Backteria and Other Improbable Tales by Richard Matheson Read Free Book Online Page B

know? He shrugged his shoulders and looked down at the dead stagnant water where the black bear was drinking.
    You old bear. Really lap it up, don’t you? You’re quite a businessman, Mr. Gibbons. Oh, you
love
that don’t you, you oily old bear. Then you get mad because someone disagrees. Just because I like to empty the wastebasket at noon and you like to do it at five. Don’t know your business Jones! Don’t know your business. Just because I like to empty the wastebasket at noon.
    Old
bear
. I ought to quit. I ought to poke you one in those bloodshot eyes and say, So I don’t know my business haah! Well let me tell
you
one thing. I know more about my business than you know about yours! And don’t forget it. Huh!
    Mr. Jones stamped his foot and almost waved a stern finger at the bear.
    A mothervoice whined behind him:
    “Alvah, have you urinated?”
    Mr. Jones whirled with blazing eyes.
    “Good god madam,” he said acidly. “Have you no sense of proportion!”
    Then, without an answer, he turned away and stalked off.
    Mr. Jones, bent over a concrete fountain, sent a burst of brackish water into his throat. A little boy standing at an adjoining fountain was putting his finger over one of the holes and squirting a stream of water in the air. A mother yelled. Mr. Jones passed on, superior.
    He hardly looked at the straggly reindeer carrying bent clothes trees on their skulls. Barely noticed the floppy kangaroos twitching with fat zoo flies. He left the sunlight and went into the dark stale animal house. Voices sounded hollow.
    He passed a raccoon who stared at him from blackrimmed eyes and then padded out onto its sun porch.
    He stopped and looked at the big tan wolf pacing restlessly. They exchanged kind glances.
    I know what you’re thinking. The people stand here and look at you. They think of Russia and Greta Garbo in a sleigh and you chasing it.
    Well, someday they’ll put hairy coats on men again and put them in cages. And you can stand outside.
    And laugh with your eyes.
    Feeling particularly compassionate, Mr. Jones idled over to the lion’s cage. There was a righteous, eternal print on his features.
    He gritted his teeth and winced as strident boy voices rang in the silence and they surrounded him like a relentless army of red ants. He looked down at their wild hair with distaste.
    “Hey Mr. Lion what are you doing?”
    For Chrissake little man. Can’t the king of beasts even take a leak in private? King of beasts. On exhibition for jokers.
    “Look at his ears!”
    Yours ears, you little bastard, are not so hot either. Mr. Jones could not contain himself. He uttered a long shuddering, “Shhhhhhhh” and walked on, barely noticing the slopebacked puma stalking drunkenly around its cage.
    As he stepped into the sunlight, he heard the seals barking loudly. They must have an audience. Slick glory seekers. Whiskered prima donnas. Watch the doors.
    He walked to a rail and looked over.
    The silent ones. The great black ones. Silent laughing mouths. Leather pendulum of a tail. Garden hose trunk. Floppy cabbage-leaf ears.
    He looked at the huge beasts swaying as they chewed chomp chomp on the hay. I wish she’d get a corset.
    You look like hell darling. I’m sorry if it hurts your feelings. But what do you expect the way you eat? You’re getting as big as an elephant.
    Mr. Jones focused his eyes. He smiled.
    “My god you
are
an elephant.”
    “Whud you say mistuh?” asked a little boy.
    “What’s it to you?” said Mr. Jones.
    He left without an answer. He felt superbly witty. He stopped and waved by two pigeons. He passed two little boys with packs fastened to their shoulders.
    The great outdoors haah fellas? Watch the cars. Don’t step on anyone. Forest primeval.
    Don’t trip on beer bottles.
    Mr. Jones breathed in the smell of warm leaves and found it not half bad. He conjectured briefly on whether sparrows have adams apples. He shrugged, felt very silly.
    He stopped in front of a birdcage. He