Fredric Brown - Come and Go Mad

He had known it, somehow, when he had awakened that morning. I to knew it more surely now, staring out of the editorial room window into the early afternoon sunlight slanting down among the buildings to cast a pattern of light and shadow. He knew that soon, perhaps even today, something important was going to happen. Whether good or bad he did not know, but he darkly suspected. And with reason; there are few good things that may unexpectedly happen to a man, things, that is, of lasting importance. Disaster can strike from innumerable directions, in amazingly diverse ways.

A voice said, Hey, Mr. Vine, and he turned away from the window, slowly. That in itself was strange for it was not his manner to move slowly; he was a small, volatile man, almost cat-like in the quickness of his reactions and his movements.

But this time something made him turn slowly from the window, almost as though he never again expected to see that chiaroscuro of an early afternoon.

He said, Hi, Red.

The freckled copy boy said, His Nibs wants to see ya.

Now?

Naw. Atcher convenience. Sometime next week, maybe. If yer busy, give him an apperntment. He put his fist against Reds chin and shoved, and the copy boy staggerd back in assumed distress.

He got up out of his chair and went over to the water cooler. He pressed his thumb on the button and water gurgled into the paper cup.

Harry Wheeler sauntered over and said, Hiya, Nappy. Whats up? Going on the carpet?

He said, Sure, for a raise.

He drank and crumpled the cup, tossing it into the waste basket. He went over to the door marked Private and went through it.

Walter J. Candler, the managing editor, looked up from the work on his desk and said affably, Sit down, Vine. Be with you in a moment, and then looked down again.

He slid into the chair opposite Candler, worried a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lighted it. He studied the back of the sheet of paper of which the managing editor was reading the front. There wasnt anything on the back of it.

The M. E. put the paper down and looked at him.

Vine, Ive got a screwy one. Youre good on screwy ones.

He grinned slowly at the M. E. He said, If thats a compliment, thanks.

It s a compliment, all right. Youve done some pretty tough things for us. This ones different. Ive never yet asked a reporter to do anything I wouldnt do myself. I wouldnt do this, so Im not asking you to.

The M. E. picked up the paper hed been reading and then put it down again without even looking at it. Ever hear of Ellsworth Joyce Randolph?

Head of the asylum? Hell yes, Ive met him. Casually.

Howd he impress you?

He was aware that the managing editor was staring at him intently, that it wasnt too casual a question. He parried. What do you mean: In what way? You mean is he a good Joe, is he a good politician, has he got a good bedside manner for a psychiatrist, or what?

I mean, how sane do you think he is?

He looked at Candler and Candler wasnt kidding. Candler was strictly deadpan.

He began to laugh, and then he stopped laughing. He leaned forward across Candlers desk. Ellsworth Joyce Randolph, he said. Youre talking about Ellsworth Joyce Randolph?

Candler nodded. Dr. Randolph was in here this morning. He told a rather strange story. He didnt want me to print it. He did want me to check on it, to send our best man to check on it. He said if we found it was true we could print it in hundred and twenty line type in red ink. Candler grinned wryly. We could, at that.

He stumped out his cigarette and studied Candlers face. But the story itself is so screwy youre not sure whether Dr. Randolph himself might be insane?

Exactly.

And whats tough about the assignment?

The doc says a reporter could get the story only from the inside.

You mean, go in as a guard or something? Candler said, Something.

Oh.

He got up out of the chair and walked over to the window, stood with his back to the managing editor, looking out. The sun had moved hardly at all. Yet the shadow pattern in the streets looked different, obscurely different. The shadow pattern inside himself was different, too. This, he knew, was what had been going to happen. He turned around. He said, No, Hell no.

Candler shrugged imperceptibly. Dont blame you. I havent even asked you to. I wouldnt do it myself.

He asked, What does Ellsworth Joyce Randolph think is going on inside his nuthouse? It must be something pretty screwy if it made you wonder whether Randolph himself is sane.

I cant tell you that, Vine. Promised him I wouldnt, whether or not you took the assignment.

You meaneven if I took the job I still wouldnt know what I was looking for?

Thats right. Youd be prejudiced. You wouldnt be objective. Youd be looking for something, and you might think you found it whether it was there or not. Or you might be so prejudiced against finding it that youd refuse to recognize it if it bit you in the leg.

He strode from the window over to the desk and banged his fist down on it.

He said, God damn it, Candler, why me? You know what happened to me three years ago.

Sure. Amnesia.

Sure, amnesia. Just like that. But I havent kept it any secret that I never got over that amnesia. Im thirty years oldor am I? My memory goes back three years. Do you know what it feels like to have a blank wall in your memory only three years back?

Oh sure, I know whats on the other side of that wall. I know because everybody tells me. I know I started here as a copy boy ten years ago. I know where I was born and when and I know my parents are both dead. I know what they look likebecause Ive seen their pictures. I know I didnt have a wife and kids, because everybody who knew me told me I didnt. Get that part everybody who knew me, not everybody I knew. I didnt know anybody.

Sure, Ive done all right since then. After I got out of the hospitaland I dont even remember the accident that put me thereI did all right back here because I still knew how to write news stories, even though I had to learn everybodys name all over again. I wasnt any worse off than a new reporter starting cold on a paper in a strange city. And everybody was as helpful as hell.

Candler raised a placating hand to stem the tide. He said, Okay, Nappy. You said no, and thats enough. I dont see what all thats got to do with this story, but all you had to do was say no. So forget about it.

The tenseness hadnt gone out of him. He said, You dont see what thats got to do with the story? You askor, all right, you dont ask, you suggestthat I get myself certified as a madman, go into an asylum as a patient.

Whenhow much confidence does anyone have in his own mind when he cant remember going to school, cant remember the first time he met any of the people he works with every day, cant remember starting on the job he works at, cant remember anything back of three years before?

Abruptly he struck the desk again with his fist, and then looked foolish about it. He said, Im sorry. I didnt mean to get wound up about it like that.

Candler said, Sit down.

The answers still no.

Sit down, anyway.

He sat down and fumbled a cigarette out of his pocket, got it lighted.

Candler said, I didnt even mean to mention it, but Ive got to now. Now that you talked that way. I didnt know you felt like that about your amnesia. I thought that was water under the bridge.

Listen, when Dr. Randolph asked me what reporter we had that could best cover it, I told him about you. What your background was. He remembered meeting you, too, incidentally. But he hadnt known youd had amnesia.

Is that why you suggested me?

Skip that till I make my point. He said that while you were there, hed be glad to try one of the newer, milder forms of shock treatment on you, and that it might restore your lost memories. He said it would be worth trying.