here we put our count on 'em, and give 'em to Gross who enters 'em in the books… Yeah, those ribs you put up will have to be counted. Gross can do it after while."
"Why I can do it, "I said. "It was my mistake."
"Gross can do it. He's not very busy."
"I'll do it," said Gross.
Moon took a final mouthful of apple, pulled a wooden box up to the fence, and stepped up on it. About fifty feet away a guard was leaning against a pillar, his back to us. Moon took a slow unhurried look around the plant, brought his arm back deliberately, and hurled the apple core. It struck the guard on the framed front of his cap, pushing it down over his eyes, bounced high into the air and landed in the cockpit of a plane.
Moon stepped down, unsmiling. "Now, let's get busy," he said, "and sweep this place out."
5
Gross was directly behind me when I punched out my card, and he followed me through the gate.
"Got a ride home?" he asked.
"No, I haven't," I said.
"Why don't you walk down here with me to my car?" I said thanks, I'd appreciate it, and we walked along together, working our way through the double stream of traffic that was already beginning to flow toward Pacific Boulevard.
"What do you think of that guy, Moon?" he asked. "Did you ever see anybody so screwy in your life?"
I laughed. "He's got his peculiarities, all right."
"He's crazy," said Gross, "and I don't care who tells him I said so. He's been riding me ever since I went to work here."
I was rather anxious to divert the conversation to another subject. "Have you been here quite a while?"
"I've been in the plant four months. I only started in the stockroom three weeks ago. I worked down in Drophammer the rest of the time."
"You like this work better?"
"I'd like it if Moon wasn't so crazy and wouldn't ride me all the time. I ain't used to that riding. He don't like me because Personnel put me in there without asking him about it. I went over and talked to the personnel man, see; told him about my education, and how I wanted a chance to use it. We had a real nice talk. He's a nice fellow. He's quite a sports fan, and when he found out I was All-American, he really got interested. A few days after that they fired the bookkeeper they had in the stockroom-even Moon admits he wasn't any good-and gave me the job."
He stopped and opened the door of an old Chevrolet sedan.
"What do you think of Murphy?" he said, one foot on the running board.
"How do you mean?" I said.
Gross snorted. "Did you ever see anyone that looked more like a Mexican in your life?"
"Well-no."
"And he calls himself Murphy! I think they ought to do something about that, don't you?"
"Why-I don't know."
"Say," said Gross, "didn't you just get through saying he was a Mexican?"
"Yes," I said. "I mean-"
"Well, all right, then," he said.
He climbed into the car, settled himself, and looked at me with veiled amusement.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. This isn't my car; it belongs to another guy. I don't know just when he'll be out, and I think he's going to have a load. Maybe you'd better go on."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll do that."
"Any time I've got my own car," he called after me, "I'll be glad to give you a ride."
"Thanks," I said, without turning around.
I knew he was laughing, and it embarrassed me. It always embarrasses me to see meanness in others, even when it is directed at me. I wince for them.
It wasn't until late that night that I thought about what I'd said and how it would sound repeated to Murphy. And I was confident that it was going to be repeated. It was, because it just isn't natural for me to do or say anything without trouble ensuing. Of course, I could protect myself by going to Murphy first and explaining that Gross had put words in my mouth. But then what if Gross didn't intend to tell Murphy, after all? I'd have started something. Murphy would confront Gross with my story, and I would be called as a witness. If Gross admitted it, I'd be a tattletale. If he said I was lying-well,
"Why I can do it, "I said. "It was my mistake."
"Gross can do it. He's not very busy."
"I'll do it," said Gross.
Moon took a final mouthful of apple, pulled a wooden box up to the fence, and stepped up on it. About fifty feet away a guard was leaning against a pillar, his back to us. Moon took a slow unhurried look around the plant, brought his arm back deliberately, and hurled the apple core. It struck the guard on the framed front of his cap, pushing it down over his eyes, bounced high into the air and landed in the cockpit of a plane.
Moon stepped down, unsmiling. "Now, let's get busy," he said, "and sweep this place out."
5
Gross was directly behind me when I punched out my card, and he followed me through the gate.
"Got a ride home?" he asked.
"No, I haven't," I said.
"Why don't you walk down here with me to my car?" I said thanks, I'd appreciate it, and we walked along together, working our way through the double stream of traffic that was already beginning to flow toward Pacific Boulevard.
"What do you think of that guy, Moon?" he asked. "Did you ever see anybody so screwy in your life?"
I laughed. "He's got his peculiarities, all right."
"He's crazy," said Gross, "and I don't care who tells him I said so. He's been riding me ever since I went to work here."
I was rather anxious to divert the conversation to another subject. "Have you been here quite a while?"
"I've been in the plant four months. I only started in the stockroom three weeks ago. I worked down in Drophammer the rest of the time."
"You like this work better?"
"I'd like it if Moon wasn't so crazy and wouldn't ride me all the time. I ain't used to that riding. He don't like me because Personnel put me in there without asking him about it. I went over and talked to the personnel man, see; told him about my education, and how I wanted a chance to use it. We had a real nice talk. He's a nice fellow. He's quite a sports fan, and when he found out I was All-American, he really got interested. A few days after that they fired the bookkeeper they had in the stockroom-even Moon admits he wasn't any good-and gave me the job."
He stopped and opened the door of an old Chevrolet sedan.
"What do you think of Murphy?" he said, one foot on the running board.
"How do you mean?" I said.
Gross snorted. "Did you ever see anyone that looked more like a Mexican in your life?"
"Well-no."
"And he calls himself Murphy! I think they ought to do something about that, don't you?"
"Why-I don't know."
"Say," said Gross, "didn't you just get through saying he was a Mexican?"
"Yes," I said. "I mean-"
"Well, all right, then," he said.
He climbed into the car, settled himself, and looked at me with veiled amusement.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. This isn't my car; it belongs to another guy. I don't know just when he'll be out, and I think he's going to have a load. Maybe you'd better go on."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll do that."
"Any time I've got my own car," he called after me, "I'll be glad to give you a ride."
"Thanks," I said, without turning around.
I knew he was laughing, and it embarrassed me. It always embarrasses me to see meanness in others, even when it is directed at me. I wince for them.
It wasn't until late that night that I thought about what I'd said and how it would sound repeated to Murphy. And I was confident that it was going to be repeated. It was, because it just isn't natural for me to do or say anything without trouble ensuing. Of course, I could protect myself by going to Murphy first and explaining that Gross had put words in my mouth. But then what if Gross didn't intend to tell Murphy, after all? I'd have started something. Murphy would confront Gross with my story, and I would be called as a witness. If Gross admitted it, I'd be a tattletale. If he said I was lying-well,
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