The Wickbillet By - Rolfe Peterson The other day I was uptown shopping for a wickbillet. In the course of events I found myself in a dime store asking the nervous-looking counter-girl if she had any wickbillets. She brushed a stringy lock of hair from her sticky brow. "Wickbillets?" she asked, much as if I had been her mother asking her who her boy friend was to be that night. "Yes," I replied, "wickbillets." She brushed the hair back again. "Just a moment. I'll find out." She twisted through a slit in the counter's long, cluttered-up face and walked toward the back. She returned behind a beautiful floor-walker who kept one thumb and forefinger always on the stem of a carnation which warted his blue suit. He scratched the side of his nose. "Can I help you, sir?" he asked. "I would like a couple of wickbillets," I said, somewhat taken aback by the sublime authority of this divine official. He turned suddenly to the girl, pointing vaguely at the counter. "Under there!" he said with finality, closing the matter then and there. The girl hesitated, pushing the lock of hair back to its own particular gutter in her hair-do. "Where?" she asked. "Right there," orated the beauty. "Right there under those flandits." "Oh!" said the girl. "Oh, yes!" A voice from the back yelled: "Telephone, Mr. Launfal!" Clutching his carnation, he wheeled and loped up the aisle with his back hair lifting an inch at every step. I turned to the counter. The girl was squatting at a row of boxes, gazing worriedly at them as she slowly, deliberately, and subconsciously brushed back the hair. As it swung across her face again she looked up wistfully and said: "How do you spell it?" So I took the old grey gallows tree and squashed her skull with it. A Guy Called God (Continued from page 14) they had forgotten about him; their shares in his corporation lay idle. Far from the green pastures they had strayed. Mr. God brooded by the window while the afternoon sun sank lower. He felt the great loneliness of the unwanted. Someone had written a book about him once; a copy of it lay now on his desk. But it had quickly dropped from the best-seller lists. Nobody wanted to read it now. His spirits dropped with the fading day. He sat for a long time staring with unseeing eyes straight down at the cement sidewalk far below. Just before quitting time, Miss Magdalene brought a telegram into Mr. God's office. "It just came," she said. She flicked her skirt, revealing a portion of white thigh. "Thank you," Mr. God said. "You may go home now." "Well. . . okay," she said in partial disappointment. She had tried so many times, she guessed Mr. God wouldn't ever make passes at her. Mr. God fumbled with the telegram, turning it over in his hands many times before he opened it. It was from Out West, he saw at first glance. Out West, where the wolves were devouring his sheep despite his son's watch. Then suddenly Mr. God began trembling. His hands shook so he could hardly hold the piece of paper. He uttered a little cry, then collapsed and sank to the floor. The telegram fluttered from his hand. It read: "BE ADVISED THAT YOUR SON HAS FALLEN VICTIM TO WOLVES THAT WERE MOLESTING YOUR FLOCKS STOP HE IS NEAR DEATH STOP THERE IS NO HOPE STOP YOUR FLOCKS HAVE BEEN SCATTERED STOP BUSINESS HAS FAILED." Mr. God wept. Soon, however, he rose to his knees. His face was vacant of expression. He saw the telegram lying on the floor beside him. He chuckled. He stopped as if amazed at the sound of his own voice. Then he laughed aloud. He lumbered to his feet and went to the window. He saw a godless world. Clutching the sill, he blubbered the news into the street below. "My son is dead, ho! ho! My son is dead. They've killed my son!" Great peals of laughter volleyed into the twilight and went racing down the corridors between the huge buildings. Page Sixteen Lament "Ted, oh Ted, get out of that bed right this minute." "Okay. Okay. Good gosh, can't a guy get a little sleep?" "You've got to go down and see that man about a job this morning." "Awright, awright. I said I'm coming." "Well, hurry up. These eggs are getting cold." "Gosh, Ma, it's cold in here. Whatta ya got the windows open for?" "Now, hurry up and eat your breakfast. It's a nice spring morning. It will do you good to get out in it." "Aw, nuts. What's good about it?" "Quit grumbling, or I'll see your dad about you." "Aw, nuts." "Did you see that Mr. Montgomery like your dad told you to?" "Yeh." "What did he say?" "He said he needs a man with a lot of experience. Four or five years. Can ya feature that? All that experience for a measly office clerk" "Did you say to him what your dad told you to?" "Yeh." "What did he say?" "He said he couldn't be bothered teaching a new man the job even if the new man did it on his own time." "I can't understand why he won't. Your dad said he read an article where a lot of young fellows are doing it." "Maybe this guy don't know about that article." "That's enough out of you, Ted Burton. What else did he say?" "Asked me where I went to school." "Well?" "Told me it was a good school. Then I told him the teacher up there said that the graduates ought to sell themselves to the employer." "That's just what your dad says. Your dad was reading an article. ..." "Aw, nuts. He's always reading articles." "Ted, you stop that this instant." "Aw, awright. Give me some more coffee." "Now, Ted, you go right down there and see that man again. Sell yourself to him." "Nuts. I don't peddle human flesh." "Stop clowning and listen to me." "Okay. Okay. What else?" "Tell him what you can do." "I ain't in the habit of braggin'." "Now, you tell him like your dad says." "Okay. Look, here's what I'll say to the bozo: 'Good morning, Mr. Montgomery. Lovely morning, ain't it?' Then he says, 'Huh? Yes, yes, good morning.' Then he goes on chewing his cigar and looks at me and says, 'Eh? What is it? I'm a busy man this morning.' Then I say, 'Mr. Montgomery, you have a very progressive lookin' outfit here.' He looks at me like I'm crazy and spits in the waste basket. Then I say, 'What you need is a wide-awake young fellow like me all primed to take the bull by the horns and get something done, don't you? Or don't you?' He rattles the paper and spits in the waste basket again and says, 'I don't know what the hell you are talkin' about, kid. Now beat it. I'm a busy man.' Then I say, 'Mr. Montgomery, what this organization needs is somebody like me. I'm sure a smart feller. Hold down any job you got around here.' Then he gets up like he was going to boot me out of the joint and I get mad and say, 'What this outfit ought to do is give me a job. It says so in them articles.' "How's that for a sales talk, Ma?" "Ted, if you don't stop that talk and be serious and get a job, where do you think you are going to land?" "Nuts. There ain't any jobs open." "You haven't really looked for one." "Hell I ain't. Gotta have experience. That's what they tell you." "Don't any of the graduates get jobs?" (Continued on page 24) "Good morning, Mr. Montgomery. Lovely morning, isn't it?" Page Seventeen