Mr. Underhill

Why, I was their oldest employee! I really was, and that thought never occurred to me until just now. I knew I’d been with the company quite a little while, but—twenty-seven years! Three-months-and-fourteen-days!

That’s what makes it harder than ever to understand. It isn’t, after all, that I wasn’t doing the work; and a body knows it couldn’t have been my joke that was responsible.

Something tells me it must have started when Soapy Levinson put the octopus in the water-cooler.

Of course, it wasn’t a real octopus—only one of those play rubber things you get in the dime store—but it sure stirred up a riot. That was the way with Soapy: He’s a very comical fellow, been with the firm only six years and already he’s a dispatcher, so you can see it wasn’t all shenanigans with him. But how those girls did laugh! They laughed until I was afraid they’d take the convulsions, especially Mrs. Fredrickson (she posts). And I’ll never forget how funny it was when he came into the office one day all stooped over like a midget, you see, and said to Maggie the switchboard operator: “I want to see the Big Man here!”

I’m not very funny, myself. Didn’t feel it was right to waste time with jokes when I was young, and then when I wasn’t young anymore there didn’t seem much point.

There was a time, though, when they all used to try to get me into their games and silly things like that, but I always frowned and pretended I was working. Pretty soon they stopped asking me, and I didn’t like that very much, either. And with the new crowd it got so finally they wouldn’t talk to me at all, except Mr. Norgesand and every once in a while he’d stop by the desk and say, “Well, how’s the old machine tickin’ today?” He didn’t mean anything wrong in that, but somehow it made me feel peculiar.

That’s what happened right after the joke about the octopus that Soapy pulled. Mr. Norgesand saying that about the machine ticking, I mean.

And it must have started me off thinking a little.

Now, I was what they call a Tracer, with the company. Naturally, I started out as an errand boy, but I gradually moved up and I imagine I did a pretty fair job, otherwise why would Mr. Nims say, and then Mr. Norgesand after him, that they didn’t think it would be right to move me up to anything else? They always said that I was one Tracer out of a million, which is a very nice thing for an employer to say.

That’s why I always tried to do a good job, because of the faith they had in me. Plus the fact that I never did get excited when customers would call up shouting about what happened to their shipments and what was wrong with our company anyway? I was always very courteous and only once did I ever shout back, and then nobody heard me and it was never reported so I imagine one slip didn’t work against me.

Well, about this time everybody in the office had all gone back to work and things were going right along schedule. Soapy and Mr. Norgesand and a few others were out to the coffee wagon downstairs, so it was quiet and peaceful, no one to bother me. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, I don’t think, so I didn’t know why I jumped when the teletype started buzzing.

The message was from San Francisco, from one of the girls there. It said: EMPIRE LAUNDRY SHORT THREE CTNS NBN I/S FTTGS. MUST HAVE IMMEDIATE REPLY.

And it was right then I got the idea of the joke, right at that minute! At first I was afraid to, but there wasn’t anybody watching, so I sent back: TELL THEM TO GET ANOTHER COMPANY IF THEY’RE SO FUSSY. MEANTIME WILL SEE WHAT CAN BE DONE.

From out of the blue sky I thought of a name and signed it: GEORGE W. UNDERHILL.

You see! I made it up out of my head, and I wish I could have seen that girl’s face in San Francisco when she got it. It was the same girl who’d been sending messages to me for seven years!

Later on, of course, I got the matter of the short straightened out. But even then I signed it UNDERHILL, only without the George W. on.

Well sir, I didn’t tell anybody about this until I’d done it two or three more times. The operators in the other stations just guessed it was some new man taken over my old job, though none of them ever asked what had happened to me, which hurt, kind of.

Finally I couldn’t hold it in, because I knew it was a really good joke that everybody would appreciate, counting Mr. Norgesand, who always laughed at Soapy Levinson. The first one I told was Joe Fadness (claims), asking him to keep it a secret, but I knew he wouldn’t.

I didn’t know what to think when Joe didn’t laugh. He just looked at me and said, “What’s the point, Mac?” And that spoiled the fun a little.

“No point, Joe,” I said, chuckling. “It was a joke.”

He looked at me. “A joke, huh? Mean you wrote out this here message and signed somebody else’s name to it?”

“That’s what I did, Joe.”

He smiled and right then I saw he caught on. “Well now, Mac,” he said, “that’s a real funny one, you bet, a real funny one.”

I waited for him to stop laughing, then I went back to work.

But for some reason I couldn’t understand, Joe didn’t spread the word about my joke. Maybe it was because he thought I was spoofing him, and a serious person like myself wouldn’t do a kid’s trick.

But I got ashamed of myself after a while for keeping it all in and not telling everybody. The reason I didn’t before was I was afraid to, in a way, because then they might think I was another regular cut-up like Soapy and be at me all the time to join in their games, which didn’t really fit an older man. I was afraid of losing their respect.

Well, I was working away when Bakersfield teletyped down asking for a report on an overage, and I couldn’t resist one more time. Thought of the way one of those cocky young solicitors would do it, and sent: ARE THEY SUCH A BIG COMPANY THEY CAN’T USE A LITTLE EXTRA FREE MERCHANDISE? Signed: UNDERHILL.

And I like to died because Sophie the stenographer got ahold of the strip from the waste basket. The look on her face! First she stared at the strip, then at me (no one had used the teletype since), then back at the strip. Then she scratched her head and took it over to Bill Stoddard, and they talked about it.

Bill came over in a little while, grinning. “Hey, Mac,” he said, sitting down on my desk, “you do this?”

I frowned and looked at him through my eye-shade.

“Do what, Bill?” I winked at Joe, who had stopped his work.

“This business about Underhill? That your doing?”

“Well . . . to tell the truth . . .” I suppose I blushed, and snapped my black arm-guards. Bill didn’t do anything for a minute but stare at me, then all of a sudden he started to laugh, and I declare that boy laughed so hard I was sure he’d hurt his stomach!

Made me feel good, you know! Don’t see why, but it did, because in a minute Bill had told Sophie and Sophie had told Maggie and pretty soon Mrs. Fredrickson and all the rest were, well, they were almost crying!

Naturally, Mr. Norgesand came out to see what all the fuss was about.

“Settle down now,” he said in a loud voice. “Soapy, what’ve you been up to this time?”

But Soapy was laughing, too. He started to speak up, but then he turned red and he could only point at me. By this time I was wishing they’d stop it.

“Mac, what in the world—”

“Really, Mr. Norgesand,” I tried to say, “it was only a little practical joke.” I explained it to him. But somehow it didn’t strike Mr. Norgesand funny: He looked at the rest and said something very peculiar. He said, “You ought to be ashamed, the bunch of you!” Then he went back in his office, but I could see from the corner of my eye that he only waited to be by himself to laugh too.

Oh, let me tell you, it went over big, all right.

They all started to call me Mr. Underhill after that. And it really got to be the office joke, as Joe or Maggie or whoever it happened to be, would do things like get calls and say: “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to turn you over to our Mr. Underhill. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.” Then I’d be stuck with whoever it was, and there were some mighty embarrassing moments.

In a while I was sorry I’d started it at all, they ran it in the ground so. Every other call was for Mr. Underhill. “The most efficient, best-looking, go-getter in the business,” Bill Stoddard would say and then give me the call. It got to be awful and I dreaded it.

Once somebody called and asked Joe who was in charge of tracing.

“Our Mr. Underhill,” he said. “Best man on any tracing desk in the country.”

“New, isn’t he?” they asked.

“Only to this office. Been in the game a while, but that isn’t the point. That guy’s going up like a rocket. Another ten years he’ll have Norgesand’s job, between you and me. Never makes a mistake, always on time, always courteous! How could he lose?”

Now that was the silliest thing I’d ever heard. I never made mistakes, myself, I was always courteous and on time and every­thing Joe said. Yet it sounded hard to put together. He was describing me, in a way, then again he certainly wasn’t. I felt that something was missing, because I knew as well as my life they’d never put me anywhere else. After I heard Joe say these things, I couldn’t concentrate all day until quitting time.

It was about three months afterwards, and they wouldn’t still let go of the joke, even though they must have been able to see how sick I was of it. I even remember it was eleven o’clock in the morning. I’d been having just a little bit of bad luck, somehow, as through no fault of my own—since I was always courteous—some pretty big clients had dropped our company. Couldn’t understand this, because I agreed with everything they said and tried to be sympathetic.

Well, it was eleven o’clock, as I said, when I got up and went into the gentleman’s lounge, which was my custom at this particular time. When I got back, there was this fellow in Mr. Norgesand’s office.

Now a lot of people came to see Mr. Norgesand in the course of the day, so I don’t know exactly what it was, but I couldn’t seem to be able to take my eyes off of this one. He was around thirty, I’d say, with fat red cheeks and wavy blonde hair, and from his suit handkerchief pocket there were three cigars. Never did care for cigars, but even so this couldn’t have been the reason I started not to like that young fellow.

Mr. Norgesand, he rose up and stretched across the desk to shake hands, then after a while they came out and over to my own desk.

“Mac,” Mr. Norgesand said, putting his hand on my back, “I want you to meet George. George, this is Mac, who I was telling you about.”

I shook his hand.

“Mac, that is, Mr. Kibber, here, has been our Tracer for quite a while, haven’t you, Mac?”

I said yes, I had.

“A good worker, a hard worker, but, well, business is booming, George, as I don’t have to tell a sharp boy like you! Booming, yes sir, and I’m afraid there’s a bit more than old Mac can handle. Mac, George here is going to pitch in and give you a hand. He’s a young man, wants to learn the ropes—and I can’t think of a better way, can you? Later on we may work him into something, eh Mac?”

I smiled courteously and told Mr. Norgesand that though I didn’t really think there was too much for me, I’d be glad to help teach the young man. He, this fellow, hadn’t said a word yet. Only smiled with his big teeth, which were all white and even.

When we were alone I had him draw up a chair next to the desk.

“Well,” I said, trying to be friendly, “so you’re just starting out, are you?”

“Got it wrong, Pops,” he said, “dead wrong. This is my line, know what I mean, my line, and when something’s your line you’re never just ‘starting out’—know what I mean?”

I said yes, but I couldn’t make anything out of that, to tell the truth.

He was awfully large, for being so young. He took out one of his cigars and pointed it at me.

“Join me in a bomber?”

He made an ugly round O with his lips and put the cigar inside and lit the cigar with a big silver lighter that must have cost him a lot of money.

“Okay, Dad, don’t feel you got to sing me any songs—know this stuff like a book. Like a book. So you just work on and we’ll chat like you’re teaching me something, okay? That’ll keep the old man happy. I can see he digs industry.”

When he started doodling funny pictures on the back of an invoice, as I was explaining a complicated procedure, I said, “See here, now, my boy! I’d appreciate your attention, Mr.—”

“Call me George, Pops. Real George—get it? The last name is Underhill.”

Don’t you know that startled me at first, considering that I had made George W. Underhill up out of my head?

“W.?” I asked.

“Couldn’t be righter if you strained.”

I started to tell him what a funny coincidence it was, but frankly I didn’t think he’d understand the joke. And about that time everybody stopped talking about it anyway—for fear of confusion, no doubt—so I buckled down to give him what I had. He drew pictures all the time I spoke, too.

At first it was awful, because I couldn’t understand what the lad was saying whenever he did say anything. Once he reached over and took off my eye-shade and said: “Crazy hat, man!” Another time he looked at my apron, which is leather and protects my trousers from carbon lint and pencil dust, and just said: “Cool.” There were lots of other peculiar things he came out with, but I can’t remember them.

Which was bad enough, but since it was my understanding that I was to coach young Mr. Underhill, I became angry when he started taking the calls when I’d go to the water cooler or to the gentleman’s lounge. Finally it got so bad, his taking liberties like that, that I spoke to Mr. Norgesand about it. Do you know what he said?

“Let the boy alone, Mac. He’s doing fine. Found that Siller Pipe short in two seconds—I watched him.”

A pure stroke of luck, anyone could see!

But that was only the beginning. On the fourth day since he came, I punched in twenty minutes early, and there he was proud-as-you-please, with his feet propped up on my desk! He was wearing a double-breasted blue suit with a red-white-and-blue striped silk tie and one of those tabbed-collar things, and there was smoke all over. I could hardly talk.

“Little bird with yellow bill, perched upon my windowsill, cocked his shiney eye and said, ‘Ain’t you ’shamed, you sleepy head?’ ” was what he told me.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded.

“Just workin’, Dad, workin’. Got half the morning’s stuff cleared away already. Just a second—” He picked up the telephone and dialed outside. “Mr. Hatterman? Underhill. Yes, you can put the stopper on that worry kick—your cartons will be delivered by two o’clock this afternoon. Yes sir.”

“Was that Hatterman of Pacific?” I asked.

“Deedy deed.”

“But those cartons of his were smashed on the dock yesterday!”

“Don’t worry about it! Tell him that and he’d blow his stack. He’s happy now and I’ll think of something later on. Take it easy.”

I didn’t say a word to him all day, except to tell him to take the chair and give me back my desk. “Sure thing, Boss-Man!” he answered.

That night Mr. Norgesand called me into his office and asked how Mr. Underhill was coming along.

“Well, sir, he may be a hard worker, but his manner on the phone isn’t what you’d call courteous, really.”

“Lost any business through him?”

“No sir, not yet.”

“Gained any?”

“Well . . . Merchant Fruit did swing over to us, but I think they would have anyway. I’ve been working on them.”

Mr. Norgesand looked at me. He said “Yes” and allowed me to go back. Underhill was at my desk again and I had to ask him to give it back to me.

Once I tried to ask him about his background, but he said, “Crazy background” and I guess I was supposed to know what he meant.

The folks started to joke around with him after a while, which they never did with me anymore, and it wasn’t long before he was having lunch in the office with them. I myself dined at a little drugstore on the corner.

He was friendly with them, in that way he had that I didn’t like at all, and I could see they liked Mr. Underhill. Called him George.

Within three months you’d think he owned the place, he was so familiar in his manner.

Like that time I came in, early as usual, and saw him and Mr. Norgesand in the front office, laughing. There was an aluminum bottle, or I think they used to call them flasks, on the desk and they had paper cups.

Naturally, I went over and started to take the night-cover off the billing machine, when I heard Mr. Norgesand’s voice.

“Hey there, Mac! Can you come in here a minute?”

I said, “Yes sir.”

“Mac, how old would you say that biller is, there?” He pointed at the machine.

“I believe it was manufactured in 1925, sir. We bought it brand new then.”

“Work all right?”

“Like the day we got it, sir. It’s been kept up.”

Underhill laughed. He poured out some liquor into a paper cup and passed it to me. I refused, of course. He said: “Man, I thought we’d stamped out AA.” and wheezed, all his teeth showing. He had a greenish suit on.

“Like the day we got it, eh Mac? No better, no worse?”

Mr. Norgesand was drunk, and in the morning, too. I just nodded.

“Know what, Mac? They got a new biller on the market. Tell Mac about it, George.”

“Crazy biller, man. Electrified. All ya do is plug her in and watch her go. Latest kick.”

“Latest kick, Mac. Turns out twice as much work, twice as little effort. Doesn’t cost very much; pay for itself in a year, two years. Up to date. Now I ask you, what would you do?”

I was about to answer but they were laughing, so I went back to work.

Things like that all the time, that I didn’t understand, I mean.

Then, the way it all looped up to this, all that I’ve mentioned, there was the day I punched in right on time. Not any earlier, as the streetcar ran late. I said “Good morning” to Maggie as per usual but she didn’t say anything back, which was all right. I hung up my umbrella and my hat and my overcoat and took off my galoshes and started down the aisle.

Underhill was at my desk like he belonged there, but this was all right too. It was getting to be a habit.

Then I saw it.

All my personal belongings were missing. My brass cuspidor, the THINK sign I kept under glass, the pictures of my wife who died a long time ago and of the horses (I’ve always loved horses—and never been on top of one, the funny part of it). All gone. Even my special letter-opener that a sailor gave me one night and said he had found it on the corpse of a dead enemy soldier at Okinawa.

Underhill didn’t notice me at first, although I was standing right next to him. I watched him awhile.

He was young-looking there in the light, and seemed to be busting with energy like. I wanted to haul off and hit him with something because of the nerve, but I couldn’t help for a second admiring that energy. The papers weren’t all in order and things were helter-skelter all over, and yet somehow he had done the work pretty well. I’ll have to admit that. It was only—he reminded me there of somebody, and I didn’t know who. For no reason at all, I thought of the joke I’d started a while back, and things got dizzy.

“Mr. Underhill!” I said.

He didn’t move. Kept right on working.

“Mr. Underhill, I’m speaking to you. I want you to stop this or I’ll have you fired. What do you mean anyway by taking my personal belongings?”

Mr. Norgesand came out of his office, looking sad. He didn’t do anything but point at a big black satchel, the one the company had given me some years back and I had always kept in the office. I went and looked inside, by instinct; and there were my things, stacked in neatly.

Mr. Norgesand said “I’m sorry,” sighed and returned to his office. Nobody else looked up, Sophie or Joe or Maggie or any of them.

Then I saw the envelope on the corner of my desk, made out to me personally.

It contained inside one month’s pay in full.

And nothing else.

And that’s about the story, I guess.

I don’t even go by the office any more. I used to, though, toward the first, when it got late at night and I didn’t know what else to do with myself.

Used to stand there in the shadows thinking all kinds of things, looking up at the window which would be jet-black except for the corner where my desk was.

There would always be a light there.

And I’d see Mr. Underhill—working late.