I could see Ralph was tempted—but German shepherds are notoriously loyal. “What about Joe?”
“Hmmm.” I thought hard, but I was stumped.
Joe was gesticulating furiously, but Ralph ignored him. “No,” he decided. “I could not leave my friend.”
“I’ll think of something,” Callahan promised, but Ralph shook his head.
“Thank you,” he said, “but there’s no use in raising false hopes. I’m resigned to this life.”
“Mister,” Callahan said firmly, “that’s what this Place is all about. We raise hopes, here—until they’re old enough to fend for themselves. Wait—I got it! Joe!”
The shabby man looked up from his drink, shamefaced.
“Get that frown off yer phiz,” Callahan demanded. “You can type, can’t ya?”
Joe nodded, puzzled. “I taught him,” Ralph said.
“Then I can help ya,” the big Irishman told Joe. “How would you like a job over at Brookhaven National Lab?”
Joe looked dubious, and Ralph spoke up again. “I told you, Mr. Callahan—writing just isn’t the same as talking to people.”
“Hold on and listen,” Callahan insisted. “Over at Brookhaven, they got a new computer they’re real proud of—they claim it’s almost alive. So they’re reviving the old gag about having experts try to tell the computer from a guy on a teletype. They’re lookin’ for a guy right now, who don’t mind carryin’ on conversations through one-way glass on a teletype all day long. I bet we could get you the job. How ’bout it?” And he hauled out the blackboard he uses to keep score for dart games, and gave it and some chalk to Joe.
The shabby man took the chalk and carefully printed, THANK YOU, I’LL GIVE IT A TRY, in large letters.
“Well, Ralph,” Callahan said to the dog, “it looks like you’re a DJ.”
And Ralph yelped happily, nuzzling Joe with his head, while we all started cheering once again.
And, hours later, as we all got ready to bottle it up and go, Ralph turned to Joe and said, almost sadly, “So, Joe my friend. After tomorrow, perhaps we go our separate ways. No longer will I dog your heels.”
Joe winced and wrote, NO LONGER WILL I HEEL MY DOG, EITHER.
Doc Webster made a face at the plain Coca-Cola that sat before him on the bar. “I might have to heal the both of you if you keep it up,” he growled, and I could see he was still a little miffed over his defeat by Ralph.
“Oh no,” Ralph protested. “I want to get my new job right away. The only other work for a dog of my intelligence is as a seeing eye dog, ja? And radio work is better than replacing a cane, nein?”
“Cane-nein?” the Doc exploded. “Canine? Why you…”
But over what the portly sawbones said then, let us draw a censoring veil of silence. His bark always was worse than his bite.
Say—if Ralph really makes it on radio, and becomes a dog star: is that Sirius?
Concerning “Dog Day Evening”:
For some reason, as I mentioned in this book’s foreword, funny stories don’t seem to get nominated for Hugos. In the last ten years, fewer than five percent of the Hugo nominees have been funny stories, and very few of those have won.
“Dog Day Evening” was nominated in 1978, and didn’t win. There are four very good reasons why it didn’t win: the other four stories nominated, all of which were superb (the winner was Harlan Ellison’s “When Jeffty Was Five”). But I can think of only one reason why it was even nominated in the first place, while other, and I think better, Callahan stories failed of this honor.
Every year at the World Science Fiction Convention there is an event organized and produced by Gale Burnick called the Authors Forum, at which sf writers read their newest works aloud. It is always well attended and well received, and the only small problem with it is that a great many stories which are terrific on the printed page just lay there when read aloud. As Samuel R. Delany has noted, writing and marketplace storytelling are different trades, related but different.
But the stories that do seem to read aloud the best are funny stories.
Lines that would, in one’s living room, cause one corner of the mouth to twitch upward will, when read aloud in a roomful of sweaty strangers, elicit howls of laughter. Lines that would make a solitary reader chuckle will leave an audience gasping for breath. Puns that would provoke a private wince bring a public outcry of terrifying proportions.
Let me run a little experiment here. The last time I was at Callahan’s, Fast Eddie brought in a jug of his moonshine to pass around. He said he called it Mother’s Milk. As he was setting it down on the bar, the jug slipped from his fingers and headed for the floor. Fast Eddie is fast, but it was Doc Webster who caught the jug—and in the stop-frame stillness that usually follows such events, he sang clearly, “Catch that paps-y spirit…”8
See now? Sitting there in your arm-chair (or whatever), you may have smiled slightly, or at most groaned softly—most likely you displayed no outward reaction at all. But if you’d been there at Callahan’s when it happened, likely you’d still have sawdust in your hair from rolling on the floor, like the rest of us.
We like to have company when we laugh. Sharing a joke seems to make it better. (From this we derive the fundamental principle of Callahan’s: that shared pain is lessened, and shared joy is increased.)
So I read “Dog Day Evening” aloud at the 1977 Worldcon, and it made the ’78 Hugo list.
At the ’78 Worldcon I read a serious story, of which I was exceeding proud; it proceeded to vanish without a ripple.
At this year’s Worldcon I will do my damndest to have a funny story to read.
“Dog Day Evening,” by the way, is told with the gracious permission of Philip José Farmer, author of the famous Riverworld Series, literary agent for Ralph Von Wau Wau (not to mention Kilgore Trout, Leo Queequeg Tincrowdor and the Earl of Greystoke), and Friend of Cordwainer Bird.
Oh, and this story spawned what is so far the only Callahan’s Place Christmas card I have seen. A woman reprinted the “Yule gibbons” gag on cards and sent it to all those who up until then had been her friends. She asked my permission. Life is strange.
8 Actually there are nine puns that could have been made here—but the Doc lactate. Just as well—one shouldn’t milk a joke, if he wishes to put his breast-feed forward.
GOD IS AN IRON
I smelled her before I saw her. Even so, the first sight of her was shocking.
She was sitting in a tan plastic-surfaced armchair, the kind where the front comes up as the back goes down. It was back as far as it would go. It was placed beside the large living-room window, whose curtains were drawn. A plastic block table next to it held a digital clock, a dozen unopened packages of Peter Jackson cigarettes, an empty ashtray, a full vial of cocaine, and a lamp with a bulb of at least 150 watts. It illuminated her with brutal clarity.
She was naked. Her skin was the color of vanilla pudding. Her hair was in rats, her nails unpainted and untended, some overlong and some broken. There was dust on her. She sat in a ghastly sludge of feces and urine. Dried vomit was caked on her chin and between her breasts and down her ribs to the chair.
These were only part of what I had smelled. The predominant odor was of fresh-baked bread. It is the smell of a person who is starving to death. The combined effluvia had prepared me to find a senior citizen, paralyzed by a stroke or some such crisis.
I judged her to be about twenty-five years old.
I moved to where she could see me, and she did not see me. That was probably just as well, because I had just seen the two most horrible things. The first was the smile. They say that when the bomb went off at Hiroshima, some people’s shadows were baked onto walls by it. I think that smile got baked on the surface of my brain in much the same way. I don’t want to talk about that smile.
The second horrible thing was the one that explained all the rest. From where I now stood I could see a triple socket in the wall beneath the window. Into it were plugged the lamp
, the clock, and her.
I knew about wireheading, of course—I had lost a couple of acquaintances and one friend to the juice. But I had never seen a wirehead. It is by definition a solitary vice, and all the public usually gets to see is a sheeted figure being carried out to the wagon.
The transformer lay on the floor beside the chair where it had been dropped. The switch was on, and the timer had been jiggered so that instead of providing one five- or ten- or fifteen-second jolt per hour, it allowed continuous flow. That timer is required by law on all juice rigs sold, and you need special tools to defeat it. Say, a nail file. The input cord was long, fell in crazy coils from the wall socket. The output cord disappeared beneath the chair, but I knew where it ended. It ended in the tangled snarl of her hair, at the crown of her head, ended in a miniplug. The plug was snapped into a jack surgically implanted in her skull, and from the jack tiny wires snaked their way through the wet jelly to the hypothalamus, to the specific place in the medial forebrain bundle where the major pleasure center of her brain was located. She had sat there in total transcendent ecstasy for at least five days.
I moved finally. I moved closer, which surprised me. She saw me now, and impossibly the smile became a bit wider. I was marvelous. I was captivating. I was her perfect lover. I could not look at the smile; a small plastic tube ran from one corner of the smile and my eyes followed it gratefully. It was held in place by small bits of surgical tape at her jaw, neck and shoulder, and from there it ran in a lazy curve to the big fifty-litre water-cooler bottle on the floor. She had plainly meant her suicide to last: she had arranged to die of hunger rather than thirst, which would have been quicker. She could take a drink when she happened to think of it; and if she forgot, well, what the hell.
My intention must have shown on my face, and I think she even understood it—the smile began to fade. That decided me. I moved before she could force her neglected body to react, whipped the plug out of the wall and stepped back warily.
Her body did not go rigid as if galvanized. It had already been so for many days. What it did was the exact opposite, and the effect was just as striking. She seemed to shrink. Her eyes slammed shut. She slumped. Well, I thought, it’ll be a long day and a night before she can move a voluntary muscle again, and then she hit me before I knew she had left the chair, breaking my nose with the heel of one fist and bouncing the other off the side of my head. We cannoned off each other and I managed to keep my feet; she whirled and grabbed the lamp. Its cord was stapled to the floor and would not yield, so she set her feet and yanked and it snapped off clean at the base. In near-total darkness she raised the lamp on high and came at me and I lunged inside the arc of her swing and punched her in the solar plexus. She said guff! and went down.
I staggered to a couch and sat down and felt my nose and fainted.
I don’t think I was out very long. The blood tasted fresh. I woke with a sense of terrible urgency. It took me a while to work out why. When someone has been simultaneously starved and unceasingly stimulated for days on end, it is not the best idea in the world to depress their respiratory center. I lurched to my feet.
It was not completely dark, there was a moon somewhere out there. She lay on her back, arms at her sides, perfectly relaxed. Her ribs rose and fell in great slow swells. A pulse showed strongly at her throat. As I knelt beside her she began to snore, deeply and rhythmically.
I had time for second thoughts now. It seemed incredible that my impulsive action had not killed her. Perhaps that had been my subconscious intent. Five days of wire-heading alone should have killed her, let alone sudden cold turkey.
I probed in the tangle of hair, found the empty jack. The hair around it was dry. If she hadn’t torn the skin in yanking herself loose, it was unlikely that she had sustained any more serious damage within. I continued probing, found no soft places on the skull. Her forehead felt cool and sticky to my hand. The fecal smell was overpowering the baking bread now, sourly fresh.
There was no pain in my nose yet, but it felt immense and pulsing. I did not want to touch it, or to think about it. My shirt was soaked with blood; I wiped my face with it and tossed it into a corner. It took everything I had to lift her. She was unreasonably heavy, and I have carried drunks and corpses. There was a hall off the living room, and all halls lead to a bathroom. I headed that way in a clumsy staggering trot, and just as I reached the deeper darkness, with my pulse at its maximum, my nose woke up and began screaming. I nearly dropped her then and clapped my hands to my face; the temptation was overwhelming. Instead I whimpered like a dog and kept going. Childhood feeling: runny nose you can’t wipe. At each door I came to I teetered on one leg and kicked it open, and the third one gave the right small-room, acoustic-tile echo. The light switch was where they almost always are; I rubbed it on with my shoulder and the room flooded with light.
Large aquamarine tub, styrofoam recliner pillow at the head end, nonslip bottom. Aquamarine sink with ornate handles, cluttered with toiletries and cigarette butts and broken shards of mirror from the medicine cabinet above. Aquamarine commode, lid up and seat down. Brown throw rug, expensive. Scale shoved back into a corner, covered with dust in which two footprints showed. I made a massive effort and managed to set her reasonably gently in the tub. I rinsed my face and hands of blood at the sink, ignoring the broken glass, and stuffed the bleeding nostril with toilet paper. I adjusted her head, fixed the chin strap. I held both feet away from the faucet until I had the water adjusted, and then left with one hand on my nose and the other beating against my hip, in search of her liquor.
There was plenty to choose from. I found some Metaxa in the kitchen. I took great care not to bring it near my nose, sneaking it up on my mouth from below. It tasted like burning lighter fluid, and made a sweat spring out on my forehead. I found a roll of paper towels, and on my way back to the bathroom I used a great wad of them to swab most of the sludge off the chair and rug. There was a growing pool of water siphoning from the plastic tube and I stopped that. When I got back to the bathroom the water was lapping over her bloated belly, and horrible tendrils were weaving up from beneath her. It took three rinses before I was satisfied with the body. I found a hose-and-spray under the sink that mated with the tub’s faucet, and that made the hair easy.
I had to dry her there in the tub. There was only one towel left, none too clean. I found a first aid spray that incorporated a good topical anesthetic, and put it on the sores on her back and butt. I had located her bedroom on the way to the Metaxa. Wet hair slapped my arm as I carried her there. She seemed even heavier, as though she had become water logged. I eased the door shut behind me and tried the light-switch trick again, and it wasn’t there. I moved forward into a footlocker and lost her and went down amid multiple crashes, putting all my attention into guarding my nose. She made no sound at all, not even a grunt.
The light switch turned out to be a pull chain over the bed. She was on her side, still breathing slow and deep. I wanted to punt her up onto the bed. My nose was a blossom of pain. I nearly couldn’t lift her the third time. I was moaning with frustration by the time I had her on her left side on the king-size mattress. It was a big brass four-poster bed, with satin sheets and pillowcases, all dirty. The blankets were shoved to the bottom. I checked her skull and pulse again, peeled up each eyelid and found uniform pupils. Her forehead and cheek still felt cool, so I covered her. Then I kicked the footlocker clear into the corner, turned out the light and left her snoring like a chainsaw.
Her vital papers and documents were in her study, locked in a strongbox on the closet shelf. It was an expensive box, quite sturdy and proof against anything short of nuclear explosion. It had a combination lock with all of twenty-seven possible combinations. It was stuffed with papers. I laid her life out on her desk like a losing hand of solitaire, and studied it with a growing frustration.
Her name was Karen Scholz, and she used the name Karyn Shaw, which I thought phony. She was twenty-two. Divorced her parents at fourteen, unco
ntested no-fault. Since then she had been, at various times, waitress, secretary to a lamp salesman, painter, freelance typist, motorcycle mechanic and unlicensed masseuse. The most recent paycheck stub was from The Hard Corps, a massage parlor with a cutrate reputation. It was dated almost a year ago. Her bank balance combined with paraphernalia I had found in the closet to tell me that she was currently self-employed as a tootlegger, a cocaine dealer. The richness of the apartment and furnishings told me that she was a foolish one. Even if the narcs missed her, very shortly the IRS was going to come down on her like a ton of bricks. Perhaps subconsciously she had not expected to be around.
Nothing there; I kept digging. She had attended community college for one semester as an art major, and dropped out failing. She had defaulted on a lease three years ago. She had wrecked a car once, and been shafted by her insurance company. Trivia. Only one major trauma in recent years: a year and a half ago she had contracted out as host-mother to a couple named Lombard/Smyth. It was a pretty good fee—she had good hips and the right rare blood type—but six months into the pregnancy they had caught her using tobacco and canceled the contract. She fought, but they had photographs. And better lawyers, naturally. She had to repay the advance, and pay for the abortion, of course, and got socked for court costs besides.
It didn’t make sense. To show clean lungs at the physical, she had to have been off cigarettes for at least three to six months. Why backslide, with so much at stake? Like the minor traumas, it felt more like an effect than a cause. Self-destructive behavior. I kept looking.
Near the bottom I found something that looked promising. Both her parents had been killed in a car smash when she was eighteen. Their obituary was paperclipped to her father’s will. That will was one of the most extraordinary documents I have ever read. I could understand an angry father cutting off his only child without a dime. But what he had done was worse. Much worse.
Damn it, it didn’t work either. So-there suicides don’t wait four years. And they don’t use such a garish method either: it devalues the tragedy. I decided it had to be either a very big and dangerous coke deal gone bad, or a very reptilian lover. No, not a coke deal. They’d never have left her in her own apartment to die the way she wanted to. It could not be murder: even the most unscrupulous wire surgeon needs an awake, consenting subject to place the wire correctly.
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