Time and Again - Softcover

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Jack Finney (1911–1995) was the author of the much-loved and critically acclaimed novel Time and Again, as well as its sequel, From Time to Time. Best known for his thrillers and science fiction, a number of his books—including Invasion of the Body Snatchers—have been made into movies.

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Time and Again

1

IN SHIRT-SLEEVES, the way I generally worked, I sat sketching a bar of soap taped to an upper corner of my drawing board. The gold-foil wrapper was carefully peeled back so that you could still read most of the brand name printed on it; I’d spoiled the wrappers of half a dozen bars before getting that effect. This was a new idea, the product to be shown ready for what the accompanying copy called “fragrant, lathery, lovelier you” use, and I had the job of sketching it into half a dozen layouts, the bar of soap at a slightly different angle in each.

It was just exactly as boring as it sounds, and I stopped to look out the window beside me, down twelve stories at Fifty-fourth Street and the little heads moving along the sidewalk. It was a sunny, sharply clear day in mid-November, and I’d have liked to be out in it, the whole afternoon ahead and nothing to do; nothing I had to do, that is.

Over at the paste-up table Vince Mandel, our lettering man, thin and dark and probably feeling as caged-up today as I was, stood working with the airbrush, a cotton surgical mask over his mouth. He was spraying a flesh-colored film onto a Life magazine photo of a girl in a bathing suit. The effect, when he finished, would be to remove the suit, leaving the girl apparently naked except for the ribbon she wore slanted from shoulder to waist on which was lettered MISS BUSINESS MACHINES. This kind of stunt was Vince’s favorite at-work occupation ever since he’d thought of it, and the retouched picture would be added to a collection of others like it on the art-department bulletin board, at which Maureen, our nineteen-year-old paste-up girl and messenger, refused ever to look or even glance, though often urged.

Frank Dapp, our art director, a round little package of energy, came trotting toward his partitioned-off office in the northeast corner of the artists’ bullpen. As he passed the big metal supply cabinet just inside the room he hammered violently on its open door, yodeling at full bellow. It was an habitual release of unused energy like a locomotive jetting steam, a starting eruption of sound. But neither Vince nor I nor Karl Jonas at the board ahead of mine glanced up. Neither did anyone in the typists’ pool outside, I knew, although strangers waiting in the art-department reception room just down the hall had been known to leap to their feet at the sound.

It was an ordinary day, a Friday, twenty minutes till lunchtime, five hours till quitting time and the weekend, ten months till vacation, thirtyseven years till retirement. Then the phone rang.

“Man here to see you, Si.” It was Vera, at the switchboard. “He has no appointment.”

“That’s okay. He’s my connection; I need a fix.”

“What you need can’t be fixed.” She clicked off. I got up, wondering who it was; an artist in an advertising agency doesn’t usually have too many visitors. The main reception room was on the floor below, and I took the long route through Accounting and Media, but no new girls had been hired.

Frank Dapp called the main reception room Off Broadway. It was decorated with a genuine Oriental rug, several display cases of antique silver from the collection of the wife of one of the three partners, and with a society matron whose hair was also antique silver and who relayed visitors’ requests to Vera. As I walked toward it my visitor stood looking at one of the framed ads hung on the walls. Something I don’t like admitting and which I’ve learned to disguise is a shyness about meeting people, and now I felt the familiar slight apprehension and momentary confusion as he turned at the sound of my approaching footsteps. He was bald and short, the top of his head reaching only to my eye level, and I’m an inch short of six feet. He looked about thirty-five, I thought, walking toward him, and he was remarkably thick-chested; he’d outweigh me without being fat. He wore an olive-green gabardine suit that didn’t go with his pink redhead’s complexion. I hope he’s not a salesman, I thought; then he smiled as I stepped into the lobby, a real smile, and I liked him instantly and relaxed. No, I told myself, he’s not selling anything, and I couldn’t have been more wrong about that.

“Mr. Morley?” I nodded, smiling back at him. “Mr. Simon Morley?” he said, as though there might be several of us Morleys here at the agency and he wanted to be certain.

“Yes.”

He still wasn’t satisfied. “Just for fun, do you remember your army serial number?” He took my elbow and began walking me out into the elevator corridor away from the receptionist.

I rattled it off; it didn’t even occur to me to wonder why I was doing this for a stranger, no questions asked.

“Right!” he said approvingly, and I felt pleased. We were out in the corridor now, no one else around.

“Are you from the army? If so, I don’t want any today.”

He smiled, but didn’t answer the question, I noticed. He said, “I’m Ruben Prien,” and hesitated momentarily as though I might recognize the name, then continued. “I should have phoned and made an appointment, but I’m in a hurry so I took a chance on dropping in.”

“That’s all right, I wasn’t doing anything but working. What can I do for you?”

He grimaced humorously at the difficulty of what he had to say. “I’ve got to have about an hour of your time. Right now, if you can manage it.” He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, but . . . if you could just take me on faith for a little while, I’d appreciate it.”

I was hooked; he had my interest. “All right. It’s ten to twelve; would you like to have lunch? I can leave a little early.”

“Fine, but let’s not talk indoors. We could pick up some sandwiches and eat in the park. Okay? It’s not too cool.”

Nodding, I said, “I’ll get my coat and meet you here. You interest me strangely.” I stood hesitating, looking closely at this pleasant, tough-looking, bald little man, then said it. “As I think you know. Matter of fact, you’ve been through this whole routine before, haven’t you? Complete with embarrassed look.”

He grinned and made a little finger-snapping motion. “And I thought I really had it down. Well, it’s back to the mirror, and more practice. Get your coat; we’re losing time.”

We walked north on Fifth Avenue past the incredible buildings of glass and steel, glass and enameled metal, glass and marble, and the older ones of more stone than glass. It’s a stunning street and unbelievable; I never get used to it, and I wonder if anyone really does. Is there any other place where an entire cloud bank can be completely reflected in the windows of one wall of only one building, and with room to spare? Today I especially enjoyed being out on Fifth, the temperature in the high 50’s, a nice late-fall coolness in the air. It was nearly noon, and beautiful girls came dancing out of every office building we passed, and I thought of how regrettable it was that I’d never know or even speak to most of them. The little bald man beside me said, “I’ll tell you what I’ve come to say to you; then I’ll listen to questions. Maybe I’ll even answer some. But everything I can really tell you I will have said...