The Ultimate Egoist (24 page)

“Ain’ no wintuh heah, Yaink,” he said evenly.

I got up and stormed back to my shack. If the old idiot wanted to sit there and laugh while he faced starvation, it was none of my affair. For the next three weeks I stuck to that. But I couldn’t forget old Veillon. In the back of my scornful mind, a real admiration was born for a man who could laugh that way at the contemplated failure of his crop. One evening, after he had gone home, I went down there to look at it.

The paddy was definitely patchy. There were great spaces of open water where there should have been thick rows of spiky green. A slight motion caught my eye. One of the nearby shoots, a new and very tender one, staggered and suddenly disappeared under the surface. There was a tiny swirl, and the shoot stayed down. Curious, I reached under and felt around where the root should have been. My hand closed on a violently wriggling horny mass. I lifted out a monster
crawfish, all of seven inches long, and was severely nipped for my pains. I didn’t hold on! So that was it. Veillon had known all along that these fresh water scavengers had been eating his shoots. Yet he had sat there and chuckled and done nothing. It was too much for me.

About a month later I was on Royal Street in New Orleans when my attention was drawn to a striking procession. It was old Veillon all right; he and his descendants, even unto the third and fourth generation, so far as I could see. I walked up to him. “Hey, Veillon,” I said. “No rice this year and here you are in N’Orleans, the whole bunch of you in store clothes. Did you strike oil?”

Veillon shook his baked head, laughing. “Non, Yaink. Wan man pay me savan hondre’ sixty dollar for my crawfeesh.” His grin all but flapped his ears together.

How do you like that? Crawfish are a Louisiana delicacy, not a pest! I’ll bet they’re a delicacy because they eat rice shoots, too. Pity the Egyptians didn’t think of that when they had their plague of locusts!

S
ON, YOU CAME
to the right man for advice. A question like that requires deep thought, and a true insight into the feminine mind. Yes indeed, my boy, I’m your man.

You want to know just what to do when you have been spending alternate periods of spare time with two sweet young things, and a third pulls her lovely self over your horizon. You want to know if it would be wise to get Miss A and Miss B together somewhere so that they will scratch each other’s eyes out while you disport yourself with Miss C, hey?

Well, my lad, I must go back many years to get you a good example. Let’s see … yes, the case of Miss Celia Blank will do fine.

It was back in the days when I was also young and charming in my own way. I was a mere schoolboy like you, my boy. Life was a dream, and a kiss was a conquest. I made the mistake of rather fancying myself a Lothario—a bad business at best, particularly at that age. Heh! Ah well. Those were the days!

Now in this case my misses A and B were (most conveniently) named Anna and Betty. Anna was small and dark, with huge eyes and a predisposition for people of my type. I was stringing along with her because she thought I was wonderful. I was, of course. In common justice I must say that I was not as wonderful as she led me to believe, but at the time that fact was unimportant.

In the course of time I began to feel a growing necessity to justify Anna’s lofty opinion of me, in some small way. She thought so much of one particular trait—my facility with words—that I decided a bit of poesy would be in order.

My English course was just then covering the technique of the sonnet. It fascinated me. The rhythmic beat of iambic pentameter, the cunningly interwoven rhyme scheme, and the prestige to be had
by wresting these things about so that they would work my will—these things determined me. I wrote a sonnet. Don’t worry, lad. I’m not going to quote it. It wasn’t very good, but I thought it was expressive. I called it “Anna” and gave it to the lady with something of a flourish. Voila; I got my kiss and my conquest.

It so happened that just about this time I became conscious of Betty’s presence on this green earth. Betty was tall and as dark as Anna. But Betty’s hair was long, and she braided it and wore it like a crown on her magnificent head. She had a little turned-up nose that went well with her dignified mien, and I met her in the library at school, reading Mrs. Browning’s
Sonnets
. We found that we had many interests in common. By that I mean that she liked my attitude toward life, the clever little way I had of saying things, and the magnetic effect that I obviously had on her. Oh, I was a pip in those days. Heh!

Yes, I felt that faint flutter in my young breast which signified that Betty and I were about to fall into each other’s traps. But I saw no reason at the time for denying myself the pleasure of Anna’s company. Betty was the more decorative of the two, but I didn’t feel that she appreciated me as much as Anna. She didn’t say she did, at least, nearly as often as Anna.

Things went on in this way for several weeks, and Dame Fortune was with me. It was a big school, and my classes were fortuitously so arranged that one girl was always in class at such times as I found it convenient to associate with the other. I was, of course, deprived of the privilege of escorting either home from school.

Betty, having high aspirations, was a member of the debating club, which I steadfastly refused to join because they would only let a member speak for seven minutes at a time, which cramped my style. I used to wait for her, then, once a week after school—Anna would be out of the way by that time. While I was waiting I did my best to compose another sonnet to give to Betty; but apparently the first had drained me dry. What to do? Well, I recopied the work, titled it “Betty” and gave it to her as an original. It may have been unethical, but the effect was marvelous. Again I got my osculative victory.

Now it was about this time that Celia swam into my ken. Unfortunately she was in a splendid position to watch developments with Anna and Betty, since she spent two periods a day with the former and three with the latter. Celia appealed to me because of her eyebrow. Yes. She had an eyebrow with which she could, by a minuscule lifting motion, upset the most carefully presented line. Also the ego that presented it. It was fascinating.

Well, I had to do something. And I hit on this plan. One bright Tuesday I said to Anna, “Will you meet me in the music room after school? There will be just you and me …” Then I went to Betty and said the same thing. And after school I escorted Celia home, with much inner merriment as to the effect of the tactic.

The following day I encountered Celia in the hall and with great ceremony presented her with a copy of my sonnet, this time called “Celia.” She took it with a sweet smile, and as she read it the smile broadened and stopped being sweet. She took two pieces of paper out of her handbag and gave them to me, saying, “It’s a beautiful sonnet—every bit as good as these.” “These” were a sonnet to “Anna” and one to “Betty” … somewhat aghast, I looked up to see the three of them walking arm in arm down the corridor, expressing great merriment over something.

How does that help you, lad? Not at all? Ah well. It only goes to show you—we must each find out for ourselves!

“I
T DIDN
’
T WORK
!” Peggy wailed, burying her face in Mrs. Mulligan’s capable shoulder. Mrs. Mulligan sighed and reflected bitterly on the stupidity of males in general and Roy Bell in particular. Mrs. Mulligan was a fixture in the office—no one knew just how long she had been there. She knew everyone’s business, not because she was nosey, but simply because she had that kind of a face. It was all right, because she could be trusted with any confidence.

“But what happened?” she asked the girl softly, stroking her blue black hair. “Everything seemed to be all right. He fell in love with you—I’m sure he did—the instant you walked into the office without your glasses on. I told you it would happen that way. ‘Guys don’t make passes at gals that wear glasses.’ You haven’t worn them around him again, have you?”

“No,” she sobbed. “I’ll never have to wear them again. Roy was so sweet to me for about three days. Oh, Mrs. Mulligan, I did think you were right. I was beginning to hope … anyway, it’s all over now. Roy hardly speaks to me any more. And just three days ago he took me out and we had the most wonderful evening together … and he—he kissed me good night, and he made me promise to have lunch with him the next day …” She burst into renewed sobs.

Mrs. Mulligan waited until the outbreak was spent. “Well?” she asked kindly. “Did something happen at lunch?”

“No. That is, I can’t understand it; but he took me to lunch as if he were only doing it because he’d promised. I noticed it even before we left the office. He was—changed. He kept looking at me so strangely, with the oddest expression on his face. And he hardly ate anything. Just sat there staring at me, and when I’d look up suddenly he’d try to pretend he was looking over my shoulder, or at the ceiling or … oh, dear … and he couldn’t talk! He’d forget what
he was saying when he was half through, and just sit staring! And today at lunch time I was eating alone at Tony’s, and Roy came in. He saw me there, and turned right around and walked out. He crossed the street to the hot dog stand. Oh, Mrs. Mulligan, what’s the matter with me? You’ll tell me, won’t you? Won’t you?”

“There’s nothing, darlin’,” said Mrs. Mulligan. “You’re lovely. I’ll find out what’s bothering that idiot. Go home now, child, and try to forget about it. I’ll fix Roy Bell myself.”

The next morning Mrs. Mulligan stopped beside Roy’s desk. “You’ll have lunch with me,” she said, and passed on without waiting for an answer. There was that about Mrs. Mulligan which left no room for argument when she spoke that way. Roy was curious.

At lunch time Peggy was already at Tony’s when Roy and Mrs. Mulligan came in. They sat in a booth across the restaurant, ordered, and then Mrs. Mulligan began talking rapidly. Roy seemed embarrassed, and Peggy could see that the old lady was enjoying herself. Peggy strained to catch a word, but could not. She was tempted to cross over and find out what it was all about, but by sheer will power forced herself to sit still.

Suddenly Mrs. Mulligan’s hearty laughter rang through the room. Roy made an impulsive move toward the door, but was detained by Mrs. Mulligan’s firm hand on his wrist. When her merriment subsided she rose and virtually dragged the protesting, beet red young man to Peggy’s booth. She pushed him down beside the girl and sat opposite, retaining her grip on Roy, who, from the look of him, would most certainly have bolted otherwise.

“This idiot,” Mrs. Mulligan told the startled Peggy, “is more stupid than I thought he was. Didn’t think it was possible.”

“Peggy, do you know what happened the day this creature acted so strangely to you for the first time? He was sitting at his desk watching you, mooning over you. I told you he was in love with you. Stop squirming, man! Anyway, you, Peggy, were sitting staring off into space, thinking about him, I’ll bet. You were fooling around with a pencil. You hit the desk with it, tapped your typewriter, your cheek, and then rapped your eye with it. Of course, there was a sharp little click! And this fool here felt his stomach miss a beat, the moron.”
She laughed uproariously. The faces of the young people defied description. “Peggy,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes, “Roy thinks you have a glass eye!”

Peggy gasped, and Roy looked as if he would be happier dead. “Show the fool your new glasses, Peggy. And then forgive him if you can. I wouldn’t.”

With shaking fingers Peggy drew a little stick tipped with a rubber suction cup from her handbag, moistened it in her water glass, and set it gently against her eye. She blinked, and out came a little glass disk which had fitted closely against her eyeball. It was Roy’s turn to gasp.

“Contact lenses,” Peggy explained breathlessly. “Mrs. Mulligan’s idea. She thought that you’d like me better if my glasses were out of sight. And you thought—oh-h-h!”

Five minutes later Mrs. Mulligan left them, kissing and making up. The old lady was still hilarious.

N
O
, I’
M NOT
arguing with you. All I said was that you’ve been talking about telepathy for a half hour, and still haven’t given me a good example of it. Now I’ll give you one.

It happened to Bert Colley. He and Selma had been married only about six weeks then. It was the first morning after Bert had come back from his vacation honeymoon, and they had been driving all night. Bert had heard duty call with the brass voice of an alarm clock, and he rolled out. He’d have given anything to be able to sleep late. Selma could—Selma was! And they say it’s the woman who pays. He looked at her and grinned. She even looked cute with a headache. The acid test!

Bert slid into his clothes and stepped aboard the ornate little elevator with its chrome, ivory and indirect lighting, and dropped swiftly to the ground floor. This was the right kind of place for a bride, he thought proudly. He flashed a glance at himself in the huge lobby mirror as he sprinted out and into a taxi.

When her husband left, Selma opened one eye at the discreet slam of the door. Then she rolled over and closed the eye sleepily, smiling a little. Good old Bert. It had been glorious, last night … they were so wrapped up in each other that they had even forgotten to eat. Eat … she toyed drowsily with the word. She couldn’t quite figure out whether she was more sleepy or hungry. But the hours without food told; she rocked up out of bed and half felt her way to the stove. She put an egg and some water in a pan, set them on the stove, turned on the gas and punched the pilot button. Then she went back to bed “just for a minute.” And in a minute she was fast asleep again. She’d been careless about the way she lit the gas. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t lit at all.

Bert sat on the edge of his seat in the taxi, coaxing the driver with
$5 notes and trying to change the traffic lights by will power. He was the boss, but he liked to get to the office at the same time as everyone else. He thought of Selma, lying so safely asleep in the apartment, and smiled. It had been her idea, that apartment. He had wanted a huge place with 80 rooms and 20 baths and swarms of servants; but Selma, who had budgeted all her life, had insisted on “just a couple of rooms and a kitchenette somewhere.” Well, she had them … but what rooms! Bert combed the town for the most elaborate and expensive little place that money could buy. He’d got it, too. “Come on, buddy, step it up,” he urged the driver.