Far From This Earth

by Chad Oliver

  The only rest room in town is in the gas station, and that’s all the place is used for. It’s ridiculous. They only know how to serve one dish at the diner, because that’s all that was on the counter. Bacon and fried eggs and coffee. You think about it, Clyde. Two meals a day every day for seven years. That’s a lot of bacon and eggs. You lose your taste for them after a while.

  The train runs right by the side of the hotel, only two inches away. It rattles the whole thing until it’s ready to fall apart, and every time it goes by it pours black smoke in through the upstairs window. There’s a tenant up there, name of Martin. He looks like he’s made out of soot.

  The whole town is knee-deep in dust. Did you ever see a kid clean anything that belongs to him? And there’s no water, either. That cellophane in the Ohio River may look good from where you stand, but it’s about as wet as the gold in Fort Knox. Not only that, but it crinkles all the time where it flows under the bridges. It’s enough to drive you bats.

  You’re beginning to see how it is, Clyde. This town is ripe for one of those lantern-jawed, fearless crusading reporters—you know, the kind that wears the snap-brim hat and the pipe and is always telling the city editor to stop the presses—but Willy forgot to give us a newspaper.

  It isn’t much of a life, to my way of thinking. You do the best you can, and get up whenever some dumb kid hits a button, and then you get tossed in the wastebasket. It seems sort of pointless.

  You can’t really blame us for deciding to kill him, can you, Clyde? What else can we do? After we get rid of him there’s no telling what will happen to us. But it’s like living in the panther cage, you see—a move in any direction is bound to be an improvement.

  Know what we’re going to do, Clyde?

  We’re going to electrocute Willy.

  With his own electric train.

  We think that’s pretty sharp.

  I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m just a sour old woman, Clyde—a kind of juvenile delinquent with arthritis. I’m not, really. You know, a long time ago, when Willy was younger, even ELM POINT wasn’t so bad.

  Humphery wasn’t working so hard then, and at night, when our town was all gray and lazy, I used to try and write poetry. I guess you find that pretty hard to swallow, and I admit that it wasn’t very good poetry. Maybe you wonder what I found to write about in this dump. Well, one night they left the attic window open and I heard a real train, away off in the distance. I wrote a poem about that. You probably don’t care about poetry, Clyde. Anyhow, if you’re like the creeps around here, you wouldn’t admit it if you did.

  I’ll tell you, though—it’s funny. Sometimes, a long time ago, I’d go and sit down by that silly cellophane river and I’d almost get to where I liked it here.

  If it just hadn’t been for that dammed train every 47 seconds whenever the current was on …

  It’s too bad Willy had to change, huh, Clyde? He wasn’t so bad before—just kinda dumb and goggle-eyed. He and Humphery used to get along pretty good, but like I say it was a long time ago.

  I can see I’m boring you, talking about the past and all. You think it’s morbid. I guess you’re right; I really shouldn’t have mentioned it.

  Here comes poor old Humphery, dragging in from the switchman’s house. Look at him—man, he’s really beat to the socks. He can hardly put one foot in front of the other. He’s old before his time, Humphery is.

  You’ll excuse me for a while, won’t you? Humphery and I have to go down to the diner for a cup of coffee. Maybe we’ll have some bacon and eggs too, if we can stand it again. I hadn’t noticed how late it was getting.

  We’ll have to go to work on that transformer tonight, if some of us can stay awake. This stuff has got to go, don’t you agree?

  I’ll see you later, Clyde.

  A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since I last had a bull session with you, Clyde—or at least it would have if there’d been any water in that lousy Ohio River. All it does is crinkle. You have no idea how that can get on your nerves.

  Our town is turned off again, all gray and lazy. I know I use that phrase too much, but I’m afraid I’ve got kind of a literal mind, if you know what I mean. ELM POINT is gray and lazy when the current’s turned off, so that’s what I say it is.

  I guess I’m a realist, Clyde.

  I’m not the only one awake tonight, though, I’ll tell you that. I swear I’ve never seen so many people up and around at night in this burg. Even Smoky—he’s the guy who has to slide up and down that pole over at the firehouse—is sort of waddling around. He’s kind of bowlegged, you know.

  To tell you the truth, we’re all pretty nervous.

  A bunch of the guys have been doing their best on the transformer over in the kid’s well. It wasn’t easy to get to it, but they managed it by using one of the crane cars from the freight train.

  It’s awfully quiet here in town tonight, even with all the people up and around. I don’t know when I’ve heard it so quiet. You probably think we’ve turned chicken or something. You probably think we’re scared.

  You’re right.

  I wonder how you would feel. Have you ever been disconnected, Clyde?

  We’ve got a chance, the way we figure it. If we can just get rid of Willy, maybe they’ll let us alone for a while. We’d have strength enough to send a crew down to plug in the town once in a while, when nobody was around. It would be so wonderful—you have no idea. It isn’t asking very much, is it?

  Of course, it can’t last long. Maybe we’ll all get stuffed back in a box after a while. Maybe they’ll melt us down. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll be given away and go to some other town.

  But if we can only live a week like human beings, it’ll be worth the effort. I guess I’m getting maudlin. Sorry, Clyde. You know how it is when you get old.

  Sure, we’re scared. Win or lose, though, what are the odds? I ask you. Anything’s better than the wastebasket, that’s the way we figure it.

  The attic door is opening, Clyde. Light is streaming in from the stairs.

  I feel terrible.

  Here comes Willy.

  Willy Roberts wiggled under the table and came up in the control well. The train wasn’t a kick like the pinball machine, no argument there, but at least it was cheaper. He hadn’t won a free game in a month.

  He knocked with his knuckles on the blue tin roof of the switchman’s house. “Let’s get with it, Humphery boy,” he said. “Oil up the old leg and light the red lamp.”

  Willy surveyed the table top with a jaundiced eye. Let’s see now, what were the possibilities? If he played his cards right, it just might be possible to set the switch engine on the siding down by the cow pen, and then start the Black Express from the gas station and the freight from Texas. That way, he could have a three-way wreck.

  It wouldn’t be easy, though. It would take some doing.

  He swatted the tin roof of the switchman’s shack again and drummed on it with his fingernails. “Dig this, Humphery,” he said.

  The situation, he reflected, had definite possibilities.

  Willy took the transformer rheostat between his thumb and index finger and clicked it on.

  Then he pressed the red “start” button with the middle finger of his right hand.

  There was a small yellow spark and a faint smell of burning insulation. Willy jerked his tingling finger away and stood up straight, staring at his model railroad accusingly.

  “Damn it,” he said, “that hurt.”

  He reached out quite deliberately and ripped the transformer from its track connection. He pulled out the wall plug with a jerk on the wire. Then he took careful aim and threw the transformer as hard as he could at the spot where the walls converged in the corner of the attic.

  The transformer hit with a thud, chipping the wall plaster. It bounced off the wall, crashed into the top of the mountain, and rebounded off again to land with a squashing smash on the police station. The plastic policeman with his tin whistle was u
nder it when it fell.

  Willy socked the tin switchman’s house with his fingernail, almost knocking it over. “Think you’re pretty cool, don’t you, Humphery boy?” he asked, rubbing his smarting finger. “After all I’ve done for you, too.”

  He studied his model railroad thoughtfully for a long time. Finally, Willy made his decision. He was getting too old for this junk anyhow, he reasoned. What he needed was something else.

  Willy smiled at the railroad. “You know what I’m going to do to you?” he asked loudly. “I’m going to convert you to cash. How do you like that?”

  He turned out the light and left the attic.

  No current at all is coming through and our town is black.

  How did you like that, Clyde? All that work on the transformer and what do we get? One stinking spark. Like sticking your finger on a lightning bug. Deadly as a water pistol.

  I’m not too surprised, to tell you the truth. Patrick the cop warned us; he was in another town before Willy bought him, and they tried the same thing there. Not enough volts for anything but a little shock. Maybe you’ve been shocked by a model railroad yourself, Clyde. You think about it a little.

  Sure, we knew it wouldn’t work. So what? You’ve got to believe in something, Clyde, even when you know you’re kidding yourself. What else is there to do? And maybe we could hope that by some chance, just this once …

  But it’s over now, been over for a week. This is the first I’ve felt like talking. You know. There wasn’t much left of Patrick when the transformer hit him. I guess Lefty got his inside—nobody’s had enough energy to dig in and see.

  Poor old Humphery is hardly himself anymore; he got shaken up pretty badly when Willy socked the switchman’s shack. I guess the worst part is mental, though. It’s hard to see how things can get much worse in ELM POINT.

  Do you know a good psychiatrist, Clyde?

  I guess I sound like one of those old bats who spend their waking hours giving recitals of their aches and pains and their sleeping hours dreaming about men under their beds. I’m getting to be crummy company. But it is hard to talk now. It used to be that when the transformer was turned off a little current would seep through anyhow, but not anymore. We don’t even have a wire into the wall plug. The joint is like a morgue in a coal mine.

  I hear footsteps on the stairs.

  The door is opening—the light hurts my eyes.

  Here they come, Clyde.

  A whole herd of them.

  Willy Roberts rubbed his hands together expectantly. Just about every kid in the neighborhood had showed up, and some of them were fairly well loaded.

  “Take it easy, Mac,” he said. “One at a time. Let’s not mess up the table, guy—this is a valuable set.”

  Not bad, he told himself. Pretty good in fact. No doubt about it—he had a genius for business.

  “Whatcha want for the gas station, Willy?” asked Bruce Golder from down the street.

  “What’ll you give me?”

  “Fifty cents.”

  “Fifty cents?”

  “Fifty cents.”

  “Sold.”

  Willy pocketed the money. It felt good.

  “How about the switchman, Willy?” said Eddie Upman, the rich kid from up the hill.

  Willy hesitated, just for a second. He and Humphery had been together for a long time. But what the devil. He wasn’t a kid anymore. Humphery had cost five dollars new, and prices had gone up since then.

  “Two bucks four bits,” Willy announced, crossing his fingers.

  “Make it two bucks even,” said Eddie Upman, taking out his billfold.

  Willy looked around, but no one topped the bid. “Sold,” he said, and Eddie Upman took Humphery and put him in a sack.

  “Let’s get rid of the houses before we start on the track and stuff,” Willy said. “Who wants ’em?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “They’re good houses,” Willy insisted. “People inside and everything. See?”

  Silence.

  “Aw come on. A buck for the lot.”

  No takers.

  “Fifty cents. This is the last chance on these, you guys. I’ll burn ’em before I’ll give ’em away.”

  Mark Borden slowly fumbled in his pockets and came up with a quarter, four nickels, and five pennies. “I’ll take them,” he said. “I guess I can use them.”

  “Sold!” said Willy, pocketing the money. “Now, what am I offered for the good mountain? I’ll make it easy on you. Let’s see, about a buck ought to be right….”

  Willy Roberts felt good. The table was being cleaned quicker than he had hoped, and the table itself ought to bring in some real dough. He smiled broadly when Bruce Golder bought the mountain.

  Willy knew that he was a real man now.

  I’m back, Clyde.

  I guess you saw how they fought over me. Willy almost had to throw me into the fire. I’m a real queen, I am. I drive men mad.

  I wish he’d burn me, Clyde. I really do.

  I’m determined not to get all morbid and gloomy, so you won’t be hearing from me again. I can’t hold out much longer, and if I have to make with the blues I’ll do it alone.

  Maybe you’ll be wondering about me—where I am, what I’m doing. Probably you don’t give a damn. You’re just like all the rest of them, aren’t you? But just in case—

  Let me tell you about our new town, Clyde. It’ll kill you.

  You see, I’m it. Or just about.

  That’s right. ELM POINT looks like Utopia from where I’m sitting. Mark Borden, the one that bought me, can’t afford a real model railroad set-up, and his house doesn’t even have an attic. So about once a week he takes us all out of his dirty closet, sets up his lousy circle of track, and starts up his wheezing four-car freight train. It isn’t even a scale model. Big deal.

  He’s got four houses that he spaces alongside the track when he’s running the train; he doesn’t much like the other three that he got from Willy, so he leaves them in the closet all the time. That’s all there is, Clyde. Just me and the train. The other houses aren’t even occupied, and the engineer on the freight is so embittered by now that he won’t even wave.

  I just sit in my stinking rocking chair and look out the window. Oh, it’s delightful. I can see an old blue rug, a dresser with initials cut in it, a pile of dirty clothes in the corner, and a bed that’s never made.

  Once in a while Mark, the little angel, gets out his lead men and plays Soldier. The first thing he does, see, is to build him a Lincoln Log fort, about a foot from my house. Then he sticks all these lantern-jawed jokers with broken rifles along the walls, and then he backs off about nine feet and sets up his Coast Defense Gun. You’d love that, Clyde. The Coast Defense Gun is a huge blue job that works on a big spring. Mark puts marbles in the barrel, cocks the spring, and then hollers “Fire!” like a maniac. The whole lousy gun jerks up on two folding stilts and hurls all the marbles at the log fort by my house.

  Chaos results, Clyde.

  Logs fly all over the place. Marbles swish through the air and roll under the bed like thunder. My house has two big holes in it, and all I can do is sit in this quaint old rocker and pray. I don’t know whether to pray for a hit or a miss. Periodically, one of the marbles hits a soldier square in the face and knocks his head off.

  Charming.

  And there’s one other minor detail. Ants. We have ants. I don’t think I’ll tell you about them, though. You just think about it a while.

  That’s about all. You see how it is, Clyde. I’ve enjoyed talking to you, but now there doesn’t seem to be much to say. I won’t bother you anymore.

  There’s only one thing, Clyde. I wouldn’t even ask, but I am getting old and corny. It’s about Humphery. The one named Eddie Upman bought him, and he’s got a lot of money. I heard Willy say so. That probably means a big table and another town and maybe some trees and rivers.

  I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble, Clyde. But if you should ever be in Eddi
e Upman’s house, maybe you could go up to the attic for a minute. Maybe you could see Humphery. You wouldn’t have to do anything drooley or sentimental; I know you couldn’t stand that. But maybe you could sort of accidentally leave the current on low when you leave, without running the trains.

  Old Humphery would like that.

  Would you do that, Clyde—for me?

  IF NOW YOU GRIEVE A LITTLE

  For Shackelford, it started in Mexico.

  The sun had climbed steadily upward through a cloudless blue sky until it was almost directly overhead, and there was no trace whatever left of the clammy dampness that had filled the early morning air. It was, in fact, getting hot. Bill Shackelford balanced his clipboard on his knee, shifted his position slightly on the unreliable canvas camp stool, and wished that the cook detail would holler them down for lunch.

  “Oh boy,” said Carl England from the trench. “The find of the year.”

  The others looked over briefly to see what he had, and then went back to scraping the hard earth methodically with their trowels. John Symmes and Jim Fecho were still kidding around about last night’s stew, but the others were mainly killing time until lunch. Which, Shackelford had to admit, was just about what he was doing.

  “What’ve you got?” he asked Carl, knowing full well what it was.

  “Potsherd.”

  “Better measure it in. Symmes, you and Fecho get on the tape.”

  Symmes and Fecho flipped to see who got the stake end of the tape, then proceeded in slow motion to get the coordinates and datum point on the piece of pottery, which Shackelford duly recorded and glanced at when Carl tossed it to him. It was a fragment of plain gray ware, as usual, and he bagged it without much interest.

  The others went on with their desultory scraping in the dirt and Shackelford stood up and stretched. He was six feet tall and a trifle on the thin side, and his bright new Ph.D. was well concealed under his old army shirt and dusty blue jeans. This was the first field school he had run by himself, and they had been lucky. He could not entirely subdue the soft glow of pride that ran through him when he looked at the rectangular excavation and at the students, most of whom reminded him of himself a few short years ago. Just the same, he was getting hungry. He glanced at his watch. Ten after twelve. He pulled out an ungainly red handkerchief and blew his nose, and that was when it happened.