"Oh, yes, Mr. Wylie, Mr. Wilson had a comfortable night. He's talking to Dr. Adams, now. I couldn't interrupt. He seems quite cheerful—said if you phoned to tell you he'd call back when he finished his consultation."
I turned over the last page—read, cut one more paragraph, marked the lines on my long tally sheet, counted them, and felt, suddenly, the negative pressure of completion—the vacuum's strain, the sense of deprivation. Work can be addictive—one more self-enchantment of the cortex—another of the infinite autohypnoses. And when the addict's done with it, what comfort is there for his unemployment?
I stacked the many pages, scribbled a note to Harold, and phoned to his office that the manuscript would be ready for his messenger at the desk. A few merry hours and a little excitement for the profligate, dun days of my fellow citizens, God bless and pity them—a vicarious trip beyond the confines of mass production—a description of the flavor of a few of the trees they had cut down.
Bill came for it and carried it to the lobby.
Now, my clothes.
My costume.
Everything was finished
with the possible exception of me.
Rain fell all around the marquee—in a wet, funereal fringe.
The doorman stood in the street beneath his great umbrella, whistling. Two old ladies waited impatiently, jostling each other and batting annoyedly at their pocketbooks. They seemed to expect the whistle to conjure up a yellow taxi from the fourth dimension and because it took Al five minutes to hail an empty, the elder of the two put back her dime in her purse and snapped it with the righteous authoritative sound of a Norn's shears.