Read Online Twilight Zone The Movie by Robert Bloch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Bloch
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too—listening to somebody like Bloom—because he was the craziest of them all.
For a moment he wondered if he ought to inform Miss Cox that she was harboring a lunatic under her roof. Then he dismissed the notion with a shrug. Why should he do her any favors? Let her find out the hard way, too. What anyone else did was their business.
His business was to watch the news so that he could be sure of getting a good night’s sleep. Other people counted sheep, but Mr. Conroy had found a method of his own. He watched the news and kept count of the day’s events.
Listening to the commentator, he made a tally on his mental score-card: three murders . . . two rapes . . . six muggings . . . one armed robbery . . . one tornado, one explosion, several floods and famines . . . three fires, two of which were obviously arson . . . plus, as a final bonus, four wars and a revolutionary uprising.
Not bad for one evening; just thinking about what went on in the outside world was enough to make you welcome sleep.
Satisfied, Mr. Conroy rose, switched off the television, and shuffled down the hall.
When he reached the dormitory, he was greeted by the snores of his fellow residents. Quietly, he undressed in darkness so as not to disturb them. The only sound rising above the even snores was a faint plop as he dropped his teeth into a glass of water on the shelf above his bed. Then he scrunched down beneath the covers and in a matter of moments his own snore joined the chorus.
It had not been easy for Mr. Weinstein to fall asleep. Usually he went out like a light the moment his head touched the pillow, but tonight was different. So much had happened and there was so much to think about.
Of course, this fella Bloom was a meshuganah, but it didn’t matter. Not for one minute could Mr. Weinstein believe that climbing out of his nice warm bed to play kick-the-can in the middle of the night was going to make anyone feel young again; for people his age the Fountain of Youth had been turned off long ago. But at least he was willing to go along with the idea, if only to break the monotony. Maybe Bloom was a genuine eighteen-carat nutzo, but at least he was bringing them a little action, giving them something new to think about, opening the windows and letting in a little fresh air.
So what if Bloom couldn’t really make them young again? Maybe just doing something different would make them feel younger for a little while, help take away the boredom.
That was the worst part of getting old, Mr. Weinstein decided. You got used to being bored, used to just sitting all day while the world changed. After a while you didn’t even notice the changes anymore; then all of a sudden you looked around and everything was different. Now all the boys were named David and all the girls were Jennifers.
But one thing didn’t change: kids still had their youth, their strength, their health; and Mr. Weinstein envied them for that. As for him, all he had was a bad heart—and poor Sadie, complaining about her back pains. Funny; everybody seems to complain about back pains and nobody even mentions front pains. Go figure that one out. Mr. Weinstein was still figuring as he fell asleep.
In the women’s dormitory, Mrs. Dempsey was already sleeping with Mickey curled up beside her pillow. In her dream the white cat suddenly turned into her husband Jack, and Mrs. Dempsey snuggled up with him. Somewhere along the line Jack Dempsey turned into Clark Gable, but Mrs. Dempsey didn’t mind.
Mr. Agee wasn’t dreaming about a movie star in his dream. He was the star himself. A handsome, dashing Douglas Fairbanks, he slashed a villain’s face with the Z of Zorro, crossed swords with the Three Musketeers, rode the magic carpet over Baghdad, and swung through the trees of Sherwood Forest with all the ease and grace of Robin Hood. . . .
Mrs. Weinstein stirred restlessly. If Miss Cox would only give her a room of her own where she and Harry could sleep in the same bed,
For a moment he wondered if he ought to inform Miss Cox that she was harboring a lunatic under her roof. Then he dismissed the notion with a shrug. Why should he do her any favors? Let her find out the hard way, too. What anyone else did was their business.
His business was to watch the news so that he could be sure of getting a good night’s sleep. Other people counted sheep, but Mr. Conroy had found a method of his own. He watched the news and kept count of the day’s events.
Listening to the commentator, he made a tally on his mental score-card: three murders . . . two rapes . . . six muggings . . . one armed robbery . . . one tornado, one explosion, several floods and famines . . . three fires, two of which were obviously arson . . . plus, as a final bonus, four wars and a revolutionary uprising.
Not bad for one evening; just thinking about what went on in the outside world was enough to make you welcome sleep.
Satisfied, Mr. Conroy rose, switched off the television, and shuffled down the hall.
When he reached the dormitory, he was greeted by the snores of his fellow residents. Quietly, he undressed in darkness so as not to disturb them. The only sound rising above the even snores was a faint plop as he dropped his teeth into a glass of water on the shelf above his bed. Then he scrunched down beneath the covers and in a matter of moments his own snore joined the chorus.
It had not been easy for Mr. Weinstein to fall asleep. Usually he went out like a light the moment his head touched the pillow, but tonight was different. So much had happened and there was so much to think about.
Of course, this fella Bloom was a meshuganah, but it didn’t matter. Not for one minute could Mr. Weinstein believe that climbing out of his nice warm bed to play kick-the-can in the middle of the night was going to make anyone feel young again; for people his age the Fountain of Youth had been turned off long ago. But at least he was willing to go along with the idea, if only to break the monotony. Maybe Bloom was a genuine eighteen-carat nutzo, but at least he was bringing them a little action, giving them something new to think about, opening the windows and letting in a little fresh air.
So what if Bloom couldn’t really make them young again? Maybe just doing something different would make them feel younger for a little while, help take away the boredom.
That was the worst part of getting old, Mr. Weinstein decided. You got used to being bored, used to just sitting all day while the world changed. After a while you didn’t even notice the changes anymore; then all of a sudden you looked around and everything was different. Now all the boys were named David and all the girls were Jennifers.
But one thing didn’t change: kids still had their youth, their strength, their health; and Mr. Weinstein envied them for that. As for him, all he had was a bad heart—and poor Sadie, complaining about her back pains. Funny; everybody seems to complain about back pains and nobody even mentions front pains. Go figure that one out. Mr. Weinstein was still figuring as he fell asleep.
In the women’s dormitory, Mrs. Dempsey was already sleeping with Mickey curled up beside her pillow. In her dream the white cat suddenly turned into her husband Jack, and Mrs. Dempsey snuggled up with him. Somewhere along the line Jack Dempsey turned into Clark Gable, but Mrs. Dempsey didn’t mind.
Mr. Agee wasn’t dreaming about a movie star in his dream. He was the star himself. A handsome, dashing Douglas Fairbanks, he slashed a villain’s face with the Z of Zorro, crossed swords with the Three Musketeers, rode the magic carpet over Baghdad, and swung through the trees of Sherwood Forest with all the ease and grace of Robin Hood. . . .
Mrs. Weinstein stirred restlessly. If Miss Cox would only give her a room of her own where she and Harry could sleep in the same bed,
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