Humpty Dumpty in Oakland by Philip K. Dick
“Look,” he said. “Harman? Mr. Harman?”
“Just a moment,” the girl said. “I’ll connect you with Mr. Harman.” A series of clicks, a wait. Then a man’s voice.
“Yes, this is Harman.”
“This is Fergesson,” he said. “I’m interested in that place but I can’t get hold of Mr. Bradford.”
“Oh yes,” Harman said, sounding puzzled for a moment.
“I went up there but he wasn’t there.”
After a pause Harman’s voice said, “My friend, I’ve been thinking about you and this business. I think what you better do—have you got an attorney or not?”
“No,” Fergesson said.
“Well, who drew up the papers on your garage?”
“Matt Pestevrides. Real-estate broker.”
Harman said, “It seems to me if you’re going to deal with Bradford you should deal through somebody. There’s no offense intended in my saying this. I think, though, Jim, you’d really be a lot better off if you could deal through a representative who’s used to operators like Bradford. Who can—do you know what I mean?—talk their language.”
“I want that place,” Fergesson said.
“The auto repair?”
“I want to buy it!” he said loudly in Harman’s ear. The racket of his voice jangled back.
“Well, look,” Harman said. “Get a lawyer. Have him approach Bradford. Have him tell them he’s got an interested party who wants to know more. He’ll know how to approach them. Probably Bradford and his associates already have a prospectus drawn up; you know what that is, it’s a financial statement giving all the particulars. Have your lawyer go over it and see what he thinks. Or get hold of an investment broker. Somebody who’s used to this sort of thing. Or bring it to me, if you want.”
“I’ll take it to Tsarnas.” That was the Bulgarian property attorney who had handled the papers on his garage when he had first bought it. “Thanks.”
“If you want I’ll give you the name of my own attorney,” Harman said. “He’s very good.”
“No.” His chest was beginning to hurt again. “Thanks.” He hung up the phone.
Why, he thought, couldn’t he see Bradford? Why did he have to work through somebody else? Bradford was like God, up in the sky, unseen; known only by his works. The big men, the financiers, would hear of Jim Fergesson indirectly and by degrees; the awareness of Fergesson would creep up gradually if it crept up at all. And how important would that be to them? How much would it count? But he had made up his mind to go ahead.
Dialing, he called Tsarnas’s office. Tsarnas’s daughter answered.
“Let me talk to Boris,” he said. “This is Fergesson.”
He told Tsarnas to find out about Marin Country Gardens and then, when he had hung up, he opened the desk drawer and found a Dutch Masters cigar still wrapped in cellophane. The cigar tasted good and he was able to relax. Down in his chest the pain was an ache, dull and uniform, going on like a pulse.
Outside the office were cars to be worked on, cars with metallic dust on their hoods from the valve-grinding of the past days. One Plymouth was up on its end, suspended by the hydraulic hoist; he had not remembered to let it down. The Plymouth had been upright for three days. It was a wonder the air had not leaked out of the hoist. After he had smoked the cigar he left the office and took tools from the workbench. He kicked the wooden flat-cart out and lowered himself onto it.
Once again he was beneath a car, down in the cold darkness, among the indistinct shapes. He found the protected electric bulb on its cord and dragged it beside him; the yellow area spread out over the transmission and flywheel of the car.
When he rolled to pick up a socket wrench his chest cracked. At it his mouth flew open and he let the wrench go. The pain, as it had been, hopped back and was there again, as before. The pain settled on him and he could not breathe. Through his mouth he swallowed air, wheezing as if his throat were clogged.
“Fuck,” he said, when he could speak, and rolled back onto his shoulders. He lay face up, his arms at his sides, seeing the blaze of the electric bulb. Something was wrong inside him. A permanent thing had broken. He had not recovered.
For a time he lay under the car and then he slid the cart out. He threw his tools on the bench and walked to the office. For an hour he sat doing nothing. The time was three-thirty and he had not eaten since six. In the white sunlit entrance of the garage the outlines of people passed. He wondered if anybody would come in. If so, maybe they could get him a sandwich at the café down the street.
Late in the afternoon, after the heat had left the sun’s rays, Al Miller got out the gallon jug of polish and began polishing a 1954 Oldsmobile which he had picked up from a wholesaler. While he waited for the polish to dry he turned on the hose and began washing off his other cars; he slung the hose here and there. The glare this time of day was intense, and he had put on his dark glasses. Because of the glare he kept his back to the street and sidewalk.
As he moved behind a car he turned and caught sight of someone coming toward him, a figure that had already gotten onto the lot without him noticing. Walking very fast, the woman approached him in a straight line. She bore down on him as he stood with the drizzling hose in his hands; shading his eyes he tried to make out who it was, if it was someone he knew. Often women who wanted parking-meter change came that way, so rapidly and purposeful.
The woman, broad, middle-aged, suddenly began to yell at him in a high voice, “Oh, you terrible person, you standing here. You doing nothing like always.” She repeated her words several times, jumbling them together; he stared at her open-mouthed, taken completely aback.
The woman, he saw now, was Lydia Fergesson.
“Just stand there!” she yelled at him, her face elongated, drawn out, mad; over from inside. “Never do anything in the wide world except for yourself, you selfish dreadful man.”
“What?” he said, moving to shut off the hose.
Lydia pointed at the garage.
“He isn’t there,” Al said. “He’s been gone all day. I looked in around two.”
Her mouth opened and she said, “He lay in there sick.”
Oh my God, Al thought. The thing did happen. “What kind of sick?” he said. “Will you tell me?” His own voice rose, almost as shrill now as hers. “You hysterical foreign nut!” he yelled at her, standing so close to her that he could see every pore of her skin, every wrinkle and line and hair. She backed away a step, showing fear. “Get out of here,” he yelled. “Get off my lot.” As she retreated he ran after her. “What happened to him?” he yelled, dropping the hose and grabbing hold of the sleeve of her coat. “Tell me!”
She said, “He had an attack.”
“Where is he?”
“At home.” Her voice was lower, without the accusation. “A good customer who has fondness and care for him happened to come and find him sitting in the office; he could not even call. And he was driven to the doctor who took X-rays and taped him.”
Some of Al’s fear vanished. “You made it sound like he was dead. Like he croaked.” He was shaking and his voice wavered.
“Good-bye,” Lydia said. “I came down here by cab in order to tell you what your attitude might have done.”
“What attitude?” He followed her to the edge of the lot. There, in a parking slot, was the cab, new, yellow and shiny; the driver sat reading the newspaper. “I’ll drive you back to the house,” he said. “Is it okay to see him? Can I see him and see how he is?”
Lydia said, “Will you drive with care?”
“Sure,” he said, already going to his best car, the Chevrolet, opening the door and starting up the motor, racing the motor by pushing down on the foot pedal. Then he strode over to the parked cab and paid the driver. Returning, he found that Lydia had already gotten into the Chevrolet, in the back seat. She sat staring ahead, her face expressionless…on purpose, he decided as he got in front, behind the wheel. Came down here to make me feel bad because I didn’t find h
He drove through traffic. Neither of them spoke.
When he got to the house on Grove Street he went on ahead of Lydia, up the steps and onto the porch. The front door, however, was locked, and so he had to wait for her. As soon as she had unlocked the door he went inside.
There in the living room he found the old man, looking about the same as always except that he had on a blue wool bathrobe and slippers, instead of his cotton work suit and shoes. He sat in the center of the couch, his feet up on a hassock, watching the television set. The room was filled with the din of the set. Al stopped and stood looking at the old man, who did not seem aware of him.
At last Al went over to the set and turned the sound down. Now the old man turned his head and noticed him.
“What’s the matter?” Al said.
The old man said, “I got a cut on my chest.”
“Nothing more?”
“Maybe a cracked rib. The doctor took X-rays. It’s taped up.”
“How’d it happen?”
“I fell,” the old man said.
“Slipped on grease?”
“No.”
Al waited. “How, then?” he said finally.
“On some wet grass,” the old man said.
“Where the hell’d you find any wet grass?”
From behind him Lydia said, “He was in Marin County.”
“Taking a vacation?” Al said.
“On business,” the old man said. He sat silently for a time, with a look on his face of grimness. He said nothing more. Al could not think of anything to say; he stood around, getting his breath, calming down. It did not seem so bad after all. Obviously the woman had gone off the deep end.
“Do you need or require anything?” Lydia said, approaching the old man.
“Maybe some coffee,” the old man said, “Cup of coffee?” he asked Al.
“Okay,” Al said.
Lydia disappeared into the kitchen. The two men remained together, both of them silent.
“She sure had me worried,” Al said.
The old man said nothing, nor did he show any expression.
“You’re feeling pretty good, aren’t you?” Al said. “How soon can you go back to work? What’d the doctor say?”
“He’ll call me. When he gets the X-rays.”
Al nodded. “Anything I can do?” he said presently.
“No,” the old man said. “Thanks.”
“Call some of your customers for you?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Al said. “You let me know.”
The old man nodded.
From the kitchen, Lydia called in a clear voice, “Mr. Miller, please come in here a moment.”
He went down the hall and into the kitchen.
At the sideboard, fixing the coffee, Lydia Fergesson said with her back to him, “Please get out of the house now that you have seen him long enough.”
Al said, “Listen, I’ve worked with this guy for years.” His anger, his dislike for her, filled him.
“Long enough,” she said in a brisk, bright, commanding voice, almost a merry voice, as she went about getting coffee cups.
“What did I ever do?” he said.
Turning in his direction, Lydia said, “Despite what he says he is ill. He is an ill man.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Allow him to remain at home where he belongs and recuperate. Make no demands.”
“What like?” he demanded. “What demands? What do you mean? What do you think I do to him or get out of him? You think I’m always having him fix up my cars for me? Maybe that’s it.” He felt both hate toward her and gloom, his old usual gloom. Certainly it was so; he did make use of the old man. And she had never liked him. She used the old man, too, and so she could easily see what went on. “Consider that I give him a hand,” he said. “With the heavy stuff. Did you consider that? You better consider that, too.”
She said nothing. She went on bustling about in her kitchen, paying no attention to him, smiling in her fixed fashion. Waiting for him to leave, now that she had said her piece.
For a time he stood there. He tried to think of something to say, but no idea came. Only his feeling. At last he turned and walked back to the living room. He found the old man again watching the TV set, with the sound still turned down; the old man faced the set and kept his attention on it, on the watery gray shapes.
“So long,” Al said. “I have to be going.”
Presently the old man nodded. Al waited, but the old man did not speak. So he stuck his hands in his pockets and walked through the house to the front door.
A moment later he was outside on the sidewalk, getting back into his Chevrolet.
Driving away, he thought, I shouldn’t have left. I should have stuck around and saved him from that witch. That old harpy.
But he could not think of any excuse for going back, any way to put it that would make his return seem justified.
I really don’t amount to a good God damn, he said to himself. I’m a bum, nothing but a bum. No wonder I don’t get anywhere. I have no drive, no ambition. I’m doomed and I know it. There’s no place for me. I don’t have the guts to carve any place out.
He did not go back to the lot; instead, seeing that the time was nearly five, he drove on home to his own apartment in the old gray three-story wooden building.
When he opened the door he heard sounds and smelled smells; Julie was home ahead of him, in the kitchen cooking chops on the stove for dinner. He came in and greeted her.
“Hi,” she said. She had on jeans and sandals, and that recalled to him that this was one of her non-working days. “Dinner won’t be ready for another half-hour. You’re early.”
He went to the cooler and got out a bottle of sherry.
“Somebody called for you,” Julie said. “A woman.”
“What’s her name?”
“Mrs. Lane. She left her number. She had something worthwhile to tell you,” she said. “You’re supposed to be sure and call.”
“A realtor,” he said. He seated himself at the table. “The old man had an accident today. A fall. They took him home.”
“That’s a shame,” Julie said, with no reaction at all in her voice, no surprise or regret or concern.
“Don’t you care?” he said.
“I don’t see why I should,” she said.
“I’m thinking of going back there,” he said. “To the house.”
“Don’t forget about dinner,” she said.
“You mean I better not. I better be here.”
Julie said, “I’m not going to fix it for you if you’re going over there. Why should I?”
To that he had no answer. He sat fooling with the sherry bottle.
“Are you going to call that realtor?” she said. “That Mrs. Lane?”
“No,” he said. “She’s a pest.”
“She sounded very nice.”
He said, “Tell her I’m out, if she calls again.”
While his wife fixed dinner he sat at the table drinking sherry. Presently he began to think over the idea he had for blackmailing the big businessman, Chris Harman. He had decided that the best way was to be absolutely direct about it, to call Harman’s number on the phone, either his business number or home phone, and when he got hold of him say simply, “Listen, I know you used to make dirty records, and that’s against the law. Pay me a lot of money or I’m going to the police about it.” Although he had tried he could not think of any improvement on that approach.
Maybe I ought to go do it now, he thought. While I’m in the mood. So he put down his glass and made his way into the living room, where the phone was. Seated at it, he turned the pages until he came to the Hs. At last he had the number of a Christian Harman, who lived in Piedmont. The address seemed right, and, taking the receiver off the hook, he began to dial.
But after he had dialed the prefix he changed his mind; he put the receiver back down and returned to pondering. Probably there were well-known b
“Who are you calling?” Julie said, from the kitchen. “That realtor woman?”
“No,” he said. Getting up, he shut the door so she could not hear. It occurred to him, too, that Harman would recognize his voice.
When he dialed Tootie’s number a woman answered.
“Let me speak to Tootie,” he said.
“He not home yet,” the woman said. “Who is this, please?”
He told her to have Tootie call him, giving his name.
“He just come home,” the woman said. “He just walk in the door. Just a moment, please.” The phone banged in his ear; there were shufflings and murmurings, and then Tootie came on.
“Hello, Al.”
Al said, “Listen, I got something I can’t do that you can do for me. It’ll only take a second. It’s a phone call.” This was not the first time they had exchanged favors of this kind.
“Who to?” Tootie said.
“I’ll just give you the number,” Al said. “You ask for Chris. When he comes on, you tell him you know about the ‘Little Eva’ record.”
“Okay,” Tootie said. “I tell him I know about the ‘Little Eva’ record. What he say?”
Al said, “He should get upset.”
“He get upset.”
“Then you say, ‘But I could forget I know about the “Little Eva” record,’ or something like that. Something suggesting you want to do business with him.”
“I forget about the ‘Little Eva’ record,” Tootie repeated.
“Then get right off the phone. But say you’ll call again. Then get off. Don’t hang around.”
Tootie said, “I call from a booth. That the way I work those kind of thing.”