Crowley opened the door wider. "Well, just so it don't cost me nothing."
He stepped back for them. "Don't mind the place. Kind of mussed up. Fact
is, the wife left me about a week ago and I haven't got around to
getting somebody to come in and kind of clean things up."
He wasn't exaggerating. Patricia O'Gara had no pretensions to the
housewife's art herself, but she sniffed when she saw the condition of
the living room. There was a dirty shirt drooped over the sofa back and
beside the chair which faced the TV set were half a dozen empty beer
cans. The ashtrays hadn't been emptied for at least days and the floor
had obviously not been swept since the domestic tragedy which had sent
Mrs. Crowley packing.
Now that the three strangers were within his castle, Crowley's instincts
for hospitality asserted themselves. He said, "Make yourself
comfortable. Here, wait'll I get these things out of the way. Anybody
like a drink? I got some beer in the box, or," he smirked at Patricia,
"I got some port wine you might like, not this bellywash you buy by the
gallon."
They declined the refreshments, it wasn't quite noon.
Crowley wrestled the chair which had been before the TV set around so
that he could sit facing them, and then sat himself down. He didn't get
this and his face showed it.
Frederick Braun came to the point. "Mr. Crowley," he said, "did it ever
occur to you that somewhere amidst our nearly one hundred million
American males there is the average man?"
Crowley looked at him.
Braun cleared his throat and with his thumb and forefinger pushed his
glasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose. "I suppose that isn't
exactly the technical way in which to put it."
Ross Wooley shifted his football shoulders and leaned forward earnestly.
"No, Doctor, that's exactly the way to put it." He said to Crowley, very
seriously, "We've done this most efficiently. We've gone through
absolute piles of statistics. We've...."
"Done what?" Crowley all but wailed. "Take it easy, will you? What are
you all talking about?"
Patricia said impatiently, "Mr. Crowley, you are the average American.
The man on the street. The Common Man."
He frowned at her. "What'd'ya mean, common? I'm as good as anybody
else."
"That's exactly what we mean," Ross said placatingly. "You are exactly
as good as anybody else, Mr. Crowley. You're the average man."
"I don't know what the devil you're talking about. Pardon my language,
Miss."
"Not at all," Patricia sighed. "Dr. Braun, why don't you take over? We
seem to all be speaking at once."
* * *
The little doctor began to enumerate on his fingers. "The center of
population has shifted to this vicinity, so the average American lives
here in the Middle West. Population is also shifting from rural to
urban, so the average man lives in a city of approximately this size.
Determining average age, height, weight is simple with government data
as complete as they are. Also racial background. You, Mr. Crowley, are
predominately English, German and Irish, but have traces of two or three
other nationalities."