THE FEELIES

by Mick Farren

  "I swear these things get smaller and smaller."

  She reached for the box of Kellogg's Hi-Bran. Dustin thought that nothing would please Mallory on this particular morning. Three days had passed, and he was still being punished for his inattention following the Fedder's dinner party. How many days was he supposed to spend in hell for that transgression? On top of that, she had once again taken up the Cosmopolitan Deprivation Diet, and he was expected to starve right along with her. He repressed an urge to pick up one of the grapefruit halves and squash it into her face. Instead, he sipped his coffee and looked docile.

  "It's probably the result of a marketing decision taken after months of consumer research," he offered.

  "If I wanted a small, sour, yellow orange, I'd ask for one. I want my grapefruit the way they always were."

  Mallory picked up the Times and turned to the op-ed page. She folded the newspaper with the same precision with which she had sliced the grapefruit. She read for a couple of minutes and then spoke without looking up.

  "Here's something for you, Dustin. Wintek has done a piece on the feelies. He seems to think that we all ought to reconsider our positions and that maybe they aren't so bad after all."

  Dustin sighed. "Wintek is a liberal asshole." He knew that Mallory had no interest whatsoever in the thoughts of Herman Wintek and didn't give a damn about the feelies. All that was happening was that he was being set up for another round of her insidious sarcasm. Mallory looked at him over the top of her rimless glasses, the kind that George Bush used to wear. The style had made something of a comeback over the last summer.

  "I guess he doesn't have the intellectual scope of a thinker like Bones Bolt."

  "Mallory, I-"

  "Dustin, please don't make hangdog faces at me. I only mentioned Wintek's column because I thought it might appeal to your new-found obsession with the feelies."

  "I don't have an obsession with the feelies."

  "Don't pout at me, either."

  "I'm not pouting, and I don't have an obsession with the feelies."

  "You did the other night. You were certainly more interested in some dumb TV show about them than you were in me."

  "How many times do I have to tell you that I was just tired and a little drunk?"

  "You weren't too tired to be trying to cop a peer down the front of Laramie Fedder's dress all through dinner. What was it? Are you and Martin trying to organize a little matrimonial swapmeet? If you are, you can forget it. I have no interest in sleeping with Martin Fedder even to titillate you. God knows I do enough to go along with your little perversions, but there are limits."

  This was an entirely new charge and also a complete fabrication. What in hell would he be doing looking down the front of Laramie Fedder's dress, for Christ's sake? Mallory was a hundred times better-looking. That was part of the trouble. She even looked good right now, with her loose, sleep-tousled, honey blond hair and practically transparent black lace peignoir offset by the aloof expression and the George Bush reading glasses. A part of him would have liked to have reared across the breakfast nook and had her right then and there among the Finwear dishes, the Gunden place settings, the too-small grapefruit, and the Hi-Bran, but there was no chance of that. She probably wouldn't let him near her for at least a week, and even then it would only be after a considerable period of begging. A lesser woman might have given in to her own needs long before the week was up, but not Mallory. She wasn't the kind to let mere lust come between her and total moral victory. Mallory had once confided in him during the aftermath of passion that when she was a little girl, her ambition had been to be Margaret Thatcher when she grew up. And what did she mean she went along with his little perversions? She had more than a few little quirks of her own.

  "Mallory, this is starting to get ridiculous."

  She ignored him, slowly lowering the paper and taking off her glasses. "I heard from Daphne Ziekle that Christopher Elwin, the idiot who's been running Elwin Systems into the ground since his father died, finally turned his holdings over to the control of his brother and took a life feelie contract."

  "I keep telling you that I'm not interested in the feelies." In fact, Dustin was very interested in the feelies at that moment-anything that would spare him psychwar over breakfast. A life contact seemed very appealing. Maybe he should be Caligula or some Turkish sultan with a very large harem.

  Once again, Mallory ignored him. She looked thoughtful. "Maybe Wintek's right. Of course, not for the reasons that he's putting forward. They're twentieth-century bleeding heart nonsense. It could be, however, that their real function is to take the inadequates out of circulation. It could be a way to return to the survival of the fittest without anyone actually getting hurt. When the news came out that Elwin had taken the contract the company's stock went up nine points. What I don't see is why they've made them so expensive. Sure, I can see the value in taking rich idiots off the streets, but why in hell don't they offer it to the underclass? Let the damned epsilons be rapists and junkies while safely locked up in a plastic coffin instead of roaming the streets unchecked and doing it for real."

  "Maybe that's the eventual plan. Maybe CM is just creating a market pressure."

  "Well, all I can say is that I wish they'd hurry up. It's not safe to go out, even around here."

  Mallory's face actually contorted when she talked about the underclass as though the very thought of them put a bad taste in her mouth. Dustin realized that the woman he had married was a real Nazi at heart. He didn't know whether to feel proud or frightened.

  "THEY DON'T LIKE ME!"

  "You've got a page and a half in Game World."

  "They're calling me the bad girl of 'Wildest Dreams.' Mean Wanda-Jean. What did I ever do to them?"

  Brigitte the chaperone/dresser/gofer sat down on the bed. "I've been with maybe a dozen contestants while they were on the Dreamroad. The fan rags always cook up some kind of personality for them. You don't want to let it get to you."

  Brigitte had been provided by the network. She came with the hotel suite and the bodyguard who waited outside the door. It was what you got when you started on the Dreamroad. Wanda-Jean found that she had been removed from her normal life and shut away in luxurious isolation. Her only contact with the outside was either through the show or through Brigitte.

  Wanda-Jean threw the magazine on the floor and pouted. "I never heard of a bad girl winning in the end."

  Brigitte looked genuinely scandalized. "Don't talk like that."

  "Why not? It's true, isn't it?"

  "Of course it's not. Anyone can win."

  "It's just that it feels really unlucky to be the bad girl."

  Brigitte stood up. "Maybe I should fix you a drink?"

  "I shouldn't start drinking this early in the day."

  "It's the middle of the afternoon."

  "Yeah, but I only just got up."

  It seemed to Wanda-Jean that just about everything in her life had been turned upside down. From being anonymous she now appeared on TV and had her picture in fan magazines. She seemed to sleep all day and live by night. Where once she had been on her own, making her own decisions and facing her own problems, now all she had to do was order from a menu, or come up with a yes or no answer when someone offered to mix her a drink, fetch her a pill, or run out for a magazine. The network didn't expect Wanda-Jean, or any of the other contestants, to think for themselves while they were on Dream-road. The network's minions acted accordingly.

  The real physical change was the hotel suite. The downtown Sanyo-Hyatt was a far cry from the minuscule singles apartment in the faceless high rise. The big open-plan day room almost gave her agoraphobia. It seemed as big as a football field. The wraparound, ceiling to floor, double-glazed windows and the wall-to-wall, dark green carpet added to the sense of space and exposure. The fashionably sparse, ultra modern furniture didn't help to give the place any sense of coziness.

  Even the bedroom wasn't any refuge. It was as big as her own apartment. T
he bed alone could accommodate maybe five people in comfort. Just to make matters worse, Brigitte felt she could walk in anytime she wanted to. Wanda-Jean didn't have any place in which she could feel confident she was alone. She had even offered to trade the vast bedroom for the suite's much smaller second room, the one in which Brigitte slept. But Brigitte had told her that it was impossible-she would be fired if anyone found out. The inability to even organize a simple thing like switching rooms made Wanda-Jean feel even more like a prisoner of luxury. There was, of course, also Brigitte herself, a short woman with pale skin, orange hair, and an air of continual confidence, a combination of nurse, nun, big sister, and warden.

  Wanda-Jean lay on her side and watched Brigitte moving around the room. Brigitte was a compulsive tidier. She seemed incapable of just sitting still and slouching. If nothing else was going on, Brigitte would get up and tidy. It got on Wanda-Jean's nerves. A lot of things about Brigitte got on Wanda-Jean's nerves. Sometimes she wondered if that was the way condemned prisoners felt. They used to be watched nonstop by obliging guards. The thing Wanda-Jean couldn't get over was that Brigitte had sat with a dozen other contestants before her. She propped herself up on one elbow. "How many of the contestants won?"

  Brigitte looked around blankly. "What?"

  "The contestants you've looked after-how many of them won?"

  Brigitte came over to her and briskly plumped up a pillow. "Aren't you getting a little morbid, dear? All this talk about being the bad girl, and bad luck, and now this. I'd think about something else if I were you. Why don't you watch TV or something? There's 'Penal Colony' on channel 80. You like that?"

  Wanda-Jean stuck out her lower lip. "I don't want to watch TV. I want to know how many of the contestants who've been through your hands have won. Okay?"

  "Isn't this all a bit childish?"

  "How many won, goddamn it?"

  As Wanda-Jean's voice got more hysterical, Brigitte's, in direct proportion, became more soothing.

  "I can't tell you that."

  "Why not?"

  "It's against the rules, dear."

  Wanda-Jean tried wheedling. "You can tell me, Brigitte. Nobody will find out."

  "I can't, and you know that."

  "Then fuck you, you miserable bitch. You probably put a jinx on all of them."

  "You ought to start to grow up, dear. Neither of us needs this sort of thing."

  Wanda-Jean rolled over so her back was toward Bri-gitte. She lay in sullen silence for a long time, until a new idea struck her.

  "I want to go out."

  Brigitte's patient look switched on. "You know you can't do that."

  "So I'm a prisoner?"

  "You're not a prisoner. You have to stay inside for your own protection."

  "Who's going to hurt me?"

  "Fans, psychopaths, people who've bet on the show, you want a list?"

  "How am I supposed to get any exercise if I can't get out?"

  "You know damn well that there's a gym, a swimming pool, and a sauna in the basement of the hotel. You can use them anytime."

  "I just can't stand being cooped up in here. It's driving me crazy.''

  "If you don't like the rules there's a very obvious solution."

  Wanda-Jean raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What solution?"

  Brigitte smiled. It was a calm, superior smile. "You can always quit the show. Go back to your job and your little apartment and forget the whole thing ever happened."

  Wanda-Jean glared at her. "You'd really like that, wouldn't you?"

  "I don't care either way. It's not my job to get involved."

  "Yeah?"

  "You can believe what you like."

  Wanda-Jean lay flat on her back and stared at the ceiling. Brigitte moved busily about the room. All Wanda-Jean could think about was how ridiculous the whole situation was. She was supposed to be a star, the fan magazines told her that, and yet she wasn't even allowed to enjoy it.

  The bodyguard stuck his head around the door. The bodyguards were changed regularly, but they all had the same flat, faceless, unapproachable expression, close-cropped bullet head, and massive shoulders. They reminded Wanda-Jean of retired ball players.

  "There's a visitor coming up."

  Wanda-Jean sat up. "Who is it?"

  "It's a Mr. Priest."

  "I'm not sure I want to see him."

  Brigitte stepped in. "Send Mr. Priest right through."

  "Sure."

  Wanda-Jean jumped angrily to her feet. "Don't I get any say in the matter? I said I didn't want to see him."

  "You don't say that to Bobby Priest."

  "Jesus…"

  "Hi, there. Is everybody happy?"

  Bobby Priest was already in the room. He was almost as flamboyant off set as he was on. His white lounging suit would have cost a month's salary for Wanda-Jean at her old job.

  Wanda-Jean was still standing glowering at Brigitte with clenched fists. Brigitte managed a calm greeting.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Priest."

  "Hi there, Brigitte. Do I detect some tension in the air?"

  "I think Wanda-Jean is starting to feel the strain. The fan rags weren't very kind to her."

  Bobby Priest was the picture of caring concern. He put a protective arm around Wanda-Jean. "You don't want to let those things get to you. They got to write something or they wouldn't stay in business."

  Wanda-Jean crumpled. She sat down on the bed. "It's not just that. It's the whole thing, being shut up in here, not having any life of my own. It just gets so hard."

  "You'll be the one who's laughing, when you win."

  "If I win."

  "You got to think positive."

  "Everyone seems to want to tell me what I got to do."

  Bobby Priest sat down beside her. He took hold of her hand and stroked it. "Just relax, babe. Take one thing at a time and you'll be okay."

  "You don't know what it's like. It's the waiting, the not knowing what's going to happen to you."

  "You think I don't have troubles?"

  Wanda-Jean dropped her head into her hands. "Yeah, I suppose so. I've just got myself wound up."

  Bobby Priest patted her shoulder and got up. "I think I know what you need. You need to get out of here for a while."

  Wanda-Jean looked up sharply. "I've been saying that all day. I just get told that it's against the rules."

  "Not if you're with me."

  Wanda-Jean half smiled. She almost, but not quite, fluttered her eyelashes. "Are you asking me for a date, Mr. Priest?"

  Bobby Priest hit a formal pose. "I'd be honored if you'd permit me to take you to dinner tonight, ma'am."

  Wanda-Jean laughed. "I'd be honored to come."

  Instantly Bobby Priest was back again being his highspeed self. "Good. I've got to move now. I'll pick you up at eight."

  "I'll be ready."

  "Yeah, right."

  It seemed as though Wanda-Jean was dismissed already. With mixed feelings, she watched Priest hurry out of the suite.

  RALPH EMERGED FROM THE RT EXPRESS station to the all-too-familiar crowding, the piled-up trash, and the relentless decay. Even the booze and the contempt that familiarity was supposed to breed didn't stop the dull fear that always nagged at his gut on the ride home. The fear started fairly soon after the monorail pulled out of Reagan Plaza. That was the last outpost of downtown civilization. After Reagan Plaza, the twilight sprawl started, the miles of urban wasteland, the seemingly endless expanse of burned-out shopping malls, twentieth-century high-rise towers that loomed like giant crumbling headstones, and the equally beat-up durafoam adobes that were the sad legacy of the Cuomo Administration's final, doomed crusade for national urban renewal. From Reagan on, only the underclass rode the rail, and they had long since been told to go and lose themselves. The cops had been pulled off the trains and it was a safe bet that there was no one watching the security monitors. The farther out one went from Reagan Plaza station, the more the fear grew. The cars became increasingly e
mpty, and the dwindling numbers of passengers became more and more vulnerable to attacks by gangs of railjammers, bloods, and locos. Once upon a time, robbery had been the motive. Now most of the passengers who went all the way out to Lincoln Avenue, 207th Street, Southend, or the Point had very little worth stealing. That didn't, however, stop the attacks. The weirdies were on the rail, and they were so unpredictable they could do just about anything to the lone riders that were unfortunate enough to be on a train they took it into their heads to wild through.

  Down on street level, the rail curved away, over the roofs of buildings that sagged against each other, apparently kept up only by encrusted grime and a miracle. Lincoln Avenue had once been a prosperous neighborhood shopping strip, but it had become a picture of desolation. The few stores that were still open were protected by steel grilles on the outside and armed guards within. Layers of graffiti covered every flat surface. Winos and derelicts shuffled on the cracked sidewalks, and groups of young men stood on street corners in immobile surly groups. Their fury at simply being alive was only temporarily damped down by Serenax, Blind Tiger, and Night Train.

  As his own booze haze wore off, it left behind a nagging depression, the kind of depression where every problem, big or small, becomes insurmountable. He brooded for a minute or so on how Sam didn't like him. He meant to be pleasant to Sam, but, always, it ended up with him picking on the guy. He had even left Sam standing on the street that night. He had walked off without saying so much as "Good night" or "See you later."

  Ralph's depressions had a habit of jumping from subject to subject. From Sam he moved on to the stiffs who were dying. Ralph had been brought up on the old TV late shows, the fearless private eyes who stumbled across a telltale clue to corruption in high places, or the courageous reporters who brought down governments. They had always fought their way through against all the odds; they stripped away the facade and showed the world the rotten side of the big and powerful.