Confessions of a Crap Artist

by Philip K. Dick

  The boy and girl finished their shopping with much exacting deliberation. Charley stood off self-consciously to one side, smoking a cigarette and glancing around him.

  Presently the three of them were walking toward the bikes, and then the car.

  The boy's name was Nat Anteil. His wife's was Gwen. During the morning Nat worked for a small, modern real estate firm in Mill Valley and in the afternoon he drove back up here to Point Reyes and spent his time studying; he was in his second year of a college extension course mailed out by the University of Chicago. When he got finished, he explained he would have a BA in history.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Charley asked.

  With some shyness, Nat said, “Maybe go on and teach.”

  Gwen said, “It's more for his own edification, not to make money from. We both want to be aware of what's happening in the world.”

  “I'm in the iron business,” Charley said. “But don't let that fool you. My wife's the one who brought culture to this area; she got all the cultural affairs going, here.”

  “I see,” Gwen said, nodding.

  “Such as the modern dance group,” Charley said. “And I'm a member of the Inverness Yacht Club. We own a hi-fi—mounted right in the wall. We had the house built ourselves; we got our own architect. God, it set me back almost forty thousand dollars. Wait'll you see it; it's only four years old. We've got ten acres.” As they drove he told them all about the sheep and the collie, pouring out his words faster and faster, unable to stop.

  The Anteils listened raptly.

  “We can play badminton out back,” Charley said, as they came within sight of the cypress trees. “Wait'11 you see my wife. She's the best god damn good-looking woman up here. They're all a bunch of dogs compared to her. Why hell, even after having two kids she's still a size twelve.” That sounded right to him; or was it a size sixteen? “She really keeps her figure,” he said, as he turned from the road into the driveway.

  “What lovely big trees,” Gwen said, staring out at the cypress. “Do they belong to you?” To her husband she said excitedly, “Nat—look at that collie. It's blue.”

  “That dog's worth five hundred bucks,” Charley said, delighted at their response. He saw them straining to see the house, making out the sight of the horse as it cropped grass out in the field. “Come on,” he said, opening the door for them. “She'll sure be pleased to see you.” As the three of them walked toward the house he explained, in disjointed phrases, how Fay had felt about them and how badly they both had wanted to meet them.

  6

  When I saw Charley coming up the path from the car with those two delightful apparitions I could hardly believe my eyes. It was the greatest present he could have given me, and I completely adored him for it. Putting down my book I ran into my bedroom and took a look at myself in the mirror. Why at this time had that little queer down in Fairfax chosen to cut my hair on one side shorter than on the other? From my closet I grabbed out my blue-striped shirt and began buttoning it over my halter and tucking it into my shorts.

  “Honey!” Charley called from the living room. “Hey, look who I talked into coming home with me!”

  At the mirror I put on lipstick, blotted it, brushed my hair in back, put away my dark glasses which I had worn into the house from outside, and then I hurried into the living room.

  There they stood, shyly, peeking around at the bookcases and the record shelves, like a pair of children in a historic shrine—the way I had felt when we visited the mission over in Sonoma and I found myself standing in the old chapel, with the straw sticking out of the adobe where it had broken away. I was glad that Mrs. Mendini had seen fit to do a good job scrubbing the floor and dusting; at least the house looked good, even if I was a trifle messy.

  I smiled at them and they smiled back. This is historic, I thought. Like Lewis and Clarke meeting. Or Gilbert and Sullivan. “Hi,” I said to them.

  The girl said, “What a lovely house.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Going toward the bar I said, “What would you like to drink?” I opened the liquor cabinet and got out the bottle of gin and vermouth. Feeling nervous— for some reason—I found myself spilling the gin as I poured it into the mixer. “Fm Fay Hume,” I said. “What are your names? Are you married or are you brother and sister? I can't wait to find out; I have to know.”

  “This is my wife Gwen,” the boy said. “My name is Nathan Anteil.” They came a few steps into the kitchen and stood self-consciously, watching me fix martinis, as if they didn't want to drink but did not know how to stop me. So I went on fixing the drinks. Married, I thought.

  “You look like my brother,” I said to the boy. And with surprise I thought, He doesn't look like Jack at all, not a bit. Jack is horrible-looking and this boy is stunning; what's the matter with me? “Don't you think he could be my brother?” I said to Charley.

  “Well,” Charley said, “you're both on the lanky side.” He, too, seemed ill-at-ease, but obviously pleased at having gotten them to come along with them. “I'll have some of that Danish beer,” he said. To the Anteils, he said, “How about some imported dark beer?” Passing me, he opened the refrigerator door. “Try some,” he said, getting the opener.

  Presently we were seated in the living room, Charley and I on chairs, the Anteils on the couch. Gwen and I drank martinis; they drank beer.

  “Nat's in the real estate game,” Charley said.

  At that, the boy got a cross expression on his face. Both he and his wife seemed to fluff up. “That's somewhat misleading,” Gwen said. “Nat is getting his degree in history,” she explained to me. “He just works down there so we can pay the bills.”

  “There's nothing wrong with real estate,” Charley said with uneasiness, apparently realizing that he had offended them.

  “History,” I said, dazzled by our good fortune. “There's a retired history professor from the University of California living up here—he raises peaches. We'll have to introduce you to him. He and I play chess once a month. And there's an archaeologist across the bay in Point Reyes Station. Where do you live?”

  “In Point Reyes,” the boy said. “We're renting a little house there, on the hill above the creamery.”

  “And down in Olema,” Charley put in, “there's a guy who used to write articles for Harper's. And an old guy who still does illustrations for the Saturday Evening Post—he's living in what used to be the Olema city hall. Picked it up for four thousand dollars.”

  Talking to the Anteils, I found that they came from Berkeley. The girl's parents owned a summer cabin in Inverness, and the two of them—Nat and she—had come up and stayed in the area, and had gotten to like it, naturally, as anyone does who sees it. They knew a few people in the area, mostly in Inverness, and they knew the public beaches and the park and what birds they could expect to see. But they hadn't been to any of the private beaches; they didn't know any of the big ranchers and had never even heard of Bear Valley Ranch.

  “Good god,” I said. “Well, we'll have to take you there. The road's barred by three padlocked gates but I can get the key; we know them and they let us drive across the ridge to their beach. It's so big it's got something like six thousand wild deer on it.”

  “It's a huge place,” Charley said.

  We talked for a while about the area, and then I told Nat about a paper I had written in college about the Roman general Stilicho.

  “Oh yes,” Nat said, nodding. 'That's an interesting period.”

  We discussed Rome, he and I. Gwen wandered around the living room. I saw, now, after being closer to them for a time, that a difference between them existed, one that I hadn't noticed originally. At the start, spying them from a distance I had tended to lump them together in my mind, to find them equally attractive and desirable. But now I saw that there was with Gwen an absent-mindedness, almost a vapidness. She lacked the acuteness of her husband. And it seemed to me that much of the resemblance between them was not accidental; the girl had deliberately
styled her manner of dress so that it matched his, and I saw, too, that the ideas—the intellectual material—common to the two of them originated in him. In discussions, Gwen took little or no part. She retired, like many wives.

  It seemed to me that Nat relished talking to a woman who could hold her own with him on his own subject. As we talked, he became more stern; his forehead wrinkled, and his voice dropped to a low, determined pitch. Weighing his words carefully he gave me a long theory of his on the economic situation in Rome during the reign of Theodoric. I found it fascinating, but toward the end my attention began to wander.

  During a pause, while he tried to recall the name of a particular Roman administrative district, I couldn't refrain from bursting in with, “You know, you're so young.”

  At this, his eyes opened wide and he stared at me. “Why do you say that?” he said slowly.

  I said, “Well, you take all this so seriously.”

  Quite brusquely he said, “It's my field.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “But you're so intense. How old are you? Come on, tell me. You seem so much younger than us.”

  With apparent difficulty, Nat said, “I'm twenty-eight.”

  That surprised me. “Good god,” I said, “We thought you two were only eighteen or nineteen. Another generation.” His face, at that, got even darker. “It's hard to believe you're really twenty-eight,” I said. “I'm thirty-one,” I said. “I'm only three years older than you, but my god, it's another generation.”

  We talked some more about the area, and then the Anteils arose and said that they had to get back. I felt tired, now, I was sorry they had to leave, but at the same time the meeting between us and them had, in the final analysis, disappointed me. Nothing of any importance had come out of it, although god knows what I had expected. We made a tentative date to get together for dinner one evening toward the end of the week, and then I sent Charley off to drive them home,

  After the three of them left the house I went into the bathroom and took a couple of Anacin. My head hurt and I decided that probably it was eyestrain. But anyhow I returned to the living room and got down from the bookshelf a book by Robert Graves that dealt with the Roman period; going outdoors on the patio I made myself comfortable on the chaise longue and began to reread the book—it had been several years since I had read anything on the Roman period, and I felt that if I was going to discuss it with Nat I should bone up on it.

  How odd it was … we had wanted so badly to meet the Anteils; we had been drawn to them so intensely, and now that it had come about—not boredom, surely, but—not what we had expected, somehow. And yet I felt terribly tense. My entire body, all my muscles, were drawn up and tense. Leaving my book I went to the kitchen and poured myself another martini. Here I was, keyed-up and feeling irritable. The sun hurt my eyes, and that always indicated that I was getting into a foul mood. Or perhaps I was pregnant again. My legs certainly ached; all those big thigh muscles hurt, as if I had, for the last hour or so, been carrying an enormous load.

  Lying down on the concrete, outdoors on the patio, I began doing a few exercises. Certainly I could still get my legs up as well as ever. My stomach felt somewhat bloated, though. So I got the trowel and began weeding in the garden, a good exercise, that squatting and weeding; the best in the world.

  A day or so later, during the afternoon, I got a phone call from Mary Woulden about the Bluebird's peanut sale fund. During our discussion she mentioned that the Anteils had told about meeting Charley and me.

  “Oh my god,” I said, “do you know them? Why didn't you say so? We turned heaven and earth over to try to meet them—when we first laid eyes on them we swore we'd get to know them and invite them up to the house, and we finally just had to walk up to them cold and introduce ourselves and invite them up.”

  “They're sweet people,” Mary said. “They've been coming up to Inverness for years, but now they're renting a house all year round. They were just summer people; that's why you never saw them. You know how summer people are; they spend all their time at McClure's Beach.” And then she gave it to me right between the eyes. I had no warning whatsoever. “Apparently you didn't make too much of a hit with him,” Mary said.

  “Why?” I said, on my guard and apprehensive. I started, at once, to have hot and cold flashes. “They seemed to be enjoying themselves—we put ourselves out trying to make them comfortable. And good god, we practically picked them up off the street.”

  “She likes you,” Mary said. “And I think he does too. What he said was, if I can remember it exactly … something about you striking him as being a bossy person.” She added, “Actually he came out and said he didn't particularly care for you.”

  “Well, we argued about history,” I said, feeling the back of my neck boil with heat. “Possibly he resents the idea of a woman discussing his pet subject with him.”

  We talked about various trifles, and then I rang off. As soon as the connection was broken I dialed the operator and got the Anteils' number. I dialed them, seated on the bed and seeing my hands shaking. In fact I was trembling all over with indignation and a variety of other emotions that I did not have time to decipher.

  The boy himself answered. “Hello.”

  “Listen,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. It seems to me that I did keep it calm too. “Maybe I just don't understand the masculine mind, but in my book anybody who talks about another person behind his back but doesn't have the integrity to come out to their face and say what he thinks—” I had trouble winding up what I had to say. “Didn't we treat you hospitably?” I demanded, and at that point my voice broke.

  “Who is this?” Anteil said.

  “This is Fay Hume.”

  After a pause, Anteil said, “Evidently some inadvertent remarks made in conversation got carried back to you.”

  “Yes,” I said, breathing with difficulty and trying to keep the racket from being picked up by the phone.

  “Mrs. Hume,” he said in a slow, somber voice, “I'm sorry you're so upset. Let me assure you that it's needless.”

  “It's upsetting,” I said, “to have somebody go through the motions of pretending to enjoy your hospitality, and talk about you. Do you object if I try to talk to you in your terms? I took a history minor; I like to discuss Rome. I may not be competent to discuss it, but—”

  “This is difficult to discuss over the phone,” Anteil broke in.

  “Well, what do you propose?” I said. “Frankly, I'm not particularly interested in discussing it with you; I just wanted to acquaint you with my feelings.” At that point I hung up.

  Almost at once I felt, acutely, that I was a hysterical nut. They shouldn't trust you with the phone, I said to myself. Getting up from the bed I paced around the bedroom. Now it'll get all over town, I realized. Fay Hume calls up some people in Point Reyes and raves like a drunk. That's what they'll say: I was drunk. Sheriff Chisholm will be by to take me away. Maybe I ought to phone him myself and eliminate the middleman.

  I did not know what to do, but I had the keen insight that I had left it at a bad point, that someone had to do something. And here I was, the hostess, the woman of this quite outstanding house, placing a vast emphasis on providing people with a meal and conversation they would remember … a few incidents like this and I could forget considering myself hostess to anybody. What a faux pas. You're just a child, a two-year-old, I told myself. Worse than Elsie or Bonnie. Even the dog has more self-control, more diplomacy.

  That night Gwen Anteil appeared at the front door. Charley and I were doing the dishes; the children had gone off to watch tv. “I'm sorry to bother you,” Gwen said in her sweet but somewhat hollow fashion. “May I come in for a moment?” Her bike was propped at the edge of the porch, and she had on capri pants and a sweatshirt. Her hair was tied back and her face was flushed, probably from the bike-riding.

  “Come in,” Charley said. I hadn't told him about either Mary's call or mine to Anteil, so for a moment I floundered; I knew at once th
at Gwen's visit had to do with the business between me and her husband, and I knew this was going to be difficult. I had to get rid of Charley, so I said,

  “Honey, there's something we have to discuss that doesn't concern you.” Putting my hand on his shoulder I propelled him away, in the direction of his study. “You leave us alone for a while. Okay?” And before he realized what had happened, I had gotten him into his study and was shutting the door after him.

  Sullenly, he said, “You god damn women and your women's subjects.” But already he had started switching on his desk lamp. “Did she come alone?” he said. “If Nat shows up, send him on in.” He was starting to complain some more, but I closed the door after him, and, turning to Gwen, forgot about him.

  “I owe your husband an apology,” I said to her.

  Gwen said, “That's what I'm here about. Nat is terribly disturbed that something he said could cause you distress. You both were so nice to us the other day when we were over.” She made no move to sit down but stood by the door, like a school child, reciting her set piece. “I didn't tell him I was coming over to patch it up,” she said. “It's just one of those things that a third party can blow up if they want all out of proportion. Nat likes both you and your husband, and he's desperately concerned to get this out of the way.” She added, “I told him I was going to visit the Mc Raes. I think you know them.”

  “Yes,” I said absentmindedly. I was trying to figure out if he had sent her, or if this was her idea. If it was her idea, then he might not care so much about making amends; it might merely seem to her that in such a rural area, with so few families, no one could afford a social hiatus of this sort, especially a new couple that had just moved in and was trying to get established and accepted by the people already here. After all, their whole social life depended on healing up a rift of this sort; I could afford to drop them, but could they afford to drop the Humes? Thoughts of that kind certainly had entered this girl's mind; I could see it written all over her rather fatuous face. “I'm quite happy to stay on good terms with your husband,” I said. “I think he's headstrong and too wrapped up in himself and what he thinks, but you're both marvelous people. It was just a misunderstanding.” I smiled at her.