FUBAR (Short Story) by Kurt Vonnegut

Author:Kurt Vonnegut [Vonnegut, Kurt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-440-33941-0
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2009-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

The normal morning workload in the General Company Response Section was about fifteen letters. On the morning that Francine Pefko joined the operation, however, there were only three letters to be answered.

One letter was from a man in a mental institution. He claimed to have squared the circle. He wanted a hundred thousand dollars and his freedom for having done it. Another letter was from a ten-year-old who wanted to pilot the first rocket ship to Mars. The third was from a lady who complained that she could not keep her dachshund from barking at her GF&F vacuum cleaner.

By ten o’clock, Fuzz and Francine had disposed of all three letters. Francine filed the three letters and carbons of Fuzz’s gracious replies. The filing cabinet was otherwise empty. The General Company Response Section had lost all its old files in the Building 181 fire.

Now there was a lull.

Francine could hardly clean her typewriter, since her typewriter was brand new. Fuzz could hardly make busy-work of shuffling gravely through papers, since he had only one paper in his desk. That one paper was a terse notice to the effect that all supervisors were to crack down hard on coffee breaks.

“That’s all for right now?” said Francine.

“Yes,” said Fuzz. He searched her face for signs of derision. So far there were none. “You—you happened to pick a slack morning,” he said.

“What time does the mailman come?” said Francine.

“Mail service doesn’t come out this far,” said Fuzz. “When I come to work in the morning, and again when I come back from lunch, I pick up our mail at the company post office.”

“Oh,” said Francine.

The leaking showerheads next door suddenly decided to inhale noisily. And then, their nasal passages seemingly cleared, they resumed their dribbling once more.

“Is it real busy around here sometimes, Mr. Littler?” said Francine, and she shuddered because the idea of being thrillingly busy pleased her so much.

“Busy enough,” said Fuzz.

“When do the people come out here, and what do we do for them?” said Francine.

“People?” said Fuzz.

“Isn’t this public relations?” said Francine.

“Yes—” said Fuzz.

“Well, when does the public come?” said Francine, looking down at her eminently presentable self.

“I’m afraid the public doesn’t come out this far,” said Fuzz. He felt like a host at the longest, dullest party imaginable.

“Oh,” said Francine. She looked up at the one window in the office. The window, eight feet above the floor, afforded a view of the underside of a candy wrapper in an areaway. “What about the people we work with?” she said. “Do they rush in and out of here all day?”

“I’m afraid we don’t work with anybody else, Miss Pefko,” said Fuzz.

“Oh,” said Francine.

There was a terrific bang from a steam pipe upstairs. The huge radiator in the tiny office began to hiss and spit.

“Why don’t you read your pamphlets, Miss Pefko,” said Fuzz. “Maybe that would be a good thing to do,” he said.

Francine nodded, eager to please. She started to smile, thought better of it. The crippled smile was Francine’s first indication that she found her new place of employment something less than gay.

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