Easy and Hard Ways Out (9 page)

He settled down to work. He filled out his daily section-head progress report form for Ardway, sailing through the “Summary” section, pausing slightly at the “Milestones Achieved” and “Milestones Forthcoming” headings. He had to be careful here and consult his past files; Ardway and Fish had dreamed up a computerized checking system that caught you if you either failed to reach a milestone you said you would, or reached a milestone you hadn't predicted. Either violation was enough for a warning, and more than two warnings meant you'd probably be fired. The only saving feature was that since Ardway didn't know anything, you could define your own milestones, and as long as you were internally consistent, the machine would never catch on.

Brundage put down “Measured increased mobility in Indium Antimonide thin film” under “Milestones Achieved,” and “Will try to increase mobility further” under “Milestones Forthcoming.” He slipped the form into the Out box on his desk. He opened his notebook, began a fresh page, titled it, wrote some equations, numbered them, then crossed everything out and slammed the book shut. For the benefit of Rupp, who secretly monitored everyone's mail, he filled out a subscription renewal to a technical magazine. He wrote a check to his auto insurance company just before the bell rang for the three o'clock break, and as he looked up he could see Christine walking languorously toward the staircase. In the cafeteria, he sat two tables away and watched her hopelessly through the tragic, oozing hole he'd gnawed in his huckleberry tart.

At the next table, Brank and two other men were also staring appreciatively at Christine.

“I love her,” said Plotsky. “God, God, I love her. I'd do anything for her. I'd kill for her.”

Although it was doubtful that Plotsky would actually, in fact, murder someone, there was no question that the thought of even mild sexual activities could stimulate him to extraordinary behavior. A scrawny, hawk-like man, with a collection of dirty magazines hidden under his drafting table, Plotsky, in order to impress imaginary women, drove a sports car fitted with a ski rack in winter and a surfboard in summer, though he neither surfed nor skied. His major problems in life all seemed to revolve around indiscreet masturbatory practices; people were constantly catching him at it. At age fourteen his father had yanked open a bathroom door to find him in frantic heat over a
New York Times
girdle ad. At age sixteen he'd been caught with an open fly in the rear of a solid geometry class. And two years ago, at age twenty-nine, he had, as he put it, “come within a hair” of being fired after Ardway had discovered him rubbing himself deliriously behind an electrostatic copier. After much management soul-searching and consultation with lawyers, it was explained to him then that what he had done did not constitute a criminal act but was, in fact, a manifestation of sickness, a sickness just like any other sickness—say, measles or pellagra—and that the only way the company would keep him on would be if he promised to put himself under medical care. When he did, and when the caretaker asked his problem, Plotsky had said, “I masturbate, and they find me.” The doctor had responded in two sentences, “Masturbation is good. Don't let them find you,” and Plotsky's disease had been cured, just like any other disease.

“What would you give,” the man next to him said now, “if you could touch the bottom of her leg? Just the bottom.”

Plotsky sipped his coffee, glancing nervously at Christine, who was eating an ice cream pop. “Would she be wearing nylons?”

“No.”

“I'd give my right pinky.”

The man next to him nodded solemnly. “And what would you give if you could brush, say, the side of her breast with your palm? Just the side.”

Plotsky looked pained. “Oh God, Smo. Smo, I'd give my left index finger to do that.”

“And what if you could put your mouth on one of her nipples, if you could lick it lightly and feel it swelling against your tongue like the world's ripest olive?”

Plotsky stopped drinking; his breathing became heavier. “My left leg. You let me do that, Smo, and so help me, I'd give you the leg.”

“Oh, leave him alone already, Smo,” said Brank, but the man ignored him.

“Now,” said Smo, smiling faintly, “what if you could get your hands between her thighs, and run them softly up and down, feel the warmth of her slightly clammy flesh and hear her breathing grow hoarse and lustful. What then?”

Plotsky's mouth fell open, his stare went glassy. “My right arm,” he croaked.

“Not enough.”

“And my sight, my eyes,” threw in Plotsky quickly.

Christine licked a piece of chocolate from her pop with a darting motion of her tongue.

“And what if—” said Smo.

“Oh, come on,” said Brank.

“What if you could move your palm upward just a little bit, just a thirty-second of an inch from the crotch itself, and she wasn't wearing any panties, and you could just sense the moist heat radiating from that cleft, hairy mound and she would say ‘Oh, Ralph, touch my sex,' and you would say ‘Here?' and she'd say ‘Yes,' and you would move your hand up still further and say ‘Here?' and she'd say ‘Yes. Oh God, yes.' What about that?”

Somewhere during the description, Plotsky had begun to whimper, and now he stood up, quivering, spilling his coffee as he tried to put down the cup. “My balls,” he whispered just before he ran from the lunchroom. “Both of them.”

Phil Sussman-Smollen laughed aloud and shook his head in wonder. People like Plotsky, sex-starved, mooning over impossible coital goals, amused him; he could not imagine, much less sympathize with their problems, and besides, he had special problems of his own. Sussman-Smollen was a dapper, usually cheerful fellow with a Caesar haircut and pointed beard. He was highly attractive to women, but could not discriminate among them; once, overwhelmed with tenderness, he'd become engaged to a girl simply because on a particular occasion he'd held her while she vomited. At Auerbach Labs, he was in charge of Precision Assembly, and could always be found walking from bench to bench giving the single technicians what he felt was pertinent advice culled from his life's experience:

“Never leave your motorcycle in your girl friend's garage.”

“Put at least a third of your savings into the offshore funds.”

“Fat girls tend to come a lot.”

Etc.

For reasons unknown, he enjoyed talking to Brank, seemed to seek out his company in fact, although from Brank's viewpoint there was never really any deep communication between them. The things Sussman-Smollen said were either very simple and obvious, or very profound; Brank found it impossible to decide which. He could never be quite sure that Sussman-Smollen wasn't teasing him, playing some sophisticated, intricate little game of his own. Often, he imagined himself drowning at a deserted beach, twenty yards from the shore, the undertow dragging him out as he yelled frantically to Sussman-Smollen, who, as he reclined on the sand, made some droll, ironically witty remark and waved pleasantly while Brank went under.

“You shouldn't really tease him that way, Smo,” said Brank now.

“Oh, he deserves it,” said Sussman-Smollen. “In fact, he enjoys it. The doling out of his body, I mean.”

“He has a problem, Smo. You remember how they caught him a couple of years ago in the Xerox room. He's … you know, a little sick.”

“Sickness is in the eye of the beholder,” said Sussman-Smollen. “Although I admit it was sick of him to give up his sight just to touch her thigh. A normal person would've probably kicked in with some intestine at that point, or at the most, an ear. But his sight? No, that's an infected mind.”

Brank saw Brundage get up to leave. Christine followed a moment later.

“She's a good-looking little item,” he commented.

Sussman-Smollen was becoming fidgety. “Yes,” he said. “It's the things you don't see that make a girl attractive, and she has a great deal of them.”

“I attempted to see her boss about some problem I discovered,” said Brank, trying not to think about Sussman-Smollen's remark, “me and Dubrowolski—but the guy is unapproachable. He has a secretary who could play middle linebacker for half the teams in the NFL, and no one gets by. I tell ya, that Brundage, he looks like he's in another world. I bet he doesn't even notice that broad.”

“I bet he's boffing her,” said Sussman-Smollen. “Listen, if you're interested, I'll tell you how to get to see him.” And then, quickly, glancing at his watch, “But let's forget that, it's almost time to go back, and I want to tell you my dream now.”

Brank finished his coffee. For several months Sussman-Smollen had used him as confessor to relate a series of bizarre dreams that he'd beseech Brank to interpret for him. Brank, of course, hadn't the foggiest notion what any of the dreams meant, or indeed if they meant anything, but nevertheless went through with the act to avoid insulting his friend.

“Did you ever see
War of the Worlds?”
asked Sussman-Smollen.

“You mean the movie? Yeah, I saw it.”

Sussman-Smollen put down his cup. “You remember that scene when a whole bunch of the Martian saucers have landed and they begin heading for the town?”

“Yeah. Look, before you go on, tell me how to get to see Brundage.”

“You remember it was at night and they're all lit up because of their force fields—a sort of magnetic green—and they're just sort of floating toward the town in the darkness, hundreds of them, floating. You remember?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So that's my dream. Only they're not saucers in my dream, they're vaginas. Hundreds of them. Floating in the air, six feet above the ground.”

Brank stood up. “Listen,” he said, “you're gonna have to give me time for this one. I can't figure it out now. I have to get back. Let me sleep on it. Meantime, tell me how I get through to Brundage.”

Sussman-Smollen stood up and they began walking. The cafeteria personnel were starting to slam the wooden chairs up on the tables.

“You tell me what my dream means, I'll tell you how to see Brundage.”

“Oh, come on, Smo. This affects the whole F24. We'll all be screwed. I'll tell you what the dream means tomorrow. I'll think about it all night.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

“All right. You get to see Brundage by first seeing Peretz. You know Peretz?”

“Peretz. Is he that tall, sort of quiet guy who has a desk near Brundage's office, but who works all the time in the basement? He has big ears?”

“That's him. Brundage likes him. Talk to him first. He'll get you in to see Brundage.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

They walked through the halls, and just before Sussman-Smollen entered the Precision Assembly area Brank had an idea.

“Hey, I had a dream last night, too,” he said.

“Oh, yeah?” said Sussman-Smollen. “I thought you never dream.”

“I don't normally, but last night I did,” said Brank. “I dreamt I was asleep.”

Sussman-Smollen stopped; his face was quizzical, bemused. “Asleep? How could you dream you were asleep?”

“Why not?” said Brank. “I like to sleep. Unless, of course, maybe it wasn't a dream. Maybe I was really sleeping.”

“Maybe you still are,” said Sussman-Smollen as he went through the doors.

DESK JOB

After he removes the blotter and the In and Out boxes and the books and scraps of paper and half-used lined pads and annotated calendar, he washes the desk down, using a rag and a pail of warm soapy water. He dips his arm into the water up to the elbow and applies the dripping cloth in soft, circular motions, and the little soap bubbles slide radially on the steel as a miasma of shimmering steam free-floats above the surface. When he's covered the top, he works the cloth carefully down the sides, the drawers, the handles, getting the backs of the metal projections, the undersides, insides, the parts unseen and obscure. And then comes the drying, a new cloth, clean, towelly, fluffy white, rubbed briskly back and forth, drinking up the pools of liquid and leaving an irregular cube of cool and dustless metal planes. A third cloth appears, and a cylinder filled with mocha wax, and again the one arm dips into the can and smears the softening contents in slow, almost sensual arcs, the muscles of the arm dancing arhythmically beneath the skin, wrist oscillating powerfully, fingers spread and moving in their own orbits, flat, pockmarked face intent yet serene, circles within circles within circles. A final buffing and the steel comes alive, a trillion daylight shafts from the overhead fluorescents rebounding from a lake of ice. The blotter and the mail boxes are carefully replaced along with the pads, the calendar, the scraps of paper. The bucket and rags are gathered up, the can of polish clamped between the arm and ribs. He leaves.

The engineer who's been waiting nearby resumes his seat. “That Rocco,” he says to a colleague as he writes a new heading in his notebook. “It takes him a fuckin' year just to do your desk.”

AUERBACH LABORATORIES

Inter-Office Memorandum
11/21/66

From: S. Brine

To: S. Rupp

cc: ——

Subject: “Pythagoras”

The individual calling himself “Pythagoras” is no stranger to us and, in fact, has been assigned dossier # 11308. Our first contact with him was on 6/19 when W. Murphy reported a memorandum he'd received regarding urinal perfumes. Murphy assumed that Pythagoras was a code name for one of the organizational higher-ups and had, in fact, been conscientiously attending to certain lavatory requests (mostly concerned with leaks, heating and ventilation) for a two-month period prior to that.

Although we do not as yet know the identity of this perpetrator, his requests thus far seem harmless and nearly always have to do with improvements in the Men's lavatories. We do know that the memos are typed in this building, although this was the first time that carbon copies were sent to people such as yourself. It is my personal view that when we locate this individual we will also have the solution to the soap disappearance problem. I will keep you informed of any further progress in this area.