The Catbird Seat by James Thurber. Part 4.
Read a translation here.
Watch on KineScope.
When Mrs. Barrows reappeared, carrying two highballs, Mr. Martin, standing there with his gloves on, became acutely conscious of the fantasy he had wrought. Cigarettes in his pocket, a drink prepared for him–it was all too grossly improbable. It was more than that; it was impossible. Somewhere in the back of his mind a vague idea stirred, sprouted.
“For heaven’s sake, take off those gloves,” said Mrs. Barrows.
“I always wear them in the house,” said Mr. Martin.
The idea began to bloom, strange and wonderful. She put the glasses on a coffee table in front of the sofa and sat on the sofa.
“Come over here, you odd little man,” she said.
Mr. Martin went over and sat beside her. It was difficult getting a cigarette out of the pack of Camels, but he managed it. She held a match for him, laughing.
“Well,” she said, handing him his drink, “this is perfectly marvellous. You with a drink and a cigarette.”
Mr. Martin puffed, not too awkwardly, and took a gulp of the highball. “I drink and smoke all the time,” he said. He clinked his glass against hers.” Here’s nuts to that old windbag, Fitweiler,” he said, and gulped again. The stuff tasted awful, but he made no grimace.
“Really, Mr. Martin,” she said, her voice and posture changing, “you are insulting our employer.” Mrs. Barrows was now all special adviser to the president.
“I am preparing a bomb,” said Mr. Martin, “which will blow the old goat higher than hell.” He had only had a little of the drink, which was not strong. It couldn’t be that.
“Do you take dope or something?” Mrs. Barrows asked coldly.
“Heroin,” said Mr. Martin. “I’ll be coked to the gills when I bump that old buzzard off.”
“Mr. Martin!” she shouted, getting to her feet. “That will be all of that. You must go at once.”
Mr. Martin took another swallow of his drink. He tapped his cigarette out in the ashtray and put the pack of Camels on the coffee table. Then he got up. She stood glaring at him. He walked over and put on his hat and coat. “Not a word about this,” he said, and laid an index finger against his lips. All Mrs. Barrows could bring out was “Really!”
Mr. Martin put his hand on the doorknob. “I’m sitting in the catbird seat,” he said. He stuck his tongue out at her and left. Nobody saw him go.
Mr. Martin got to his apartment, walking, well before eleven. No one saw him go in. He had two glasses of milk after brushing his teeth, and he felt elated. It wasn’t tipsiness, because he hadn’t been tipsy. Anyway, the walk had worn off all effects of the whisky. He got in bed and read a magazine for a while. He was asleep before midnight.