Van Gogh's Room at Arles by Stanley Elkin Page B

bet,” she said. “Because if that’s what you’re driving at, you can just forget it, you can just put it out of your mind.”
    “What,” asked the helpless cripple with the useless legs, “what?”
    “You know what,” she said. “I’m not standing in as your hostess. It’s been at least fifteen years since you were my professor, at least fifteen years.”
    “That’s right,” he said, astonished, amazed. “At least fifteen years. That’s right. So don’t tell me you’re not my confidante. Now that Claire’s gone that makes you one of maybe only half a dozen people in this town who knew me when.”
    “I’m here on a job,” she said, all business.
    “Of course.”
    “Another few minutes I’m through. I’m almost through now. Here,” she said, “I need you to put this on for me.”
    She handed him a sort of necklace with, for pendant, a button and light on a little plastic box like a switch on a heating pad or electric blanket. He recognized it from the S.O.S. commercial on TV. “Just put the chain over your head,” she said. “It should fit. If it doesn’t there’s a way of adjusting it.” Now the moment of truth had arrived Schiff felt some qualms about actually wearing such jewelry. It was another giant step toward his invalidism, like having the Stair-Glide put in or going into a wheelchair. Miss Simmons, misreading his reluctance for mechanical uncertainty as to how the equipment operated, took it back from him and fastened the collar about his neck like a kind of electronic bib. “There,” she said, “is that comfortable?”
    “Is it ever,” Schiff said miserably.
    “Why don’t we test it to see if it’s working?”
    And see, he thought, he was right, his identity already subsumed in plural baby talk.
    “Test it out,” she said again. “Press the button. That dials the service for you. Wait six or seven seconds, then just speak into the air. If everything’s been connected properly, they should be able to pick you up at the service.” Schiff pressed the button and spoke into the air. Miss Simmons took the little console out of his hand and hit the button a second time. The light went off. “You didn’t give it time to dial. You have to wait a few seconds before you start talking. By depressing the button a second time I aborted your call.”
    “Whoa,” Schiff said. “This thing’s a lot tougher than it seems.”
    “You’re not used to it yet, that’s all. You’ll get used to it.”
    “Shall I try again?”
    “Sure. Just give it a chance to dial the phone before you speak.”
    He pressed the button. He waited half a dozen seconds. He glanced up at Miss Simmons. She nodded. “Help,” Schiff said quietly into the air. “Help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” It was the message he’d heard the old woman deliver on television. The only difference was Schiff’s bloomers weren’t up around his ears.
    “What,” someone shouted back at him down at S.O.S, “what’s that? Speak up, I can’t hear you.”
    “Is that you, Charley?” Miss Simmons called out. “Charley, it’s Jenny Simmons. I’m at 727-4312, 225 Westgate, in the Parkview area—— Jack Schiff’s residence. Dr.
    Schiff’s new on the service and I’m walking him through the procedures.”
    (Well, Schiff thought, walking.)
    “Hi, Jenny. Hi, Dr. Schiff.”
    “Hi, Charley,” Schiff said.
    “You’re coming in fine now, sir. You don’t have to shout, though. Just speak up, that’ll do it.”
    “I’m sorry,” Schiff shouted.
    “That’s all right, you’ll get used to it.”
    Everyone kept telling him he’d get used to it. A good sign and a bad sign both. He didn’t need all that accident in his life, but it was comforting to think S.O.S. would pick him up each time he fell down. This is what it comes to, he thought. If you just hung on and managed to live long enough you turn into a bowling pin.
    Now he knew he was expected to do a fair share of falling he was reluctant to be