It came to Ed in a quick surprise that the heavy-set, alert engineer across from him didn’t particularly like Ed Wonder. It came as a surprise, because Ed had known the other for some years and had always got along with him. He’d had him on the Far Out Hour several times, since the man had a bent for offbeat subjects and seemed to be an authority on everything from parapsychology to space travel. Above all, he had a mischievous love of baiting scientific conventional wisdom and was a veritable Charles Fort in finding material with which to butcher the sacred cow.
He had always thought of Jim Westbrook as a friend, and only now did he know the other didn’t reciprocate. Before thought, he blurted, “Jim, why do you dislike me?”
The other’s eyebrows went up again and he held his silence for a long moment. Finally he said slowly, “It’s not the sort of question people usually ask, Little Ed. When they do, they seldom really want it answered.”
“No. Tell me.” Those words came out too, without volition.
Jim Westbrook leaned back in his chair. “All right, friend. The fact is I don’t dislike you. I’m neutral. You know what? You’re a stereotype, like practically everybody else. We’re becoming a nation of stereotypes. Everybody is a stereotype. Why in the world should all girls want to look like the current sex symbol, Brigitte Loren? But they do. The short and the fat and the tall. And all ambitious young businessmen want to look exactly the same, in their Brooks Brothers suits. They’re scared to death not to look exactly the same. They want to conform to the point where conformity becomes ludicrous. What in the hell has happened to our civilization? Remember when we had the term individuality? Rugged individualism? Now we’re frightened not to look exactly like the man next door looks, not to live in the identically same sort of house, drive the same kind of car.”
“So you think I’m just one more stereotype.”
“Yes.”
He had asked for it, but as the burly engineer had gone on, Ed Wonder had felt himself coming to a slow boil. Now he bit out, “But you’re not, of course.”
Jim Westbrook had to chuckle wryly. “I’m afraid calling a man a stereotype is something like telling him he has no sense of humor, that he isn’t a good driver, or that he’s a poor lover.”
Ed snapped, “Not to resort to an old wheeze, but if you’re so smart, why aren’t you rich?”
The other cut off his amusement and there seemed an air almost of compassion in what he said. “I am rich. About as rich as a person can get, because I’m doing what I want to do and have achieved or am achieving the things I find desirable. Or did you mean money? If you meant money, I have all I need. Probably if I devoted more time, especially if I devoted all of my time, to getting more, I could. But I haven’t enough time as it is to do all the things I want to do, so wouldn’t it be rather silly for me to spend any more time than necessary to chasing money?”
“I’ve heard that bit before,” Ed said. “But I’ve always noticed that those who have it on the ball, who are really smart, get up there on top.”
Jim Westbrook said gently, “I’m not disagreeing, friend, but it might be a question of what you consider the top. A chap named Lyle Spencer, who was president of the Science Research Associates at the time, did some research on intelligence quotients. He found that engineers and scientists of top ranking average about 135 in I.Q. Top business executives went to about 120. Spencer pointed out that most presidents of corporations weren’t as smart as their employees in their research departments. In fact, on averages they ranked under such mundane occupations as pharmacists, teachers, medical students, general bookkeepers, mechanical engineers and accountants. So evidently intelligence isn’t the prime ingredient in getting to the top, as you call it.”
Ed sneered, “Oh, great. So if somebody came along and offered you a half million, you’d say, ‘No thanks, I’m too smart. I’d rather be happy, playing with my darkroom and electronics shop, down in the basement.’ ”
The other laughed. “I didn’t say I’d refuse more money if it came along, Little Ed. I realize the advantages of having money. It’s just that I’m not going to spend the balance of my life pursuing the stuff at the price of giving up what I really value.” He came to his feet. “We don’t seem to be hitting it off any too well today, friend. What do you say we postpone matters until another time?”
It wasn’t too crude a brushoff, but brushoff it was. Disgusted more with himself than the other, Ed stood and started for the door. Jim Westbrook followed him. Evidently, the engineer hadn’t been in the slightest discomfited by the radioman’s words.
At the door, Ed turned and said, “Get a newspaper, or walk on over and talk to your nearest neighbors that have a TV set or radio. Maybe I’ll get in touch with you again later.”
“All right,” Westbrook said mildly.
The bars had been packed the night before, and the time you were allowed to remain, rationed. Ed Wonder had given up his hopes of sitting in one long enough to get an edge on, and the taste of what Jim Westbrook had said to him out of his mouth. It hadn’t tasted so good.
Not only had the bars been packed, but the streets as well. In all his memory, Ed Wonder couldn’t remember ever having seen the streets so thronged with pedestrians. They didn’t seem to have any place in particular to go. Just strolling up and down, aimlessly. The lines before the movie houses were so long as to be meaningless. Those toward the end couldn’t possibly have got inside until the following day.
Ed had gone back to his own apartment and sank into his reading chair. He grunted his contempt of the overstuffed antiques in Jim Westbrook’s establishment. Comfortable? Sure, but how kooky could you get?
Stereotype was he! The gall of the guy. Ed Wonder had worked his way up the hard way. He had accomplished practically straight “C”s in high school, even a few “B”s in such subjects as dramatics and gym. Sufficient grades to get him easily into college. It had been a rough row to hoe. The government subsidies had hardly covered his expenses. He’d had to drive a used car, eat at the university cafeteria, keep the same clothes until they all but showed signs of wear. Yes, Ed Wonder had obtained his education the hard way. Four years of such tough subjects as Dramatics, Debating, The Dance, Sex Techniques, and Togetherness.
Then the long years, fighting his way up. Not for Edward Wonder to go immediately from school onto the unemployment benefits. No, sir. He took temporary compensation while actually looking for employment. For ten years he had been on list at the theatres, the studios, the stations, trying to find parts. Of course, temporary compensaion paid off better than straight unemployment insurance. It meant that you were actually trying to find a job, which was enough to show, right there, that Ed Wonder was no stereotype. The very fact that he bothered to look branded him a kook in some eyes.
Then finally the switch over to radio and TV. He’d finally, through luck, a minimum of bribery, and the romancing of the fat wife of a studio executive, made his entry into the show business of the air.
Stereotype, eh? Then how had he finally got to the point of having his own program, the Far Out Hour?
He’d show them who was a stereotype.
Stereotype!
He’d shaved off his mustache, hadn’t he?
In the morning, Ed Wonder went on back to his auto-kitchen and dialed breakfast. He should bave been feeling off from his disappointment of the night before, but he wasn’t. He didn’t know why he wasn’t but there you were. The fact of the matter was, he felt all set to go. Somewhere. He didn’t know exactly where.