Ten-Thousand Light Years From Home by James Tiptree Jr

Author:James Tiptree Jr. [Tiptree, James Jr.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-07-12T05:00:00+00:00

THE MAN DOORS SAID HELLO TO

I was all alone at the end of the bar when he came in and I heard it distinctly: “Hello-o!”

I froze. Go away. But he wasn’t talking to me. In fact he wasn’t talking to anybody unless he was two midgets. Which was possible, I noted apathetically as he receded down the bar. He was about nine feet tall and dressed by Goodwill Industries.

I went back to trying to decide whether I was suffering more here than if I were someplace else. Here was a tacky grill in a part of town I’d never seen before and didn’t—etcetera. It had the advantage that none of my, aaugh, friends was apt to come in. On the other hand several hours here had yielded no help at all. None.

There was the problem of taking a leak before leaving. When I stood up I found my legs had been there too long. They kind of floated me at a tall apparition halfway down the bar, but I managed to veer into the can.

The can door pushed open again behind me and I heard a gutsy chuckle: “Hiya.” Mister Tall came through. Oh, no. I concentrated on my image as the most dangerous slightly paralyzed guy five feet six in the world and finished my business fast. When I left I noticed the door creaked a little. It definitely did not speak English.

I had to stop to blow my nose and he came out. The door said briskly, “Ciao.”

It had to be some ventriloquist gig. As he went by I saw him tap the next door, the one with the female thing on it.

“Hi there,” it murmured. The door said it.

Without meaning to, I looked at his eyes. He didn’t seem to be two midgets.

“I heard that.”

He shrugged.

“It’s a friendly city.”

“Yo,” I shuddered.

“Doors.” He shook his head and gestured at the bartender. We seemed to be sitting down again. “Ever think about doors? Zam, bang, hit, hit, all day long. Very little empathy.”

“Hit, hit.” I touched the cool glass to my forehead. A friendly city. A razorblade pizza, the day I’d been through. Pete, my so-called agent. Hallee, my so-called girl. Mr. McFarland. I was bleeding into my socks.

“Take bus doors,” the large weirdo was saying. “Or subway doors, it’s pitiful the beating they take.”

This was better than thinking about Mr. McFarland but not very. “I admit I never thought about it from the doors’ viewpoint. One of them clipped me yesterday. In the ankle.”

“Alienated.” He sighed. “Hard to blame them.”

The bartender seemed to have opened a slightly better brand. My door-loving acquaintance was doing something elaborate with a thimble on his keychain. I squinted into the bar mirror FBI-style and saw his hand slide under his limp lapels and come out empty. Our eyes met.

“You’re pouring gibsons into your pocket.”

“Ordinarily I don’t let people see me do that.” He grinned tentatively.

“I saw it. Samples. Some kind of inspector?”

“Oh no.” He laughed bashful-like. “It’s this housing shortage, you know. It’s no joke.

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