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Authors: Robert Bloch
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semicircle.
Resting against the palm of his hand was a tin can. Ignoring their stares, ignoring their exclamations of surprise, he reached into his pocket again. Pulling out a handkerchief he began to polish the surface of the empty can.
It was only then that he glanced up, nodding. “This old man still has a little magic left in him. If you believe, I think I can promise to make you feel like children again.”
Mr. Conroy snickered. “You’re making promises that they can’t keep, Bloom.”
Bloom didn’t reply; he was already turning to the others. “I want to see you dance, Mrs. Dempsey. And you, Mr. Weinstein—how would you like to be able to climb again?”
Mr. Weinstein nodded. “Like a cat I could climb.”
Bloom rose. “Let’s break the rules. What can they take away from us that we haven’t already lost?”
As his challenge echoed, it was greeted with a quick exchange of glances, followed by a hushed, expectant silence.
“Well, what do you say?” Mr. Bloom nodded. “Don’t waste time, or time will waste you.”
Mr. Agee cleared his throat. “When were you thinking of playing?” he asked.
Bloom held up the tin can, its polished surface gleaming beneath the light.
“Tonight,” he said.
Again the exchange of glances—again the hush of anticipation.
Mr. Weinstein glanced toward the window; the street beyond was almost invisible in the darkness. “You mean right now?” He shook his head sadly. “If Miss Cox should see us, she’ll lock us up and throw the key away.”
“That’s not the game plan,” Bloom told him. “What I suggest is that we all go to bed until midnight. Then, after we make sure Miss Cox is sound asleep, we can tiptoe out—”
“Marvelous!” Mrs. Weinstein clapped her hands.
Mr. Mute was nodding. “I agree! Just thinking about it is enough to make my skin tingle!”
Mr. Weinstein shook his head. “Remember what it says in the Talmud,” he murmured. “Nobody loves a smart-guy.”
Now he turned, joining his wife, Mrs. Dempsey, and Mr. Agee as they stood clustered before Bloom.
There was an almost palpable excitement radiating through the room. Mr. Mute stepped up behind him, reaching out to touch the tin can with tingling fingers.
“You’re not putting us on, Mr. Bloom?” he said. “Do you really think we can get away with it without being caught?”
“Not a chance!”
Mr. Conroy’s voice was scornful. He sat stubbornly in his chair, shaking his head as they turned to stare at him. “I’ve got five bucks that says none of you old crocks can still keep your eyes open after ten o’clock!”
Bloom smiled. “Don’t worry about that—I’m a regular night owl.” He turned his attention to the group before him. “Why don’t you all try to sleep for a few hours? When the time comes, I’ll drop around and let you know.”
Mr. Conroy grunted. “Don’t bother to wake me up,” he said. “I may be old, but I’m not senile enough to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night just to play some fool kid’s game.”
For a moment the group’s decision wavered in the balance. Then Mr. Mute nodded at Bloom. “See you later,” he said. Turning, he gestured to his fellow resident.
“Let’s go,” he murmured. “It’s time for all of us fools to get some rest before the game.”
Mr. Conroy sat alone in the recreation room, watching the ten o’clock news. He always watched the news before going to bed and he wasn’t going to miss it now just because of this nonsense tonight.
He still didn’t understand how the others could fall for such foolishness. They ought to act their age. If those idiots thought that playing some kid’s game at midnight would make them feel young again, then maybe they’d have to learn the hard way. Nobody can turn the clock back. It was just wishful thinking. They wanted youth, but all they would get out of this was a broken hip, a stroke, maybe a heart attack.
The whole idea was crazy. They must be crazy,
Resting against the palm of his hand was a tin can. Ignoring their stares, ignoring their exclamations of surprise, he reached into his pocket again. Pulling out a handkerchief he began to polish the surface of the empty can.
It was only then that he glanced up, nodding. “This old man still has a little magic left in him. If you believe, I think I can promise to make you feel like children again.”
Mr. Conroy snickered. “You’re making promises that they can’t keep, Bloom.”
Bloom didn’t reply; he was already turning to the others. “I want to see you dance, Mrs. Dempsey. And you, Mr. Weinstein—how would you like to be able to climb again?”
Mr. Weinstein nodded. “Like a cat I could climb.”
Bloom rose. “Let’s break the rules. What can they take away from us that we haven’t already lost?”
As his challenge echoed, it was greeted with a quick exchange of glances, followed by a hushed, expectant silence.
“Well, what do you say?” Mr. Bloom nodded. “Don’t waste time, or time will waste you.”
Mr. Agee cleared his throat. “When were you thinking of playing?” he asked.
Bloom held up the tin can, its polished surface gleaming beneath the light.
“Tonight,” he said.
Again the exchange of glances—again the hush of anticipation.
Mr. Weinstein glanced toward the window; the street beyond was almost invisible in the darkness. “You mean right now?” He shook his head sadly. “If Miss Cox should see us, she’ll lock us up and throw the key away.”
“That’s not the game plan,” Bloom told him. “What I suggest is that we all go to bed until midnight. Then, after we make sure Miss Cox is sound asleep, we can tiptoe out—”
“Marvelous!” Mrs. Weinstein clapped her hands.
Mr. Mute was nodding. “I agree! Just thinking about it is enough to make my skin tingle!”
Mr. Weinstein shook his head. “Remember what it says in the Talmud,” he murmured. “Nobody loves a smart-guy.”
Now he turned, joining his wife, Mrs. Dempsey, and Mr. Agee as they stood clustered before Bloom.
There was an almost palpable excitement radiating through the room. Mr. Mute stepped up behind him, reaching out to touch the tin can with tingling fingers.
“You’re not putting us on, Mr. Bloom?” he said. “Do you really think we can get away with it without being caught?”
“Not a chance!”
Mr. Conroy’s voice was scornful. He sat stubbornly in his chair, shaking his head as they turned to stare at him. “I’ve got five bucks that says none of you old crocks can still keep your eyes open after ten o’clock!”
Bloom smiled. “Don’t worry about that—I’m a regular night owl.” He turned his attention to the group before him. “Why don’t you all try to sleep for a few hours? When the time comes, I’ll drop around and let you know.”
Mr. Conroy grunted. “Don’t bother to wake me up,” he said. “I may be old, but I’m not senile enough to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night just to play some fool kid’s game.”
For a moment the group’s decision wavered in the balance. Then Mr. Mute nodded at Bloom. “See you later,” he said. Turning, he gestured to his fellow resident.
“Let’s go,” he murmured. “It’s time for all of us fools to get some rest before the game.”
Mr. Conroy sat alone in the recreation room, watching the ten o’clock news. He always watched the news before going to bed and he wasn’t going to miss it now just because of this nonsense tonight.
He still didn’t understand how the others could fall for such foolishness. They ought to act their age. If those idiots thought that playing some kid’s game at midnight would make them feel young again, then maybe they’d have to learn the hard way. Nobody can turn the clock back. It was just wishful thinking. They wanted youth, but all they would get out of this was a broken hip, a stroke, maybe a heart attack.
The whole idea was crazy. They must be crazy,
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