by Gore Vidal
“You don’t want to be doing the same thing all the time, do you?”
“I don’t know, I’d like to make more money.”
“I think you’re crazy,” she said. She watched her fingers as they tapped lightly on the keys of the typewriter. Her hands weren’t quite what she wanted them to be. She thought of them as long and slender and faintly exotic; actually her hands were short and square and not very clean. The red enamel was beginning to chip off her thumbnails.
“Why’m I crazy? Because I want to make more money?”
“Not because of that, of course. Just because.”
“Oh.”
Robert Holton shifted his position on the railing. Caroline suddenly didn’t want him to go. Then Richard Kuppelton got up from his desk near the door and came over to them.
“Why, hello, Dick,” said Caroline.
“Good morning, good morning,” said Dick heartily. He was a very hearty person and Caroline liked him. He was so different from Robert Holton. Dick always seemed the same; he acted the same, anyway. Caroline could almost always tell what he was going to say and that was a lot better than being around a person who never said the right things. Dick wasn’t sensitive, however. He and Robert Holton were the same that way but then Caroline couldn’t have everything.
“How’s every little thing?” asked Dick Kuppelton.
“Fine,” said Robert Holton. Caroline only smiled; she smiled with her eyes as well as her mouth. It was important to smile that way.
“Been pretty slow today,” said Dick. “Not much business. I think the market’s falling off.” Someone had told him that, thought Caroline, delighted with her perception.
“It may be,” said Robert Holton without much interest.
“We should have a big rush soon. I’m doing a report now. Well, not really a report; I’ve been getting some statistics on aircraft stock ready for the front office. It’s been some job.” He shook his head to show the largeness of the job.
“I’ve got a report like that to do, too,” said Caroline.
“Something for Golden?”
“Yes.”
Dick nodded knowingly. “Some report, I bet.”
“It’s certainly long,” said Caroline, pointing to the notebook on her desk.
Robert Holton got off the railing and stretched. “I better get to work,” he said. “Murphy might be back soon.” He went back to his desk.
“He’s real eager,” said Dick unpleasantly.
“What? Well, I don’t know about that. He’s sort of funny. He doesn’t want to get anywhere but he doesn’t want to get in bad. I don’t know; he’s awful funny.”
“I’ve seen those guys before,” said Dick. “I know that type. They come in a place and get in good with the top people. Then they get your job. That’s just what he’s up to.”
Caroline smiled and said nothing. She was pretty and popular and she couldn’t always, therefore, say what she thought. She knew, though, that Dick Kuppelton, who had been with Heywood and Golden for six years, disliked Holton. Mr. Murphy had never liked Kuppelton and at the end of the year changes were always made and Robert Holton might take Dick’s place. Things were very complicated, thought Caroline.
“I don’t think he’s that smart,” said Caroline.
“I think you’re wrong.” Dick started to straddle the railing, then he changed his mind and leaned against it. He was a large man. He was thirty and pink and blond. He wore large rimless glasses which made his face look clean and blank. He enjoyed what he was doing, thought Caroline. Everyone enjoyed working except herself.
“I’ve got to do some typing,” said Caroline. She wanted him to go away.
“Certainly; I suppose I’d better be getting back.” He stood up straight and stretched. “Well, back to work,” he said.
“See you,” said Caroline. Dick was so dependable: you always knew what to expect.
Caroline coughed. Her cough had a consumptive sound to it which rather appealed to her. When she was a young girl she had seen a play about a beautiful woman with white flowers and a cough. The beautiful woman had been so interesting that Caroline had never forgotten her although she had forgotten the play. Caroline coughed again, quietly, dramatically.
“How’s that report coming?” Oliver L. Murphy had returned from the front office.
“Pretty well, Mr. Murphy.”
“Had quite a session with Mr. Golden.”
“I’ll bet,” said Caroline with sympathy. “I’ll bet he was something.”
“Well, I handled him O.K. today. He’s not so hard to get along with. Of course, he’s got some queer ideas. Those people often have.”
“Isn’t that the truth.” Caroline arranged the paper in her typewriter. Mr. Murphy leaned over and smelled the carnation in the imitation silver vase.
“Smells nice, don’t it?”
“It certainly does, Mr. Murphy.” She smiled. Mr. Murphy went back to his desk and Caroline typed. Several times as she worked she coughed, quietly, almost to herself.
Chapter Four
RICHARD KUPPELTON LEFT CAROLINE RELUCTANTLY. HE LIKED her because she was pretty and much more sensible than the other pretty girls he had known.
He stopped at his desk. It was a dull olive color. His different books of statistics were piled neatly on one corner; notebooks and papers were scattered over the top and it looked as if he were busy.
Kuppelton decided not to work, not just now. From the top drawer of his desk he took a magazine. It had a vivid cover of a large-breasted young woman being carried into a machine by an octopus. He enjoyed this magazine’s stories very much.
He slipped the magazine under his arm, the cover toward his side; and then, busily, he left the room for the lavatory.
There was something cozy about a lavatory, he thought as he opened the door marked “Men.” No one was inside and he would be able to sing. The room was large, white and very clean. The urinals, four of them, stood polished and shining, like soldiers on guard. A thin waterfall constantly descended down their white enamel surfaces; the smell of disinfectant was in the air, but not too strongly.
Richard Kuppelton glanced at himself quickly in one of the four mirrors which shone over the four wash basins. Then he walked to one of the four black-doored stalls. He chose the one nearest the wall. There was strategy in his choice as well as habit, for the light was over this stall.
With the feeling of having come home after a long journey, Richard Kuppelton opened the black door and stepped inside. Then he closed the door and locked it. He was completely alone now; no one could disturb him and he was safe.
Deliberately he hung up his coat and then, after some preparation, he descended with a sigh upon the cool smooth seat. He relaxed happily.
On the subway he had started a story called “The Mad Moon Maidens”; unfortunately, it had been a little dull and he had decided not to finish it. He thumbed through the rough pages of his magazine. Grotesque black and white drawings decorated the pages. There were monsters and ghouls, beautiful women (usually screaming) and lean young men with pongee hats. The title “Satanic Underworld” appealed to him and he started to read.
After only a few minutes, however, he found himself studying the tile floor. Black and white tile in neat one-two-three pattern across the floor; he liked things that were black or white. The pattern was familiar to him and gave him a further feeling of being home.
Great ideas came to Richard Kuppelton enthroned. Here in this retreat the entire world assumed a pattern of great simplicity. All problems could be rendered answerable and in this world he was sovereign. The lavatory was his study. He thought of Robert Holton: the person who currently threatened his career.
Robert Holton was deceitful; he knew that. On the surface he appeared simple and a little shy but Kuppelton knew differently. Little things that the others had not noticed he noticed. For instance, Holton was always trying to get friendly with Mr. Murphy. He always called him “sir”; treated him as if he
were a colonel or something in the army. That was another thing: the army. Holton had been a soldier and Kuppelton had not. Most of the others in the office had not been in the war either. Both Mr. Heywood and Mr. Golden had declared that they would do all that they could for the veteran. So far this hadn’t been very much, but still it was their intention. Richard Kuppelton wished suddenly that he could stay forever in this shiny black stall with the tile floor.
There was a noise in the lavatory. Someone had come in. Footsteps clattered on the floor. The door to the stall next to his opened and someone sat down.
He wondered who it was. The person wore plain brown shoes: he could see them through the foot-high space beneath the stall partition. This person also wore brown trousers. Richard Kuppelton thought for a moment, strained to remember who it could be. Then he remembered.
“Hello, Bob,” said Richard Kuppelton.
“What? That you, Dick?”
“The same.”
“You catching up on your reading?”
Richard Kuppelton closed his magazine guiltily. “No, no. Just nature.”
“It’s a good place to think.”
“Well, I suppose it is.”
“What’s wrong with Caroline today?” asked Robert Holton.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I didn’t notice anything wrong with her, did you?”
“Yes, I thought she was sort of irritable.”
“I didn’t notice it.” Richard Kuppelton sighed. He was beginning to get uncomfortable, sitting on the hard seat. He was, also, a little surprised that Holton was as aware of Caroline as this. “Caroline’s a lot of fun,” he said.
“Yes.”
“She’s a lot of fun to go out on a party with. She can be real funny.”
“I suppose so.”
“You ever go out with her?”
“Not really.”
“What do you mean?”
“I never went to a party with her. We had dinner once.”
“She didn’t want to go dancing?”
“No.”
“That’s funny.” Richard Kuppelton tried to remember whether he had ever taken Caroline out and they had not danced. No, they had always gone to a dance. He wondered whether she liked Robert Holton better than him. This was a new thought and even more unpleasant than the suspicion that Robert Holton was trying to get his job. “She just likes to talk?”
“Yes, I guess everybody does.”
“That’s right, I guess.” Richard Kuppelton studied Holton’s plain tan shoes gloomily. One of the things he could not understand was why Robert Holton had come to work in this office. It was rumored that he was a friend of Mr. Heywood’s but no one had ever been able to prove that. He had gone to Harvard before the war and to Richard Kuppelton that was the most important thing about him. It was also suspicious; he could not understand why a person with that education would do this job in Heywood and Golden unless—and Richard Kuppelton became gloomier—unless he were to be promoted over everyone.
“Looks like there’ll be a lot of changes after the first,” said Kuppelton.
“They tell me there usually are.”
“I suppose you want to end up in the other office, being one of the contact people.”
“I don’t care much. Whatever they want to do. I’d like to move up, of course.”
“We all would.”
Robert Holton mumbled something and stood up. Kuppelton watched the tan shoes as they moved about the stall. There was a swirling of water and Robert Holton left the lavatory, whistling.
Richard Kuppelton studied the tile again. It seemed, somehow, less comforting, less private since Holton had been here. He tried to read again but “Satanic Underworld” had lost its attraction. The seat was becoming harder every minute and he would have to leave soon.
Then he remembered that the acoustics were unusually good in this lavatory. In a low voice he sang an Irish ballad which he had learned in school. His voice came to him pure and vibrant and like no other voice that had ever sung. He finished with a low note, although, strictly speaking, the ballad called for a high note. He sang a popular song next. It was not as great a success as the first because he only knew the chorus. The words that he made up, however, were quite good enough.
At last, his songs finished, Richard Kuppelton stood up. He ached slightly from the strain of sitting on the narrow seat. Deliberately he arranged his trousers, deploring slightly the heaviness of his waist as he did.
The sound of swirling water was in his ears as he crossed the lavatory to the wash basin. Deliberately—he was a deliberate person—he washed his hands. He dried his hands on a paper towel and then, like a king abdicating, he moved slowly but deliberately to the door. With a sigh Richard Kuppelton left the lavatory.
The office had not changed. Mr. Murphy was sitting behind his railing, smoking a cigar and reading a letter. Caroline was typing. Robert Holton was copying a row of figures into his notebook. The other men and women in the office were working busily.
Richard Kuppelton sat down at his desk. He enjoyed the sensation of being a part of this great house. Neatly he arranged his books of tables and statistics across the top of his desk. The various books were open at aircraft stock. His statistics would form the basis of a report which would be used in an overall survey of aircraft stock to be used by the front office. His responsibilities were heavy.
He took his fountain pen out of his pocket. It was leaking a little and he had to handle it carefully. Slowly, with pleasure, he copied the figures from the books. He wrote the numbers carefully, making them round and legible. When he had finished copying all his numbers they would be typed up by one of the stenographers in the office.
A tall white-faced boy in a blue suit came into the room. He went to Richard Kuppelton’s desk and put some papers on it.
“Good morning, Jim,” said Kuppelton heartily. “How’s the boy?”
“Fine. I think Golden’s coming this way.”
“Really? Wonder what he wants.”
“Hard to say. He always wants something.”
“That’s his privilege,” said Kuppelton righteously.
“I suppose so,” said Jim.
The white-faced boy went on to the next desk, handing out letters and inter-office memoranda.
Richard Kuppelton put his fountain pen down carefully. There were several letters for him. He opened one of them and started to read.
He had read only a few lines when Mr. Golden came into the office. Even without looking up from his letter Richard Kuppelton could have told that someone from the front office had arrived. The typewriters clattered more loudly. The usual low buzz of voices died away, and he could hear Mr. Murphy’s swivel chair being pushed back from his desk as he stood up to welcome the visitor from the front office. Kuppelton put his letter under the blotter and then he looked up casually.
Benjamin Franklin Golden stood behind Mr. Murphy’s railing. He stood very erect, his eyes moving from desk to desk as he studied the office. He was a short man and plump. His eyes were small and black and shiny. Mr. Golden had iron-gray hair which he allowed to grow a little longer than necessary. He was proud to have kept his hair. He had a small nose and a rather foolish little mouth and he looked more like a South American or Italian or something like that, thought Kuppelton.
He pretended to write figures in his notebook, while he listened carefully to what Mr. Golden was saying to Mr. Murphy.
“Everything all right here, Murphy?” Mr. Golden had a high thin voice.
“Yes, sir, we’re getting your reports out. I’ll have the special one for you this afternoon.”
“That’s good. I really need that report. That’s an important one. Some of our big steel clients are interested in it. I know you’ve done a good job on it.” There was almost a threat in his voice. It was well-known that the two did not like each other.
“Well, I’ve got our best girl, I’ve got Caroline here typing it.” He waved at Caroline who looked up and
smiled at Mr. Golden who smiled back at her. Richard Kuppelton wondered what Mrs Golden was like.
“I’m sure she’ll do a good job. How’s that aircraft stock report coming?”
“Kuppelton’s doing it.” Mr. Murphy pointed to him.
Mr. Golden nodded. “I’ll be interested to see it.” Richard Kuppelton copied figures quickly.
“Should be a good survey,” said Mr. Murphy. “Is there going to be a board meeting this morning? You said they hadn’t decided earlier.”
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot; there’ll be a meeting at eleven-thirty.” Mr. Golden had an irritatingly brusque manner.
“Fine,” said Mr. Murphy and he made a note of it on the pad on his desk.
Mr. Golden didn’t seem to want to go. He looked around the room again. He looked at Robert Holton and said something to Mr. Murphy which Kuppelton couldn’t hear. Mr. Murphy smiled and nodded.
Mr. Golden finally opened the door of the railing. “See you at the meeting, Murphy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Golden hurried out of the office. There was an immediate change in the sounds of the room after he had left. The hum of voices began again. Richard Kuppelton put down his fountain pen.
Caroline and Mr. Murphy were talking together and laughing. Robert Holton was still working quietly at his desk. The women of the office talked about Mr. Golden in low voices.
Richard Kuppelton wondered what Mr. Golden had said to Mr. Murphy about Robert Holton. He looked at Robert Holton with dislike.
“O.K.,” said Kuppelton, “Mr. Golden’s gone, you can stop working.”
Robert Holton put down his notebook and smiled. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt to look busy.”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t meaning to criticize.”
“I didn’t think you were. Did you hear what they were talking about?”
This was malicious, Richard Kuppelton knew; it would have been very hard for Holton not to have heard. “Oh, they were just talking about reports.”
“That’s what I guessed.” He started to work again.
“You live uptown, don’t you?” remarked Kuppelton.
