“Your worst enemy would get two million dollars.” “And if I asked for pneumonia?”
“Your worst enemy would get double pneumonia.” Edelstein pursed his lips and shook his head. “Look, not that I mean to tell you people how to run your business, but 1 hope you realize that you endanger customer goodwill with a clause like that.”
“It’s a risk, Mr. Edelstein, but absolutely necessary on a couple of counts,” Sitwell said. “You see, the clause is a psychic feedback device that acts to maintain homeostasis.” “Sorry, I’m not following you,” Edelstein answered. “Let me put it this way. The clause acts to reduce the power of the three wishes and, thus, to keep things reasonably normal. A wish is an extremely strong instrument, you know.”
“I can imagine,” Edelstein said. “Is there a second reason?”
“You should have guessed it already,” Sitwell said, baring exceptionally white teeth in an approximation of a smile. “Clauses like that are our trademark. That’s how you know it’s a genuine hellish product.”
“I see, I see,” Edelstein said. “Well, I’m going to need some time to think about this.”
“The offer is good for thirty days,” Sitwell said, standing up. “When you want to make a wish, simply state it— clearly and loudly. I’ll tend to the rest.”
Sitwell walked to the door. Edelstein said, “There’s only one problem I think I should mention.”
“What’s that?” Sitwell asked.
“Well, it just so happens that I don’t have a worst enemy. In fact, I don’t have an enemy in the world.”
Sitwell laughed hard, then wiped his eyes with a mauve handkerchief. “Edelstein,” he said, “you’re really too much! Not an enemy in the world! What about your cousin Seymour, who you wouldn’t lend five hundred dollars to, to start a dry-cleaning business? Is he a friend all of a sudden?”
“I hadn’t thought about Seymour,” Edelstein answered.
“And what about Mrs. Abramowitz, who spits at the mention of your name, because you wouldn’t marry her Marjorie? What about Tom Cassiday in apartment 1C of this building, who has a complete collection of Goebbels’ speeches and dreams every night of killing all of the Jews in the world, beginning with you? … Hey, are you all right?”
Edelstein, sitting on the couch, had gone white and his hands were clasped tightly together again.
“I never realized,” he said.
“No one realizes,” Sitwell said. “Look, take it easy, six or seven enemies is nothing; I can assure you that you’re well below average, hatewise.”
“Who else?” Edelstein asked, breathing heavily.
“I’m not going to tell you,” Sitwell said. “It would be needless aggravation.”
“But I have to know who is my worst enemy! Is it Cassiday? Do you think I should buy a gun?”
Sitwell shook his head. “Cassiday is a harmless, halfwitted lunatic. He’ll never lift a finger, you have my word on that. Your worst enemy is a man named Edward Samuel Manowitz.”
“You’re sure of that?” Edelstein asked incredulously.
“Completely sure.”
“But Manowitz happens to be my best friend.”
“Also your worst enemy,” Sitwell replied. “Sometimes it works like that. Goodbye, Mr. Edelstein, and good luck with your three wishes.”
“Wait!” Edelstein cried. He wanted to ask a million questions; but he was embarrassed and he asked only, “How can it be that hell is so crowded?”
“Because only heaven is infinite,” Sitwell told him.
“You know about heaven, too?”
“Of course. It’s the parent corporation. But now I really must be getting along. I have an appointment in Poughkeepsie. Good luck, Mr. Edelstein.”
Sitwell waved and turned and walked out through the locked solid door.
Edelstein sat perfectly still for five minutes. He thought about Eddie Manowitz. His worst enemy! That was laughable; hell had really gotten its wires crossed on that piece of information. He had known Manowitz for twenty years, saw him nearly every day, played chess and gin rummy with him. They went for walks together, saw movies together, at least one night a week they ate dinner together.
It was true, of course, that Manowitz could sometimes open up a big mouth and overstep the boundaries of good taste.
Sometimes Manowitz could be downright rude.
To be perfectly honest, Manowitz had, on more than one occasion, been insulting.
“But we’re friends ” Edelstein said to himself. “We are friends, aren’t we?”
There was an easy way to test it, he realized. He could wish for $1,000,000. That would give Manowitz $2,000,000. But so what? Would he, a wealthy man, care that his best friend was wealthier?
Yes! He would care! He damned well would care! It would eat his life away if a wise guy like Manowitz got rich on Edelstein’s wish.
“My God!” Edelstein thought. “An hour ago, I was a poor but contented man. Now I have three wishes and an enemy.”
He found that he was twisting his hands together again. He shook his head. This was going to need some thought.
In the next week, Edelstein managed to get a leave of absence from his job and sat day and night with a pen and pad in his hand. At first, he couldn’t get his mind off castles. Castles seemed to go with wishes. But, on second thought, it was not a simple matter. Taking an average dream castle with a ten-foot-thick stone wall, grounds and the rest, one had to consider the matter of upkeep. There was heating to worry about, the cost of several servants, because anything less would look ridiculous.
So it came at last to a matter of money.
I could keep up a pretty decent castle on $2000 a week, Edelstein thought, jotting figures down rapidly on his pad.
But that would mean that Manowitz would be maintaining two castles on $4000 a week!
By the second week, Edelstein had gotten past castles and was speculating feverishly on the endless possibilities and combinations of travel. Would it be too much to ask for a cruise around the world? Perhaps it would; he wasn’t even sure he was up to it. Surely he could accept a summer in Europe? Even a two-week vacation at the Fontainebleau in Miami Beach to rest his nerves.
But Manowitz would get two vacations! If Edelstein stayed at the Fontainebleau, Manowitz would have a penthouse suite at the Key Largo Colony Club. Twice.
It was almost better to stay poor and to keep Manowitz deprived.
Almost, but not quite.
During the final week, Edelstein was getting angry and desperate, even cynical. He said to himself, I’m an idiot, how do I know that there’s anything to this? So Sitwell could walk through doors; does that make him a magician? Maybe I’ve been worried about nothing.
He surprised himself by standing up abruptly and saying, in a loud, firm voice, “I want twenty thousand dollars and 1 want it right now.”
He felt a gentle tug at his right buttock. He pulled out his wallet. Inside it, he found a certified check made out to him for $20,000.
He went down to his bank and cashed the check, trembling, certain that the police would grab him. The manager looked at the check and initialed it. The teller asked him what denominations he wanted it in. Edelstein told the teller to credit it to his account.
As he left the bank, Manowitz came rushing in, an expression of fear, joy and bewilderment on his face.
Edelstein hurried home before Manowitz could speak to him. He had a pain in his stomach for the rest of the day.
Idiot! He had asked for only a lousy $20,000. But Manowitz had gotten $40,000!
A man could die from the aggravation.
Edelstein spent his days alternating between apathy and rage. That pain in the stomach had come back, which meant that he was probably giving himself an ulcer.
It was all so damned unfair! Did he have to push himself into an early grave, worrying about Manowitz?
Yes!
For now he realized that Manowitz was really his enemy and that the thought of enrichi
ng his enemy was literally killing him.
He thought about that and then said to himself, Edelstein, listen to me; you can’t go on like this, you must get some satisfaction!
But how?
He paced up and down his apartment. The pain was definitely an ulcer; what else could it be?
Then it came to him. Edelstein stopped pacing. His eyes rolled wildly and, seizing paper and pencil, he made some lightning calculations. When he finished, he was flushed, excited—happy for the first time since Sitwell’s visit.
He stood up. He shouted, “I want six hundred pounds of chopped chicken liver and I want it at once!”
The caterers began to arrive within five minutes.
Edelstein ate several giant portions of chopped chicken liver, stored two pounds of it in his refrigerator and sold most of the rest to a caterer at half price, making over $700 on the deal. The janitor had to take away 75 pounds that had been overlooked. Edelstein had a good laugh at the thought of Manowitz standing in his apartment up to his neck in chopped chicken liver.
His enjoyment was short-lived. He learned that Manowitz had kept ten pounds for himself (the man always had had a gross appetite), presented five pounds to a drab little widow he was trying to make an impression on and sold the rest back to the caterer for one third off, earning over $2,000.
I am the world’s prize imbecile, Edelstein thought. For a minute’s stupid satisfaction, I gave up a wish worth conservatively $100,000,000. And what do I get out of it? Two pounds of chopped chicken liver, a few hundred dollars and the lifelong friendship of my janitor!
He knew he was killing himself from sheer brute aggravation.
He was down to one wish now.
And now it was crucial that he spend that final wish wisely. But he had to ask for something that he wanted desperately—something Manowitz would not like at all.
Four weeks had gone by. One day, Edelstein realized glumly that his time was just about up. He had racked his brain, only to confirm his worst suspicions: Manowitz liked everything that he liked. Manowitz liked castles, women, wealth, cars, vacations, wine, music, food. Whatever you named, Manowitz the copycat liked it.
Then he remembered: Manowitz, by some strange quirk of the taste buds, could not abide lox.
But Edelstein didn’t like lox, either, not even Nova Scotia.
Edelstein prayed: Dear God, who is in charge of hell and heaven, I have had three wishes and used two miserably. Listen, God, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I ask you, if a man happens to be granted three wishes, shouldn’t he be able to do better for himself than I have done? Shouldn’t he be able to have something good happen to him without filling the pockets of Manowitz, his worst enemy, who does nothing but collect double with no effort or pain?
The final hour arrived. Edelstein grew calm, in the manner of a man who had accepted his fate. He realized that his hatred of Manowitz was futile, unworthy of him. With a new and sweet serenity, he said to himself, I am now going to ask for what I, Edelstein, personally want. If Manowitz has to go along for the ride, it simply can’t be helped.
Edelstein stood up very straight. He said, uThis is my last wish. I’ve been a bachelor too long. What I want is a woman whom I can marry. She should be about five feet, four inches tall, weight about 115 pounds, shapely, of course, and with naturally blond hair. She should be intelligent, practical, in love with me, Jewish, of course, but sensual and fun-loving—”
The Edelstein mind suddenly moved into high gear! “And especially,” he added, “she should be—I don’t know quite how to put this—she should be the most, the maximum, that I want and can handle, speaking now in a purely sexual sense. You understand what I mean, Sitwell? Delicacy forbids that I should spell it out more specifically than that, but if the matter must be explained to you …” There was a light, somehow sexual tapping at the door. Edelstein went to answer it, chuckling to himself. Over twenty thousand dollars, two pounds of chopped chicken liver and now this! Manowitz, he thought, I have you now: Double the most a man wants is something I probably shouldn’t have wished on my worst enemy, but I did.
I’ve never met Harvey Jacobs. I don’t knew anyone who’s ever met Harvey Jacobs. Mr. Jacobs, wherever he may be, does sadly dwell not in the land of prolificacy. For this we must all sorrow. Because Mr. Jacobs is a wonderful writer. His story is one of that rare species that when read by other members of the same persuasion is often referred to in the terms, “Gee, I wish I’d written that.” No higher praise can writers bestow on a colleague than emeraldine envy. There are some who might argue that this story is more in the nature of science-fiction than fantasy. It matters not, because it is not the subject of the tale that concerns us here so much as it is the telling of it. “The Egg of the Glak” is rambling and Rabelasian, writing chock-full of mental cholesterol, fattening and filling and altogether as hearty as thick gumbo on a cold winter’s night. It is not, indeed, a perfect story.
In some ways it is better than that. We readers in search of something beyond the mundane all have Harvey Jacobs to thank for hatching …
The Egg of the Glak
HARVEY JACOBS
To the memory of Dr. David Hikhoff, Ph.D.
May he rest in peace. Unless there is better.
A spring night. The campus quiet. The air soft breath. I stood at my post, balanced on stiff legs. The fountain, a gift of ‘08, tinkled under moonlight. Then he came, trumpeting like a mammoth, stomping, tilting, staggering, nearly sitting, straightening, roaring from the back of his mouth, a troublemaker.
uMy diphthongs. They monophthongized my diphthongs. The frogs. The frogs.”
Echoes rattled the quadrangle.
I ran to grab him. It was like holding a bear. He nearly carried both of us to the ground.
“Poor kid. You poor kid,” he said, waving short arms. “Another victim of the great vowel shift. The Northumbrian sellout.”
He cried real tears, hundred proof, and blotted his jowels with a rep tie. Oh, this was no student drunk. This was faculty, an older man.
“Let us conjugate stone in a time-tarnished manner. Repeat after me. Repeat or I will beat you to a mosh. Stan, stan, stanes, stane. stanas, stanas, stana. stanum”
“Easy, sir,” I said.
“Up the Normans,” he shrieked. “They loused my language. Mercian, Kentish, West Saxon and Northumbrian sellouts. French ticklers. Tell your children, and their children’s children, unto the generations. Diphthongs have been monophthongized. Help.”
“I’m trying to help,” I said.
“Police.”
“I am police.”
“Victim,” he said, whispering now. “Sad slob.”
How many remember what happened a thousand years ago? If it were not for Hikhoff, I would know nothing of the vowel shift, though it altered my life and Fiber. For it was this rotten shift that changed our English from growl to purr.
Look it up. Read how spit flew through the teeth of Angles, Saxons, and Jutes in the good old days. Get facts on how the French came, conquered, shoved our vowels to the left of the language, coated our tongues with velvet fur.
For Hikhoff, the shift of the vowels made history’s center. Before was a time for the hairy man, the man who ate from the bone. After came silk pants, phallic apology.
“From Teutonic to moronic,*1 Hikhoff told me. “Emasculation. Drought in the tonsil garden. No wonder so many strep throats in this town of clowns.”
Sounds. Hikhoff’s life was sounds. The sounds that make your insides wobble. Sounds of chalk screaming, of power saws cutting wood, of forks on glass, scrapings, buzzings, the garbage disposal chewing, jet wails, dentists drilling, pumps gurgling, drains sucking, tires screeching, ambulance sirens, giants breaking wind, booms, bangs, clangings, ripping and tearing, nails scratching silk.
Softer sounds too. Music and musical boxes, bells, chimes, bottle players on Ed Sullivan, all that, all noise, but mostly noises that make you squirm. His favorite: people sounds. Body sounds, sound
s of talking, squishing, words, singing, cajoling, cursing, ordering, asking, telling, excusing, insisting. That is why the great vowel shift meant so much to him.
“What those concupiscent Gauls did to me,” he said. “They shriveled half my vocal cords. They denied me my voice.”
Hikhoff liked to rasp and sputter. His lungs were organ bellows for rolling R’s and CH*s that choked to the point of dribble. He listened to himself with much pleasure. He played himself back on a tape recorder, reading from Beowulf or Chaucer or the Prose Edda, which tells of the Wind Age and Wolf Age when the Sun swallows Earth.
“Aggchnr, don’t talk from your nostrils. Nose talkers are bastards. Diaphragm. Lungs. The deepest tunnels. Use those. Form your words slowly. Shape them in your head. Let them out of the mouth like starved animals, hot smoke rings. Speak each sentence like a string of beautiful sausages. Show me a mumbler and I show you a turd.
SPEAK OUT. SAY YOUR PIECE. YOU WILL NOT ONLY
MAKE OUT BETTER BUT DO A SERVICE FOR THE
ENTIRE HUMAN RACE.”
Hikhoff. We became friends. I don’t kid myself. At first he had motives, improper designs. All right, think what you think.
“A despondent, disappointed soul.” “A bitter person, a cynic.” “A lump of rage,” “A bad influence.” I have heard all that said, and worse. To me, Hikhoff was redeemer, beloved comrade. I close my eyes and there he is in full detail.
Hikhoff.
Body like a cantaloupe. Little head, big jaw. A wet mouth gated by purple lips. Heavy in the breathing. Short arms and legs. A funny machine, an engine liberated, huffing, puffing. Like the power cabs that pull trailers and sometimes go running without their loads. The amputated heart. They move on diesel oil, Hikhoff on food. Fueling always. Always belching gas. I loved him. I miss him.
“Cousin North,” he once said in a mellow, huff-puff voice when he finished panting and scratching after a chase around his coffee table. “I accept your repressive shyness. Lord, god king of fishes, you are too young to know what trouble a man’s genitals can give.” Then, pointing at the top of his paunch,
Smart Dragons, Foolish Elves Page 4
