wide-eyed.
“Yeah,” the old man said, nodding.
Reaching inside his coat, Harman brought out a flat, dark gray wallet; he opened it and took a business card from it. With his fountain pen he wrote slowly and deliberately on the back of the card, then passed it to the old man.
On the back of the card Harman had written a phone number, re-inking the prefix several times. It was not an exchange that the old man knew. Du, he read.
“Dunlap,” Harman said. “Call that.”
“Why?”
Harman said, “Call him in the next twenty-four hours. Don’t wait on this, Jim.”
“What is it?” he demanded, wanting very badly to know; needing to know.
Seating himself on the littered desk, Harman folded his arms; he gazed at the old man silently for a long time.
“Tell me,” the old man said, writhing, hearing his voice writhe with a whining tone he had never heard before in his life.
“This man,” Harman said, “is Achilles Bradford. You would know him if you were anywhere involved. If you get him before he’s decided, get your attorney and drive over there. He’ll do business. He wants to do business. But he can’t wait. He’s got about one million of his own money in it now.” In a calmer voice, he went on, “It’s a shopping center, Jim. Up Highway 101 out of San Rafael toward Petaluma. At Novato. There’s the Air Force base up there, Hamilton Field. Many tract-home subdivisions. More going constantly.”
“I see,” the old man said. But he did not see.
“What I hear,” Harman said, “is that they’re trying for an automotive center. Agency, probably Chevrolet but possibly Ford. Or even one of the hot imports, such as VW Anyhow, they’ll absolutely be putting in a garage. Those people commute, Jim. All the way down to San Francisco. They drive two hundred miles a day on that eight-lane freeway, and it’s bumper to bumper at rush hour. And listen. There is no train service. You see what that means? Those people have to maintain their cars. The auto center would be complete. New-car sales, parts supply, repair garage—it stands or falls on the repair. And it means a big garage, Jim. Not like you had here, a one-man operation. To keep those people on the road means a twenty-four-hour repair service. With something in the order of ten to fifteen mechanics on call all the time. Tow trucks. A jitney service to the City for parts. You begin to get the picture?”
“Yes,” he said. And he did.
“It’s a new idea in garage development. Oriented toward the future. The garage of tomorrow, in a sense. Capable of taking on the responsibility for tomorrow’s traffic. The old-fashioned garage will be obsolete in five more years. You were right to sell out when you did; you were very smart.”
Fergesson nodded.
“You could get into this,” Harman said. “Can you get over there? Can you get your attorney and make your move?”
“I don’t know,” the old man said.
“If not, then go over without him. But get over there” All at once Harman hopped down from the desk. “I have to go. I’m late.” He started from the office, swinging the door wide.
Following him, Fergesson said, “But my health—the whole point is I can’t do garage work.”
Pausing, Harman said, “The garage investor puts up initial capital and supervises the shop. He contributes know-how and experience. The physical work will be done by union mechanics. Don’t you follow?”
“Oh”, the old man said.
Holding out his hand, Harman said, “So long, Jim.”
Awkwardly, Jim Fergesson shook the hand.
“The rest,” Harman said, “is up to you.” He winked, a great, friendly, optimistic wink. “You’re on your own.” Waving, he strode to his Cadillac and jumped in. As he started it up he called, “Have to get the grease job tomorrow; can’t wait now.”
The Cadillac disappeared out into traffic.
For a long time Jim Fergesson gazed after it. Then, by degrees, he moved back toward the Buick on which he had been working.
An hour later the telephone in the office rang. When he answered it he found himself talking to Harman.
“What did he say?” Harman said.
“I haven’t called,” the old man said.
“You what?” Harman sounded astonished. “Well, you better get in on it, Jim; don’t let this slip past you.” He said a few more things of that kind, and then hung up, after asking the old man to let him know when he had talked to Bradford.
In the office, the old man sat at his desk meditating.
I’m not going to be rushed, he told himself. Nobody can stampede me. It’s against my nature.
He thought to himself, I’m not going to call. Now or ever.
What I’m going to do, he decided, is go over there, to Marin County. To see that place, that shopping center. And take a look at it with my own eyes. And then if I like what I see then maybe I’ll talk with the guy.
Inside him he felt a deep spurt of his own nature, his own cunning. And he laughed. “The hell with that,” he said aloud. Go and call without knowing anything? With only having someone’s word?
Why should I believe Harman? Why should I believe anybody? I didn’t get where I am by relying on what people tell me. On rumor.
But he had to be sure he saw the right place. So, lifting the phone, he called the number next to Harman’s name on his sheet of old customers.
That night, when he got home, he passed his wife without a word. He went directly into the bathroom, closed and locked the door, and before Lydia’s voice could distract him he had turned the tub water on full.
As he lay in the water soaking, he thought, I know where it is. I can find it.
It was his plan to go up the next morning as early as possible and to be back to his garage by noon. Lying in the tub on his back, staring up at the steam-drenched ceiling, he went over each bit of the plan. Relishing it, revolving it in his mind, he made of it the most he could; he filled it in so that nothing was left unthought.
A new one, he thought. It would be new, every aspect of the place. No grease, no stale smell; the dampness, the sense of age, the discarded parts heaped in the corner…all gone. Swept away. Piles and pools, the dust. None of that.
The hell with them, he thought. I’ll have an office with all glass and soundproofing; I can see down at the mechanics. I’ll be overlooking. With several intercoms. Maybe the kind without wires. Fluoresce
It’ll be science throughout, he told himself. Atomic, like in the labs. Like Livermore where they invented the Bomb.
He saw himself a part of the new world, along with Harman, along with all other enterprising men. This is America, he thought. Vision. What you do with capital and imagination. And I have both.
Boldness, he thought. You have to be bold. Even ruthless. Or otherwise they’ll get you. They’re always in wait, trying to pull you down to their level; naturally when you get up there they resent it. They envy. You ignore that, however. Like Nixon does; he stands and sneers when they insult him, throw rocks, even spit. Risks his life.
His eyes half-shut, submerged in the hot water, with new water roaring, the old man thought of himself that way, not lost in the dirty, unimportant San Pablo Avenue of drive-ins; he saw himself with the big people who mattered. I’m in industry, he thought. Not politics; that’s not my game. This country is founded on business. It’s the backbone.
Investment! I’m investing, in the future of America. Not for my own good—hell, not for profit—but to expand the economy. And it will count. What I do will count.
6
The early-morning street was damp, and over all the houses was a fog, wet enough to start drops slipping across the upright surfaces. Nobody was out, but occasional yellow rectangles were kitchens in which, Jim Fergesson imagined, men stood before open ovens with their rumps to the heat.
He shaved, and fried some mush left over from the day before, drank gritty dark coffee that had been standing in the pot, and then with his overcoat around him he descended the stairs to the basement garage in which his Pontiac was parked. Lydia was asleep. No one heard him; no one saw him go.
Moisture had gotten into the engine and it died twice as he backed the car from the garage. Its hollow coughing continued as he drove down Grove Street, and he could not help thinking that had he the time he would take the car entirely apart. Almost everything in it was worn; nothing engaged. He did not shift into high gear but remained in second until he reached a stop light; there he looked carefully and without stopping turned right. Soon he was driving at thirty-five miles an hour through Oakland. By the time he had gone a mile the engine had warmed and was working a little better. He put on the radio and listened to a program of the Sons of the Pioneers.