The Dream of Doctor Bantam

by Jeanne Thornton

  The girl sitting behind the lobby desk—INTAKE, read its neat golden plaque—looked up and wiped her nose with a tissue.

  Julie, said Patrice, folding her hands behind the plaque.

  Julie stood in the front foyer of the Institute of Temporal Illusions, and the air conditioning, on full power, burned her skin, made the still-wet flesh around her eyes sting; she was smiling; she was telling herself that this was the right thing to do at last.

  10

  I thought you had quit, Patrice said. I thought you were against my beliefs.

  I went on strike, Julie said. I had grievances. What’re you doing tonight?

  Patrice flushed.

  I’m working, she said.

  I can see that, said Julie. So, is this where all the magic happens?

  She knew she shouldn’t have said it. Once she’d seen a children’s show with a sequence explaining how a factory was built, one filmed using a time-lapse process. You started out with a field, flat and green, and then the trucks circled, one by one. Workers spilled out like ants and began to unload beams, torches, rivets. At first it looked like nothing, like teeth in a dry mouth. Then, bone by bone, the factory started to rise. It was all set to jazz music; the triple-tonguing started here. Soon enough the gaps were filled in, steel shining in the sun. The grass was gone. A fat tuba blew and smoke shot out of the top; the furnaces were burning angrily somewhere inside.

  Yes, said Patrice. This is where we conduct the normal, healthy business and counseling operations of the Institute of Temporal Illusions. Do you have any questions about that?

  Do I …

  Do you have any questions about that?

  This quality to her: her bronze shoulders so hunched in on themselves, her long neck extended like a goose’s.

  If you don’t have any questions, Patrice said at last, then I have a question for you. Can you help yourself?

  Can I what? asked Julie.

  Can you help yourself? repeated Patrice.

  She was perched above her chair, balanced on her toes; her eyes so brown and liquid, like mud baking into bricks. Her face was scrunched up, like she was sucking on a lemon warhead. Julie giggled.

  No, I can’t, she said.

  It is a serious question, said Patrice.

  I can’t help myself, Julie sang. I luh-huv you and nobody else—

  Please do not sing, said Patrice. This is serious.

  Julie sat down on the edge of the INTAKE desk and smiled at her.

  Please do not sit on the INTAKE desk, said Patrice. Julie. This is serious.

  Let’s ditch work, said Julie. Let’s go back to your place. I’ll bake you a cake or something. Is there any more of that stuff I brought you? The fancy groceries and stuff? Probably not the lettuce, right?

  Patrice sighed and looked at the floor.

  Did you? asked Julie.

  I didn’t know how to cook any of it, said Patrice. It got, got wilted.

  Julie laughed; Patrice pouted at her.

  It did, she said.

  Poor Patrice, said Julie. Poor Patrice’s lettuce got all wilted.

  I have a lot of work to do, Patrice said.

  I’m sorry I abandoned you, Julie said.

  She leaned across the desk, letting the INTAKE plaque dig her in the hip. Patrice scooted her chair backward until she hit the wall. There were six inches of space between them.

  You must get off the desk, said Patrice.

  I must talk to you, said Julie. Will you talk to me?

  She could hear the footsteps coming long before they got there; she had plenty of time to get off the desk if she wanted to; she didn’t want to. And here was the pale undergraduate who had been in her apartment that night, stepping out of the hallway that led to the back office, his march definite, forceful, like Donald Duck with a mad-on.

  When she saw him, Patrice got up from her chair and stood close to him, halfway across the hallway. Julie, still on the desk, propped herself on her elbows; her ass was sticking out, pressing down a sheaf of forms. The man didn’t move either; his glasses were smeared over with fluorescent light; he kept his hands in his pockets. He was taking this very well.

  Do we have a contingency here? asked the man. Patrice?

  There’s no contingency, Gregory, said Patrice. Julie was just leaving.

  This is the property manager, isn’t it? asked Gregory. Your name?

  Anastasia Metropole, said Julie.

  Okay, Julie, said Gregory. Let me ask you something, Julie.

  He could cross a floor very quickly, when he wanted to. Here he was, standing over her. Here he was, only two inches between her ass and the plastic zipper of his navy slacks.

  What is your purpose here? he asked.

  My purpose? she asked.

  What is your purpose here, he repeated, louder.

  His breath was a wave of mints, and below them, MSG.

  Um, she said. I wanted to talk to Patrice.

  Patrice stared at the null space between him on the tiles and her on the desk.

  You wanted to talk to Patrice, he said. And did you talk to her?

  For like three seconds before you came in, she said. She took her weight off one arm and crossed it over her chest.

  So you talked to her, he said. Then your purpose here is finished. Isn’t it?

  What did the MSG on his breath come from, originally? Was he a pork man, or a beef? Was it shrimp, tofu, kale? Was it just plain ramen?

  Patrice was looking at her feet, twisting one against the other.

  Will you leave now? Gregory asked. Or do I have to call the police to arrest you for criminal trespassing and damage of property?

  She really would have left, she realized, had he not said this. She turned over, sat up, and planted the soles of her galoshes squarely on the blotter.

  Actually, yes, she said. You’re going to have to call the police to remove me.

  He leaned right over and picked up the receiver.

  I’m going to call, he announced, and his voice broke.

  She laughed at him, though she knew she shouldn’t; she was breathing fast. He let his fingers rest on the touch pad for a moment before dialing; he let his fingerprints rest on each key for a second before he pushed them, like he was caressing the nubs of Braille.

  Hello, he said. This is Gregory Roche at the Institute of Temporal Illusions at 2200 Guadalupe. I’m calling to report an intruder on our premises.

  Hi, called Julie.

  Yes, that’s her, Gregory confirmed. She’s broken into our office, and she’s damaging valuable property. She’s destroying files that belong to us. I’ve asked her to leave repeatedly and she hasn’t done it.

  Patrice said something in French, something fast and clipped.

  You only asked me to leave once, said Julie, bouncing up and down on the top of the desk.

  I estimate the damage she’s doing at thousands of dollars, he said. Maybe millions, considering how many records we have in our filing system, and the value of the information.

  You’re terrible at this, said Julie. Let me talk to him.

  Gregory turned his back to her. His ass was huge from the rear, womanish.

  You already have our address, he said. This is really a serious matter and we would appreciate your attention to it.

  Let me talk to him! shouted Julie. Hey, Officer, I want to talk to you!

  Please hurry, he said, and he turned back to Julie and hung up the phone. He was raising his bushy T. S. Eliot eyebrows at her, comically outsized; she burst out laughing.

  Go ahead, laugh, he said. Now is all there is, isn’t that right? Your core identity is all you see, isn’t it?

  I have no idea what you’re talking about, she laughed. It is funny, though.

  I’m sorry you feel that way, he smiled.

  She folded one of the forms into a paper airplane and hit him in the face with it.

  That’s a million dollar plane I just threw at you, she said.

  How sick you are, he
said. Are you familiar with the term destruction addict?

  That’s another one, she said, throwing another one. I’m like Mohammed Atta over here.

  Tick, he said. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  She laughed again. She kept laughing and throwing the papers up in heaps and he kept repeating it.

  Tick, he said. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  Tick, she said on the backbeat. Tick-tick! Tickety-tickety—tock. Tick!

  Tick, he said. Tock.

  Stop it, she said.

  Leave, he said.

  Not until the cops get here, she said.

  —yourself, he said. Tick. Tock.

  There was just no reason it should have been as irritating as it was. Any minute he’ll stop, she kept thinking. Any minute he’ll stop. He didn’t stop. His voice got hoarse and began to crack, but he didn’t stop. There was no clock on the wall so she started counting how many times he said it. She lost count after one hundred and twenty.

  I have to go to the bathroom, she told him.

  There’s a bathroom next door, he said. Tick. Just leave. Tock.

  I want to talk to the cops, she said. So I’m not leaving. Where’s your bathroom?

  We don’t have one, he said. Tick. Tock.

  Then I guess the cops are going to have to talk to you about your building code violations, she said.

  She counted along with him again, out loud; they went up to a hundred; he kept going.

  Seriously, she said. It’s not actually legal not to let someone go to the bathroom. It’s against the Geneva Conventions.

  I told you, you can—tick—use the bathroom, he said. Tock. You can leave—tick—and use the bathroom next door. Tock.

  Then I’m going to piss on the desk, she said. Is that okay?

  He stopped speaking.

  Tick, she suggested.

  If you do that, you’re going to jail, he croaked.

  I’m already going to jail, she said. For millions of dollars’ worth of property damage. So I don’t mind going to jail. You’re the one who’ll have to clean up.

  That’s fine, he said.

  But he didn’t start ticking again. He also didn’t move.

  Ssssss, said Julie. Ssssss. I’m thinking about waterfalls. Sssssssssss.

  I’ll take her to the bathroom, Patrice broke in.

  Gregory sat there, hands in his pockets. He looked like he was going to cry. Julie felt scummy all of a sudden, like she’d just bullied a kid from a bad home where cartoons weren’t allowed.

  Keep her out of the offices and counseling rooms, he finally said. The equipment is all very sensitive in there.

  Yes, Patrice nodded. She looked at Julie, gave her best Oliver Hardy frown.

  Julie got off the desk and fell into step beside Patrice. As she passed Gregory: Sssss.

  Out of sight of the lobby, the Institute building shrank: the hallway ceiling dangled six inches above their heads; stucco stalactites scraped their hair; water leaks stained the edges of every corner brown, like the fake treasure maps she’d had to make in the conquistadores unit in fifth grade. Boxes, brimming with papers—unlabeled, their edges crushed—shored up the walls; when there were doors, their signs were mysterious: NO TIMEBOUND BEYOND, CONCENTRATION A, LIBRARY OF ILLUSIONS. Her steps echoed off walls thickened up with what looked like six sticky coats of mint toothpaste, all mismatched. And was she walking in time with the rhythm this Gregory had established, scratched into her with his jagged adolescent voice? She skipped, shuffled, paused and jumped forward with both feet, trying to break out the words she could still hear him saying.

  Connards, shouted Patrice the moment the bathroom door shut behind them.

  Then her face slumped; her shoulders rose and fell.

  Two currents ran through Julie: one told her to grab Patrice around the waist, to run her tongue along her neck. The other one told her to keep out of range of her fists, the claws she hadn’t before now seen.

  Jesus, she said, resolving the two currents somehow.

  I am sorry, said Patrice, leaning on the sink. She took a pack of cigarettes from her purse and lit one. He is right, of course. You are trespassing and you should go. He is just …

  She dragged on her cigarette and looked at herself in the mirror.

  He’s just, prompted Julie.

  Patrice tightened her mouth’s grip on the cigarette and drew her bangs across her eyes with both fingers, then pulled them back, tight. There was smoke in the mirror, smoke everywhere. She smoked quietly for long enough that Julie realized she was not going to respond.

  What the fuck, said Julie finally. Why was he ticking?

  Patrice sat on the sink.

  It’s called Process Einstein, she said. The watchmaker, and physicist.

  I know who Einstein was, said Julie.

  Patrice raised an eyebrow at this, suspicious; she decided to ignore it.

  It is meant to be very upsetting to people who are timebound, Patrice said.

  And I’m timebound, Julie said. As we know.

  Patrice smoked and looked at her dangling feet, the patent leather of her toes scuffed.

  Yes, she said. You are not yet free from time.

  But am I a destruction addict? Julie said. That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question, right?

  Patrice kept looking at her scuffed toes.

  Do you have a cigarette for me? asked Julie.

  Patrice rolled her eyes.

  You are supposed to go to the bathroom and then leave, she said.

  I just said that, Julie said. Jesus, I wasn’t going to like, really piss on the desk. Come on: you totally have a cigarette for me.

  If you are not going to the bathroom then we are going back to the lobby, announced Patrice.

  Just one, said Julie.

  She said it again, in a quiet mouse voice. Then she held up her fingers, thumb and index, together, like she was holding up a ball of cotton. Then she made her fingers smaller, like she was holding the end of a feather. Then she mouthed it again. Just … one.

  Patrice giggled. Julie smiled at her and sauntered forward. Patrice took a cigarette from the pack, lit it herself, wiped off some invisible spit from the filter, and handed it to Julie.

  Just one, she said.

  They sat side by side on the sinks and covered the stink of Lysol with the stink of tobacco.

  I apologize for Gregory, said Patrice.

  Am I a destruction addict? asked Julie.

  Patrice thought and smoked, looking at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling.

  No, she decided. You’re only confused. You can still be saved.

  Julie pretended to smile, the ruins of the lock in her heart rattling a little in the wind.

  So what’s timebound, really? she said.

  The way Patrice rolled her cigarette between her index and middle fingers, the cherry of it describing a clock-face of lazy fire in the Lysol air.

  It means two things, Patrice said. Bound like you are going somewhere. And bound like you are tied to something.

  Julie gave her a look. She met it.

  Do you have the feeling that you are waiting for something? she pressed. Something that, maybe, you aren’t sure will ever arrive. Or maybe you have the feeling that you missed something, something that passed you by, and you never got a chance to touch it as it passed you.

  Everyone feels like that, said Julie.

  No, said Patrice, suddenly, so urgently that she flicked the cigarette in her hand like a cat’s tail and ash knocked onto the knee of her skirt, staining it gray. You can’t let yourself think like that. You can’t give up before you start. There is another way.

  Her hand was on Julie’s knee, like that. Was that the first time Patrice had ever touched her?

  There is another way, she said. You can escape from time.

  Robbie with the tarot cards; the answer to her question.

  She got up and put the end of her cigarette under the cold water.

  Julie, you can escape from time, coaxed Patric
e. Time isn’t real.

  Uh huh, said Julie. And that’s how you feel? You’ve escaped from time?

  Not yet, said Patrice. I learn a little more, work a little more every day.

  Every day, said Julie. Okay.

  And every day, I feel a little bit less afraid, said Patrice. I get a little bit stronger. And you could be stronger, too.

  In the mirror over the sink, in the roar of the tap water against the tile: two reflections, one tall and wilting and its eyes overflowing like a fountain of chocolate in a Hershey’s commercial, the other squat, solid like the earth, a soggy cigarette in its hands, its feet poised, ready to cannonball out the door.

  I want you to be stronger, too, Patrice said.

  Julie turned toward her again. Her cigarette had fallen apart; the cherry burned on the tile, its poison smoke circling her bare leg.

  So many times I’ve wanted you to come in and start on courses with me, Patrice said, alone in the space before her. It would be such an adventure, Julie.

  She wanted Patrice to stop talking—on one side of her golden head, one white hand; on the other side, another, and Patrice stopped talking.

  In this moment, she was holding Patrice’s head in her hands for the first time—in this moment, Patrice was looking up at her for the first time, realizing for the first time; in this moment Julie was pulling her head down, feeling the snort of surprise; in this moment she was pressing her lips onto the hot, high curve of Patrice’s skull. And in a moment it would be over; her lips would have to separate; instead of the salt and CVS perfume she would smell tobacco and Lysol; she would have to take her hands off of Patrice’s shoulders (how had they gotten there?); she would have to force herself backwards, out of Patrice’s fingers, suddenly closed tight over her spine. And then the moment came; time moved forward; they stepped apart, six inches between, one reflection in the mirror becoming two, each checking her hair, making sure it was straight.

  They made plans to meet up outside Patrice’s later and Patrice led Julie out to get busted by the cops.

  Getting busted by the cops took very little time. There was just one of them, a lady, her hair dyed henna and curled like a Ren Faire princess. Julie let Officer Kate lead her next door to the Retrograde and buy her a croissant and a cup of coffee, black.