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, âWhy are they pouring the heat on those poor disk jockeys?â
âPayola,â I said.
âPlugola,â The Tingler said.
âWhatâs wrong with it?â The Fly demanded. âHe plays records and maybe somebody gives him a buck. Is it against the law?â
I put on my fatherly-logic-and-reason tone. How they must hate it. âI donât know whether itâs against the law or not, but it is said to be immoral.â
Tingler explained to his brother, whom he considers a little kid and probably always will. âYou see, people buy what they hear. Itâs not whatâs good but what gets played. The DJâs 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.â
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.) âThose Eisenhower kids got a vacation in Puerto Rico,â said The Fly. âThey went in an Air Force jet 707.â
âJealous?â I asked.
âSure I am. What did it cost the taxpayer?â
âWhat do you care?â I said. âYou donât pay any taxes.â
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. Iâd been thinking about it for a good time, and I let the silence ride.
âWell, I guess we might as well get to it,â I said at last.
The boys exchanged a glance that said, âOh, brother, here it comes.â
âI have prepared a few remarks,â 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.
âAt intervals, it becomes my duty, through the accident of being your father, to give you what for.â
âYes, sir,â they said in unison, the rotters.
âI 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
âYes, sirââsynchronized.
âHave you excuses?â
âYes, sir. We mean, no, sir.â
âHave I not given you good and fatherly advice in letters and in speech?â
âYes, sir.â
âDo you believe what Iâve told you?â
âYes, sir.â
âAnd you continue your lives of sin and gold bricking.â
âIt creeps up on you,â said The Fly.
âIâm at my witsâ end,â I said. âAnd I mean that literally. Iâve told you all I know and it isnât much but youâve had it.â
I paused for answer, but the sons of guns know when to keep still. The room was silent and then from far offâa gunshot.
âSomebody shooting ducks with a flashlight,â Tingler observed.
âAll rightâall right. Donât change the subject or the mood. After much thought I am prepared to do something painful, something drastic.â
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 werenât very scared. âYes, sir.â
âI am going to give you your freedom.â
âSir?â
âIâm getting off your back.â
âHow do you mean?â
âI mean no more lectures, no more come-uppances. You are crowding manhood and youâll have to take some of the pain. You are
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