Read Online Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories by Charles Beaumont - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charles Beaumont
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was dreaming. But it was true: somebody was laughing.
He grasped one of the statue's ear for balance and leaned forward. He blinked. Below, some fifteen feet, there were people. Young people. Some of them with books. They were looking up and smiling and laughing.
Mr. Minchell wiped his eyes.
A slight horror came over him, and fell away. He leaned farther out.
One of the boys waved and shouted: "Ride him, Pop!"
Mr. Minchell almost toppled. Then, without understanding, without even trying to understand-merely knowing-he grinned widely, showing his teeth, which were his own and very white.
"You-see me?" he called.
The young people roared.
"You do!" Mr. Minchell's face seemed to melt upwards. He let out a yell and gave King Richard's shaggy stone mane an enormous hug.
Below, other people stopped in their walking and a small crowd began to form. Dozens of eyes peered sharply, quizzically.
A woman in gray furs giggled.
A thin man in a blue suit grunted something about these damned exhibitionists.
"You pipe down," another man said. "Guy wants to ride the goddamn lion it's his own business."
There were murmurings. The man who had said pipe down was small and he wore black-rimmed glasses. "I used to do it all the time." He turned to Mr. Minchell and cried: "How is it?"
Mr. Minchell grinned. Somehow, he realized, in some mysterious way, he had been given a second chance. And this time he knew what he would do with it. "Fine!" he shouted, and stood upon King Richard's back and sent his derby spinning out over the heads of the people. "Come on up!"
"Can't do it," the man said. "Got a date." There was a look of profound admiration in his eyes as he strode off. Away from the crowd he stopped and cupped his hands and cried: "I'll be seeing you!"
"That's right," Mr. Minchell said, feeling the cold new wind on his face. "You'll be seeing me."
Later, when he was good and ready, he got down off the lion.
----
A PLACE OF MEETING
by Charles Beaumont
----
It swept down from the mountains, a loose, crystal-smelling wind, an autumn chill of moving wetness. Down from the mountains and into the town, where it set the dead trees hissing and the signboards creaking. And it even went into the church, because the bell was ringing and there was no one to ring the bell.
The people in the yard stopped their talk and listened to the rusty music. Big Jim Kroner listened too. Then he cleared his throat and clapped his hands- thick hands, calloused and work-dirtied.
"All right," he said loudly. "All right, let's settle down now." He walked out from the group and turned. "Who's got the list?"
"Got it right here, Jim," a woman said, coming forward with a loose-leaf folder.
"All present?"
"Everybody except that there German, Mr. Grunin-Grunger-"
Kroner smiled; he made a megaphone of his hands. "Gruninger-Bartold Gruninger?"
A small man with a mustache called out excitedly, "Ja, ja! ... s'war schwer den Friedhof zu finden,"
"All right. That's all we wanted to know, whether you was here or not," Kroner studied the pages carefully. Then he reached into the pocket of his overalls and withdrew a stub of pencil and put the tip in his mouth.
"Now, before we start off," he said to the group, "I want you to know is there anybody here that's got a question or anything to ask?" He looked over the crowd of silent faces. "Anybody don't know who I am? No?"
Then came another wind, mountain-scattered and fast: it billowed dresses, set damp hair moving; it pushed over pewter vases, and smashed dead roses and hydrangeas to swirling dust against the gritty tombstones. Its clean rain smell was gone now, though, for it had passed over the fields with the odors of rotting life.
Kroner made a check mark in the notebook, "Anderson," he shouted. "Edward L."
A man in overalls like Kroner's stepped forward.
"Andy, you covered Skagit valley, Snohomish and King counties, as well as Seattle and the rest?"
"Yes, sir."
"What you got to report?"
"They're all dead,"
He grasped one of the statue's ear for balance and leaned forward. He blinked. Below, some fifteen feet, there were people. Young people. Some of them with books. They were looking up and smiling and laughing.
Mr. Minchell wiped his eyes.
A slight horror came over him, and fell away. He leaned farther out.
One of the boys waved and shouted: "Ride him, Pop!"
Mr. Minchell almost toppled. Then, without understanding, without even trying to understand-merely knowing-he grinned widely, showing his teeth, which were his own and very white.
"You-see me?" he called.
The young people roared.
"You do!" Mr. Minchell's face seemed to melt upwards. He let out a yell and gave King Richard's shaggy stone mane an enormous hug.
Below, other people stopped in their walking and a small crowd began to form. Dozens of eyes peered sharply, quizzically.
A woman in gray furs giggled.
A thin man in a blue suit grunted something about these damned exhibitionists.
"You pipe down," another man said. "Guy wants to ride the goddamn lion it's his own business."
There were murmurings. The man who had said pipe down was small and he wore black-rimmed glasses. "I used to do it all the time." He turned to Mr. Minchell and cried: "How is it?"
Mr. Minchell grinned. Somehow, he realized, in some mysterious way, he had been given a second chance. And this time he knew what he would do with it. "Fine!" he shouted, and stood upon King Richard's back and sent his derby spinning out over the heads of the people. "Come on up!"
"Can't do it," the man said. "Got a date." There was a look of profound admiration in his eyes as he strode off. Away from the crowd he stopped and cupped his hands and cried: "I'll be seeing you!"
"That's right," Mr. Minchell said, feeling the cold new wind on his face. "You'll be seeing me."
Later, when he was good and ready, he got down off the lion.
----
A PLACE OF MEETING
by Charles Beaumont
----
It swept down from the mountains, a loose, crystal-smelling wind, an autumn chill of moving wetness. Down from the mountains and into the town, where it set the dead trees hissing and the signboards creaking. And it even went into the church, because the bell was ringing and there was no one to ring the bell.
The people in the yard stopped their talk and listened to the rusty music. Big Jim Kroner listened too. Then he cleared his throat and clapped his hands- thick hands, calloused and work-dirtied.
"All right," he said loudly. "All right, let's settle down now." He walked out from the group and turned. "Who's got the list?"
"Got it right here, Jim," a woman said, coming forward with a loose-leaf folder.
"All present?"
"Everybody except that there German, Mr. Grunin-Grunger-"
Kroner smiled; he made a megaphone of his hands. "Gruninger-Bartold Gruninger?"
A small man with a mustache called out excitedly, "Ja, ja! ... s'war schwer den Friedhof zu finden,"
"All right. That's all we wanted to know, whether you was here or not," Kroner studied the pages carefully. Then he reached into the pocket of his overalls and withdrew a stub of pencil and put the tip in his mouth.
"Now, before we start off," he said to the group, "I want you to know is there anybody here that's got a question or anything to ask?" He looked over the crowd of silent faces. "Anybody don't know who I am? No?"
Then came another wind, mountain-scattered and fast: it billowed dresses, set damp hair moving; it pushed over pewter vases, and smashed dead roses and hydrangeas to swirling dust against the gritty tombstones. Its clean rain smell was gone now, though, for it had passed over the fields with the odors of rotting life.
Kroner made a check mark in the notebook, "Anderson," he shouted. "Edward L."
A man in overalls like Kroner's stepped forward.
"Andy, you covered Skagit valley, Snohomish and King counties, as well as Seattle and the rest?"
"Yes, sir."
"What you got to report?"
"They're all dead,"
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