Free The Müller-Fokker Effect by John Sladek Page A

never thought of that!’ The cellmate slapped his denimed thigh. ‘Peanuts!’
    ‘Statistics show,’ Wes read, ‘peanut brittle is a major cause of tooth decay in children, and peanut butter causes malnutrition.’ He looked up. ‘Ever notice how it sticks to the roof of your mouth?’
    ‘Like a parasite!’
    ‘Thou hast said it. It
is
a parasite, introduced by the nigger conspiracy to wipe us out. Kids have died injecting peanut butter into their veins! And think of the old people, struggling with glued-up dentures.’
    ‘By God, Wes, that’s right! Peanuts even have their own comic strip, I hear!’
    Wes read: ‘GET THE OLD PEOPLE AND CHILDREN FIRST , & YOU PARALYZE THE NATION . So goes the motto of the Great Nigro Conspiracy.’
    He was not reading to his cellmate to entertain or enlighten. The cellmate was educated. He helped ctiticize Wes’s style and grammar—and he knew a publisher.
    Sometimes the field of MacCormick Hines’s reality reversed, and he began to wonder if television weren’t real.
    ‘My dear,’ he said to the set, ‘I haven’t forgotten what you said that night. The night he died. That you’d give anything to get him back. And believe me, I’m working on just that.’
    ‘And cleaning the Thermo-K is no problem either,’ she replied. ‘Just push this button, and the blades slip into your dishwater. See how easy?’
    Sunday night was Veronica. ‘I’m sorry, Glen, but I don’t think you’re really serious about me as a person. Thanks anyway for showing me those movies.’
    Tuesday night was Karen. ‘Glen darling, let’s be reasonable I know your reputation, and I’m just not the kind of girl you want. But thanks all the same. For the champagne and all.’
    Wednesday night was Trudy. ‘Oh, Glen, I thought you were different!’
    Wendy, on Thursday night, was willing. Even on the tiny monitor screen, Feinwelt could see her face was going expressionless and tuned to receive. Glen bent over her, sucking at a bare shoulder.
    ‘That bitch!’ Feinwelt stubbed out a cigarette and reached for a toggle switch. ‘Takes three hundred bucks just to say no, and then gets hot pants all the same! Lucky I was watching tonight, instead of Hank. He’d let it get too far.’
    The timing had to be just right. Too soon and there would be a fresh start to the seduction. Too late and—too late. He waited.
    Feinwelt was being pulled too many ways. Late nights protecting his investment, afternoons patching up the damage he’d done Glen each night before, evenings working as counsellor for Transvestites Anonymous—he barely had time to change clothes, frames of reference.
    Awkwardly, Glen groped for a breast. Feinwelt threw the switch, and in the bedroom the huge color TV blazed on at top volume.
    Bette Cooke was stirring something in a saucepan. ‘THE MAN IN YOUR LIFE,’ she thundered, ‘WILL LOVE NEW INSTANT VEAL CUTLETS.’
    By the time Glen could turn it down the moment was past. Thinking of the three hundred yet to come, Wendy reached for her purse.
    ‘I’ve really got to go now, darling. It’s been sweet, but I’ve got this terrible headache. I think my period brings it on.’
    When she had left, Glen took off his gaucho hat and laid it in the exact middle of the bed. Without knowing quite why, he took all the cokes out of his bedside refrigerator, opened them and poured them on the hat.
    Bette Cooke was back on the screen again by the time he’d finished. She recommended that listeners give their menfolk a special treat tonight.
    Only the safety shield in front of the picture tube saved Bette from that flying bottle.
    One more week, Marge promised herself. One more week, and if that little snob didn’t write to his mother, he’d find himself yanked out of that damned ‘academy’ and sent to a school for mere human children. Where he couldn’t strut around in a uniform all day, snarling commands (as no doubt he was doing this minute), and lapping up all that West-Point-type