Don't Rely On Gemini (1969)
“Aren’t they cute?”
“What are they?” One was pink and one was blue. They looked like pillows with attached handles.
“They’re called Slumber Bags, dear. Fifteen ninety-nine apiece—I got them at Sears.”
“But what are they, Margaret?”
“Sleeping bags! They’re specially treated to repel water and mildew. They have cotton flannelette liners, and they’re machine washable. Ideal for camping trips.”
Camping trips.
When had they ever gone camping?
At the time, Neal had been reminded of a study he had read in one of his professional journals dealing with housewives’ spending habits. It claimed that one of the reasons women bought so many utterly useless things, like bric-a-brac, or decorative wall shelves, or yard ornaments (or Vycron polyester sleeping bags?), was that they felt unloved and were forcing their husbands to buy them these “gifts” out of the household budget.
As Neal had predicted to himself, they had never found a use for the Slumber Bags.
Now, at least, there was a use for one of them.
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