“Is that it?”
“Yeah! What’s the threat?”
“It comes,” Ross Ed found himself saying, “from those who would destroy America’s saviors.”
“The Republicans! Man, I told you!”
“Aw, shut up!” advised a listener of dissimilar political persuasion.
Other suggestions to fill the void came fast and furious. They ranged from the Sierra Club to Rush Limbaugh.
“You are all wrong,” Ross Ed found himself explaining as he served up a Scotch to an appreciative middle-aged woman in severe business dress. ‘The danger is to that great bastion’—Bastion? a part of him thought. Where had he encountered a word like that—“of American culture, the Dallas Coyboys!”
Whoops and roars of amusement vibrated the crowd, punctuated by a few choice remarks from a trio of vociferous supporters of the San Francisco 49ers. This led to the usual loud arguments over the merits of respective home teams.
“It is the Dallas Cowboys who are the true and secret masters of the universe.” While declaiming in his high alien voice, Ross Ed effortlessly drew forth beers both draft and bottled. The tips were piling up, and not all in recompense for supplied laughs. Several patrons were showing their appreciation for his deadpan performance.
“My kids think it’s the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers.” Halfway down the bar, a construction worker hunkered low over his brew.
“Naw, couldn’t be them,” insisted someone else. “I hear they’re all from California.” More laughter lifted above the general chatter.
“Well, that fits those outfits they wear!” another cracked.
As he went with the flow Ross Ed occasionally glanced in Jed’s direction for inspiration. Lines and aphorisms seemed to pop easily into his head just when he needed them. He’d never thought of himself as a particularly funny guy, but the customers seemed to find his quips and responses hilarious. As long as that was the case, he saw no harm in keeping it going.
Meanwhile, his initially amateurish voice throwing continued to improve. He’d heard that some folks had undiscovered natural talents that manifested themselves at odd and unexpected times and places. Perhaps ventriloquism was one of his. Just so long, he thought, as no one asked him to spell it. Certainly it was the perfect cover for Jed.
Hide in plain sight, he reminded himself again.
FIVE
That Friday night would’ve been the end of it except that Noddy Raskin, head of the hotel’s restaurant division, happened to have slipped into the bar while Ross Ed was performing. He’d come for a few moments, stayed for an hour, and made it a point to corner his new bartender subsequent to closing time.
“I caught some of your act tonight, Ross. You’re pretty good with that funny-looking dummy. You could be the world’s tallest ventriloquist.”
“I’m a bartender, Mr. Raskin. I don’t have an act. I was just playing around to keep the customers happy.”
“And you did that, you sure did.” Raskin was short, over-weight, and fiftyish, but with a kindly demeanor that endeared him to most of the employees. “Look, I know you’re only here on a temporary basis. You made that clear on your job app. We get people in and out of here all the time. Trying to keep good help is a never-ending battle.” He put a friendly hand on the big Texan’s arm.
“I just wanted you to know that there’s always a position for you here. Meanwhile, as long as you’re comfortable doing it, keep up the patter. You’re right: it is good for business.”
Ross Ed considered. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Raskin. I really don’t want to attract a lot of attention.”
The manager didn’t hesitate. “I’ll give you a five-dollar-an-hour raise.”
It was a significant offer, one that would help to ensure he’d be able to sate the thirsty Caddy. Another couple of weeks’ work at that rate and he’d be able to go straight through to California and back without having to worry about funds.
“You’ve got a deal, sir. But remember, I’m not a professional. I tend bar.”
“Very well, too.” Raskin’s right hand fluttered in the other man’s direction. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Amuse yourself and you’ll amuse the customers. Don’t worry about it. You’re doing swell.”
Before Ross could think of another objection, the manager had turned and headed for the main kitchen.
So Ross allowed the quips and comments to flow. Sometimes he declaimed in terms whose meaning utterly escaped him. Stuff he must have unintentionally absorbed from reading and from watching TV, or bits and pieces of long-forgotten schoolwork. Information stuck in distant recesses of his brain which circumstances and situations unexpectedly brought forth.
Raskin was right. It didn’t matter what he said so long as it kept the customers laughing. Customers who laugh feel good, and customers who feel good tend to drink more.
His technique improved without conscious effort, until it seemed he was throwing his voice via Jed without half trying. This ventriloquist stuff wasn’t too bad, he told himself. The dummy could get away with saying things that would have precipitated open warfare had they been perceived as issuing from “his” mouth.
Following the manager’s advice, he soon stopped worrying about his success. Lots of folks had natural talents. Why shouldn’t he have one? Wasn’t that only fair? He was reminded of the twelfth grade and Julie Heckerd, who could do math problems in her head that stumped Ross Ed even when he made use of a calculator. Or Evyard Brooks, who could twist his body to make it backward over the high-jump bar. His senior year he’d jumped high enough to finish second in state in his division. Natural talent. Ingrained ability.
Ross Ed had excelled at football and basketball, but only as a consequence of sheer size, not any special skill. Throwing your voice, now, that was something different. Unique. He began to take pride in his ability to bring smiles to the faces of people who arrived drawn and downcast after a hard day’s work. His ability, and Jed’s, of course.
It was two weeks later or (by another calculation) the second Friday night since the flight of the call girl that things got a little weirder than usual.
An unkempt patron with hair mussed and tie undone was, as so many had done before him, carefully scrutinizing the inhuman shape sequestered behind the bar.
“Hey, if you’re an alien, I’ll bet you’ve got a green card!”
Ross responded by throwing his voice with the ease and efficiency of long practice, so that the reply seemed to come directly from the alien.
“No, but I’ve got green blood.”
There were knowing chuckles from the regulars and appreciative smiles from those newcomers within hearing range.
“Is that a third leg,” observed the well-dressed, middle-aged businesswoman seated three stools down, “or are you just glad to see me?” A mildly shocked expression on her face, the woman seated on the speaker’s right gave her friend a sharp nudge in the ribs.
“I’m not particularly glad to see you,” replied Ross Ed smoothly, “but if I was, I can assure you that you’d never forget the experience.”
