Chapter 5 asking for trouble

When Walter Henderson was nine years old, playing dead was the most romantic thing to do for a while, and so did his friends.They found that the real fun of the cop-and-robber game was pretending to be shot, dropping the pistol, clutching your chest, and lying on the floor.Before long, people stop playing the other parts of the game, such as choosing which side to take, and sneaking around and hiding, which is very troublesome, and they only play the essential parts of the game.The game turned out to be a personal performance, almost an art.Every time someone would rush down from the top of the mountain, run to the designated place, and be ambushed: many prepared toy pistols pulled the triggers at the same time, and hoarse voices rang out one after another-a kind of rustling soft "bang" ! BANG!"—this was the sound of the boys imitating pistols.Next, the performer stops, turns, poses gracefully in pain, and pauses for a moment before falling headfirst, rolling down the hillside on hands and feet, kicking up a cloud of dust, and finally sprawling on the ground, a crumpled corpse .Then he stood up, dusted himself off, while the other partners commented on his posture ("great," or "too stiff," or "not natural"), and it was the next turn.That's the whole game, and Walter loves it.With his small stature and poor coordination, it was the only somewhat athletic-like activity he was capable of.The way he curled up and rolled down the hill, no one could match the intoxication he had, the cheers he had won, and it fascinated him.Later, the older children laughed at them, and finally the other children got tired of the game; Walter reluctantly joined in other, healthier games, which he soon forgot too.

Twenty-five years later, one May afternoon in his Lexington Avenue office building, Walter was sitting at his desk pretending to be working, waiting to be fired, when he suddenly remembered the game and vividly remembered it.Walter now appeared to be a composed, quick-witted young man, dressed in a corporate college style, with clean, neat brown hair that was thinning a bit on the crown.Years of health have made him a lot stronger. Although his coordination ability is still a little problematic, it is mainly reflected in some small things in daily life, such as wearing a hat, picking out a wallet, getting theater tickets, and giving change. To make his wife stop and wait for him; also, he kept pushing hard on the door that was clearly marked "Pull".In any case, sitting in his office, he looked sane and competent.Now no one can see the cold sweat running down his back, or his left hand hidden in his pocket, slowly twisting and pulling the cardboard matches until the cardboard is wet, sticky, and crumpled.He had known for weeks that this would happen sooner or later.This morning, from the moment he stepped out of the elevator, he had a premonition that it would be today.When several of his superiors said "Good morning, Walter" to him, he saw a faint hint of concern hidden in their smiles; George Crowell met eyes.Crowell is in his cubicle, hesitating with a stack of papers.As soon as he caught his eye, Crowell turned around immediately, but Walter knew he was looking at him.Although it seems a bit troubled, it looks like it has made up its mind.In a few minutes, Walter was sure, Crowell would call him in and make the announcement--difficult, of course, for Crowell was the kind of boss who always prided himself on being approachable.There is nothing to do now but to go with the flow and accept it with as much dignity as possible.

That's when childhood memories came back to him, because it occurred to him—the thought made his fingernails dig deep into the cardboard matches in his pocket—to let it be, accept it with dignity, and somehow It has become a way of life for him.There was no need even to deny that the temptation to be a respectable loser was too great for him.Throughout his youth, he was good at it: in fights with stronger boys, always losing out valiantly; Give it to Henderson," the high school coach said with a laugh, "he's asking for trouble").College offered him a wider scope for this talent—failed exams, lost elections—and then the Air Force gave him a veritable taste of elimination from the Air Force Academy.Now, it seemed, it was inevitable that he would experience it again.Before this job, he had done entry-level jobs that were not easy to make mistakes; when he got the job offer, it was "a real challenge," in Crowell's words.

"Okay," Walter had said. "That's exactly what I wanted." When he told this part of the conversation to his wife, she said, "Oh, that's great!" apartment.He'd come home lately with a gloomy look, sullenly announcing that he doubted he'd make it through, and she'd always tell the kids to leave him alone ("Daddy's tired tonight") and bring him a drink. Yes, calming him down with the careful reassurance of a wife, trying to hide her fears, never speculating, at least never revealing that she was dealing with a chronic obsessive-compulsive disorder, a wacky little girl who fell in love with a broken mind. Boys deal.And the amazing thing, he thought—the really amazing thing was—that he himself had never seen himself that way before.

"Walter?" The cubicle door was flung open, and George Crowell stood looking a little uncomfortable. "Can you come to my office?" "Okay, George." Walter followed him out of the cubicle and across the office, feeling eyes behind him.Stay dignified, he reminded himself, it's important to stay dignified.Then the door closed behind them, and they were alone in Crowell's private, carpeted room, quiet.From downstairs on the 21st floor came the sound of a car horn, and all that could be heard were their breathing, the creak of Crowell's shoes as he walked around the desk and sat down in the swivel chair, and the creak of the chair. rattle. "Walter, you pull up a chair, too," he said. "Do you smoke?"

"No, thanks." Walter sat down and folded his hands between his knees. Crowell snapped the cigarette case shut and pushed it aside without smoking himself.He leaned forward, his hands outstretched, resting on the glass on the table. "I'd better tell you straight up, Walter," he said.The last glimmer of hope was also dashed.Interestingly, even though he had planned for it, it still surprised Walter. "Mr. Harvey and I have thought about it for a long time. We feel that you cannot keep up with the work here. We are unwilling to draw such a conclusion. For your own good, of course, and for ours, the best way is to let you go. But," he added quickly, "it's not about you personally, Walter. We work very professionally here, and we can't expect everyone to be at their fingertips. Especially you, we really think you're in-competence Wherever it is, it will be happier.”

Crowell raised his hands and leaned back, leaving two wet handprints on the glass, like skeleton hands.Walter stared at the handprints, they fascinated him, he watched them shrink and disappear. "Oh," he said, looking up. "You're quite right, George. Thank you." A good old apologetic grin escaped Crowell's mouth. "This kind of thing happens," he said. "I'm really sorry." He began to fumble for the handle of the desk drawer, with a relieved expression on his face, the hardest thing to say has been said. "Now," he said, "we write a check for your salary this month and next. It'll give you a little -- severance pay, so to speak -- to tide you over until you get a job. ’ He handed over a long envelope.

"You are very generous," said Walter.There was a silence, and Walter, realizing that it was up to him to break it, stood up. "All right, George. Then I won't hold you back." Crowell got up immediately, walked around the desk, held out both hands—one took Walter's hand, the other on his shoulder, and walked out of the office.The gesture, which seemed friendly, was actually embarrassing, and the blood rushed to Walter's throat, and for a moment he was so sick that he thought he was going to cry. "Well, man," Crowell said, "good luck to you."

"Thanks," Walter said, relieved to hear his voice was still calm.So he smiled again and said, "Thank you, and goodbye, George." The walk back to his cubicle was about fifty feet, and Walter Henderson covered it with style.He could sense that, to Crowell's eyes, his back was neat and straight; They wanted it so badly; he also knew that every expression on his face was controlled and subtle.The whole thing looked like a scene from a movie.The camera moves back from Crowell's point of view to create a panorama of the office, with Walter's back looming across the frame in solitary majesty; now a close-up of Walter's face, frozen for a long time, before being rotated for colleagues The first few simple shots (Joe Collins looks worried, Fred Holmes tries not to look too happy), then the camera cuts to Walter's angle, seeing his secretary Mary With an unsuspecting face, she was standing in front of his desk waiting for him with a stack of things he told him to print.

"I hope you are satisfied, Mr. Henderson." Walter took it and threw it on the table. "Never mind it, Mary," he said. "Listen, you'd better rest and go to the HR manager tomorrow morning. They'll put you in a new job. I just got fired." There was a slightly puzzled smile on her face after hearing this - she thought he was joking - but she immediately turned pale and trembled a little.She's young and not very sharp; she's never been taught in secretarial school, and her boss might be fired. "Why, it's dreadful. Mr. Henderson. I—er, but why would they do it?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "A lot of little reasons, I guess." He kept opening and closing drawers, cleaning out his stuff.Not much: a stack of old personal letters, a dry fountain pen, a lighter without a flint, a half-wrapped chocolate.She watched from the side as he counted out these items one by one and put them in his pockets. He realized that these items made her very sad. He felt that he had to maintain his dignity, so he straightened up and turned to take the hat from the coat rack. put on. "It won't affect you, Mary," he said. "They'll give you a new job in the morning. All right," he held out his hand. "Good luck." "Thank you; you too. Well, then, good night"—here she covered her mouth and giggled, her fingernails crooked and uncertain—"I mean , good-bye, Mr. Henderson." The next scene takes place next to the water dispenser.As Walter approached Joe Collins, Collins' waking eyes were filled with sympathy. "Joe," Walter said. "I'm leaving. Got fired." "No!" But Collins' shocked look was no more than a gesture of friendliness; it couldn't have been surprised. "My God, Walter, what the hell is going on with these people?" Fred Holmes interjected, in a very low, regretful tone, obviously pleased with the news: "Yeah, man, that's a bloody shame." They followed Walter all the way to the elevator, and he pressed the "Down" button; suddenly people rushed at him from all corners, their faces stiff with regret, their hands outstretched. "It's a pity, Walter..." "Good luck, buddy..." "Keep in touch, will you, Walter? . . . " Nodding, smiling, shaking hands, Walter kept saying "thank you", "goodbye" and "of course I will"; then the red light came on and the elevator arrived with a ding!In the next few seconds, the elevator doors slowly slid open, and the operator's voice said, "Downward!" He stepped back into the elevator, the smile frozen on his face, and relaxed into the warm, expressive faces. He beckoned, and the scene ended with the elevator door closing slowly and tightly, and the elevator went down in silence. When he got off the elevator, he was standing next to a man with a rosy face, bright eyes, and a good mood; he didn't realize how much he was enjoying himself until he was walking quickly on the street. This thought surprised him, and his pace slowed down. He stopped in front of a building and stood there for half a minute.His scalp itched under his hat, and his fingers fumbled for his tie and the buttons of his coat.He seemed to be terribly surprised at what he had done in a dark and shameful way, and he had never been so helpless and frightened. And so he went through another flurry of movements, straightening his hat, moving his jaw, stamping his feet on the sidewalk, trying to look busy and on fire.If someone tried to psychoanalyze himself in the middle of Lexington Avenue in the middle of the afternoon, he was nuts.The only thing to do now is to get yourself busy right away and start looking for a job. He stopped again, looked around, and realized that the only problem was that he had no idea where he was going.He is now standing on a corner in the upper part of Forty Street, where the flower shops and taxis passing by constantly make the place look very bright, and the passers-by are well-dressed and heroic, walking on the spring-bright avenue.First he needed a telephone, so he dashed across the street, entered a grocery store, and walked through the scents of soap, perfume, ketchup, and ham to a row of telephone booths against the wall at the back; He found the page with the telephone numbers of several employment agencies where he had filled out the registration forms; then he prepared his change and locked himself in the phone booth. But all the intermediaries said the same thing: there is no job opportunity suitable for his profession at the moment; without their call notification, it is useless to go to their company.When he was done calling around, he fumbled around in the address book for the phone number of an acquaintance who had told him a month earlier that there might be a vacancy in their company soon.But the small notebook was not in his inner pocket; he searched in another pocket of his coat, in the pocket of his trousers, banging his elbow against the wall of the telephone booth, but all he found were the stack of old letters and the old letter in his desk. the piece of chocolate.Cursing, he dropped the chocolate on the floor as if it were a cigarette butt, rubbing it against his feet.In this way, he tossed and breathed shortly in the stuffy phone booth.Just when he was a little dizzy, he suddenly saw the address book in front of him, on top of the coin box, where he put it there.He dialed the number tremblingly with one hand, and opened his collar with the other hand. His neck was already dripping with sweat. When he opened his mouth to speak, his voice sounded like a weak and anxious beggar. "Jack," he said. "I wanted to ask—just to ask, is that position you talked about a while ago vacant?" "What's free?" "Job. You know. You said there might be a job at your company—" "Oh, that. No, nothing, Walter. If there is, I'll get back to you." "Okay, Jack." He pushed open the folding door of the phone booth, leaned against the embossed tin wall, and gasped for breath against a blast of cold fresh air. "I thought you might have forgotten about it," he said.Now the voice is almost normal, "Sorry to bother you." "Hell, it's nothing," said an enthusiastic voice on the other end of the phone. "What's the matter with you, man? Is there any trouble with you?" "Oh, no," Walter found himself saying, and he was instantly pleased about it.He had hardly ever lied before, and was amazed at how easy it was to lie.His voice sounded a little more confident. "Nothing. I'm fine here, Jack. I just don't want to—you know, I thought you might have forgotten, that's all. How's the family?" After the call, he felt like he had nothing to do but go home, but he sat for a while in the phone booth with the door open, his feet on the floor of the grocery store, until an imperceptible, A sly smile, which gradually faded, and the normal expression returned to his face.Lying so easily just now gave him an idea, and after thinking about it, the idea gradually turned into a meaningful and revolutionary decision. He doesn't tell his wife about it.With any luck, he might find a job this month, and at the same time, for the first time in his life, he's going through difficulties on his own.Tonight, when she asks him how his day is, he'll say "ah, it's fine," he'll even say "not bad."He was going to be out at his usual time in the morning, and he was going to be out all day, and he was going to be like that until he got a job. He thought of the words "brace yourself, pull yourself together," and in the phone booth he pulled himself together, packed up his coins, straightened his tie, and walked out into the street with an air of more than determination: Noble gesture. He had a few hours to kill before he was due home, and when he found himself walking west on Forty-second Street, he decided to kill the hours at the public library.He climbed up the wide stone steps with vigor, and in a short while he was in the reading room, and began to flip through the bound volume of last year's "Life" magazine, thinking over and over again of his plan, expanding it, making it more Perfect. He evidently knew that day-to-day deception was not easy, requiring constant vigilance and cunning like a criminal.But isn't it worthwhile to plan because it's so difficult?Finally, when it was all over, he would tell his wife.This is the reward for every minute of the ordeal.He knew how she'd look at him when he told her—bewildered, disbelieving at first, and then, slowly, a respect that hadn't been seen in years. "You mean you've been carrying this all by yourself for so long? But why, Walter?" "Oh," he'd say casually, even with a shrug, "I don't think it's necessary for you to worry." When it was time to leave the library, he wandered around the exit for a while, took a deep breath, and looked at the five o'clock traffic and crowd below.The scene gave him a different kind of nostalgia.Because it was here, five years ago, that spring night, that he and his wife had gone on their first date. "Can you wait for me on the top steps of the library?" she'd asked him on the phone that morning, and it wasn't until months later, when they were married, that he realized it was a special place for a date.She smiled at him when he asked. "Of course it's inconvenient to get there--but that's why I chose it. I wanted to stand there, pose like a princess in a castle, let you climb so many lovely steps, and bring I'm going." That's exactly what happened.He slipped from his office ten minutes early that day and rushed to Central Station, where he freshened up and shaved in the dark basement changing room; While ironing, he waited impatiently.Then, after tipping the waiter a hefty sum that he couldn't normally afford, he rushed out and up to Forty-second Street.Breathless as he strode past shoe stores and dairy stores, he gushed through unbearably slow crowds, unaware of the urgency of his mission.He was afraid of being late, and even a little bit worried that this was her trick and she would not be there waiting for him at all.But when he got to Fifth Avenue, he saw her standing there in the distance, alone, at the top of the library steps, in a stylish black coat--slender, with brilliant black hair. So he slowed down, put one hand in his pocket, and pretended to be leisurely across the street, walking with the ease and casualness of an athlete. No one expected that he was in such a hurry a few hours ago; How much time he spends on strategic and tactical planning. When he was sure she could see him coming, he looked up at her and she smiled.It wasn't the first time he'd seen her smile like that, but it was certainly the first time she had done it for him.A warm current of joy welled up in his heart.Now he doesn't remember what they said when they met and said hello, but he remembers very clearly that they were okay, that they were fine in the first place--her big shining eyes looking at him, just the way he wanted.Whatever he said, whatever it was, struck her as witty and humorous; and what she said, or the sound of her speaking, made him feel taller and stronger than ever, with broader shoulders much.When they turned around together and walked down the steps, he held her arm tightly and led her. Every step he took, he felt her chest rise and fall gently behind his fingers.The night came, and the night spread under their feet, waiting for them. It was unbelievably long and unbelievably thick, and it indicated their bright future. Now, walking down the steps alone, he found that looking back at his victory gave him courage.It was the only time in his life that he rejected the possibility of losing and won.As he crossed the avenue and walked back down the gentle slope of Forty-second Street, other memories flooded in: the same road they took that night, to Baltimore for a drink, and he remembered the In the bar, she was sitting on a round sofa chair, the bar was half-dark, she leaned against him, when he helped her take off the sleeves of her coat, she twisted forward, then leaned back, her long hair was thrown back , she raised the wine glass, put it to her lips, and at the same time flew a wink at him.After a while she said, "Oh, let's go for a walk by the river—I like the river at this time of day." They left the bar and walked down to the river.Now he went that way too, down the clanging Third Avenue, toward Tudor City—a walk that seemed much longer for one person—until he stood by the little railing, looking down at the East River Boulevard, where the traffic is full of traffic, and the gray river flows slowly beside it.It was here, with a tugboat roaring somewhere under the gray Queens sky, that he had pulled her over and kissed her for the first time.Now, turning around, like a new man, he set off home. Walking to the door of the house, the smell of Brussels sprouts hits the nose.The children were still eating their dinner in the kitchen: he could hear their loud gulps from the clink of plates, and the sound of his wife coaxing them to eat, his words tinged with fatigue.He closed the door and heard her say, "Daddy's back," and the kids started yelling, "Daddy! Daddy!" He took off his hat carefully and put it in the hall closet, when he turned around she came out of the kitchen drying her hands on her apron, smiling wearily. "Get home on time for the first time," she said. "I thought you had to work overtime again tonight." "No," he said. "I don't have to work overtime tonight." He heard his own voice, which was strange and unfamiliar, and it was amplified several times in his ears, as if speaking in an echo chamber. "But you do look tired, Walter. You look like a scorpion." "Walking home, that's all. Maybe I'm not used to it. Is everything okay?" "Oh, it's okay." But she herself looked very tired. They walked into the kitchen together, and he immediately felt surrounded by the moist and bright kitchen, and was trapped in this moist and bright.His eyes flicked sadly over milk cartons, mayonnaise jars, soup bowls, and cereal boxes. On the window sill, there was a row of unripe peaches. mud. Into the bathroom, the situation is much better.He spent a lot of time in the bathroom, far longer than he needed to wash his hands and get ready to eat.Here at least he could be alone for a while longer, and he cheered himself up by pouring some cold water on his face; the only distraction was that his wife raised her voice impatiently at the older son: "Well, Andrew Henderson If you don’t finish the custard tonight, you won’t have a story to listen to.” Not long after, there was the sound of dragging chairs and stacking plates, and the children had finished their dinner.There was another clatter of shoes and a slamming door, and they were put back in their room, where they were to play for an hour before taking a bath. Walter dried his hands carefully; walking back to the sofa in the living room, he took a magazine and nestled in the sofa, and he took a few slow, deep breaths, and he was well controlled.Not long after, she walked in, her apron removed, her lipstick reapplied, and a cocktail mug full of ice cubes. "Hey," she said with a sigh. "Thank God, it's finally over. Now we can have a quiet meeting." "I want a drink, dear," he said, jumping up.He wished his voice sounded normal, but it hummed like it was in an echo chamber. "No," she ordered. "You should sit still and let me serve you. You looked so tired when you came home. How was your day, Walter?" "Oh, all right," he said, sitting down again. "Pretty good." He watched her measure out the gin and vermouth, pour them into a cocktail glass, stir them up neatly, set up the tray, and carry it across the room. "Here," she said, sitting down next to him. "Could you please, my dear?" He poured the wine into the cold glass, and she raised the glass in her hand and said, "Oh, that's great, cheers." This bright cocktail mood was carefully designed by her, he knows.So was her strict motherhood as she took the children to dinner; so was the brisk, practical efficiency of her quick early-morning sweep of the supermarket;Many emotions in her life are carefully and orderly switched, or it can be said that this is her life.She arranged everything in such an orderly manner that he could only see how much she had paid for it by looking at her face so closely occasionally. The booze kicked in.He took a sip of the cold wine, bitter at first but calming him down, the glass in his hand looking reassuringly deep.He took another sip or two before he dared to look at her again, her eyes were inspiring.There was hardly a trace of tension in her smile, and before long they were chatting relaxedly like a happy couple. "Oh, how beautiful it is to sit like this, to be completely relaxed!" she said, sinking her head into the sofa pillows. "What a lovely Friday night!" "Of course," he said, but immediately ducked his drink to hide his panic.Friday night!That meant two more days before he could go out and look for work—two days of house arrest, riding a tricycle in the park, eating popsicles, with no hope of getting rid of his secret. "That's funny," he said, "I almost forgot it was Friday." "Oh, how could you forget?" She retreated into the sofa with great enjoyment. "I look forward to this day every day. Pour me some more, dear, and I've got to work again." He poured her a little more and poured himself a large glass.His hands trembled, and a few drops spilled out, but she didn't seem to notice.She also didn't realize that his questions and answers became more and more dry, leaving only her talking to herself.She went back to work, greased the roast, bathed the children, made the room ready for bed, while Walter sat, gin-intoxicated, his mind involuntarily confused.There is only one thought that persists, and there is only one self-advice, as cold and clear as the wine he is drinking: hold on.No matter what she says, no matter what happens tonight or tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, hold on.Hold on. But it gets harder and harder to hold on as the sound of the children splashing in their baths floats into the room; it's even harder to hold on when they say goodnight to the usher.The children held teddy bears in their hands, wore clean pajamas, their little faces were shining, and there was a fresh scent of soap. After seeing all this, it was almost impossible to sit on the sofa anymore.He jumped up and walked up and down the room, smoking one cigarette after another.In the next room, my wife was reading a bedtime story vividly, and the voice was clear: "You can walk in the fields or on the paths, but don't go into Mr. MacGregor's garden..." After closing the door of the child's room behind her, she came in again and saw him standing by the window, like a sad statue, looking down into the dark courtyard. "What's the matter, Walter?" He turned around and gave a smirk. "Nothing," the voice still seemed to be coming from an echo chamber, and the movie camera began to roll again, first a close-up of his tense face, then cut to her side, observing her actions, she stood by the coffee table without moving. Definitely hovering. "Well," she said. "I'm going to smoke a cigarette before serving the food." She sat down again - this time without leaning back or smiling, which was her expression when she was busy and serving the food. "Walter, do you have any matches?" "Yes." He came over and took a long time in his pocket, as if giving her something he had treasured for a day. "My God," she said. "Look at these matches. What's the matter with them?" "Matches?" He stared at the lumpy, crumpled cardboard matches that seemed irrefutable evidence. "Must have ripped them or something," he said. "Habits of nervousness." "Thanks," she said, taking the fire from his trembling hand, and she stared at him with wide, serious eyes. "Walter, something's wrong, isn't it?" "Of course not. How could there be anything—" "Honestly. Is it work? Is it - what you were worried about last week? I mean, something happened today that makes you think they might - did Crowell say something? Tell me." The fine lines on her face seemed to have deepened.She looked so serious, so powerful, suddenly so much older, and not even beautiful anymore—a woman used to dealing with emergencies, ready to take responsibility. He walked over to a comfortable chair in the room, his back clearly announcing the imminent failure.He stopped at the edge of the rug, seemingly upright, a wounded man struggling to hold on; then he turned and faced her, giving her a wistful smile. "Well, honey—" he began.With his right hand outstretched, he felt for the middle button of his shirt, as if about to undo it, then with a long sigh, he slumped back into the chair, with one foot slumped on the carpet and the other curled under him.It was the most respectable thing he'd ever done all day. "They came after me," he said.