what I did, Doctor? I bought
a quart of French chocolate ice cream and spooned it into the car radio
transmitter."
"Was there any special reason for
selecting French chocolate ice cream to spoon into the broadcasting unit?"
Brock thought about it and smiled. "It's
my favorite flavor."
"Oh," said the doctor.
"I figured, hell, what's good enough for
me is good enough for the radio transmitter."
"What made you think of spooning ice
cream into the radio?"
"It was a hot day."
The doctor paused.
"And what happened next?"
"Silence happened next. God, it was
beautiful. That car radio cackling all day. Brock go here. Brock go there.
Brock check in. Brock check out, okay Brock, hour lunch, Brock, lunch over,
Brock, Brock, Brock. Well, that silence was like putting ice cream in my
ears."
“You seem to like ice cream a lot."
"I just rode around feeling of the
silence. It's a big bolt of the nicest, softest flannel ever made. Silence. A
whole hour of it. I just sat in my car, smiling, feeling of that flannel with
my ears. I felt drunk with Freedom!"
"Go on."
"Then I got the idea of the portable
diathermy machine. I rented one, took it on the bus going home that night.
There sat all the tired commuters with their wrist radios, talking to their
wives, saying, *Now I'm at Forty-third, now I'm at Forty-fourth, here I am at
Forty-ninth, now turning at Sixty-first.' One husband cursing, 'Well, get out of
that bar, damn it, and get home and get dinner started, I'm at Seventieth!' And
the transit-system radio playing Tales from the Vienna Woods,' a canary singing
words about a first-rate wheat cereal. Then—I switched on my diathermy! Static!
Interference! All wives cut off from husbands grousing about a hard day at the
office. All husbands cut off from wives who had just seen their children break
a window! The 'Vienna Woods' chopped down, the canary mangled! Silence! A
terrible, unexpected silence. The bus inhabitants faced with having to converse
with each other. Panic! Sheer, animal panic!"
"The police seized you?"
"The bus had to stop. After all, the
music was being scrambled, husbands and wives were out of touch with reality.
Pandemonium, riot, and chaos. Squirrels chattering in cages! A trouble unit
arrived, triangulated on me instantly, had me reprimanded, fined, and home,
minus my diathermy machine, in jig time."
"Mr. Brock, may I suggest that so far
your whole pattern here is not very—practical? If you didn't like transit
radios or office radios or car business radios, why didn't you join a
fraternity of radio haters, start petitions, get legal and constitutional
rulings? After all, this is a democracy."
"And I," said Brock, "am that
thing best called a minority. I did join fraternities, picket, pass petitions,
take it to court. Year after year I protested. Everyone laughed. Everyone else
loved bus radios and commercials. I was out of step."
"Then you should have taken it like a
good soldier, don't you think? The majority rules."
"But they went too far. If a little music
and ‘keeping in touch' was charming, they figured a lot would be ten times as
charming. I went wild! I got home to find my wife hysterical. Why? Because she
had been completely out of touch with me for half a day. Remember, I did a
dance on my wrist radio? Well, that night I laid plans to murder my
house."
"Are you sure that's how you want me to
write it down?"
"That's semantically
a quart of French chocolate ice cream and spooned it into the car radio
transmitter."
"Was there any special reason for
selecting French chocolate ice cream to spoon into the broadcasting unit?"
Brock thought about it and smiled. "It's
my favorite flavor."
"Oh," said the doctor.
"I figured, hell, what's good enough for
me is good enough for the radio transmitter."
"What made you think of spooning ice
cream into the radio?"
"It was a hot day."
The doctor paused.
"And what happened next?"
"Silence happened next. God, it was
beautiful. That car radio cackling all day. Brock go here. Brock go there.
Brock check in. Brock check out, okay Brock, hour lunch, Brock, lunch over,
Brock, Brock, Brock. Well, that silence was like putting ice cream in my
ears."
“You seem to like ice cream a lot."
"I just rode around feeling of the
silence. It's a big bolt of the nicest, softest flannel ever made. Silence. A
whole hour of it. I just sat in my car, smiling, feeling of that flannel with
my ears. I felt drunk with Freedom!"
"Go on."
"Then I got the idea of the portable
diathermy machine. I rented one, took it on the bus going home that night.
There sat all the tired commuters with their wrist radios, talking to their
wives, saying, *Now I'm at Forty-third, now I'm at Forty-fourth, here I am at
Forty-ninth, now turning at Sixty-first.' One husband cursing, 'Well, get out of
that bar, damn it, and get home and get dinner started, I'm at Seventieth!' And
the transit-system radio playing Tales from the Vienna Woods,' a canary singing
words about a first-rate wheat cereal. Then—I switched on my diathermy! Static!
Interference! All wives cut off from husbands grousing about a hard day at the
office. All husbands cut off from wives who had just seen their children break
a window! The 'Vienna Woods' chopped down, the canary mangled! Silence! A
terrible, unexpected silence. The bus inhabitants faced with having to converse
with each other. Panic! Sheer, animal panic!"
"The police seized you?"
"The bus had to stop. After all, the
music was being scrambled, husbands and wives were out of touch with reality.
Pandemonium, riot, and chaos. Squirrels chattering in cages! A trouble unit
arrived, triangulated on me instantly, had me reprimanded, fined, and home,
minus my diathermy machine, in jig time."
"Mr. Brock, may I suggest that so far
your whole pattern here is not very—practical? If you didn't like transit
radios or office radios or car business radios, why didn't you join a
fraternity of radio haters, start petitions, get legal and constitutional
rulings? After all, this is a democracy."
"And I," said Brock, "am that
thing best called a minority. I did join fraternities, picket, pass petitions,
take it to court. Year after year I protested. Everyone laughed. Everyone else
loved bus radios and commercials. I was out of step."
"Then you should have taken it like a
good soldier, don't you think? The majority rules."
"But they went too far. If a little music
and ‘keeping in touch' was charming, they figured a lot would be ten times as
charming. I went wild! I got home to find my wife hysterical. Why? Because she
had been completely out of touch with me for half a day. Remember, I did a
dance on my wrist radio? Well, that night I laid plans to murder my
house."
"Are you sure that's how you want me to
write it down?"
"That's semantically
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