The Dick Gibson Show (53 page)

“What?”

“That if the lines did snap, all that would happen is that the phone service in the area would be interrupted, and that they couldn’t have snapped or I wouldn’t be talking to him right now. He said there was no danger from exposed telephone cable, but that I’d better call the electric company because if there were power lines there—see, I thought power lines had something to do with phones, but it turns out they’re two different things—and
they
broke down, then there
could
be trouble. I asked him for the number of the electric company, and he said I’d have to get it from Information.”

“What a lot of—”

“Wait. I got the number of the electric company from Information and I asked for the service department. I told my story. Do you know what they told me in the service department?”

“What?”

“That I wanted the maintenance department.”

“I’ll be,” Dick said.

“No. Don’t you see? What’s the service department at the phone company is the maintenance department at the electric company.”

“Did you finally get the right department?”

“Sure I did. Once I knew what to ask for, sure I did.”

“Did you have any more trouble?”

The old man laughed. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I can see you just don’t understand. I called the maintenance department. See, I thought I knew what was coming. That they’d want to know was there any power lines between them two poles in addition to the telephone cables. That they’d have to tell me what to look for and I’d have to go back again. Well, they asked me if I got the shield numbers and I told them I did and they said let’s have them, and I gave them to them and they said well, sir, thank you very much, we’ll look into it right away.”

“You certainly had yourself a morning,” Dick said.

“I said to this fella, ‘How do you know whether there’s power lines as well as phone cable along in there?’

“‘Why, sure there are,’ he said. ‘The
F
in
the code tells us that.’”

“They took care of it, then?”

“I drove back from visiting my son-in-law the next day. The tree was gone. Not a sign of it. The lines was all taut as good fencing. For my own satisfaction I stopped the car to check the poles. I’d stopped at LF 663, so I counted the poles and finally come down to LF 644 and 643 and everything was clean as a whistle. That’s a terrific system. It’s better than an address. Course it
is
an address; that’s what those shields actually are.”

“Well, I’m glad they got it before somebody was hurt,” Dick Gibson said.

“Sure,” the man said. “This didn’t happen yesterday or last week.”

“No? From the way you were talking I thought it was a recent experience.”

“No. This was three years ago. I’m retired eight years and this was five years after I retired. It’s been three years since this happened.”

“I see.” He was anxious to take the next call. Perhaps Behr-Bleibtreau was trying to get through.

“There’s order,” the old man said.

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s order. There’s procedure. There’s records on everything. There’s system.”

“I suppose there is.”

“You bet your life. When I was in Anniston that time I asked my son-in-law to take me through the Pepsi-Cola bottling plant. He showed me how everything worked. I asked a lot of questions. I couldn’t take it all in just that one time, so I went back. I had to go back two or three times. I found out all about it. There’s system, there’s order. I’m in a gas station anywhere in the country and I look at the bottom of the soda bottle and I see where it came from and I know how it got there. I know what happens to that bottle when they take it back. I look for certain tell-tale signs and I know approximately how many more times they’ll be able to use it. I know what happens to the glass when they throw it away.

“Then there’s cans. I know about them too. It’s what I do now. I find out about things. If I don’t understand something I get somebody to explain it to me till I do. I don’t rest till my curiosity is satisfied. I know how a letter gets from this place to that, just what the zip code does, who handles it. There’s organization, there’s process, procedure. There’s steps—like that check list I made up for the men in my plant. There’s a system and intersecting lines and connections. There’s meaning. My son-in-law gave me a shirt for Father’s Day. I put it on yesterday for the first time. You know what I found in the pocket?”

“What?”

“A slip of paper. ‘Inspected by Number 83.’ The shirt’s a Welford, 65 percent polyester, 35 percent cotton. It’s union-made in Chicago. I read the tags on it, the instructions they give you for washing. How can some shirt outfit you never heard of have eighty-three inspectors? And I’m taking eighty-three as an
inside
figure, mind you; probably the numbers go higher. I’m going to find out. I’ll find out what that number actually represents. I wrote Eighty-Three today. If I don’t get an answer I’ll write Eighty-Two. I’ll find out. I’ll see how it works, how it’s all connected.
Everything’s
connected. There’s order, there’s process, there’s meaning, there’s system. It ain’t always clear, but just stick with it and you’ll see. Then you’ll be amazed you never saw it. It’ll be as plain as the nose on your face. If it was a snake it would bite you.”

Behr-Bleibtreau didn’t call.

Richard Swomley-Wamble called.

“How are you, Henry?” Dick asked distantly.

“You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“Oh, well.”

“It no longer makes any difference whether you trust me or not,” Henry said. There was a catch in his voice.

“Come on, Henry,” Dick Gibson said, “you needn’t cry just yet. We’ve barely started our conversation.”

“I’m a child. Children cry.”

“Very well. Let’s drop it. What’s been happening, Henry?”

“Richard’s my name.”

“Richard, then.”

“I’m active.”

“Your charities?”

“You make it sound ignoble. Please don’t pick on me. Why must we always be so irritable with each other? I’m not saying all of it’s your fault. I’m responsible too. If I’ve been fresh, I apologize. I respect my elders—I do, though I suppose sometimes I say things that gives them the impression I’m conceited or think I know more about life than they do. I know you have experience and maturity, whereas I have only my idealism. Children can be pretty narrow sometimes. Look, I’m really very grateful to you. You took me into the Listening Post when I needed it very badly. I’ll never forget that. I’d really like very much for us to be friends.”

“All right,” Dick said, “so would I.” It was true. He had been uncertain of his ground with Richard from the first; even as he had baited him he felt himself in the wrong. And he had other things to worry about. “What have you been doing?” he asked.

“These past two weeks have been wonderful,” the boy said enthusiastically. “The Mail Baggers have been marvelous. You know, a lot of them just want to be cheered up, or if they do need something it’s usually very small. There’s a woman in Lakeland who’s bedridden. Her TV picture tube blew out last month and she wrote to ask if I could let her have thirty-five dollars to replace it. Thirty-five dollars may not be much to you or me, but when you’re trying to live on just your Social Security payments I guess it can seem like all the money in the world. I didn’t replace the tube but I did get her a new color set.”

“That was very kind of you, Richard.”

“I hope she doesn’t think I throw my money around to impress people. I thought she’d enjoy it.”

“I’m certain she does.”

“There’s just one thing—”

“What’s that?”

“Color sets require adjustment. That can be pretty hard on someone who’s bedridden. The set can’t be too close to the bed because of the radiation. I hope I didn’t make a mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I bought three motorized wheelchairs last week and two hospital beds. I’ve arranged with several mothers who can’t afford it for their children to have music lessons. They rent the instruments and the rental is applied toward the purchase if the kids are still taking lessons two years from now. I put the rest of the money in escrow for them. Another mother wanted dancing lessons for her little girl and I arranged for those too. I bought two gross of imported dashikis and distributed them throughout the inner city. I’m sponsoring a Little League team in the Sarasota ghetto. Everyone will have his own uniform, even the kids on the bench. I bought some bicycles for people who have no way to get to work in the morning. I’m having some people’s plumbing fixed.”

“That was very thoughtful, Richard.”

“It robs people of their dignity when their toilets don’t flush properly.”

“You know, Richard, it sounds to me as though you’ve been spending a lot of money.”

“Oh, well.”

“No, I mean it,” Dick said. “I know you want to help and I realize that three-quarters of a million dollars is a great deal of money, but that money has to last until you’re twenty-one. At the rate you’re spending it might be very close.”

“That’s not a problem,” Richard said quietly.

“Oh?”

“It’s not a problem.”

“What is it, son? Has something happened?”

“Oh, Mr. Gibson,” the boy sobbed, “I’d hoped this call would be a happy one, that we’d just chat about people’s dreams coming true.”

“Well, fine, Richard.”

“No,” the boy said manfully. “I have a duty. I was fooling myself when I thought this could be a happy call.”

“What is it, Richard?”

“I really called to ask people not to write me any more. I won’t be able to help them.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry if I got their hopes up.”

“What is it, Richard? Isn’t there any three-quarters of a million dollars?”

“Yes,” the boy said, suddenly fierce. “There is. It isn’t that.”

“I see. All right.”

“I can’t have them writing me any more, that’s all. I won’t be picking up my mail. They’d just be wasting their postage, and they can’t afford it.”

“All right,” Dick Gibson said, “I see.”

“I’m being adopted tomorrow,” Richard cried. “When I gave out my real name, some people … They reported me. The courts stepped in. They had the juvenile authorities out here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“I’m sorry, Richard,” Dick Gibson said.

“I shouldn’t say this—”

“What, lad?”

“The people who reported me are the ones who’ll be adopting me. I was like a … a finder’s fee.”

“Perhaps they’re nice,” Dick said encouragingly, “just the ones to give you guidance and security and love.”

“They’re pigs, Mr. Gibson.” The boy was crying uncontrollably.

“Don’t cry, Richard.”

“They’re greedy people, Mr. Gibson.”

“Richard, you know if you really dislike them that much you don’t have to stay with them. I’m sure the court would try to fix you up with parents who are more compatible. You don’t have to go with them, son. There’s no law that—”

“I’ve decided not to fight them.”

“But why, Richard? Why, son?”

“It wouldn’t make any difference. Anyone who’d want me now … It wouldn’t make any difference.” The boy blew his nose. He cleared his throat. Dick waited patiently while he got control of himself. “I won’t be calling your program any more,” he said at last. He spoke slowly, with great dignity.

“I see.”

“They won’t
let
me call the program.”

“I understand.”

“They’re taking the phone out of my room. I won’t have a radio.”

“Oh, son,” Dick said.

“I have to be in bed by eight-thirty every night.”

“Oh, son,” Dick Gibson said, “oh, Henry.” But the boy was no longer on the line.

Then there was a string of calls from some of the unhappiest people in the world.

One man had been laid off for eight months and was unable to find work. His wife and eldest daughter had taken jobs as domestics. He would be a domestic himself, he said, but people were afraid to have a white man in their houses.

A woman called. She’d awakened two hours before. Her husband was not in the house. Her little boy’s bed was empty. Their car was gone. A couple of suitcases were missing. They’d been having trouble lately. Her husband liked to listen to Dick’s program. Perhaps he was listening now. She pleaded with him to return, to call and let her know where he was.

A man had lost his wife about four months ago. He couldn’t sleep, and he was starting to drink, he said.

A high-school girl was having trouble with her stepfather. He had taken the locks off her bathroom and bedroom doors. She was afraid to be in the house alone with him.

Dick couldn’t recognize any of their voices. They were not Mail Baggers.

Then a man called who said he was phoning from a booth just outside the emergency room of Miami Municipal Hospital. “I been listening to your program on this transistor radio in the waiting room,” he said. “I called in to tell you about me. I take the cake. I thought you’d want to hear about it. If they gave out prizes they’d have to give me a big one. I take the cake.”