"Bester, Alfred - Will You Wait (txt)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bester Alfred)

I took a breath. “I want to sell you my soul.”
“Have you got anything on paper?”
“What do you mean, anything on paper?”
“The Property, my boy. The Sell. You can’t expect B.B.D.O. to buy a pig in a poke. We may drink out of dixie cups up here, but the sauce has got to be a hundred proof. Bring in your Presentation. My girl’ll set up an appointment.”
I prepared a Presentation of my soul with plenty of Sell. Then I called his girl.
“I’m sorry, he’s on the Coast. Call back in two weeks.” Five weeks later she gave me an appointment. I went up and
sat in the photo-montage reception room of B.B.D.O. for two hours, balancing my Sell on my knees. Finally I was ushered into a corner office decorated with Texas brands in glowing neon. The Devil was lounging on his contour chair, dictating to an Iron Maiden. He was a tall man with the phoney voice of a sales manager; the kind that talks loud in elevators. He gave me a Sincere handshake and immediately looked through my Presentation.
“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. I think we can do business. Now what did you have in mind? The usual?”
“Money, success, happiness.”
He nodded. “The usual. Now we’re square shooters in this shop. B.B.D.O. doesn’t dry-gulch. We’ll guarantee money, success and happiness.”
“For how long?”
“Normal life-span. No tricks, my boy. We take our estimates from the Actuary Tables. Offhand I’d say you’re good for another forty, forty-five years. We can pin-point that in the contract later.”
“No tricks?”
He gestured impatiently. “That’s all bad public relations, what you’re thinking. I promise you, no tricks.”
“Guaranteed?”
“Not only do we guarantee service; we insist on giving service. B.B.D.O. doesn’t want any beefs going up to the Fair Practice Committee. You’ll have to call on us for service at least twice a year or the contract will be terminated.”
“V/hat kind of service?”
He shrugged. “Any kind. Shine your shoes; empty ashtrays; bring you dancing girls. That can be pin-pointed later. We just insist that you use us at least twice a year. We’ve got to give you a quid for your quo “Quid pro quo. Check?”
“But no tricks?”
“No tricks. I’ll have our legal department draw up the contract. Who’s representing you?”
“You mean an agent? I haven’t got one.”
He was startled. “Haven’t got an agent? My boy, you’re living
dangerously. Why, we could skin you alive. Get yourself an agent and tell him to call me.”
“Yes, sir. M-May I . . . Could I ask a question?”
“Shoot. Everything is open and above-board at B.B.D.O.”
“What will it be like for me . . . wh-when the contract terminates?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t advise it.”
“I want to know.”
He showed me. It was like a hideous session with a psychoanalyst, in perpetuity . . . an eternal, agonizing self-indictment. It was hell. I was shaken.
“I’d rather have inhuman fiends torturing me,” I said.
He laughed. “They can’t compare to man’s inhumanity to himself. Well. . . changed your mind, or is it a deal?”
“It’s a deal.”
We shook hands and he ushered me out. “Don’t forget,” he warned. “Protect yourself. Get an agent. Get the best.”
I signed with Sibyl & Sphinx. That was on March 3. I called S & S on March 15. Mrs. Sphinx said: “Oh yes, there’s been a hitch. Miss Sibyl was negotiating with B.B.D.O. for you, but she had to fly to Sheol. I’ve taken over for her.”
I called April 1. Miss Sibyl said: “Oh yes, there’s been a slight delay. Mrs. Sphinx had to go to Salem for a try-out. A witchburning. She’ll be back next week.”
I called April 15. Miss Sibyl’s bright young secretary told me that there was some delay getting the contracts typed. It seemed that B.B.D.O. was re-organizing its legal department. On May 1, Sibyl & Sphinx told me that the contracts had arrived and that their legal department was looking them over.
I had to take a menial job in June to keep body and soul together. I worked in the stencil department of a network. At least once a week a script would come in about a bargain with the Devil which was signed, sealed and delivered before the opening corn-
mercial. I used to laugh at them. After four months of negotiation I was still threadbare.
I saw the Devil once, bustling down Park Avenue. He was running for Congress and was very busy being jolly and hearty with the electorate. He addressed every cop and doorman by first name. When I spoke to him he got a little frightened; thinking I was a Communist or worse. He didn’t remember me at all.
In July, all negotiations stopped; everybody was away on vacation. In August everybody was overseas for some Black Mass Festival. In September Sibyl & Sphinx called me to their office to sign the contract. It was thirty-seven pages long, and fluttered with pasted-in corrections and additions. There were half a dozen tiny boxes stamped on the margin of every page.
“If you only knew the work that went into this contract,” Sibyl & Sphinx told me with satisfaction.
“It’s kind of long, isn’t it?”
“It’s the short contracts that make all the trouble. Initial every box, and sign on the last page. All six copies.”
I initialed and signed. When I was finished I didn’t feel any different. I’d expected to start tingling with money, success and happiness.
“Is it a deal now?” I asked. “Not until he’s signed it.”
“I can’t hold out much longer.”
“We’ll send it over by messenger.” I waited a week and then called.
“You forgot to initial one of the boxes,” they told me.