by Jack Finney
Some twenty minutes later Tim returned to the living room, a sheet of paper in his hand. Listen to this, he said, and Eve looked up patiently. Now, this is just a first draft. It needs working over, of course, but you'll get the idea.
Go ahead.
Well— he looked down at the paper in his hand — it starts off, Dear Sir, Madam, or Miss. You are one of a carefully selected list of ten million people. I have a simple plan in which, for only one dollar, you will receive practically nothing at all. Read every word of this unique offer! He looked up at Eve. How's it sound so far?
Here's my dollar; who could resist?
Now, wait a second; I'm serious. The letter goes on, I want you and some thousands of other generous people like yourself to send me a dollar. Just THINK! If only ten per cent of you, the imaginative ten per cent, will respond to this generous offer, I will be wealthy! It is actually that simple! Otherwise, I am doomed to a lifetime of working for a living and YOU KNOW what that means. YOU KNOW what it is to get up day after day and go to work when there are so many pleasanter things to do. He looked up at Eve.
Go on, she said. Convince me.
Tim resumed his reading. If you were in a concentration camp, you'd help a fellow prisoner escape if he could. Well, here is your chance to get one of us out of the trap that enslaves us all. Send in your dollar today and in only a few weeks' time you can have the vicarious satisfaction of knowing that I have quit work forever and am lying flat on my back, a drink in my hand, on a sunny beach in Florida.
Tim gestured with his hand. Think what this will mean to you! On some cold, raw, miserable morning in the very near future — when you haven't had enough sleep and you're late for work — you can have the satisfaction of knowing that Timberlake Ryan is still sound asleep in Florida, and you helped to put him there! He's having fun, anyway, you can say to yourself. One of us escaped! Believe me, you'll feel better at the thought; it will be worth a dollar many times over. He looked at Eve. Well? How's it strike you so far?
Love it. Do they wear mink coats in Florida?
No doubt. He frowned. Now, here's how I figure it. At this point, they're maybe half convinced. It sounds like a crazy idea and it is. But it has a sort of appeal. You can almost see yourself, just on impulse, slipping a dollar into the return envelope and sending it off; just for the hell of it, you know. Almost but not quite. So what you need now is something to sort of push them over the edge; they ought to get something, anyway, for their dollar. And here it is — next paragraph.
In addition to the deep satisfaction your dollar will bring you, I will also send you a small charter-member lapel emblem, and a cheap, badly printed certificate certifying that you have been conned by Timberlake Ryan. It will state, giving full details, that you sent me a dollar for which you received nothing at all! Then, when a lesser con artist approaches you, someone who actually offers to give you something for your money, you have only to flash your emblem and say coldly, I have been conned by Ryan. Which should end the matter right there.
Now — Tim glanced up — the urge to action, as it's technically called. Think how often you waste a dollar on nothing at all. On a lousy movie, for example. And ask yourself: Is there any better, more deeply satisfying way to waste a dollar than this? Remember — this is probably your only chance to actually help make a millionaire! Yes, I'll actually be YOUR millionaire! So don't delay. Now, before you forget, drop only one dollar into the enclosed envelope — it needs no postage — and mail it today. Do your part. Fill your quota. Mail your dollar today, because remember, I'm counting on you! He looked at Eve expectantly. That's only a first draft, but — how's it sound?
She looked at him for a moment. You really want to know?
Listen, he said, his voice irritated, I know it's crazy, as well as you do. The point is it's just crazy enough to work. Nuttier things than that have worked. He was silent for a moment, annoyed. Look at chain letters, for example. And what about that guy in the papers, a year or so ago?
What guy?
You remember. All he did was put a little ad in the paper; some California paper. All it said was, Last day to send in your dollar! Hurry! And his name and address. And the money poured in. It really did. He grinned. It was in the papers. The guy bought a new car, new house, swimming pool, everything.
And then what?
Tim shrugged. Well, the government made him stop. Wouldn't let him use the mails, or something. But meanwhile, he had all that money.
The government would put you in an institution.
Nope. He shook his head authoritatively. There's nothing illegal about this. I'm merely soliciting a gift.
Eve swung her feet over the arm of her chair to the floor. You want to play some rummy?
Tim looked at her for a moment. That just cost you a mink coat.
Tim, you're not actually serious about this?
Well — I don't know.
Tim, for Heaven's sake. It would cost thousands, for one thing, just to mail those foolish letters out.
Well. naturally you'd test it first. He sat on the couch running thumb and forefinger along the fold of his letter, frowning at Eve. Maybe you'd only try a thousand letters at first. Then, if it worked, you'd use the money to send out a bigger batch. From the returns on that, you'd send out an even bigger nailing. It would grow, like a snowball.
Eve looked at him wryly. Sure. And when you ran out of people in the United States, you'd have the whole British Empire to tap. Then translate the letter into all known languages, and watch the pounds, rupees and yen roll in. Listen, a thousand letters would still cost fifty dollars.
Well, send out a hundred then; that ought to be enough. Or even less. Tell you what — He smiled ingratiatingly, edging forward on the couch. Why don't we send out maybe just ten of them, for the very first trial? To people we know. Just for the hell of it. See what happens.
Eve shook her head. It wouldn't really be a test. They'd all know you and you'd just get gag replies.
Tim flicked his hand dismissing the objection. We could sign some other name and address. Use your sister's name or something; that could be worked out.
Tim, I mean it — Eve closed her magazine decisively. Sometimes you worry me; you really do. About once a month you're like a moth trying to battle his way out of a cage or something. It —
He grinned. You're mixing your metaphors.
Well, I don't care. How can you actually be serious about a crazy thing like this? Getting yourself all worked up.
His voice was patient, I'm not worked up. Trouble is, people get these ideas and never do anything about them. Then they complain because they have to work all their lives. It's the people who do something about these crazy ideas that get somewhere. Anyway, what can we lose if we just send out maybe four or five letters? Just for the fun of it.
Eve shrugged, opening her magazine again. All right. Go ahead.
Well — He unfolded his letter, glancing at it, then looked up again, hesitating. I thought — You see, you type so much better than me, that I thought maybe you'd do a few.
How many?
Just three or four. Five, at the most.
When?
Well — he looked at her appealingly — you could do most of them tomorrow. But I'd kind of like to get one or two of them in the mail tonight. The time to do something about a thing like this is right away, or you keep putting it off. And I'm sort of anxious to see what happens.
I'll do one letter tonight. It's a long letter. And a few more tomorrow, maybe if I get time.
Fine. Swell. He stood up, smiling. One letter could tell us a lot, if we get the right reaction. We'll mail it to someone we know and I'll talk to them personally tomorrow. He laid the letter on the table at Eve's elbow. You know, this could be well started before the week's up. He smiled down at her. Want a little rummy first?
She did not look up. Okay; you get out the cards while I finish this story.
Tim walked to the end table, hunted through the big drawer
till he found a deck of cards, then he went to the kitchen and came back with pencil and paper. He sat down on the couch, shuffled the cards, then dealt them. Eve put her magazine down, came over to the couch, and they began to play.
For nearly an hour they played, alternating deals, Tim shuffling the cards for each hand. Tim invented a way to avoid holding his hand by propping the cards between two books. After a while Tim won and he wrote down the score, then looked up. Want another?
Eve looked at her watch. Well — it's quarter to eleven.
It is? I didn't know it was that late. He began gathering up the cards. Guess we better get to bed.
What about that letter?
Oh — He looked a her for a moment. Well, maybe you'd better let it go for now. Do it tomorrow maybe. Or early in the week sometime.
Okay. Eve stood up and began to walk around the room switching lamps off. But you know what'll happen, probably. It never will get done.
Yeah. He walked to the doorway and stood waiting for Eve. I suppose so. But we better get to bed. He grinned. I've got to get up in the morning and go to work.
When they were in the bedroom, Timberlake Ryan said, Think there's anything in that camera idea?
Eve nodded, her voice encouraging. Maybe. Why don't you talk to Joe Allen about it? He knows all about cameras and photography.
Maybe l will; I might call him for lunch tomorrow. He began removing his tie, staring absently at the wall. You can't tell; there might be something in it.
Sure. Eve nodded again, then she smiled. Might even be something in that linoleum idea.
What linoleum idea?
Eve grinned. The linoleum you invented the last day of your vacation a year ago. It came in very thin layers, as I recall, and when the floor got dirty you just peeled off a layer and threw it away, revealing not only a brand-clean floor, but a brand-new pattern. Bombs bursting in air for the Fourth of July, holly for Christmas, and for Thanksgiving, pumpkins and Pilgrims. With more sedate patterns for just ordinary weeks. That was an invention I always liked.
It was a good idea. Tim smiled. Tell it to me again. I love to hear about my good ideas, even if the world doesn't appreciate them.
Come on, now, said Eve. Let's get to bed.
Okay, he said. That's the best idea of all. I wish I'd thought of it. Did you set the alarm?
Collier's, May 20, 1950, 125(20):28-29, 56-58
I Like It This Way
I'm lonely, Ann Masik said. She dropped the Sunday magazine section to the floor and got up from the big easy chair. She crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the couch. It's lonely over there, she said to her husband, and she stretched out face down beside him, her forehead on her folded arms, her pleasant face hidden, her dark hair glossy in the late-afternoon light. Move over. She nudged him with a hip.
Charley Masik laid his magazine down, moving back on the couch; he put an arm around Ann.
Scratch my back, she said. She nestled down into the cushions.
Okay. He pulled her blouse out and slid his hand underneath it. Call your directions.
Up a little … little farther over. No, the other way. There, she murmured, that's fine.
Charley smiled. You sound like a kitten. You might purr a little; show some appreciation.
Don't know how. No, stop! No tickling.
Have to have a little fun.
And cut that out, too. Now, stick to your scratching.
Okay. He lay back on the cushions, his hand moving slowly under the thin cloth of her blouse.
I love Sunday, Ann murmured, when you're home.
Charley smiled.
Don't you? she said, raising her head to look at him.
Sure.
For a moment Ann was silent, there she lowered her head again and, her voice muffled, her face hidden, said, Charley?
Yeah?
That little leather box on your dresser. The one you keep your keys and change and things in.
Yeah.
Edith gave you that, didn't she?
Yes, I guess she did, Charley said casually. For a moment he hesitated, then he said, I mean, yes, she did. He smiled down at Ann. But, hell, Annie, I never think about that. It's just the box I put money and stuff from my pockets in when I change clothes at night; I never even think about where it came from. He looked at her curiously. Why?
Just wondered. She shrugged a shoulder.
Want me to get rid of it?
No. Don't be silly. She arched her back up against his hand Scratch some more.
Okay. What about that purring?
I don't know how.
It's easy. He began to make a sound like a purring cat.
How do you do that?
Touch the roof of your mouth with your tongue toward the front. He opened his mouth and showed her. Then just breathe out hard and try to say prrrrr. Sort of roll the r's.
Ann tried and failed, making a spluttering sound, tried again several times, then suddenly succeeded. She lay there purring like a happy kitten.
With his finger Charley traced a half circle on Ann's back. What's that?
C.
Right. He poked her with a forefinger. And that?
Period.
Right. He traced a zigzag line, then poked again.
M, period.
Right. Charley Masik. That means you're branded. Now you're my woman, see?
I'd better be. Now rub my back. Ann resumed her purring as Charley began to massage her back. Then she said, Write some more. Only do something harder.
Okay, I'll do a whole word. Try to get it all at once. His finger moved rapidly over her back.
Charley! She raised up suddenly, glaring at him. Now, cut that out! Then she grinned.
I'm shocked that you even know the word.
Anyone who knows you knows all the words. Rub some more.
Your back is beginning to wear away. You're essentially a sensualist.
What?
I could never say it again. Look — how about a drink?
All right. Put some lemon in mine.
I was going to offer you the privilege of making them.
No, you do it so much better than poor little ol' me.
Okay. I'm a sucker for flattery. He got up, tickling Ann suddenly and moving quickly out of her reach; then he walked to the kitchen.
Within a few minutes he returned, carrying two highballs, and he sat down on the edge of the couch and handed one to Ann.
She took it and sat up. She tasted her drink, staring absently ahead, then she looked at Charley and smiled. We have fun, don't we?
Yeah, we do.
We really haven't done anything all day. Just lounged around. But it's fun; the kind of Sunday you like. At least I do.
Me, too.
Really?
Certainly. He glanced at her. Did you think I didn't?
I just wondered. It's so different from the kind of life you used to lead. Isn't it?
Sure. Different and a million times better.
For a moment she was silent, then impulsively she said, Charley? Did you ever - She stopped.
He grinned. Go ahead. I know what you were going to say, I think.
Well — oh, this is silly, but … did you ever scratch Edith's back? Like before, I mean?
Charley laughed; he looked at the floor for a moment, thinking, then looked up again. Well, if I ever did, I honestly don't remember it. To tell the truth, there was never time. We were always going somewhere, or having people in. No such thing as loafing a whole Sunday away.
Ann shook her head. Funny way to live. There must have been something wrong with her.
No, said Charley. It wasn't her fault; we were both like that.
Oh, don't apologize for her.
He shrugged. I'm not. She was wrong for me and I was wrong for her, that's all.
But how? How were you so wrong? I don't see why a woman shouldn't be happy with you.
Well, I was different then. He frowned. It's hard to explain, but
... maybe this'll give you an idea. A cocktail party we had once, on a Sunday afternoon. This is an extreme example, but there must have been twenty — twenty-five people there, and every single one of those people was there for a reason.
How do you mean?
Well, there wasn't a soul there who was just plain Joe Jones, somebody we liked. He was there because he was Joe Jones who had a small part in some Broadway play, maybe. And if we could have got the star, he'd have been there instead. Someone else was a radio producer, one of the women had just had a book accepted, somebody else was an artist, and so on. I've got nothing against minor celebrities; they were interesting sometimes. And some of them were nice, besides. But that isn't why they were there. They were there because we could introduce them to each other.
Sounds pretty silly.
Of course. Charley smiled, staring at the floor. I really don't know what we were trying to accomplish. But we could never seem to enjoy anything just for its own sake, you see. Never have people in just because we enjoyed their company. If we gave a party, it had to advance us, get us somewhere — Lord knows where.
She sounds like a phony to me.
Not really. Just restless. We both were. There are a lot of people like that.
Still, Ann said, you must have enjoyed it or you wouldn't have done it.
Till I got fed up.
Do you ever miss it now, though? Are you really happy with me? Just a Hausfrau?
Now, listen, said Charley. What got you off on — He stopped, and began to smile. Did I tell you Edith gave me that box?
No, Ann said, fingering the rim of her glass, but when I stopped to think about it, I just knew she'd given it to you.
Well, look. I'll throw it away. It doesn't mean a thing to me.
No, no, keep the damn' box. Ann shook her head irritably and swung her legs to the floor and stood up. My nose needs powdering, she said, and walked toward the door.
Ann.
She stopped.
Believe me, he said softly, it wasn't like us. It wasn't the same, with her, ever.
Ann looked at him for a moment, then she said, All right, and left the room.
