The Common Man | Page 2

pretensions to the
housewife's art herself, but she sniffed when she saw the condition of
the living room. There was a dirty shirt drooped over the sofa back and
beside the chair which faced the TV set were half a dozen empty beer
cans. The ashtrays hadn't been emptied for at least days and the floor
had obviously not been swept since the domestic tragedy which had
sent Mrs. Crowley packing.
Now that the three strangers were within his castle, Crowley's instincts
for hospitality asserted themselves. He said, "Make yourself
comfortable. Here, wait'll I get these things out of the way. Anybody
like a drink? I got some beer in the box, or," he smirked at Patricia, "I
got some port wine you might like, not this bellywash you buy by the
gallon."
They declined the refreshments, it wasn't quite noon.
Crowley wrestled the chair which had been before the TV set around so
that he could sit facing them, and then sat himself down. He didn't get
this and his face showed it.
Frederick Braun came to the point. "Mr. Crowley," he said, "did it ever

occur to you that somewhere amidst our nearly one hundred million
American males there is the average man?"
Crowley looked at him.
Braun cleared his throat and with his thumb and forefinger pushed his
glasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose. "I suppose that isn't
exactly the technical way in which to put it."
Ross Wooley shifted his football shoulders and leaned forward
earnestly. "No, Doctor, that's exactly the way to put it." He said to
Crowley, very seriously, "We've done this most efficiently. We've gone
through absolute piles of statistics. We've...."
"Done what?" Crowley all but wailed. "Take it easy, will you? What
are you all talking about?"
Patricia said impatiently, "Mr. Crowley, you are the average American.
The man on the street. The Common Man."
He frowned at her. "What'd'ya mean, common? I'm as good as anybody
else."
"That's exactly what we mean," Ross said placatingly. "You are exactly
as good as anybody else, Mr. Crowley. You're the average man."
"I don't know what the devil you're talking about. Pardon my language,
Miss."
"Not at all," Patricia sighed. "Dr. Braun, why don't you take over? We
seem to all be speaking at once."
* * *
The little doctor began to enumerate on his fingers. "The center of
population has shifted to this vicinity, so the average American lives
here in the Middle West. Population is also shifting from rural to urban,
so the average man lives in a city of approximately this size.
Determining average age, height, weight is simple with government

data as complete as they are. Also racial background. You, Mr.
Crowley, are predominately English, German and Irish, but have traces
of two or three other nationalities."
Crowley was staring at him. "How in the devil did you know that?"
Ross said wearily, "We've gone to a lot of trouble."
Dr. Braun hustled on. "You've had the average amount of education,
didn't quite finish high school. You make average wages working in a
factory as a clerk. You spent some time in the army but never saw
combat. You drink moderately, are married and have one child, which
is average for your age. Your I.Q. is exactly average and you vote
Democrat except occasionally when you switch over to Republican."
"Now wait a minute," Crowley protested. "You mean I'm the only man
in this whole country that's like me? I mean, you mean I'm the average
guy, right in the middle?"
Patricia O'Gara said impatiently. "You are the nearest thing to it, Mr.
Crowley. Actually, possibly one of a hundred persons would have
served our purpose."
"O.K.," Crowley interrupted, holding up a hand. "That gets us to the
point. What's this here purpose? What's the big idea prying, like, into
my affairs till you learned all this about me? And what's this stuff about
me getting something out of it? Right now I'm between jobs."
The doctor pushed his battered horn-rims back on his nose with his
forefinger. "Yes, of course," he said reasonably. "Now we get to the
point. Mr. Crowley, how would you like to be invisible?"
The three of them looked at him. It seemed to be his turn.
Crowley got up and walked into the kitchen. He came back in a
moment with an opened can of beer from which he was gulping even as
he walked. He took the can away from his mouth and said carefully,
"You mean like a ghost?"

"No, of course not," Braun said in irritation. "By Caesar, man, have you
no imagination? Can't you see it was only a matter of time before
someone, possibly working away on an entirely different subject of
research, stumbled upon a practical method