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 bartender that nobody loved him. The bartender, with the experience of his trade, said that Jerry was mistaken, and how about 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’s Omar.”

“Sure,” the bartender said surprisingly. “But you want to look out you don’t go out by the same door that in you went. No brawls allowed here. This isn’t East Fifth, chum.”

“You may call me chum,” Foster said, reverting to the main topic, “but you don’t mean it. I’m nobody’s pal. Nobody loves me.”

“What about that babe you brought in last night?”

Foster tested his drink. He was a good-looking, youngish man with slick blond hair and a rather hazy expression in his blue eyes.

“Betty?” he murmured. “Well, the fact is, a while ago I was down at the Tom-Tom with Betty and this redhead came along. So I 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 springing to his eyes. “I can’t help it. Women are my downfall. Gimme another drink and tell me your name.”

“Austin.”

“Austin. Well, Austin, I’m nearly in trouble. Did you notice who won the fifth at Santa Anita yesterday?”

“Pig’s Trotters, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Foster said, “but I laid my dough right on the nose of White Flash. That’s why I’m here. Sammy comes around to this joint now, doesn’t he?”

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