Transreal Trilogy: Secret of Life, White Light, Saucer Wisdom

by Rudy Rucker

“I will not take it easy,” raved Platter. “And I do not want you guys drinking in here. The drinking is for the Crum party tonight, not for pigs before supper.” His anger was half-real, half-burlesque. In any case, it would be unwise to provoke him further.

  “Hey, let’s get out of here, Izzy,” said Conrad. “Let’s skip supper and go down to the Crum early.”

  “OK. I’ll buy some peanuts.”

  The Crum woods surrounded a meadow and a creek adjacent to the Swarthmore campus. A train-line, the Media Local, passed through the woods and crossed a high trestle over the creek. The Swarthmore students often held bonfire parties in the Crum meadow. People would play folk songs, and in the dark you could drink or make out.

  But now it was only six. Izzy and Conrad perched on a bank overlooking the train tracks and drank some more.

  “What do you want to do in life, Conrad?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. Be happy.”

  “Happy,” spat Tuskman. “You know what I think when I hear happy?”

  “No.” All this was as interesting as anything Conrad had ever heard. He smiled happily at Izzy. Izzy lay on his back and stuck up his arms and legs for emphasis.

  “Happy is a toad dat’s buried in da mud. Just snugged down there under da water and every now and then it opens its mouth and goes blup. Dat’s happy.”

  “Well, of course I’d like to achieve something. Be creative. But I’m not very good at anything, Izzy. I can’t draw or wrestle like you.”

  “Dere’s got to be something dat only Conrad Bunger can do. Find it and work on it.”

  Conrad decided to tell the truth. “I want to learn the secret of life. That’s why God put me here, Izzy, I’ve got a feeling. I’m supposed to find out what it’s like to be something that dies.” The alcohol was filling him with the old philosophical excitement.

  “You’re flyin’, Conrad.”

  “What is reality? Why does anything exist? Shouldn’t there be an answer? I mean, humans all die, you dig that?”

  “You know da wrestling coach, Palmer?”

  “I’ve seen him. He teaches my phys. ed. class. Once when we were playing touch football, he told the fullback to think of himself as ‘the apex of a triangle.’”

  “Yeah, dat’s Palmer. A real deep thinker. He was asking Chuckie and me why we’re so cynical.” Izzy said the word like it was a joke.

  “Yeah?”

  “I told him dat we’re da first kids to have grown up under da threat of da bomb.”

  They laughed over that for a while. “That was about as mad as I ever saw my father get,” said Conrad. “When I told him I wished they would go ahead and drop the bomb. I mean, I didn’t want to have to take my SATs and apply for college and everything.”

  “One time my Dad stuck a fork in my back,” said Izzy, hitching up his shirt. Sure enough there were four tiny dots in a row, down near his belt. “I called him a petty bourgeoisie—and an asshole to boot—and he started chasing me all over da house. We’d been eating supper, so he still had da fork in his hand. He couldn’t catch me, so finally he just threw the fork. Ow!”

  “Was he sorry?”

  Izzy’s face grew lumpy with laughter. “He told me to pull out the fork and get da fuck out of da house. So I took his car and got drunk and wrecked it.”

  They passed the bottle back and forth, taking small sips. Everything seemed so peaceful and right, here in the woods, alone with an artistic friend. After a while, Izzy leaned forward and threw up between his legs.

  “Let’s walk across da trestle, Conrad.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “I ain’t drunk. I just throw up easy. I ruined my stomach with Ex-Lax, getting down to wrestling weight. Come on. Let’s go face death.”

  They got up and followed the railroad tracks to the trestle. There were two tracks, so it was relatively safe, even though there were no guardrails.

  The sun had just gone down. A good breeze was blowing. Before long, Conrad and Izzy were out in the middle of the trestle, out over the dark creek, higher than the big, budding spring trees. Conrad took another pull of vodka and whooped with joy.

  Just then a train’s headlight appeared up ahead.

  “Come stand here!” yelled Izzy, planting himself in the middle of the left-hand track.

  “That’s wrong!” screamed Conrad. “That’s the track he’s on!” The train was already rumbling onto the other end of the trestle. It was loud, and Izzy seemed not to understand he was in the wrong place. Conrad jumped over, grabbed Izzy, and shoved him to the right side. Just then he stumbled.

  Conrad was lying on the track, with the train bearing down on him, sounding its horn. Fly, he told himself, Fly!

  In a flash he’d whipped out into midair, ten yards to the left of the trestle. He hung there, scared to look down, while the commuter train’s four cars roared past. As soon it was safe, Conrad whisked himself back onto the trestle.

  “Conrad!” hollered Tuskman. “You’re OK! I thought—”

  “I flew out of the way.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Believe it.” It was dark now, and down in the meadow some people were lighting the bonfire. “I forgot to tell you before. That’s the one thing I can do. I can fly.”

  “Den fly down to da fire.”

  “I’m scared it might not work.” Conrad drained the vodka bottle and threw it out into the darkness. Bright shapes were moving behind his eyes. It seemed like a long time till he heard the bottle break. Crazy Izzy grabbed his arm and made as if to shove him off the edge.

  “Hey, take it easy,” protested Conrad. This was going to be too much trouble if it got out. The power meant something; for now, it was better kept secret. “I can’t really fly, Izzy. I lay down between the rails when the train came. Don’t push me like that, shithead, I’m only a regular guy.”

  Chapter 10: Saturday, April 11, 1964

  “It’s Bunger!”

  “Hey, Conrad, wake up!”

  Conrad was confused. He was at an angle, and there was a crumpled umbrella over his face. A half-full quart of beer skidded out from under him when he tried to sit up.

  Ace Weston and Chuckie Golem were standing over him. It was dawn, it was April, it was the morning after the Crum party. Conrad had fallen asleep in some bushes. Down in the meadow you could see last night’s bonfire still smoldering.

  “You guys want some beer?”

  “Look at him,” marveled Ace. “He looks like a college professor turned derelict.”

  “Ace and I sat up talking all night,” explained Chuckie in his taut, dry voice. “We saw something on the hillside here, and we couldn’t figure out what it was.”

  “I didn’t want to walk all the way back last night,” explained Conrad. “I took someone’s umbrella in case it rained. Where are my glasses?”

  “The bottle by your stomach is the perfect touch,” chuckled Ace. He had an unkind sense of humor. “Like a piglet with its mother sow.”

  “Pig,” said Chuckie thoughtfully. “That should be his nickname. Pig Bunger.”

  “I like it,” agreed Ace. “Here’s your glasses, Pig.”

  Conrad struggled to his feet, and the three boys headed for breakfast. Conrad hadn’t seen much of Ace Weston so far this year. Ace had short blond hair and was said to be a mean drunk. Back in the fall, he’d managed to date the prettiest girl in their class. On the way to the dining hall, Ace talked about a book called The Glass Giant of Palomar.

  “It’s about the first twenty-four-inch reflecting telescope mirror,” explained Ace. “The guy who made it went crazy. The mirror has to be a perfect parabolic curve, right, and they have a way to test it with interference fringes up to an accuracy of one or two wavelengths of light. So this guy, his name was Huffman, he grinds the mirror for four years and as soon as they mount it, it cracks.”

&nb
sp; “Jesus,” said Conrad politely. Weston seemed a lot more excited than his subject matter warranted. A put-on.

  “So he goes to the nuthouse,” continued Ace. “And when he gets out he decides to make an even bigger mirror. This time—”

  “Have you ever seen Wound Ballistics?” interrupted Conrad, not to be out-weirded. “I found it in the library. It’s all pictures of guys who got shot in some World War Two battle at Anzio. Legs missing and everything. I used to leave it open on Platter’s pillow at night.”

  “Do you have it in your room right now?”

  “No. Platter hid it someplace. I keep getting overdue notices. The Palm-Wine Drinkard is another good book. It’s by an African called Amos Tuatola. Platter scribbled all over the cover.”

  “I have a really good porno book,” put in Chuckie. “It’s called Confessions of Harriet Marwood, Governess.”

  “This year’s campus sensation,” intoned Weston. “The new Catch-22.” The three boys burst into laughter.

  “Say, look, Ace,” said Conrad finally. “Did you ever fuck Mary Toledo?”

  “Yeah, Ace,” clamored Chuckie. “Did you?” Up till Christmas, Ace and Mary had been the handsomest couple in the freshman class. Ace had even gone to sit-in at a segregated diner to get arrested for Mary’s beliefs. While he’d been in jail, she’d started dating someone else.

  “You should have fucked Toledo,” insisted Conrad. “If you were going to sell America down the river for her.” He didn’t like the group that had organized the sit-ins. One of them had been Pennington, the boy who’d made fun of him in political science class.

  “How about you, Pig?” snapped Weston. “How about your love-life?”

  “I don’t have one,” sighed Conrad. “I keep getting drunk and scaring them away. I guess it’s approach-avoidance. Maybe I’m queer.”

  “Have you tried sheep?” inquired Chuckie, pausing to push back his glasses. “I read in the Kinsey Report that most farm boys fuck animals. The…ewe is said to be a good approximation to the real thing.”

  “Shit. Too bad my parents don’t live in Kentucky anymore. What with spring vacation starting today.”

  After breakfast, Conrad went back to his room and packed. Even though he’d slept outside, he felt pretty good. It had been fun talking trash with Weston and Golem. And last night he’d flown again! He helped Platter lug his huge trunk down to the train station and then took his own suitcase out to the Washington bus that Swarthmore had chartered. His parents now lived in Alexandria, just southeast of D.C.

  There were already quite a few people in the bus. Conrad spotted a pretty girl and took the seat next to her. She had full red lips and a tight-curled bouffant hairdo. He’d never seen her before. Maybe she dated fraternity guys?

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked, wishing he’d shaved.

  She glanced over neutrally. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No. I smoke too. I started this winter.”

  “Oh.”

  Not only had his friends at Swarthmore taught Conrad to smoke, they’d taught him to read The New York Times. As the bus pulled out, he began studying his copy. Maybe he could find something to start a conversation with this girl.

  “Another person abducted by a flying saucer,” said Conrad presently.

  “Hmm?”

  “In Oldham County, Kentucky. Happens all the time down there.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Look, it’s right here in the paper!”

  They found more and more to talk about as the trip wore on. She even played the same trip-game as Conrad, the game of imagining that your finger is a long scythe that reaches out to mow the grass by the road. Every time there’s a telephone pole you have to lift your finger.

  “Or sometimes I imagine that I’m running along next to the road,” said the girl. “And that I jump over things.”

  “I can do that,” blurted Conrad. “Sometimes I can really fly.”

  She smiled and lit a Newport. “How do you know?”

  “Last night, I was drinking on the trestle, and a train almost ran over me.”

  “Why would you do a crazy thing like that?”

  “Showing off, I guess. I didn’t think it would be so dangerous. But, wait, the point is that I flew out to the side of the trestle and floated there till the train was past.”

  “Oh, sure. Did anyone see you do it?”

  “Well…I was with a guy, Izzy Tuskman, but he didn’t actually see me in the air.”

  “I’ve heard of Tuskman. Isn’t he supposed to be an artist?”

  “That’s what he says. Do you like art?”

  “In a way. When I was a little girl my parents used to take me to the museum every Sunday, so I’m pretty fed up with the old masters. What I really like now is Pop art.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Me too. I love Andy Warhol. I wish I could look like him, all blank and cool. Did you hear about the show he had where it was just fake Brillo boxes?”

  “Yes. And soup-can paintings. I like those because then art is everywhere, and not just in boring Sunday museums. The world is art.”

  “What do you like to read? Have you read Nausea?”

  “I have,” said the girl, brightening even more. “I loved it. That guy Roquentin is so crazy. It’s the only good book that Sartre wrote. The others are too theoretical.”

  “I was really hypnotized by that book in high school. I practically got suspended on account of it. I went to a Catholic high school for some reason—it was supposed to be the best science school in Louisville—and when I tried to talk about life being meaningless, the teachers all got mad at me.”

  The girl looked him over once again. “Life isn’t really so meaningless. I mean, usually I don’t think so. Pretty soon all the flowers will come out; that’s something to live for. I love daffodils the most of all.”

  Her parents lived in Geneva, Switzerland, and she was spending spring vacation in D.C. with high-school friends. The reason Conrad hadn’t met her yet at college was that she was a junior. A junior! As soon as he got back from spring vacation, he tried to call her for a date.

  But the problem was—Conrad had failed to get her name. She’d told it to him when the bus trip ended, but in the noise of the station he hadn’t heard. He combed the campus looking for her. He couldn’t remember what she was majoring in, and nobody seemed to have heard of her. Finally, one day at the condiment table in the dining hall, there she was.

  “Oh, hello!” she said, smiling a big lipstick smile.

  “I’m so glad to see you!” exclaimed Conrad. “Please tell me your name; I’ve been looking for you, and I don’t know your name.”

  “Audrey. My name is Audrey Hayes. Come on, you can sit with me and my friends.”

  Audrey’s friends were four other girls, none of them very attractive. But by now, Conrad would have sat with wild dogs to be near Audrey. When Audrey’s friends heard his name, they made wide eyes at her. He’d already gotten drunk often enough to have a bad reputation on campus. But Audrey was really glad to see him. After lunch he asked her for a date.

  “Will you come to the Folk Festival with me?” The annual Swarthmore Folk Festival lasted four days, with three big concerts.

  “Which concert?”

  “Uh…all of them?”

  Thus began a season of sweetness. Conrad saw Audrey at every opportunity—lunch, supper, the movies. The one problem was that she kept refusing to kiss him.

  “I don’t want to be a sucker, Conrad. I want to be sure you really like me.” Audrey was licking and licking at a strawberry ice cream cone as she talked. They were standing under a tree outside the student union. They’d just been to an evening pottery class together.

  “I do like you, Audrey. Come on and kiss me, will you?”

  Lick. “I don’t think I should, Conrad.�
� Lick.

  Not quite knowing what he was doing, Conrad shoved Audrey’s ice cream cone aside and glued his mouth to hers. She let the cone fall and put her arms around him. They kissed once, twice, three times. The next day, white flowers came out all over the tree they’d been standing under.

  Audrey was the best kisser Conrad had ever met. If she happened to be in the right mood, they’d sit down on the dark campus someplace and kiss for half an hour or more. Audrey’s mouth was so wet and open, her breath so sweet, her tongue so strong.

  “Why do you drink so much?” she asked one night, interrupting the kissing and pushing Conrad back a bit. They were sitting in a patch of daffodils near Audrey’s dorm. The school year was almost over.

  “I don’t know. I just really enjoy it. I feel confused and empty a lot of the time, Audrey. When I’m drunk I feel like I can see the answers; I feel like I’m close to the world.”

  “But that’s all backwards. Drinking cuts you off from the world.”

  “From the ordinary world, sure. But there’s a deeper reality. I can feel it. With you, I can feel it, as much as with drinking. We connect, we understand each other. It’s the secret of life.”

  “What is?”

  “Feeling connected instead of cut off. Under the surface, the whole world is one thing. You and I are like finger-puppets on God’s hand. Or eyes on a giant jellyfish.”

  “That doesn’t sound very romantic.”

  “I don’t mean it that way. I love you, Audrey. That’s what I want to say. I love you much more than drinking.”

  “I’m glad.” They kissed a little more, and then Audrey thought of another question. “Didn’t you once tell me that you can fly?”

  “Yes. But only when it’s life-and-death. It’s some kind of weird survival trait I have.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “No, really. In high school I was in a car accident, and I flew around a tree. And last month I flew off the trestle to save myself.”

  “Couldn’t you fly for me a little right now?”

  “You promise not to tell anyone if I show you?”

  “I promise.”

  “OK. Let’s sneak up to your dorm room.” Audrey lived on the third floor.