Red Dreams

by Dennis Etchison

  Dumbfounded he stood aside and let her open the car door, close it, lock it, start the engine, pop into reverse and shoot back. She braked with a screech one inch from the taillight of a new Datsun Tapir. He closed his eyes. They were expensive assemblies, at least seven or eight hundred to replace. Apiece.

  She rolled down her window.

  "And you better give me back my hubcaps, fuckface, or I'll have you busted for theft! Didn't think I noticed, did you? I know your type! Creep!"

  She flashed her eyes at him in the blazing sun, a spark of contemptuous pity shining there. An instant. Then she roared off.

  His eyes stinging in a cloud of exhaust, he felt his legs carrying him slowly backwards into the empty parking space, withdrawing by inches between the narrow boundary lines etched like scrimshaw on the melting pavement. He was, in his way and as best he could, trying to understand.

  He sat in The Video Pit, his head in his hands.

  It was now early evening. The telephone was still before him. Was there any point to trying one more time? She had meant business out in the lot. Before he slipped away, COPters came down out of the sky to surround her car and its blinking emergency signal. They found the boy almost at once, only to release him when they brought him to her for identification. From Joe's vantage point she was so small, even the violent shaking of her head and the pointing of her slender arm, like a bit player in a second unit long shot. They found nothing to incriminate the boy, of course. His steals had already been eaten by the machine, the same machine that would later extrude them re-formed as factory replacement parts, or perhaps an entire new car to be offered for sale in a GM showroom somewhere. Had the boy been arrested, he would have stepped forward. But now Joe had only Rose to deal with, and himself.

  He knew this call would be like the others. Still, what else was there to do? If he drove home in his own car, she wouldn't let him in. If he forced his way in, she would scream bloody murder and call the police. He didn't want to face that.

  He reached for the phone. Punched his number. Counted the rings, waiting for her to answer.

  There was a clattering in the receiver as she picked it up.

  ROSE: Hello?

  JOE: Please don't hang up. I'm not harassing you. I only want to—

  ROSE: Now you listen to me. For the last time. If you do this again I'll have the police trace the call. They can do that, you know. They'll throw you in jail so fast—

  JOE: You don't need to do that. I mean you no harm. This is all a misunderstanding. Your name is Rose, isn't it?

  (SILENCE.)

  JOE: Rose Marie Ivy. You live at—

  ROSE: My name's not Ivy.

  JOE: Sanchez, then. Rose Marie Sanchez, your maiden name. You live at 3944 Via de la Carcel, around the corner from the old AMF Profile Shop. There's a—

  ROSE: How do you know that?

  JOE: From the bedroom window you can see a pepper tree. We've lived there for twelve years.

  ROSE: What do you mean "we"? I live alone. I've always lived alone! Who is this? I—I don't have to tell you anything!

  JOE: Honey, this is Joe. Do you hear that? My clothes are in the closet, my toothbrush is over the sink. Remember me? My—

  ROSE: I don't know what your game is, but you've got a sick sense of humor, did anybody ever tell you that?

  JOE: Yes. You did. Many times. Only I'm not joking. Believe me. Something's happened. I don't know what but—

  ROSE: I'm not joking, either! Why should I believe you? You're a sick, sick…

  JOE: Give me a chance to—

  ROSE: To what? Drive me out of my mind? First you follow me, try to mug me, then you make threatening calls. Well, this is the last time! There are laws against people like you! If you call again you'll be talking to the LAPD! Now good-by!

  The line went dead.

  Good old Rose, he thought. Never a dull moment. If you don't see it her way, she won't play.

  Hold tight. There's an edge creeping up on you, only a thin line, but if you allow yourself to slip over it now you're through.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Roger.

  ROGER: Hello?

  JOE: Rog, has—has anyone called since you've been home?

  ROGER: Not till now. Where are you? You're not still at the shop! My God. You had me worried, buddy. I tried to get you at home.

  JOE: You called the house? Did Rose say anything?

  ROGER: She hung up on me. I figured you had a fight.

  JOE: Yeah, a fight. That's it. Roger, you—you do know me, then?

  ROGER: Well, you don't sound too happy, naturally. But I always know your voice, man. You do sound wiped-out, though. Not that I blame you.

  JOE: Then everything's the same?

  ROGER: It'll be fine. You'll see. I'll move your stuff into the spare room. Don't even unpack. I'm sure Rose'll come around.

  JOE: What are you talking about?

  ROGER: The stuff that—oh, Jesus, haven't you been home yet? The least she could have done was tell you. It's none of my business but… Joey, she must have moved your things out while you were at work, your clothes, books, everything. It was on the front porch when I got here. Sharon almost shat a brick sideways when the movers came with it. But don't you worry. Leave it like it is, except for underwear, toothbrush, the bare essentials. You'll be back home before you know it. These things blow over. Take my word for it.

  JOE: I'm trying to, Roger. I'm honest to God trying to.

  He set the phone down gently.

  She must have planned this whole thing, then. Moved me out of the house and out of her life before it happened. Whatever it was. She was ready for it. I don't know how, but she was. Score one for her.

  He got up from his workbench, paced the store, away from the light. On the other side of the glass doors a scattering of indefatigable shoppers pressed on to their last rounds, ignoring the darkened glass and his face behind it.

  He counted his steps, idly touching display racks of videocassettes.

  It all started with the store, he thought. Business was never good enough. Because I talked Roger into stocking too much of the wrong inventory. Look at the titles. Favorites of mine, a drug on the market. Too many genre movies, like Franju's The Forbidden Door, Lieberman's The Shudder, Sole's Cabin One, Romero's The Dark Tower, Carpenter's El Diablo, Argento's The Fear Threshold, Hill's Clue, De Palma's The Grassy Knoll, Cohen's Blood, Dante's No Survivors, Hooper's The Black Fear, Spielberg's Talking in the Dark. Plus the old-time libraries from the majors. All of limited appeal. One might think I consciously set it up that way, so that I'd be forced to turn to restorations as a way of bringing in more money. So that I'd have to spend so many, many hours here instead of at home. One might think so.

  Well, to hell with all of it now.

  He pushed the door open on darkness. As far as the eye could see up and down the Mall, colorful signs were blinking off, holograms flickering out, glass doors locking, merchants and shoppers departing for the night. The imposing facades of Bullock's, Buffum's, Robinson's, alongside the smaller, independent businesses like Moony Cob's,

  Victor's Barbecue, Tom and Denny's Two Guys From Lynwood—all were shutting down. Soon they would be home to dinner and family, or to leftovers and video; it was all the same after the lights go out and the cast withdraws to its honeycombs.

  I wonder where the kid sleeps? In between the buildings, at the back of the shop, probably, if he can't afford an apartment of his own. I could get Larry to let him into the theater at night. It's cool and dark in there and the seats are comfortable. I could even give him a job here, rent him the workroom and let him take over for me when

  I'm gone. If he cares that much about real movies, if he ever groks that there's a difference between movies and video.

  Next door the reading room, too, was closing down for the night. While he stood there the 'gram with its mysterious, all-purpose message dimmed and cut off. He walked outside, locking the Pit behind him, and stood in the space whe
re the message had been.

  A clerk was totaling up the register and rearranging books next to the lounge chairs. He was a pale but healthy-looking young man with a shirt that was too tight and shoes designed for running rather than standing all day on synthetic carpeting. Joe tapped on the glass with his ring finger.

  The young man saw him and made a referee's out signal with his arms. Joe persisted. The young man came to the door, unlocked it.

  "Sorry, mister, we're closed."

  "It's important."

  "We'll be open again at nine a.m."

  "I can't wait."

  Grudgingly the clerk let him in and returned to closing ritual. "I can give you one of our brochures, I guess. Read it over, and if you need any more information—"

  "What does—did—that quotation mean?"

  The clerk was bemused. "Which one?"

  "The one in the window this afternoon."

  "What did it mean to you?"

  "I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

  "I couldn't answer that. Everyone finds exactly what he seeks."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It speaks to you personally. The Way has many faces. All are equal to the Wach."

  Joe tried to remember what the kid had told him. Mind-reading bacteria, for God's sake; science fiction. "You mean it's different for everyone, that no two people see the same thing? Like an optical illusion?"

  "There are no illusions here. You check those at the door."

  Roger had seen a different message, or so he claimed. Why would he lie? He wouldn't, Joe decided, not to me. That's not his style.

  Joe leaned into the window enclosure. The laser and mirrors were angled to reflect an open page of THE WAY OF THE WACH.

  "Don't touch that," said the young man.

  "Why not?"

  "It's a bitch to align."

  Joe peered down at the book. It was open to a thick page. Plastic, as the kid had described. And dusty. Even though the quotations changed every day, the page had not been turned in a long time.

  He tried to read it upside down. But there was nothing on the page except for a blot of black ink in the center. As he leaned over it, he saw that the blot was actually com-posed of millions of tiny specks, trapped between two layers of transparent laminated vinyl. He leaned closer. It was getting late and he was tired. Very tired, apparently.

  Because as he got closer the specks seemed to move, subtly rearranging themselves into rows of printed lettering.

  "Let me see that," he said.

  The clerk handed him a copy of THE WAY OF THE WACH from the counter. "Try this one. They're all the same."

  Joe took the book from him.

  "You can start while I'm finishing up. If you're sincere. It'll take me a few more minutes. You won't have enough time to really get into it, though, not tonight. It's heavy."

  Joe held the unwieldy volume in his hands and opened the cover awkwardly. The young man spoke the truth. It was heavy, all right.

  He was suddenly afraid to open it completely. He had an intense premonition about what he might find inside.

  "Let me ask you another question."

  "Yeah?"

  "If I read this, what will it do for me?"

  "Are you confused, no place left to turn? Are you searching for the Way?"

  "Who isn't?"

  "Then this will enable you to find it. It will make you free and allow you to begin again. You'll be born all over. But only if that is what you truly desire. The Kingdom of Heaven—"

  "Does it do that for all your customers?"

  "Why don't you ask them?"

  "Did it do that for my wife?"

  The clerk hesitated, then smiled oleaginously. "Ask her. Or better yet, trust in the evidence of your own senses. Isn't she a happier person now, without the guilt of past mistakes to weigh her down? Isn't she—"

  "How much did it cost her?"

  "It's in the brochure."

  Joe waited.

  "Okay. For each Step of the Way, we ask a donation of a mere three hundred dollars. To help cover our administrative costs."

  Holy shit, thought Joe. "How many Steps are there?"

  "Volumes I through IX, plus whatever you decide the Final Step, the one that makes you clean, is worth." The young man turned a clear eye on Joe for a second, as if seeing him for the first time. "That's straight, friend. There's no way it has to cost anybody more than three thousand. That's all we ask. I don't think it's unreasonable. The final Volume, Step X, is purely optional. That means it's up to you. You don't even have to pay until you've read the first nine. It's kind of like a money-back guarantee. If you don't think it's the best thing you've ever read, you don't have to pay. Nobody's refused yet, though. Ninety-nine percent—"

  Joe took out his wallet, removed his VisaMall card. "Deal me in."

  "I told you, we're closed. I'm only talking to you out of the goodness of my heart. In the morning we'll be happy to—"

  "I can't wait till morning. I—I promised my wife. I'll pay whatever you want. How long does it take?"

  "We encourage you to proceed at your own pace." The young man eyed the door nervously.

  "I want all ten Steps. Right now."

  "All at once?!"

  "I'll take full responsibility."

  "You'd have to sign the consent forms, anyway…" The young man chewed his lip. "I'm closed up now, though, see? I cleared the register. I'd have to—"

  "Just give me the books, Steps, whatever they are. Do I go back there?" Joe pointed to a curtain.

  "Yes, but I couldn't even ring up your card. I told you, the terminal's down for the night. How do I know you've got enough credit?"

  That was the ace Joe had been counting on, in the event Rose Marie had charged it on his card instead of her own and cleaned him out. There was no way the clerk could check now.

  "Say, you look familiar. Don't you work in The Video Pit with that other guy, what's his name?"

  "It's my store. Our store." He flipped open a line of credit cards and ID. "See there? My business address, resale number, everything. Tell you what. If my account's not good for it, you can have my share in the store. I'll write you a promissory note. Fifty percent, in exchange for the course."

  "Jesus Christ, what would you want to do that for? The Video Pit must be worth a hell of a lot more than three grand."

  "Take it or leave it. But only if I can do it now."

  "Look, I only work on commission."

  "Then no one will know about this but the two of us. Put it in your own account at the bank in the morning. Keep my card until then. As far as Indects is concerned, you went home. I'm not even here. You're not here. This is between you and me. Right?"

  "I don't know," said the young man. But he moved to lock the door.

  "I want the same thing my wife got."

  "Our records are strictly confidential."

  "Hey." Joe grabbed an application form and wrote out a quick but binding promissory note on the back. He signed his name to it with a final flourish. Then he inked his thumb and printed that next to the signature. "See this, asshole? What more do you want from me?"

  The young man stared at Joe, a silly expression on his lips, as if unable to decide whether to embrace him or bite his nose off and run for cover. Maintaining this expression he pulled out a drawer and riffled through the files. "What was the name?"

  "The woman in the yellow blouse."

  "Oh, Rosie! I know Rosie."

  Rosie, he thought. Rosie, your ass.

  "She's been coming here for three months. I remember. She took the Final Step this afternoon."

  "That's what I want."

  "I can't stay here while you wade through ten books. I've got to get home. What if the security tapes do a sweep, it gets to be midnight, I'm still sitting here…?"

  "Then just give me the Final Step."

  "Two hours and that's it."

  The young man pushed aside the curtain and set a stack of nine volumes on the reading s
tand beside Joe's recliner chair.

  "Do up as much as you can to prepare. Then, when you want to go all the way—" He pulled down a single-book-sized sealed carton from the storage shelf. "—Finish up with this. It's the big one. Volume X."

  Joe adjusted the reading lamp over his head. "Why is that one brand-new?"

  "Volume X's can only be used once. It's a specification of the manufacturer. The directions are on the cover. Follow them exactly."

  "Why can't you give me the same one you gave my wife?"

  "It's a personal directive from Dr. Flowers." The young man's eyes wandered to the storage shelf, where a used Volume X carton addressed back to Indects, Inc. headquarters lay open and waiting to be resealed.

  Joe said nothing.

  "I'll be over at the Weenie Wigwam for as long as I can stretch it. I wanted to catch the NBC Big Event, anyway. My VCR's jammed. I may as well watch it there. I'm going to lock the door behind me, so you'll have to wait here till I come back. And stay out of sight. Got it?"

  "Got it," said Joe. "I'm on my own now."

  "Right. And remember—two hours. Three hours absolutely max. It's the best I can do. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  He waited for the young man to leave him.

  He lifted Volume I gingerly from the top of the stack. The book was broad but surprisingly thin, with only a few dozen hefty pages within. The washable imitation-leather cover was well used. Comfortable. Almost inviting.

  A strange calm fell over him. He thought:

  It's as if I've been waiting year after year for everything, including my life, to get underway. When I was twelve I was sure it would all happen once I finished high school. At eighteen, after college. Then Rose Marie came along. There seemed to be so much of it written there in her face and in her eyes, so many things worth knowing. Beautiful things. Things she never told me.

  Once again, somehow, it got pushed back.

  Thirty, thirty-five… I began to wonder whether it would ever happen. When? At fifty, sixty, seventy? When would I know? It's been a long, slow preparation. But that was the flaw in my thinking as long as I can remember. There will never come a day when the time is right for it to begin. I will never be ready. For this waiting, the dogged hours and decades of it, is in fact my life, the very stuff and substance of it. This is, in a word, It. The real McCoy and the genuine article. The which than which there is no whicher. It always has been. It always will be. That's all there is. There ain't no more.