More Stories from the Twilight Zone Read Free

Martin Sprague, who by luck happened to be in his office on Sunday and had a cancellation. “You’re overworked, is all,” she said, sounding unconvinced herself. “That Ipana account has been eating your lunch for weeks.” She offered to drive him, but he insisted on driving there alone; to clear his head, he said. Actually that monotonous catechism had begun to wear away at the last nerve he had left. He refrained from pointing out that Ipana toothpaste had gone out with
The Dick Van Dyke Show
. If she’d said, “Who’s Dick Van Dyke?” he’d have dived straight off the deep end.
    Assuming he hadn’t already.
    His car, at least, was the late-model Chrysler he knew well; he’d never cared to flaunt his affluence with a Cadillac or some sporty foreign job. The seat belt and airbag had vanished, but today that kind of discovery seemed to be the norm. He didn’t even register surprise when the billboard that had advertised a credit union on Friday was now flogging Marlboro cigarettes, complete with a stubbled cowboy puffing away with no Surgeon General’s Warning in sight. After the first hour or so, insanity seemed to have come with its own rules of consistency. He was sure now he was crazy, and even if political correctness did or did not exist in this strange new landscape, he felt he was entitled to use the term “crazy,” just as an African-American could be excused the N-word.
    He switched on the radio. It seemed he couldn’t punish himself enough on this day of all days.
    â€œ. . . And they are mild! Returning to the news, President McCain is on his way to Cuba to meet with President John Gotti, Junior, regarding—”
    He punched another button.
    â€œDr. Martin Luther King, Junior, used the occasion of his eightieth birthday celebration to call for renewed efforts to reverse the Supreme Court’s decision upholding the constitutionality of the so-called ‘Jim Crow’ laws in the South. Negroes throughout—”
    He punched another button.
    â€œâ€”which will mark the Detroit Lions’ third straight trip to the Super Bowl. In late-breaking news, John F. Kennedy, Junior, was seen arriving at the funeral of his father, the thirty-fifth president of the United States, in the company of pop star Madonna, who wore a provocative—”
    The juniors had inherited the earth. He punched another button.
    â€œâ€”despite rumors of a reconciliation, and possibly a new musical collaboration between John Lennon and Paul McCartney—”
    He switched off the radio.
    â€œHahahahahahahahahahahaha!” he confided to the headliner; and was embarrassed to observe the driver of a Studebaker with the dealer’s sticker still adhering to the passenger’s-side window staring at him at a stoplight.
    Herb Tarnower found a space next to the entrance of Dr. Sprague’s office (there were no handicapped spots in the lot) and amused himself with the latest issue of
Collier’s
until a nurse called his name. She, at least, wore one of those floral-print smocks that had taken the place of starched whites. That ruled out time travel.
    Dr. Sprague’s appearance shocked him. He’d always been overweight, but now he was positively obese, entering the examinationroom with a pronounced waddle, and Herb had never seen him smoking a cigar at the office before. He mentioned the cigar.
    The doctor took it out of his mouth and looked at it. “Yes, if the antitobacco lobby gets its way, I won’t even be able to enjoy one in a building I pay rent on.”
    Herb tried to remember when the state had passed a law against smoking in the workplace. Everything seemed to have been set back either a few years, or dozens.
    â€œMarty, I think I’m losing my mind. Penny thinks I’ve just been working too hard, but suddenly nothing makes sense anymore.”
    â€œPenny? Oh, yes, Mrs. Tarnower.” Sprague was