JUKE-BOX
By Henry Kuttner
Writing under the pseudonym
Woodrow Wilson Smith
Nobody Loves Me, wails Jerry Foster—until a mechanical
music-maker decides everything’s just Moonlight and Roses
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories, February 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jerry Foster told the bartenderthat nobody loved him. The bartender,with the experience of histrade, said that Jerry was mistaken, and howabout another drink.
“Why not?” said the unhappy Mr. Foster,examining the scanty contents of his wallet.“ ‘I’ll take the daughter of the vine to spouse.Nor heed the music of a distant drum.’ That’sOmar.”
“Sure,” the bartender said surprisingly.“But you want to look out you don’t go outby the same door that in you went. Nobrawls allowed here. This isn’t East Fifth,chum.”
“You may call me chum,” Foster said, revertingto the main topic, “but you don’tmean it. I’m nobody’s pal. Nobody lovesme.”
“What about that babe you brought in lastnight?”
Foster tested his drink. He was a good-looking,youngish man with slick blond hairand a rather hazy expression in his blueeyes.
“Betty?” he murmured. “Well, the fact is,a while ago I was down at the Tom-Tomwith Betty and this redhead came along. SoI ditched Betty. Then the redhead iced me.Now I’m lonely, and everyone hates me.”
“You shouldn’t of ditched Betty, maybe,”the bartender suggested.
“I’m fickle,” Foster said, tears springingto his eyes. “I can’t help it. Women are mydownfall. Gimme another drink and tell meyour name.”
“Austin.”
“Austin. Well, Austin, I’m nearly in trouble.Did you notice who won the fifth atSanta Anita yesterday?”
“Pig’s Trotters, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Foster said, “but I laid my doughright on the nose of White Flash. That’s whyI’m here. Sammy comes around to this jointnow, doesn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m lucky,” Foster said. “I got the moneyto pay him. Sammy is a hard man whenyou don’t pay off.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the bartender said.“Excuse me.”
He moved off to take care of a couple ofvodka collinses.
“So you hate me too,” Foster said, and,picking up his drink, wandered away fromthe bar.
He was surprised to see Betty sitting alonein a booth, watching him. But he was notat all surprised to see that her blond hair,her limpid eyes, her pink-and-white skinhad lost all attraction for him. She boredhim. Also, she was going to make a nuisanceof herself.
Foster ignored the girl and went furtherback, to where a bulky oblong object wasglowing in polychromatic colors against thefar wall. It was what the manufacturersinsist on terming an automatic phonograph,in spite of the more aptly descriptive wordjuke-box.
This was a lovely juke-box. It had lots oflights and colors. Moreover, it wasn’t watchingFoster, and it kept its mouth shut.
Foster draped himself over the juke-boxand patted its sleek sides.
“You’re my girl,” he announced. “You’rebeautiful. I love you madly, do you hear?Madly.”
He could feel Betty’s gaze on his back. Heswigged his drink and smoothed the juke-box’sflanks, glibly protesting his suddenaffection for the object. Once he glancedaround. Betty was starting to get up.
Foster hastily found a nickel in his pocketand slipped it into the coin-lever, but beforehe could push