Now I'm not a hard man to get along with and it usually takes quite a
bit more than overly bright remarks from the office boy to bother me.
But try as I might, I could never get along with McCleary. To be as
disliked as he was, you have to work at it.
What kind of guy was he? Well, if you came down to the office one day
proud as Punch because of something little Johnny or Josephine had
said, it was a sure cinch that McCleary would horn in with something
his little Louie had spouted off that morning. At any rate, when
McCleary got through, you felt like taking Johnny to the doctor to find
out what made him subnormal.
Or maybe you happened to buy a new Super-eight that week and were
bragging about the mileage, the terrific pickup, and how quickly she
responded to the wheel. Leave it to McCleary to give a quick run-down
on his own car that would make you feel like selling yours for junk at
the nearest scrap heap.
Well, you see what I mean.
But by far the worst of it was when vacation time rolled around. You
could forgive a guy for topping you about how brainy his kids are, and
you might even find it in your heart to forget the terrific bargain he
drove to work in. But vacation time was when he'd really get on your
nerves. _You_ could pack the wife and kids in Old Reliable and roll out
to the lake for your two weeks in August. You might even break the bank
and spend the two weeks at a poor man's Sun Valley. But no matter where
you went, when you came back, you'd have to sit in silence and listen
to McCleary's account of his Vacation in the Adirondacks, or his Tramp
in the Canadian Wilds, or maybe even the Old French Quarter.
The trouble was he always had the photographs, the ticket stubs, and
the souvenirs to prove it. Where he got the money, I'll never know.
Sometimes I'd tell the wife about it and she'd sniff and wonder what
kind of shabby house they lived in that they could afford all the other
things. I never looked him up myself. Tell you the truth, I was afraid
I'd find the McClearys lived on Park Avenue.
* * * * *
Now you look forward to a vacation all year, but particularly during
the latter part of July, when, what with the heat and the stuffy
office, you begin to feel like a half-done hotdog at a barbecue. I was
feeling even worse than usual as I was faced with spending my two weeks
in my own backyard, most of my vacation dough having gone to pay the
doctor. The only thing I minded was having McCleary find out about it
and seeing that phony look of sympathy roll across his fat face while
he rambled on about the vacation _he_ was going to have.
It was lunch time and we had just finished talking about the latest on
television and what was wrong with the Administration and who'd win the
pennant when Bob Young brought up the subject of vacations. It turned
out he was due for a trip to the Ozarks and Donley was going after
wall-eye pike in northern Wisconsin. I could sense McCleary prick up
his ears clear across the room.
"How about you, Bill?" Donley asked me. "Got any plans?"
I winked heavily and jerked a thumb warningly toward McCleary, making
sure McCleary couldn't see the gesture.
"My vacation is really going to be out of the world this time," I said.
"Me and the wife are going to Mars. Dry, you know. Even better than
Arizona for her sinus."
Even with the wink they were caught off guard for a minute.
"Mars?" Donley said feebly, edging his chair away. "Yeah, sure. Great
place. Never been there myself, though."
Young just gaped, then grinned as he caught on. "I understand it's a
wonderful spot," he chipped in.
I casually peeled a hard-boiled egg the wife had packed in my lunch
bucket and leaned back in my swivel chair. "It's really swell," I said
dreamily, but loud enough so McCleary couldn't help but overhear.
"Drifting down the Grand Canal at evening, the sun a faint golden disk
behind the crystal towers of Marsport...." I let my voice drift into a
long sigh and reached for Donley's sack of grapes.
About this time McCleary had gnawed his way through a big pastrami
sandwich and waddled over. He stood there expectantly, but we carefully
ignored him.
"Always wanted to go myself," Donley said in the same tone of voice he
would have used to say he'd like to go to California someday. "Pretty
expensive, though, isn't it?"
"Expensive?" I raised a studiedly surprised eyebrow. "Oh, I suppose
a little, but it's worth it. The wife and I got a roomette on the
_Princess of Mars_ for $139.50. That's one way, of course."
"Mars!" Young sighed wistfully.
There was a moment of silence, with all three of us paying silent
tribute to the ultimate in vacations. McCleary slowly masticated a leaf
of lettuce, his initial look of suspicion giving way to half-belief.
"Let's hear some more about it," Young said enthusiastically, suddenly
recovering from his reverie.
"Oh, there isn't much more," I said indifferently. "We plan to stay at
the Redsands hotel in Marsport--American plan. Take in Marsport, with
maybe a side trip to Crystallite. If we have time we might even take a
waterway cruise to the North Pole...."
* * * * *