Read Online Twilight Zone The Movie by Robert Bloch - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Bloch
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game.”
Mr. Conroy fidgeted in his chair. “What’s the point of all this talk? Why are you dredging up the past, Bloom? This isn’t healthy.”
But Mrs. Dempsey ignored him. “Like I was saying, Mr. Bloom, he just loved that game. His mother would bean him if she caught him playing. Ruined his shoes, she said.”
“Marbles.” Mr. Weinstein nodded, taking a ride on his own train of recollections. “There was a game for you!”
“Do you still remember what those marbles were called?” Mr. Agee asked.
Mr. Weinstein gestured quickly. “Don’t say it—I’m thinking. Agates. Purees. And laggars—”
Mrs. Dempsey sighed. “It was so nice, being a child. There was nothing to worry about because people always took care of me.”
“They take care of you here.” Mr. Conroy offered a smile dipped in vinegar. “Miss Cox takes great care of you, doesn’t let you do a thing.”
Mrs. Dempsey wasn’t listening. “I had lots of friends and ever so many toys—”
“Toys?” Mr. Conroy’s voice rose, insistent upon her attention. “They’ve got toys here that will last you for the rest of your life. Oxygen tanks, respirators, bedpans, the whole works.” There was vinegar in his voice now. “You want friends? Mr. Bloom here is trying to make friends—trying to stir them all up, aren’t you, Bloom?”
Frowning, Mr. Mute attempted a diversion. He leaned forward quickly, addressing Mr. Weinstein. “What were the clay marbles called, Harry?”
For a moment Mr. Weinstein sat silent. So did the others, as the impact of Mr. Conroy’s words hit home.
Mr. Agee tried again. “Well, Harry?”
Mr. Weinstein shrugged his shoulders and expelled a sigh of misery. “I don’t know. I can’t remember anymore.”
Bloom leaned forward. “Sure you can,” he said. “The clays ones were emis.”
“That’s right.” Mr. Weinstein looked up, nodding gratefully. “Emis. Now I remember!” He smiled. “Thank you, Bloom, you’re a real mensch.”
Bloom glanced thoughtfully at the semicircle of faces, capturing their attention as he spoke. “The day we stopped playing is the day we started getting old. We started watching clocks, watching for the days to hurry up and end, counting weeks and months and years as if they would last forever. We never realized our time would run out, and that’s where we made our mistake.”
He nodded slowly. “We never should have started counting, never been in such a hurry to grow up, because once the counting begins, it never stops. The clock keeps right on going, ticking your life away. But when we played, we weren’t worried about time. We always had something else to look forward to—another chance to hide, another turn at bat, another game of kick-the-can—”
He halted, eyes searching their faces in the silence. “So who’s playing?”
Mr. Weinstein blinked at him, startled. “What?”
Bloom smiled. “I’m starting up a game of kick-the-can! Who’s playing?”
Mr. Conroy shook his head. “When’s the last time you fell down and couldn’t get up by yourself, pal? How dare you ask anybody to go out there and risk the little bit of life they have left in them!”
“All life is a risk, Mr. Conroy. I’m not asking anybody to do what I’m not willing to do. But maybe if we played, we might get a hold on that thing we’re all missing—a little hold on youth.”
Mr. Conroy gestured contemptuously toward his companions. “Look at them,” he muttered. “Their bones will break if they try to run. Their hearts are old. Their lungs are old.”
Mrs. Dempsey glanced up timidly. “Miss Cox would never allow us to go outside and play, Mr. Bloom. It’s against the rules.”
“Rules!” Mr. Bloom shook his head. “Did you ever try to stop a child? Are you going to let rules stop you from the chance of being young again?”
Now Bloom reached into his jacket pocket. When it emerged he was holding an object that brought startled gasps from the
Mr. Conroy fidgeted in his chair. “What’s the point of all this talk? Why are you dredging up the past, Bloom? This isn’t healthy.”
But Mrs. Dempsey ignored him. “Like I was saying, Mr. Bloom, he just loved that game. His mother would bean him if she caught him playing. Ruined his shoes, she said.”
“Marbles.” Mr. Weinstein nodded, taking a ride on his own train of recollections. “There was a game for you!”
“Do you still remember what those marbles were called?” Mr. Agee asked.
Mr. Weinstein gestured quickly. “Don’t say it—I’m thinking. Agates. Purees. And laggars—”
Mrs. Dempsey sighed. “It was so nice, being a child. There was nothing to worry about because people always took care of me.”
“They take care of you here.” Mr. Conroy offered a smile dipped in vinegar. “Miss Cox takes great care of you, doesn’t let you do a thing.”
Mrs. Dempsey wasn’t listening. “I had lots of friends and ever so many toys—”
“Toys?” Mr. Conroy’s voice rose, insistent upon her attention. “They’ve got toys here that will last you for the rest of your life. Oxygen tanks, respirators, bedpans, the whole works.” There was vinegar in his voice now. “You want friends? Mr. Bloom here is trying to make friends—trying to stir them all up, aren’t you, Bloom?”
Frowning, Mr. Mute attempted a diversion. He leaned forward quickly, addressing Mr. Weinstein. “What were the clay marbles called, Harry?”
For a moment Mr. Weinstein sat silent. So did the others, as the impact of Mr. Conroy’s words hit home.
Mr. Agee tried again. “Well, Harry?”
Mr. Weinstein shrugged his shoulders and expelled a sigh of misery. “I don’t know. I can’t remember anymore.”
Bloom leaned forward. “Sure you can,” he said. “The clays ones were emis.”
“That’s right.” Mr. Weinstein looked up, nodding gratefully. “Emis. Now I remember!” He smiled. “Thank you, Bloom, you’re a real mensch.”
Bloom glanced thoughtfully at the semicircle of faces, capturing their attention as he spoke. “The day we stopped playing is the day we started getting old. We started watching clocks, watching for the days to hurry up and end, counting weeks and months and years as if they would last forever. We never realized our time would run out, and that’s where we made our mistake.”
He nodded slowly. “We never should have started counting, never been in such a hurry to grow up, because once the counting begins, it never stops. The clock keeps right on going, ticking your life away. But when we played, we weren’t worried about time. We always had something else to look forward to—another chance to hide, another turn at bat, another game of kick-the-can—”
He halted, eyes searching their faces in the silence. “So who’s playing?”
Mr. Weinstein blinked at him, startled. “What?”
Bloom smiled. “I’m starting up a game of kick-the-can! Who’s playing?”
Mr. Conroy shook his head. “When’s the last time you fell down and couldn’t get up by yourself, pal? How dare you ask anybody to go out there and risk the little bit of life they have left in them!”
“All life is a risk, Mr. Conroy. I’m not asking anybody to do what I’m not willing to do. But maybe if we played, we might get a hold on that thing we’re all missing—a little hold on youth.”
Mr. Conroy gestured contemptuously toward his companions. “Look at them,” he muttered. “Their bones will break if they try to run. Their hearts are old. Their lungs are old.”
Mrs. Dempsey glanced up timidly. “Miss Cox would never allow us to go outside and play, Mr. Bloom. It’s against the rules.”
“Rules!” Mr. Bloom shook his head. “Did you ever try to stop a child? Are you going to let rules stop you from the chance of being young again?”
Now Bloom reached into his jacket pocket. When it emerged he was holding an object that brought startled gasps from the
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