Avram Davidson: Love Called This Thing

Nan Peter Baker Four This Is Nan Peter Baker How do
You Receive Me Over and now a word from Our Sponsor
interviewed in his office the Commissioner said but Ruth I
can explain everything there is nothing to explain David it's
all too obvious I'm Bert Peel Officer and this is my brother
Harry a cold front coming down from Canada and we've
got to get word to the Fort colon congestion is absolutely
unnecessary in men and women over forty at any one of the
ninety-one offices of the Clinton National Bank and
Trust...
"Embarasse de richesse," the French count had said when
he looked at all the pretty girls on the high school swim
team, and explained what it meant in English. Penny wasn't
really in love with him; she only thought she was, after pre-
tending she was, to make David jealous, which she certainly
did. But after the count gently explained to her, she and
David made up just in time for the Spring From, which
made the distant observer very happy.
At least he thought it did. "What is happy?" he often
asked himself. Maybe just pretend. You never really loved
me Rick it was just a pretense wasn't it? Like the distant
observer thinking of himself as "him" when, really, he knew
nowhad known longhe was only an "it." it's about time
we faced up to reality, Alison. Yes. It was about time. We
can't go on like this. No, certainly not. It was time.
In the beginning, there was no time. There was sight
here dark, there bright. He did not know then, of course
and how long had "then" lasted? Memory did not tell that
the bright was stars. And there was soundwhispering,
crackling, shrilling. What do you mean. Professor, when you
say that outer space is not a place of silence? And then (he
knew now that this "then" was about fifty years ago) there
had begun a new kind of sound. Not steady, but interrupted,
and interrupted according to patterns. Awareness had
stirred, gradually, and wonder. He knew later that this was
"wireless." CQ, CQ, CQ . . . SOS, SOS, SOS ...
And then the other kinds of sounds, oh, very different.
These were voices. This was "radio." And music. It was too
different; the distant observer knew distress without even
knowing that it was distress. But he grew used to itthat
is, distress ceased: but not wonder. Urgency came with the
voices. What? What? He groped for meaning, not even
knowing what meaning was.
Presently there was another kind of sight, not just the
dark and the stars any longer, but picturesflickering, fad-
ing, dancing, clear, pictures upon pictures. Gradually he
learned selectivityhow to concentrate upon one, how to
not-see, not-hear the others. Still later: how to see and hear
all without confusion. How to match sound and sight. That
things had names. What people were, who made the voices
and the music. What meaning was.
Aboat himself, he learned nothing directly. For a while,
he had tried to speak to them, but it was apparent that
nothing of him reached Earth. He had learned Earth, yes.
And knew what this place was, where he was. An asteroid.
How had he come to be there? This was in space. There
were spaceshipshe saw the scenes on television. Meteors
were dangerous to spaceships. He knew meteors. Some-
times spaceships crashed. He scanned all his little world,
but there was no spaceship, crashed or otherwise.
You'ue got to help me1 don't know who I ami But that
was more easy, oh, so much more sothat one was a man,
and there were many men. The sponsors (in this case, Muls,
the creamy-smooth deodorant) were men, too. Everybody
was very kind to this man. He had amnesia. What was odor?
This the observer could not understand. But to have no
memory, this he understood very well. This he shared with
men.
Gradually he had come to share many things with men.
They spoke different languages, but the one which came
with the first pictures was English, English from America.
Later on, there was English from England, there was
French, Russian, Spanish, Japanesebut American was first
and best. So much more interesting than the Red Army and
the hydroelectric dams, these stories of real life. Of love
and sadness and of happiness.
Kid, there ain't no problem in all this world you can't lick
if you really try. Very well, the observer would try. You
never know what you can do till you try. His first attempt
at taking shape wasn't good. It didn't look much like a man.
So he tried again and again. Each time he grew better at
it. It was true, what the people said. It was all true, every
word and picture of it. There ain't no problem
And so when it came time for his favorite Wednesday
evening program, the distant observer was ready. Summon-
ing all his effort, husbanding all his energy, he passed along
the wave length as a man walks down a street. There was
a slight jar, a click. He realized that he could never undo
what had just been done. There was a new body now, a
new metabolism. The past is dead, David. We have to live
for the future.
"And what is your namemy, you got up here but quick!"
burbled Keith Kane, the M.C. of Cash or Credit. "I've never
known a volunteer from our happy studio audience to man-
age it quite so suddenly. This is just the warmup, sir, so
you needn't be nervous. Not that you need the reassurance
cool as a cucumber, isn't he, folks? Say, did you folks ever
hear the story about the little Sunday School boy who said
that King Solomon had three hundred wives and six hun-
dred cucumbers? Wow! I'm really naughty! You other folks
who volunteered just take seats right there"
The first lady volunteer was old and pretty. Well, maybe
not so old. But maybe like Mary Clay who realized that she
was too old for young David Webster and after she cried
she accepted the fact and sent him back to Madge Barkley
whom he really loved all the while, only they had this silly
quarrel.
The lady smiled at him. He smiled back. I-feel-GREATI
"So that's the way the rules work, and now, folks, in just
five seconds we'll be on the air! Fivefourthreetwo
one Good evening, all you lovely people out there in TV
Land! This is Keith Kane, bringing you the greatthe
greaterthe GREATEST quiz program ever: Cash or
Credit?"
Now he felt his heart beating very fast. So that was what
it was like! And now he knew what was odor. But the
lovely lady volunteer next to him smelled, yes, that was
sweet. But if it was Muls or Van Art Number Three, this he
would learn later.
"just rinse and dry, folks, that's all there is to it: Clear-o,
the all-purpose vegetable detergent. And now whom have
we here? What is your name, sir?"
Here it was. And how terrible if he should break down
and press his hands to his head and sob, "I1 don't know!"
But he did know; he had it all ready. "David. My name is
David Taylor." All the ones named David were good. Oh,
they had their troubles, but in the end everyone loved
them. And see: nice Keith Kane beaming. The lady, too.
"Well, David, what'll it be? Cash-or-Credit? You know
the rules: If you pick Cash, we spin this little wheel. If it
comes up with a number, you go on to answerif you can,
hah-haa question worth however many thousand dollars
follow that number. If it comes up blankyou're out. Where-
as, if you pick Credit, you take your place among the vol-
unteers and if any contestant makes a boo-boo, why, you
step into his shoes and he is out. Soooo?"
"Take the cash and let the credit go," said David.
Grinning from lobe to lobe, Keith Kane asked the same
questions of the lady, whose name was Mrs. Conar, Mrs.
Ethel-Mae Conar, a widow: and received the same an-
swer. The audience applauded, the wheel was spun, and it
came up io.
"TenthousandDOLLARS!" screamed Keith Kane.
"That's what your first question is worth and here it is:
What former President of the United States is associated
with this tune, and what is the name of the tune, which re-
fers to his State? Remember, you have thirty seconds to
think it over . . ."
David and Mrs. Conar won two hundred and eighty-five
thousand dollars in cash before the program was over, as
well as a year's supply of Clear-o, and fifty shares of stock
in a mink ranch; and the band played "The Stars and Stripes
Forever" as Keith Kane counted out the money. Mrs. Conar
had kissed him and kissed David and was now clasping his
hands and sobbing that she didn't really believe it.
"Oh, it's true," David assured her. "It's all true; that's the
funny part of it." (David Mackay said that, in Matm6e,
when he admitted his wife was an alcoholic.) Sight and
sound and touch (kissing was pleasant; no wonder it was
so much done) and smell andandwhat was the other?
Taste. Keith Kane bawled at him the question of what he
was going to do with all his money David deliberated. What
was it that Clem Clooten, on Saddle-Galled, had said, the
time he broke the faro bank in Dogie City? Taste . . . yes:
"I'm goin' out'n buy m'self a cup o' java . . ." The audience
went wild.
Java tasted. Taste was as exciting as the other four sensa-
tions. And sitting next to him on the counter-stool was Mrs.
Ethel-Mae Conar, gazing at his distinguished profile. It was
clean-cut. He gazed down at her. He was tall, of course.
He searched for the right words. It turned out to be singu-
lar. "Happy?" he asked.
She sighed, nodded. Then"You're a rather strange
young man," she said. "Do you know that?"
Certainly he knew it.
He leaned closer. "This is bigger than both of us," he said
huskily. "Let me take you away from all this . . ."
"I certainly will," she said briskly, "right over to my place
in the Surrey-Regis on Park Avenue"that meant she was
unhappy despite her moneyl"where we can have a de-
cent cup of coffee."
The counterman scowled at the bill David offered him.
"Whatsis? Play-money? A five-hunnerd-doUa bill? Whud-
dya, wise guy?"
David arose slowly, buttoning his jacket, and leaned over.
"If you're looking for trouble, buddy . . ." he said. But the
guy chickened out. Anyway, Ethel-Mae had some change in
her purse. "Taxil" David called happily. He helped her in,
sank back in the seat, and when the driver asked Where To,
David said crisply, "Follow that cabi"
The driver (Herman Bogancz, the license read) half-
turned, half-growled. Ethel-Mae laughed. "Oh, if you aren't
never mind, driver: the Surrey-Regis, on Park near" But
H. Bogancz muttered that he knew where the place was.
David gazed out the window excitedly. Everywhere, men
and lights and women and automobiles. "Little Old New
York," he murmured.
Suddenly she yelped, dug her fingers into his arm.
"Darlingi" he exclaimed. "Are you all right? Is anything
wrong?"
"No," she said. "Oh, no"
"Something must be wrong," he insisted. "You can tell me,
dear. I trust you. No matter what you've done"
"What I've done?" she screamed. "I've just won a half-
share in $285,000 is what"
He seized her, turned her facing him. "Are you out of
your mind?" he gritted. And then, memory returning, he
released her. "Yeah . . . Gee . . . that's right. Yeah . . , how
about that? Do you know what this means? Ethel-Mac,
we're rich! WE'HE IUCH!"
The driver twisted his chin slightly to the right. "Do y'
mind. mister? Not so loud with the decibels. I gotta near
condition."
David said, shocked, "If there's anything I can doany-
thing at allif you need moneywe'll get the best surgeon
there is"
Herman Bogancz shrugged. "My cousin Sidney is the best
surgeon there is, and he says an operation wouldn't help."
"Then," said David, "there's nothing more that any of us
can doexcept waitand pray"
"and wash it out three times a day with a boric acid solu-
tion," said Herman Bogancz.
David didn't quite understand why Mrs. Conar made
him apply for a room at the Surrey-Regis by himself while
she went up to her room through the side entrance. In fact,
he didn't understand at ali The clerk looked at him rather
oddly when he explained this to him, and asked for a room
near hers. He looked even odder when he saw the $500
bill. Once again David buttoned his jacket (it had been
necessary to unbutton it first) and leaned over. "I hope," he
said, "that I'm not going to have any trouble with you."
"Oh, dear me, no," said the clerk. "Not at all . . . my good-
ness, Mr. Taylor, but you really are tall, aren't you? Suite
516. Mrs. Conar's is Suite 521that's the best I can do right
just this very minule. and"
Another gentleman materialized at David's elbow.
"Good evening, sir," he said suavely. "I am Mr. Feltz, the
manager. Is everything all right?"
"The boy's not to blame," David said, gesturing toward
the clerk. "Society is to blamewe're all to blame. It's these
crazy, mixed-up times we live in."
Behind David's back, the clerk spread open the $500 bill
for Mr. Feltz's inspection.
"How right you are, sir," said Mr. Feltz.
"About the gentleman'sMr. Taylors change, Mr.
Feltz-?"
David turned, put his hand on the clerk's shoulder. The
man flushed, sucked in his lower lip. "That's for you, sonny.
There is no such thing as a bad boy. I never met a man I
didn't like."
"Front!" said the clerk, his voice tremulous.
Mr. Feltz handed the keys to 516 to the bellboy himself,
urged Mr. Taylor to make his wants known immediately.
As David walked toward the elevator, the manager turned
to his subordinate. "The Rich," he said simply. The clerk
nodded solemnly. "We know their ways," said Mr. Feltz.
"Eh? Well, that's very generous of you, Robertbut, no,
sixty-forty is good enough. He seems to have taken a liking
to you. Send up flowers, the morning papers, a split of cham-
pagne. And include my card, Robert."
As soon as the bellboy had gone (rather like a satisfied
customer on his way out of a high-class opium den, with a
$500 bill clutched in his hot hand), David went down the
corridor and knocked on the door of Suite 521. "Ethel-
Mac?" he asked, his face close to the door. "Dearest? This
is David. Please open. I can explain everything."
And, sure enough, her words as she opened the door and
fell into his arms were, "There is nothing to explain!" Then
she said, "It's just that you're so sweetand naive. But that
nasty little nance down at the desk wouldn't understand."
Since David didn't understand either, he made no com-
ment, but covered her face with kisses. "Darling, I love
you," he said. "Please believe me." And she said, But she
didshe did. "Do you know what it's like to be aloneal-
ways alonenever to know love? Do you? Do you? No. Of
course you don't"
Her answer was exactly correct. "Hush, darling," she
said. "Everything's going to be all right." He sighed, kissed
her again. Then
"Ethel-Mac? Ethel-Mac? Mrs. Conar? What-? Why are
you" But she didn't seem to heai him. Nothing he had
ever heard on radio or seen on television prepared him
for what was happening now. Buthe decided after a mo-
ment or sowhat was happening now wasthough strange
not unpleasant. "This is wrong," he groaned happily. "It's
all wrong. But I1 don't care. Do you hear, I don't caret"
It was two in the morning before he stumbled back to his
own room, and bed. At half-past two, he was awakened by
the bellboy's father and mother (smuggled up on the serv-
ice elevator) who had come all the way from Mulberry
Street to kiss his hands. At three, he was halt-awakened by
a scratching noise at his door. After a few minutes, he got
up andafter approaching it as cautiously as the Sheriff of
Hangtown on the program of the same namethrew it sud-
denly open.
A pretty girl with her red hair in a pony-tail uttered a
little scream. Pencil and notebook fell to the floor. "Why
youyou're only a child!" he said, in a hushed voice.
"Mr. T-Taylor" she began very nervously. "I saw you
at the studio and I fol-followed you"she gulped"over
here. But it took till now for me to get up nerve"
"Why, you're frightened," he said, looking down at her.
"Don't be frightened. You don't ever have to be frightened
of me. Come in," he urged. "Please come in."
She picked up her notebook and followed him in obedi-
ently. Then, taking the seat he gestured to, she said, "And
I'm not such a child, either. I'm a senior at Bamard. Journal-
ism major. And I want a story from you, Mr. Taylor, before
all the other reporters get here. Please, Mr. Taylor, please."
He looked at her admiringly. "That took guts," he said.
"Where I come from, the men get separated from the boys
mighty young. Butdon't call me 'Mr. Taylor'Mr. Taylor
has gray hair at the temples. Call me David."
She called him David. And she told him that her name
was Pamela Novack. And he said that Pamela was a lovely
name. She told him that she'd hated it as a child, but that
latelyin fact, just this very minuteshe'd gotten to like it
a whole lot more. And they laughed. They laughed a whole
lot.
Before they knew it, it was getting light.
"Oh, golly," Pamela sighed. "Oh, gee, have I got a story!
In a way, it's so sad, and you having such an unhappy
childhood, I mean: your mother dying from the brain tu-
mor and your father being an alcoholic"
He said that was all in the past. He said they had to start
looking toward the future. She nodded soberly. Then she
stretched and said she was hungry.
"Hey, how about thati" David laughed, catching sight of
his face in the mirror. It was a nice face. He had done well
in making it; it looked like all the Davids he had ever seen.
"You know something? I'm hungry, too! I haven't had a bite
to eat since that cup of coffee after the show. Would you
like to have some breakfast? You would. Hot diggetyl . . .
Hello! I want Room Service, please."
The narcoleptic tones of the operator said. Not till ha'-
pas'six. And then suddenly were clear and alert and saying,
"Oh, Mr. TaylorP Pardon meof course, Mr. Taylorwhat
would you like? Scrambled eggs and coffee and toast and
gallons of orange juice. Yes, sir, Mr. Taylor."
Then, suddenly, the smile was gone from David's face.
Anxiously, Pamela asked what the matter was. Scowling, he
mimicked, "'Yes, Mr. Taylor, certainly, Mr. Taylor-it isn't
me they likenobody likes meit's the money. Once you
been in reform school, nobody has any use for you, the cops
are always watching you, the nice girls don't want to have
anything to do with you"
Pamela was troubled. "Oh, you mustn't say that. I1
well, I think I'm a nice girl" she blushed suddenly,
looked down"and Ilike youDavid."
He got up and walked back and forth, rubbing his left
arm with his right hand. He swung around and faced her.
"Youl" he jeered. "Whadda you know? You're just a fresh
young kid"
"I am noti" she snapped.
"A senior at Barnard! Whadda you know about life?
You-"
He stopped. He had been enjoying the experience of
emoting so much that the significance of the scene had es-
caped him. They were quarreling! That meant they were in
lovel Of courseDavids always quarreled with the girls
they were really in love with.
He dropped down on one knee beside her and looked
into her flushed, pretty face.
"Darling," he said, brokenly, taking her hands. "Trust me
I can't explain nowbut just trust me"
There was a sound from the door. They looked up. Ethel-
Mac Conar stood there, holding her throat with both hands.
After a moment, she said, "I must have hurt you very much,
David, for you to have done this to meto have forgotten.
So quickly."
Exquisitely miserable, he shouted, "Leave me alonel
Can't you leave me alone? Can't you understand that it's
all over between us?" And then, his voice dropping, "Oh,
Ethel-Mae, forgive me. I didn't mean to say that. I didn't
mean it. I1 can explain."
Letting her hands drop resignedly, she said, "There's
nothing to explain, David. I understand. It could never have
worked out. I'mI'm justtoo old for you, David." She
walked over, lifted his head (he had hung it, of course),
placed her palms on his cheeks and kissed him gently on
the forehead. Then she turned to Pamela and said softly,
"Be good to him, my dear. And give him lots of love." She
went out, her head high, a wistful smile on her lips, and
the awareness that she had half of the $285,000, the year's
supply of Clear-o (the vegetable detergent), and the fifty
shares of stock in a mink ranch.
There was a moment's silence. Then, "Gosh," said Pam-
ela. "Golly," she said.
David turned to her. "Darling, don't cry any more," he
begged. "Everything's going to be all right from now on."
"I'm not crying," she said. Her eyes were shining. "The
hell with the story and the journalism course and the hell
with Bamard, too. With all your money," she said, falling
into his welcoming arms, "we can get married and start a
family right away. Kiss me," she said, "hold me tight, don't
ever leave me I"
Mr. and Mrs. David Taylor live in a fifteen-room house
in Westport with two picture windows, three boxers, and
three cars, They have two children and a third is on the
way. They are as happy as any couple in Westport has a
right to be in these crazy, mixed-up days. David is a highly
successful writer of television scripts, with an unerring nose
for what the public wants. It is perhaps unfortunate that his
work brings him into contact with so many clever and at-
tractive women. He is, of course, unfaithful to his wife
with one of them at least twice a year (or at least once a
year with two of them ).
There used to be a time when a David would never do a
thing like this to his wife. He would almost do itand then,
at the last moment, not. But TV is maturing. The Davids do
it all the time. All the damned time.
"But how could you?" Pam Taylor weeps. "David, how
could you?"
And young David Taylor, his face twisted with anguish,
cries, "Don't you understand? Won't you even try to under-
stand? I'm sick! I need help!"
Well. Naturally Pam is very sad that her husband is sick,
sick, sickbut, after all, its the thing to be, isn't it? And so
she's happy she can help him and happily she drives the
two of them down to Dr. Naumbourg, David is very sad
that he's made his lovely wife unhappy, but he's happy that
he's fulfilling his destiny as a David. Dr. Naumbourg always
insists on both husbands and wives Going Into Therapy at
the same time. Pamela's case is a common enough one,
merely a routine phallic envy. Naumbourg gets them every
day,
But in all the years since Vienna, Dr. N. has never had
another patient whose womb-tantasy takes the form of
being a Thing on aii asteroid. And so, while all three of
them are very happy. Dr. Naumbourg is perhaps the happi-
est of all.