Time Out of Joint Read Free

with a long line of miscellaneous persons, most of whom pushed the stainless-wire baskets. The automatic doors flew open and shut, open and shut. In the lot, cars started up.
    A lovely shiny red Tucker sedan sailed majestically by her. Both she and Sammy gazed after it.
    "I do envy that woman," she murmured. The Tucker was as radical a car as the VW, and at the same time wonderfully styled. But of course it was too large to be practical. Still...
    Maybe next year, she thought. When it’s time to trade in this car. But you don’t trade in VWs; you keep them forever.
    At least the trade-in is high on VWs. We can get back our equity. At the street, the red Tucker steered out into traffic.
    "Wow!" Sammy said.
    She said nothing.

TWO
    At seven-thirty that evening Ragle Gumm glanced out the living room window and spied their neighbors, the Blacks, groping through the darkness, up the path, obviously over to visit. The street light behind them outlined some object that Junie Black carried, a box or a carton. He groaned.
    "What’s the matter?" Margo asked. Across the room from him, she and Vic watched Sid Caesar on television.
    "Visitors," Ragle said, standing up. The doorbell rang at that moment. "Our neighbors," he said. "I guess we can’t pretend we’re not here."
    Vic said, "Maybe they’ll go when they see the TV set on."
    The Blacks, ambitious to hop up to the next notch of the social tree, affected a loathing for TV, for anything that might appear on the screen, from clowns to the Vienna Opera performance of Beethoven’s Fidelio. Once Vic had said that if the Second Coming of Christ were announced in the form of a plug on TV, the Blacks would not care to be involved. To that, Ragle had said that when World War Three began and the H-bombs started falling, their first warning would be the conelrad signal on the TV set... to which the Blacks would respond with jeers and indifference. A law of survival, Ragle had said. Those who refused to respond to the new stimulus would perish. Adapt or perish... version of a timeless rule.
    "I’ll let them in," Margo said. "Since neither of you are willing to bestir yourselves." Scrambling up from the couch she hurried to the front door and opened it. "Hello!" Ragle heard her exclaim. "What’s this? What is it? Oh—it’s hot."
    Bill Black’s youthful, assured voice: "Lasagne. Put on some hot water—"
    "I’ll fix café espresso," Junie said, passing through the house to the kitchen with the carton of Italian food.
    Hell, Ragle thought. No more work for tonight. Why, when they get on some new kick, do they have to trot it over here? Don’t they know anybody else?
    This week it’s café espresso. To go with last week’s fad: lasagne. Anyhow, it dovetails. In fact it probably tastes very good... although he had not gotten used to the bitter, heavy Italian coffee; to him it tasted burned.
    Appearing, Bill Black said pleasantly, "Hi, Ragle. Hi, Vic." He had on the ivy-league clothes customary with him these days. Button-down collar, tight pants ... and of course his haircut. The styleless cropping that reminded Ragle of nothing so much as the army haircuts. Maybe that was it: an attempt on the part of sedulous young sprinters like Bill Black to appear regimented, part of some colossal machine. And in a sense they were. They all occupied minor status posts as functionaries of organizations. Bill Black, a case in point, worked for the city, for its water department. Every clear day he set off on foot, not in his car, striding optimistically along in his single-breasted suit, beanpole in shape because the coat and trousers were so unnaturally and senselessly tight. And, Ragle thought, so obsolete. Brief renaissance of an archaic style in men’s clothing... seeing Bill Black legging it by the house in the morning and evening made him feel as if he were watching an old movie. And Black’s jerky, too-swift stride added to the impression. Even his voice, Ragle thought. Speeded up. Too