The Dream of Doctor Bantam

by Jeanne Thornton

  Patrice called her that evening at ten as she was eating frozen pancakes fresh from the microwave.

  I just got back from work, she said. I slept so terribly. Can you come over right away and fix some dinner?

  It’s ten o’clock at night, said Julie.

  The time isn’t important, said Patrice. I’m so hungry, Julie. I’m so completely hungry and you need to be here.

  Julie went to hang up the phone, but saw the yellow pages resting on the little footstool below the receiver first. She sat at the table with the phone cradled under her ear and paged through it.

  Here, she said. Pizza Classics. They have a deal, nine dollars for a large pepperoni pizza.

  I don’t eat meat, whimpered Patrice.

  They have a deal, twelve dollars for a large vegetable pizza, said Julie. Here’s the number.

  She read the number out. She waited, her pancakes turning to mush.

  Did you write it down? she asked.

  So I just call this number and they bring me the pizza, Patrice said, slowly.

  It took ten minutes of explaining before Julie was sure that she understood the process and could get through it on her own: the call, the directions, the meeting at the door, the question of whether the pizza is handed over or left in a neutral location, the question of the tip.

  Okay, said Patrice at last. I think I understand the principles.

  Awesome, said Julie. Congratulations. I have to go.

  Will you come back tomorrow at eight? asked Patrice.

  Will you beg me? asked Julie, just before she hung up the phone.

  She sat in the kitchen and finished her pancakes, stirring the icy batter at the bottom of the bowl with her spoon. Then she went to the phone and dialed Patrice’s number.

  Hello? asked Patrice. Is there a problem? Is the pizza still coming?

  Yes, I’ll come back tomorrow at eight, Julie said, and hung up.

  All the next day she couldn’t relax; eight o’clock hung over her. She rode the mystery bike to the bookstore, to the Retrograde for endless glasses of free water, to the creek that ran by Lamar where the college kids played Frisbee golf on their days off. She took her copy of The Dream and Reality of Time Travel along and she sat on the limestone and mud banks of the creek, and she watched college kids and she calculated the time until she became one of them—three months of summer, twelve months of bulk hours—and she wondered just what the difference could be, what would happen to her in that time to make her think that Frisbee golf seemed like a good idea.

  It is a long-held dream of human beings, homo sapiens, said the copy of The Dream and Reality of Time Travel that Tabitha had once intended to give her as a birthday joke, to escape from time. You may not call this dream by such an accurate name, of course. Perhaps you want something simpler for yourself. You want a good, fulfilling job. Success in school. Your own home; your own car. A loving relationship. The pursuit of an escape from time goes by many complicated names and many complicated masks.

  But all the masks cover a single leering face! It is the ugliest face in the world and the most terrifying. If we saw it for what it truly is, we think we would scream in terror. So instead we substitute our masks for the truth. We deny that there is even a face to escape from.

  The face that stares at us is time.

  I see the face for what it is. You see it, too, if you are honest with yourself.

  And if you can see time for what it is—if you stare into the face—the face of time ceases to be terrifying. You will lose the urge to scream. Instead, you will laugh at the fact that you were terrified for so long.

  What is time?

  Time is an illusion, the illusion that life proceeds as a series of events that “happen” to a series of individuals. Time is the illusion that our lives, our hopes and our dreams are constrained to a single line that leads in a single direction, from something we call birth to something we call death. We can’t escape time, we think. We can’t escape death and so we fill our lives, our identities, with hollow pursuits, with illusions of escape. Fulfilling jobs. Scholastic success. Possessions. Love.

  These are comfortable goals; there is no question. But in an ultimate sense, they miss the point. They are responses to a mask. No one thinks to take off the mask, to make the ultimate escape. No one thinks to master our knowledge and our identity and to escape from time itself.

  This is the reality of time travel—and this, if you are willing finally to face the fears that you deny you have, is the subject of this book.

  Goodbye, she said at seven, jangling her keys as she stepped into the garage.

  There was no answer from Linda’s room at the back of the house. She waited.

  Don’t worry, I will, she called, and then she shut the door.

  She let the bike grind to a stop across Patrice’s lawn. Ira Wasserman was on the porch of the house, smoking cigarettes and playing Chet Baker from a tiny boom box perched on the railing.

  Mazel Tov, he shouted. You found it! I didn’t even put up a flyer for it yet! I meant to!

  Julie had no idea what he was talking about until she remembered when she had gotten the bike.

  It was easy, she said. Is there a reward?

  There’s beer, he said. Come on inside.

  His kitchen counters buckled under the weight of a hundred accumulated bills, water-electric-gas-power-tuition-who knew what, all scattered in thick envelopes around the room. A pile of unsold copies of the Bluecollar Review were sleeping in a wicker dog basket on the floor. The sink was filled with sparkling chrome pans and a line of tiny plants in terra cotta that rustled in the open window facing the front yard. A board game map of Europe lay half-played on the round and wide table; Germany had begun pouring its forces into Dover. In the corner sat a guitar that had been welded together from oil drum lids.

  Very post-apocalyptic of you, she said. Did you make this?

  For what it’s worth, Ira said. Your sister liked it, anyway.

  She pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and flopped herself down.

  What kind of beer do you have? she asked.

  The kind that gets you drunk, said Ira, face in the fridge. I mean, what the fuck, who cares. There’s Lone Star, Tecate. Have a Lone Star.

  He set one in front of her and one in front of himself and sat down at the table. From the pocket of his shorts he took a keyring made from an old C-clamp and took the top off of her bottle, then his own.

  So, he said.

  She sipped the Lone Star.

  So, she said. I met your landlord and everything.

  He put the bottle to his lips.

  I thought you met her the other day, he said.

  I met her again, she said. I totally stayed over at her place and everything.

  You’re not fucking serious, he said.

  Does Julie lie? she asked, spreading her hands.

  Who knows, he said. Maybe Julie lies all the time. How would we ever know?

  She laughed and took a swig of beer. He did as well, then set it on the table and rotated its neck like a joystick, the glass edge of the base digging into the wood.

  So what happened? he asked.

  Nothing much, she said. I mean, it’s hard to explain. She gave me a job. I’m your new property manager.

  Did you fix the air filter? he said.

  If you die of emphysema, it’s not my fault, she said.

  Good to know, he said. So you like it? You like Patrice, I mean?

  I like Patrice okay, she said. She’s interesting. She believes totally crazy things.

  He nodded as he drank his beer. He didn’t look at her as he did it.

  What, she said. You don’t like Patrice?

  She’s a good landlord, he said. Do you like board games? Your sister didn’t.

  Of course I like board games, she said.

  Do you want to be Germany? he asked.

  Don’t avoid my question, she said. We haff ways of making you talk.

  He got her another
beer from the fridge.

  Why don’t you drink that, Ilsa, he said, and I’ll explain you the rules.

  He did; it took half an hour; she couldn’t follow what he was saying at all; he pulled the game board over, by some drunken grace without knocking any of the pieces out of their half-played positions. She rolled dice and bought pieces and moved; he did the same. Slowly her black tanks and soldiers came off the board and stacked themselves up in front of him, and every time her beer bottle got empty there was another one from the fridge that he opened with the C-clamp and set in front of her, the bubbles in the neck rushing and fresh.

  So you like Patrice okay, he said at last.

  He was looking right at her, his brows crinkled over his eyes, a heap of fallen Wehrmacht in front of him.

  She’s a decent enough employer, she said, swallowing her beer and forcing her drying tongue to fall into line. What, seriously, you don’t like her?

  She’s all right, said Ira. She’s okay with my going a day or two without the rent. Or a week or two, or a month. She’s fairly quiet. She’s fairly discreet. I don’t see too many people going up there to see her, you know. Except, now, for you.

  Julie let her head droop.

  You’re saying what, that I shouldn’t see her? she asked.

  I’m not saying anything, he said. Except, you know, I think you should be careful.

  Why? asked Julie. She’s not that pretty.

  She finished her beer and set it on the table next to her, where she’d stacked her empties before. Ira didn’t move to get her another one. He was watching her, his eyes fluid behind his duct tape glasses.

  What? she asked. Get me ‘nother beer, slave.

  He scooted his chair back and replaced her bottle with yet another fresh one.

  I mean she is pretty and all, she said, drumming her fingers on the table as she drank. I mean I’d do her.

  You’d do her, chuckled Ira.

  I’d do her, confirmed Julie.

  He finally took another beer for himself and drank it in one prolonged swallow.

  That’s fucking nice, he said. That’s fucking personal of you. Sorry, that’s fucking personable of you.

  Fuck you, she said. I would too. I’d plow her field. I’d hoe her row.

  You don’t know what you’re talking about, he said.

  Fuck you! she shouted. I know what I want.

  You want to, what, fuck my scary upstairs neighbor? asked Ira.

  Yes, she said. Yes, I want to fuck your scary upstairs neighbor.

  You’re deranged, he said. You’re unhinged. You’re a child.

  Then I want to gather wildflowers, asshole, said Julie. I’ll sit naked in a cabin in the forest with a still pond, and when it rains I’ll play a guitar—I’ll learn to play the guitar—and when it’s sunny, I’ll gather wildflowers. All the wildflowers, even the dead ones, or the ones the caterpillars eat, or the ones the bees fuck. I’ll gather them all and I’ll sew them into a giant blanket—I’ll learn to sew—and I’ll sleep under it. I’ll eat wildflowers. I’ll drink nectar. And that’s all I’ll do. After ten years I’ll drown myself in the pond, and, and when they use the hooks to drag my bloated and haggard gray corpse out they’re going to find wildflowers in the pockets of my jeans.

  Ira took the top off of a fresh bottle.

  That’s cute, he said.

  Fuck you, Julie said. Give me that.

  She put her hand on the Lone Star and pulled it toward her, banking on the fact that Ira was older and that he knew, better than her, that it was stupid to fight over a beer because you’d end up spilling the beer, that it was better to be the reasonable person and give up the beer than to have to scrub beer out of your floor. She banked on this and she was right, and the beer was delicious, and when he stood up and walked to the sink, swaying, and unsnapped his shorts and whipped out his penis and pissed all over the clean chrome pans, she didn’t even find it as awkward as on some level, beneath the ferment in her liver, she knew that she really should.

  What time is it? she said.

  Nine ten, he said, freeing his watch hand.

  Oh God, she said.

  She stood up, knocking over the game board, and started to stumble toward the door. She stopped as soon as her hand was on the knob.

  Oh God, she said. Do you have any, like, food?

  Food? he asked, snapping his shorts and blinking.

  She elbowed past him and pawed through his cupboards. Inside was a can of sirloin cheeseburger soup; she grabbed it.

  I may borrow your bike again later, she called on her way out the door for real.

  Sure, he said. No problem. Take everything. What’s mine is yours. Take the shirt from my back.

  Your shirt is disgusting, she said.

  But my back, he shouted after her, across the lawn. My back, is choice.

  She made it upstairs, falling only once, and pounded on the door.

  Patrice, she called. Patrice. C’mon. Lemme the fuck in. It’s Julie.

  She pounded and pounded until the footsteps padded from the back bedroom and opened the door and Julie fell in with it against Patrice’s shoulder. Patrice jerked back and Julie continued down to the floor.

  I broughtcha some soup, she said. Some sirloin cheeseburger soup. It’s gonna be excellent for what ails ya.

  I don’t eat meat, said Patrice, quaking.

  Who is this? asked the man who had been sitting on the couch.

  He was tall, once he stood up, and he looked broader across the shoulders than he probably was, and his skin was whiter than white, so white it disappeared, leaving a splotch of red capillaries probably bursting under his cheeks. His glasses were narrow and his hair was crew-cut and wet, accidentally spiked in a way that made his hair look like a cartoon landscape of a dog’s flank seen through the eyes of a flea. He wore the same white shirt as Patrice, the same shade of navy on his pressed slacks. His mouth, weak, was hanging open; his teeth were crooked. He looked young, like a put-upon undergraduate from one of the more oppressive prep school dormitories—only the voice, only 90 percent scrubbed of a native Deep South accent, betrayed him.

  Who are you? he squeaked.

  This is the girl I was telling you about, said Patrice. The one who was impressive.

  God damn yeah I’m impressive, she said. I’m bringing her food. What’d you ever do for her?

  She rolled the can into the corner of the kitchen and she passed out on the carpet.

  6

  She woke up some hours later with a pain in her ribs and Patrice on the couch in her navy skirt and crossed knees, hatching away at her quadrille notebook. The undergraduate type was gone.

  Julie got to her feet and shambled into the kitchen. She filled a glass of water for herself and scratched her right calf with the toe of her left sock, and put her foot down again to connect with the can of sirloin cheeseburger soup that was still resting on a corner of the kitchen floor.

  Did you eat this? she asked, holding up the can and shaking it, voice more like someone correcting a dog than someone who has just passed out drunk at her employer’s feet after showing up late to work. Did you eat anything?

  We need to talk about this incident, Patrice said.

  Julie cursed and hacked the can open with an opener and cooked it all in the pot, taking a break midway to throw up in the bathroom, nostrils opened by the smell of liquid cheese and corn syrup. The granite face in the painting glared down at her; she flipped it the bird.

  On the way back to the kitchen she peeped into Patrice’s bedroom. The sheets were unmade. This was probably normal.

  So who was that kid, who was here, she asked.

  He’s twenty-two, said Patrice. And he’s my co-worker. Actually, my dismantler.

  Your dismantler, said Julie.

  Yes, said Patrice. My dismantler.

  And you were doing some after-hours dismantling, said Julie. Taking your work home with you.

  Patrice didn’t answer.

  I have an hour b
efore going to work, she said. I think you would benefit from another session on the Machine.

  Here’s your fucking soup, said Julie.

  Patrice looked at it, disturbed the neon surface of it with her spoon.

  Is there meat in this? she asked.

  No, snarled Julie. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Ira had chained his bike to the railing. She screamed and kicked at his wheels until two of the spokes were dented and she started walking toward Lamar, headed north and home.

  When she came back, two days later, she didn’t expect to be able to turn the knob. But it still opened easily for her; Patrice smiled at her; she cooked tofu sausages fried in butter and they ate them with pasta. They didn’t talk about what had happened.

  It wasn’t terrible at all. Most days she’d wake up in Tabitha’s bed at eleven, her mother already gone. She’d take Tabitha’s bike to the Retrograde, she’d scam a coffee, she’d talk to college kids and sponge dollars, she’d beat kids at chess. She saw Ira a couple of times; she sat out on the street and tried and failed to sell Bluecollar Review issues with him. She kept craning her neck over to see if Patrice was out; she never seemed to be there. She didn’t want to walk into the lobby of the building.

  Patrice had given her a spare key; she attached it to her key ring with a kind of reverence—the more keys you had on your key ring, the better you were doing in life. Patrice had told her that if there was any work she had to do more complicated than just cleaning, she’d leave a note, but there were never any notes to be found. So she would tidy up the living room, run some paper towels over the countertops, read from the Signet copy of Crime and Punishment she was supposed to be finishing for English class, fall asleep after five pages and dream about St. Petersburg. Patrice would come home; Julie would cook a meal for her; Patrice would eat it and lounge on the sofa afterward with slender hands curving over her stomach; Julie would bike home feeling dangerous. Or she’d stop by Ira’s and three hours later bike home drunk, forgetting to signal.

  This is the last summer you can get away with this, said Michael one night. I’m glad to see you’re enjoying it.

  I’m glad you’re enjoying my mom’s twat, she said loudly before passing out.