Page 63
Story: Closing Time (Catch-22 2)
"Whenever you want her to."
"That gives us latitude. Who is she marrying?"
"Whoever she has to."
"That might open it up."
"My mother will want you to make up the guest list. We don't know anyone here. Our dearest friends all live in Cleveland, and many can't come."
"Why not do it at the museum in Cleveland? And your dearest friends could come."
"We would rather have your strangers." M2 seated himself gently in front of his computer. "I'll fax my mother."
"Can't you phone her?"
"She won't take my calls."
"Find out," said Yossarian, with more mischief in mind, "if she'll take a Maxon. They might just have an extra one."
"Would they take a Minderbinder?"
"Would you marry a Maxon, if all they have is a girl?"
"Would they take me? I have this Adam's apple."
"There's a good chance they might, even with the Adam's apple, once you fork over that ten million for another new wing."
"What would they name it?"
"The Milo Minderbinder Wing, of course. Or maybe the Temple of Milo, if you'd rather have that."
"I believe they would choose that," guessed M2. "And that would be appropriate. My father was a caliph of Baghdad, you know, one time in the war."
"I know," said Yossarian. "And the imam of Damascus. I was with him, and everywhere we went he was hailed."
"What would they put in the wing at the museum?"
"Whatever you give them, or stuff from the storeroom. They need more space for a bigger kitchen. They would certainly put in a few of those wonderful statues of your father at those stone altars red with human blood. Let me know soon."
And as M2 beat a bit faster on his keyboard, Yossarian walked away to his own office, to cope on the telephone with some matters of his own.
16
Gaffney
"She wants more money," Julian told him right off in his no-nonsense manner.
"She isn't getting it." Yossarian was equally brusque.
"For how much?" challenged his son.
"Julian, I don't want to bet with you."
"I'll advise her to sue," said his daughter, the judge.
"She'll lose. She'd have money enough if she called off those private detectives."
"She swears she isn't employing any," said his other son Adrian, the cosmetics chemist without the graduate degree, whose wife had concluded, through an adult education course in assertiveness training, that she wasn't really as happy as she'd all along thought herself.
"That gives us latitude. Who is she marrying?"
"Whoever she has to."
"That might open it up."
"My mother will want you to make up the guest list. We don't know anyone here. Our dearest friends all live in Cleveland, and many can't come."
"Why not do it at the museum in Cleveland? And your dearest friends could come."
"We would rather have your strangers." M2 seated himself gently in front of his computer. "I'll fax my mother."
"Can't you phone her?"
"She won't take my calls."
"Find out," said Yossarian, with more mischief in mind, "if she'll take a Maxon. They might just have an extra one."
"Would they take a Minderbinder?"
"Would you marry a Maxon, if all they have is a girl?"
"Would they take me? I have this Adam's apple."
"There's a good chance they might, even with the Adam's apple, once you fork over that ten million for another new wing."
"What would they name it?"
"The Milo Minderbinder Wing, of course. Or maybe the Temple of Milo, if you'd rather have that."
"I believe they would choose that," guessed M2. "And that would be appropriate. My father was a caliph of Baghdad, you know, one time in the war."
"I know," said Yossarian. "And the imam of Damascus. I was with him, and everywhere we went he was hailed."
"What would they put in the wing at the museum?"
"Whatever you give them, or stuff from the storeroom. They need more space for a bigger kitchen. They would certainly put in a few of those wonderful statues of your father at those stone altars red with human blood. Let me know soon."
And as M2 beat a bit faster on his keyboard, Yossarian walked away to his own office, to cope on the telephone with some matters of his own.
16
Gaffney
"She wants more money," Julian told him right off in his no-nonsense manner.
"She isn't getting it." Yossarian was equally brusque.
"For how much?" challenged his son.
"Julian, I don't want to bet with you."
"I'll advise her to sue," said his daughter, the judge.
"She'll lose. She'd have money enough if she called off those private detectives."
"She swears she isn't employing any," said his other son Adrian, the cosmetics chemist without the graduate degree, whose wife had concluded, through an adult education course in assertiveness training, that she wasn't really as happy as she'd all along thought herself.
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