The telephone man chuckled. "Good joke. You couldn't have received a call over this telephone. It would have been utterly impossible. It was completely disconnected." He went on tool sorting.
Mike was looking at Mort. Mort was looking at the telephone man. I was looking at all three, and the telephone man was unconcernedly taking out wires from his bag.
"You—you aren't kidding?" Mort's voice came choked. "This was really disconnected?"
The telephone man shoved the booth a little to one side, grabbed some wires then visible beneath the booth, and pulled them forth. They were all neatly severed, with the ends taped.
Mike and Mort were staring at the severed ends of the wires, then at one another.
"Mike," said Mort, "I think it is a good idea we should get drunk."
"My old lady," said Mike, "used to believe in this sort of stuff. Maybe she wasn't such a dope."
Mort nodded. "My old man, too."
Neither said a word to me. Neither spoke to the telephone man. They just walked out, arm in arm, never looking back once, even at the cash register.
I understand they got drunk that night. But I understand Mike kept his ulcer carefully under the explosive line, so that he passed the enlistment exams the following morning. Mort left his medical statements home, and of course a direct exam showed him nicely suited for the army. They were inducted by noon that day, and on their way to camp by dinner time.