Nightmare At 20,000 Feet by Richard Matheson Page B

wound-up spring.
    Well, Mary's all right.
    Sunday night
    More trouble. Another argument. I don't even know what it was about. She's sulking. I'm burning. I can't write when I'm upset. She knows that.
    I feel like calling Jean. At least she was interested in my writing. I feel like saying the hell with everything. Getting drunk, jumping off a bridge, something. No wonder babies are happy. Life is simple for them. Some hunger, some cold, a little fear of darkness. That's all. Why bother growing up? Life gets too complicated.
    Mary just called me for supper. I don't feel like eating. I don't even feel like staying in the house. Maybe I'll call up Jean later. Just to say hello.
    Monday morning
    Damn, damn, damn!
    Not only to hold the book for over three months. That's not bad enough, oh no! They had to spill coffee all over the manuscript and send me a printed rejection slip to boot. I could kill them! I wonder if they think they know what they're doing?
    Mary saw the slip. "Well, what now?" she said disgustedly.
    "Now?" I said. I tried not to explode.
    "Still think you can write?" she said.
    I exploded. "Oh, they're the last judge and jury, aren't they?" I raged. "They're the final word on my writing aren't they?"
    "You've been writing seven years," she said. "Nothing's happened."
    "And I'll write seven more," I said. "A hundred, a thousand!"
    "You won't take that job on Jim's magazine?"
    "No, I will not."
    "You said you would if the book failed."
    "I have a job," I said, "and you have a job and that's the way it is and that's the way it's going to stay."
    "It's not the way I'm going to stay!" she snapped.
    She may leave me. Who cares! I'm sick of it all anyway. Bills, bills. Writing, writing. Failures, failures, failures! And little old life dribbling on, building up its beautiful, brain-bursting complexities like an idiot with blocks.
    You! Who run the world, who spin the universe. If there's anybody listening to me, make the world simpler! I don't believe in anything but I'd give… anything. If only…
    Oh, what's the use? I don't care anymore.
    I'm calling Jean tonight.
    Monday afternoon
    I just went down to call up Jean about Saturday night. Mary is going to her sister's house that night. She hasn't mentioned me going with her so I'm certainly not going to mention it.
    I called Jean last night but the switchboard operator at the Club Stanley said she was out. I figured I'd be able to reach her today at her office.
    So I went to the corner candy store to look up the number. I probably should have memorized it by now. I've called her enough. But somehow, I never bothered. What the hell, there are always telephone books.
    She works for a magazine called Design Handbook or Designer's Handbook or something like that. Odd, I can't remember that either. Guess I never gave it much thought.
    I do remember where the office is though. I called for her there a few months ago and took her to lunch. I think I told Mary I was going to the library that day.
    Now, as I recall, the telephone number of Jean's office was in the upper right hand corner of the right page in the directory. I've looked it up dozens of times and that's where it always was.
    Today it wasn't.
    I found the word Design and different business names starting with that word. But they were in the lower left hand corner of the left page, just the opposite. And I couldn't seem to find any name that clicked. Usually as soon as I see the name of the magazine I think: there it is. Then I look up the number. Today it wasn't like that.
    I looked and looked and thumbed around but I couldn't find anything like Design Handbook. Finally I settled for the number of Design Magazine but I had the feeling it wasn't the one I was searching for.
    I… I'll have to finish this later. Mary just called me for lunch, dinner, what have you? The big meal of the day anyway since we both work at night.
    Later
    It was a good meal. Mary can certainly cook. If only there weren't those arguments. I