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

by Rudy Rucker

  But Audrey didn’t want to miss the start of classes at Columbia; and Conrad could see her point. He was, after all, on the FBI’s Top-Ten Wanted List—yes, he and Audrey had actually seen the actual photo in the actual post office. Felony burglary and immigration violation. Audrey loved Conrad as much as ever—more—but they could both see the possibility of real bad shit coming down, and there was no reason for her to throw her life away. The hope was that things would somehow work out and they’d get married in June as planned.

  So now Conrad was on the loose, and all his pals were back, and it was time to push the whole trip another notch further. Before leaving Crum Ledge, Conrad had carefully combed his hair into the same cocky little Vitalis pompadour that had always infuriated him so much on Bulber. Humming slightly, he walked up the ML dormitory staircase and knocked on Ace Weston’s door.

  “Who is it?” Ace sounded blurred and weird.

  “It’s Mr. Bulber.” A hard grin covered Conrad’s face.

  “Who?”

  “Professor Bulber. I want to talk to you about your application for Kutztown State.”

  “What?” Ace’s voice was high in bewilderment. The lock rattled, and then Ace cracked open the door to peer out. Dope fumes swirled.

  “Hello, Ace, I know this may not be the best moment for an old fuddy-duddy like myself to be butting in this way, but, hey, man, could you get a brother high?”

  Ace’s bloodshot eye stared out through the crack for what seemed a very long time.

  “You look like a hermit crab,” offered Conrad. “Come on, Weston, let me in, I won’t bite. I brought wine.” He clinked his two bottles invitingly.

  “Uh…sure.” Ace opened the door and Conrad stepped on in. Platter was there, and Chuckie Golem, too. They had a hookah in the corner; Chuckie was trying to stand in front of the hookah so Mr. Bulber wouldn’t see it.

  “Don’t worry about the illegal narcotics, boys,” said Conrad. “And feel free to tell it as it is. We have a lot to learn from your generation. You should just think of me as one of your friends; you see, I’m on sabbatical this year.”

  “Yeah,” said Chuckie tensely. “That’s what I heard. You were supposed to go to France, and you’re just hanging around here instead?”

  “That’s right,” said Conrad, brushing past Chuckie to kneel by the hookah. “Who’s your connection?”

  At some point here, Platter had gotten hysterical with laughter. He lay slouched back across Ace’s bed, shaking in stoned ecstasy.

  “What’s the matter with this fellow?” demanded Conrad, giving Platter’s upper thigh a slow, intimate pinch. “Ron Platek, isn’t it? Anybody got a match? And you ought to recharge the bowl while you’re at it, men. I’m ready to really do my own thing. Do you have any good records, Weston, besides those shitty old blues tracks you always made me listen to? Who wants a blow job?”

  The three boys looked at Conrad with pale anxious faces. They’d been stoned when he got there, and now it had all gotten too unreal too fast.

  “No blow jobs?” rapped out Conrad. “Then let’s start on the drugs.”

  “Look,” said Ace, stepping forward with his face set tight. “You can just get out of here, faggot. We don’t need—”

  “Relax,” said Conrad, smiling. “I’m really your old roomie, Conrad Bunger.”

  Ace didn’t smile. “We don’t need this, Mr. Bulber. We don’t need you coming down here to try to act like one of us. We don’t want to see you around, understand?” Ace grabbed his arm—hard—and began propelling him toward the door. “Conrad hated your guts, you know that, man? You think it’s time you got hip—well, we don’t give a shit. You come back here and we’ll kill you, Bulber, you—”

  “Wait,” protested Conrad. He’d done too good a job. “I am Conrad Bunger, Ace. Remember the time you fell off the roof and I flew down to save you?” Ace’s grip on his arm loosened. Conrad turned to Platter. “Remember you telling me about the guy who paid a woman to shit on his chest, Ron? And the night I started calling you Platter? ‘What toothsome victuals do you bear?’ And you, Chuckie, remember the song you made up about me, Pig, Pig, Pig, What’s the Use, Use, Use?”

  They stared at him openmouthed.

  “That’s right,” continued Conrad. “I changed my face to Mr. Bulber’s to get away from the cops. I did it so I could come up here and impersonate Bulber, who is indeed on sabbatical in France; I did it so I could see you guys again.”

  Ace finally smiled and gave his dry chuckle. Eh-eh-eh. “Well, let’s charge up the hookah. Are you really from a flying saucer, Conrad?”

  “Sure he is,” said Platter. “I read it in Time. Conrad.” He stood up and gave his old friend a hug. “Mr. Bulber.” Haw-nnh-haw-nnh. “It’s perfect. The thing about the blow-job was perfect. ‘Tell it as it is.’” Haw-nnh-haw-nnh. “Oh, Conrad.”

  “You blew our minds,” said Chuckie, giving one of his rare smiles. He got out a film can of grass and recharged the hookah. “The…uh…feds are in town. What’s scary is that they aren’t asking questions. They’re just…fucking…hanging around.”

  “I’m not going to be here too long,” said Conrad. “I want to do one big prank on the college before I fade.”

  “A prank,” said Ace thoughtfully.

  “Give them a teaching,” amplified Conrad. Just breathing in the room’s air, he already felt high. “I got that phrase from an article in Time, it was in the same issue as the articles about me. You know the Bhagween? The fat kid with the big cult-following in Chicago? It seems there was an IRS guy who infiltrated the organization, and the Bhagween finds out. Bhagween takes his head disciple aside and says, ‘Hey, you know that IRS guy—give him a teaching.’ So the head disciple goes to the IRS guy and smiles and says, ‘You are now prepared to receive truth.’ So, OK, they go in a hotel kitchen, and the head disciple stands behind the IRS guy and hits him on the head with a hammer. And in the same issue of Time, right, Potts gives a quote like I’m a follower of the Bhagween!”

  “‘Although Conrad Bunger may indeed have been an extraterrestrial,’” recited Chuckie, “‘I think it is also appropriate to view him as a confused young victim of the madness of our times.’” He fired up the hookah and handed Conrad the mouthpiece. “Careful—the water cools it off, and it’s easy to inhale too much.”

  “Mother-faaar-fuckin-out.” Conrad drew in a big, show-off breath and succumbed to a coughing fit. No matter how hard he coughed, the tickle in his throat wouldn’t go away. The rhythm of the cough filled all his body; he was on the floor now, still coughing, coughing for dear life. Finally the spasm passed, and Conrad opened his watering eyes to see his three friends standing over him, conversing in hushed tones.

  “A flying saucer, hey, Pig?” asked Ace.

  “The real thing,” wheezed Conrad. “What happened there?”

  “I think you’re tricking us.” Ace made his mouth a thin line and shook his head. His blond hair was shoulder-length this year; he kept it out of his eyes with a leather shoelace worn like a headband. He looked vaguely like an Indian. “You tricking us, man.”

  “I’m not Mr. Bulber, if that’s what you think.”

  “I’m not Ace Weston,” said Ace. “I’m John F. Kennedy.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Platter. “It’s not Conrad’s fault that Golem has this shitty green weed.”

  “If it’s shit, Platek, you don’t have to smoke it.”

  “I had some real Acapulco Gold out at my sister’s in California this summer,” said Platter, his lips thickening in emphasis. “I had one puff and I couldn’t get out of my chair.”

  “I know where to get Gold,” said Chuckie, pushing up his glasses. “But it’s too expensive.”

  Conrad sat back up, feeling good and high now, everything yellow, everything jellied. “How expensive? For a…key?”

  “You have money?” Chuckie looke
d really interested.

  “I’m selling Bulber’s XKE for six thousand dollars. I could afford two or three thousand dollars for a kilogram of Gold. I’d kind of like to turn on the whole campus, you know?”

  “That sounds evil and alien to me,” put in Ace. “Like Freddie Whitman. Maybe Whitman was from a saucer, too.” Ace didn’t really approve of drugs, though he tended to take them whenever he got a chance.

  “What I was thinking,” went on Conrad, “was that I should get a key, and roll up thousands of joints, and then hand them out at Collection next month.” Collection was a college-wide assembly that took place on Thursday mornings at ten. Attendance was mandatory. There was always a period of silence, and then someone would talk for an hour. “You’re big in Student Council, Platter; don’t you think you could get me invited to speak?”

  “I like it,” said Platter. “Grass Is a Gas, by our own Professor Bulber.”

  “It could work,” said Chuckie, still thinking about the kilo of Gold. “Just give it a more serious title. Experimental Mysticism? How long do you think you can keep up your cover, Conrad?”

  “Well, if you guys will—”

  “We’ll each just tell one person,” suggested Ace.

  “Hey, please!”

  “It’s hopeless, Conrad,” said Chuckie. “You know how…incestuous Swarthmore is.”

  “I hate that expression,” said Platter. “Chantal Lune is always saying that.”

  “Who’s Chantal Lune?” asked Conrad.

  “Chantal Lune and Sissa Taylor,” explained Ace. “These two new girls who’ve been hanging around with us. Chantal’s from France, and Sissa is from California. They’re sophomores. You’ve seen them.”

  “Oh, yeah…yeah. Let’s ask them to come over to Mr. Bulber’s house for a big drug party!”

  “On Crum Ledge?” said Chuckie incredulously. “In a professor’s home?”

  “It’s Conrad’s house,” said Ace. “And he’s really Mr. Bulber anyway.”

  There was a knock on the locked door.

  “Oh, shit,” said Chuckie, crouching over the hookah.

  The knocking quickly turned to steady pounding. “Open up, it’s da cops!”

  “That’s Tuskman,” Ace said, and opened the door.

  “Hi! Am I in time for da beer?”

  Izzy wasn’t going to Swarthmore this year—he was living with his girlfriend in an apartment in the Village. For Art. But he’d decided to hitch down for this, the first big fall weekend. For Beer. When Chuckie explained that the man who looked like Mr. Bulber was really Conrad in disguise, Izzy insisted that he’d known right away.

  “From da eyes. I didn’t wanna say nothing.”

  “We’re going to have a big party at Mr. Bulber’s house tonight,” Conrad told him. “I’ve been living there and selling off his stuff.”

  “I like it,” said Izzy. “I like it. Tomorrow—get dis—tomorrow we’ll have a yard sale.”

  Chapter 26: Friday, September 9, 1966

  The new girls were beautiful. Madelaine had straight ash-blonde hair, a lisping French accent, and creamy white skin. Her face was broad—almost Tartar—and her jeans were swollen and tight. Chantal Lune. Sissy had long, smooth dark hair, huge breasts, and a cute puppyish face. She laughed in infectious guffaws, and she liked to dance. Sissy Taylor.

  They were excited to attend a dope party at a professor’s house, with all the cool senior boys there as well: Ace, Izzy, Chuckie, and Platter. Of course there were other guests, too—word spread fast on the small Swarthmore campus. Chantal and Sissy brought a bunch of friends, and there were all Conrad’s old friends, too—Ace’s ex-girlfriend Mary Toledo, Southern and sexily unwashed; Bobby Glassman, the speed-freak phil-major captain of Swarthmore’s football team; Zeiss Pappas, the worldly Greek exchange student; Stu Mankiewicz, who spent most of his time playing pool; Betsy Bell, with her big smile and straight Texas nose—dozens of people, really, and everyone ready to party.

  On the strength of his promised kilo, Conrad got Platter to break out a secret stash of Gold that he’d gotten from his sister. Betsy Bell rolled her own cigarettes and carried a little sack of Bull Durham with paper; Conrad prevailed on her to roll up all of Platter’s dope. It made about fifteen big joints. Conrad pocketed them, and circulated around the Bulber living room, turning people on.

  It was exciting; the first Swarthmore party where dope was smoked openly. Before this, people had always sneaked off to get high, but now it was 1966, and it was all out in the open. By eleven, everyone was blasted; and Conrad, stoned out of his gourd, leaned grinning against a wall. The record player was blasting the Beatles: ‘Good Day Sunshine.’

  What a great song, thought Conrad. This was worth coming to Earth for. He’d been drinking beer all evening along with the weed, and the room was merging into a single bright pattern. The music spun on, and people left him pretty much alone—no one wanted to talk to Mr. Bulber. Now the record was Tomorrow Never Knows, one of George’s intense Indian tunes, with John’s crazed karma lyrics. The elliptical words seemed to explain everything.

  Just then, one of the younger boys who’d come in with Madelaine approached Conrad. “Do you have any more marijuana, Mr. Bulber?” The kid had a snotty edge to his voice—you could tell he didn’t think it was too cool for a teacher to be acting like this.

  “Not for you,” said Conrad, feeling a twinge of sudden dope-anger. “I don’t even know your name, and you’re trying to bring me down. Dipshit.”

  “You are really messed-up,” exclaimed the kid. He had symmetrical features and shoulder-length brown hair. “You had me in Physics I-II last year, Mr. Bulber. I’m Cal Benner, remember? You gave me a B, but I should have gotten an A. Don’t you think you could get in trouble smoking pot with students?” Benner smirked at Conrad unpleasantly.

  “I’m already in more trouble than you’d ever believe, dipshit. I’m Conrad Bunger. Why don’t you get out of here? I didn’t invite you.”

  “You’re just a middle-aged guy trying to get your hands on some sophomore girls,” snapped Benner. “It’s sickening.”

  A fresh wave of dope hit Conrad’s brain about then. He looked at the angry face in front of him. What were they arguing about? About who he was? Fuck it.

  “Hang ten,” Conrad said and stomped off to the kitchen for another beer.

  Platter and Ace were in there talking to Mary Toledo and Sissy Taylor. Conrad threw his arm around Sissy, who gave one of her goony guffaws.

  “Can you teach me physics, Mr. Bulber?”

  “I’m not Mr. Bulber,” said Conrad, hoping to convince someone. “I’m Conrad Bunger.”

  “Wasn’t that too much this summer?” exclaimed Mary, not believing him. “I always knew Conrad was weird, but when I saw him waving that light-sword on TV—”

  “And shrinking,” put in Sissy. “I never got to meet him last year. What was he like? Did you know him, Mr. Bulber?”

  “Call me Charlie,” sighed Conrad, opening a beer. “Yes, I knew Bunger. He was a very poor student.”

  “All he cared about was getting drunk and talking about the secret of life,” said Ace, smiling wickedly. “Basically he was a stupid pig.”

  “It’s strange,” chimed in Platter. “Usually you think of alien life-forms as being really advanced. But Conrad—”

  “Maybe they chose a defective one to send down,” suggested Ace. “Or maybe they had to like lobotomize him to bring him down to human level. I felt that way this summer, working at the paper mill.”

  Conrad got a pint of whiskey out of Bulber’s cupboard and took it out on the back steps. This party wasn’t fun; he wasn’t a member of the group anymore. He’d never really fit in here again. Where was Audrey?

  Stoned and drinking on the steps there, staring out into the woods with the noise of the party washing out, Conrad felt very lonely. Time passed.
He felt himself fading and reeled back into the kitchen. “Hey, Weston, let’s get some more dope. Where’s Chuckie?”

  The party ground on into the wee hours, and Conrad got more and more fucked-up. After a while it wasn’t like he was running his body anymore; it was, rather, like he was watching himself do things. Terrible things.

  Finally he passed out, and then it was daytime.

  “A nightmare of madness and evil,” groaned Conrad. “How can I do this to myself, how can I pretend there’s anything positive about alcohol and drugs? And those poor girls—why did I have to act like that?”

  “If you think I’m going to feel sorry for you, you’re crazy. That’s just part of the payoff for you, the big guilt-and-apology session. You acted like a real pig last night, and I’d rather not have to hear about it today.” Ace was grinding black pepper into a big glass of beer with tomato juice. “You want one of these, Conrad?”

  “I do, but I don’t. What time is it?”

  “A little after noon. You know Izzy wants to come over and have a yard sale this afternoon? He wants to sell all Mr. Bulber’s clothes and books and dishes.”

  “He can get fucked. I did enough for you guys last night.” Conrad looked around the ruined bachelor quarters. Vomit on the rugs, some of the chairs broken, cans and bottles everywhere. “Do you think everyone knows I’m Conrad Bunger now? The cops are looking for me, you know, and so are the flame-people. I’ve got half a mind to just get in the XKE and—”

  “You gave the keys to Chuckie,” said Ace. “Don’t you remember? You told him to go sell it and use the money for dope.”

  “He can’t sell it without me there to sign the papers over.”

  “You already signed the papers. He made you do it before he’d give you the rest of his ounce. You wanted to impress Sissy Taylor how—”

  “All right, all right. I remember. Do you still do cross-country running, Ace?”

  “Sure.”

  “Take me on a nice run down through the woods.”