America and Americans and Selected Nonfiction by John Steinbeck, Susan Shillinglaw Page B

In our shirt-sleeves the cold air bit deep and raised goose bumps on our arms, so that we went inside again.
    The Fly asked, “Why are they pouring the heat on those poor disk jockeys?”
    â€œPayola,” I said.
    â€œPlugola,” The Tingler said.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with it?” The Fly demanded. “He plays records and maybe somebody gives him a buck. Is it against the law?”
    I put on my fatherly-logic-and-reason tone. How they must hate it. “I don’t know whether it’s against the law or not, but it is said to be immoral.”
    Tingler explained to his brother, whom he considers a little kid and probably always will. “You see, people buy what they hear. It’s not what’s good but what gets played. The DJ’s play the ones they get paid to play. They say some of the jocks own part of the recording companies. They spin their own cookies.”
    You can see how valuable these outings are in the matter of language.
    The Fly fixed us with a glittering self-righteous eye. (I might mention here that neither of my kids has ever made or brought home an honest or a dishonest dime.) “Those Eisenhower kids got a vacation in Puerto Rico,” said The Fly. “They went in an Air Force jet 707.”
    â€œJealous?” I asked.
    â€œSure I am. What did it cost the taxpayer?”
    â€œWhat do you care?” I said. “You don’t pay any taxes.”
    Then an uneasy silence fell on that pleasant room. I could feel the boys brace themselves against the usual lecture, or at least prepare not to listen. I’d been thinking about it for a good time, and I let the silence ride.
    â€œWell, I guess we might as well get to it,” I said at last.
    The boys exchanged a glance that said, “Oh, brother, here it comes.”
    â€œI have prepared a few remarks,” I began.
    The Fly looked as though he had bitten down on a No. 5 shot in a piece of wild goose. Tingler put on the earnest and Oriental look that means he is courteously not listening.
    â€œAt intervals, it becomes my duty, through the accident of being your father, to give you what for.”
    â€œYes, sir,” they said in unison, the rotters.
    â€œI have in hand the reports of your teachers and masters, who urge me to influence you. You, Tingler, have done a little better in school but not nearly well enough. You, Fly, are a scholastic disgrace. Not only have you done little or no work, you have engaged in a contest of wills with a master and caused pain and anxiety. Are these facts correct?”
    â€œYes, sir”—synchronized.
    â€œHave you excuses?”
    â€œYes, sir. We mean, no, sir.”
    â€œHave I not given you good and fatherly advice in letters and in speech?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œDo you believe what I’ve told you?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAnd you continue your lives of sin and gold bricking.”
    â€œIt creeps up on you,” said The Fly.
    â€œI’m at my wits’ end,” I said. “And I mean that literally. I’ve told you all I know and it isn’t much but you’ve had it.”
    I paused for answer, but the sons of guns know when to keep still. The room was silent and then from far off—a gunshot.
    â€œSomebody shooting ducks with a flashlight,” Tingler observed.
    â€œAll right—all right. Don’t change the subject or the mood. After much thought I am prepared to do something painful, something drastic.”
    Both boys looked at the floor. They were trying to look pitiful, humble and respectful waiting for the blow to fall. I have a feeling they weren’t very scared. “Yes, sir.”
    â€œI am going to give you your freedom.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œI’m getting off your back.”
    â€œHow do you mean?”
    â€œI mean no more lectures, no more come-uppances. You are crowding manhood and you’ll have to take some of the pain. You are