help.”
“I’ll do it.”
“What’s the penalty for something like that?”
“Life everlasting,” I said.
“You’re kidding me.”
“No,” I said. “I mean it.” And I did; I was deeply serious.
“Are you making fun of me? I see you are. Why would you do that? Am I ridiculous, is that it?”
“God no!”
But she had made up her mind. “You know I’ll believe anything. They always kidded me in school about my gullibility. ‘Gullible’s travels,’ they called me.”
I said, “Come into the drugstore, Pris, and I’ll show you; let me prove it to you. To save you.”
“Save me from what?”
“From the certitude of your own mind.”
She wavered; I saw her swallow, struggle with herself, try to see what she should do and if she had made a mistake—she turned and said to me earnestly, “Louis, I believe you about the drugstore. I know you wouldn’t make fun of me; you might hate me—you do hate me, on many levels—but you’re not the kind of person who enjoys taunting the weak.”
“You’re not weak.”
“I am. But you have no instinct to sense it. That’s good, Louis. I’m the other way around; I have that instinct and I’m not good.”
“Good, schmood,” I said loudly. “Stop all this, Pris. You’re depressed because you’ve finished your creative work with the Lincoln, you’re temporarily at loose ends and like a lot of creative people you suffer a letdown between one—”
“There’s the doctor’s place,” Pris said, slowing the car.
After the doctor had examined me—and sent me off without seeing the need of stitching me up—I was able to persuade Pris to stop at a bar. I felt I had to have a drink. I explained to her that it was a method of celebrating, that it was something which had to be done; it was expected of us. We had seen the Lincoln come to life and it was a great moment, perhaps the greatest moment, of our lives. And yet, as great as it was, there was in it something ominous and sad, something upsetting to all of us, that was just too much for us to handle.
“I’ll have just one beer,” Pris said as we crossed the sidewalk.
At the bar I ordered a beer for her and an Irish coffee for myself.
“I can see you’re at home, here,” Pris said, “in a place like this. You spend a lot of time bumming around bars, don’t you?”
I said, ‘There’s something I’ve been thinking about you that I have to ask you. Do you believe the cutting observations you make about other people? Or are they just off-hand, for the purpose of making people feel bad? And if so—”
“What do you think?” Pris said in a level voice.
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you care anyhow?”
“I’m insatiably curious about you, for every detail and tittle.”
“Why?”
“You’ve had a fascinating history. Schizoid by ten, compulsive-obsessive neurotic by thirteen, full-blown schizophrenic by seventeen and a ward of the Federal Government, now halfway cured and back among human beings again but still—” I broke off. That was not the reason, her lurid history. “I’ll tell you the truth. I’m in love with you.”
“You’re lying.”
Amending my statement I said, “I
could
be in love with you.”
“If what?” She seemed terribly nervous; her voice shook.
“I don’t know. Something holds me back.”
“Fear.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “Maybe it’s plain simple fear.”
“Are you kidding me, Louis? When you said that? Love, I mean?”
“No, I’m not kidding.”
She laughed tremulously. “If you could conquer your fear you could win a woman; not me but some woman. I can’t get over you saying that to me. Louis, you and I are opposites, did you know that? You show your feelings, I always keep mine in. I’m much deeper. If we had a child, what would it be like? I can’t understand women who are always having children, they’re like mother dogs … a litter every year. It must be nice to be biological and earthy like that.” She glanced
“I’ll do it.”
“What’s the penalty for something like that?”
“Life everlasting,” I said.
“You’re kidding me.”
“No,” I said. “I mean it.” And I did; I was deeply serious.
“Are you making fun of me? I see you are. Why would you do that? Am I ridiculous, is that it?”
“God no!”
But she had made up her mind. “You know I’ll believe anything. They always kidded me in school about my gullibility. ‘Gullible’s travels,’ they called me.”
I said, “Come into the drugstore, Pris, and I’ll show you; let me prove it to you. To save you.”
“Save me from what?”
“From the certitude of your own mind.”
She wavered; I saw her swallow, struggle with herself, try to see what she should do and if she had made a mistake—she turned and said to me earnestly, “Louis, I believe you about the drugstore. I know you wouldn’t make fun of me; you might hate me—you do hate me, on many levels—but you’re not the kind of person who enjoys taunting the weak.”
“You’re not weak.”
“I am. But you have no instinct to sense it. That’s good, Louis. I’m the other way around; I have that instinct and I’m not good.”
“Good, schmood,” I said loudly. “Stop all this, Pris. You’re depressed because you’ve finished your creative work with the Lincoln, you’re temporarily at loose ends and like a lot of creative people you suffer a letdown between one—”
“There’s the doctor’s place,” Pris said, slowing the car.
After the doctor had examined me—and sent me off without seeing the need of stitching me up—I was able to persuade Pris to stop at a bar. I felt I had to have a drink. I explained to her that it was a method of celebrating, that it was something which had to be done; it was expected of us. We had seen the Lincoln come to life and it was a great moment, perhaps the greatest moment, of our lives. And yet, as great as it was, there was in it something ominous and sad, something upsetting to all of us, that was just too much for us to handle.
“I’ll have just one beer,” Pris said as we crossed the sidewalk.
At the bar I ordered a beer for her and an Irish coffee for myself.
“I can see you’re at home, here,” Pris said, “in a place like this. You spend a lot of time bumming around bars, don’t you?”
I said, ‘There’s something I’ve been thinking about you that I have to ask you. Do you believe the cutting observations you make about other people? Or are they just off-hand, for the purpose of making people feel bad? And if so—”
“What do you think?” Pris said in a level voice.
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you care anyhow?”
“I’m insatiably curious about you, for every detail and tittle.”
“Why?”
“You’ve had a fascinating history. Schizoid by ten, compulsive-obsessive neurotic by thirteen, full-blown schizophrenic by seventeen and a ward of the Federal Government, now halfway cured and back among human beings again but still—” I broke off. That was not the reason, her lurid history. “I’ll tell you the truth. I’m in love with you.”
“You’re lying.”
Amending my statement I said, “I
could
be in love with you.”
“If what?” She seemed terribly nervous; her voice shook.
“I don’t know. Something holds me back.”
“Fear.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “Maybe it’s plain simple fear.”
“Are you kidding me, Louis? When you said that? Love, I mean?”
“No, I’m not kidding.”
She laughed tremulously. “If you could conquer your fear you could win a woman; not me but some woman. I can’t get over you saying that to me. Louis, you and I are opposites, did you know that? You show your feelings, I always keep mine in. I’m much deeper. If we had a child, what would it be like? I can’t understand women who are always having children, they’re like mother dogs … a litter every year. It must be nice to be biological and earthy like that.” She glanced
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