Bob Tucker

GONE

BUT NOT

FORGOTTEN

The key turned in the lock for the last time, a dirty old hand reached forth to draw out a few letters and a smeary fanzine from the cramped confines, the little metal door bearing familiar numbers was slammed shut and immediately an impatient spider began spinning a web behind the door. Slowly the key was handed across the counter to a misty-eyed clerk. Box 260 was done. After twenty full years of yeoman duty handling many thousands of postcards, letters, fanzines, magazines, telegrams, bills, advertisements and a bottle of mouthwash, Box 260 was retired into limbo. Its glory shall live forever.

The closing of the box was a simple ceremony. A few postal employees stood around in a tight, silent knot while I picked out the final pieces of mail; the postmaster himself placed a small black ribbon over the face of the receptacle, and the same clerk who rented the box to me two decades ago now received the battered key with a half-hidden display of emotion. He blew his nose rather loudly and rattled his pocket change to divert attention from his emotional display. Unknowing spectators at the stamp window gawked at the silent little group about the box, not realizing that a chapter of history had come to an end. After a moment of respectful silence the postmaster nodded his head and the employees scurried back to their jobs, treasuring the golden moment in their hearts. We shook hands solemnly, the postmaster and myself, and then I left the building with many a backward glance at the little metal door. The box had known my grimy hands for the last time.

Twenty years ago last summer -- about June 1931 -- I first knew the pangs of active fandom. I had been reading Argosy for perhaps a year and a half, and once in a while a stray copy of Weird Tales left behind by some traveling roadshow --- for some queer reason the actors and actresses who played town seemed to like Weird Tales and conveniently left old copies in the theater for me. Sometime during the summer of that year I began reading Astounding and almost at once discovered the fan letters in the back of the book. I picked out two or three people who requested correspondents, bought myself an eleven-dollar typewriter, borrowed a few dimes to buy stamps and stationery, and sat down to make myself a fan. It cost only two cents to send a letter then. Their answers came back rather quickly, and just as quickly I discovered I had a nosy landlady. I was living in a boarding house where all incoming mail was deposited on the hall table for claiming, and the sweet old lady was overly curious about my "foreign" mail. "Foreign" because it came from out of state. To avoid the prying eyes and clacking tongue of the sweet old bitch I hied myself to the post office and rented a box; something not too easy to accomplish because I was a minor and they were a trifle suspicious as to why a mere child should need a postal box. Finally number 260 was assigned to me, and number 260 remained mine until a cold and snowy day in November, 1951, just over twenty years later. Happily, I was no longer a child. After paying fifty cents a month for two decades, I figured I owned at least one brick in the building.

They wouldn't let me take it home with me, even though I threatened to take my trade over to the opposition.

At this late date I no longer remember the name of my first correspondent nor what happened to him in the years gone by, although I do recall he lived in Jersey City, griped continually about local politics, and boasted a pretty sister. If the picture he sent me was his sister. During the following winter he introduced me to the first big time fanzine, THE TIME TRAVELER, and I shelled out hard cash to subscribe, wondering if I was doing a foolish thing. I was earning the staggering sum of seven dollars a week, living at the boarding house on four of it, and buying clothes typewriter and whatnot with the remaining three, leaving precious little for fanning. I wonder now what I went without to get the subscription, and I wonder too what the nine issues would repay me now if I had saved them? Let that be a lesson to those who are tempted to throw QUANDRY away with a sneer.

It goes without saying that when you possess a typewriter, you immediately begin writing fiction. I began writing fiction. I probably helped to put the former editor of Argosy in the old folk's home, undoubtedly added many gray hairs to the head of Farnsworth Wright, and may have been one of the reasons T. O'Conner Sloane quit editing. It also follows that when you possess a typewriter, you grind out a fanzine. I ground out a fanzine. It was called THE PLANETOID, it was a midget-sized printed monstrosity, it lasted two issues in the winter of 1932-33, and today when bibliographers mention it they are careful not to mention who published it. Which makes them and myself quite happy.

And after twenty years of Box 260, I became acquainted with -- and sometimes met -- an unbelievable number of queer ducks. Most of them I now recall with a grin:

And so this summer, after those twenty years of accumulative memories, the volume of incoming mail grew so heavy that the window clerk began dropping hints. He opined that I could use a larger box. I held off for I was planning on moving to Florida this winter, but when the Florida plan collapsed, I let his sweet talk and muttered threats sway me. Box 260 came to a glorious end.

My new address is Box 702. The number lacks magic.

-- Bob Tucker

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Editor's note: The above was

ESP?

Great minds in the same

Data entry by Judy Bemis

Updated June 17, 2001. If you have a comment about these web pages please send a note to the Fanac Webmaster. Thank you.