by Kathleen V Westfall
The bet had been to see whether Henry Cutter could get a pool ball in his mouth. Twenty years ago the boys at Iota Kappa surrounding him had said that if he could get a pool ball in his mouth, he’d be in. Simple as that. He’d be one of the surrounders next time instead of the one surrounded.
Henry, who at eighteen was shy and eager and anxious about everything-including pool balls-agreed.
So they gave him the eight ball and, just before he tried, a paddling for loyalty.
Henry wiped the yellow chalk dust on his pants. Holding the ball to the light he measured the black orb with his eyes and fingers. He took everything about the bet into account except the curvature of his teeth.
When he was ready, Henry opened wide and, with one sweeping, overly dramatic gesture, popped the pool ball in. He looked around the group of boys-who by this time were laughing, hooting, half-rolling on the floor-and grinned as best he could. He made happy, satiated noises. The crowd of Iotas mimicked him. They slapped him on the back, and everything was going just fine until Henry tried to pop it out.
Then he remembered the curvature of his teeth.
The Iotas called a cab, which took Henry-minus four dollars and twenty-three cents and most of the Iotas-to the hospital. In fairness, though, Brian MacAffee, the pledge master, did go along for the ride.
The nurse at the emergency room cussed them both out.
She gave Henry a shot in the jaw and was not at all delicate about the insertion of the needle. Within minutes the muscles of Henry’s face began to relax. Sag. Droop grotesquely like clocks in a Dali painting.
The young intern who extracted the ball told Henry, in no uncertain terms, he looked retarded.
“At least,” Henry mumbled when Brian and he-minus the hospital costs-left, “I got it in. When will I get my pledge card?”
Brian laughed. “Henry,” he said, “we Iotas are… how shall I say it? Henry, we are the intellectuals on campus. And you know? What that doctor said just now was right. That shot had made you look retarded. I’m afraid you won’t get getting your pledge card, Henry. You just aren’t Iota material. Sorry.”
“What?” A thin line of saliva dripped down Henry’s chin.
“Henry, you flunked! Look, everyone knows you can get a pool ball in your mouth. That’s no big deal. It’s just that once you get it in, you can’t ever get it out. Not by yourself, anyway. And that’s why you won’t be getting your pledge card.”
“You see,” Brian continued, obviously relishing every word, “we Iotas feel that knowing in advance the results of one’s actions tends to determine one’s intellectual capacity. All you had to do to pass the test was to say no. And, Henry, you didn’t do that.”
* * * *
Henry thought about what Brian MacAffee had said twenty years ago. He looked across the desk and watched as the man, paunchy and nervous in the hard wooden chair, squirmed. Henry smiled and said, “No.”
“What?”
Henry chuckled. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about that night twenty years ago. You remember. The night of the pool ball.”
“Oh, yeah,” Brian MacAffee said. He tried to laugh but .did not succeed.
Henry rubbed the bald spot on his head. He smiled.
“That really, was something that night, Mr. Cutter. It certainly is good to see you again.”
“I’m sure,” Henry said. “Now to the business at hand.” Henry looked at the form Brian had just deposited on his desk.’ He pulled his pen from its black-onyx holder. The holder was shaped something like an egg or, Henry thought now with a certain malicious humor, possibly like a pool ball. He tapped his pen several times across Brian’s neat application. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Brian squirmed. Finally, he said, “Well, everything seems to be in order here.” At this, Henry turned his head ever so slightly toward the picture of the President on the wall and winked.
“Mr. MacAffee,” Henry said, “if you will take this form over to Building G. That’s in the third quadrangle. What you do, you just go out this building the same way you entered, turn to the left, and keep going for five or so blocks. G is on your right. There’s a fountain in front of it-are you getting all this down?-there’s a fountain in front; so you really can’t get lost. Now, when you get there-Building G-go up to room 807 and ask for Mr. Acue. Get another form from him entitled B, as in Barbara, dash eight three two dash A, as in Annie-in triplicate-and bring it back to me. When you’ve done all that, we’ll take it from there, okay?”
“Fine, Mr. Cutter. And I want you to know, I really appreciate this.”
Henry tsked, shaking his head. “Nothing to it. Really. I’m happy to be of help.”
“That’s Building G, right? The one with the fountain?”
“Yes,” Henry told him. “It’s a very big fountain. It has blue tiled sides and three jets. Oh, you can’t possibly miss it.”
* * * *
Eleanor Dano stormed into Henry’s office right after Brian left. “I hope you don’t think that’s going to count, Cutter.”
“Well,” Henry speculated, “I don’t see why not. He isn’t a friend, per se. I haven’t seen that bastard for twenty years.”
Dano held a gray notebook to her small and, Henry thought, efficient breasts. Sparse, hard little knockers.
Dano appraised him carefully. “There’s a grudge factor, Henry. I was watching in Control, and, believe me, I detected a distinct hostility. Technically, I should dock you.
“Yeah. Maybe. I guess I should have sent him over to John or Albert. Let them try for points. But, Dano,” he said, tossing his arms up, “it was just too damn much fun!”
Dano, the dry and ordinarily humorless woman, smiled at this. “I must admit that touch about the fountain was brilliant. But you should have saved it for points. Albert was there, too,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the President, toward the picture with the camera lens in the lens of his right eye. “And with Albert in Control, I tell you… by this afternoon, half the players in the building will be inventing fountains for the public.”
“I wonder how high the Irritation Factor will go.”.
“Five. Maybe a sixer. Possibly a ten for the psychos. It’s hard to tell so early.” Dano made a notation in her book. “As yet, no points for you today.” She studied the notebook, then glanced at Henry. She looked puzzled and a little concerned. “You’re really behind this week. Are you feeling all right?” ‘
Henry shrugged.
“Well, you look pale to me. And, Henry, you’re getting awfully thin. Perhaps you should see a doctor.”
Henry shuddered. “No, no, I’m fine.”
Dano said, “Okay.” She moved toward the door and, just before she left, turned and said, “You really should have saved the fountain. But good luck to you anyway.”
The phone on Henry’s desk rang.
A woman named Ramona Kitchens wanted a V, as in Valerie, oh dash three sixer seven form sent to her house. Henry listened to her with great patience. He drew a small elephant on his blotter. He put little blue ballpoint flowers on its head. Finally he had to cut in. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kitchens. I have an incoming call. Can I put you on hold?”
The response was, as Henry expected, affirmative. So he pushed the button that put her on hold, got up, got his hat, and left for lunch.
* * * *
As was often the custom, Henry ate a tuna surprise alone in the lunchroom. He sat at a table near a huge plate window and read the paper. Once a woman-whom Henry did not recognize, but suspected to be one of the public- came up and asked whether the seat next to him was taken. Indignantly he barked her back.
He finished his tuna slowly and, when he got to the classifieds, folded the paper and sighed. It was time for the afternoon heat, and he knew he was far, far behind. He got up and left for his office.
On the way there, he passed Waiting Section P, on the third floor. The large, windowless room had temporarily been roped off. Henry peeked past the sign that said, CAUTION. FRESH WAX. Inside, on the benches that lined the room, Henry counted over forty of the public: seated, their legs up on the benches or bent uncomfortably under themselves. The floor mirrored these legless scores in its fresh waxy sheen.
“Not dry yet?” Henry called to one of them, an old man perched near the fire exit.
The man looked terribly confused. Slowly he shook his head and blinked. “They told us not to move until it was.”
“Yes. That’s right. Stay there till it’s dry.”
Several of the public shot Henry brief, almost grateful glances as he scurried off for the elevator.
Back in his office, he asked Margo-his blonde and full-breasted secretary-for the name of the head maintenance man on Section P.
“Emilio Marquez. Is something wrong?”
“No, no. Just try to get him for me sometime today, Margo. Oh, before I forget-how long was Ramona Kitchens on the phone?”
“The one who wanted V, as in Valerie, oh dash three sixer seven?”
“Yes, that’s the one.” .
Margo checked her log. “Twenty-two minutes and thirty-eight seconds. That is, of course, before we cut her off completely.”
Henry Cutter smiled. “Inform Mrs. Dano,” he said. “And I want full credit, too. No more of that point-and-a-half deduction just because it wasn’t face to face. That’s really not fair, you know, dear. Tell Dano I’ve decided to change the rules.”
“Very good, Mr. Cutter. I’m sure morale will soar! And, if I may say so, sir, I think you’re one of the most creative middle managers we’ve ever had.”
Henry Cutter smiled.
At two, Brian MacAffee telephoned. “Mr. Cutter, I think I must have confused what you told me. I think I’m lost.”
“Oh?”
“I’m over in the third quadrangle now. As a matter of fact,” he said with an obviously strained laugh, “I’ve been here for almost two hours. I can’t find a fountain anywhere.”
“Oh?”
“And I’ve really looked, too. All around, Mr. Cutter. I just can’t find that fountain.”
“Mr. MacAffee,” Henry said, now himself sounding a little confused. “Why are you looking for a fountain?”
“Well… to find Building G, of course. You told me there was a fountain in front of Building G.”
Henry Cutter smiled. “No, no, Mr. MacAffee. You have confused what I told you. I told you there was a fountain in Building G. There is an oak tree in front of it.”
“An oak tree?”
“An oak tree. It’s in a planter,” Henry said. “A rectangular planter. It’s cement. And it’s red. Bright cherry-red.”
* * * *
Later Henry watched as the tall, angular man paced in irritation around his office. He watched the man’s jerky, disjointed movements, then said, “Albert, why?”
“Why? Why do I want a meeting of the Game Board, Henry? I’ll tell you why. I heard you changed the rules. Again.”
“Yes, Albert. That’s right. I did.”
“Well, you can’t do that! You can’t just arbitrarily change the rules. And right before final scoring, too! It’s unheard of.”
Henry felt cold suddenly. “And why can’t I change the rules? After all, I invented the Game.”
Albert Mathews sat down beside Henry’s desk in the hard wooden chair. Because one of its legs had been sawed half an inch shorter than the others, the chair rocked back and forth as Albert talked. “Henry, you’re not playing solitaire. There are over a hundred players in this building alone. Ten times that number in the entire complex. And every new round it grows!”
“Henry,” Albert said, “it’s spreading, too. They’re playing it in El Paso. Savannah’s interested. The guys in Newark are saying they’ve had it all along. In fact, they’re pissed because they think you stole it from them.”
Henry frowned.
“Look, Henry, I don’t mean to be critical. God knows, before the Game, there was nothing! Efficiency was poor. There was no morale. It was terribly depressing. Now, of course, because of the Game, all that’s changed. Henry, you’ve transformed us into a team! We finally have something in common.
“But you can’t just change the rules on a whim! And I’ll tell you something else, too.” At this, Albert looked around conspiratorially. “Henry, this is on the Q.T. Aw, maybe I shouldn’t tell you this.” Albert pulled the disabled chair close to Henry. “About the Game,” he whispered. “I’ve heard it’s being considered by the President himself!”
“What can I say?” Henry said, feeling an intense pleasure. “The guy’s dumb. But he’s not that dumb.”
“That’s right, Henry. And that makes it all the more imperative that we convene the board.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. Look, we need to check over all the rules anyway. Add, delete, make changes where necessary. But I’m afraid you can’t decide it all on your own anymore.”
Henry sighed. Albert had a point.
“Face it, Henry,” Albert said. “The Game has just grown too big.”
* * * *
At three, Margo popped her head in the door, “I’ll try Emilio Marquez again. He’s got to get off his coffee break sometime.”
“Yes. Try it again.” Henry waited through the inevitable clicks and buzzes and two mistransfers. “Emilio? Hey, boy! This is Henry Cutter. How are you doing?”
“Fine, sir.”
“I looked in on Section P today. Stroke of genius. What was that you put on the floor?”
Emilio laughed. “A new wax, sir. W, as in Wait-forever, dash eight niner zero. I invented it myself. Takes twelve hours to dry. Oh, you ought to go down there now, sir. One of the public got off the bench. I told her not to. But she was a real snotty bitch. She said, ‘Shut up, spic’ So I let her.”
“You let her what?”
“I let her get off the bench.”
Henry rubbed his forehead. He had discovered that talking to Maintenance could sometimes be very difficult. “So?”
“Sir! She’s stuck to the floor! Hasn’t been able to move for over an hour.”
Henry smiled. “Emilio, I want you to go over to Personnel. Fill out a B, as in Barbara, dash eight three two dash A, as in Annie. Mr. Acue has them.”
“Yes, sir!”
“You know where he is?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Emilio,” Henry said, “I’m kicking you upstairs.”
* * * *
Before he left for the night, Henry had Margo set up a meeting of the Game Board for nine in the morning. He also trimmed his nails. In mid-clip, the phone rang.
“Mr. Cutter, I can’t find that oak tree.”
“Oh?” Henry dropped the paring into his ashtray. “What oak tree? And who is this?
“Brian! Brian MacAffee! You said to look for an oak tree. In the planter? In front of Building G?”
“Building G? Mr. MacAffee, there is no oak tree in front of Building G. It’s a pine.” Henry tapped his nail clipper lightly on the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, Mr. MacAffee, I have an incoming call. Can I put you on hold?”
* * * *
There was a ringing in Henry’s ears when he finally made it home. A constant nagging noise. He tried to ignore it. He felt his heart race arrhythmically. Painfully. He went to the bathroom. He put the teakettle on. He started fixing dinner and, when he could no longer stand it, went to answer the phone. “Hello, Mamma.”
“Henry, I want to talk to you!”
“Absolutely not. Mamma, I know that tone of yours.” Henry’s hands began to sweat.
“I’m coming over, Henry.”
“Oh, no, you’re not. I’ll tell the doorman to keep you out.”
Mamma laughed. “I tip him better than you do. I can get in anytime I want. I was up there just today, Henry, and that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
The veins in Henry’s neck began to throb.
“Henry, I’m coming over.”
Henry hung up the phone. It rang again; so he unplugged it. He went over to the door and pressed the buzzer to the lobby. After what seemed an interminable wait the doorman finally answered.
“Oscar, was my mother up here today?”
“Maybe,” came the answer. “It depends. Who are you?”
“Henry Cutter! In 8-B! I gave you five dollars just last Christmas, remember?”
Oscar laughed. “Oh, yeah. Five bucks. I remember, huh!” ‘
“Well? Was my mother up here?”
“ “Little old lady? Dyes her hair red? Good tipper?”
“Yeah, Why’d you let her in?”
“She’s a good tipper. What did she do, Mr. Carter? Rip you off or something?”
Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oscar, I don’t want you to let her up here again. Do you understand?”
“Well, Mr. Carter… uh… I can’t be too sure about that. Y’know, I’m not on duty all the time, and even when I am, she’s such a crafty devil, she could slip past and…”
“Maybe we can work something out, Oscar.” Oscar settled for twenty dollars on the nose and five extra a Week! Henry tried to condition himself to think of it as an insurance premium. Although he knew he would not pay gladly, Henry also knew he would pay.
* * * *
Henry ate his dinner and listened to the radio. Halfway through the twelfth chorus of “Amazing Grace,” he heard a terrible noise.
“Henry? Henry Cutter! This is your mother speaking!”
Henry dropped his spoon. Terrified, he searched the small apartment.
“Come to the window, Henry!”
Henry went. He parted the curtains timidly.
“Henry, I want to talk to you!”
“God, Mamma!” Henry said as he flung the window open and bent out. “What are you doing there? And put down that bullhorn!”
The small woman who dyed her hair red and was a good tipper said, “No! Not till I talk to you, Henry!” Her voice had a strange, mechanical tone. It wafted up and bounced off the walls of the U-shaped building. Dozens of windows overlooking the concrete courtyard opened. Heads popped out. Curious. Public. “I was up there today, Henry!”
“I know!” he yelled back. “Will you put down that damn bullhorn!”
“And do you know what I found up there, Henry Cutter?”
“Whadja find lady?” the man in 4-F yelled.
“Damnation,” Henry said. “Put down that bullhorn!”
Mrs. Cutter reached into her bag and retrieved a small , brown box. Henry could barely see it. “I found these, Henry Cutter! These!”
“What are they?” asked the woman in 5-A.
“Oh, it must be drugs!” said her neighbor, Mrs. Green. “That poor, poor woman.”
“Henry, I’ve told you a thousand times! I want grandchildren! Do you hear? Grandchildren! Grandchildren! Grandchildren! I go up there to clean, and what do I find? These!” She pointed the box at Henry.
“Hey, they’re rubbers!” cried the teen-aged boy in 1-C.
“Rubbers?” asked the woman in 2-B. “They’re rubbers! “ she called to the man above her, who called to the man above him.
By the time the news reached Henry on eight, all the people in the complex knew. And were laughing. Hooting. Half-falling from their windows.
“I’m gonna kill you, Mamma!” Henry screamed, pulling away from the sill. “I’m really gonna kill you this time!”
“Don’t touch that poor woman’s head!” screeched Mrs. Green from five. “She’s your Mamma! She loves you, schmuck!” Mrs. Green looked down for a second. “And how long were you in labor, Mrs. Cutter?”
“Three days!” she cried up. “Three days I suffered for him, and look what he does! Henry Cutter! Grandchildren are the compensation for old age! I’ve told you a thousand times! You do this just to aggravate me!”
“Mamma, stay right where you are! I’m coming down!”
“Don’t walk away from your Mamma,” Mrs. Green yelled. “Children! They’ll cut your heart out!”
“Who cuts your heart out?” asked the lady in 11-F.
“Henry Cutter, that’s who! Look! He’s killing his poor mother!”
“Killing his mother! Where?”
At this, Henry-who was not married and had never been married-fell to his knees.
* * * *
“Mothers,” Henry said, “should be for points, too.”
The dozen or so men and women seated around the conference table laughed. Obviously they thought it was a joke. Finally, Albert-the ever sensible-said, “Henry, that’s! ridiculous. And, anyway, how often does your mother come to the office?”
Henry smiled. “I’m serious. Under the new rules, if close personal friends are eligible for scoring, then mothers should be, too.”
The members of the Game Board were silent.
“They’re not exempt from red tape, you know. I bet everyone here handles business for his or her mother. On occasion.”
Albert looked disgusted. “But, Henry-your own mother?”
“Albert, make no mistake. No one has to play them. But, ladies, gentlemen, fellow bureaucrats, let’s not forget the meaning of the Game, the purpose, the primary motive… the Game is for money. Everyone automatically tithes ten percent of his or her salary towards it. And if they don’t show or place at the end of a round, well… that money’s gone,
“Look, the rules wouldn’t change. No one has to play anyone they don’t want to. And I’m not saying mothers would be an everyday score. That is ridiculous. But think! Just think of the possibilities!”
The Game Board was silent. They considered the possibilities. Finally, Eleanor Dano, the head referee, said, “Out of curiosity, Henry, how much would you say they’d be worth?”
Henry shrugged. “They’d rank like everybody else. With a bonus, of course, considering the emotional bond. Personally, I’d go for a multiplication of the Irritation Factor. The same thing for the Percentage Point of Frustration.”
“Plus a bonus?” Albert asked.
“No. That would be the bonus,” Henry said. “Look, it’s not complicated, Albert. Say, for instance, I wanted to use my mother for points. She comes over on business and I say, ‘Mom. You want to go to the bathroom?’ Naturally, my mother-anyone’s mother for that matter-is going to answer, ‘No.’
“That is, of course, until I start talking about something important. Or, say I invite her to lunch. She’ll wait until we’re in the car and then say, ‘Henry, I’ve got to go to the bathroom now.’ “
The Game Board laughed.
“So, anyway, I’d then say, ‘Sure, Mom.’ I direct her to one of the Johns, but I make sure it’s the farthest one away from wherever we happen to be. Immediately, I score one point, Irritation Factor, right?”
Dano concurred.
“Now, the bathroom I take her to is a public one, right? That means that out of fourteen or sixteen toilets, only one of them is working. I score another point. It’s simple, really. So now she has to wait in line, right? But maybe that line is rowdy! My mother’s fairly old, and rowdy lines intimidate her. So that’s another point at least. Number three already! So she waits. And when she finally gets to the head of the line, what happens?”
“She gets in,” Albert said. “Goes. Reduces her I-factor to zero, and you’re out of the ball park, Henry.”
“Not so,” Henry corrected. “Oh, she gets in all right. But when she’s through, she reaches for the paper and… guess what?”
“There isn’t any!” someone said.
“Or maybe there’s only one sheet!’.’
“Or maybe,” someone else said, “there’s a whole roll, but none of it will come out!”
“Exactly,” Henry said. “And by now the Irritation Factor has crossed to the Point of Frustration, percentage level one, of course. But even so, that’s an automatic ten! Then tack on the bonus factor-say, a multiplier of three- and voila! Thirty points. And, ladies, gentlemen, that’s just the Johns!”
“It’s brilliant!”
“Magnificent!”
“Justifiable,” Henry said, “it’s justifiable.”
The board voted to include a new category: mothers.
Before they broke up for the morning, Albert said that Grounds Maintenance had contacted him saying they wanted into the Game. Albert said you had to give them their due: They were creative. “As a gesture of good faith,” he said, “they redesigned the parking lots. Just the ones for Visitors, but still… you ought to see it. In Lot C, they’ve placed all these little signs saying, TO VISITORS PARKING. I bet they have a hundred of those. All saying, TO VISITORS PARKING. So the public follows the signs, right? They drive and drive and drive. And before they know it, they’re completely out of the lot.”
“And back on the street?”
“Yes! Third Street,” Albert said. “You know, the one that leads directly and without any cutoffs to the through-way.
“That’s beautiful,” Henry said.
“Wait! Listen to what else they’ve done. In Lot Q-you can see it from your office, Henry-in Lot Q, they’ve painted RESERVED on almost all the spaces. In fact, out of two hundred slots, they left only one that says VISITOR. There was a hell of a fight down there this morning. Had to be fifteen or twenty of the public slugging it out for that spot.”
“Who won?” Dano asked.
“Oh,” Albert said, “I don’t know. Some guy. Anyway, I think we should let Grounds Maintenance in.”
The Game Board agreed.
* * * *
Henry went back to his office happy and relaxed.
Game Board or no Game Board, he realized, the Game was still his. He had slaved over the birth of the Game. Whatever he wanted, as in the past, was simply voted in. Rules changes. Accounting systems. Mothers.
When he got back to his desk, Margo buzzed him and said he had a call.
“Mr. Cutter,” the voice said, “I’m in Building G. Yes, I finally found it. I’m in room 807, but… now this is very strange. No one up here has ever heard of Mr. Acue.”
“That’s puzzling,” Henry said. “Very puzzling indeed. By the way, who are you? And why are you looking for Mr. Acue?”
Brian MacAffee screamed his name at Henry. He screamed something else, too-something unintelligible. Then, quickly, he apologized. “Look,” he said, “I realize you’re a busy man, and I hate to take your time. You’ll never know how much I hate to take your time. But when I saw you yesterday, you said I needed to get a B, as in Barbara, dash eight three two dash A, as in Annie. You said a Mr. Acue in Building G had them and…”
“Building G?” Henry interrupted. “Mr. MacAffee, I’m afraid you’ve gotten things a little confused. Again. Mr. Acue isn’t in Building G. He’s in Building B-as in Barbara.” Henry let this information sink in for a second; then he added, “Do you know where that is?”
Henry heard the sound of muffled sobbing on the line. He told Brian how to get to Building B, hung up, and dialed Dano. “Play, back the tape of my last conversation,” he said. “I just got to the Point of Frustration, dear. Score… automatic ten.”
* * * *
The rest of Henry’s morning was fairly typical.
Ramona Kitchens called back. Henry apologized profusely. He blamed the entire misunderstanding yesterday on Margo. And this time he took down half her address before he put her on hold and left for lunch.
He ate with Emilio Marquez. Emilio explained a plan he’d devised, during the night. “Mr. Cutter,” he said, “it’s the elevators.”
“Call me Henry, son.”
“You see, Henry, what we do is this. We fix the public ones so they never go up.”
“What?”
“Well, they do go up. Eventually. But never directly from the lobby. That’s the beauty of it, Henry. No matter how many times the public punches up, the elevators always go down.”
Henry smiled. “And then they go to the lobby, right?”
Emilio shrugged. “Well, maybe. Maybe not.”
“Emilio,” Henry said, “I predict that you will go far in this world.”
* * * *
When he got back to his office, Henry learned that Ramona Kitchens had stayed on the line this time for just a little over forty minutes.
“Before we cut her off again,” Margo said.
“Good girl. Now call Dano.”
“Sir, we’re cooking now. You’ve made twenty points just this morning.”
Henry smiled. “When you get the chance, Margo, get my mother on the line.”
That afternoon Henry did his paperwork.
He spilled coffee on a laboriously typed S, as in Sharon, dash two niner zero subscript four. He dropped an ash and accidentally burned off the name of the file on a P, as in Patty, slash one. Through no fault of his own, he misplaced the last sheet of an Oh comma Annie. “Margo,” he said, “send these back. But first stamp then INCOMPLETE.”
After the paperwork, Henry did yoga. He pushed and pulled and bent and strained, then lay down for a nap.
Margo interrupted him. “Sir, you have a visitor.” As she said this, she made an odd series of eyebrow gestures as if she were trying to communicate something to Henry.
“Margo,” he said, concerned, “why don’t you take next month off? I think you’re catching a tic.”
Margo winked at the President, then escorted the visitor in.
“Mr. Cutter,” the visitor said, “I’ve got the B, as in Barbara, dash eight three two dash A, as in Annie.”
Henry looked at the disheveled and slightly bloodied man and said, “Brian, you’re kidding.”
“No. Here it is.”
Henry asked Brian to sit down. “That’s a bad cut over your eye,” he said, then took the form and conscientiously pored over it. He took his pen from the black-onxy holder and tapped it several times. Finally, he said, “Well, this all looks just fine, Brian.”
Brian smiled. He lightly touched the cut over his eye.
“Yes,” Henry said. “This all looks just fine-except for one little, tiny thing.”
Brian visibly tensed in the chair. It began to rock back and forth.
“Mr MacAffee,” Henry said, “I’m afraid this isn’t the form I asked you to get.”
“What! What do you mean? You told me to get a B, as in Barbara, dash eight three two dash A, as in Annie, and there it is!”
“No, Mr. MacAffee,” Henry said slowly, deliberately. “I told you to get a B, as in Barbara, dash eight three two dash A, as in Annie… subscript one.”
Brian exploded from the chair, “Damn it,” he said, “I’ve already been in one fight today, and I don’t mind another! “ He grabbed the nearest thing to him-the black-onyx pen holder-and waved it at Henry. “Why are you doing this to me? What is it? That damn twenty-year-old pool ball?”
Henry smiled.
“Damn it, Henry! I want an answer!”
“No, Brian. It isn’t because of the pool ball. Not at all. At least, not really. Hell, Brian. It isn’t even you, per se.”
“Then what is it?”
Henry leaned back in his chair and carefully appraised the situation. The anger, righteous outrage, and frustrated confusion in the paunchy man’s face seemed to point to an imminent breakdown. And Henry knew he was behind this week. This thought, along with the realization that he and Brian were alone in the office, began to worry itself up and down Henry’s spine. He felt suddenly cold. Chilled. His chest ached. Suddenly he thought about the pool ball twenty years ago. He thought about the fact that there were no witnesses now, and then suddenly he said it. “The public. It’s just the public, Brian. That’s really all there is to it.”
“Just what the hell does that mean? “The public’ “
“Calm down, Brian.” Henry relaxed in his chair. “It means exactly what I said-the public. I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, carefully observing a twitch in Brian’s cheek, “you being one of them and all. But, too, I have the feeling that may change. I mean, anyone who can drown in red tape the way you do belongs in the government. You could yet be hired.”
Brian did not seem appeased. “Are you telling me you treat everyone like this?”
Henry made a gesture as if to say maybe. “Maybe more in your case, Brian. After all, I haven’t forgotten that pool ball.”
“By God, I’m calling for an investigation, Henry! I’m going to write the Congress. I’m going to write the President.”
Henry smiled. “That would be stupid, Brian. You should be grateful to us, not-as you are now-snotty. After all, we’re only doing this for your own good.”
Brian’s jaw dropped. His twitch worsened.
“You see, Brian. It’s simple. It’s something we’ve discovered. Basically, this is just a system to increase internal efficiency and-at the same time-save the taxpayer money: You don’t understand, do you? It’s so easy! Simple even. We’ve just accepted the fact that things go so much more smoothly and cost less when we don’t have to deal with the public. In fact, I think it would be better for everyone if we never had to deal with the public at all. What you ran up against, Brian, was just a little system for… what shall I say?… public discouragement. That’s all.”
“Public discouragement! That’s insane, Henry. You’re the government! You have to deal with the public!”
“No,” Henry said, “not really. At least not here. You see, we’re not a very important agency. The only public we deal with here are the ones who want to deal with us. Of course, it’s not like that with all other agencies. Agencies like the IRS, the FBI, those guys. You see, the only public they deal with are the ones who don’t want to deal with them. And they have their own little games to handle that.
“But I may be confusing the issue. That happens a lot around _ here, Brian. No, what I said was true. The government, at least most of it, doesn’t have to deal with the public. Not to survive, anyway.”
“You’re mad,” Brian screamed. “I don’t care what kind of crap you spout about money and efficiency. You can’t treat the public like this!”
“The public! The public!” Henry mimicked in righteous indignation. “Who do you think the public is, Brian?” Henry’s voice assumed a forceful, serious tone. “The public! Hell, Brian, we are the public. You. Me. Everybody. Where do you think we bureaucrats came from?” Henry pointed to the window. “From out there, that’s where. Look, you come in here prancing around for a job, and if you get it, you’ll have come from the public, too. So just where the hell do you get off?”
At that moment Margo came in. She walked over to Henry and whispered in his ear. “Sir, I’ve just heard from Grounds Maintenance. You know that slot in Visitors Parking, Lot Q? The only one there was? They just told me they painted it RESERVED.” She whispered something else, and Henry smiled.
He walked over to the window. “Brian,” he said, looking down on Q, “will you come here for a minute?”
Brian came and Henry said, “That isn’t your car they’re towing away, is it?”
Brian, who in fact was the owner of the car they were towing away, jumped on Henry. He pushed him to the floor and began to strangle the life out of him.
Henry’s mouth gaped open. He felt his chest constrict painfully, as he gasped for air. He flailed his arms against Brian. He made tiny gurgling sounds. Suddenly he saw the shadow of something black flash across his face. Realizing what it was, he tried to squeak, “No.”
Brian, his forearm pressing Henry’s throat, took the black-onyx pen holder, shaped something like a pool ball, and shoved it into Henry’s mouth.
Henry’s heart failed.
* * * *
There was a very quiet knock on the door.
A nurse-pretty, brunette, and very young-went to answer it. Albert Mathews entered, looking nervously around the room. He squeezed a white envelope between his fingers.
“Only for a minute now,” the nurse said, “and please try not to excite him.”
Albert walked over to the bed. He looked at the small man with tubes up his nose and said, “Henry, you won!”
“What?” Henry croaked, barely awake.
“The Game this week, Henry. You came in first!” Albert opened the envelope. “Look. There’s almost ten thousand dollars in here.”
Henry was stunned.”
“Henry, no one’s ever been attacked before. I mean, not to the point of dying! I’m proud of you, man.”
Henry smiled. He touched the envelope Albert placed upon his chest.
“Remember,” the nurse said, “no excitement now. Mr. Cutter is a heart patient.”
For a while Albert chatted with Henry about the office. He told Henry that everything and everyone was just fine. He told Henry not to worry about anything but getting well. “We’ve got a temporary replacement for you. So don’t worry about anything, Henry.”
“Oh?” Henry asked, weak but curious. “Who is it?”
“Well…” Albert said somewhat evasively. “What does it matter?”
“C’mon, Albert. I want to know. Who’d you get to replace me?”
Albert looked over at the nurse. He bent down then toward Henry and whispered, “Brian. It’s Brian MacAffee.”
“Brian?”
Albert shrugged. “What could we do? He’s almost qualified. And you know, you said you weren’t going to press charges, Henry.”
“But what about the investigation? Albert, he said he was going to call for one!”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Henry. Why do you think we offered him the job? Brian MacAffee’s not going to call for any investigation. Not now, anyway.”
After Albert left, the nurse said, very sweetly, “My, what was that all about?”
Henry made something up.
The nurse smiled and asked Henry what he did for a living.
“Oh,” Henry said, “I used to be a bureaucrat. But I’m thinking of changing careers.”
“That’s nice.” The nurse checked the equipment board over Henry’s head. She looked at Henry. “To what?”
“A consultant maybe. My hobby… my avocation, really, is inventing games.”
The nurse seemed very impressed. She smiled and said, “Well, we should be feeling better pretty soon.”
Another nurse, this one older and not nearly so attractive, came in just then and stood in the far corner of the room. The pretty nurse walked over, and together they discussed something.
Henry lay in the bed especially designed for coronary patients and began to consider the possibilities. It wasn’t such a wild idea, he thought: game consultant. After all, just look at what he’d accomplished. He’d boosted morale. Efficiency. Esprit de corps. Sure, he thought, there must be plenty of employers-other than just the federal government-who could benefit from my expertise. Plenty that would, in addition, pay me plenty. Make the risks worthwhile. .
Henry began to consider these potential employers. The first thing he thought of was, of course, the electric company. Then he thought of the rest of the utilities: the phone company, water, and gas. All he needed, he realized, were the ones that had a monopoly. The ones that offered a service no one else had. Vital service companies. The ones with the only game in town. Suddenly he called to the nurse. “Can you bring me a pan, please?”
The pretty nurse said, “Certainly.” She skittered out the door.
The other nurse came over and monitored Henry’s vital signs.
Soon the pretty nurse returned. She held the gleaming chrome bowl in her hand and quickly slipped it under him.
Henry screamed. His body arched a foot off the bed. “Damnation!” he yelled, a horrified expression spreading across his face.
“Mr. Cutter,” the nurse said sweetly, “my, but we are touchy today, aren’t we?”
As Henry relieved himself, he watched the two nurses. They went back over to the corner, where he could just barely eavesdrop.
“What’s the matter with that one?’’’ the plain one asked.
“Oh,” answered the pretty nurse, “patients are just lousy sports.” -
“What?”
“Crybabies, too.”
“Look,” said the plain one, “I’ve worked in a lot of hospitals before, but I’ve never seen a heart patient jump off the bed! What’s going on here?”
“Are you new here?”
The plain one nodded her head in assent.
“Well, that explains it. You see,” she said slowly, almost conspiratorially, “here at St. Mark’s we have something of a contest. It’s based on points. Hard points. Easy points. Things like that.” At this, the pretty nurse smiled. “And freezing the bedpans always makes for very easy points.”