Joe Haldeman - No Future In It

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2024-11-20 0 0 109.97KB 5 页 5.9玖币

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NO FUTURE IN I T

It's not easy to keep exactly one-eighth inch of beard on your face. For a writer, though,

it's good protective coloration. With a suit and tie, you look like a gentleman who's decide

to grow a beard. With rumpled old Salvation Army clothes, you look like a down-and-ou

rummy. It depends on the class of people you want to listen to, study.

I was in the rummy outfit when I met Bill Caddis and heard his incredible story. At first I

thought Bill was on the same scam I was; he talked too well to be in the dreg business. He

was for real, though.

There's this wonderful sleaze bar in downtown Tampa. No name, just a bunch of bee

signs in the window. The one for Pearl has a busted laser that flutters stroboscopically. You

don't want to sit too near the window. It's a good bar for private conversations because it's

right under the twelve-laner that sweeps out over the bay, and there's a constant moan o

traffic, all day and all night. There's a fine gritty layer of plaster dust everywhere, and not too

much light. The bartender is missing an eye and ten front teeth, and smiles frequently. The

booze is cheap; they make most of their money upstairs, and like to have lots of customers in

the bar, for camouflage.

I sat down at the bar and the bartender polished glasses while one of the whores, a pretty

boy-girl, sidled in for the kill. When I said no she pleaded mechanically, saying she was

saving for a real pair of tits and the Operation. I hesitated—I string for the Bad News wire

service sometimes, and they like sexy pathos—but turned her down more finally. Bad News

doesn't pay that well.

When she left the bartender came over and I ordered a Myers's with a beer chaser, suitable

hard-core combination. I'd taken two Flame-outs before I came, though, so I could drink a

dozen or so without too ill effect. Until morning.

"Little early in the day for that, isn't it?" The man next to me chuckled hoarsely. "Not to

criticize." He was nursing a double bourbon or scotch, neat.

"Dusty," I said. The man was dressed a little more neatly than I, in faded work clothes. He

looked too old to be a laborer, shock of white hair with a yellowish cast. But he did have the

deep tan and permanent squint of one who's spent decades in the Florida sun. I tossed bac

the jigger of rum and sipped the beer. "Come here often?"

"Pretty often," he said. "When my check comes in I put a few bucks on a number.

Otherwise . . ." He shrugged. "Cheap whiskey and pretty women. To look at."

"How many of them do you think are women?"

"Just looking, who cares?" He squinted even more, examining me. "Could I see you

palms?"

Oh, boy, I thought, a fortuneteller. Might be a story if he actually believes in it. I held ou

my hands.

He glanced at them and stared at my face. "Yeah, I could tell by the eyes," he said softly.

"You're no alcoholic. You're not as old as you look, either. Cop?"

"No. Used to be a teacher." Which was true. "Every now and then I go on these binges."

He nodded slowly. "Used to be a teacher, too. Until '83. Then I worked the sponge boats

twenty years." When he picked up his glass, his hand had the regular slow shake of a

confirmed alky. "It was good work."

I reached in my pocket and turned on the tape recorder. "Why was it you stoppe

teaching? Booze?"

"No . . . who drank in the eighties?" I didn't, but I wasn't old enough. "It's an interesting

sort of pancake. You want to hear a story?"

"Sure." I signaled the bartender for two drinks.

"Now, you don't have to buy me anything. You won't believe the story, anyhow."

"Try me."

"You a social worker? Undercover social worker?" He smiled wryly.

"Is there such a thing?"

"Should be. I know. You're a writer."

"When I get work, yeah. How could you tell, Sherlock?"

"You've got two pens in your pocket and you want to hear a story." He smiled. "Steal a

story, maybe. But you'll never get it published. It's too fantastic."

"But true."

"It's true, all right. Thank you kindly." He touched his new drink to see whether it was

real, then drained off the old one in one gulp and sighed.

"My name's Bill Caddis. Doctor William Caddis, it used to be."

"Medical doctor?"

"I detect a note of reproof. As if no medico ever—well. No, I was an academic, newly

tenured at Florida State. History department. Modern American history."

"Hard to get a job then as it is now?"

"Just about. I was a real whiz."

"But you got fired in '83."

"That's right. And it's not easy to fire a tenured professor."

"What, boffing the little girls?"

That was the only time he laughed that day, a kind of wheeze. "Undergraduates were

made for boffing. No, I was dismissed on grounds of mental instability; with my wife's help,

my then wife, they almost had me institutionalized."

"Strong stuff."

"Strong." He stared into his drink and swirled it around. "I never know how to start this.

I've told dozens of people and they all think I'm crazy before I get halfway into it. You'll

think I'm crazy too."

"Just jump in feet first. Like you say, I'm a writer. I can believe in six impossible things

before my first drink in the morning."

"All right. I'm not from ... here."

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NOFUTUREINITIt'snoteasytokeepexactlyone-eighthinchofbeardonyourface.Forawriter,though,it'sgoodprotec...

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Joe Haldeman - No Future In It

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