“I’m not sure. Could you let me have two dollars, Ildy?”
“Out of the question. I believe a Judy Bagelbaker was named one of the ten best-dressed women during the frou-frou fashion period about two o’clock. Why do you need two dollars?”
“A dollar for a bed and a dollar for red-eye. After all, I sent you two million out of my second.”
“I keep my two sorts of accounts separate. Here’s a dollar, Basil. Now be off! I can’t be seen talking to a dirty panhandler.”
“Thank you, Ildy. I’ll get the red-eye and sleep in an alley. Preserve us this morning.”
Bagelbaker shuffled off whistling “Slow Tuesday Night.”
And already the Dawners had set Wednesday morning to jumping.
Insofar as anything about R. A. Lafferty is typical of anything (including Lafferty), “Slow Tuesday Night” is typical of his work: offbeat, deceptively light-humored, deeply involved, mocking-but-loving symbolism-that-is-not-quite-satire.
By this year’s standards, Lafferty is not a new writer: He has been publishing for five or six years now and has appeared in this collection before (“Seven Day Terror” in the 8th Annual). But I did tend to think of him as one of the “bright young writers”—a group that would include, for instance, Thomas Disch, Roger Zelazny, Robert Rohrer, Norman Kagan—all well under thirty. And I think I rather visualized one of the literary-magazine/s-f straddlers—someone way-in with the way-outs everywhere.
Three years ago, he offered no information about himself. This time, under persuasion, he quoted what he had sent to one of the magazines:
If I had an interesting biography, I wouldn’t be writing s-f and fantasy for surrogate interest. I am, not necessarily in that order, fifty years old, a bachelor, an electrical engineer, a fat man.
And continues: I’m a year older now, but nothing else needs changing. I was born in Iowa, and moved to Perry, Oklahoma, when I was four years old. . . . I’ve lived most of my life in Tulsa, with a year in Oklahoma City, a year in DC, four and a half years in the army in W.W. 2—Texas, North Carolina, Florida, California, Australia, New Guinea, Morotai, Philippines.
. . . Education is only high school, a few University of Tulsa night courses, I.C.S. engineering courses, linguaphone, etc. . . . Have worked most of my years for electrical jobbers, mostly as buyer and contractor price-quotation man. ... I am an amateur linguist, astronomer and biologist; an independent by political registration, a Catholic of the conservative or out-of-season variety. . . .
Alex Kirs is also a bachelor, and was first published about six years ago—but there the resemblance ends. He is, he says, in his early thirties: . . . sociable, hospitable, and lazy . . . reasonably muscular, bald, wear glasses . . . live in New York, hare traveled extensively throughout the states. I am a shoestring sportsman: hunting, fishing, skindiving, archery, etc., a stylish horseman, a competition sailor, an indefatigable hobbyist, and a motorcycle enthusiast [Stretchy shoestring—j.m.]. . . . / live in a clutter of sports equipment with my cat, Madame Nhu. . . .
Apparently, he also does, or did, go to the movies.
BETTER THAN EVER
ALEX KIRS
Joe and Monica went to the Movie. Like everyone else, they were gone for a month. Clinton met them at Noordberg’s Thursday party—the one you went to get out of going to the one on Saturday—and treated them to an et tu stare.
“Welcome back to the real world,” he said.
“Clint, don’t be like that,” Monica said. Clinton saw that she had been aged by the experience. To his certain knowledge—compounded of a five years’ acquaintanceship, a thousand bits of awed gossip, and some eerily inappropriate newspaper headlines—her tawny eyes had looked out over the ruins of one of the most creepily disastrous love affairs imaginable, with the same expression of mild discomfort with which she might announce a headache. You looked at the eyes now and thought: This girl has suffered. He felt like telling her unpleasantly, You have too much makeup on; go wash your face.
“Clint’s still deepening his rut,” Joe said. Clinton smiled.
“And soon I will disappear from sight in it, hmmn?” Joe’s face was even worse; all the old, familiar tics had been ironed out. If a souvenir balloon, subsiding into wrinkles week by week on the mantel, had had a bit of fresh air valved into it, it would have inspired much the same feeling; it looked nice, yes, but how long would it last? Clinton stared coldly at their faces; that the change had been predictable made it no easier to stomach. The women came out haggard and viciously serene; the men, looking calm and dedicated and noble.
“Clint, why don’t you give in?” Monica said. “You’re getting bitter, and there’s nothing so useless as a bitter nonconformist.”
“So now I’m a nonconformist?” he asked her, pleasantly. “And bitter as well. Why is it I seem to remember a time— excuse me, it was so terribly long ago—when we all agreed it was a matter of individual choice?” He thought, If she says, “We have come to our senses, now,” I will bite my fist. And then he thought, Maybe I really mean it. But even Monica occasionally knew which arguments could be counted on to kick her in the shins.
“Oh, you’re impossible,” she said. And then, to Joe, “And it would have meant so much to him, too.” Joe tousled her hair, looking noble. Clinton felt himself in the position of a kitten playing with a ball of wool; it was interesting, and lots of fun, and so he continued playing. . . . Perhaps, if he played long enough, he would find himself disentangled, able to let go.
“Would it, now?” he said. “You tempt me; why not tell me all about it?”
“It was the greatest experience of my life,” she said.
“You should be ashamed to say things like that about your life,” he said, suddenly tired. In the background, amid couches that looked like coffee-tables and coffee-tables that looked like couches—it made no difference at all on which you sat—Noordberg was cozying up to Janet. Noordberg was short and plump, with little, stupid eyes; he could not smile, or light a cigarette, or say hello without looking sinister. He had the manners of an octopus, and a heart of gold. Janet had the sort of politeness that dealt with sex fiends as if they were somebody’s grandfather; grandfathers, so treated, could not believe their luck and coyly turned their faces away for a moment, growing tusks.
There was no reason to stay any longer; Clinton pointed with his chin, and Joe and Monica turned to look. “What is that theme they play,” Clinton murmured, “when the cavalry comes over the hill? Excuse me; good night.” He drifted away into the throng; a sociologist, tracing with a dull spoon the course of his progress, would have discovered a beautiful graph; Non-involvement at the Perimeters of Small Groups. Coming up behind Janet, he put his nose possessively in her hair. She turned her good, delicate, un-pretty face to his; was it possible there was relief in her eyes? He thought, Oh, she really loves me.
“Time to go, pet,” he said fondly. “We have a date, remember?” Yes, she loved him; between showing consideration for him, or for Noordberg, there was no need for decision at all. Rising, she smiled.
“Such a nice party, Mr. Noordberg,” she said. “Good night.”
“Good night, Noodle. See you,” Clinton said. Noordberg told them good night and how much he had enjoyed having them; possibly his heart was broken, but he just looked sinister. Joe and Monica—and several others—waved faintly as they went out the door.