He noticed then that the letter in his hand was in his wife’s handwriting and addressed to himself. It had been mailed the previous night. Not being the type who puts two and two together, Mr. Muddle opened the letter without misgivings. His eyes widened incredulously as he read:
“Merton:
I am leaving you. When you receive this note I will be gone. I will be at Mother’s for a time, but please do not attempt to communicate with me. I have endured your drab, uninteresting presence as long as I can. This is good-bye.:
Nell.”
The paper slipped from his nerveless fingers and he stared uncomprehendingly about at the familiar surroundings.
Nellie gone! It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t—a sudden thought struck him. Maybe it was just a joke. This cheering thought accompanied him as he trotted up the stairs to her bedroom. That must be it. She was just trying to make him nervous.
But her bed had not been slept in. Merton looked sorrowfully at the neatly made bed and a large tear trickled down his nose.
His gloom lasted for several seconds and then he felt the unfamiliar stirrings of anger. What was it she had said in her note? She had endured his drab and uninteresting personality as long as she could, that was it.
Drab and uninteresting was he? He’d show her.
“Drab, am I?” He scowled at the drab image that faced him in his wife’s mirror. “Uninteresting, am I?” His chest swelled with a mighty determination. A precedent shattering determination.
“I’ll show her,” he cried loudly. “Just for that I’ll miss the eight-sixteen this morning!”
BUT he didn’t. The habit of fourteen years was not to be so lightly disregarded. And when the eight-sixteen pulled out at eight-twenty, Mr. Muddle was occupying his usual seat and his eyes were boring into his paper. Also as usual.
The next thing that happened was not according to schedule. Mr. Muddle raised his eyes and met those of the man occupying the opposite seat.
The man winked at Mr. Muddle.
For a breathless second Mr. Muddle was too flabbergasted to even close his mouth and then he ducked his head back into the sheltering confines of his newspaper.
Mr. Muddle knew better than to talk to strangers. The time he had bought the Michigan Avenue bridge had taught him that much at least. But the man looked so familiar that Mr. Muddle wasn’t sure but that he might be some chance acquaintance of his.
He kept his nose in his paper, however, until his station was called and then he stood up. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that his winking friend was also standing up.
And then Mr. Muddle realized why the man had seemed so familiar. The fellow was the exact counterpart of Merton Muddle.
“Goodness,” Mr. Muddle thought nervously, “It’s like looking in a mirror.”
Except that this other gentleman wore his hat at a rakish angle and had a merry, devilish glint in his eye, he might have been Mr. Muddle’s twin.
Mr. Muddle continued to stare until the outgoing passengers swept him down the aisle, but as he was leaving the car he bumped into the fellow again.
The man winked at him, leaned closer.
“Great day, isn’t it?” he said conversationally. “That sun, that air.” He sniffed appreciatively. “Glorious, isn’t it?”
Mr. Muddle didn’t answer right away. He was still speechless from surprise at the man’s resemblance to himself.
“You’ll pardon me,” he said finally, “but I seem to have forgotten your name. Your face is familiar but—” his voice trailed off lamely.
“Don’t give it a thought,” his companion said carelessly, “It’s a silly name anyway. Muddle. Merton Z. Muddle. Did you ever hear of a sillier name than that?”
“It can’t be,” cried Mr. Muddle distractedly, “That’s my name. I’m Merton Z. Muddle.”
His companion shook his head sadly.
“That’s too bad, isn’t it? But just don’t talk about it and people won’t notice.”
Mr. Muddle had the distinct feeling that he was going crazy.
“Wait a minute,” he bleated, “If you’re Merton Muddle, where do you live?”
“Sixty-twenty Greenwood,” his companion answered pleasantly, “Frightful little hole, but I’m thinking of moving soon.”
Mr. Muddle got a tight grip on himself before answering.
“Sixty-twenty Greenwood,” he said in an oddly strained voice, “is where I live.”
“That so?” his companion was peering ahead into the crowd. “Then you know what a miserable little hole it is.”
BEFORE Mr. Muddle could reply, his companion gripped him by the arm.
“Look,” he chortled, “see that woman, the great big fat one? All dignity and presence.”
He pulled the tie pin from his tie and nudged Mr. Muddle. “Watch and see what happens to her dignity.”
Before Mr. Muddle could speak, his irrepressible companion had ducked into the crowd that was streaming through the depot to the street. Mr. Muddle peered ahead and saw the large, dignified woman walking a few dozen feet ahead of his counterpart.
He had a vague, unpleasant premonition of impending doom but he shook his head determinedly. Nothing else could happen this morning that would shock him. He had been through everything that—
Muddle stepped into the depot drugstore and purchased a new package of Pepper’s Pituitary Pills. He’d wasted the sample pills, and he really wanted to give them a year’s trial—
Suddenly the clamor of the depot was shattered by a frantic, shocked scream that blasted through the air like an outraged train whistle.
“Yeeeeeeeow,” a woman’s voice howled hysterically. “He stuck me, he stuck me.” Here the indignant voice soared off again to unintelligible shrieks.
Mr. Muddle hurried forward again with the crowd, craning his neck eagerly for a better look. In the middle of a sympathetic crowd stood the large, horsey looking woman his peculiar companion had pointed out. Now, she was wringing her hands and shrieking at the top of her voice, which apparently had no ceiling.
Mr. Muddle nudged and edged his way up closer until he stood on the inside of the circle that surrounded the wailing woman. Her sobs subsided at last to gusty, angry snorts, and she stared balefully about her.
“I saw him,” she cried loudly, “and if I ever see—” her voice broke off as her eyes riveted themselves on a small, motheaten man in the crowd.
“Goodness,” thought Mr. Muddle, “she looks just as if she’s looking at me.” His eyes popped wide open then as he realized that she was looking at him, that she was advancing toward him.
“You worm,” she hissed, “you despicable, cowardly little worm. Don’t try and get away from me.”
Mr. Muddle backed away before her ominous advance while whimpering noises sounded in his throat.
“You—you—you’re making a mistake,” he stuttered in terror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The crowd was pressing in on Mr. Muddle and then to his mingled relief and consternation a large, uniformed policeman broke through the crowd and stepped between him and the feminine juggernaut.
“Now hold yer horses,” the policeman barked. “What do you think’s going on here?”
“That man,” the woman screamed. “He—he assaulted me.”
The policeman followed the direction of her accusing finger until his eyes rested on Mr. Muddle’s trembling figure. Then he looked back at the woman.
“With what,” he asked.
“A—a—pin,” the woman answered. “He stuck me with it.”
“But officer,” Mr. Muddle entreated, “I didn’t. She’s mistaken. I—I—I’m innocent.”
“Now let’s get this straight,” the policeman said grimly. “Where did he stick you, mam?”
The woman opened her mouth and then crimsoned.
“None of your business,” she snapped. “He stuck me that’s all.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
THE woman moved closer and
peered closely at Mr. Muddle. For the first time she appeared uncertain.
“Well,” she said slowly, “It looks like him—and then again it doesn’t. What I mean is the man that stuck me had a devilish, impudent grin on his face. This man—he’s different.”
The policeman scowled, pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Lady,” he said in almost a whisper,
“I can’t go arresting people on a description like that. If I was to pick up everybody that looked devilish we’d have to build a new cell block.”
“Well,” the woman looked disdainfully at Mr. Muddle, “maybe I was wrong. This little pipsqueak wouldn’t have the nerve to do a thing like that.” After more humiliating grilling, Muddle was able to escape the snickering crowd and hurry out of the depot. Never had he been so completely mortified, humiliated and degraded.
Hurrying along, head down, he almost bumped into a figure that stepped out in front of him from a doorway.
“Whatayasay, Muddle, old chum,” the figure addressed him. “They kind of gave you a bad moment, didn’t they?”
Mr. Muddle jerked his eyes from the pavement and focused them on the dapper, smiling figure standing in front of him. It was the amazing chap he’d met on the train, the exact counterpart of himself. And with this recognition came a sudden flash of understanding.
“You,” he gurgled. “You stuck that woman, didn’t you? You’re the one that got me into all that trouble.”
“Well,” Mr. Muddle’s counterpart wagged his finger playfully, “you would have liked to, wouldn’t you?”
Mr. Muddle started to deny this vigorously but then he scratched his head. He had never even thought of such an outrageous thing, but it would have been kind of fun to see her—He jerked himself up with a jolt.
“I wouldn’t,” he said coldly, “have done anything of the kind.”
“Oh rot,” his counterpart snorted. “That’s the trouble with you. You’ve got too many inhibitions. You’re never natural, unaffected, carefree. Never do the things you want to, because you don’t even know you want to do them. Always worrying about what people will think of your actions. Me, I don’t give a damn.”
“Well,” Mr. Muddle said heatedly, “if I’m going to be blamed for what you do, naturally you needn’t worry.” He thought that he had expressed the matter very neatly and was just turning away when he realized what he had said. It was true. He, Merton Muddle, would be blamed for anything this fellow did.
“Now wait a minute,” he cried, “this joke has gone far enough. I won’t be responsible for the things you do. I’m Merton Muddle—”
“So am I,” his counterpart said pleasantly.
“I’ve got a home—” Merton cried. “Me too.”
“But I pay the taxes,” Muddle insisted. “I’m warning you—you go around telling people you’re Merton Muddle and you’re going to get in trouble.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Mr. Muddle shrieked, “I’m Merton Muddle. I have a home, a wife—”
“Aaaaaah,”
“What did you say?” Mr. Muddle cried.
“I said Aaaaaah.” Mr. Muddle’s counterpart winked knowingly and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Delightful woman and all that.”
“Just what do you mean,” Mr. Muddle’s voice was ominous, “by ‘and all that’ ?”
“Just ‘and all that’.”
“We’re getting nowhere,” Mr. Muddle cried, “and I’ve got to get to work. I’m almost late now. But we can’t both be me. That’s one thing I’m sure of.”
“There you go again,” Mr. Muddle’s counterpart warned. “Thinking in a groove. The only explanation for this mix-up is the one that you refuse to admit. Why? I’ll tell you. Because it takes a little imagination, a little original thinking and you’re not capable of that.”
“I am not,” Mr. Muddle retorted, “but it’s just crazy to think of it. We both can’t be me, because, well just because, that’s why.”
HIS counterpart shook his head despairingly and then the old merry gleam returned to his eye.
“Okay, we won’t argue about it. Let’s go to work.”
“But,” Mr. Muddle protested, “I can’t take you to work with me.”
“You aren’t going to,” his counterpart said feelingly. “Working in these caverns of cement is all right for human moles, but me—” he breathed deeply, “I like to flit about, following my fancies and my foibles.”
“You,” said Mr. Muddle, “are heading for no good end.”
“At least I’m heading somewhere,” he answered goodnaturedly, “which is more than I can say for you.”
Mr. Muddle knew there was something wrong with this reasoning, but he couldn’t put his finger on it so he turned and marched stiffly away. He was aware in a few feet that his counterpart was following him. Mr. Muddle’s shoulders sagged wearily. Nothing in his previous existence had equipped him to deal with a situation like this so he plodded on, unhappily silent.
At the entrance to the building that housed Lock, Stock & Barrel, Investment Brokers, the firm that employed him, he paused and faced his counterpart resolutely.
“Go away,” he said worriedly, “you can’t follow me in here.”
His counterpart sighed.
“Thank heaven for that.” He peered over Mr. Muddle’s shoulder into the dim, cavernous hallway that led to the elevator and shuddered. “Mouldy place.”
Mr. Muddle should have resented these aspersions but strangely he said nothing. He looked at his counterpart’s free, unfettered figure and he sighed wistfully. To go and come as one pleased would be—he gave himself a mental slap on the wrist and coughed disapprovingly.
“Keep out of trouble,” he said warningly, “and keep away from me, understand?”
“You know me,” his counterpart answered with a wicked grin, “You know me, Muddle old kid.”
“That,” Mr. Muddle said dubiously, “is just why I’m worried.”
“Forget it,” his counterpart waved a hand generously, “if I get into trouble I won’t give my right name.”
Mr. Muddle felt a little better. “Whose will you give?”
“Merton Z. Muddle.”
“But that’s my name.”
“Dear me,” his counterpart shook his head in amazement, “What an odd coincidence. How very, very, odd. He was still shaking his head and smiling to himself as he walked away from Mr. Muddle and disappeared into the crowd.
Mr. Muddle stood under the archway of the building and bit his lip anxiously. He knew he should be at work but some sixth sense warned him his place was at the side of his devil-may-care, mischievous counterpart. But Mr. Muddle was not in the habit of obeying subtle promptings of his sixth sense so he turned at last and plodded into the building.
AT his desk, where he stamped circulars and did other mechanical clerical work, Mr. Muddle continued to stew. His counterpart, he was forced to admit, had qualities which he, Muddle, admired in a furtive sort of way. Maybe there was something to his free and easy philosophy, maybe he was right about slaving away in gruelling work—
“Muddle,” the voice, cold and angry, sounded at the side of his desk.
Mr. Muddle did not need to glance up to know that speaker was Bludgeon Barrel, lord and master of Lock, Stock & Barrel and keeper of the keys that locked Mr. Muddle’s particular fetters.
“Muddle,” Bludgeon Barrel repeated, “I have just examined the time cards and I was very disappointed to notice that you punched in thirty-six minutes late today. If you have a reasonable excuse I might be induced to overlook this lapse, inasmuch as it is our first.”
Mr. Muddle opened and closed his mouth. He couldn’t tell Mr. Barrel that he had been delayed by a mob who thought he had stuck a pin into a woman. Neither could he tell him that he had wasted precious seconds arguing with a man who claimed to be himself.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Barrel,” he said miserably. “It was just carelessness on my part. I shall see that it doesn’t happen again.”
Mr. Barrel was not pleased. He wanted to listen to an excuse that was particular, weigh it carefully and then reject it as being unsatisfactory. This always made him feel better. Gave him a feeling of Judge, Jury and Executioner that he dearly loved. He didn’t relish being cheated of his most pleasant pastime. Namely, fattening his ego.
“Hmmmmmm,” he hmmmed, “Carelessness. Hmmmmmm. The next time, Mr. Muddle,” he spaced each word carefully, “that you are tardy I shall be forced to ask for your resignation.”
With this he strode away, feeling happy and important.
Mr. Muddle sat shuddering in the breeze of his wake, so to speak, and then went back to work.
But he could not keep his thoughts on his work. They kept straying to the baffling problem of his counterpart. He thought the whole thing over again and suddenly a phrase his counterpart had used pounded into his consciousness.
“You’ve got too many inhibitions,” that’s what he’d said.
He sat for a moment dazed and shaken as he remembered the exact words and then he dug excitedly into his coat pocket and pulled a small booklet entitled, “Directions and Explanation of Pepper’s Pituitary Pills.”
He jerked the book open, found a certain page, ran his finger down till he found a certain sentence and then he read it with bulging incredulous eyes.
“You have too many inhibitions. You are spineless, afraid of opportunity because your inhibitions, developed since childhood, stand in your way. Pepper’s Pituitary Pills stimulate your natural personality by striking inhibitions from the psyche and leaving the natural you unfettered and unrestricted. In actuality a new man is created over a period of a year. The change is gradual and therefore is not noticed.
The book fell from his hands and he stared glassily in front of him. He understood now. It was monstrous.
He had consumed all the pills—and—just like the book said—a new being had been created—but not in a year; instead, it had happened almost instantly! A new Merton Z. Muddle, free from inhibitions, repressions or—or—anything.
Mr. Muddle suddenly groaned. Where would it all end? What new trouble was in store for him?
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 30
