The Wayward Bus (24 page)

Mr. Pritchard nodded. “Gives a man confidence to work for a firm he knows is on its toes,” he said. “That's why I think you might like to work for us. You could be sure we're on our toes every hour of the day.”

Ernest said, “Excuse me, I'm going to get my case. I've got an item that really isn't before the public yet but it's gone like hot cakes to the trade already, just to the trade. I'd like to place a few here, maybe.”

He went out quickly and lugged his sample case in. He opened it and brought out a cardboard box. “Plain wrapping, you see. That's for the surprise.” He opened the box and took out a perfect little high tank toilet twelve inches high. There was the box and a little chain with a brass knob on the bottom, and the toilet bowl was white. And it even had a little seat cover colored to look like wood.

Mrs. Breed had moved down in back of the counter. “My husband does all the buying,” she said. “You'll have to see him.”

“I know,” said Ernest. “I just want you to look at this item. It sells itself.”

“What's it for?” Mr. Pritchard asked.

“You just watch,” said Ernest. He pulled the little chain and immediately the toilet bowl flushed with a brown fluid. Ernest lifted the toilet seat right out of the bowl and it was a small glass. “That's one ounce,” he said triumphantly. “If you want a double shot, say for a highball, you pull the chain twice.”

“Whisky!” cried Mr. Pritchard.

“Or brandy, or rum,” said Ernest. “Anything you want. See, here in the tank is the place you fill it, and the tank is guaranteed plastic. It knocks 'em cold. I've got orders for eighteen hundred of this little item already. It's a knockout. It gets a laugh every time.”

“By George, that's clever,” Mr. Pritchard said. “Who thinks these things up?”

“Well,” Ernest explained, “we've got an idea department. Everybody puts ideas in. This item was suggested by our salesman in the Great Lakes area. He'll make himself a nice bonus. Our company gives two per cent of the profits to any employee who sends in a workable idea.”

“It's clever,” Mr. Pritchard repeated. In his mind he could see Charlie Johnson when he first saw it. Charlie would want to rush right out and get one for himself. “What do you get for them?” Mr. Pritchard asked.

“Well, this one retails for five dollars. But if you don't mind my making the suggestion, we have a model that sells for twenty-seven fifty.”

Mr. Pritchard pursed his lips.

“But look what you get,” Ernest went on. “This one is plastic. The better item is—well, the box is oak and is made of old whisky barrels so that it'll take the liquor fine. The chain is real silver and it has a Brazilian diamond for a knob. The bowl is porcelain, real toilet quality porcelain, and the seat is hand-carved mahogany. And on the box there's a little silver plate for, if, like you wanted to present it to a lodge or a club, your name goes on that.”

“It sounds like a good value,” Mr. Pritchard said. His mind was made up. He knew how he would get the better of Charlie Johnson now. He would give one of the toilets to Charlie. But on the plate he would put “Presented to Charlie Johnson, the all-American soandso, by Elliott Pritchard,” and then let Charlie show off all he wanted to. Everybody would know who had the idea first.

“You haven't got one with you, have you?” he asked.

“No, you have to order.”

Mrs. Pritchard spoke up. She had moved close, quietly. “El liott, you're not going to get one of those. Elliott, they're vulgar.”

“I wouldn't have it around if there were ladies, of course,” said Mr. Pritchard. “No, little girl. Know what I'm going to do? I'm gonna send one of them to Charlie Johnson. That'll get back at him for sending me that stuffed skunk. Yes, sir, I'll fix him.”

Mrs. Pritchard explained. “Charlie Johnson was Mr. Pritchard's roommate in college. They have the wildest jokes. They're like little boys when they get together.”

“Now,” said Mr. Pritchard seriously, “if I ordered one, could you have it sent to an address I'll give you? And could you have it engraved? I'll write what I want you to put on the plate.”

“What are you going to say?” Bernice asked.

“Little girls keep their noses out of big man's business,” said Mr. Pritchard.

“I'll bet it'll be awful,” said Bernice.

Mildred was in the dumps. She felt heavy and tired and she wasn't interested in anything. She was sitting in a twisted wire candy-store chair all by herself at the end of the counter. Cynically she had watched Pimples trying to get the blonde alone. The trip had let her down. She was disgusted with herself and what had happened. What kind of a girl was she if a bus driver could set her off? She shivered a little with distaste. Where was he now? Why didn't he come back? She smothered her impulse to get up and go look for him. Van Brunt's voice sounded beside her so that she jumped.

“Young lady,” he said, “your skirt shows. I thought you'd like to know.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”

“You might have gone all day thinking you were all fixed up if somebody didn't tell you,” he said.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” She stood up and, leaning backward, pushed her skirt against her legs so that she could see. There was an inch of slip showing behind.

“I think it's better to be told things like that,” Van Brunt said.

“Oh, it is. I guess I broke a shoulder strap.”

“I don't care to hear about your underwear,” he said coldly. “My only remark is—and I repeat it—your skirt shows. I don't want you to think I had any other motive.”

“I don't,” said Mildred helplessly.

Van Brunt went on, “Too many young girls get self-conscious of their legs. They think everybody is looking at them.”

Suddenly Mildred was laughing wildly like a sick woman.

“What's so funny?” Van Brunt demanded angrily.

“Nothing,” said Mildred. “I just thought of a joke.” She had remembered that Van Brunt had never missed any show of legs all morning.

“Well, if it's that funny, tell it,” he said.

“Oh, no. It's a personal joke. I'll go out and fix my strap.” She looked at him and then, deliberately, she said, “You see, there are two straps on each shoulder. One is for the slip and the other supports the brassière and the brassière holds the breasts up firmly.” She saw Van Brunt's color come up out of his collar. “There isn't anything below that until the panties, if I wore panties, which I don't.”

Van Brunt turned and walked away quickly and Mildred felt better. Now the old fool wouldn't have a comfortable moment. She could watch him and maybe later trick him and catch him in the act. She got up, laughing to herself, and went out around the back of the store to the lean-to marked “Ladies.”

A lattice covered the door and the morning glory was beginning to climb up. Mildred stood in front of the closed door. She could hear Norma talking to the blonde inside. She listened. Maybe this would make the trip worth while, just listening to people talk. Mildred liked to eavesdrop on people. Sometimes her liking to bothered her. She could listen to inanities with interest. But of all the listening, the best was in women's rest rooms. The freedom of women in any room where there was a toilet, a mirror, and a washbowl had interested her for a long time. She had once written a paper in college, which had been considered daring, in which she had maintained that women lost their inhibitions when their skirts were up.

It must be either that, she thought, or the certainty that man, the enemy, could never invade this territory. It was the one place in the world where women could be certain there would be no men. And so they relaxed and became outwardly the people they were inwardly. She had thought a great deal about it. Women were more friendly or more vicious to one another in public toilets, but on personal terms. Perhaps that was because there were no men. Because, where there were no men, there was no competition, and their poses dropped from them.

Mildred wondered whether it was the same in men's toilets. She just didn't think it was likely, because men had many competitions besides women, while most of women's insecurities had to do with men. Her paper on the subject had been returned marked “Not carefully thought out.” She planned to do it over again.

Out in the store she had not been friendly toward Camille. She just didn't like her. But she knew her dislike would not carry into the rest room. She thought, “Isn't it strange that women will compete for men they don't even want?”

Norma and Camille were talking on and on. Mildred put her hand on the door and pushed it open. In the small room were a toilet stall and a washbowl with a square mirror over it. A dispenser of paper seatcovers was on one wall, and paper towels beside the basin. A slot machine for sanitary pads was on the wall beside the frosted glass window. The concrete floor was painted dark red and the walls were thick with layers of white paint. There was a sharp smell of perfumed disinfectant in the air.

Camille was seated on the toilet and Norma stood in front of the mirror. They both looked at Mildred as she came in.

“Want to get in here?” Camille asked.

“No,” said Mildred. “I've got a drooping strap on my slip.”

Camille looked down at the skirt. “You have all right. No, not that way,” she said to Norma. “You see the way your hair line goes? Well, make the eyebrows go up a little on the outside, just a little. Wait, honey. Wait a minute and I'll show you.”

She stood up and moved to Norma. “Turn around so I can see you. There, now. And there, now look at yourself. See how it kind of brings down your hairline a little bit? Your forehead's high so you try to bring it down. Now look, close your eyes.” She took the eyebrow pencil from Norma and rubbed it gently on the lower lids just below the lashes, making the line a little darker as it passed the outside corners.

“You've got the mascara on too thick, honey,” she said. “See how the lashes stick together? Use more water and take a little more time. Wait a minute.” She brought out of her purse a little plastic case of eyeshadow. “Now you go careful with this stuff.” She dipped her finger into the blue paste, rubbed a little on each of Norma's upper eyelids, making it heavier toward the outside corners. “Now, let me see.” She inspected her work. “Look, honey, you keep your eyes too wide, like a rabbit. Let your upper lids down a little bit. No, and don't squint. Just let your upper lids droop down a little bit. There, like that. Now look at yourself. See the difference?”

“My God, I look different,” Norma said. Her voice was awed.

“Sure you do. Now, you've got the lipstick on all wrong. Look, honey, your lower lip is too thin. So is mine. Bring the lipstick down a little bit here, and a little here.”

Norma stood still like a good child and let her work.

“See? Heavier in the corners,” Camille said. “Now your lower lip looks fuller.”

Mildred said, “You're good. I could use some advice too.”

“Oh, well,” said Camille. “It's pretty simple.”

“That's theatrical make-up,” Mildred said. “I mean it's a kind of theatrical type make-up.”

“Well, you know, dealing with the public—dentists use their nurses almost like receptionists.”

“Oh, damn it!” Mildred exclaimed. “This strap isn't loose, it's broken.” She peeled her dress off her shoulder and she had a little silken string in her hand.

“You'll have to pin it,” Camille said.

“But I haven't got a pin and my needle and thread's in one of the suitcases!”

Camille opened her purse again, and in the lining were half a dozen tiny safety pins. “Here,” said Camille, “I always go heeled.” She unfastened one of the pins. “You want me to fix it for you?”

“If you don't mind. My damned eyes. I can't see anything.”

Camille pulled the loose slip up, folded the end of the strap, and pinned it firmly to the edge of the slip. “That's hardly all right, but at least it doesn't show. It's still a pin job. You always been shortsighted, honey?”

“No,” said Mildred. “I was all right until—well, right when I was about fourteen. One doctor said it had to do with puberty. He said some girls get their eyesight back when they have their first baby.”

“That's tough,” said Camille.

“It's a damn nuisance,” Mildred said. “I don't care how much they make new shapes of glasses. They still aren't very good looking.”

“Ever heard of that kind that fit right down against the eyes?”

“I've thought about it and I haven't done anything about it. I guess I'm scared to have anything touch my eyes.”

Norma was still regarding herself with wonder in the mirror. Her eyes had suddenly become larger and her lips fuller and softer and the wet rat look had gone from her face.

“Isn't she wonderful?” Norma said to no one. “Isn't she just wonderful?”

Camille said, “She's gonna be a pretty kid when she learns a few tricks and gets some confidence. We'll touch up that hair, honey, as soon as we get in.”

“You mean you've thought it over?” Norma cried. “You mean we'll get the apartment?” She whirled on Mildred. “We're going to have an apartment,” she said breathlessly. “We're going to have a davenport and Sunday morning we'll wash and set our hair—”

“We'll see,” Camille broke in. “We'll just have to see how things work out. Here's the two of us without jobs and already she's got a duplex rented. Hold your horses, honey.”