Mr. Rewbarb turned as Mr. Glick rose from his chair and placed his hat carefully on his head.
“I shall see you Monday,” he said icily, “and be most happy in accepting your resignation.” With this as a curtain speech, he turned and left the room.
Mrs. Rewbarb stared after him and then turned to her husband. There was a peculiar look in her eye. If Mr. Rewbarb did not know his wife better he would have mistaken it for fear. She backed quickly toward the door, still staring at him like a chicken at a cobra.
“Go on, beat it!” the radio bellowed.
“Oooooh Rupert,” Mrs. Rewbarb wailed. Then she turned and fled from the room, after the outraged person of Mr. Glick.
Mr. Rewbarb sank into a chair. His world had crashed down on him and there was nothing left but chaos and confusion. His wife was gone, his job was gone, everything was gone.
“What did you want to do that for?” he said woefully to the impassive radio cabinet.
“Oh stop griping,” the radio said unsympathetically. “It’s darn good riddance any way you look at it. I don’t see how you’ve stood those people around you all these years. Come on now, brace up. What do you say we have a little drink to celebrate?”
This roused Mr. Rewbarb from his morose coma.
“You?” he said incredulously. “You drink?”
“Sure,” the radio said, and Mr. Rewbarb detected a note of eagerness in the voice. “Just fix a couple of drinks and we’ll have a little party.”
Mr. Rewbarb knew where his wife hid the liquor, but never in his life had he done any surreptitious tippling. But there was something warm and exciting rushing through his veins now that tipped the scales in favor of foolishness. He left the room, hurried to his wife’s bureau, opened the bottom drawer and removed a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of ginger ale. Then he hurried back to the living room with his treasure. Ice came next and then Mr. Rewbarb mixed the first drinks of his sheltered life.
It wasn’t at all hard, he discovered.
You merely filled the glasses with whiskey and then there wasn’t room for the ice and ginger ale. It simplified things wonderfully.
Feeling a little foolish he approached the radio, glass in hand. To fortify himself he took a large swallow from his own glass. The effect was almost instantaneous. A ball of fire collected in his stomach and began to shoot sparks through his body. A rather pleasant sensation, all in all.
“Just how do you go about this?” he asked frowning sternly.
“Put the glass on top of me,” the radio directed. “Be sure and take the doily off. Set the glass on the wood, like they do at parties.”
Mr. Rewbarb took another swig of his glass and did as directed. Things, he discovered, were looking much brighter. He took another sip and beamed fondly at the radio.
“Now what?” he asked gravely.
“Just jiggle the glass,” the radio directed.
Mr. Rewbarb blinked happily and joggled the glass until liquor sloshed over the sides and streamed across the top of the radio cabinet.
“Like that?” he asked.
“That’s fine,” the radio answered ecstatically. “Don’t be so stingy though. Slop over a neat two fingers.”
Mr. Rewbarb took another long pull at his own glass before complying with the radio’s request. Then he giggled.
“Thish is funny,” he said blearily. He sat down suddenly to keep from falling. “People get drunk at parties,” he continued philosophically, “and then they think the radio sounds queer. But thash not it.” He wagged his head solemnly. “It’s jush that the radio’s got drunk too.”
“Hie!” this came from the radio.
Mr. Rewbarb beamed at this corroboration, and took another drink. He patted the radio fondly and slopped more whiskey over its top. Everything seemed rosy and gay. Everything was spinning too, but this was not too great a price to pay for finding everything rosy and gay.
Mr. Rewbarb heard a sniffle.
“Whosh that?” he asked.
“Ish me,” the radio sniffed again. “I can’t help it. I’m unhappy. Thash why I get this way.”
Mr. Rewbarb drained his glass unhappily. He slopped more whiskey over the radio. The roses were fading now.
“Why’re you unhappy?” he asked soddenly.
The radio sniffed miserably.
“Ish because I’m unhappy.”
Mr. Rewbarb pondered this in silence. Finally he discovered the flaw in its logic.
“You said that before,” he accused happily.
“My nerves are shot,” the radio almost sobbed. “I’m unhappy.”
“Got just the thing for you,” Mr. Rewbarb promised drunkenly, “a little drink, jus’ a lit’l drink and you’ll be as good as new.”
He climbed laboriously to his feet and filled his glass before sousing the top of the radio again.
“Feel better?” he asked solicitously. “No,” the radio’s voice was a miserable whisper. “My nervsh are shot. Too much cleaning. Now my head ish as big as bucket.”
“You haven’t got a head?” Mr. Rewbarb cried angrily. “You must think I’m drunk.”
“All right,” the radio capitulated without a struggle, “I haven’t got a head. Jush got antennae ends that drive me batty.”
Mr. Rewbarb nodded solemnly. “Thash bad,” he said mournfully, wondering what antennae ends were. “Feel better?” he asked optimistically. The radio merely moaned.
The whisky was doing things to Mr. Rewbarb. His brain seemed to be functioning more sharply. Things seemed to be clearer, properly focused for a change. He thought a lot and finally an idea, born of a chance remark by the radio, flowered into full bloom.
Mr. Rewbarb lurched to his feet, chuckling. He looked down at the radio and sloshed more liquor over it. Then he giggled again. Everything was going to be wonderful.
First he went to the kitchen and got the egg beater. Then he went to his wife’s room and got her electric reducing horse. With this on his shoulder he staggered to a closet and dragged out the vacuum cleaner. He laughed so hard at this point that he fell in a heap in the middle of his equipment and spent five minutes extricating himself. But at last he weaved back to the living room, egg beater in one hand, vacuum cleaner in the other and the electric horse over his shoulder.
It took him some time to plug in all of the devices because he had to stop every little while to take a drink and slosh more over the radio, and then he had to take time out to giggle over everything. So it was a half-hour later before he had everything hooked up satisfactorily.
Mr. Rewbarb climbed awkwardly into the saddle of the electric reducing horse. He teetered precariously and almost fell on his face.
“Whoa!” he cried, throwing both arms about the horse’s neck.
Straightening up, he pulled the egg beater from his pocket and with his free hand he picked up the shaft of the vacuum cleaner. He made a delightful discovery at this point.
“I am thoroughly drunk,” he said with dignity, “definitely.”
Then he turned on the vacuum cleaner. Its banshee wail grew in volume until its noise was beating heavily from wall to wall.
“Ouch,” the radio yelled. It tried to say something else, but its voice broke, and a snarling scream blasted from the speaker of the radio.
Mr. Rewbarb turned off the switch.
“What’s the idea?” the radio demanded, when the noise faded. “I can’t stand that thing. With my headache, it’s like driving nails into me. I’m getting a bad hangover.”
Mr. Rewbarb giggled.
“The wages of sin,” he whispered, “shall be headaches.” He swayed dangerously in the saddle before continuing. “In another shecond I’ll turn the vacuum on again. Also the egg beater and the electric horsy. When you’ve got enough, yell.”