accurate. Kill it
dead. It's one of those talking, singing, humming, weather-reporting,
poetry-reading, novel-reciting, jingle-jangling,
rockaby-crooning-when-you-go-to-bed houses. A house that screams opera to you
in the shower and teaches you Spanish in your sleep. One of those blathering
caves where all kinds of electronic Oracles make you feel a trifle larger than
a thimble, with stoves that say, ‘I'm apricot pie, and I'm done,' or ‘I'm prime
roast beef, so baste me!' and other nursery gibberish like that. With beds that
rock you to sleep and shake you awake. A house that barely tolerates humans, I
tell you. A front door that barks: 'You've mud on your feet, sir!' And an
electronic vacuum hound that snuffles around after you from room to room,
inhaling every fingernail or ash you drop. Jesus God, 1 say, Jesus God!"
"Quietly," suggested the
psychiatrist.
"Remember that Gilbert and Sullivan
song-1've Got It on My List, It Never Will Be Missed'? All night I listed grievances.
Next morning early I bought a pistol. I purposely muddied my feet. I stood at
our front door. The front door shrilled, 'Dirty feet, muddy feet! Wipe your
feet! Please be neat! I shot the damn thing in its keyhole! I ran to the
kitchen, where the stove was just whining, Turn me over!' In the middle of a
mechanical omelet I did the stove to death. Oh, how it sizzled and screamed,
I'm shorted!' Then the telephone rang like a spoiled brat. I shoved it down the
Insinkerator. I must state here and now I have nothing whatever against the
Insinkerator; it was an innocent bystander. I feel sorry for it now, a
practical device indeed, which never said a word, purred like a sleepy lion
most of the time, and digested our leftovers. I'll have it restored. Then I
went in and shot the televisor, that insidious beast, that Medusa, which
freezes a billion people to stone every night, staring fixedly, that Siren
which called and sang and promised so much and gave, after all, so little, but
myself always going back, going back, hoping and waiting until—bang! Like a
headless turkey, gobbling, my wife whooped out the front door. The police came.
Here I am!"
He sat back happily and lit a cigarette.
"And did you realize, in committing these
crimes, that the wrist radio, the broadcasting transmitter, the phone, the bus
radio, the office intercoms, all were rented or were someone else's
property?"
"I would do it all over again, so help me
God,"
The psychiatrist sat there in the sunshine of
that beatific smile.
"You don't want any further help from the
Office of Mental Health? You're ready to take the consequences?"
"This is only the beginning," said
Mr. Brock. "I'm the vanguard of the small public which is tired of noise
and being taken advantage of and pushed around and yelled at, every moment
music, every moment in touch with some voice somewhere, do this, do that,
quick, quick, now here, now there. You'll see. The revolt begins. My name will
go down in history!"
"Mmm." The psychiatrist seemed to be
thinking.
"It'll take time, of course. It was all
so enchanting at first. The very idea of these things, the practical uses, was
wonderful. They were almost toys, to be played with, but the people got too
involved, went too far, and got wrapped up in a pattern of social behavior and
couldn't get out, couldn't admit they were in, even. So they rationalized their
nerves as something else. 'Our modern age,' they said. 'Conditions,' they said.
'High-strung,' they said. But mark my words, the seed has been sown. I got
world-wide coverage on TV, radio, films; there's an irony for you. That was
five days ago. A billion people know about me. Check your financial columns.
Any day now. Maybe today. Watch for a
dead. It's one of those talking, singing, humming, weather-reporting,
poetry-reading, novel-reciting, jingle-jangling,
rockaby-crooning-when-you-go-to-bed houses. A house that screams opera to you
in the shower and teaches you Spanish in your sleep. One of those blathering
caves where all kinds of electronic Oracles make you feel a trifle larger than
a thimble, with stoves that say, ‘I'm apricot pie, and I'm done,' or ‘I'm prime
roast beef, so baste me!' and other nursery gibberish like that. With beds that
rock you to sleep and shake you awake. A house that barely tolerates humans, I
tell you. A front door that barks: 'You've mud on your feet, sir!' And an
electronic vacuum hound that snuffles around after you from room to room,
inhaling every fingernail or ash you drop. Jesus God, 1 say, Jesus God!"
"Quietly," suggested the
psychiatrist.
"Remember that Gilbert and Sullivan
song-1've Got It on My List, It Never Will Be Missed'? All night I listed grievances.
Next morning early I bought a pistol. I purposely muddied my feet. I stood at
our front door. The front door shrilled, 'Dirty feet, muddy feet! Wipe your
feet! Please be neat! I shot the damn thing in its keyhole! I ran to the
kitchen, where the stove was just whining, Turn me over!' In the middle of a
mechanical omelet I did the stove to death. Oh, how it sizzled and screamed,
I'm shorted!' Then the telephone rang like a spoiled brat. I shoved it down the
Insinkerator. I must state here and now I have nothing whatever against the
Insinkerator; it was an innocent bystander. I feel sorry for it now, a
practical device indeed, which never said a word, purred like a sleepy lion
most of the time, and digested our leftovers. I'll have it restored. Then I
went in and shot the televisor, that insidious beast, that Medusa, which
freezes a billion people to stone every night, staring fixedly, that Siren
which called and sang and promised so much and gave, after all, so little, but
myself always going back, going back, hoping and waiting until—bang! Like a
headless turkey, gobbling, my wife whooped out the front door. The police came.
Here I am!"
He sat back happily and lit a cigarette.
"And did you realize, in committing these
crimes, that the wrist radio, the broadcasting transmitter, the phone, the bus
radio, the office intercoms, all were rented or were someone else's
property?"
"I would do it all over again, so help me
God,"
The psychiatrist sat there in the sunshine of
that beatific smile.
"You don't want any further help from the
Office of Mental Health? You're ready to take the consequences?"
"This is only the beginning," said
Mr. Brock. "I'm the vanguard of the small public which is tired of noise
and being taken advantage of and pushed around and yelled at, every moment
music, every moment in touch with some voice somewhere, do this, do that,
quick, quick, now here, now there. You'll see. The revolt begins. My name will
go down in history!"
"Mmm." The psychiatrist seemed to be
thinking.
"It'll take time, of course. It was all
so enchanting at first. The very idea of these things, the practical uses, was
wonderful. They were almost toys, to be played with, but the people got too
involved, went too far, and got wrapped up in a pattern of social behavior and
couldn't get out, couldn't admit they were in, even. So they rationalized their
nerves as something else. 'Our modern age,' they said. 'Conditions,' they said.
'High-strung,' they said. But mark my words, the seed has been sown. I got
world-wide coverage on TV, radio, films; there's an irony for you. That was
five days ago. A billion people know about me. Check your financial columns.
Any day now. Maybe today. Watch for a
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