Elma asked, “Do they let us pick our subject?”
“I don't know. I ducked in here to get out of the rain.”
She looked at me for a second, her eyes warm and clear, then she laughed, throaty, thick laughter that hit me like a drink. “That's as good a reason as any. In fact, it's even better than if a person had a reason to come here.”
I didn't try to understand that. I packed my pipe and dug into my pockets for a match. She held out a cheap lighter; I thanked her and she said, “Come on, don't look so glum. We have to be partners, whether we like it or not.”
I wanted to say, “Honey, I couldn't be angry with you if I had to,” but didn't want to sound like a jerk on the make. I simply said, “Don't mind me. Hell, I'm not only glad you're my partner, I'm happy to have even seen you.”
“Well, thank you,” Elma said, giving me that big-mouthed smile that made me sweat. To change the subject, I didn't want to build myself up for a big let-down. I asked “What does a record librarian do?”
“Make a file of their titles, keep a catalog. Frankly, I haven't worked at it in several months. I'm... well, unemployed. Why I'm here. But I liked the job, was more fun—to me—than work. You see, I love music... modern stuff...”
She kept on talking, her voice a happy sound, telling me about the old sentimental records she had, how she played them now and then just to have a pleasant cry... I studied the good curves of her cheeks, the unusual eyes, the lush, heavy lips.
The typist at the end of the room stood up and gave Hal, the m.c., a stack of cards and everybody looked at their watches, as though we were about to go into battle. Not that I've ever been in battle. Hal left the room and out on the stage a band began to play and the room filled with tension as people whispered, “They've started.”
Elma whispered, “The band is strictly commercial— junky.”
Hal's secretary, the hard-looking blonde, suddenly rushed into the room, motioned for the first couple, like a hammy actress. The couple were so nervous they turned a sickly pale. Elma said, “Look like they're walking to their doom. We're fourth—last. Nervous?”
“No. I don't expect to win. How long does this last?”
“Half hour. I sure wish we win. I'm full of the great American dream—lucking up on some easy money. I need it.”
“Who doesn't? But I still don't expect to win.”
The first couple had hardly left the room when the next two were called. Elma giggled nervously. “Must have been a couple of dopes.”
“You get a consolation prize for fluffing out?”
“Everybody receives a box of soap powder.”
“Exactly what I need on a rainy New Year's Eve. I'll...”
The third couple left, and a few seconds later the blonde stuck her head in, curled a finger at us. Elma squeezed my hand. “Here we go—to make asses of ourselves.”
As it turned out, we didn't go any place for what seemed years, but was probably about ten minutes—we just waited around in the wings. The stage was bright with light, a band in the background. At one side of the stage there was a large cardboard Uncle Sam with a cash register for a mouth. At the other end was this huge wooden dollar sign, painted a cheesy gold, with an ordinary red balloon attached to it. In the center of the stage at a platform and several mikes, Hal was putting a couple through the mill. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the audience seemed to enjoy it.
From the wings the stage looked unreal, phony to the teeth. And the audience, what the hell did they come for? Did they all hope to get a chance at the prizes? Or were they all lonely and...?
Buddy-boy Hal motioned the couple offstage with, ”... So sorry, but at least you're walking out two hundred dollars richer. And who knows, you may be in the running for our grand prize and a chance at the mystery balloon. Now... for our final contestants we have Mrs. Elma Morse, a record librarian, and Mr. Marshal Jameson, a sculptor. Folks, bring them on with a great big hand.”
It was the first time I'd ever received a round of applause, except on the football field, and that's different. Either I was embarrassed, or the jerks applauding us like mad seemed so awfully stupid, out of this world—anyway I got stage fright and couldn't move. Elma tugged at my hand and giggled, and I just stood there like a dope. The blonde gave me a sharp kick in the ankle which made me jump— and then I was okay.
Hal escorted us to the center of the stage, ran his eyes over Elma, looked like an idiot, and gave out a corny wolf-whistle, which seemed to panic the audience. He said, “Well, now, Mrs. Morse, shame we're not on TV, you're certainly the prettiest record librarian I've ever seen. How about that, folks?” There was more clapping, some whistling. Elma stood there, face flushed, forcing a tight smile. I stared out at the rows of faces, feeling like a loon, wondering what in the hell I was doing on the stage.
Hal said coyly, “Any time you want to come up and listen to my records...” and slapped himself across the face. For some reason this got the audience hysterical.
When the laughter died down, Hal said, “Just gagging around, Mrs. Morse. I suppose Mr. Morse is out in the audience?”
“I doubt it.”
“You mean he's home listening in?”
“I don't know if he's listening in, either,” Elma said calmly, face relaxed once more. “Haven't seem him for some time.”
“Well, time is running out, so let's get on with the show,” Hall said quickly. “You'll have fifteen seconds to answer....”
I was still so dazed that for a moment I didn't get what Elma had said. Although what good would it do me with less than two quarters to spend on New Year's Eve?
“... Now,” Hal boomed, “here's an easy question— what's the finest soap for home washing? Why, of course... Liquid Bubbles!”
A big, six-foot pigeon-toed girl in skin tights suddenly pushed a large box of soap into my hands, nearly knocking me over, another in Elma's. She towered so over me, the audience laughed. I wondered if there was anything the audience wouldn't laugh at.
Hal was looking through several little file cards in his hand as he said, “Listen carefully to question number one. You're to pick out the nearest correct answer from several I give you. Now, for a hundred TAX-FREE dollars: How many counties in New York State? 10? SO? 100? 500? 1000?”
Elma looked blank, then almost angry. I said, “I believe there are about sixty-two counties in the state.”
“Correct! Right on the nose for Mr. Jameson, the sculptor! You have a hundred dollars and Uncle Sam receives...”
He pointed to the register in the cardboard Uncle Sam's mouth, which rang up $21 in taxes. I snapped out of my daze —I now had fifty bucks, could eat—even ask Elma to join me—make a night of it.
Hal held up a fat hand for silence. “For another hundred TAX-FREE dollars: Which of the earth's continents has the highest waterfalls in the world?”
“Niagara...” Elma began. I nudged her, said, “Venezuela—South America.”