by Adam Felber
Attempt number 2 is a more gradual approach. He tries to use the sweat as a subtle lubricant, allowing him to slide his hand off of her as slowly and gently as possible. This seems to be working at first, but in only a few moments the unforeseen stops him in his tracks: The action of sliding his hand like that has caused Deb’s nipple (hitherto undetected) to swell and stiffen. The terrain is no longer level, in other words, which makes the Sliding Ploy a complete nonoption.
Grant’s desperate now, and he’s searching for a way out. He begins and aborts several other Removals, various combinations of Lifting and Sliding, but nothing seems safe, every move brings a little too much friction.
If he were a little less panicky, Grant would realize that the cumulative effect of all his various Removal attempts is that he is now more or less kneading Deb’s breast while pressed up against her in an ever-growing state of arousal. Which is pretty much how Deb perceives it as she slowly wakes up …
“Can I play, too, or is this some kind of narcophilia thing?” asks Deb. Grant screams, lifts his hand completely, notices he’s leaving her exposed, puts it back, realizes what he’s doing, removes it again, rolls over, gets up, sees he’s in no condition to be standing, sits down, and begins to stammer an explanation.
Deb’s laughing by now, an open, throaty morning chuckle. Soon Grant’s laughing, too, and everything’s okay again.
A tiny part of Grant’s brain is once more reconstructing the web of fantasy and hopeless optimism surrounding Deb. A tiny part of Deb’s brain is figuring out why she and Grant didn’t get together last night and beginning to process it.
There is, it seems, the possibility of something here. But it’s too weak, too embryonic. The friends are fragmenting as a group, and there’s not enough time. Grant is too tentative, Deb too content. It’s not going to happen.
Chapter 9
WE’D BEEN TALKING ALL NIGHT with Dr. Schrödinger. Or, rather, Dr. Schrödinger had been addressing us all night. Sitting there at the kitchen table, drinking White Russians nonstop, holding forth, his wispy white hair standing and flopping and seemingly gesturing the whole time.
There was some physics. And a lot of philosophizing. And a smattering of biology, sports metaphors, Darwinism, mathematics, futurist speculation, and molecular chemistry. It was mostly fascinating, occasionally pedantic, always delivered with a frightening intensity. And we had nothing better to do.
Here are some quotations from Chairman Schrödinger:
“One must not confuse scientific fact with scientific misconception. They’re more or less opposites, of course. But a scientific misconception, if widely believed, creates a kind of truth of its own. This doesn’t seem to make sense, but it’s true.”
“To talk about a ‘thought pattern’ is redundant. Thoughts themselves are patterns—huge, multilayered patterns built on custom-tweaked operating systems, no two alike. The idea of a single, expressible ‘thought’ is a lie. But believing that lie is the only thing that makes communication possible.”
“Kahlúa is really, really good. It’d be more popular if it was a ‘serious’ drink, probably. ’Stoo unsubtle for the connoisseurs, I guess. Morons. Fools!”
“Me, Heisenberg, all of us, we always talked about the ‘observer.’ Never hit us that if that observer was allowed to stay around long enough, he’d start developing a personality. Nothing hangs around without developing a personality. Nothing.”
“Physical evolution’s over, that’s for sure. At least for humans. There’s never going to be a problem that we won’t solve in a few years, never mind a few thousand generations, which is how long it’d take to adapt the old-fashioned way. Kind of sad, really: Because we built airplanes, we’ll never have wings.”
“Doesn’t matter if we’re down to cheap vodka, ’slong as we got Kahlúa, we won’t taste the difference.”
“What’re these? ‘Ranch flavor’? This is a great example. Packaging colors. I mean—what? All right, nacho cheese is orange, barbecue’s red, that kind of makes sense. I’ll even give you sour-cream-and-onion, though green for onion’s a stretch, you gotta admit. But why is ‘Ranch’ BLUE? Huh? Can’t answer that one, can you?”
“‘Chaos’—there’s another one. Really bad name. Like I said, ‘sthe opposite of chaos. At least it was. But now that everyone thinks it’s about unpredictability and dinosaurs, who knows? Better take out raptor insurance….”
“I should ’splain about Werner. He’s my cat. I haven’t heard the little fellow tonight. Have you?”
“Nothin’ wrong with Black Russians—nuthin’. I know you want some milk left for breakfast tomorr’. What? Are you sure? I’ll wake up early and get you more…. No, I will. Swearta-god …”
“… still can’t explain why the universe weighs so much…. ’Sgot all this extra weight, ‘dark matter,’ whatever they’re calling it. We don’t know where it is. ’Slike the universe weighs a lot, but it carries it well….”
“Wait—turn it UP! This is the best, the best song ever…. Turn it up. … Baby you’re much 2 fast…. Little red corvette … humma humma love that’s gonna la-ha-hast…”
Shortly after this last quotation, Dr. Schrödinger finally slumped forward, snoring as his head hit the table.
We sat there, drinking, idly watching the labored breathing of our peculiar houseguest. Sometime later, the phone rang, and we allowed our answering device to receive the call. We heard the voice of Dr. S.’s floozy, informing the doctor that she’d synthesized an additional three thousand Humdingers, that she was going to sleep, that they’d meet at the “usual spot” at 11 A.M.
When she’d hung up, Dr. Schrödinger spoke, his voice muffled by the table. “You oughta call ’er to conf—confirm that….” We pointed out that it was Dr. Schrödinger’s responsibility, not ours, to deal with the young acolyte/lover.
“… still don’t get it, do you?” muttered Dr. Schrödinger. We demanded an explanation, but he was already snoring again. From a distant corner we heard a meow, lonely and sad. We looked around, but couldn’t find the source.
The bus rolled into South Station, carrying six youths, four mothers, two odiferous vagrants, five children, and one President.
The President of Montana (Which Seems Like a Lifetime Ago) debarks cautiously, testing the ground, half expecting to see a horde of FBI agents streaming from the terminal, guns ready, surrounding the bus. He’d imagined media there, too, cameras and microphones pushing past the barricades, a few somehow breaking through and capturing his words as four men held him down, proud, repentant, conciliatory, unbroken. He saw himself somehow parlaying his enemy-of-the-state status into a kind of folk-hero position, his complaints heard, a legitimate political career in the making….
So there was a little disappointment mingled with the relief of finding no one in particular there to greet him. Unless you counted the old lady with the roses for sale, who didn’t look much like an undercover FBI agent at all.
[Coincidentally, the old woman with the roses was an FBI agent. She was waiting for the next bus from New York. So were her colleagues, who were dressed as a driver, a bored teen, and a cinnamon-bun vendor. Twenty minutes after the President left, the station would witness the biggest drug bust of the year.]
He wasn’t in a hurry, so he went and looked at the harbor. When the PoM(WSLLA) was here last, just after college, he’d been an environmentalist, marching for Boston Harbor, warning everyone about the despoiling of the ecosystem and the horrifying mutations that would take place beneath the waters.
Twenty-five years and billions of dollars later, the harbor looked pretty good. Smelled better, too. Sometimes, he thought, the Powers That Be actually listen, and life gets better. He walked away from the water’s edge, smiling, somewhat guiltily recalling the mutated horror-movie monstrosities that he had imagined would someday rule the harbor, and which the little boy in him had half hoped to see.
[As it happened, about two hundred yards off the shore from the President lay a twen
ty-foot-long grotesquely mutated shark-toothed flounder, its face, already twisted by eons of cruel evolution, now a nightmare of extraordinarily large fangs, some useful, some ornamental. It skimmed sideways along the bottom, wart-covered and hideously labored, passing other fish just closely enough for its oozing skin to spread the paralyzing contact poison that assured their demise. It fed ceaselessly, its body constantly replacing the rotting, PCB-infested fins and scales that it shed daily.]
The Red Line then, to take what was still America’s least expensive subway ride. The President’s own alma mater, to the south, had never been all that important to him. Cambridge was where everything that really mattered had happened, and now its pull was irresistible.
Everything was different. The station wasn’t as he remembered it, the trains were sleek and new, the people wore strange and complex outfits and were decorated with exotic tribal ornamentations and piercings. But it still felt like a subway system—the tunnels still smelled strange and smoky, the sounds still echoed wildly, and the President still imagined crazed serial killers living deep in the tunnels, waiting patiently for nightfall. It was this kind of phobic imagining, he now saw, that probably helped push him back toward Montana. He smiled at this as he stepped onto the train, drawing benign smiles from previously frightening-looking teenagers. He remained standing as the train pulled away, enjoying the feeling of constantly refinding his balance.
[As the train rattled by, Morris barely looked up from his task in the dank, dim catacombs he called home. Against one wall was a folding chair, surrounded by chains and locks. There were some pipes to wrap the chains around, thoughtfully provided by the MTA. A small kit of surgical instruments rested nearby. A few Hefty bags for parts disposal. A few adorable stuffed animals, which had more to do with Morris’s problem than any of the darker instruments.]
The President stayed on all the way to Porter Square—the ride was pleasant, and he wanted to give himself a bit of a runway to his memories. Porter was unrecognizable. The station, which hadn’t been there back when, was littered with bronzed gloves strewn about at random. “Art,” thought the President, and the presidential part of him whispered to him darkly about his tax dollars. Upstairs was no better—yes, the familiar old multifamily houses were still there, lining every side street. But Porter Square itself and Mass Ave were covered in new, angular buildings with signs advertising things that the President couldn’t even begin to classify. “Chai,” “Futons,” “Shiatsu,” “Pilates,” “PS3,” “Vegan.” The President felt old—no, not old, like an alien. Like he’d just arrived from another planet. But the sunshine was pleasant, and when he found a vaguely familiar-looking Chinese restaurant he walked in amiably, beginning to feel slightly terrestrial again.
[As it happened, just down the street, on the top floor of a multifamily Victorian home, Qretl Prime was contacting the Homeworld. They were getting impatient—the Hatching was imminent, and they needed to know if he’d found a suitable world for colonization. Qretl Prime already knew what his answer would be; he’d been there for several months, living as a near-perfect facsimile of an indigenous sapient, and he was hooked. No, he’d tell the Homeworld, not a suitable place, not for their kind. But he wouldn’t tell them yet. At least not until Christmas. His course was clear, if risky: deny, retire, go home, and get Qretly Prime, blow their savings on a commercial reshaping, and return. Then the two of them could spend their retirement here, enjoying the music, the sex, and the incredible food of this odd little place.]
———
It was no longer fun. Perhaps it was the slight hangover, or maybe it was just that this hideout thing was getting old, or perhaps it was the usual torpor that sets in on Sundays. But, with one notable exception, the foursome was ready to split. And to split.
1) Johnny no longer wanted to play guitar, especially not for the campers out front. He’d done that enough, loved it, was done with it. He wanted to walk, and the mob prevented this.
2) Deb was comfortable, happy, and enjoying her surroundings as per usual. But she knew she’d enjoy a change even more. Plus, the Grant thing was weirding her out: It was cool, he was still one of her favorite people (maybe even more so now), but it tugged at her mind in strange ways, making things marginally awkward. Some new scenery, some distance from last night’s scene, that’d be good.
3) Grant had things to do. There was e-mail. A project he’d hoped to finish before work tomorrow to make his week easier. The sad release of cyberchat. And let’s bear in mind the overwhelming urge to flee from Deb. But as long as Johnny was trapped and weird, his duty was here. Getting out of the house, he thought, was the first step toward some kind of closure.
Arlene hoped this would never end. She sat on the back porch with Deb, answering a thousand indiscreet questions in as demure a fashion as possible. Inside, Grant and Johnny were playing with Legos as Mrs. Decaté perused the paper. This morning’s vision was fading fast but was still with Arlene, she had no expectations about what might happen between her and Johnny in the future (well, not many, anyway), she was still worried about Johnny’s behavior and more than a little scared that their recent exploits had been tainted (not the “real” Johnny, she’d taken advantage, an asterisk in the record book). But all of that didn’t even begin to touch her state of grace: She had had a wonderful, intimate experience (several times!); she was with all her friends; the complexities in her world were in her life rather than her head for once; Deb was asking her about her new boyfriend. Running the gamut from meaningful bliss to petty satisfactions, Arlene was Happy.
Dear Diary,
Something’s still up, off, wrong-o. Two days of it now—no robots, lots of robots, something that feels like a thunderstorm’s about to break but it’s sunny. Shaky.
I actually went and prayed after breakfast (three kreme-filled extras from Barry, who still remembers when he was my customer, bless him). I used the church next to the Dunkin’, not that it mattered. Nobody’s got a statue of Saint Ivan anyway, and he’s the only one I’ll pray to: the patron saint of guilt and schizophrenics, and he’s the only man who ever successfully crucified himself. That takes talent.
Got to hit the university now. There’s a library full of history books that need correcting, and a few more Men of Science who are overdue for a little surprise.
“We’re getting out of here.”
“Good with me.”
“Maybe we oughta wait until those freaks get bored.”
“It’s okay. Me and Johnny have a plan.”
“Uh-huh. Johnny really looks like he’s been doing some serious planning.”
“John-man, put the Lego down for a sec and help me explain the plan.”
“The plan? Hey, look! It’s like a little barn!”
“…”
“Okay, maybe it was mostly my plan.”
“No!”
“Ya think?”
“You guys are hilarious.”
“Aww, Grant, sweetie. We’re sorry. Tell us the plan.”
“Now you’re patronizing me.”
“No, we’re not, are we, Arlene? Tell us your wittle pwan, Gwant….”
“Stop it! I’m not ticklish! C’mon! Stop!”
“We need more roof pieces….”
“Just one of the many reasons we need to get outa here.”
“I’m sure they’ll all need to get lost before tomorrow morning. It’s Sunday night.”
“Am I the only one who wants to get moving?”
“I do.”
“Me, too. I want ice cream.”
“Okay, then, let’s attempt to do something that vaguely resembles focus here, all right?”
“Snippy.”
“Snarky.”
“That’s me. All right, as soon as it gets dark …”
… 11. And the Prophet Bernie did arrive at the Place of the Crossing. And lo! There was a Crossing there, as the Lord had foretold. 12. And though the people crossed back and forth, still Bernie did not cross, for the Lord
God had said, “Bernie, thou shalt cross at the Time of the Crossing. Before that, thou shalt crosseth not.” 13. And the Prophet Bernie waited there at the Crossing, and grew restless, for the Lord spake not to him. And Bernie did cry out to the Lord, “God, why hast Thou forsaken me? For I have done as thou commanded, and stand at the Place of the Crossing, and behold others crossing, and yet I crosseth not. Why, Lord?” 14. And the Lord spoke to Bernie, and was wroth with him, and His voice was like thunder from the heavens. 15. And the Lord said unto Bernie, “Thinkest thou that thou art the only man upon the earth? Dost thou believe thine God hath no other Work? Dost thou think thyself so important that thou seest fit to nag thine God without surcease?” 16. And the Prophet Bernie was ashamed, and he fell to his knees and begged the Lord for forgiveness. And Bernie said, “Forgive me, Lord, for I did mean no offense, and have transgressed, and beg Thine mercy, and will naggeth not from this day forward, as Thou hast commanded.” 17. And the Lord heard Bernie, and His heart softened. And the Lord said, “Feareth not, Bernie, for I do forgive thee. It hath been a long day, but I am not overly wroth. Get up already, for people are staring.” 18. “But know thou this. Thou hast not Crossed yet because it pleaseth Me not; the Time of the Crossing is not upon us, and thou shouldst be patient.” 19. And the Prophet Bernie did thank the Lord, and did promise to abide there on the appointed side. 20. And Bernie did beseech the people for alms, for, though he was a man of many Talents, and didst possess enormous Potential, the Lord had commanded him to develop these Talents not, and to live humbly, and to beg alms for his bread. 21. And it came to pass that the Prophet Bernie did collect many a coin, and he saw the Time of the Crossing was still not upon him, and he didst go unto the merchants that dwelt there, and did purchase coffee and pastries….