Rally Round the Flag, Boys!

by Max Shulman

  “Thanks a lot,” he mumbled huffily.

  “Maybe you better take me home,” said Comfort.

  “Maybe I better.”

  Silently they mounted the Harley. Again, as they sped home, the good, wild, free feeling returned to Comfort. She hugged Grady tight, rubbed her cheek happily into his back, laughed with delight as they careened around corners.

  They pulled up in front of Comfort’s house. Grady helped her off, walked her to the door. “Well, so long,” he said, offering her a tentative hand to shake.

  “Don’t you want to kiss me goodnight?” she asked.

  “Do you think I’m nuts?” he replied with feeling.

  “I won’t hit you,” she promised. “Anyhow, I don’t think I will.”

  “Well, I don’t know—”

  “Come on.”

  She turned her lips upward. Apprehensively he bent over and gave her a minimal kiss. When, however, no blows seemed to be coming, he increased the pressure.

  “Ah!” she said, coming out of the clinch. “That was keen!”

  Grady narrowed his half-drawn eyelids. “I don’t dig you,” he confessed.

  “I don’t dig myself,” replied Comfort truthfully.

  “Want another kiss?”

  “Better not,” she said. “I’m almost sure I’ll hit you this time.”

  Grady scratched his head for a moment. “Well, goodnight,” he said.

  “Goodnight.”

  He walked toward his bike. He turned. “Hey, will you go out with me again?”

  “No,” she replied promptly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re such a creep!”

  “So how come you kissed me?”

  She shrugged. “You answer that one, chum, and you win the turkey.”

  He scratched his head some more. “Maybe I’ll come around tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Comfort.

  He stared at her in total confusion. “You are the weirdest!” he said.

  She nodded. “Yeah … Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Thoughtfully they went their separate ways—Comfort up to her room to lie open-eyed on her bed while her antique blood went a few rounds with her contemporary endocrines; Grady home on his motorcycle, feeling like a combination of Raffles and Pandora. He had managed to open the locked box all right, but, Kee-rist, what a mess of trouble had come flying out!

  And yet, thought Grady as he rode, he had succeeded. Where every other expert at Webster High had failed, he had clearly scored. Sure, she was cuckoo and treacherous and strong as an ox, but all the same he had kissed her and he had been kissed back, and who else could make that statement?

  Pride warmed his wind-whipped breast. It was no small thing to be the first victor over an adversary so formidable. She was Everest, and he was Tenzing, and this was no night to be slinking home, this was a night to celebrate!

  He braked the bike, spun it around, and headed for Fatso’s Diner to share his triumph with his loyal liegemen. They came running when Grady roared into the parking lot. “Well?” they cried eagerly. “Well? Well?”

  “I’ll give it to you in one word,” said Grady. “Jackpot!”

  A cheer rose from their throats. They shook his hand and pounded his back and tousled his hair.

  “Kee-rap,” said Grady, concealing his pleasure. “Come on. Let’s hit for Beer Can Boulevard.”

  He gunned his bike and raced away. The others piled into the hot-rod and followed.

  “You know what he is?” said Ed as they rode.

  “Grady?” said Charlie.

  “Yeah,” said Ed.

  “What?” said Fred.

  “An inspiration to us all,” said Ed.

  They nodded in solemn agreement and followed the big red tail-light on the big black Harley.

  16

  The day was Tuesday, the time was fifteen minutes past noon, and the place was Oscar Hoffa’s office. Oscar sat behind his desk mangling an Upmann. Seated in front of his desk were a half-dozen advertising agency executives, all dressed in the funereal black that passes for chic on Madison Avenue. Oscar, who had a very tiny attention span for advertising executives, had not caught their names when they came in. He had a vague impression they were all called Dub Hotchkiss, and, indeed, they all seemed to answer to that name.

  The topic of today’s meeting was a television serial entitled David and Bathsheba, a biblical romance filled with action, passion, and godhead, which had a Trendex rating calculated to warm the heart of any sponsor. Yet the sponsor, the Crackle-Crunchies Corporation, was far from satisfied. In spite of the mounting popularity of David and Bathsheba, the sales of Crackle-Crunchies were showing no increase whatsoever, and, in fact, were declining sharply in some areas. To solve this paradox the agency executives were this day solemnly assembled.

  “Just talking off the top of my head, of course,” said the first Dub Hotchkiss, “but I think the kazoo here is product identification. This is only woodshed research, but my antenna tells me the public doesn’t identify King David with Crackle-Crunchies.”

  “Right!” said the second Dub Hotchkiss. “Now we’re getting down to where the rubber meets the road. Identification! That’s the gizmo! Somehow we’ve got to tie up Crackle-Crunchies with King David.”

  “Well,” said the third Dub Hotchkiss. “I’ve got a kind of crazy, off-beat idea. In fact, it’s so far out in left field, I’m not sure I ought to bring it up.”

  “Nonsense, laddie,” said the fourth Dub Hotchkiss. “Run it up the mast, and let’s see if anybody salutes.”

  “All right then,” said the third Dub Hotchkiss. “To get down to the short strokes, what I have in mind is a time machine. Every once in a while we put King David in the time machine and he pops into the twentieth century and has himself a bowl of Crackle-Crunchies.”

  “I don’t know,” said the fifth Dub Hotchkiss doubtfully. “We may be opening up a can of beans here. What do you think, Oscar?”

  Oscar grunted. He had long ago learned to close his mind tight at meetings with agency people. Today it was especially easy, because today his mind was occupied by another topic: his wife Angela. Or—more properly—his ex-wife Angela.

  Angela had come back from Reno five days earlier with her divorce, and since her return Oscar had been curiously unhappy. He had been happy enough to see her go. “Good riddance!” he had cried with characteristic gallantry. He had left her the Putnam’s Landing house and moved into New York, thus cutting two hated hours of commuting from his day. He had worked as late as he liked, gotten up whenever he felt like it, kept television sets blaring in every room, answered to nobody for anything, and been better-tempered than he had been in years. But all the time he had clung secretly to a conviction that Angela would abandon the notion of a divorce before the six weeks were up and come slinking home for forgiveness.

  But she had not. She had returned a free woman, and Oscar was filled with unaccustomed aches in unused regions. His pride hurt, and so did his heart, and even his conscience was stirring sluggishly. Not that he wanted Angela back; he recognized that a man like himself was far better off alone. But still he could not help wondering what had gone wrong, and how he could have prevented it, and what was in store for Angela now.

  “Gentlemen,” said the sixth Dub Hotchkiss, “hand me my cross-cut saw; I’m going out on a limb. I am flatly against the time machine. It seems to me we’re rooting around on the ground for acorns when we should be looking up to see where they’re coming from. What’s the biggest plus we’ve got on this program? I’ll tell you, gentlemen: it’s God! We’ve established a fine, warm rapport between David and God over the last few weeks. Now, why can’t we—reverently, of course—have God bring him a bowl of Crackle-Crunchies in a vision?”

  “Too full of wrinkles,” said the first Dub Hotchkiss, shaking his head gravely. “Some of those religious nuts might hop on it. Don’t you think so, Oscar?”

  Oscar grunted again. T
here had to be a guy, he was thinking. Angela wouldn’t just go running off and get divorced unless there was a guy waiting somewhere. She was much too smart for such a bonehead play. But who was the guy? Where was he? And what did he have that Oscar didn’t?

  The intercom buzzed on Oscar’s desk. “Yeah?” he snapped, pushing down the key.

  “Mr. Stronghold on the phone,” said his secretary.

  Oscar, hardly a man for idle speculation, had not merely sat around and wondered who Angela’s guy might be; he had engaged one Albert Stronghold, private investigator, to shadow Angela as soon as she got back from Reno. So far there had been no results, but this call, thought Oscar with a flutter of excitement, could be the jackpot. “Yeah?” he said into the phone.

  “Subject left Putnam’s Landing on the 10:07 train this morning,” said Mr. Stronghold. “Subject registered at the Plaza Hotel at 11:54, checked into Room 921. Man came to Room 921 at 12:15 P.M. and was admitted by subject Man is tall, in mid-thirties, wearing tan topcoat and gray flannel suit, looked nervous, no distinguishing marks.”

  “Right!” cried Oscar jubilantly and banged down the phone. “Dub,” he said collectively, “you guys mother-hen it, house-break it, pressure-cook it, cross-pollinate it, blue-sky it, unglue it, run it down, and wrap it up. I’ll see you around.”

  “But what about our problem?” cried the second Dub Hotchkiss in dismay. “How do we identify King David with Crackle-Crunchies?”

  “Simple,” said Oscar. “King David invents Crackle-Crunchies himself, see? But it’s such a great delicacy that he don’t want the common people to have it, so he keeps the formula a secret. When he dies, the formula is lost, and we don’t find it till 5000 years later.”

  “Where do we find it?” asked the third Dub Hotchkiss.

  “In the Dead Sea Scrolls,” said Oscar. “Where else?”

  All the Dub Hotchkisses looked at him with admiration bordering on awe.

  “A barn-burner!” said one.

  “This has protein!” said another.

  “This sings!” said a third.

  “Yeah,” said Oscar. “Well, so long, Dub.”

  He leaped up from his desk and raced out of the office.

  A tall man in his mid-thirties, wearing a tan topcoat and a gray flannel suit, looking nervous, and bearing no distinguishing marks, raised his knuckles to rap on the door of Room 921 of the Plaza Hotel, and then changed his mind and stuck his hand in his pocket. Twice more he took out his hand, lifted it, and put it away again. At length he shrugged and sighed and rapped.

  The door opened instantly. “Harry!” cried Angela Hoffa. “Harry, darling!”

  “Hello, Angela,” said Harry with a faint smile. He extended his hand for a handshake.

  “Well, aren’t we formal!” said Angela jocularly. She took his hand, pulled him into the room, swung the door shut. “Take off your coat.”

  “No, thanks, Angela. I can’t stay.”

  “Nonsense!” she said, moving around behind him and de-coating him deftly.

  “Honest, Angela, I’ve got to be going.”

  “Oh, don’t be a goose.” She picked up the phone. “Room service … This is Mrs. Hoffa in 921. Will you please send up a bottle of White Label and some ice? … Thank you.”

  “Angela, thanks a lot, but I really don’t care for a drink.”

  “I do,” she said mildly. “Do you mind?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Now, Angela, I agreed to meet you here today because—”

  Angela gripped Harry by both arms and looked him full in the face. “Harry, how are you?” she asked in a voice throbbing with earnestness.

  “Fine,” he answered. “Now, as I was saying—”

  “Aren’t you going to ask how I am?” she said, gently reproachful. “After all, it’s been seven weeks since you laid eyes on me.”

  “I’m sorry, Angela,” he said contritely. “How are you?”

  “That’s better,” she said with an approving nod. “I’m just dandy, thank you.”

  “I’m glad. Now, Angela—”

  “Don’t you want to ask me how Reno was?”

  “All right,” said Harry. “How was Reno?”

  “It was hot and dry, and they pay 10 to 1 on eight the hard way.”

  “I hope you won a lot of money,” he said politely.

  “Nope,” sighed Angela. “I’m only lucky in love.”

  Harry quickly moved a few feet farther from her. “Angela, can I say what I came to say?”

  “In a minute. How’s Grace?”

  “Grace? She’s fine, thanks.”

  “Do you ever see her?”

  “What?” said Harry, taken aback. “Of course I see her. Why?”

  “Look, pal, I got back to Putnam’s Landing almost a week ago and I’ve been hearing about nothing except the Nike Hospitality Committee. Day and night, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” he said cautiously, “it does keep Grace pretty busy.”

  “You poor darling!” said Angela, giving Harry a compassionate look.

  “Me? It’s Grace who does all the work.”

  “While you stand by, poor lamb, and wonder what ever became of the girl you married.”

  “Angela, will you tell me something?” asked Harry earnestly. “Why do you keep after me? Haven’t you got enough trouble?”

  “Haven’t you?” she countered.

  “All I can use.”

  “Well then, why shouldn’t we comfort each other?”

  “Comfort? I can’t face my wife. I can’t face you. I can’t face myself. You call that comfort?”

  “You poor lamb!”

  “I am not a poor lamb. What I am is a snake … Or a rat … Or a skunk … I’m here to tell you we’re through. I’m sorry you went to Reno on my account. I’m sorry about everything—sorry as hell … But we’re through.”

  “All right, darling. If we’re through, we’re through. But why such a long face? Let’s keep it light. That’s the way we started and that’s the way we end.”

  “Oh, no! None of that! Please, none of that! Spare me the good-sport bit. If you’ve got a little pearl handled revolver, by all means take it out and shoot me. But let’s not have any smiling through tears. I can’t stand it!”

  “You have got a conscience, haven’t you, poor darling?”

  “I have.”

  “Poor darling!”

  “And it’s nothing we can repair by getting in bed again—in case that’s what you’re thinking of.”

  “As a matter of fact, it had crossed my mind.”

  “What for? There’s no future in it.”

  “As a goodbye, then. As a proper goodbye.”

  “Angela, for God’s sake, what do you want with me? I’m a louse. What’s more, I’m a married louse … And the lousier I get, the more married I am. Don’t you understand that?’

  “You’re not a louse, darling. You’re just a poor, trapped, unhappy man. Why won’t you let me help you?”

  “Do yourself a favor, Angela. Go help someone else … Here. Here’s my hand. Give it a brisk shake, and men I’ll take off while you sit here and thank your lucky stars you’ve seen the last of me.”

  She took his extended hand, slipped deftly inside his arm, pressed her soft, fragrant body against his, found his lips.

  Suddenly there came a loud pounding on the door.

  “Oh, my God!” quavered Harry, visions of house detectives dancing through his brain.

  “Relax!” laughed Angela. “It’s room service.”

  “Pretty loud knock for room service,” said Harry, not comforted.

  She kissed him lightly. “You’re a worrier,” she said. She went to the door and opened it, and in came Oscar Hoffa like a wolf on the fold.

  He ran over to Harry and looked at him with wild, total incredulity. “Oh, no!” he howled. “Oh, no! Not you!”

  “What right have you got to come here?” demanded Angela, her eyes crackling with wrath.

  Oscar, unheeding, contin
ued to gape at Harry. “Harry Bannerman, for Christ’s sake!” he cried, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Oh, for Christ’s sweet sake!”

  “I’m asking you, Oscar,” said Angela. “What do you want here?”

  “Okay, okay,” said Oscar to Angela. “Don’t get a hemorrhage. I’m not looking for revenge. I’m not sore at nobody. I didn’t come to make trouble … But I do think I’m entitled to see the guy who took you away from me.” He looked again at Harry and shook his head in pained disbelief. “Harry Bannerman, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I’m not exactly sure of my rights in this situation,” said Harry to Oscar, “but I can’t say that I like your tone.”

  “No offense, buddy,” said Oscar placatingly. “It’s just that I always had you pegged for a hearth and home type. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” said Harry. “It’s a natural mistake.”

  “But I still don’t figure you with Angela,” Oscar continued. “You ain’t in love with her or anything like that?”

  “Let’s drop it. Okay, Oscar?” said Harry.

  “Naah,” said Oscar, answering his own question. “You ain’t in love with Angela. You just got a case of the hots, that’s all. So why pick Angela? She’s nothin’ but trouble. You wanna get your end wet, call me. I got broads. Any kind of broads you want—tall broads, short broads, thin broads, fat broads, young broads, old broads, white broads, black broads, pinto broads, broads with whips, broads with boots, broads with electric vibrators—you name it, buddy, I got it … And be my guest. Just tell ’em to put you on my tab.”

  “Oscar, you get out of here this minute!” cried Angela shrilly.

  “What are you gettin’ sore about?” Oscar asked her. “I’m only thinking of you.”

  “That’s a laugh,” said Angela bitterly. “When did you ever think about me?”

  “When I had time,” answered Oscar.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Angela, listen,” said Oscar. “I don’t know from love. If I had to tell a dame ‘I love you’ it would bust my jaw. But just the same I got a feeling for you, and a big one. Remember, kid, we had ten years together.”

  “I remember,” she said grimly. “I remember well.”