It hadn't been easy to get time off from the oil-painting factory. Ken
Oliver was a little late when he slid into the aseptic-smelling waiting
room of the Michigan City Medical Center. A parabolic mike in the
ceiling trained itself on the heat he radiated and followed him across
the floor to a chair. A canned voice said: "State your business,
please."
He started a little and said in the general direction of the mike: "I'm
Ken Oliver. A figure man in the Blue Department, Picasso Oils and
Etching Corporation. Dr. Latham sent me here for--what do you call
it?--a biopsy."
"Thank you, please be seated."
He smiled because he was seated already and picked up a magazine, the
current copy of the _Illinois Sporting News_, familiarly known as the
Green Sheet. Everybody in Mob Territory read it. The fingers of the
blind spelled out its optimism and its selections at Hawthorne in
Braille. If you were not only blind but fingerless, there was a talking
edition that read itself aloud to you from tape.
He riffled through the past performances and selections to the articles.
This month's lead was--_Thank God I am Dying of Throat Cancer_.
He leaned back in the chair dizzily, the waiting room becoming gray mist
around him. _No_, he thought. _No._ It couldn't be that. All it could be
was a little sore on the back of his throat--no more than that. Just a
little sore on the back of his throat. He'd been a fool to go to Latham.
The fees were outrageous and he was behind, always a little behind, on
his bills. But cancer--so much of it around--and the drugs didn't seem
to _help_ any more.... But Latham had almost promised him it was
non-malignant.
"Mr. Oliver," the loudspeaker said, "please go to Dr. Riordan's office,
Number Ten."
Riordan was younger than he. That was supposed to be bad in a
general practitioner, good in a specialist. And Riordan was a
specialist--pathology. A sour-faced young specialist.
"Good morning. Sit here. Open your mouth. Wider than that, and relax.
_Relax_; your glottis is locked."
Oliver couldn't protest around the plastic-and-alcohol taste of the
tongue depressor. There was a sudden coldness and a metallic _snick_
that startled him greatly; then Riordan took the splint out of his mouth
and ignored him as he summoned somebody over his desk set. A young man,
even younger than Riordan, came in. "Freeze, section and stain this
right away," the pathologist said, handing him a forceps from which a
small blob dangled. "Have them send up the Rotino charts, three hundred
to nine hundred inclusive."
He began to fill out charts, still ignoring Oliver, who sat and sweated
bullets for ten minutes. Then he left and was back in five minutes more.
"You've got it," he said shortly. "It's operable and you won't lose much
tissue." He scribbled on a sheet of paper and handed it to Oliver. The
painter numbly read: "... anterior ... epithelioma ... metastases ...
giant cells...."
Riordan was talking again: "Give this to Latham. It's my report. Have
him line up a surgeon. As to the operation, I say the sooner the better
unless you care to lose your larynx. That will be fifty dollars."
"Fifty dollars," the painter said blankly. "But Dr. Latham told me--" He
trailed off and got out his check book. Only thirty-two in the account,
but he would deposit his paycheck today which would bring it up. It was
after three so his check wouldn't go in today--he wrote out the slip
slowly and carefully.
Riordan took it, read it suspiciously, put it away and said: "Good day,
Mr. Oliver."
Oliver wandered from the Medical Center into the business heart of the
art colony. The Van Gogh Works on the left must have snagged the big
order from Mexico--their chimneys were going full blast and the reek of
linseed oil and turps was strong in the air. But the poor beggars on the
line at Rembrandts Ltd. across the square were out of luck. They'd been
laid off for a month now, with no sign of a work call yet. Somebody
jostled him off the sidewalk, somebody in a great hurry. Oliver sighed.
The place was getting more like Chicago every day. He sometimes thought
he had made art his line not because he had any special talent but
because artists were relatively easy-going people, not so quick to pop
you in the nose, not such aggressive drunks when they _were_ drunks.
Quit the stalling, a thin, cold voice inside him said. Get over to
Latham. The man said "The sooner the better."
He went over to Latham whose waiting room was crowded with irascible
women. After an hour, he got to see the old man and hand him the slip.
Latham said: "Don't worry about a thing. Riordan's a good man. If he
says it's operable, it's operable. Now we want Finsen to do the
whittling. With Finsen operating, you won't have to worry about a thing.
He's a good man. His fee's fifteen hundred."
"Oh, my God!" Oliver gulped.
"What's the matter--haven't you got it?"
To his surprise and terror, Oliver found himself giving Dr. Latham a
hysterical stump speech about how he didn't have it and who did have it
and how could anybody get ahead with the way prices were shooting up and
everybody gouged you every time you turned around and yes, that went for
doctors too and if you did get a couple of bucks in your pocket the
salesmen heard about it and battered at you until you put down an
installment on some piece of junk you didn't want to get them out of
your hair and what the hell kind of world was this anyway.
Latham listened, smiling and nodding, with, as Oliver finally realized,
his hearing aid turned off. His voice ran down and Latham said briskly:
"All right, then. You just come around when you've arranged the
financial details and I'll contact Finsen. He's a good man; you won't
have to worry about a thing. And remember: the sooner, the better."
Oliver slumped out of the office and went straight to the Mob Building,
office of the Regan Benevolent Fund. An acid-voiced woman there turned
him down indignantly: "You should be ashamed of yourself trying to draw
on the Fund when there are people in actual want who can't be
accommodated! No, I don't want to hear any more about it if you please.
There are others waiting."
Waiting for what? The same treatment?
Oliver realized with a shock that he hadn't phoned his foreman as
promised, and it was four minutes to five. He did a dance of agonized
impatience outside a telephone booth occupied by a fat woman. She
noticed him, pursed her lips, hung up--and stayed in the booth. She
began a slow search of her hand-bag, found coins and slowly dialed a new
number. She gave him a malevolent grin as he walked away, crushed. He
had a good job record, but that was no way to keep it good. One black
mark, another black mark, and one day--bingo.
General Advances was open, of course. Through its window you could see
handsome young men and sleek young women just waiting to help you,
whatever the fiscal jam. He went in and was whisked to a booth where a
big-bosomed honey-voiced blonde oozed sympathy over him. He walked out
with a check for fifteen hundred dollars after signing countless papers,
with the creamy hand of the girl on his to help guide the pen. What was
printed on the papers, God and General Advances alone knew. There were
men on the line who told him with resignation that they had been paying
off to G.A. for the better part of their lives. There were men who said
bitterly that G.A. was owned by the Regan Benevolent Fund, which must be
a lie.
The street was full of people--strangers who didn't look like your
run-of-the-mill artist. Muscle men, with the Chicago style and if
anybody got one in the gut, too goddamned bad about it. They were
peering into faces as they passed.
He was frightened. He stepped onto the slidewalk and hurried home,
hoping for temporary peace there. But there was no peace for his frayed
nerves. The apartment house door opened obediently when he told it:
"Regan," but the elevator stood stupidly still when he said: "Seventh
Floor." He spat bitterly and precisely: "_Sev-enth Floor._" The doors
closed on him with a faintly derisive, pneumatic moan and he was whisked
up to the eighth floor. He walked down wearily and said: "Cobalt blue"
to his own door after a furtive look up and down the hall. It worked and
he went to his phone to flash Latham, but didn't. Oliver sank instead
into a dun-colored pneumatic chair, his 250-dollar Hawthorne Electric
Stepsaver door mike following him with its mindless snout. He punched a
button on the chair and the 600-dollar hi-fi selected a random tape. A
long, pure melodic trumpet line filled the room. It died for two beats
and than the strings and woodwinds picked it up and tossed it--
Oliver snapped off the music, sweat starting from his brow. It was the
Gershwin _Lost Symphony_, and he remembered how Gershwin had died. There
had been a little nodule in his brain as there was a little nodule in
Oliver's throat.
Time, the Great Kidder. The years drifted by. Suddenly you were
middle-aged, running to the medics for this and that. Suddenly they told
you to have your throat whittled out or die disgustingly. And what did
you have to show for it? A number, a travel pass, a payment book from
General Advance, a bunch of junk you never wanted, a job that was a
heavier ball and chain than any convict ever wore in the barbarous days
of Government. Was this what Regan and Falcaro had bled for?
He defrosted some hamburger, fried it and ate it and then went
mechanically down to the tavern. He didn't like to drink every night,
but you had to be one of the boys, or word would get back to the plant
and you might be on your way to another black mark. They were racing
under the lights at Hawthorne too, and he'd be expected to put a couple
of bucks down. He never seemed to win. Nobody he knew ever seemed to
win. Not at the horses, not at the craps table, not at the numbers.
He stood outside the neon-bright saloon for a long moment, and then
turned and walked into the darkness away from town, possessed by
impulses he did not understand or want to understand. He had only a
vague hope that standing on the Dunes and looking out across the dark
lake might somehow soothe him.
In half an hour he had reached the deciduous forest, then the pine,
then the scrubby brushes, then the grasses, then the bare white sand.
And lying in it he found two people: a man so hard and dark he seemed to
be carved from oak and a woman so white and gaunt she seemed to be
carved from ivory.
He turned shyly from the woman.
"Are you all right?" he asked the man. "Is there anything I can do?"
The man opened red-rimmed eyes. "Better leave us alone," he said. "We'd
only get you into trouble."