The Search for the Dice Man

by Luke Rhinehart

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Kim asked.

  Honoria simply stared out into the room.

  Mr Battle rose with great dignity and restraint and walked over to stand looking down at his daughter.

  ‘That will be all, Elsie,’ he said to the housekeeper. ‘I’ll call if we need you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  After Elsie had left. Mr Battle turned back to his daughter.

  ‘Where’s Larry?’ asked Mr Battle.

  ‘In hell, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Honoria.

  ‘What happened!?’ pressed Kim.

  Honoria came out of her trance to lean towards Kim.

  ‘You have no idea what it’s like in Lukedom,’ she said. ‘Nothing’s reliable.’

  ‘But where’s Larry?’ persisted Mr Battle.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Honoria, collapsing back into the couch.

  ‘Is he still there?’ asked Kim.

  ‘He deserted me,’ said Honoria. ‘He’s somehow been infected with dice measles!’

  ‘And he’s still there?’ persisted Mr Battle.

  ‘Be serious,’ said Kim, standing with a frown. ‘You left and he stayed?’ she asked.

  ‘I begged him to come. He refused. I want nothing more to do with him.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear,’ said Mr Battle. ‘Larry may be temporarily deranged, but that’s no reason –’

  ‘I’ve broken our engagement and given him back his imitation ring,’ said Honoria.

  ‘You didn’t!?’ said Kim.

  ‘I did,’ said Honoria. ‘I should have done it years ago.’

  ‘You’ve only been engaged for two months,’ Kim reminded her.

  ‘I made a mistake.’

  ‘Nonsense, Daughter, you –’

  ‘I was kidnapped. I almost died.’

  ‘Kidnapped!?’ Kim exclaimed.

  ‘How did you almost die?’ asked Mr Battle with a frown.

  ‘I trusted a teenage rapist.’

  ‘What happened?!’

  ‘A kamikaze madman from that horrible place kidnapped me into an aeroplane and then tried to commit hari-kari by landing on the Long Island Expressway.’

  That’s impossible!’ said Mr Battle. ‘What about traffic?’

  Honoria settled for a scream.

  FROM LUKE’S JOURNAL

  Ah, the human charade. What fun it would be if the players only knew they were playing! In the theatre if an actor begins to ‘live’ his role, to ‘become’ the character he is playing, we call him insane. But in life we actors take all our roles seriously … ‘live’ each one, ‘become each one and are, accordingly, insane.

  To live we must play roles. The question is only whether we let the roles play us or let us play the roles. When a role plays us we become absorbed in it, identified with it. Its loss is our loss; its triumph, our triumph. We take it seriously. We suffer.

  Why did nature build into humans this destructive, anti-joy original sin element of seriousness? Without it men might float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. With seriousness we float like elephants and sting like fleas.

  25

  It look me a couple of hours to recover from Honoria’s departure. At first I maturely tried to drown my worries in a few drinks at the inn bar but was distracted by people coming up to me and starting conversations that seemed to interest them but not me. I regretted letting Honoria go, wishing that I’d gone with her or had insisted we stay until the next morning. I knew I’d never shake the deep anxiety I was feeling until I got back to Honoria, Wall Street and sanity. If I was to achieve anything from this disastrous trip then I had to try to learn all I could in the next few hours and to hell with the consequences. Since normal laws obviously didn’t hold sway in Lukedom even if I were caught red-handed breaking into Jake’s office, so what? The worst thing Lukedom would do to me was kick me out!

  So I dropped into the town hardware store and purchased a small crowbar, a hacksaw, a flashlight and even a set of skeleton keys, though I doubted they’d fit any lock I might get interested in. It was too bad Rick wasn’t back from the airport: he could probably steal anything without all this hardware.

  After dinner, when it was fully dark, I marched over to the church which, thankfully, was lightless and seemed deserted. The side door was locked but the main door to the church itself was unlocked! I wandered down the central aisle and up past the altar and off to the right where I saw a passageway. Sure enough it led down a short hall to a door which was, voilà!, unlocked. I recognized the new hallway as the one leading to Jake’s office.

  The office door was locked and none of the skeleton keys fitted, but I grinned. I then took great pleasure in using the crowbar to split the door open, happy to see the lock dangling nicely askew when I was finished.

  Inside, I went to the desk to see if anything interesting was there that hadn’t been in the office on Sunday. There was some new correspondence, but again nothing but fan letters, inquiries, psychiatric pamphlets and a letter of insider gossip.

  I then attacked the locked drawer of the file cabinet. Again the crowbar did the trick, leaving the lock a hapless clump of metal on the floor and the whole front plate of the cabinet swaying in the wind, fastened now only on one side.

  But the files themselves were less fun. They were arranged chronologically, starting in 1975, thick files for the early years, then a decade of thin ones, then thick files again for the last three years. I began browsing through 1990 for references to my father but was disappointed to find none whatsoever. As I continued scanning various documents I gradually became aware of references to DI, capitalized but without periods. Whether DI was a person or an organization wasn’t clear, but whoever or whatever it was, DI was an important contributor to Lukedom – especially money. Most references to DI were in connection with receiving or requesting funds.

  This was clearly important, but nothing I read indicated where or in what manner this DI existed, human or institutional.

  After a half-hour I tired of scanning documents in the dim light of my flashlight and went to the waste-paper basket. After spilling the contents on to the floor I was about to kneel down to make a search when I realized someone had turned on the hall light.

  Footsteps began echoing down the hall towards me. A man was humming. I remained frozen, standing next to the open and battered file cabinet, my feet buried in the sea of trash from the waste-paper basket, staring at the open and damaged office door.

  Jake arrived, switched on the office light and stopped to stare at me.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Jake. ‘What a mess!’

  I looked down at the jumble I was standing in, then back at Jake.

  ‘Looks like a break-in,’ said Jake, fingering the broken lock of his door. ‘You notice anyone?’

  I stared at Jake.

  ‘Notice?’

  Yeah,’ said Jake, finally entering and taking a seat in his desk chair. ‘Anyone leaving when you came into the building?’

  ‘Uh, no.’

  ‘Jesus, the guy left his crowbar,’ said Jake, taking hold of the instrument I’d left on Jake’s desk. ‘Can you get fingerprints from metal?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, trying casually to hold my flashlight behind my back.

  ‘Hell, who cares?’ said Jake. ‘There’s nothing worth stealing in here anyhow. Probably just some random dice decision.’

  ‘It was me,’ I at last blurted.

  ‘You made a random dice decision?’ said Jake, looking up. ‘That’s great!’

  ‘I broke in here,’ I continued, beginning at last to feel something, namely annoyance. ‘It’s me who wrecked the file cabinet and spilled the trash.’

  ‘That’s terrific!’ said Jake, swinging around in his chair and beaming at me. ‘What else did the dice tell you to do?’

  ‘It wasn’t the dice!’ I snapped. ‘I broke in here to try to find out something about my father!’

  Jake frowned.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. �
��And you didn’t ask the dice if it was a good idea?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Who or what is Dl?’ I asked aggressively.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And who’s writing you from Tokyo?’

  ‘Ah, ha.’

  Well?’

  Jake continued frowning and finally emitted a big sigh.

  ‘You’ll never get anyplace without the dice,’ he said sadly. ‘As long as you make your own decisions you’ll look in all the wrong places. You expect to find a letter from Luke in there?’

  ‘I didn’t know what I’d find,’ I said, kneeling now and beginning to put the trash back in the basket. ‘I just knew you weren’t helping but that you must know where Luke is.’

  ‘Hey, I’m helping!’ insisted Jake, bending forward in his chair to help with the clean-up. ‘You’ve already been here two days and only need another five for me to give you a real lead. You’re just not patient.’

  ‘What’s DI?’ I asked Larry, standing and irritably reclaiming my crowbar from the desk.

  Jake looked up without expression for a long moment, then sighed.

  ‘I can tell you in five days. Tomorrow morning you have to start work with your diceguide. He – or maybe it’ll be a she – will really let you know what’s what.’

  ‘I already know what’s what.’

  ‘Sure.’ said Jake, ‘and he’ll teach you what else can be what if you just give it a chance.’

  I glared at Jake for a long moment and then marched out. I didn’t even bother to reclaim my hacksaw.

  26

  Alone in an unaccustomed bed, listening to startling and unnerving sounds, I slept badly and was awakened by a cacophony of bird calls, caws, coos and warbles that made me wonder how anyone in the country ever managed to sleep past daybreak. I was used to getting up at seven each morning to catch the results of the overnight trading in Tokyo, but the birds must have been even more interested in the markets since they started at six. Wobbly, blurry eyed, I dressed and went down the stairs to pretend to conform to Lukedom and see what I could find.

  The dicetrainer turned out to be a she – the young woman in purple slacks and matching print top who had found everything ‘wonderful’ at the orientation centre. This morning she was dressed in a severe grey suit and her name was no longer Wendy. She introduced herself as Ms Kalb, Kathy Kalb. It was her task, she announced, to let you people – there were ten or eleven others besides me – discover how we could enrich our lives by letting chance come in.

  The class – if that’s what it was – took place in a small room in the back of the orientation building. There were thirteen or fourteen old school desk-chairs and a small lectern. Kathy paced in front of the students, a half-dozen sitting in each of the first two rows, and me alone in the third. I thought it was all very shabby. I almost felt embarrassed for my father. This was all that was left of the Dice Man’s legacy? A flaky female in a run-down back room preaching about letting chance, like a poor man’s holy ghost, into our lives? And to find Luke I was going to have to sit through it!

  Kathy, it turned out, was no fool. She knew what she was talking about, cared what she was talking about, and didn’t give a damn if we were stupid or resisting or fawning or what we were. She made it clear in her manner that everyone was a total fool and that the only salvation lay in flexible multiple foolishness rather than rigid single foolishness.

  ‘Die-ing is simple,’ she began. ‘Instead of doing what your usual self wants to do, list some other options that a small part of you feels might be possible or interesting, and then cast a die to choose from among them. At the simplest level the dice choose among films, books, clothing, food, friends and activities open to you at a given time. At a more challenging level, the dice come to choose how you act, which kind of person you pretend to be – which kind of person you in effect are.’

  She strode back and forth in front of us, stopping to peer intensely first at one person and then another.

  ‘Our basic principles are also simple. First, all humans in complex and contradictory societies are filled with many inconsistent attitudes and desires. The normal self fights these contradictions and is miserable. The wise man embraces them and flows.

  ‘Secondly, to go from the cage of a single self to the amusement park of multiple living you need to exercise, to play games which break down your self-imposed limitations, to permit the expression of a variety of emotions, talents and ways of living.

  ‘Of course the killing of your self is almost as difficult as physical suicide – although generally more rewarding. Here in Lukedom we’ve made this process easier by creating an environment where inconsistency and multiple role-playing is the norm, where no one cares who you are or what you did in the past. Here you can use new names, masks and costumes to enhance your role-playing. This immersion in an environment in which many people are changing their lives as often as their clothes, and where they have no expectation that you will be the same person day after day, should help to release you from the pressure to be your “usual” self.

  ‘Just die,’ she continued, moving back to the centre of the room and seeming to address everyone rather than one person in particular. ‘Let go. Cease being you. I don’t care if you’re here hoping to find salvation, success in the outside business world, orgies, or to locate Luke Rhinehart, you won’t get what you want no matter what you do unless you die, let go, cease to exist. Give up the asshole you think you are and try being a new one. Notice the improvement – no, notice nothing, just be.

  ‘The dice are nothing special,’ she went on, resuming her pacing, glaring, stopping, spitting out some words, caressing others. ‘Just a gimmick to dramatize the arbitrariness of decision-making. If you flip a coin to decide which movie to go to you are letting go of a small piece of the dominant jerk you think you are. If you flip a coin to decide how you’re going to behave with your boss you’re letting go of a bigger piece. Flipping dice is a gimmick to help you let go of larger and larger pieces of your self. So don’t get addicted. The diceperson can be as big a jerk as the next, so you’ve got to give him up too’

  I was surprised at the way I began to be interested in her spiel. I’d sat down filled with anticipatory resentment, had at first internally criticized Ms Kalb’s dress, speaking voice and verbal style, but then gradually found my mind being engaged by what she was saying, perhaps because she so clearly didn’t give a damn whether I approved or not. I had never given any serious thought to what my father had been about, except to reject it out of hand, but she was getting through. She acted as if she were providing a service that people could take or leave as they saw fit, and she couldn’t care less.

  ‘It’s easy to cheat at diceliving,’ she went on. ‘Everyone does it all the time. You simply say to yourself that the basic lovable jerk you are is still intact, but that because it’s trendy or convenient or fun you’re now going to pretend for an hour or a day to be a new, different jerk …

  ‘Won’t work,’ she announced after a brief pause. ‘Life is strange: it only really works when you lose awareness of who you are and immerse yourself in an act, a role, a life. Surrender to the roll of roles, surrender to each new act, surrender to newness and change …’

  After about an hour of Kathy’s talking and answering questions, she broke the group up into smaller units. We were given specific assignments, some to do with jobs during the rest of the day, some to do with more training with other guides. Kathy, aka Wendy, then took me on personally in a one-on-one session that didn’t go quite as I liked.

  ‘What are you afraid of losing?’ she began abruptly, sitting opposite me only inches away in the ridiculous desk-chairs that passed for seating arrangements. We were now alone in the room and I was ill-at-ease, trying to pretend to go along with all this while on the one hand having to fight really going along with it, and absolutely refusing to go along with it on the other.

  ‘Nothing, that I’m aware of,’ I answered, try
ing a half-smile that implied I was looking forward to playing whatever silly games she might suggest.

  ‘Good,’ she countered. ‘Get undressed.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  Take off all your clothes,’ she said. ‘Stand nude in front of me.’

  I looked at her, calculating. What had this to do with the dicelife? Was this some sort of personal test? Did I pass it by undressing or by not undressing?

  ‘I’ll have to consult the dice,’ I said, with sudden inspiration. I look out the green die I’d been given at the beginning of the session and idly shook it in my right hand.

  ‘If the die falls a “six",’ I announced, adopting again my half-smile, ‘I’ll undress. If it doesn’t, I won’t.’

  ‘Fine.’ said Kathy.

  I dropped the die on the desk pan of my chair: a ‘three.’

  ‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘It looks like I remain the well-dressed man.’

  ‘Fine. What are you afraid of losing?’ She gazed at me without the least decipherable expression, waiting.

  I was unable to suppress a tiny grimace.

  ‘Nothing … that I’m aware of,’ I repeated.

  ‘Fine,’ said Kathy. ‘Give me a cheque for two thousand dollars.’

  Two thousand dollars. I found myself wendering how she’d arrived at that particular figure. If she’d said a hundred dollars I might have made out the cheque with a yawn; if she’d said a hundred thousand dollars, I’d have simply shaken my head. Two thousand, though. What kind of a test was this?

  ‘I’ll have to consult the die,’ I said after a long hesitation.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘If it’s a “six” I’ll give you a cheque for two thousand dollars,’ I said. ‘If not, I won’t.’ I dropped the die. I noticed that Kathy didn’t even bother to look at the result. It was a ‘one.’ I was still solvent.

  ‘So,’ she said even before I announced the result. ‘What are you afraid of losing?’