Box-Garden By Allen K. Lang _He had big ears, hated TV commercials, and talked about_ bansai (_with an_ s).... [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science Fiction Adventures April 1958 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The ears of the man to my left at the bar were blocking off my view of the TV set. This annoyed me. The commercial was on, and I didn't want to miss any of it. Leaning forward, trying to get the man's head and ears out of my line of sight, I bumped against his shoulder. He turned, taking my accidental nudge to be an invitation to converse. "I'm getting pretty tired," the big-eared man said to me, "of being treated like an adult pituitary-deficiency case." He nodded his head and ears at the screen. "Look at that thing that's on now," he said. "It's an insult and an outrage." I watched the TV commercial closely, trying to discover what had triggered this outburst from my neighbor. An elf in a scarlet hat was pouring emerald golf balls onto a plate, to the tune of Bryant & May's "Garden-Fresh" song. That commercial, I thought myself, was as much a triumph of Yankee ingenuity as was color television itself. No child, no housewife in America, could fail to identify that elf and his song with Bryant & May's Garden-Fresh Peas. My big-eared friend was still glaring at the screen as though that commercial had been designed to insult him. "You don't like commercials?" I demanded. I wasn't really the least bit angry. You meet all kinds in the advertising business. "Advertising may be necessary," he hedged, pulling at the lobe of one of those magnificent ears of his. "Still, it doesn't take a choir of TV elves or a cantata sung by squeaky-voiced animals to remind me to launder my sox, or to point out that a beer would go good when I'm thirsty. Hell, I outgrew the advice of teddy-bears years ago." He sipped his beer, staring at my reflection in the bar mirror as though trying to decide whether I was worthy of his further confidence. He must have decided I had a sincere face, because he scooted up closer. "What's more," he said, "some of these commercials, like the one we just saw, frighten me terribly." Big-ears whispered this last like a murderer in Shakespeare. I laughed in spite of myself. "The Bryant & May elf? Afraid of him? Man, that's like being scared of Santa Claus." "It's not that simple," he rapped back. "It's not only fear those commercials inspire, but pity." I stared at him now, thinking maybe he was a recruiter for a nudist colony or a ward-worker for the Vegetarian Party, or some other sort of fanatic peddling his exotic ritual. "Let me explain," he asked quickly, seeing my hesitation. "Want another beer?" I reflexively named the beer my agency handles, smooooth Billygoat Beer.