Avram Davidson - Or All The Seas With Oysters

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OR ALL THE SEAS WITH OYSTERS

Avram Davidson

When the man came in to the F & O Bike Shop, Oscar greeted him with a hearty “Hi, there!” Then, as

he looked closer at the middle-aged visitor with the eyeglasses and business suit, his forehead creased

and he began to snap his thick fingers.

“Oh, say, I know you,” he muttered. “Mr.—um—name’s on the tip of my tongue, doggone it…” Oscar

was a barrel-chested fellow. He had orange hair.

‘Why, sure you do,“ the man said. There was a Lion’s emblem in his lapel. ”Remember, you sold me a

girl’s bicycle with gears, for my daughter? We got to talking about that red French racing bike your

partner was working on—“

Oscar slapped his big hand down on the cash register. He raised his head and rolled his eyes up. “Mr.

Whatney!” Mr. Whatney beamed. “Oh, sure. Gee, how could I forget? And we went across the street

afterward and had a couple a beers. Well, how you been, Mr. Whatney? I guess the bike—it was an

English model, wasn’t it? Yeah. It must of given satisfaction or you would of been back, huh?”

Mr. Whatney said the bicycle was fine, just fine. Then he said, “I understand there’s been a change,

though. You’re all by yourself now. Your partner…”

Oscar looked down, pushed his lower lip out, nodded. “You heard, huh? Ee-up. I’m all by myself now.

Over three months now.”

* * *

The partnership had come to an end three months ago, but it had been faltering long before then. Ferd

liked books, long-playing records and high-level conversation. Oscar liked beer, bowling and women.

Any women. Any time.

The shop was located near the park; it did a big trade in renting bicycles to picnickers. If a woman was

barely old enough to be called a woman, and not quite old enough to be called an old woman, or if she

was anywhere in between, and if she was alone, Oscar would ask, “How does that machine feel to you?

All right?”

“Why… I guess so.”

Taking another bicycle, Oscar would say, “Well, I’ll just ride along a little bit with you, to make sure. Be

right back, Ferd.” Ferd always nodded gloomily. He knew that Oscar would not be right back. Later,

Oscar would say, “Hope you made out in the shop as good as I did in the park.”

“Leaving me all alone here all that time,” Ferd grumbled.

And Oscar usually flared up. “Okay, then, next time you go and leave me stay here. See if I begrudge

you a little fun.” But he knew, of course, that Ferd—tall, thin, pop-eyed Ferd—would never go. “Do you

good,” Oscar said, slapping his sternum. “Put hair on your chest.”

Ferd muttered that he had all the hair on his chest that he needed. He would glance down covertly at his

lower arms; they were thick with long black hair, though his upper arms were slick and white. It was

already like that when he was in high school, and some of the others would laugh at him—call him

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