Puttering About In a Small Land, page 32
“Open the door,” he said to Gregg.
Gregg opened the door, and the Mexicans bounded into the car, one after another. Behind them, the first group had begun to hurry; before he could start up the car they had reached it. By the time he had got them in, there was no room for Gregg. One of the Mexicans swept Gregg up and set him down on his lap.
“Where are you going?” Roger asked the Mexicans.
They conferred in Spanish. At last one of them said, “Santa Paula.”
“Across the mountains,” another said.
“Okay,” Roger said. “That’s where I’m going.”
Later, after they had got up the steep curves to the top and were descending on the south side of the range, one of the Mexicans said to him, “This is your little boy?”
“Yes,” he said.
The Mexican patted Gregg on the head.
“He goes to school,” Roger said. “Back at Ojai.”
All the Mexicans beamed at Gregg, and several more of them reached out and patted him.
“Where you going?” one of the Mexicans asked Roger. He was a dark young man with a hard, strong brow and nose. His lips were large but not fleshy; his teeth were huge.
“To Los Angeles,” Roger said.
“You live there?”
“Yes,” he said.
The young Mexican said, “We’re going down to Imperial. Go down there in winter and work.” They all agreed, those in front and in back and the one holding Gregg on his lap. “Crops all winter. Lettuce.” He made a stooping-gesture, and all the Mexicans groaned. “Time to go down there,” the Mexican said. “Getting to be late.”
“I never been down in the Imperial Valley,” Roger said.
For the balance of the trip to Santa Paula, the Mexicans told him about the Imperial Valley.
After he had let them off, Gregg said to him, “They sure all got in when you stopped.”
“They wanted to get over the mountains,” Roger said.
When he and Gregg reached Los Angeles he drove to the house and parked. The front door was open, so evidently Virginia or the colored maid was home. Probably the maid. He watched the house, and presently the maid, Kathy, came out on the porch and shook the dustmop. Seeing him and Gregg, she waved her hand.
“Let’s go in,” Gregg said, shifting around on the seat. “Come on, Dad.”
“You go ahead on in,” Roger said. His watch read five-thirty. Virginia would be home, soon. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m going to drive down to the store.”
“Okay,” Gregg said.
“Good-bye,” Roger said, as his son hopped out onto the parking strip and started towards the path.
“Good-bye,” Gregg called back.
He drove in the direction of the store. A block or so away he parked and sat smoking a cigarette. The sun had set. Lights appeared here and there. The various stores were shut up for the weekend. At six o’clock he got out, locked up the car, and walked until he came to a gas station. Inside the office the attendant was making out a lubrication tag; he did not pay any attention as Roger opened the office door and entered.
“You got any maps?” Roger said.
“What kind?” the attendant said. “Pirate maps?”
From the rack Roger took down a map of California. The other maps were all of Los Angeles. “Thanks,” he said. He left the station and walked back to his car.
Within the car, he spread out the map. Highway 66, he thought to himself. Up to Barstow and then across the Mojave Desert to Needles, and then a long grade, across the Arizona border to Kingman. And then straight east, through New Mexico and then the Texas Panhandle, to western Oklahoma as far as Oklahoma City, and then north. All the way to Chicago.
The car was half his. He had a legal right to take it out of the state. Virginia would never make anything out of that; he was positive.
But, he realized, he needed money in addition. Once he got to Chicago he could get some kind of job as a repairman, an electrician or in a factory, the work he was doing now. But he needed at least three hundred dollars to get him there. Pulling out his wallet he counted the money he had. Twenty dollars. Not enough to get him out of Arizona.
There is no reason, he said to himself, why I shouldn’t take them. In a sense, a very real sense, they are mine. Nobody will stop me, because they would recognize that I have a right to be there. The cop said that.
Starting up the engine, he drove along the street. The window lights of the store had been turned on and the interior was dark. The salesmen, the repairmen, Virginia and Chic and Herb had locked up and left.
He made a left turn and drove onto the parking lot beside the store. Parking at the loading dock in the rear, hidden from sight, he stepped out.
Then he walked around to the front and unlocked the front door.
The store was empty. Everyone had gone home.
He locked the door behind him and passed by the counter, through the rear door, to the stock room where the inventory of television sets and stoves and refrigerators, in their packing cartons, were stored. Table model TV sets, he decided, would be easiest to sell, especially in the towns through which he would be driving. He unlocked the back door to the outside loading dock, and then he picked out the television sets he wanted—those that had been stored behind the others, out of sight—and carried them, one by one, to the car. He filled up the trunk compartment and the backseat. The sets were heavy, and by the time he had finished, his side hurt like hell.
My goddamn side, he thought, gasping and trembling. But anyhow, the sets were in the car. At least seven hundred dollars worth, at dealer’s cost. If he got less than one hundred dollars a set he would wind up with five hundred dollars.
Going upstairs to the office, he pulled out the inventory cards that represented the sets he had taken. He stuck the cards in his pocket and returned to the main floor. Making sure that he had turned off all the lights, he locked the store up and got into the front seat of his car, behind the wheel.
The car, when he drove out of the parking lot, seemed sluggish from the weight of the sets. It’ll get lighter, he said to himself, by the time I get there.
Original Book Info
Title: Puttering About in a Small Land
Authors: Philip K. Dick
Year: 2009-12-08
ISBN-10: 0-765-31694-3
ISBN-13: 978-0-765-31694-3
Publisher: Tor
Price: $26.99
Pages: 320
Binding: hc
Type: NOVEL
Title Reference: Puttering About in a Small Land
Notes: Data from Amazon.com as of 2009-12-24.
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Document ID: 0a4ee55f-971f-4125-b18a-e726f299c809
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 30 October 2011
Created using: tesseract-ocr, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
OCR Source: Scan, OCR, readthrouh - asp_id
Document authors :
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Philip Kindred Dick, Puttering About In a Small Land
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Gregg opened the door, and the Mexicans bounded into the car, one after another. Behind them, the first group had begun to hurry; before he could start up the car they had reached it. By the time he had got them in, there was no room for Gregg. One of the Mexicans swept Gregg up and set him down on his lap.
“Where are you going?” Roger asked the Mexicans.
They conferred in Spanish. At last one of them said, “Santa Paula.”
“Across the mountains,” another said.
“Okay,” Roger said. “That’s where I’m going.”
Later, after they had got up the steep curves to the top and were descending on the south side of the range, one of the Mexicans said to him, “This is your little boy?”
“Yes,” he said.
The Mexican patted Gregg on the head.
“He goes to school,” Roger said. “Back at Ojai.”
All the Mexicans beamed at Gregg, and several more of them reached out and patted him.
“Where you going?” one of the Mexicans asked Roger. He was a dark young man with a hard, strong brow and nose. His lips were large but not fleshy; his teeth were huge.
“To Los Angeles,” Roger said.
“You live there?”
“Yes,” he said.
The young Mexican said, “We’re going down to Imperial. Go down there in winter and work.” They all agreed, those in front and in back and the one holding Gregg on his lap. “Crops all winter. Lettuce.” He made a stooping-gesture, and all the Mexicans groaned. “Time to go down there,” the Mexican said. “Getting to be late.”
“I never been down in the Imperial Valley,” Roger said.
For the balance of the trip to Santa Paula, the Mexicans told him about the Imperial Valley.
After he had let them off, Gregg said to him, “They sure all got in when you stopped.”
“They wanted to get over the mountains,” Roger said.
When he and Gregg reached Los Angeles he drove to the house and parked. The front door was open, so evidently Virginia or the colored maid was home. Probably the maid. He watched the house, and presently the maid, Kathy, came out on the porch and shook the dustmop. Seeing him and Gregg, she waved her hand.
“Let’s go in,” Gregg said, shifting around on the seat. “Come on, Dad.”
“You go ahead on in,” Roger said. His watch read five-thirty. Virginia would be home, soon. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m going to drive down to the store.”
“Okay,” Gregg said.
“Good-bye,” Roger said, as his son hopped out onto the parking strip and started towards the path.
“Good-bye,” Gregg called back.
He drove in the direction of the store. A block or so away he parked and sat smoking a cigarette. The sun had set. Lights appeared here and there. The various stores were shut up for the weekend. At six o’clock he got out, locked up the car, and walked until he came to a gas station. Inside the office the attendant was making out a lubrication tag; he did not pay any attention as Roger opened the office door and entered.
“You got any maps?” Roger said.
“What kind?” the attendant said. “Pirate maps?”
From the rack Roger took down a map of California. The other maps were all of Los Angeles. “Thanks,” he said. He left the station and walked back to his car.
Within the car, he spread out the map. Highway 66, he thought to himself. Up to Barstow and then across the Mojave Desert to Needles, and then a long grade, across the Arizona border to Kingman. And then straight east, through New Mexico and then the Texas Panhandle, to western Oklahoma as far as Oklahoma City, and then north. All the way to Chicago.
The car was half his. He had a legal right to take it out of the state. Virginia would never make anything out of that; he was positive.
But, he realized, he needed money in addition. Once he got to Chicago he could get some kind of job as a repairman, an electrician or in a factory, the work he was doing now. But he needed at least three hundred dollars to get him there. Pulling out his wallet he counted the money he had. Twenty dollars. Not enough to get him out of Arizona.
There is no reason, he said to himself, why I shouldn’t take them. In a sense, a very real sense, they are mine. Nobody will stop me, because they would recognize that I have a right to be there. The cop said that.
Starting up the engine, he drove along the street. The window lights of the store had been turned on and the interior was dark. The salesmen, the repairmen, Virginia and Chic and Herb had locked up and left.
He made a left turn and drove onto the parking lot beside the store. Parking at the loading dock in the rear, hidden from sight, he stepped out.
Then he walked around to the front and unlocked the front door.
The store was empty. Everyone had gone home.
He locked the door behind him and passed by the counter, through the rear door, to the stock room where the inventory of television sets and stoves and refrigerators, in their packing cartons, were stored. Table model TV sets, he decided, would be easiest to sell, especially in the towns through which he would be driving. He unlocked the back door to the outside loading dock, and then he picked out the television sets he wanted—those that had been stored behind the others, out of sight—and carried them, one by one, to the car. He filled up the trunk compartment and the backseat. The sets were heavy, and by the time he had finished, his side hurt like hell.
My goddamn side, he thought, gasping and trembling. But anyhow, the sets were in the car. At least seven hundred dollars worth, at dealer’s cost. If he got less than one hundred dollars a set he would wind up with five hundred dollars.
Going upstairs to the office, he pulled out the inventory cards that represented the sets he had taken. He stuck the cards in his pocket and returned to the main floor. Making sure that he had turned off all the lights, he locked the store up and got into the front seat of his car, behind the wheel.
The car, when he drove out of the parking lot, seemed sluggish from the weight of the sets. It’ll get lighter, he said to himself, by the time I get there.
Original Book Info
Title: Puttering About in a Small Land
Authors: Philip K. Dick
Year: 2009-12-08
ISBN-10: 0-765-31694-3
ISBN-13: 978-0-765-31694-3
Publisher: Tor
Price: $26.99
Pages: 320
Binding: hc
Type: NOVEL
Title Reference: Puttering About in a Small Land
Notes: Data from Amazon.com as of 2009-12-24.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 0a4ee55f-971f-4125-b18a-e726f299c809
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 30 October 2011
Created using: tesseract-ocr, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
OCR Source: Scan, OCR, readthrouh - asp_id
Document authors :
asp_id
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
Philip Kindred Dick, Puttering About In a Small Land
