Easy and Hard Ways Out (27 page)

“The pilots? ‘So what,' again. Ah don't know any of 'em, they're strangers to me. Ah don't have any principles. Ah left 'em at the door the first mornin' Ah came here an' never picked 'em up. Oh, look, Ah know you're probably all hepped up about this. Lemme think about it a couple of days.”

One signature. He made his way through the halls to the Electronics lab. LoParino was to cover Sales, Legal, and the Shop, Brank was to canvass Engineering. They agreed that they needed the name of at least one section head, obviously Pat or Brundage, to really give the petition any weight and have it taken seriously.

Pat:
Not present. No one had seen her since Tuesday morning when she'd hurriedly left the building.

LoParino:
Signed early Wednesday morning. First name neatly printed, second name scrawled.

Coletti:
“Sign? I can' even see. I listened to the Cincinnati game last night. Took the portable ta bed with me under the covers. Didn' end till after two an' it kept fadin'. That's one of my biggest problems, these stations that fade. Yeah, so where do I sign?”

Mills:
(Smiling.) “Only if you help me wid' dis physics problem. Wid Pat out, I got no consultant.”

“Yeah, she just took off like a shot yesterday morning. Maybe she was sick or somethin', or got her period.”

“I'll sign, but not near Coletti, okay?” (Looks at Coletti, laughs.)

Wong:
(Immediately turning fan in Brank's direction.) “No, what for I sign? How I know this true? It could be trick. No, I not sign.”

Lubell:
“No, and my advice is to tear it up and forget it. Have some appreciation of what you're getting here. These people are decent enough to give you a job, pay you, give you benefits, and you turn around and stab them in the back.”

“What do you mean they make a profit on you? That's business. What if they do make a little something? Without them, you'd be in the streets, on unemployment. I see there's no talking to you because you're pigheaded and a shmuck.”

“What do you mean, ‘But will I sign'?”

Two signatures, not counting LoParino's. No engineers. He headed for the Drafting area, heard LoParino paged as he walked through the halls. “Mario LoParino, Mario LoParino. Please report to Mr. Rupp. Mario LoParino, report to Mr. Rupp.” Brank stopped, felt shaken. Did they know already? Of course, they must know. They were going to stop it before it started. They were probably firing LoParino right now, pressuring him to reveal his accomplices. Of course, he'd never crack, too crazy to crack, cracked already. Poor Mario. Brank stopped by a phone, dialed “O.” “Page, uh … Mr. L. Greco for Sprays and Paint. Thanks.”

Brennan:
“It's nothing personal, Harv, but, uh, I, uh …” (Shakes head.) “It took me sixteen years to become Drafting supervisor. It's just, it's been too long, too long. It's really nothing personal.”

Plotsky:
“Sure. I'll sign anything, but it won't do any good. I wrote to a free-love society last month. ‘Please send me your brochure,' I said. No good. I got nothing. If my name is on it, it's ignored.”

Potamos:
“Did Dorfman sign? No? Then I'll sign.”

Two signatures. Head toward Precision Assembly.

Rocco:
(Momentarily stopping tile scrubbing in hall.) “I don't really understand this engineering, see; this is something for you younger fellas. But if you want the Rock's signature—now I don't really understand what I'm signing here, see—if you want the Rock's signature—I signed in the wrong place? See, I know you young fellas, you got—I think my pen isn't wor—Oh, here it is. I figure you must know what yer doin', see.”
Sussman-Smollen:
(Sitting in
padmasana
yoga position.) “I'm into yoga fairly heavily at this point. You know, I say ‘clean mind, clean body … take your pick.' The
asanas
come too quickly up your spine, you launch into one of these”—he presses palms together behind his back, bends his head to the floor—“fucking
modras
to hold the bastards down.”

“Oh, the petition? I don't think so. What for? It'll just get you fired, that's all.”

“The dream has nothing to do with it. You mean it's saying I consider women only as sexual outlet mechanisms? It means I'm afraid of them? That seems crazy; you've probably projected your own warpage onto it. Not that I mind, of course. To each his own, plus a little extra. But I'm still not signing.”

A disappointment. Brank extended the vision of himself drowning and Sussman-Smollen on the beach to include Joan. She appears somehow in a low-haltered bikini, standing next to Sussman-Smollen on the sand. He points out Brank struggling desperately in the water; they both laugh wistfully, then amble casually away, arm in arm. As the waves wash over him, Brank catches a last glimpse of Joan taking a bite of Sussman-Smollen's Fudgsicle. They will live off Brank's insurance, a tempestuous life of ups and downs, manic and depressive dreams,
modras
and
asanas
.

Thursday: Brank had called LoParino the night before, gotten no answer. He wanted to know why Rupp had paged him, what went on, how many signatures Lo had gathered. He tried looking in Pat's lab in the morning, but neither Pat nor Lo was there, though Coletti thought he had seen LoParino walk out with some books. Brank would have to wait till they met at the end of the day before he could question him. In the meantime, he headed for the Accounting men's room.

Schneck:
“Of course. Don't forget, I'll see you at the inspection Friday morning. I'll just walk in casually, they'll never guess where I came from. I'm known, they can't ignore me. Where are you headed now? You'll see, I'm known.”

“Oh, yes, Brundage. Yes, you should have his signature, but he's an odd one. Can't tell. Cohen is in his lab, isn't he? Something wrong with him too. Steals soap. Every time Rocco puts out new bars, Cohen steals them. Also, towels. Takes huge amounts of paper towels. Must sell them or something. Something.”

Brank was quite surprised about the soap. He knew Cohen was cheap, but
that
cheap? In the afternoon he entered Advanced Devices.

Cohen:
“Well, that depends. How much do I get for signing? Just kidding. Gee, I really don't know. I mean I generally never … Sometimes the guys bring cards around, you know, for retirement dinners, weddings, that sort of thing. Well, anyway, I never sign. It's a policy of mine. I mean, what's the point? I mean, what do you get from it? Name one concrete thing.”

“That's not concrete. Go ahead, name something, even something small. Don't be ashamed. I mean, I save things like paper clips and old pencils, so don't be ashamed.”

“I'm sorry, I can't agree. Listen, what's one name more or less anyway, right? Hey, before you go, gimme the final price on that pig of yours.”

Brank found himself suddenly more receptive to the idea that Cohen was stealing toilet articles from the men's rooms.

Hands:
“Oh, you're not getting me to fall for that one. You probably just need a token black signature, right? Should I use Negro writing? That's a jest, but you know, as a child, I used to read Captain Marvel and Superman comics and color in the characters black. Does that tell you something?”

“Right. Where I come from, opportunity doesn't even knock once, so I'm not about to throw away the position I've achieved here.”

“What do you mean, what position is that? You should—”
Peretz:
“Who is it that … Oh, Brank. Yes, yes, hello. I'm still doing the high-power coronas. I've been getting some scalp discolorations lately, dizzy feelings. Ardway said it's from the overhead light bulbs here in the lab, only how can they … Of course, I didn't say anything.”

“Yes, I still work with the tape recorder, but my wife has been telling me I should stop. Stop everything. I don't know.”

“Frankly, I'd like to sign, but I'm really afraid of the consequences. I don't see how you can just walk around like this. I, frankly, could never bring myself … I can't bring myself … I—Give me the pen. Quick! Quick!”

Got him. Poor sonofabitch. Brank headed toward Brundage's office. He glanced at the wall clock; an hour and fifteen minutes before quitting time.

“I'd like to see Dr. Brundage,” he said to Amelia, the hulking, aged secretary.

“Doctor's not available,” said Amelia, buttoning her gray woolen sweater. “May I take a message?”

“I just want to see him for a minute.”

“I'm sorry, but he's not available.”

“Is he in?”

“He's not available.”

“Listen, I've really got to see him.”

She stood up then and loomed over him, giant turtle back, cropped hair, and red beet-face staring down. “Not in,” she screamed slowly. “Not in.”

At which point Brundage came bursting out of his office, briefcase flying behind.

“Dr. Brundage, Dr. Brundage, I have a petition here—”

Brundage brushed past, rushed out the door.

“Dr. Brundage!”

No answer. Hurried walk through the corridors, Brank trailing.

“Dr. Brundage!”

Brundage racing along, moving with incredible scientific vigor, Brank panting alongside, falling behind.

“Dr. Brundage, can't you spare just a minute. They're going to fake the inspection and—”

Brundage momentarily makes a wrong turn, opens the door to a closet used for storing broken mop handles, hurriedly doubles back. He and Brank reach the outer door together. The guard makes a lightning check of Brundage's briefcase for stolen soap, then waves him through.

“Dr. Brundage!” pleads Brank, one last time.

Brundage, still walking, turns his head briefly in the parking lot. “No time,” he yells. “See my secretary.”

ORDER FROM CHAOS, AND VICE-VERSA

For days afterward, except for the obligatory meetings with Ardway, Brundage had sat paralyzed in his office. Skipping lunches, eating only lumps of sugar from a bowl on his desk, he created endless cinematic variations on the main theme.
Christine's husband had not shown up. Using all his mathematical skills, Brundage had solved the puzzle of her complex undergarments, the last hook unleashing a dizzying cascade of unspeakably voluptuous female parts. Overwrought, he'd spent himself immediately, skipping such formalities as insertion
. He was unable to work. Urgent jobs were left undone, unthought about. Once, in a moment of clarity that lasted only an instant, he realized that perspective was finally his, true priorities at last established. Forget equations, advances, achievements,
A MAN LIVED IN HIS BALLS.
First and foremost concentrate on firing that wad in the best place; then, and only then, take care of the rest.
A setup. The truck driver husband with the IQ of a sweat sock bounded out of the closet, held a Gillette Super Blue to Brundage's shriveled manhood. Pay up, a thousand a month, or I'll cut it off a quarter inch at a time. That'll make four slices, joked Christine, the remark hurting Brundage nearly as much as the anticipated mutilation
.

Motives. He couldn't figure it out. All his life nothing good had happened to him; why should it start now? It seemed to run counter to natural law, a tiny, perverse kink in space-time that would soon straighten out and thrust him back to his properly miserable existence. Why would a woman like that ever want to commit adultery with someone like himself? Her explanation of being attracted to intellectual men, though reasonable in the abstract, was preposterous in the particular. There were plenty of younger, better-looking intellectual men, and besides, attraction was one thing,
laying
them was another. Could she have a father complex? Some fascinatingly twisted and neurotic older-man hang-up? A briefcase fetish? An overwhelming need for impregnation by a recluse?

He'd begun to think it was a spur-of-the-moment, one-shot affair when, a week later, she'd brought him the gift. It was in the afternoon, a rainy Thursday, when he'd looked up and seen her in a doorway, white lab coat snug against her bulbous breasts. Brundage, who'd been paring his toenails, quickly slipped on a shoe (omitting, in his haste, the sock) and said, “Chris! Chris, come in and … how did you get past Amelia?”

“Oh, I just waited,” she said, closing the door behind her, “until she went to the ladies' room.” She walked toward him, fixing him with hypnotic, earth-mother eyes. “I have something for you.”

Brundage simultaneously felt the stirrings of an erection and cold in his foot. He grinned a half-grin; he hadn't received a present since he was a child. She removed a package from the pocket of her lab coat and handed it to him. Brundage, head tilted in gorilla wonder, tore at the wrapping, used the nail clipper to help undo the Scotch tape. A thin cardboard box was revealed, and on the box, printing:
STUD. FOR THE TOTALLY MASCULINE MAN.
Brundage opened the box, withdrew a pale green bottle of aftershave lotion.

“It smells divine,” said Christine.

“I'll take a sniff,” said Brundage. He twisted the bottle cap, but couldn't budge it. He set it on his desk, took a deep breath, gripped it firmly and tried again. Nothing. “I'll try later with a pliers,” he said.

Christine picked the bottle up from the desk. “It's really … wait.” Her face tensed, she hesitated a moment, then unscrewed the cap till it came off in her hand.

“I must've loosened it,” said Brundage.

She held the bottle near his nose, and he inhaled. Lemon-lime and alcohol. Sickening. “Beautiful,” he said. “Beautiful aroma.”

“Wear it,” she said, looking up at him. “Wear it a week from today.”

“What's a week from today?” asked Brundage.

“The next time we can see each other. Maybe the last time, I'm not sure. Tony found something in Phoenix, some trucking business, and we may be moving soon. He's supposed to close the deal this Thursday—he won't be home—and if he does, we'll be gone by Saturday night.”