The Real Thing
by Mark Rich
Illustration by Arthur George
“I’m sorry,” the clerk said. She kept one hand on the till and the other on the box of detergent. She looked with doubt at the money in his hands. “I don’t think we take that stuff.”
“What do you mean, you don’t think you take this stuff?” Max said. “This is money. What’s wrong with money?”
“Like I said, I don’t think we take that.”
“Oh, come on,” said Max. “Listen, I came here to buy this, and I happen to have cash on hand. Everyone knows what cash is, right? See? This is just a little more than the amount of the total—I’ve got six dollars here, and you’ll give me fifteen cents change.” He felt like he was explaining to a chimpanzee how to eat bananas.
She beckoned to a tall man who appeared instantly at Max’s side, hands resting in the pockets of his green apron. The name of the store shined in self-lit white across his front: Lucky Power Save! Groceries! Lickety-Quick Service! Instant Checks & Credit Cards!
“Mr. Green,” the clerk said, “we don’t take this stuff, do we? What if it’s fake?”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Green, taking the cash from Max’s hand with spidery fingers. “This is a little unusual, isn’t it?” He held the bills close to his eyes and examined both sides. “Well. Go ahead and take these, Julie. Just be sure to get his credit card and driver’s license, and put the numbers on the back of the bills. And initial them.”
“Thanks, Mr. Green.”
Mr. Green arched one eyebrow at Max before marching off to another part of his emporium. Julie looked at Max expectantly.
“You mean you won’t just take them?” Max said. “This is money, for goodness’ sake!”
“Well, it might be money,” Julie said, screwing up her lips, “but we’ve got to have a credit card number. You have a credit card?”
“No.”
“Well, then, what about your driver’s license? I suppose if we just had that number—”
“I walked here today. I don’t have my driver’s license. You want my mother’s phone number? I can give you that!”
“Now, now, I’m just trying to be reasonable. We don’t need anyone’s phone number.”
“You’re trying to be reasonable? I’m trying to buy detergent so I can do laundry. Isn’t it your job to sell me some? I have a date tonight! Will you please take this perfectly good-as-gold, cold cash from me? It’s money. You know what money is, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry, but if you don’t have a credit card or driver’s license, we won’t be able to take your cash.”
“Wha—”
She whisked away the box of detergent and chucked it into a basket at her side. She pushed the bills back at him.
“Sir? We have people waiting in line to check out. If you don’t mind—”
“I do mind. How about I get one of your instant credit cards?”
She darkened. “You don’t have a credit card. How do you expect to get one if you don’t have one already?”
“Hey,” he said. “I can take a hint!” He snapped up his money and stormed toward the door.
“Have a nice day,” Mr. Green said, waving.
Max restrained himself from giving Mr. Green the finger, and tried to stomp hard enough across the automatic door-opener to give it tremors.
Flora’s Flor-All, located a few doors down on the mini-mall, looked a little dismal inside. Max wondered why the clerks had arranged the flowers haphazardly in the coolers, as if they didn’t care how they appeared.
He walked up to the desk. A young clerk was busily wrapping some carnations. She whistled to herself as she worked.
“Excuse me,” Max said. “I’d like to have some flowers delivered.”
“Delivered? OK,” the clerk said, taping up the wrapping paper. “But you can’t place the order here.”
“Oh? Where do I go?”
“Anywhere,” she said, shrugging. “Just not in person. We don’t take orders in person. Just by phone or E-mail.”
“Ah, you’re kidding,” Max said, leaning forward on the counter and grinning at her. She looked cute, with swinging hair and a polka-dot blouse. She was joshing him because she liked his face. “Here I am—I was nearby doing other errands—and since I’m here, it’d be a whole lot easier if I just placed an order now. I mean, you don’t expect me to—”
“And how would we confirm it? You’re here, so how could we electronically confirm your order? We have to confirm everything! How do we know this isn’t just a prank?”
“How about we just forget the confirmation? It’s just busy-work for you anyway. I’d like to have a bouquet of—”
The girl put down the bundle she was working on and thumped one fist on the table. “Hey, listen, mister, customers have been giving me grief all morning and you’re going to give me more? We have a store policy. Like I said. No orders in person. Telephone or E-mail only. Understood? Good! And goodbye!” She went back to her wrapping, pointedly ignoring him.
He stared at her in surprise, and then turned and stepped from the store, stunned. He walked in a daze past the next few stores and almost missed seeing the quarter someone had dropped on the pavement. He picked it up realizing what a lucky find it was, right in front of a pay phone. He went to a booth, looked up the number of Flora’s Flor-All, and then held up his coin. No slot.
“NO COINS NEEDED!” the sign screamed across the front of the phone. The letters flashed. “ZINGO PHONO NO PROBLEMO! COIN-OP? COIN-NOPE!”
He picked up the receiver and dialed the Flora’s Flor-All number. An operator beeped on, saying, ‘Tour name, sir?”
“Maxwell Brillig.”
“Calling card?”
“Could I have this charged to my home phone?”
“Your number, sir?”
His mind went blank. He gave his mother’s.
“Just one minute, sir,” the operator said.
In a second, a new but familiar voice said, “Hello?”
“Will you allow a Maxwell Brillig to charge a call to this number?”
“That’s my son!”
“Hi, mom.”
“You can damn well charge it to your own number, Max!”
Good old mom. “It’s just a local call. I just can’t remember my own number. I never call myself.”
Max knew exactly the kind of face his mother was making in the pause, and the words she restrained herself from using. Then she told the operator his number, and hung up.
“Just one minute, sir,” the operator said. “That line is ringing but no one answers at your home phone. I’m afraid we can’t let you charge a call to this number.”
“Of course no one’s answering! I’m here, at this phone!”
“You’ll have to go to that phone number to confirm your identity, then. I’m sorry, sir.”
“I’ll mail this quarter to you!” he shouted.
The operator hung up.
At home he rushed for his phone. He would decidedly not call Flora’s Flor-All. If they could afford to turn away his business, he would happily withhold it. Gloria, his date, probably didn’t expect flowers anyway.
He punched in the number of Dial-a-Psych, and felt gratified to get a line immediately.
“Hello, this is Dial-a-Psych.”
“Boy, have I got a gripe!”
“Modern society? It got you down?” said the sympathetic voice.
“Damn tootin’! I’m starting to hate the way things are going! Everything’s being taken out of our hands and being replaced by artificial substitutes, and you can never get the real thing! And if you show someone the real thing, they won’t take it! We’ve got all these ways of keeping each other at bay—we have telephones, and electronic mail, and credit cards and private cars and Me-Only Exclusive Virtual Shopping Malls! Anything that we can do to keep each other apart from each other, we do! I hate it! When are we going to get back to the real thing? You know, people talking one-on-one, relaxing, and trusting each other—all the good old things!” Even if he was too young to have known the good old things, he knew exactly what they were.