Little Man Who Wasn't There by Marjorie Hill It was on a day in late winter, just a week after his fiftieth birthday, that Mr. Zant discovered the strange truth about himself. He caught the 7:15 into town as he had every weekday morning, except during his annual "week with pay," for the last twenty-six years. Alighting at the corner a block from which stood the building which housed his employer the ancient and respected Marwell Furniture Company he walked briskly to work. He walked as briskly, that is, as his rather stiff joints would allow. He really never should have climbed the three flights of stairs up to his room the previous evening. He would probably be stiff for days. Even so it was better than asking the burly painter who was putting the finishing touches on the cage's interior to allow him to use the machine. He always had trouble approaching strangers especially large, muscular ones, who invariably made him feel even smaller and more insignificant than usual. It was less painful for him to avoid such encounters whenever possible. And so as he went through the entrance of the store he limped slightly and cursed the painter for his own timidity. Mr. Zant, who considered tardiness an inexcusable sin, was always the first one in the store in the morning. Occasionally one of the other employees, remembering all the mornings he had found Mr. Zant firmly entrenched behind his desk in the bookkeeping department and all the evenings when he had left the store while the stooped gray man still pored over his books, wondered if perhaps he merely remained in the store all night. One jovial salesman, newly-hired, had once gone so far as to suggest such a possibility in booming tones to the little man himself. He had received such a contemptuous stare in return that he never again attempted such familiarity. He had learned, as had all his associates, that Mr. Zant was always dignified and aloof and expected to be treated accordingly. They did not realize that his cold manner was a veneer, covering a shy, shrinking man, perpetually afraid that his external appearance would some day crack and reveal himself in his true light. His timidity always made this one of the worst moments in his day. For some reason or other, as often as he had groped his way down the long aisle from the front of the store to the office, he could never do it without a shiver. Early in the morning it was usually dark in the huge room, and the light switches were at the far end, near the office door. The cloth dust-covers were still on the furniture, transforming ordinarily beautiful pieces into fantastic and somehow forbidding shapes. Mr. Zant always hurried down the aisle, trying to look neither to the left nor to the right. Reaching the welcome office door, he would fling it open and reach quickly for the switch. As light flooded the small office he would breathe freely again and remove his nondescript coat and hat preparatory to beginning the day's work. No matter how early he started or how late he stayed, he never seemed to catch up with his bookkeeping. He attributed this fact to his own incompetence; Mr. Marwell admitted, only to himself and with a slight twinge of guilt, that the reason was that Mr. Zant was given the work of two. The little man knew only that there was rarely a moment when all his work was done. Indeed, when such moments came, he felt extremely uncomfortable and busied himself with some inconsequential paper-rustling. There was nothing else for him to do. He did not care to enter into the usual office chatter which filled the spare time of the other employees. There had been a time when he had wanted very much to be friendly with his fellow workers, but his reputation had been established long ago and could not be changed now. He was Oliver Zant, The Unapproachable, and could never be otherwise. If not actually disliked, he was at least ignored. The salesmen who came into the office officially to talk to Mr. Marwell in the next room and unofficially to flirt with Ruth, Mr. Marwell's blonde secretary, greeted Mr. Zant respectfully enough and then forgot him. This was to his liking; he had come to think of them as a noisy, rather stupid lot. Ruth, too, was really quite silly; he found her too-frequent giggling extremely annoying. He sighed and ran his fingers nervously through his thinning hair. At least he would have a few minutes of peace before the thundering herd burst in. He had just finished the Jackson Company account when the door opened. Usually the next arrival would have been Mr. Marwell himself, but this week he was out of town. The store was temporarily in charge of Bergley, a red-faced, blustering man whom Mr. Zant disliked intensely. It was he who now entered the office, making papers rustle on the desks. Mr. Zant looked up from behind the bulky desk which accentuated his slenderness, expecting to be met with the usual brief salutation. Bergley glanced toward him with a blank expression on his face and strode on into Marwell's office, leaving the little man with his lips parted in amazement. Never had he been quite so completely ignored. "Bergley must have had a bad night," he thought fleetingly, turning back to his figures. Ruth entered next, bringing with her a faint aura of perfume. She, too, seemed to forget that he was there. Surely she could not have avoided seeing him as she hung her coat on the rack, and yet there was no recognition on her face only the same blank expression which had characterized Bergley's passing. Mr. Zant decided to break one of his rules and speak to her before she spoke. He did so, but she acted Page Six as though she had not heard him. Was the slight smile which crossed her face merely his imagination? For that matter, was not this whole foolish business his imagination? . . . "Good morning, Miss Barnes," he repeated, a bit indignantly. Again there was no reaction. By this time Ruth had settled herself in front of her typewriter and was pounding out a letter. "This is ridiculous," he thought. "I am not going to bother myself about it." Nevertheless he almost dreaded the entry of anyone else. Had he in some way offended everyone? Quickly reviewing the previous day, he concluded that was impossible. Everything had been the same as usual when the staff had left him the evening before. The door opened again, this time admitting two of the salesmen. Fearfully Mr. Zant lifted his head, even smiling slightly at the young men. They glanced past him as though he were not there. It gave him a most peculiar feeling in the pit of his stomach. This had gone far enough. If it were another of their asinine jokes .... He wanted to leap to his feet and shout at the trio talking and laughing together not fifteen feet away. No! He was absolutely not going to make a fool of himself for their benefit. The rest of the morning was like a nightmare. Everyone seemed oblivious to his presence. He tried a few more greetings, then some short remarks. He might as well not have bothered; no one said as much as a word to him. By the time his lunch-hour came, he was bewildered and somewhat alarmed. It was with great relief that he donned his hat and coat, hurried out of the store, and walked to the cafeteria around the corner where he was accustomed to eating his lunch. The smile of the middle-aged woman who always sat behind the cash register made him feel immeasurably better. He even returned her smile, and felt better still. Having had a good meal, he was better able to think clearly. He had been imagining all sorts of insane things. It was almost amusing. He would be careful not to let his mind wander so again. He stomped back into the store with a determined air, forgetting his stiffness. He was the first one back in the outer office, as usual. In a few minutes the queer happenings of the morning were repeated. Mr. Zant was forced to admit to himself that it could not be his imagination. None of his associates could see him! He had once had a horrible dream which followed much the same pattern, but this was no dream. This was stark reality reality which left him weak and stunned. Thoughts kept running through his head "What's wrong with them? . . . What's wrong with me? . . . The cashier at the cafeteria saw me ... or was she smiling at someone behind me? . . . Why has this happened to me? . . ." Somehow he forced himself to remain behind his desk, though he was able to do little. He felt alternately hot and cold. He tried not to look up at the salesmen and Ruth as they hustled in and out. He couldn't stand another vacant stare. Finally, when his watch showed five minutes to five, he could bear it no longer. He snatched his coat from the rack, jammed his hat on his head, and walked, fairly composedly, all the way out of the store. No matter what had happened, he owed it to himself to preserve at least some small portion of his dignity. Strangely enough, in all his confusion, he thought of his broken record in all his years with Marwell Furniture he had never before left before five. Mr. Zant laughed hysterically to himself. He had ceased to exist and was worrying about his record! He was not the only person in the vicinity who was laughing hysterically. Back in the office of the ancient and respected Marwell Furniture Company, seven people, helpless with laughter, sprawled in chairs or leaned against walls. Between bursts of hilarity there were a few almost incoherent comments "pulled it off fine" . . . "and the look on his face" . . . "was quite a day" . . . And yet the joke had not been quite as successful as they had hoped. They had longed to see Mr. Zant lose his reserve and become really angry. It was strange he had seemed more frightened than angry. Was the slight smile that crossed her face merely his imagination? For that matter, was not this whole foolish business his imagination? . . . Page Seven