“People probably felt the same way about movies once.”
“They’ve got education being dispensed by actors posing as media characters, actresses endorsing scientific theories, and ads in everything you look at—even grade-school political messages on cereal boxes. And it’s getting more like that here every day. If this is where it leads, I’m not sure I want the job anymore.”
“Give it a try,” Sarah urged. “It will get you out again, and among people. Think of it as purely therapeutic.”
* * *
Graham Rawlings didn’t look happy as he perused the annual review from Corrigan’s file. “It says that you haven’t enrolled in the golfing tuition program,” he observed.
“That’s right,” Corrigan agreed.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to play golf.” (Wasn’t it obvious?)
“But all our executives play golf,” Rawlings said. “It’s part of the accepted corporate image. Don’t you want to share in the feeling of strength and security that comes from uniformity of outlook, shared ideals, and a common purpose?”
“No.”
Rawlings seemed taken aback. “Surely you seek promotion and reward, recognition and success? Everybody needs to proclaim to the world what he is.”
“But you’re trying to make me exactly what I’m not.”
Rawlings looked worried. “Maybe you’re more ill than we realize. Possibly you should see a counselor.”
“I’ve already got one.”
“The corporation can provide a comprehensive package of counseling, regular physical checks, drugs as required, and remedial therapy.”
“No, thanks.”
“At the company’s expense.”
“But I feel just fine.”
Rawlings sat back, shaking his head, as if that one remark revealed all. “That proves you’re sick,” he said gravely.
* * *
Sarah was prim about it when Corrigan stopped by her office to announce that he was quitting. “Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but I tried my best,” she said. “So what do you want to do?”
“I’m not sure. Just be myself, I suppose.”
“And what, exactly, is that?”
“Ask the people who are always telling me. They seem to know. I’m still trying to find out.”
“Have you talked it over with Muriel?”
“She thinks I should do my own thing in my own way—try to find myself again.”
“She sounds very supportive,” Sarah conceded.
“If that’s the right word. Lately she’s been dropping hints about as subtle as a tax demand that we ought to get married.”
Sarah sat back at her desk and regarded him thoughtfully, as if the world had just shifted on its axis and presented itself in a new perspective. “You know, Joe, that mightn’t be such a bad idea,” she said at last. “You’ve been on the program for nine years now. That kind of stabilizing influence could be just what you need. Then we could let the two of you find a place of your own independently. I can’t think of a better road back to complete normality than that.”
* * *
Muriel and Joe married early the following year. However, when they had talked about individualism and being himself, Muriel thought he was describing his determination to pursue a career vigorously within the corporation. When he quit, explaining that what he’d meant was that he was going to chuck all of it, and announced that he’d taken a job as a checkout clerk at a discount store, it put a different complexion on things.
And, predictably, life continued on a downhill course from there. . . .
Chapter One
Few things, Corrigan thought irritably as he lay washed up on the pebbly shore of wakefulness from the warm, carefree ocean of sleep, could be more maddening first thing in the morning than a chatty house-computer—especially one afflicted with the kind of advanced neurosis that he usually associated with swooning aunts or psychiatric rehabilitation counselors.
“It’s almost nine o’clock, Joe,” it babbled again in the fussing English accent that projected Muriel’s conception of professional conscientiousness with a touch of social style. “As a rule, this is your absolute latest for getting up on a Saturday.”
Corrigan thought that it sounded gay. He pictured it as lean and limp-wristed, with a receding hairline, mincing about the room and throwing its hands up in agitation.
“Oh. . . . Hmm.” Corrigan yawned, stretched, and opened his eyes to the homey disarray of the apartment’s bedroom. “Is it Saturday?”