bogus, being in truth a collection of crypto-alcoholics whose object in joining together was merely to get drunk in the company of kindred souls. Therefore when Janice began to speak of “excess tannin,” “volatile acidity,” and “an elegant nose,” the other members of the club responded with such complaints as, “God, is that ever dull ! Come on, Janice, let’s get bombed.” Etc. It was clear that she still had not found the secret to popularity.
But neither was she discouraged as yet. She was too clever to suppose that reading a lot of current books would get her anywhere socially. But she did have the bright idea that learning how to play pool might win her some friends, and she bought a professional-sized table and had it delivered to her apartment. The only room that was large enough to hold the table and still offer sufficient space for the players to manipulate their sticks was the living room, once it had been emptied of all other furniture.
Before inviting anyone else to come and play, Janice studied the styles, as seen on television, of the Striking Viking and the Black Widows, and she practiced for many weeks until, playing against herself, she could regularly run the table.
But when she began to have guests in to play pool they could seldom maintain their interest throughout even the first game. A typical comment was: “You’re too good, Janice! That makes it very boring to play against you. All we can do is stand there helplessly and watch you sink every ball. There’s no fun in that.” And pretty soon she didn’t know anyone who would accept her invitations.
O.K., she had learned her lesson! She gave the pool table to a boys’ club, and she bought herself a tennis racket, a very short, pleated white skirt, and a pair of ruffled panties, and she loitered near the local public courts, her fine long legs, her best feature, on display until a handsome young man invited her to play a set with him. She felt safe in accepting, for she knew nothing at all of tennis and there was absolutely no possibility that she could drive him away by being the superior player.
But after only a short time Lance, the young man, said, “I’m sorry, Janice, it’s really no fun at all to play with somebody who hasn’t any experience of the game. I’m sure you mean well, but think of how boring it is for me never to have a ball returned.”
So Janice had failed, once again. By now she felt thoroughly cursed: no matter what idea she had, however reasonable, it wouldn’t work. She was destined always to be too good at what she took up, or too bad, and in consequence, whichever, she would never have any friends at all.
Now, if you have no friends it is still possible to have a nice life, but you need lots of money, with which you can buy clothes and travel to fascinating places and be served by people who are necessarily gracious, and the rarest thing in the world if you are rich would be to hear anyone say you were boring—unless of course they have absolutely no hope of profiting by your association or are simply perverts of some sort.
But Janice, who was a physiotherapist at a municipal hospital, had little hope of getting her hands on enough money to make her rich. So all she could do was shrug, roll her eyes at the ceiling, groan hopelessly, and say, “Gosh, if I only had a lot of money!”
When she came home from work next evening and looked into her mailbox, she found a flyer for a new supermarket, put there illegally without a stamp; a dunning letter from a charity in which her name was ludicrously misspelled; a mail-order catalogue from a firm that sold power tools; and a cashier’s check for ten million dollars. Of course at first she assumed that the check had been sent in jest and, after smirking, was about to tear it up when she reflected that, having no friends, she was unlikely to be the target of jokes: people simply did not pull them on strangers.
Therefore next morning she went to a branch
But neither was she discouraged as yet. She was too clever to suppose that reading a lot of current books would get her anywhere socially. But she did have the bright idea that learning how to play pool might win her some friends, and she bought a professional-sized table and had it delivered to her apartment. The only room that was large enough to hold the table and still offer sufficient space for the players to manipulate their sticks was the living room, once it had been emptied of all other furniture.
Before inviting anyone else to come and play, Janice studied the styles, as seen on television, of the Striking Viking and the Black Widows, and she practiced for many weeks until, playing against herself, she could regularly run the table.
But when she began to have guests in to play pool they could seldom maintain their interest throughout even the first game. A typical comment was: “You’re too good, Janice! That makes it very boring to play against you. All we can do is stand there helplessly and watch you sink every ball. There’s no fun in that.” And pretty soon she didn’t know anyone who would accept her invitations.
O.K., she had learned her lesson! She gave the pool table to a boys’ club, and she bought herself a tennis racket, a very short, pleated white skirt, and a pair of ruffled panties, and she loitered near the local public courts, her fine long legs, her best feature, on display until a handsome young man invited her to play a set with him. She felt safe in accepting, for she knew nothing at all of tennis and there was absolutely no possibility that she could drive him away by being the superior player.
But after only a short time Lance, the young man, said, “I’m sorry, Janice, it’s really no fun at all to play with somebody who hasn’t any experience of the game. I’m sure you mean well, but think of how boring it is for me never to have a ball returned.”
So Janice had failed, once again. By now she felt thoroughly cursed: no matter what idea she had, however reasonable, it wouldn’t work. She was destined always to be too good at what she took up, or too bad, and in consequence, whichever, she would never have any friends at all.
Now, if you have no friends it is still possible to have a nice life, but you need lots of money, with which you can buy clothes and travel to fascinating places and be served by people who are necessarily gracious, and the rarest thing in the world if you are rich would be to hear anyone say you were boring—unless of course they have absolutely no hope of profiting by your association or are simply perverts of some sort.
But Janice, who was a physiotherapist at a municipal hospital, had little hope of getting her hands on enough money to make her rich. So all she could do was shrug, roll her eyes at the ceiling, groan hopelessly, and say, “Gosh, if I only had a lot of money!”
When she came home from work next evening and looked into her mailbox, she found a flyer for a new supermarket, put there illegally without a stamp; a dunning letter from a charity in which her name was ludicrously misspelled; a mail-order catalogue from a firm that sold power tools; and a cashier’s check for ten million dollars. Of course at first she assumed that the check had been sent in jest and, after smirking, was about to tear it up when she reflected that, having no friends, she was unlikely to be the target of jokes: people simply did not pull them on strangers.
Therefore next morning she went to a branch
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