* * * * *
During the two erratic years I had been on the newspaper, I had passed
the city park every morning on my way to work, feeling an envy for
those who had nothing better to do than sit on the benches and
contemplate the nature of the Universe. Now I took myself there and
sat as I had seen others do, hoping to feel a kinship with these
unfortunates.
But all I did was feel alone, frustrated and angry at Phipps. Maybe I
had been too convivial, maybe I had enjoyed night life too much, maybe
I hadn't given the paper my all. But I wasn't ready for the booby
hatch even if I had seen a fuzzy little thing that could talk.
I drew a copy of _Editor and Publisher_ from my pocket and was
scanning the "Help Wanted: Editorial" columns when out of the corner
of my eye I saw a blob of black moving along the walk.
Turning handsprings, balancing himself precariously on the end of his
vibrating tail, running and waving his forepaws to get my attention
was Fuzzy.
I groaned. "Please go away!" I covered my eyes so I wouldn't have to
look at him.
"Why?" he piped.
"Because you're a hallucination."
"I'm not a hallucination," he said indignantly. "I'm real flesh and
blood. See?" He vibrated his tail so fast, I could hardly see it. Then
it stopped and stood straight out. "Lovely, isn't it?"
"Look," I said, leaning far off the bench to speak to him, "I can
prove you're a hallucination."
"You _can_?" he quavered. "How?"
"Because Phipps couldn't see you."
"That square? Hah! He would not have believed it if he had seen me."
"You mean you--"
He disappeared and reappeared like a flashing neon sign. "There!" he
said triumphantly.
"Why didn't you let him see you then?" I asked, a little angry, but
pleased nonetheless with his opinion of Phipps. "Because you didn't,
you cost me my job."
* * * * *
He waved a forepaw deprecatingly. "You didn't want to stay on that
hick sheet anyway."
"It was a job."
"Now you've got a better one."
"Who's kidding whom?"
"Together we'll write real literature."
"I don't know anything about literature. My job is writing the news."
"You'll be famous. With my help, of course."
"Not with that 'dimly drouse' stuff."
"Oh, that!"
"Where did you come from, Fuzzy?"
"Do I ask you where you come from?"
"Well, no--"
"And my name's not Fuzzy. It's Trlk, pronounced Turlick and spelled
T-r-l-k."
"My name's Larry Weaver, pronounced Lar-ree--"
"I know. Look, you got a typewriter?"
"A portable. At the apartment."
"That will do."
"Aren't you taking things for granted? I haven't said yet whether I
liked the idea."
"Do you have any choice?"
I looked at him, a couple of ounces of harmless-looking fur that had
already cost me my immediate future in the newspaper business.
"I guess not," I said, hoping I could find a way to get rid of him if
things didn't work out right.
And so began a strange collaboration, with Trlk perched on my shoulder
dictating stories into my ear while I typed them. He had definite
ideas about writing and I let him have his way. After all, I didn't
know anything about literature.
Sometimes, when he'd get stuck, he'd get down and pace the living room
rug. Other times he'd massage his tail, which was as long as he,
smoothing it with his tongue and meticulously arranging every hair on
it.
"It's lovely, don't you think?" he often asked.
And I'd say, "If you spent as much time working on this story as you
do admiring your tail, we'd get something done."
[Illustration: ]
"Sorry," he'd say, hopping on my shoulder again. "Where were we?"
I'd read the last page and we'd be off again.
* * * * *
One day, Trlk crawled on a shelf to watch me shave, whiffed the
shaving lotion bottle, became excited and demanded I put a drop of it
in front of him. He lapped it up, sank blissfully back on his tail and
sighed.
"Wonnerful," he squeaked. "Shimply wonnerful." He hiccupped.
I let him sleep it off, but was always careful with the lotion after
that.
Days stretched into weeks, my money was running low and the apartment
superintendent was pressing me for payment of the month's rent. I kept
telling him I'd pay as soon as the first checks came in.
But only rejection slips came. First one, then two, then half a dozen.
"They don't even read them!" Trlk wailed.
"Of course they read them," I said. I showed him the sheets. They were
wrinkled from handling.
"The post office did that," he countered.