by Neovictorian
He sits back in his chair and locks his hands behind his head.
“Do you ever get a feeling Cal, maybe you have since you were 12, 13, maybe even younger a feeling that you were almost like an alien observing earth from a distance, that your friends and family were often strange and stupid that everyone’s just acting acting acting all the time?”
I feel my eyes widen: I have been thinking this since before I was 12. A lot.
“Do you feel that if it was necessary and right you could physically stop someone who was doing something bad and wrong, hurting innocent people, starting a war, threatening to use nuclear weapons, something like that?”
“Yes,” I say.
“All right then—I don’t need to go over any of this again. We understand each other,” and I know it’s true, the part about feeling like the alien and the part about doing what was necessary, and well, he’s done it before. Simple as that.
“I suggest you start with the speech next week. Just place a few lines that will make everyone feel good about themselves. And put something in there that the herd will think is innocuous, and only the aliens will understand.”
He chuckles and opens a desk drawer. When his hand reappears he’s got a white card pinched between his left thumb and forefinger. He spins it across the desk and it stops in front of me:
Strauss and Strauss, Attys at Law
888 West First Street
Los Angeles California 90012
Telephone: 213-231-0002
“The phone number doesn’t work. Just add your birthdate, four digits month and day to the last group and it will reach someone…and keep it secured, where no one can find it but you.
“This is to let you know that you’re not alone, Cal. There are others like you who you don’t know yet, but in time you will. Others who understand what it’s like to be a stranger in your own land. Just know that you’re not, not a stranger, not an alien.”
My mouth is open to ask a dozen question at once but he quickly jumps in. “This is just to let you know that you have friends, Cal. You’re not alone, there are people with a similar approach to life, people who you’d like very much, I think. You’ll meet them, in a while. Until then, just know they’re here. And if you really, truly need help, you can call on them,” he says firmly.
“That phone number is for emergencies only for now, life or death. It works only once. I can’t tell you anything else now, because you don’t need to know, but in about a year, maybe more or less, someone will contact you, maybe me, but not for sure. No secret password or any of that. You’ll know when the right person comes along.”
He stands up. “As I said, we understand each other. This is between you and me, for now, but if you talk to anyone else about it, well, it’s doubtful that you’ll ever hear anything about it again. If you talk, when you try that number there may be nothing and no one to answer.”
He pops out of the chair, puts out his right hand with the elbow tucked in his side.
“I do regret that I won’t be here for your speech next week but I’m sure it will be in the papers. I’m sure it will be great.” We laugh together and he adds, “I’m leaving on a trip tonight, I won’t be here for the last week of school. Special permission.”
I get it. I reach out and give his hand a hard shake.
“You don’t know exactly what any of this is about, yet, and there’s a reason for that. You’ll know more as it’s useful to you.
“If I don’t happen to meet you again, Cal, though I’m planning to, I just want you to know that this is the most fun I had all year at Santa Maria High.” We look at each other and laugh again, and he pulls open the door for me.
“One more thing you can think about, if you choose. It’s your future actions and choices and accomplishments that influenced what happened today. Physics works both directions in time—you might consider that. Hasta la próxima.”
It’s a polite dismissal. I head out the door and don’t look back.
8. 14 years ago, Santa Maria, California May 18, 12:08 pm
Anna’s parents are supposed to be gone until at least 9 o’clock but I’m still nervous as hell, a muscle in my thigh spasms on and off and my erection is painfully squeezed in my jeans. She walks over to the refrigerator to get us Cokes, her big firm athletic ass rolling like liquid metal, and I blink, for a second I’m looking at the scene from outside, I can see myself from above and behind, I see her bent over reaching into the fridge, I’ve known Anna since ninth grade, she lived down the street for a couple years. Starter on the volleyball team, ran the 400 in track, I’ve been looking at her legs and ass for four years and there are a lot of good-looking girls at Santa Maria High; Anna is not a great student but she always seems happy. There’s something about her that not many girls have, not even the ones more “beautiful” that wear more makeup and show more of their tits. She’s smiled at me a hundred times passing in the hall, I’m kind of a nerd but I’m big and strong now, what with swimming a mile six mornings a week. Down inside the muscles in my stomach sometimes I can feel something ready to break out, hard, something terrible and wonderful and dangerous and alive, the essence of life, I sense that it has to break out sometime or it will age and die.
Yesterday walking out of school she comes up by me and says, “Hey, want to come over tomorrow and watch a movie or something?” and I’m blank for a second, it’s sudden and unexpected, and then I realize what she said and I get it together enough to say “Sure, uh, what time?” with the “Sure” a little croaky but much stronger by the “time.”
“Noon,” she says…and I feel something trying to hold me down in the chair that same thing that always makes it so fucking hard to talk to a girl I don’t know, Christ, somewhere I can hear Mommy, faintly, Nice boys don’t touch without permission…but there’s a flash of the card I got a few days ago in my mind, you have friends Cal, and now I see myself from behind like I’m looking from the outside, if this was a movie what would that guy do, easy, of course he’d get out of that chair and get up behind her, reach out and put a hand on her hip and pull her, gentle but firm, around, and now I’m looking out my own eyes, and she breathes deeply once through her mouth and turns, she’s got that smile of hers, a pure joy smile like I’ve never seen on any other girl, this is not a game or keeping score, everything has softened on her face, especially her mouth and without hesitation or thought I grip her big round hips with each hand and pull her to me and kiss her firmly and well, I’m not a guy in a movie anymore and I don’t close my eyes and neither does she, I don’t know what she sees but I see myself in her black pupils and they are getting bigger and I really am on fire but I’m cold too, cold like the last lap of the 200 fly, when the real pain comes and you know from experience it’s temporary and you just finish, because you know nothing can stop you. And I kiss her harder and she kisses back harder, until it hurts, and then without saying anything she steps back and pulls me by the hand, toward the hall to her bedroom. No one says anything for a long time.
9. 13 years ago, Stanford University, Palo Alto, California January 20, 12:30 pm
I sit on the redwood bench that was installed during the first FDR administration, according to the little brass plaque, eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich and watching the wannabe Masters of the Universe shamble across the ancient bricks. I read Bonfire of the Vanities a few weeks ago and, man, this place is full characters that I think I could find a part for them, somewhere in there.
There are plenty of attractive women sprinkled amongst the bulging stomachs and asses poured into too-tight jeans, but many of the prettier ones + most of the less pretty ones have the tight-lipped look of the budding feminist: shoulders slightly hooked in, short-necked, jaw set, eyes grimly focused on the ground ahead, except when remembering to scan for predatory male potential rapists here in the brightness of a California winter sun. I think back to the afternoon I spent with Anna over winter break, big open sunny Anna now at the community college studying to be a
medical lab tech, we didn’t talk about plans to join the elites, politics gender theory racial injustice the suffering Haitians or was it the Sudanese? all the things most Stanford women want to talk about at parties, until they’ve had six or ten drinks. Then the social justice mask comes off and they can finally reveal what they really want, way down deep. It would be a paradise if I wanted to have lots of mediocre sex with half-responsive womangirls who may regret it in the morning.
Anna and I had lunch and talked about how excited she was about working in a lab and helping people get well and I said the Stanford campus was beautiful and how much I liked it in general and how great it was that the drought was over and the hills were green again, then we went to her apartment and drank and laughed and fucked, over and over, I hadn’t seen her since August and we didn’t ask about other people or the future or When will I see you again? I was driving down to LAX that night to fly out to Hawaii for a week. I said “Sorry, but I have to leave in a minute,” and she laughed and said “Don’t be sorry, silly,” and brought a warm washcloth from the bath and cleaned me, and as I was walking out she was standing there naked, she smiled and said “Just let me know when you’ll be in town so I can put on clean sheets” and it was time to go but I moved toward her to grab that wonderful ass in both hands just one more…
“Hi!”
The sunlit quad has turned foggy in my eyes as I replay that memory, but the ancient automatic part of my brain that’s always on the lookout for threats recognizes this cheery Hi! is aimed at me and I look left and there’s a woman there, a little farther away than I’d expect for someone addressing me. She has a pleasant round relaxed face, tight jeans and a fitted black top that show a nice narrow waist and excellent hips, faint laugh lines around the eyes indicating 32-35, blond hair short off her collar. She’s not wearing shades, unlike most of the people walking around and her eyes are not any color ever seen in a human—almost purple. I realize she’s wearing colored contacts and wonder why.
She speaks again, still strangely far away and not coming any closer.
“Apologies for interrupting your lunch,” and I realize there’s a third of a sandwich still in my right hand, “but I’m afraid I have a limited window, so here we are.”
I have no idea what she’s after and for a second I think maybe this is some kind of scam, or a robbery; but who runs a scam on some college freshman sitting on the edge of the vast Stanford quad?
“What’s your name?” I say, figuring if it sounds too fake I can certainly out run her; my eyes are practically even with hers though I’m sitting down, she can’t be more than five-two.
“I’m Martha and I’m here to serve,” she says, brightly, and we both laugh because I get and she knew I’d get it. Suddenly I have an inkling where she’s coming from.
“Mind if I sit for a minute?” she says and I nod once, she moves smoothly, with purpose, knees slightly bent, she moves like a female tiger that knows nothing in the environment can threaten her. She eases herself onto the bench to my left, leaving a couple of feet between us. She turns her head toward me and does a little eyebrow lift, like “I’ll bet you think this is pretty strange,” and that’s all it takes to break the ice. I chuckle and she turns back and looks out across the quad, faintly smiling.
“I have a message from Mr. Strauss,” she says and it’s like my antennae all tune in, the hair on my arms stands up, the feeling you get when you know that this is not idle chatter, words said to fill in the awkward silence; these are words of meaning.
“Why don’t you eat the rest of your sandwich? It makes things look natural,” she says, still looking straight ahead and I take a bite, there isn’t anyone within 100 feet of us but we do want to look natural, the way she says it makes perfect sense.
“In a couple of days a Dr. Lee is going to arrive on campus from South Korea, for a series of lectures and to help fine tune the new Ultra-Low Temperature Lab equipment. He’ll be here through the summer.
“They’re setting him up a temporary office in the Moore Materials Building. A week from today at 2:00 o’clock he’ll be there. You should drop by and have a chat. He has some very interesting things to say, about materials science and so on.”
She turns again, finally looking me in the eyes, the purplish contacts big and obvious now. Strange that everything else about her is natural, studiously so; no makeup at all even the eyes no rings bracelets earrings piercings and her short thick hair moves like there’s nothing on it.
She smiles, happily, the faint lines under her eyes bunching but no teeth.
“You’re wondering about the contacts—I need contacts, anyway, and these are all most people remember, if anybody asks.”
“Well, I’d say they’re working for you, except I’d remember a lot more.” I chuckle and toss the last of the sandwich in my mouth.
“Jim White told me I’d enjoy meeting you. Just as he told you last spring, all of this is your choice; if you don’t want to meet Dr. Lee, no one will take it personally. But if you decide not to, Strauss and Strauss will take it as a sign you’re opting out. You can get on with your life and no one will know about any of this.
“I’ve never met you, Cal, but I know you by reputation, let’s say. I think you’ll be there. Because you want to know, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
She turns back to me again, and it’s tempting to look down at the creamy skin below her throat and the tops of her breasts just visible through the scoop-neck of the shirt, but I look into her eyes, look hard, the contacts are like a shield but I let my field of view expand to take in more, the smooth faint-freckled skin of her forehead the cheekbones the nose with the slightest crook in the bridge, like it was once broken, the unpainted full pink lips, I’m just observing and she’s doing the same, we have at least one thing in common, we thirst, for knowledge and understanding and wisdom, I start to see her as a friend, as a soul. People around us on this campus, I can feel them too, they think what they are is nothing but DNA and evolution and chance, conditioning and the power structure. The woman next to me is more, so much more, and I know she sees me the same. I know.
She tilts her head up and makes that eyebrow raise again, and I laugh, an easy simple laugh, not a social signal but merely joy.
She puts a more serious look on her face. “I was going to just give you the message and move on, Cal. That would accomplish my mission. But I’m making a judgement in the field—you’re ready for, and need, to receive a bit more information on what we’re doing here.”
She stands, faces me, leans forward, closer than she’s been yet, speaking softly.
“I’m at the Hotel California. Room 218. It’s a bit of a walk. Your choice; if you decide to, come up at 6:00 and we’ll have some room service dinner and I’ll give you a brief.
“After that, I’m flying out early tomorrow. After that, I’m sure we’ll know the right thing to do.”
She turns and walks, a tigress again, flowing across the big courtyard. I watch her the whole time, until she disappears.
10. 13 years ago, Palo Alto, California January 20, 6:56 pm
Martha cuts her last bit of Coq au vin neatly in two, then decides to skewer both halves with her fork and finish them off. A chunk of my steak is still on the plate, but I’m full enough. I push it away an inch to signal.
~
When I stand in front of her door at 5:59 I keep my knees bent just a little, ready to make a move in any direction. I’m intrigued, interested and wondering. I realize she’s set me up perfectly for all three, that I know nothing, really, except a few scattered clues and statements amongst two conversations, with her and Jim White. The only solid thing I have is my conscious/subconscious assessments of two people—two people who give the impression of enormous reserves of intelligence, competence, strength.
It’s as much as we get, much of the time, to make decisions. I knock firmly.
There’s the sound of the bolt, the privacy bar and what I think is a wedge being
pulled out of place below, and the door opens and she’s there, wearing the same clothes as this afternoon, smiling. Indoors, she looks younger than she did in the bright sun.
“Hi Cal. I’m glad you came,” is her simple greeting. The hotel room turns out to be a hell of a nice suite, at least compared with any I’ve ever stayed in—full kitchen, living room, bedroom behind a closed door to the right.
“Why don’t you sit in this easy chair?”
I do, and she sits to my right, on the couch.
“I apologize, but you’re going to have to excuse me for a few minutes. I have a couple of time-sensitive matters to take care of. Do you mind reading in the meantime?”
The coffee table has a few books: The Nicomachean Ethics, Wylie’s Generation of Vipers still with the first edition dust cover, and a classic old yellowed paperback of The Prince that looks like it’s from the 1950s. There’s no way these came with the room.
“Not at all.”
“There are drinks in the big cabinet. Ice in the freezer. Help yourself.”
She nods, stands, walks through the bedroom door and closes it to an inch behind her. I get up and open the cabinet. There are half a dozen bottles of wine in a mini rack, vodka, gin and three bottles of top shelf whisky. I take the Irish, pour two fingers in a tumbler and sit back down to read Machiavelli.
Who the hell needs ice?
~
“Another drink?” she asks.
“Sure.”
She gets up from the table, pours me a splash of the Irish, and gets some exotic small-batch bourbon for herself, neat.
“Let’s move back to the living room.”
I take a seat in the same chair as before and she eases into the one across. It occurs to me that I’ve never made any physical contact with her. She’s kept her distance.
She tucks her legs under her in the chair and looks at me, the lights are dimmed, the curtains closed and the right side of her face is slightly in shadow, she just looks, observing me with the concentration of a scientist, and I feel it and do the same with her, not looking at the details, the freckles eyebrows lips chin collarbones showing below her neck but somehow I understand to look at her as she’s looking at me, at the Whole, the Gestalt of the human who forms out of nothing but a pattern and through self-willing coalesces out of a grain of the dust of the earth and the stars and expands in spacetime along four dimensions for its years, its worldline touching others’ and deflecting, nearly merging at times with others, shrinking a little at the end then suddenly closing to a point in space.