the man who wouldn't sign up

All his life people had been trying to get Henry Westing to sign up. They were all signing up themselves and they wanted everybody else to sign up too.

In college it had been the fraternities. Mr. Westing hadn't tried to join one.

"But you've got to belong to something," they said. "Everybody does."

"I don't."

"Sure you do. You're just being rebellious."

"Perhaps."

"Everybody's got to belong. Ask any psychologist."

"Perhaps. I wouldn't know."

After college it had been work. He had lost three jobs in a row for the same reason.

"We're sorry, Westing, but you just don't seem to fit in with the group."

"Don't I do my work well?"

"Yes, but you don't seem to belong. We like men who consider themselves part of The Company, not just people who work here."

In the end he had found a job in a large travel agency in the center of Philadelphia. This is a business in which everyone at least pretends to be cynical about his work, so Westing was able to keep his position no matter how he acted. Of course by this time he had learned to keep his mouth shut.

All around him he watched people signing up. "You've got to have something bigger than yourself," they said. "You've got to belong."

He watched them do it and went on living his own life. He loved concerts and books and plays. He loved his friends, who were good company and whom he saw often. He loved a couple of girls, too, and hoped that someday he would love one well enough to marry her.

He lived a very happy life and belonged to nothing.

Then one night in January someone knocked on his door. It was a Saturday and he was just getting dressed to go to the Academy of Music. He opened the door of his apartment and looked into the hall.

There was a young man standing there. He had black rimmed glasses and a crew cut. He wore a slim, well-tailored suit.

"Mr. Westing?"

"Yes?"

"I'm from the Organization. We'd like you to join."

"What organization?"

"The Organization. The Organization for people who don't belong to any organization."

"I'm afraid I'm not interested."

"But you must be. It says here that you don't belong to anything. We're here to give you a chance to belong."

"What's the purpose of the organization?"

"It gives its members a feeling of belonging to something. Everybody's joining. You don't want to be left out, do you?"

"Not if I can help it. But I'm afraid you'll have to try somebody else."

"I can't. We never give up."

"I see. Good night, young man."

He tried to close the door. Before he was quite certain what was happening, the young man had slipped into the apartment.

"I'm going to a concert," Mr. Westing said. "They're playing Brahms' First. I've never heard it and I've been looking forward to hearing it ever since I heard his Second. I'd appreciate it if you left."

"But don't you want to belong, Mr. Westing?"

"No."

"Not to anything?"

"No."

The young man shook his head. "But most people are glad to join. We offer them what they've been looking for all their lives."

"Then go see them." He put on his jacket and adjusted his tie. "Care for a drink?"

"I don't drink."

"Why not?"

"It interferes with my work. We're out to double the size of the Organization. I work very hard at it."

"Do you? Why?"

"It gives me a sense of belonging."

Mr. Westing started for the door. "I'm about to leave," he said. "I think it would be best if you left too."

The young man sighed. "I can see where you're going to be a difficult case."

"Probably. Will you turn off the light, please?"

He met his date and immediately put the incident out of his mind. They listened to Brahms' First and it was everything Westing had hoped it would be. Afterwards, when they were sitting in a bar, he told her about the Organization.

The girl seemed surprised. It was the second time he had taken her out and she didn't know him very well.

"You ought to belong to something," she said. "Why don't you join?"

"You mean that?"

"Everybody should belong to something. You can't be useless."

"I'm not useless. I make my contribution. More than most people, in fact."

"But you can't just live for yourself."

"Why not?"

She struggled. "Because you can't," she said.

He took her home when the bar closed at midnight. The conversation was one he had engaged in with other girls but it still depressed him. He hopped the subway and went across the river to Camden, New Jersey, where they are more reasonable about the hours at which bars remain open.

The next morning he had a hangover. He was just pouring some tomato juice when someone knocked at his door.

"Just a minute," he said.

He opened the door. A man in a tweed suit stood in the hall. He had a relaxed, pleasant face and he smoked a pipe.

"Mr. Westing?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Dr. Cooper. May I come in?"

"I didn't ask for a doctor. I could use one but I haven't called one yet."

"Oh? What's your trouble?"

"Hangover. I had a rugged night."

"Why? What made you do a thing like that?"

He shrugged. "It's hard to say."

"Insecurity," Dr. Cooper said. "Many people try to evade their insecurities by drinking. Why don't you tell me about it?"

He hesitated. "Well," he said. "It's early."

Dr. Cooper started forward and he automatically stepped back to let him in.

"Who sent you anyway?" he asked.

"Didn't they tell you I was coming?"

"Didn't who tell me you were coming?"

"The Organization. I'm their head psychologist."

"I should have known."

"You sound annoyed."

"I'm afraid I don't want to join the Organization. Ever."

Dr. Cooper lit his pipe. "I think you should," he said. "It would relieve you of your insecurities. You obviously need to belong to something."

"Why?"

"It is a natural need in all human organisms. A man by himself is incomplete and unsatisfied. He has no outlet for his energies and his talents."

"I have very little energy and no talent."

"You're being modest. I understand you have a great deal of both." Cooper looked around the apartment. "Don't you want to belong, Mr. Westing?"

"No."

"Don't you belong to anything?"

"No."

"You're sure? You were a political canvasser in the last election, weren't you?"

"Yes, but that was different."

"Didn't it give you a sense of belonging?"

"Yes, but I didn't like it. I felt trapped."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I'm a citizen. I like to keep my accounts even."

"Then you didn't really belong?" the doctor said.

"Not the way you mean."

"This is very interesting. You honestly think you can live without belonging to anything?"

"Yes."

"Don't you belong to the human race?"

"Yes, and I try to keep my dues up, too. But it's more of a strain than a pleasure."

Dr. Cooper puffed on his pipe. "I can see you're going to be a real challenge," he said.

"Thank you. I intend to be."

"I've got some literature outside. I think you should read it."

"You can leave it if you like."

"I will." A few more puffs. The psychologist looked extremely serene. "You know, you're a very sick man."

"So I've been told."

"Why don't you let me cure you?"

"First you have to convince me I'm sick."

"That's true."

They talked aimlessly for another half-hour. Cooper left, and Westing looked over the literature.

He started to throw it away. Then his conscience twinged. If he was going to fight this thing, he was going to fight it honestly. He would meet their techniques of persuasion, not evade them.

He sat down and read all the pamphlets. The Need to Belong. The Sense of Unity. Testimonials from members of the Organization who had found salvation in its ranks. It was all very well done and rather weakening to a man with a hangover.

He sat for a long time in his apartment, brooding over it. Then he got up and threw all the literature in the trash.

"They'll have to do better than that," he said.

The next evening, when he got back from work, he found a package in his mail. It was a long-play, high-fidelity Calypso record. The notice said it was a Get-Acquainted Gift from the Jamaican Record Society.

After supper he put the record on. When it had been playing for a while he got up and, as he often did, began to improvise dance steps to the music. It was great fun and the record was half over before he noticed the words had been subtly changing.

He snapped off the hi-fi. But the chanting went on in his mind. You must join the Organization, you must join the Organization....

He put on his coat and went out for a walk. When he got back he didn't feel like reading so he turned on the television set. There was a very serious play on. He settled back to watch it. It was about a young man who lived all alone in the city and of his groping toward a better life.

"If I could only belong someplace," the young man said to the girl during the second act. "I've never belonged anywhere."

"Everybody should belong," the girl said.

The young man nodded and groped with his hands. "Or else they'll be like Henry Westing," he mumbled.

Mr. Westing got up and turned off the set. He rotated it and looked at the back. There was a little box screwed in one corner.

"Very clever," he said. He tore the box off and went to bed.

He was just falling asleep when the phone rang. He reached for it in the dark.

"Westing speaking."

"Mr. Westing? This is Miss Beyle from the Organization. We're calling up to see if there are any questions you may have."

"I'm afraid I don't. I'm trying to sleep."

"So early?"

"I felt like it."

"You must be terribly lonely. Why don't you come down to Headquarters for cakes and coffee? We're having a good time."

"Miss Beyle, I've done some canvassing myself. You're doing a good job but you've got the wrong man."

She laughed. It was a very pleasant laugh.

"Thank you, Mr. Westing. You sound like the kind of man we need. We've got a big job to do and there's a place here for you anytime you want it."

"Doing what?"

"Recruiting new members."

"Good evening, Miss Beyle. I've always tried to be a gentleman. I'd better hang up before I forget myself."

He hung up and tried to sleep.

The next day an economist came to see him. The day after it was a social scientist and the day after that a political scientist. He listened patiently for a week as they sat in his apartment and explained the importance of the group to him.

"Man is nothing," they said. "Unless he belongs to a group."

"On the contrary," Mr. Westing said, "the group is nothing unless I belong to it."

"That's egotism."

"Probably."

But he knew he was weakening. He held out with the stubborn feeling he was resisting the tides of history. He felt very brave and strong.

There was a one-day lull. He woke up the morning after and heard a sound truck blasting away in the street one floor below.

HENRY WESTING DOES NOT BELONG HENRY WESTING BELONGS TO NOTHING REFORM HENRY WESTING REFORM HENRY WESTING....

"Outrageous," he said.

He dressed, had breakfast and started for work. People stood on their doorsteps and stared at him when he stepped onto the sidewalk. He smiled pleasantly at the driver of the truck.

"Good morning," he said. "Nice day, isn't it?"

The driver nodded sullenly.

Very good, Mr. Westing thought. You're doing splendidly.

At work he was tired and drawn out. He had trouble concentrating. The Department Manager commented on it.

"You're not acting like a Company man, Henry."

"I'm a little tired. I had a hard night."

"What was she like?"

"Dismal."

Everything was dismal. The jingles ran through his head endlessly. So did the slogans and the words from the sound truck. He was beginning to doubt himself.

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps he did need to belong.

That night the sound truck was still there. It circled the block, advertising the Organization and denouncing Henry Westing.

There were signs on all the houses too. We Belong to the Organization, the signs said. There was a sign on every door except his.

He went upstairs and made dinner. Then he sat by the window and tried to think. Down below he could hear the sound truck.

They're getting to you, he thought. A little more and they'll have you whipped. You'd better do something.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

"Yes?" a voice answered.

"This is Henry Westing."

"Ahh, Mr. Westing. I thought you'd be calling soon."

"You may send your representative over to my apartment this evening. Tell him to bring everything."

"Application forms?"

"Everything. Whatever you use to close the deal."

"He'll be there at eight."

"I'll be waiting."

At eight o'clock the young man rang his bell. He was burdened down with equipment.

"Come in," Mr. Westing said.

"Thank you."

"What's all that you're carrying?"

"Educational material. Mind if I set it up?"

"Go right ahead."

He poured himself a brandy and soda and watched. The young man seemed nervous and strained as he set up a hemispherical device which seemed to be a projector.

Mr. Westing glanced at a leatherette folder the young man had put aside while he worked. The folder bore a neatly labelled title: Prospects.

His heart skipped a beat.

He made sure the young man was absorbed in his work. Then he carefully leafed through the book.

"This Marline Harris looks like an interesting case. What's she like?"

"Did I leave that there? I'm sorry, I can't let you look at it."

"Sorry. I didn't know."

The young man took the folder and went back to work.

"Do you have a girl?" Mr. Westing asked.

"Too busy."

"Oh." He sipped his drink. "That Harris girl certainly has been holding out, hasn't she?"

"She's a tough one. I've been to see her six times. It's funny, too, because she's so lonely."

"Really?"

"She's too independent. Men don't like her. And she's pretty nice-looking, too. It's a shame she can't act like a woman."

"Yes, I guess it is."

"There," the young man said. "Now if you'll just sit down there."

"Care for a drink?"

"I don't drink."

"Not even to be sociable?"

"Sociable? Perhaps I should at that."

Mr. Westing poured another brandy and soda. There was a great deal more brandy than soda.

"You work hard, don't you?" he said.

"We're in the middle of a big drive now. This is a very important job." The young man took a drink, the kind a man who has always drunk water takes.

"Yes, I guess it is rather important. Organizing, getting things done. A very active life."

"That's what I like, activity. I like to live, not just sit around."

"Very understandable."

The young man took another drink. His face underwent a subtle change.

"Let me turn the machine on. We'd better get started."

"Did you have dinner yet?"

"I've been too busy."

"Good, good."

"Good?"

"Good that you work so hard. Shows character."

"Thank you. Now if you'll just sit back there, we'll turn the machine on." The young man seemed to be having trouble focussing his eyes.

Westing lit a good cigar and offered his guest one. "To be sociable," he said.

"In that case, all right."

"You should have another brandy to go with it." He handed him one as he spoke.

The young man took it, gulped it down automatically and turned on the machine. Westing pulled on his cigar and settled back in his chair. He made sure there was another drink by the boy's arm.

"Do you know anything about drinking?"

"Why no, I don't."

"Three's the custom. Three drinks and you're friends. You belong."

"Then I guess I better."

The room turned dark. Stars covered the walls. The young man took another swallow.

"To what do you belong?" a deep voice said. "Of what are you a part? In all this vast Universe, you alone are nothing. You alone have no meaning. But you as part of something bigger...."

A sunrise crept along the walls. The coloring was very good and Mr. Westing enjoyed it immensely.

Next to him he heard a low sound. The young man was singing.

"It's nice to watch the room spin, isn't it?" Mr. Westing asked.

"I was just thinking that. It's beautiful."

"I know. Excuse me a minute."

He got up and took the phone into the next room. As soon as he was out of earshot, he dialed the number he had memorized earlier.

The phone buzzed a few times. "Hello?" a woman answered.

"Is this Miss Marline Harris?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"My name is Henry Westing. There's a man here trying to get me to join the Organization and I saw your name and your picture in his Prospects book."

"Oh, are they after you, too?"

"They've been after me for a long time. Your picture looks very attractive, Miss Harris."

"Thank you."

"Do you like music?"

"Yes, I do."

A few minutes later he tip-toed into the living room. The film was still playing, the persuasive voice still speaking. Now it was martial music and there were flags all over, waving, inspiring.

It takes two, Westing thought. Alone they were getting me. But the two of us together will be stronger.

He bent over the couch. The boy was asleep and dreaming. His face looked peaceful.

Mr. Westing turned on a record. It was an unexpurgated reading of The Arabian Nights. He placed the speaker close to the boy's ear.

Then he got dressed and went out to meet Marline. He had beaten them once again. Maybe they'd get him someday, but way down deep he didn't believe it.