The Dark Side by Damon Knight (ed.)

have to go?”
    “Well—” She hesitated. ,Then: “Couldn’t you wait until the end of the season, Herman, darling?”
    He staggered back a step, his face working in horror. “What kind of an idea is that for my own wife to have?” he croaked.
    “Beer I have to drink instead of water. How can I stand it? Do you think I like beer? I can’t wash myself. Already people don’t like to stand near me; and how will they act at the end of the season? I go around looking like a bum because my beard is too tough for an electric razor, and I’m all the time drunk—the first Greenberg to be a drunkard. I want to be respected—”
    “I know, Herman, darling,” she sighed. “But I thought for the sake of our Rosie—Such a business we’ve never done like we did this weekend. If it rains every Saturday and Sunday, but not on our concession, we’ll make a fortune! ”
    “Esther!” Herman cried, shocked. “Doesn’t my health mean anything?”
    “Of course, darling. Only I thought maybe you could stand it for—”
    He snatched his hat, tie, and jacket, and slammed the door. Outside, though, he stood indeterminedly. He could hear his wife crying, and he realised that, if he succeeded in getting the gnome to remove the curse, he would forfeit an opportunity to make a great deal of money.
    He finished dressing more slowly. Esther was right, to a certain extent. If he could tolerate his waterless condition—
    “No!” he gritted decisively. “Already my friends avoid me. It isn’t right that a respectable man like me should always be drunk and not take a bath. So we’ll make less money. Money isn’t everything—” .
    And with great determination he went to the lake.
    But that evening, before going home, Mike walked out of his way to stop in at the concession. He found Greenberg sitting on a chair, his head in his hands, and his body rocking slowly in anguish.
    “What is it, Mr. Greenberg?” he asked gently.
    Greenberg looked up. His eyes were dazed. “Oh, you, Mike,” he said blankly. Then his gaze cleared, grew more intelligent, and he stood up and led Mike to the bar. Silently, they drank beer. “I went to the lake today,” he said hollowly. “I walked all around it, hollering like mad. The gnome didn’t stick his head out of the water once.”
    “I know.” Mike nodded sadly. “They’re busy all the time.”
    Greenberg spread his hands imploringly. “So what can I do? I can’t write him a letter or send him a telegram; he ain’t got a door to knock on or a bell for me to ring. How do I get him to come up and talk?”
    His shoulders sagged. “Here, Mike. Have a cigar. You been a real good friend, but I guess we’re licked.”
    They stood in an awkward silence. Finally Mike blurted: “Real hot, today. A regular scorcher.”
    “Yeah. Esther says business was pretty good, if it keeps up.”
    Mike fumbled at the cellophane wrapper. Greenberg said: “Anyhow, suppose I did talk to the gnome. What about the sugar?”
    The silence dragged itself out, became tense and uncomfortable. Mike was distinctly embarrassed. His brusque nature was not adapted for comforting discouraged friends. With immense concentration he rolled the cigar between his fingers and listened for a rustle.
    “Day like this’s hell on cigars,” he mumbled, for the sake of conversation. “Dries them like nobody’s business. This one ain’t, though.”
    “Yeah,” Greenberg said abstractedly. “Cellophane keeps them—”
    They looked suddenly at each other, their faces clean of expression.
    “Holy smoke!” Mike yelled.
    “Cellophane on sugar!” Greenberg choked out.
    “Yeah,” Mike whispered in awe. “I’ll switch my day off with Joe, and I’ll go to the lake with you tomorrow. I’ll call for you early.”
    Greenberg pressed his hand, too strangled by emotion for speech. When Esther came to relieve him, he left her at the concession with only the inexperienced griddle boy to assist her, while he searched the village