Return of Little Big Man Read Free

he showed some real interest, pointy little chin twitching and some vitality coming into his usually ditchwater eyes.
    “Jack,” says he, dit-dit-dahing on his desktop with a silver pen, “it might astonish you to know I’m not necessarily in disagreement with you, in at least a general, exploratory sort of way. As it happens, becoming somewhat impatient as the months went by, I finally took the trouble to try to get in touch directly with Mr. Armbruster C. Snell, father to our own man, and have been spectacularly unsuccessful. The nearest I could get, by phone or letter, was to a secretary who finally, after some bad-taste banter and outright rudeness, offered to send me an application for a grant from the so-called Snell Foundation, which I might say, after long experience in fund-raising, I had never otherwise heard of, and having since received the application and the accompanying brochure, I understand why. Many of the projects supported seem to be in studies that really don’t sound scientifically legitimate: research, by continent, in the effects of cold water on the scrotum, for example. ‘The Role of Urolagnia in Social Change.’ The masturbatory practices of zoo-born Old World monkeys as compared with those of teenage boys in southeastern Iowa.” Teague stopped for a derisive sniff. “In any event, my own application was rejected by return mail.”
    “Then you get what I’m talking about.”
    “What I get,” said he, pointing his pen at me, “is that we have nothing to expect from the Snells, but that you are projecting for your own unaided efforts some profit, which, if it appears, you may be willing to share with us. What I haven’t heard is what you ask of me in return for this theoretical reward.”
    Notice that, like Snell, he was big on “we’s” and “us’s” when talking of what advantage might come to him, but used “me” and “I” with regard to his own responsibilities.
    I explained my plan, which was this: next time one of the other old coots in the place went under, and if he didn’t have no living relatives to show up, why Teague could just tell Snell it was me, and clue in a nurse or two to refer to the stiff in the closed coffin as Old Jack. He’d never have to look at Ralph Fielding Snell again. Meanwhile, I’d steal and hide the recording machine Snell left behind between sessions, and soon as he was out of the picture I’d start in on my recollections again and sell them and give Teague his cut.
    It didn’t take that alienist long to agree. I don’t think he believed any part of the idea except it would get rid of Snell, who made him bitter when he thought of what he had done for the man, which of course was only letting him talk to me, but the doctor belongs to a profession that specializes in doing nothing about anything, taking credit for any success and disclaiming all failure, so this was right up his alley.
    So the fake funeral was held, or rather I should say the real services for a young geezer of only ninety-four, who had been a real person, if not historical like me, but had outlived or been lost sight of by everybody he had been related to. Therefore the only people at the services was other old folks from the home, most of them so senile they never knowed or cared who it was for, but it was something to do: waiting your turn to die is real boring.
    I stayed holed up in the room where they had the TV set and having no wish to peep in on my own funeral, even if it was phony (because at 112 how much longer can it be till the real one?), or laughed at a Western movie on the tube.
    According to Dr. Teague, Snell came to the services and never questioned they was for me, and afterwards he went away and was never seen again though he did call on the telephone from time to time asking if his recording machine turned up. I’m just sorry I told him the earliest part of my story, for there was a lot of interesting stuff in it and I’m too old to go through the