Invisible man

            "Oh, yes," he said. "We follow a policy of enlightened humanitarianism; all our employees are automatically insured. You have only to sign a few papers."

            "What kind of papers, sir?"

            "We require an affidavit releasing the company of responsibility," he said. "Yours was a difficult case, and a number of specialists had to be called in. But, after all, any new occupation has its hazards. They are part of growing up, of becoming adjusted, as it were. One takes a chance and while some are prepared, others are not."

            I looked at his lined face. Was he doctor, factory official, or both? I couldn't get it; and now he seemed to move back and forth across my field of vision, although he sat perfectly calm in his chair.

            It came out of itself: "Do you know Mr. Norton, sir?" I said.

            "Norton?" His brows knitted. "What Norton is this?"

            Then it was as though I hadn't asked him; the name sounded strange. I ran my hand over my eyes.

            "I'm sorry," I said. "It occurred to me that you might. He was just a man I used to know."

            "I see. Well" -- he picked up some papers -- "so that's the way it is, my boy. A little later perhaps we'll be able to do something. You may take the papers along if you wish. Just mail them to us. Your check will be sent upon their return. Meanwhile, take as much time as you like. You'll find that we are perfectly fair."

            I took the folded papers and looked at him for what seemed to be too long a time. He seemed to waver. Then I heard myself say, "Do you know him?" my voice rising.

            "Who?"

            "Mr. Norton," I said. "Mr. Norton!"

            "Oh, why, no."

            "No," I said, "no one knows anybody and it was too long a time ago."

            He frowned and I laughed. "They picked poor Robin clean," I said. "Do you happen to know Bled?"

            He looked at me, his head to one side. "Are these people friends of yours?"

            "Friends? Oh, yes," I said, "we're all good friends. Buddies from way back. But I don't suppose we get around in the same circles."

            His eyes widened. "No," he said, "I don't suppose we do. However, good friends are valuable to have."

            I felt light-headed and started to laugh and he seemed to waver again and I thought of asking him about Emerson, but now he was clearing his throat and indicating that he was finished.

            I put the folded papers in my overalls and started out. The door beyond the rows of chairs seemed far away.

            "Take care of yourself," he said.

            "And you," I said, thinking, it's time, it's past time.

            Turning abruptly, I went weakly back to the desk, seeing him looking up at me with his steady scientific gaze. I was overcome with ceremonial feelings but unable to remember the proper formula. So as I deliberately extended my hand I fought down laughter with a cough.

            "It's been quite pleasant, our little palaver, sir," I said. I listened to myself and to his answer.

            "Yes, indeed," he said.

            He shook my hand gravely, without surprise or distaste. I looked down, he was there somewhere behind the lined face and outstretched hand.

            "And now our palaver is finished," I said. "Good-bye."

            He raised his hand. "Good-bye," he said, his voice noncommittal.

            Leaving him and going out into the paint-fuming air I had the feeling that I had been talking beyond myself, had used words and expressed attitudes not my own, that I was in the grip of some alien personality lodged deep within me. Like the servant about whom I'd read in psychology class who, during a trance, had recited pages of Greek philosophy which she had overheard one day while she worked. It was as though I were acting out a scene from some crazy movie. Or perhaps I was catching up with myself and had put into words feelings which I had hitherto suppressed. Or was it, I thought, starting up the walk, that I was no longer afraid? I stopped, looking at the buildings down the bright street slanting with sun and shade. I was no longer afraid. Not of important men, not of trustees and such; for knowing now that there was nothing which I could expect from them, there was no reason to be afraid. Was that it? I felt light-headed, my ears were ringing. I went on.

            Along the walk the buildings rose, uniform and close together. It was day's end now and on top of every building the flags were fluttering and diving down, collapsing. And I felt that I would fall, had fallen, moved now as against a current sweeping swiftly against me. Out of the grounds and up the street I found the bridge by which I'd come, but the stairs leading back to the car that crossed the top were too dizzily steep to climb, swim or fly, and I found a subway instead.

            Things whirled too fast around me. My mind went alternately bright and blank in slow rolling waves. We, he, him -- my mind and I -- were no longer getting around in the same circles. Nor my body either. Across the aisle a young platinum blonde nibbled at a red Delicious apple as station lights rippled past behind her. The train plunged. I dropped through the roar, giddy and vacuum-minded, sucked under and out into late afternoon Harlem.

Chapter 12