Ray Bradbury



                          Bug

    

    Looking back now, I can't remember a time when Bug wasn't dancing. 

Bug is short for jitterbug and, of course, those were the days in the 

late thirties, our final days in high school and our first days out in 

the vast world looking for work that didn't exist when jitterbugging 

was all the rage. And I can remember Bug (his real name was Bert 

Bagley, which shortens to Bug nicely), during a jazz-band blast at our 

final aud-call for our high school senior class, suddenly leaping up 

to dance with an invisible partner in the middle of the front aisle of 

the auditorium. That brought the house down. You never heard such a 

roar or such applause. The bandleader, stricken with Bug's oblivious 

joy, gave an encore and Bug did the same and we all exploded. After 

that the band played "Thanks for the Memory" and we all sang it, with 

tears pouring down our cheeks. Nobody in all the years after could 

forget: Bug dancing in the aisle, eyes shut, hands out to grasp his 

invisible girlfriend, his legs not connected to his body, just his 

heart, all over the place. When it was over, nobody, not even the 

band, wanted to leave. We just stood there in the world Bug had made, 

hating to go out into that other world that was waiting for us.

    It was about a year later when Bug saw me on the street and 

stopped his roadster and said come on along to my place for a hot dog 

and a Coke, and I jumped in and we drove over with the top down and 

the wind really hitting us and Bug talking and talking at the top of 

his lungs, about life and the times and what he wanted to show me in 

his front parlor-front parlor, hell, dining room, kitchen, and 

bedroom.

    What was it he wanted me to see?

    Trophies. Big ones, little ones, solid gold and silver and brass 

trophies with his name on them. Dance trophies. I mean they were 

everywhere, on the floor by his bed, on the kitchen sink, in the 

bathroom, but in the parlor, especially, they had settled like a 

locust plague. There were so many of them on the mantel, and in 

bookcases instead of books, and on the floor, you had to wade through, 

kicking some over as you went. They totaled, he said, tilting his head 

back and counting inside his eyelids, to about three hundred and 

twenty prizes, which means grabbing onto a trophy almost every night 

in the past year.

    "All this," I gasped, "just since we left high school?"

    "Ain't I the cat's pajamas?" Bug cried.

    "You're the whole darned department store! Who was your partner, 

all those nights?"

    "Not partner, partners," Bug corrected. "Three hundred, give or 

take a dozen, different women on three hundred different nights."

    "Where do you find three hundred women, all talented, all good 

enough, to win prizes?"

    "They weren't talented or all good," said Bug, glancing around at 

his collection. "They were just ordinary, good, every-night dancers. I 

won the prizes. I made them good. And when we got Out there dancing, 

we cleared the floor.

    Everyone else stopped, to watch us there out in the middle of 

nowhere, and we never stopped."

    He paused, blushed, and shook his head. "Sorry about that. Didn't 

mean to brag."

    But he wasn't bragging. I could see. He was just telling the 

truth.

    "You want to know how this all started?" said Bug, handing over a 

hot dog and a Coke.

    "Don't tell me," I said. "I know."

    "How could you?" said Bug, looking me over.

    "The last aud-call at L.A. High, I think they played 'Thanks for 

the Memory,' but just before that-"

    " 'Roll Out the Barrel'-"

    "-'the Barrel,' yes, and there you were in front of God and 

everyone, jumping."

    "I never stopped," said Bug, eyes shut, back in those

    years. "Never," he said, "stopped."

    "You got your life all made," I said.

    "Unless," said Bug, "something happens."

    What happened was, of course, the war.

    Looking back, I remember that in that last year in school, sap 

that I was, I made up a list of my one hundred and sixty-five best 

friends. Can you imagine that? One hundred and sixty-five, count 'em, 

best friends! It's a good thing I never showed that list to anyone. I 

would have been hooted out of school.

        Anyway, the war came and went and took with it a couple dozen of 

those listed friends and the rest just disappeared into holes in the 

ground or went east or wound up in Malibu or Fort Lauderdale. Bug was 

on that list, but I didn't figure out I didn't really know him until 

half a lifetime later. By that time I was down to half a dozen pals or 

women I might turn to if I needed, and it was then, walking down 

Hollywood Boulevard one Saturday afternoon, I heard someone call:

    "How about a hot dog and a Coke?"

    Bug, I thought without turning. And that's who it was, standing on 

the Walk of Stars with his feet planted on Mary Pickford and Ricardo 

Cortez just behind and Jimmy Stewart just ahead. Bug had taken off 

some hair and put on some weight, but it was Bug and I was overjoyed, 

perhaps too much, and showed it, for he seemed embarrassed at my 

enthusiasm. I saw then that his suit was not half new enough and his 

shirt frayed, but his tie was neatly tied and he shook my hand off and 

we popped into a place where we stood and had that hot dog and that 

Coke.

    "Still going to be the world's greatest writer?" said Bug.

    "Working at it," I said.

    "You'll get there," said Bug and smiled, meaning it. "You were 

always good."

    "So were you," I said.

    That seemed to pain him slightly, for he stopped chewing for a 

moment and took a swig of Coke. "Yes, sir," he said. "I surely was."

    "God," I said, "I can still remember the day I saw all those 

trophies for the first time. What a family! Whatever-?"

    Before I could finish asking, he gave the answer.

    "Put 'em in storage, some. Some wound up with my first wife. 

Goodwill got the rest."

    "I'm sorry," I said, and truly was.

    Bug looked at me steadily. "How come you're sorry?"

    "Hell, I dunno," I said. "It's just, they seemed such a part of 

you. I haven't thought of you often the last few years or so, to be 

honest, but when I do, there you are knee-deep in all those cups and 

mugs in your front room, out in the kitchen, hell, in your garage!"

    "I'll be damned," said Bug. "What a memory you got."

    We finished our Cokes and it was almost time to go. I couldn't 

help myself, even seeing that Bug had fleshed himself out over the 

years.

    "When-" I started to say, and stopped.

    "When what?" said Bug.

    "When," I said with difficulty, "when was the last time you 

danced?"

    "Years," said Bug.

    "But how long ago?"

    "Ten years. Fifteen. Maybe twenty. Yeah, twenty. I don't dance 

anymore."

    "I don't believe that. Bug not dance? Nuts."

    "Truth. Gave my fancy night-out shoes to the Goodwill, too. Can't 

dance in your socks."

    "Can, and barefoot, too!"

    Bug had to laugh at that. "You're really something. Well, it's 

been nice." He started edging toward the door. "Take care, genius-"

    "Not so fast." I walked him out into the light and he was looking 

both ways as if there were heavy traffic. "You know one thing I never 

saw and wanted to see? You bragged about it, said you took three 

hundred ordinary girls out on the dance floor and turned them into 

Ginger Rogers inside three minutes. But I only saw you once at that 

aud-call in '38, so I don't believe you."

    "What?" said Bug. "You saw the trophies!"

    "You could have had those made up," I pursued, looking at his 

wrinkled suit and frayed shirt cuffs. "Anyone can go in a trophy shop 

and buy a cup and have his name put on it!"

    "You think I did that?" cried Bug.

    "I think that, yes!"

    Bug glanced out in the street and back at me and back in the 

street and back to me, trying to decide which way to run or push or 

shout.

    "What's got into you?" said Bug. "Why're you talking like that?"

    "God, I don't know," I admitted. "It's just, we might not meet 

again and I'll never have the chance, or you to prove it. I'd like, 

after all this time, to see what you talked about. I'd love to see you 

dance again, Bug."

    "Naw," said Bug. "I've forgotten how."

    "Don't hand me that. You may have forgotten, but the rest of you 

knows how. Bet you could go down to the Ambassador Hotel this 

afternoon, they still have tea dances there, and clear the floor, just 

like you said. After you're out there nobody else dances, they all 

stop and look at you and her just like thirty years ago."

    "No," said Bug, backing away but coming back. "No, no."

    "Pick a stranger, any girl, any woman, out of the crowd, lead her 

out, hold her in your arms and just skim her around as if you were on 

ice and dream her to Paradise."

    "If you write like that, you'll never sell," said Bug.

    "Bet you, Bug."

    "I don't bet."

    "All right, then. Bet you you can't. Bet you, By God, that you've 

lost your stuff!"

    "Now, hold on," said Bug.

    "I mean it. Lost your stuff forever, for good. Bet you. Wanna 

bet?"

    Bug's eyes took on a peculiar shine and his face was flushed. "How 

much?"

    "Fifty bucks!"

    "I don't have-"

    "Thirty bucks, then. Twenty! You can afford to lose that, can't 

you?"

    "Who says I'd lose, dammit?"

    "I say. Twenty. Is it a deal?"

    "You're throwing your money away."

    "No, I'm a sure winner, because you can't dance worth shoats and 

shinola!"

    "Where's your money?" cried Bug, incensed now.

    "Here!"

    "Where's your car!?"

    "I don't own a car. Never learned to drive. Where's yours?"

    "Sold it! Jesus, no cars. How do we get to the tea dance!?" We 

got. We grabbed a cab and I paid and, before Bug could relent, dragged 

him through the hotel lobby and into the ballroom. It was a nice 

summer afternoon, so nice that the room was filled with mostly middle-

aged men and their wives, a few younger ones with their girlfriends, 

and some kids out of college who looked out of place, embarrassed by 

the mostly old-folks music out of another time. We got the last table 

and when Bug opened his mouth for one last protest, I put a straw in 

it and helped him nurse a marguerita.

    "Why are you doing this?" he protested again.

    "Because you were just one of one hundred sixty-five close 

friends!" I said.

    "We were never friends," said Bug.

    "Well, today, anyway. There's 'Moonlight Serenade.' Always liked 

that, never danced myself, clumsy fool. On your feet, Bug!"

    He was on his feet, swaying.

    "Who do you pick?" I said. "You cut in on a couple? Or there's a 

few wallflowers over there, a tableful of women. I dare you to pick 

the least likely and give her lessons, yes?"

          That did it. Casting me a glance of the purest scorn, he 

charged off half into the pretty teatime dresses and immaculate men, 

searching around until his eyes lit on a table where a woman of 

indeterminate age sat, hands folded, face thin and sickly pale, half 

hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, looking as if she were waiting for 

someone who never came.

    That one, I thought.

    Bug glanced from her to me. I nodded. And in a moment he was 

bowing at her table and a conversation ensued. It seemed she didn't 

dance, didn't know how to dance, didn't want to dance. Ah, yes, he 

seemed to be saying. Ah, no, she seemed to reply. Bug turned, holding 

her hand, and gave me a long stare and a wink. Then, without looking 

at her, he raised her by her hand and arm and out, with a seamless 

glide, onto the floor.

    What can I say, how can I tell? Bug, long ago, had never bragged, 

but only told the truth. Once he got hold of a girl, she was 

weightless. By the time he had whisked and whirled and glided her once 

around the floor, she almost took off, it seemed he had to hold her 

down, she was pure gossamer, the closest thing to a hummingbird held 

in the hand so you cannot feel its weight but only sense its heartbeat 

sounding to your touch, and there she went out and around and back, 

with Bug guiding and moving, enticing and retreating, and not fifty 

anymore, no, but eighteen, his body remembering what his mind thought 

it had long forgotten, for his body was free of the earth now, too. He 

carried himself, as he carried her, with that careless insouciance of 

a lover who knows what will happen in the next hour and the night soon 

following.

    And it happened, just like he said. Within a minute, a minute and 

a half at most, the dance floor cleared. As Bug and his stranger lady 

whirled by with a glance, every couple on the floor stood still. The 

bandleader almost forgot to keep time with his baton, and the members 

of the orchestra, in a similar trance, leaned forward over their 

instruments to see Bug and his new love whirl and turn without 

touching the floor.

    When the "Serenade" ended, there was a moment of stillness and 

then an explosion of applause. Bug pretended it was all for the lady, 

and helped her curtsy and took her to her table, where she sat, eyes 

shut, not believing what had happened. By that time Bug was on the 

floor again, with one of the wives he borrowed from the nearest table. 

This time, no one even went out on the floor. Bug and the borrowed 

wife filled it around and around, and this time even Bug's eyes were 

shut.

    I got up and put twenty dollars on the table where he might find 

it. After all, he had won the bet, hadn't he?

    Why had I done it? Well, I couldn't very well have left him out in 

the middle of the high school auditorium aisle dancing alone, could I?

    On my way out I looked back. Bug saw me and waved, his eyes as 

brimmed full as mine. Someone passing whispered, "Hey, come on, lookit 

this guy!"

    God, I thought, he'll be dancing all night.

    Me, I could only walk.

    And I went out and walked until I was fifty again and the sun was 

going down and the low June fog was coming in early over old Los 

Angeles.

    That night, just before going to sleep, I wished that in the 

morning when Bug woke up he would find the floor around his bed 

covered with trophies.

    Or at the very least he would turn and find a quiet and 

understanding trophy with her head on his pillow, near enough to 

touch.