Bockman, and Why His Arm Never Got Broken

Bockman seated himself in the dentist chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. He heard the sound of small metal instruments being sorted and, at a moment he felt was appropriate, he opened his mouth. A small circular mirror was inserted. It clicked twice against his teeth and then he felt a metal pick probing (continued on page 146)Bockman(continued from page 103) a filling. "You probably think I'm a dentist," a voice said.

Bockman opened his eyes.

"That story about your regular dentist's hiring an associate wasn't true. Actually, I'm with the current Administration. I just arrived here yesterday from Washington."

"I'm not having any of this," Bockman said. "Where's my regular dentist?"

"I'm involved in a pilot project to develop grass-roots backing for Administration policy."

"You're going to have to count me out."

"Well, actually, it's not really up to you--but I'm probably not explaining it right. My job is to provide you with certain opinions consistent with the goals of the Administration. You are to simply accept these opinions as your own and state them forthrightly at every suitable opportunity."

"You're hitting me with this at a bad time," Bockman said. "I'm going through a lot of personal difficulties. And anyway, why me?"

"Well, we've got to start somewhere. Oh, I guess I should introduce myself. Moss is the name. Andrew Moss."

"I don't give a rat's ass what your name is."

"Well, it's established procedure--I'm supposed to introduce myself on initial contact. Anyway, that's about it for now--you're free to go."

"What about my cavity?"

"Oh, all right--as long as you're here, I guess I could at least take a look."

"I thought you said you weren't a dentist."

"I'm not, but I had the feeling a little bit ago, when I was fooling around in your mouth, that I could probably get the hang of it pretty quickly."

• • •

Bockman left without getting his parking ticket validated. The charge to get his car out was $4.75.

"That seems awfully expensive."

"You were just past the grace period," the parking attendant said.

"The sign says two dollars maximum."

"We don't go by that."

Bockman handed over the money and headed back to work. He was an electrical engineer who, because of an aerospace cutback, was now working as an estimator in an auto-body repair shop in Santa Monica. He was skillful enough at operating the little estimator wheel that he was supposed to roll along each dent to compute the basic repair cost, but both he and the owner of the shop, Mr. Newcomb, realized something important was lacking in his manner. Most potential customers would nod at his figures, speak vaguely about returning later in the week and then disappear forever.

So far, the most Newcomb had said by way of criticism was, "Well, we can't all be as good as Taggart."

This was a reference to the other estimator who worked in the shop.

"Don't forget this isn't my chosen field," Bockman had said the last time this remark had been thrown at him.

All the same, Bockman realized it was a big disadvantage to have someone as good as Taggart for a co-worker. Effortlessly, Taggart managed to get business from everyone who pulled into the shop. In fact, when Bockman returned from the dentist's office, Taggart was getting a signature on an estimate to repair a Dodge Dart that had been rear-ended. A second customer, with a damaged headlight, was waiting. Bockman got his clipboard and hurried over.

"Help you?" he said.

The man with the damaged headlight pointed toward Taggart and said, "If you don't mind, I'll wait for him."

"How come?"

"No reason. I just like his style."

• • •

That evening, when Bockman got home, there was a note from his ex-wife on the dining-room table:

Picked up the laundry and changed the linen. Oven timer is set so that the roast duck will be done by seven. Wine and chilled glass in refrigerator. M.

He got an aspirin from the medicine cabinet and placed it on the tooth that was giving him trouble. Then he phoned his ex-wife.

"Margaret, I don't think all this stopping by here is a good idea," he said.

"I thought you wanted things amicable."

"I did, except you're doing too much. It's getting me mixed up."

"Oh, by the way, did you get the money? I mailed you four hundred dollars yesterday. If you didn't get it today, it'll be there tomorrow for sure."

"Margaret, I can't accept money from you."

"I explained in a note--it's extra. Remember I told you I'd started those group-therapy sessions? Well, now a lot of members have started visiting me individually for help."

"I don't think that's legal, Margaret. In the first place, you don't have any kind of degree or--"

"I'm making real progress with some of them. The only stipulation is that I won't permit any patient of mine to mention bodily functions."

"Margaret, it doesn't sound as if--"

"I simply will not permit it."

At this moment, a man's voice came on the line. "Hi, it's me."

Margaret said, "After all, it's my house. It's another matter if they want to talk filth in the privacy of--"

"Wait a minute, Margaret--is there someone on the extension at your place?"

"No, it's me," the man's voice said. "Andrew Moss."

"Who is it, please?" Margaret said.

"What do you want?" Bockman said.

"Well, I said I'd be keeping in touch."

Margaret said, "We're not finished with our conversation yet, Operator."

"It's not an operator," Bockman said. "It's this other thing I've gotten mixed up in. I'll have to call you back."

Margaret said she understood perfectly. Before she hung up, she mentioned that she was planning to drop by later in the week to lay some new asphalt tile in the kitchen.

After she was off the line, Bockman said, "I don't know the latest on wire tapping, but I'm sure it must be illegal to actually break in on a conversation."

"It seemed more honest to let you know I was listening," Andrew Moss said. "Anyway, here it is: one hundred percent in favor, of the Utah hydroelectric project."

"What?"

"From now on, that's your opinion on the matter."

"Suppose I refuse to adopt that opinion."

"Well, as a first step, your employer will be notified."

"I'm warning you, I've got enough trouble down there."

"There'll be a typewritten list of opinions coming through in a day or so. I got a friend of mine to get me this one for you ahead of time."

• • •

The next morning, when Bockman arrived at work, the employees were gathered around a chart on the back wall. Taggart said, "Newcomb thought it up to keep tabs on our respective performances. See? You can tell at a glance that last week I brought in over five times as much business as you."

"Don't forget this isn't my chosen field," Bockman said.

"Same here," Taggart said.

"What do you mean--Mr. Newcomb said you'd been at this for a good fifteen years."

"He probably said that so you wouldn't feel bad," Taggart said. "Actually, I started here just two days before you--before that I was a dance instructor."

• • •

Business was slow, but just before lunch, Bockman wrote out an estimate for a heavy-set man with a damaged grille. "Fine," the heavy-set man said, checking over Bockman's figures. "Fine. (continued on page 158)Bockman(continued from page 146) How about early autumn?"

"Early autumn?"

"Yeah--I figure I'll hold off until my slack season."

After the man had driven off, Bockman went to the back wall and studied the chart. There was no suitable place where he could indicate that he'd gotten a job for early autumn. The chart was had enough, and the chance that Andrew Moss might cause even further trouble with complaints to Mr. Newcomb made matters even worse. Bockman could see Mr. Newcomb in his office talking on the phone. He waited until the call was completed, then he went in and said, "Utah's made tremendous progress in the last decade, but it could all be for nought if that hydroelectric project falls through."

"That was my brother-in-law on the phone," Mr. Newcomb said. "He's having a hell of a time trying to locate a competent electrical engineer."

"Wait a minute. I'm an electrical engineer."

"You'd think with all the recent cutbacks there'd be plenty around, but apparently that's not the case."

"I worked nine years at one of the top firms in the area. What kind of outfit does he have?"

"I don't know. Data systems. Something like that."

"That's my field! Listen, I guess you don't believe me, but I really am an electrical engineer!"

"Hm? Oh, sure--I believe you." Mr. Newcomb took a sip of coffee from a mug that had his initials painted on it in red fingernail polish by a secretary who had since quit to open her own greeting-card shop. "So anyway," he said, "he's at a complete loss, and all I could tell him is things are bad all over."

Bockman edged toward the door. "I don't want to burn my bridges," he said, "but I'm probably quitting." He turned and rushed out, then reappeared a moment later. "What's the name of his place?" Mr. Newcomb told him and he rushed out again.

• • •

The receptionist at the data-systems firm gave Bockman's name to Mr. Newcomb's brother-in-law over the intercom and then said, "He's from an auto-body repair shop."

"That isn't relevant," Bockman said. "I just didn't want to waste time changing."

"He'll see you now."

Mr. Newcomb's brother-in-law came out from behind his desk to shake hands.

"I should apologize for these coveralls," Bockman said.

"You're looking at one happy feller," Mr. Newcomb's brother-in-law said.

"I understand you need a competent electrical engineer."

"As of ten minutes ago, I did. As of ten minutes ago, I was climbing the walls. Listen, he's up to his ears, but he might take off a second or two if you want to meet him."

"Why would I want to meet him?"

"Well, I can see you've got your heart set on working your way up to electrical engineer--I just thought, it would be a kick to shake hands with a real one."

• • •

Bockman managed to get back to the auto-body repair shop before a decision had been reached on his replacement. Mr. Newcomb was trying to decide between a teenage boy with a snake tattooed on one arm and a man in his late 40s who was carrying a pint of muscatel in his back pocket.

"I said probably," Bockman said. "I didn't say I was definitely quitting."

"OK, OK," Mr. Newcomb said. "It's just that I hate to let these two slip through my fingers."

The older man with the muscatel gestured toward Bockman. "Are you keeping him because he's already got his own coveralls?"

"I guess that's mainly it," Mr. Newcomb said.

• • •

Andrew Moss was in the kitchen making himself a cup of instant Sanka when Bockman got home after work.

"I don't like finding people in the house like this," Bockman said.

"The list of opinions arrived for you." He handed Bockman a sheet of paper.

"Wait a minute," Bockman said. "If this is for me, how come it says Raymond Melnick here at the top?"

"What?"

"Right here. Raymond Melnick."

"Oh, that." Andrew Moss took out a pen, crossed out the name and wrote in Bockman's. "There."

"But that doesn't change the fact that you might have the wrong guy entirely!"

"Keep in mind this program's still in the early stages," Andrew Moss said. "You can't expect every little detail to be exactly right."

Bockman knew the best thing to do would be to throw the list in the trash without a glance, but he took a look at it anyway.

Commodities Exchange

ruling ..........firmly opposed Arkansas Federal judge

appointee ..........well qualified Refurbishing of Senate

subbasement ..........long overdue Allegheny flood-control

project ..........mixed emotions

"I don't get this last one. What good would it do to have mixed emotions about the Allegheny flood-control project?"

"I think that's thrown in to lend credibility to your other opinions."

"Well, I don't see how anyone could bring that off. And anyway, aside from that, all these issues seem kind of inconsequential. I was expecting at least Cabinet-level stuff."

"I think the idea is to build up gradually."

"Well, it's all academic anyway, because I'm not going along with it," Bockman said. "So you can take back this list."

"No, that's all right," Andrew Moss said. "I've got a copy of my own."

• • •

Two days after this, events began to take an unexpected turn at the auto-body repair shop. Bockman's first inkling that the situation was in flux came when three carpenters arrived and put down a hardwood floor in a section of the shop toward the rear that had previously been used as a storage area for bumpers. Then a waist-high partition was erected to separate it from the rest of the shop.

The next day, Taggart brought his phonograph and a stack of albums. Bockman paid little attention until later that afternoon when he saw Taggart in the new area dancing with a lady who'd brought in a sideswiped Pontiac. The phonograph was playing an up-tempo Les Brown number. Taggart swung her out, let her turn, then drew her back again. "She's a natural," he called to Bockman. "Five or six more lessons and she'll be able to hold her own with the best of them."

Bockman mistook this for an isolated incident, but as it turned out, in the following days there seemed to be a surprisingly large number of ladies with damaged autos who, if approached properly, were willing to invest a little time and money to brush up on their dance-floor technique. Bockman sensed that Mr. Newcomb expected him to do his share in enrolling a few of these ladies himself, but he could never bring himself to try.

"It's too illogical," he said to Mr. Newcomb. "It's too much to expect someone to switch from talking about auto-body work to dance lessons."

"I'd agree with you except Taggart's proven otherwise."

"Gaaah!"

"That's no attitude."

"No, I'm sorry--I've got this tooth. Anyway, Taggart's drawing on past skills."

Mr. Newcomb looked out the window that separated his office from the rest of the shop. "I think he's about to move in on another one," he said. "Maybe you can pick up a few pointers."

Taggart was filling out an estimate for an attractive lady with a crumpled rear fender. A Xavier Cugat record was playing on the phonograph. Taggart moved to her side and, although Mr. Newcomb and Bockman couldn't make out his words, he appeared to be going over the estimate with her, item by item. At the same time, he began to sway subtly to the music. The attractive lady seemed to think the swaying was cute and did not seem averse to doing a little of it herself as long as they kept to the real business of going over the estimate.

Then Taggart threw in a step or two and said something to her. She laughed and shook her head. But it was clear he wasn't going to take that for her final answer. He set down his clipboard and, putting one arm around her waist, repeated the step. She tried to follow him but broke off and laughed self-consciously. "No, really," Bockman heard him say. "You've almost got it." Still talking, he led her over to the dance area.

Mr. Newcomb turned to Bockman. "I want you to get out there and lend a hand," he said.

"I think Taggart would probably want to handle it alone," Bockman said.

"I don't want excuses."

Bockman listened a moment, counting to himself to make sure he had the beat, then he made his way, past an employee working with an acetylene torch, to the dance floor.

"May I cut in?" he said.

To his credit, Taggart relinquished the lady gracefully. "Curses," he said with mock exasperation. "Foiled again."

He moved off to the side, where Mr. Newcomb joined him, and Bockman launched into a spirited rumba with the lady. For the most part, he stuck to subtle rhythmic hip movements, but from time to time he threw in a few shoulder waggles as a hint of the wild abandon that would overcome him if he really let himself go. It was coming out of one of these shoulder waggles that he caught sight of her signaling to Taggart. He stopped dancing.

"I was doing OK," he said. "You didn't have to start that."

"I wasn't doing anything," the lady said.

The record came to an end.

"I saw you," Bockman said. "When a person is dancing with one auto-body estimator, she's not supposed to start making secret signals to another auto-body estimator."

Taggart came forward to try to smooth things over. "No harm done," he said. "Plenty of laughs and high jinks for everyone."

"No, I really ought to be going," the lady said.

Taggart said, "But I thought we were going to work our way up to where you could hold your own with the best of them."

"Maybe some other time," the lady said.

Ten minutes after she left, Mr. Newcomb called in Bockman and asked for his resignation.

• • •

That night, Andrew Moss phoned for the first time in more than a week.

"Word's come through that you're cooperating nicely," he said.

"That's not so," Bockman said. "I praised the Utah thing once, but only in a moment of insecurity."

"I don't like to make threats, but you're laying yourself open to severe penalties."

"I don't care. What severe penalties?"

"There's a big guy who knows how to break your arm so that it looks like an accident."

"Well, you're going to have to bring him on, because I'm not changing my mind."

"OK, except he's hard to reach. I'll have to leave a message with his answering service."

"I can't believe someone like that would be on the Administration payroll."

"Actually, we use him more on a freelance basis."

• • •

The first thing the following morning, Bockman went to an employment agency.

"You're an electrical engineer?" a counselor said, checking over the forms Bockman had filled out.

"That's right."

"And your last position was with the Newcomb Auto Body Repair Shop?"

"That's right."

"And why were you dismissed from your last position?"

"I lacked confidence on the dance floor."

After his quarrel with the employment counselor, Bockman returned home to find two letters and also a package from his ex-wife in the mail. One letter stated that he was overdrawn at the bank. The other letter was a bill for $24.00 for his visit to the dentist. The package from his ex-wife was accompanied by a note:

Call me crazy, but when I spotted this $1200 movie camera in the window, I saw your name written all over it! M.

Bockman heated some vegetable soup and ate it with his head tilted to one side so the vegetables wouldn't get involved in any way with his bad tooth. Then he took the camera to a pawnshop he'd often passed in the central part of the city. A sign above the door read:

$$$$$ Cash $$$$$

We

Pay

Top Dollar!

There was also large gold lettering on the window:

Cash we buy anything cash

Cash cameras cash guns cash

When Bockman entered, a customer was showing a plastic flea collar to a man behind the counter. "I found it in the trash, if you want to know the truth," the customer said. "But it still looks in pretty good shape."

The man behind the counter examined the collar. He buckled, then unbuckled it.

"Most of that'll wash right off," the customer said.

"Fifty cents," the man said.

"I was hoping you'd go a little higher."

"All right--seventy-five."

"OK."

The man paid him from a cash drawer, then turned to Bockman. "Help you?"

"I've got this movie camera I'd like to sell. It retails for around $1200."

The man raised the carton flap and peered in. Then he closed it and pushed the carton back toward Bockman. "Sorry," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Not interested."

"It's never even been used. And it's not stolen, if that's what you're thinking. Look--I've even got the delivery invoice."

The man said nothing.

"Listen, I'm willing to take a sacrifice on it. At least make me an offer."

The man shook his head. "Sorry," he said.

Bockman stared at the man. At first he didn't want to say anything because he was afraid his voice would quaver, but then he spoke anyway. "You're not being reasonable, and I don't know why," he said. "But as a matter of fact, I always thought something like this would happen if I ever needed a pawnshop."

Bockman left. Half a block from the pawnshop, he turned down an alley and ducked into a doorway. If he hadn't stepped out a moment later, Andrew Moss would've run right past him.

"I'm not too good at following," he said.

"I told you when this whole thing started, you were catching me at a bad time, but you wouldn't listen," Bockman said.

"I listened."

"It's not entirely your fault, but right now I'm in a bad mood. Let me put this down." He set down his camera and then hit Andrew Moss in the mouth, knocking him backward a couple of steps so that he tripped on the curb and nearly fell.

"I'm going to try more," Bockman said. He hit him again in the mouth, almost in the same place, and then threw another punch that didn't work quite right and hit him on the ear. Andrew Moss fell down.

"Now, if you're going to call the big guy, go ahead and do it," Bockman said. "I'm going to a movie, which I do a lot when I feel depressed, but after that I'll be at home."

Andrew Moss got out a handkerchief and held it to his lip. "There isn't any big guy," he said.

"What?"

"I thought up the big guy to try to keep you in line."

"You mean you had no way of enforcing all that stuff?"

"Sure I did, originally--but that was before the cutback in appropriations. After that, I was practically on my own."

"You don't have to tell me about cutbacks," Bockman said. "That's how I lost my job."

"There was no way I could manage alone."

"I think you did OK, considering," Bockman said. "The important thing is not to blame yourself."

• • •

Four days after this, the firm where Bockman had originally worked was awarded a new Government contract and he was rehired as an electrical engineer. He assumed, naturally enough, that he'd heard the last of Andrew Moss, but a month after he'd been back on the job, a phone call from him came through at the office.

"I hope you're still espousing the opinions on that list," he said.

"I figured that was all over with," Bockman said.

"I didn't mean to give you the impression I was a quitter," Andrew Moss said.

"I never went along with it anyway."

"You said you did once."

"Well, only that one time."

"The Utah thing."

"Yes."

There was a pause, then Andrew Moss said. "I'm trying to cut down on expenses. I was wondering what you thought of the idea of maybe rooming together."

"I don't think I'd really be interested."

"Well, OK. I was just wondering."

• • •

As it turned out, Bockman saw Andrew Moss only one more time, almost a year later in a restaurant that specialized in Mexican food. He stopped at Bockman's table, on his way out, to say hello. He said he had given up his former career and was now with a real-estate company in Anaheim. Before he left, he gave Bockman a ballpoint pen with his name on it.