Free Time and the Riddle: Thirty-One Zen Stories by Howard Fast

even lend you up to eighty percent of the market value.”
    â€œSee, Marty!” Doris exclaimed. “I knew we’d do it! Now can we get the money immediately?”
    â€œI think so—at least within fifteen minutes. Do you have the stock with you?”
    Doris’ face fell, while Martin explained that they were going to use the money to buy the stock.
    â€œWell, that’s a little different, isn’t it? I am afraid it makes the loan impossible—unless you have sufficient stock already in your possession. It doesn’t have to be American Telephone. Any listed security—”
    â€œYou don’t understand,” Martin pleaded, watching the clock on the wall. “We got to buy that stock before two o’clock.”
    â€œI am sure you have good reason to. But we can’t help you.”
    â€œLousy crumb,” Martin said when they got outside. “He stinks! The whole lousy Chase Manhattan stinks! You got a friend at Chase Manhattan, you don’t need enemies. You know what I’d like to do—go in there up to the window and—stick ’em up!—that’s what I’d like to do.”
    Neither First National City nor Chemical New York proved any more flexible on the question of collateral, nor was Merrill Lynch disposed to open an account and plunge into a massive day sale. One forty-five P.M. found them back at the offices of Smith, Haley and Penderson, pleading anew with Frank Gibson.
    â€œI got a job,” Gibson told them. “You may not believe me, but being a customer’s man just happens to be a job. I don’t interfere with you, so just let me do my job.”
    â€œIt’s a quarter to two,” Martin begged him.
    â€œOh, Jesus—show him the damn Wall Street Journal,” Doris snapped.
    â€œWhy don’t you drop dead?”
    â€œWhy don’t you get one little brain in your head? It’s ten minutes to two. Show him the paper.”
    Martin took out the paper and shoved it at Gibson. “There—tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal . All markets—complete closing prices.”
    â€œYou’re both out of your minds. What do I have to do? Make a scene? Call the cops?”
    â€œJust look at the date? Am I asking so much? Jesus God, if I was drowning would you stretch out a hand for me? I’m asking you to look at the date.”
    â€œO.K.—so I look at the date.” Gibson picked up the paper and looked at the date. Then he stared at the date. Then he turned the paper around and looked at the date on the back page. Then he opened it.
    â€œMarty, where did you get this?”
    â€œNow you believe me. Now Marty’s not a lousy creep any more. Now Marty’s your buddy boy. Now will you buy the goddamn stock?”
    â€œMarty, I can’t. Even if I thought this paper wasn’t phony—”
    â€œPhony! Do you know—”
    His voice died away. Gibson was staring at the screened flash news at the front of the office, where suddenly the news had appeared that the directors of American Telephone had decided upon a two-for-one stock split, pending approval of stockholders.
    â€œWill you buy the stock?” Martin whimpered. “Oh, dear Jesus, will you please buy the stock?”
    â€œMarty—I can’t.”
    â€œIt’s up two points already,” Doris said. “Why don’t I kill myself? Oh, no—I couldn’t jump in front of a subway train or anything like that. No sir—not me. I had to marry Chesell.”
    At three-thirty, when the market closed, American Telephone was four points over its opening price. At four-fifteen, the Chesells had one of their minor fights. If they had not been so done in with the day, it might have been a major fight. As it was, there was nothing physical, only a few recriminations, one word leading to another. Doris began the peroration by concluding:
    â€œDrop dead—that’s all.”
    â€œSo