Bradbury, Ray - SSC 07 (24 page)

 
          
 
They hurry toward the gate. On the way, the
old man finds his lunch box where he abandoned it some hours ago. He picks it
up, takes out the thermos, and shakes it. "How about a drink before you
go?"

 
          
 
"What've you got? Some of that
amontillado you were yelling about?"

 
          
 
"1876."

 
          
 
"Let's have some of that, sure."

 
          
 
The thermos is opened and the liquid poured
steaming from it into the cup.

 
          
 
"There you are," says the old man.

 
          
 
"Thanks. Here's to you." The
producer drinks. "That's good. Ah, that's damned good!"

 
          
 
"It might taste like coffee, but I tell
you it's the finest amontillado ever put under a cork."

 
          
 
"You can say that again."

 
          
 
The two of them stand among the cities of the
world in the moonlight, drinking the hot drink, and the old man remembers
something: "There's an old song fits here, a drinking song, I think, a
song that all of us who five inside the fence sing, when we're of a mind, when
I listen right, and the wind's just right in the telephone wires. It goes like
this:

 
          
 
"We all go the same way home, All the
same collection, in the same direction, All go the same way home. So there's no
need to part at all, And well all cling together like the ivy on the old garden
wall . . !'

 
          
 
They finish drinking the coffee in the middle
of Port-au-Prince.

 
          
 
"Hey!" says the producer suddenly.
"Take it easy with that cigarette! You want to burn down the whole dam world?"

 
          
 
They both look at the cigarette and smile.

 
          
 
"I'll be careful," says Smith.

 
          
 
"So long," says the producer.
"I'm really late for that party."

 
          
 
"So long, Mr. Douglas."

 
          
 
The gate hasp clicks open and shut, the
footsteps die away, the limousine starts up and drives off in the moonlight,
leaving behind the cities of the world and an old man standing in the middle of
these cities of the world, raising his hand to wave.

 
          
 
"So long," says the night watchman.

 
          
 
And then there is only the wind.

 
          
 
This is how his work was: he got up at five in
the cold dark morning and washed his face with warm water if the heater was
working and cold water if the heater was not working. He shaved carefully,
talking out to his wife in the kitchen, who was fixing ham and eggs or pancakes
or whatever it was that morning. By six o'clock he was driving on his way to
work alone, and parking his car in the big yard where all the other men parked
their cars as the sun was coming up. The colors of the sky that time of morning
were orange and blue and violet and sometimes very red and sometimes yellow or
a clear color like water on white rock. Some mornings he could see his breath
on the air and some mornings he could not. But as the sun was still rising he
knocked his fist on the side of the green truck, and his driver, smiling and
saying hello, would climb in the other side of the truck and they would drive
out into the great city and go down all the streets until they came to the
place where they started work. Sometimes, on the way, they stopped for black
coffee and then went on, the warmness in them. And they began the work which
meant that he jumped off in front of each house and picked up the garbage cans
and brought them back and took off their fids and knocked them against the bin
edge, which made the orange peels and cantaloupe rinds and coffee grounds fall
out and thump down and begin to fill the empty truck. There were always steak
bones and the heads of fish and pieces of green onion and stale celery. If the
garbage was new it wasn't so bad, but if it was very old it was bad. He was not
sure if he liked the job or not, but it was a job and he did it well, talking
about it a lot at some times and sometimes not thinking of it in any way at
all. Some days the job was wonderful, for you were out early and the air was
cool and fresh until you had worked too long and the sun got hot and the
garbage steamed early. But mostly it was a job significant enough to keep him
busy and calm and looking at the houses and cut lawns he passed by and seeing
how everybody lived. And once or twice a month he was surprised to find that he
loved the job and that it was the finest job in the world.

 
          
 
It went on just that way for many years. And
then suddenly the job changed for him. It changed in a single day. Later he
often wondered how a job could change so much in such a few short hours.

 
          
 
He walked into the apartment and did not see
his wife or hear her voice, but she was there, and he walked to a chair and let
her stand away from him, watching him as he touched the chair and sat down in
it without saying a word. He sat there for a long time.

 
          
 
"What's wrong?" At last her voice
came through to him. She must have said it three or four times.

 
          
 
"Wrong?" He looked at this woman and
yes, it was his wife all right, it was someone he knew, and this was their
apartment with the tall ceilings and the worn carpeting.

 
          
 
"Something happened at work today,"
he said.

 
          
 
She waited for him.

 
          
 
"On my garbage truck, something
happened." His tongue moved dryly on his lips and his eyes shut over his
seeing until there was all blackness and no light of any sort and it was like
standing alone in a room when you got out of bed in the middle of a dark night.
"I think I'm going to quit my job. Try to understand."

 
          
 
"Understand!" she cried.

 
          
 
"It can't be helped. This is all the
strangest damned thing that ever happened to me in my life." He opened his
eyes and sat there, his hands feeling cold when he rubbed his thumb and forefingers
together. "The thing that happened was strange."

 
          
 
"Well, don't just sit there!"

 
          
 
He took part of a newspaper from the pocket of
his leather jacket. "This is today's paper," he said. "December
10, 1951.
Los Angeles Times.
Civil
Defense Bulletin.
It says they're buying radios for our garbage
trucks."

 
          
 
"Well, what's so bad about a little
music?"

 
          
 
"No music. You don't understand. No
music."

 
          
 
He opened his rough hand and drew with one
clean fingernail, slowly, trying to put everything there where he could see it
and she could see it. "In this article the mayor says they'll put sending
and receiving apparatus on every garbage truck in town." He squinted at
his hand. "After the atom bombs hit our city, those radios will talk to us.
And then our garbage trucks will go pick up the bodies."

 
          
 
"Well, that seems practical. When—"

 
          
 
"The garbage trucks," he said,
"go out and pick up all the bodies."

 
          
 
"You can't just leave bodies around, can
you? You've got to take them and—" His wife shut her mouth very slowly.
She blinked, one time only, and she did this very slowly also. He watched that
one slow blink of her eyes. Then, with a turn of her body, as if someone else
had turned it for her, she walked to a chair, paused, thought how to do it, and
sat down, very straight and stiff. She said nothing.

 
          
 
He listened to his wrist watch ticking, but
with only a small part of his attention.

 
          
 
At last she laughed. "They were
joking!"

 
          
 
He shook his head. He felt his head moving from
left to right and from right to left, as slowly as everything else had
happened. "No. They put a receiver on my truck today. They said, at the
alert, if you're working, dump your garbage anywhere. When we radio you, get in
there and haul out the dead."

 
          
 
Some water in the kitchen boiled over loudly.
She let it boil for five seconds and then held^ the arm of the chair with one
hand and got up and found the door and went out. The boiling sound stopped. She
stood in the door and then walked back to where he still sat, not moving, his
head in one position only.

 
          
 
"It's all blueprinted out. They have
squads, sergeants, captains, corporals, everything," he said. "We
even know where to bring the bodies."

 
          
 
"So you've been thinking about it all
day," she said.

 
          
 
"All day since this morning. I thought:
Maybe now I don't want to be a garbage collector any more. It used to be Tom
and me had fun with a kind of game. You got to do that. Garbage is bad. But if
you work at it you can make a game. Tom and me did that. We watched people's
garbage. We saw what kind they had. Steak bones in rich houses, lettuce and
orange peel in poor ones. Sure it's silly, but a guy's got to make his work as
good as he can and worth while or why in hell do it? And you're your own boss,
in a way, on a truck. You get out early in the morning and it's an outdoor job,
anyway; you see the sun come up and you see the town get up, and that's not bad
at all. But now, today, all of a sudden it's not the kind of job for me any
more."

 
          
 
His wife started to talk swiftly. She named a
lot of things and she talked about a lot more, but before she got very far he
cut gently across her talking. "I know, I know, the kids and school, our
car, I know," he said. "And bills and money and credit. But what about
that farm Dad left us? Why can't we move there, away from cities? I know a
little about farming. We could stock up, hole in, have enough to live on for
months if anything happened."

 
          
 
She said nothing.

 
          
 
"Sure, all of our friends are here in
town," he went on reasonably. "And movies and shows and the kids'
friends, and . . ."

 
          
 
She took a deep breath. "Can't we think
it over a few more days?"

 
          
 
"I don't know. I'm afraid of that. I'm
afraid if I think it over, about my truck and my new work, I'll get used to it.
And, oh Christ, it just doesn't seem right a man, a human being, should ever
let himself get used to any idea like that."

 
          
 
She shook her head slowly, looking at the
windows, the gray walls, the dark pictures on the walls. She tightened her hands.
She started to open her mouth.

 
          
 
"I'll think tonight," he said.
"I'll stay up awhile. By morning I'll know what to do."

 
          
 
"Be careful with the children. It
wouldn't be good, their knowing all this."

 
          
 
"I'll be careful."

 
          
 
"Let's not talk any more, then. I'll
finish dinner!" She jumped up and put her hands to her face and then
looked at her hands and at the sunlight in the windows. "Why, the kids'll
be home any minute."

 
          
 
"I'm not very hungry."

 
          
 
"You got to eat, you just got to keep on
going." She hurried off, leaving him alone in the middle of a room where
not a breeze stirred the curtains, and only the gray ceiling hung over him with
a lonely bulb unlit in it, like an old moon in a sky. He was quiet. He massaged
his face with both hands. He got up and stood alone in the dining-room door and
walked forward and felt himself sit down and remain seated in a dining-room
chair. He saw his hands spread on the white tablecloth, open and empty.

 
          
 
"All afternoon," he said, "I've
thought."

 
          
 
She moved through the kitchen, rattling
silverware, crashing pans against the silence that was everywhere.

 
          
 
"Wondering," he said, "if you
put the bodies in the trucks lengthwise or endwise, with the heads on the
right, or the feet on the right. Men and women together, or separated? Children
in one truck, or mixed with men and women? Dogs in special trucks, or just let
them lay? Wondering how many bodies one garbage truck can hold. And wondering
if you stack them on top of each other and finally knowing you must just have
to. I can't figure it. I can't work it out. I try, but there's no guessing, no
guessing at all how many you could stack in one single truck."

 
          
 
He sat thinking of how it was late in the day
at his work, with the truck full and the canvas pulled over the great bulk of
garbage so the bulk shaped the canvas in an uneven mound. And how it was if you
suddenly pulled the canvas back and looked in. And for a few seconds you saw
the white things like macaroni or noodles, only the white things were alive and
boiling up, millions of them. And when the white things felt the hot sun on
them they simmered down and burrowed and were gone in the lettuce and the old
ground beef and the coffee grounds and the heads of white fish. After ten
seconds of sunlight the white things that looked like noodles or macaroni were
gone and the great bulk of garbage silent and not moving, and you drew the
canvas over the bulk and looked at how the canvas folded unevenly over the
hidden collection, and underneath you knew it was dark again, and things
beginning to move as they must always move when things got dark again.

 
          
 
He was still sitting there in the empty room
when the front door of the apartment burst wide. His son and daughter rushed
in, laughing, and saw him sitting there, and stopped.

 
          
 
Their mother ran to the kitchen door, held to
the edge of it quickly, and stared at her family. They saw her face and they
heard her voice:

 
          
 
"Sit down, children, sit down!" She
lifted one hand and pushed it toward them. "You're just in time."