neat.
Besides, it was important evidence.
That evening he sat in a shadowy Cyprian Room booth revolving a glass of sherry between two fingers. Jukebox music softly thrummed; there was the mumble of postwork conversation in the air.
Now, thought Frank. When Margie arrives, I'll duck into the phone booth and call the police, then keep her occupied in conversation until they come. That's what I'll do. When Margie-
Margie arrived.
Frank sat like a Medusa victim. Only his mouth moved. It opened slowly. His gaze rooted on the jutting opulence of Margie as she waggled along the aisle, then came to gelatinous rest on a leather-topped bar stool.
Five minutes later he cringed out of a side door.
"Wasn't there?" asked Sylvia for a third time.
"I told you," snapped Frank, concentrating on his breaded cutlet.
Sylvia was still a moment. Then her fork clinked down.
"We'll have to move, then," she said. "Obviously, the authorities have no intention of doing anything."
"What difference does it make where we live?" he mumbled.
She didn't reply.
"I mean," he said, trying to break the painful silence, "well, who knows, maybe it's an inevitable cultural phenomenon. Maybe-"
"Frank Gussett!" she cried. "Are you defending that awful Exchange?"
"No, no, of course not," he blurted. "It's execrable. Really! But-well, maybe it's Greece all over again. Maybe it's Rome. Maybe it's-"
"I don't care what it is!" she cried. "It's awful!"
He put his hand on hers. "There, there," he said.
39-26-36, he thought.
That night, in the frantic dark, there was a desperate reaffirmation of their love.
"It was nice, wasn't it?" asked Sylvia, plaintively.
"Of course," he said. 39-26-36.
That's right!" said Maxwell as they drove to work the next morning. "A cultural phenomenon. You hit it on the head, Frankie-boy. An inevitable goddamn cultural phenomenon. First the houses. Then the lady cab drivers, the girls on street corners, the clubs, the teenage pickups roaming the drive-in movies. Sooner or later they had to branch out more; put it on a door-to-door basis. And naturally, the syndicates are going to run it, pay off complainers. Inevitable. You're so right, Frankie-boy; so right."
Frank drove on, nodding grimly.
Over lunch he found him self humming, "Margie. I'm always thinkin' of you-"
He stopped, shaken. He couldn't finish the meal. He prowled the streets until one, marble-eyed. The mass mind, he thought, that evil old mass mind.
Before he went into his office he tore the little card to confetti and snowed it into a disposal can.
In the figures he wrote that afternoon the number 39 cropped up with dismaying regularity.
Once with an exclamation point.
I almost think you are defending this-this thing," accused Sylvia. "You and your cultural phenomenons!"
Frank sat in the living room listening to her bang dishes in the kitchen sink. Cranky old thing, he thought.
MARGIE
(specialties)
Will you stop! he whispered furiously to his mind.
That night while he was brushing his teeth, he started to sing, "I'm just a poor little-" "Damn!" he muttered to his wild-eyed reflection.
That night there were dreams. Unusual ones.
The next day he and Sylvia argued.
The next day Maxwell told him his system.
The next day Frank muttered to himself more than once, "I'm so tired of it all."
The next night the women stopped coming.
"Is it possible?" said Sylvia. "Are they actually going to leave us alone?"
Frank held her close. "Looks like it," he said faintly. Oh, I'm despicable, he thought.
A week went by. No women came. Frank woke daily at six a.m. and did a little dusting and vacuuming before he left for work.
"I like to help you," he said when Sylvia asked. She looked at him strangely. When he brought home bouquets three nights in a row she put them in water with a quizzical look on her face.
It was the following Wednesday night.
The doorbell rang. Frank stiffened. They'd promised to stop coming!
"I'll get it," he said.
"Do," she said.
He
Besides, it was important evidence.
That evening he sat in a shadowy Cyprian Room booth revolving a glass of sherry between two fingers. Jukebox music softly thrummed; there was the mumble of postwork conversation in the air.
Now, thought Frank. When Margie arrives, I'll duck into the phone booth and call the police, then keep her occupied in conversation until they come. That's what I'll do. When Margie-
Margie arrived.
Frank sat like a Medusa victim. Only his mouth moved. It opened slowly. His gaze rooted on the jutting opulence of Margie as she waggled along the aisle, then came to gelatinous rest on a leather-topped bar stool.
Five minutes later he cringed out of a side door.
"Wasn't there?" asked Sylvia for a third time.
"I told you," snapped Frank, concentrating on his breaded cutlet.
Sylvia was still a moment. Then her fork clinked down.
"We'll have to move, then," she said. "Obviously, the authorities have no intention of doing anything."
"What difference does it make where we live?" he mumbled.
She didn't reply.
"I mean," he said, trying to break the painful silence, "well, who knows, maybe it's an inevitable cultural phenomenon. Maybe-"
"Frank Gussett!" she cried. "Are you defending that awful Exchange?"
"No, no, of course not," he blurted. "It's execrable. Really! But-well, maybe it's Greece all over again. Maybe it's Rome. Maybe it's-"
"I don't care what it is!" she cried. "It's awful!"
He put his hand on hers. "There, there," he said.
39-26-36, he thought.
That night, in the frantic dark, there was a desperate reaffirmation of their love.
"It was nice, wasn't it?" asked Sylvia, plaintively.
"Of course," he said. 39-26-36.
That's right!" said Maxwell as they drove to work the next morning. "A cultural phenomenon. You hit it on the head, Frankie-boy. An inevitable goddamn cultural phenomenon. First the houses. Then the lady cab drivers, the girls on street corners, the clubs, the teenage pickups roaming the drive-in movies. Sooner or later they had to branch out more; put it on a door-to-door basis. And naturally, the syndicates are going to run it, pay off complainers. Inevitable. You're so right, Frankie-boy; so right."
Frank drove on, nodding grimly.
Over lunch he found him self humming, "Margie. I'm always thinkin' of you-"
He stopped, shaken. He couldn't finish the meal. He prowled the streets until one, marble-eyed. The mass mind, he thought, that evil old mass mind.
Before he went into his office he tore the little card to confetti and snowed it into a disposal can.
In the figures he wrote that afternoon the number 39 cropped up with dismaying regularity.
Once with an exclamation point.
I almost think you are defending this-this thing," accused Sylvia. "You and your cultural phenomenons!"
Frank sat in the living room listening to her bang dishes in the kitchen sink. Cranky old thing, he thought.
MARGIE
(specialties)
Will you stop! he whispered furiously to his mind.
That night while he was brushing his teeth, he started to sing, "I'm just a poor little-" "Damn!" he muttered to his wild-eyed reflection.
That night there were dreams. Unusual ones.
The next day he and Sylvia argued.
The next day Maxwell told him his system.
The next day Frank muttered to himself more than once, "I'm so tired of it all."
The next night the women stopped coming.
"Is it possible?" said Sylvia. "Are they actually going to leave us alone?"
Frank held her close. "Looks like it," he said faintly. Oh, I'm despicable, he thought.
A week went by. No women came. Frank woke daily at six a.m. and did a little dusting and vacuuming before he left for work.
"I like to help you," he said when Sylvia asked. She looked at him strangely. When he brought home bouquets three nights in a row she put them in water with a quizzical look on her face.
It was the following Wednesday night.
The doorbell rang. Frank stiffened. They'd promised to stop coming!
"I'll get it," he said.
"Do," she said.
He
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