The checkroom man isn’t around. I take my bag off the shelf, wave goodbye to the woman behind the desk and start downstairs. A young man’s running up the stairs. I go outside.
“Dig it, man, dig it,” the man from before says, holding out a flyer.
“You already gave me one. It’s in my pocket.”
“Way to go, man. Best beauties in the West up there, so use it,” and sticks the flyer he was going to give me into another man’s hand. I head home.
When I get there I call the manager of the restaurant I worked in and say “If it’s all right with you, I’m feeling much better now and just think I got unreasonably hot under the collar before and want to come back tomorrow, all right?”
“Let me think about it. Okay. But no more getting so damn temperamental, or you’re through here for good, got that?”
“Right.”
“Same time tomorrow then,” and he hangs up.
THE BUSSED.
There were no passengers on the bus when I got on it. “Forty grens,” the driver said, an unreasonably high fare for not a very long ride, I thought, and I grudgingly fingered through my pockets and wallet but all I could come up with was a five-tavo bill.
“Can’t change it,” he said. “And you know the state rules; no free rides unless you’re a bona fide disabled veteran or visibly pregnant, so I’m afraid you’ll have to get off at the next regular stop.”
“Maybe another passenger can change it.”
“Who’s to guarantee there’ll be other passengers? Sorry: no money, no ride.”
“But I have the money. It’s you who haven’t the change.”
The bus stopped at the corner and the driver pointed past the opened door. “See that bench? It’s been systems analyzed to be uniformly comfortable to the average waiting person for a period of up to an hour. Care has gone into the design, development and fabrication of that bench. The next bus is scheduled in thirty-three minutes, which is generosity on the state’s part seeing how around this time we don’t get but an average of one passenger per tour. And extreme generosity, considering how that one passenger hasn’t even the money to pay. The next driver’s name is Robinson, by the way, so if you’re feeling up to it, give him my regards.”
Someone had left the morning newspaper on the bench. “War in Kamansua progresses,” I read. “506 hostiles killed, enemy’s tally of 51 friendlies dead discounted. President Lax says peace is feasible. Senator Merose calls for investigation of existent sans-culottists in war industry. Senator Servin calls for investigation of unproductive visual and audio agipropaganda. Senator Fleetmore calls for investigation of insane asylums. Says all mental health money should be diverted to war interests. ‘Look at us: first in space, first in peace and defense, first in the technological arts, but still with more asylums than any state in the world. I say that if you’re not sane to begin with, then no treatment or institution is going to make you sane. I call for a war against the insane,’ he said to applauding colleagues. ‘Think of the cost, the state danger and disgrace. I say that if one’s emotionally ill—a euphemism for what’s more validly known as state immediocrities—then that’s his problem to deal and live with in another state, because now, as a unified people, in this indeterminable era, with all mankind to consider, we cannot afford to…’”
The next bus came an hour later, this one also empty.
I got on, five-tavo bull in my hand and explanation prepared. The driver called out the fare and said Intercom had warned him about me so I needn’t bother with useless words. “You’ve had time to get it changed.”
“It’s past worktime and nobody’s around. What I suggest is you ride me to my stop, and when I get home I’ll send Intercom a check for the fare plus whatever expense you think the state might entail in handling it.”
“Words, words. Worse, you’re making me run behind schedule and upsetting my disposition for future passengers.” He drove to the next regular stop. “You’re a lucky man to have come even this far. For all I know, it’s a subterfuge to con your way home without paying the fare—stop by stop via bus by bus with the excuse of having no change.” The door opened, I saw there was no chance in arguing with this guy, and I got off.
All the neighborhood shops were closed. There were no lights on in the windows above the stores. I waited for a hitch, none of the passing cars even slowed down for me, and forty minutes later another empty bus came along. It was the same driver who had refused me a ride nearly two hours ago. “Forty grens, please,” he said, giving no sign he recognized me. I began to walk home. The bus remained at the stop, its interior and headlights still on. A man across the street was walking hurriedly, head down as if bucking rain. I ran to him, and seeing me, he ran away. “Stop,” I yelled. “I’m no thief. I just want to change a fiver for the bus fare.”
He kept running, rolled-up newspaper flying out from under his arm. It was the afternoon paper. I picked it up and read the headline: “‘Victory at last,’ President says.” “Our state leader is a modern-day messiah,” the front page editorial said. And then Senator Fleetmore again—my senator, I only now noticed—thanking the Senate for voting overwhelmingly for his bill barring all future aid and development money for the treatment and cure of the emotionally ill. “Because we all know their only problem is being lazy and unwilling to work and thus survive. Since that is so, I propose incarceration rather than hospitalization. Or, to reduce state costs further, revoke their passports, hand them their extra-state traveling papers, and escort them to the exit gates. I fully expect the House to pass the bill, and the president assures me he’ll sign it into law tomorrow evening, as all of us feel the urgency in getting these emotionally ill—a term I use euphemistically, as they’re more scientifically known as—”
I walked back to the bus, door opened, and I stepped inside. “Please.”
“Forty grens,” he said, driving off.
“I beg you to take me to the stop near my home. I’m not well.”
Then you’ve got to get off. Sick people can be infectious and therefore a living threat to all passengers and personnel.”
“But my wife and child have been waiting two hours for me. They usually pick me up at work, but my wife is ill today so I had to return home by bus for the first time. Look, I’ll give you the entire five tavos for the ride.”
“You trying to make me lose my job, besides getting me thrown in jail? Bribing a public officer, the Book of the State says, is a crime punishable by a minimum of three years imprisonment and the subsequent loss of all statesman rights for not less than ten years after release. I’m sorry, but my duty is to report you.”
“I wasn’t bribing you. I was giving you the money to hold, with the provision—which I thought you’d understand intuitively—that you send me the change when you’re able to, though with all expenses deleted.”
The Book of the State takes very seriously such an offense. It says that the giving of any amount excessive of regular fare to state public officers on state public transportation systems should be constituted a bribe.”
I reached for the lever that opened the door, but he swatted my wrist so hard my hand went limp. “Look what you’ve done,” I said, showing him my hand, which was already beginning to swell. “I need that hand for my job.”
“You were trying to escape. You’re really in for it now, brother, so just sit quietly in the back or you’ll be charged with crimes too numerous to memorize. But they’re all here,” and he pulled a leatherbound Book of the State out of his back pocket—“the rules and punishments and all in simple plain language for nobody to misinterpret.”
I sat in back of the bus. We drove for miles and I never saw another car, person or lit store along the road. I saw the first star of the night and made a wish. “Dear God,” I said. “Let me be with my family who need me as I need them. I know I’m not considered a religious person anymore, as I guess most people aren’t. But I do love my family, offend no one intentionally, speak the truth more than most, and up til
l now have had relatively little to complain about. Grant me this one wish.”
“What are you running on about back there?”
“Quite truthfully, I was wishing.”
The Book of the State,” he said, holding the book up, “—the good book expressly prohibits wishing on public systems if it interferes with the driver’s capability. My advice is to remain silent or your family will only be a pleasant part of your past.”
We approached the corner where I normally would have got off. My wife and child were there, both of them dressed warmly I was glad to see. I’d told Janet not to pick me up at the stop—told her to drink plenty of fluids and I’d see her at home a bit after six. But here she was, puzzled and sad as the bus drove past with me in it. She waved and shook her head to indicate she didn’t know what was going on, and I blew her a kiss which met the one she blew me. “I love you,” I wrote backwards in my condensation on the window. By the time I put the exclamation point on my already runny message, my wife and child were just dots in my sight.
“Nice looking frau,” the driver said. “Some boobs. Things like that really get to me—right here,” and he pointed as he laughed. “And some ass. I’m a big ass man and I saw it as we were driving up and she had her back to the bus. You’re a lucky brother, all right. What does she call herself?”
I was so distraught I began to cry.
“Can’t take a little bugging, eh? Can’t take other men even thinking about your wife, that it? Think she can only be yours, legs and neat ass and those beautiful boobs just waiting for you. You’re an evil man. Selfish, insecure, dissolute. Good things should be shared, the Book of the State says.” He stopped the bus to turn to a page in the book. “Right here it says that, and stop bawling and listen. ‘No person has a permanent right to anything. All things are to be shared by the total state. The total state is defined as “everyone within the state who hasn’t lost his statesmanship on his own or through his associations.”’ The Book also says that ‘family life, if not in the best interests of the state, can be temporarily disjoined or everlastingly dissolved if…’”
I stared out the window at the carless streets and sidewalks without pedestrians. Where was everyone? Home, enjoying dinner, happily by themselves or with one another.
All I could be secure about was that my family was always safe on these streets. Then I saw another bus behind us, filled with passengers. It pulled up alongside our bus and the two drivers saluted. I tapped on the window at the people getting off the bus, but nobody seemed to hear me. I rapped on the window, banged it with my fists, then put my foot through it and screamed through the hole I made “Please, help me get out. I’m being held prisoner by a maniacal driver. My wife and child are sick and need me at home.”
“We’re all getting sick,” a man said, walking away as he spoke. The flu and fallout’s going to get us all.”
Two young men stopped at the broken window. “Nasty mess,” one said, and the other laughed at his friend’s remark.
“Tell the driver to let me off,” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You make that mess?” the same young man said. “Nasty, nasty,” and the other laughed again. The Book of the State says explicitly,” and he removed the book from his pocket, thumbed through the index and then turned to the page he wanted while the laughing man said That’s a very nice copy, George; real nice.” The Book says that the state, and I quote, ‘shall not take lightly any indifferent, capricious or premeditated destruction of state property, be it public land, buildings or vehicles.’” And flipping to the index again and then to another section inside the book; “‘A vehicle is considered part of the state, and thus public, if it meets any of the following sixteen criteria. One, if the state had acquired the vehicle since the Five-Seventeen Turnover. Two, if the state acquired and then lost the vehicle during the interim of the Preliminary Advance and the initial Letdown. Three, if the state—’”
“I’m being held prisoner for no possible state reason,” I yelled.
He turned to the index and then to a page in the book. “‘Prisoners, suspect or convicted, who try to cajole or coerce a statesman by looks, words or material enticements, shall have all statesman rights annulled for himself, if not previously done, and his immediate loved ones,’” and the other man kept nodding. “Furthermore, an immediate loved one is defined as…it says here someplace,” and he returned to the index.
“You ought to get a book with a good thumb index like mine,” the other man said, and he showed him his own book.
The first man found the right page and resumed his reading. “‘An immediate loved one is defined as a person who has had a close living association with the offender for two or more months preceding the time of offense, or is a direct genetic offspring of the offender, though not necessarily living with him at the time, or an indirect blood association of the offender, though not necessarily living with him at the time.’ Now, an indirect blood association isn’t easy to define verbatim or otherwise,” and he turned to the index.
I gave them the back of my head and they got the message and walked away. A woman came by. She was young, and by her looks she seemed gentle and understanding. I pleaded with her to speak to the driver to let me off the bus. “I’m innocent,” I said. “And I’ve loved ones who depend on me.”
She pulled out her Book, which like the others had the state seal of a blue circle on the cover, and read from a section called Guileful Innocence, quoting authorities I’d never heard of such as Stormberg and Mauser. “Oh, the hell with you,” I said, and spit through the hole in the window, and the blob landed on the page she was reading from. She became hysterical, and in seconds had a crowd questioning her. A third bus drove by, stopped, backed up, and parked behind the second bus. Most of the passengers got off, and once they got wind of the story, joined the crowd around the woman. “Look,” she said, and showed them the stain my spit had made on the page. The crowd looked angry, even though I swore I was sorry and that I’d only done it to get their attention in some desperate way. “I’m being held for no offense against the state other than what the driver had either lied or misconstrued as one.”
“But no offense, young man,” an elderly woman said kindly, “can be worse than the mistreatment of our good book.” She read from her copy. “‘Crimes considered perfidious in previous eras, such as rape, infanticide, selling or giving of state secrets to state enemies, are still not ranked as base as the purposeful desecration of the Book of the State. Defiling and burning the Book are considered primary crimes. Malicious language about the Book is considered a secondary crime. Permitting the Book to fall into disrepair—a tertiary crime but one not punishable by imprisonment—may be considered a secondary crime if the offender, once admonished, doesn’t repair the Book in the time specified or return the Book to the State Book Depository for a new one.’ Also: ‘Any Book willfully or carelessly allowed to be destroyed, damaged or fallen into a questionable state of disrepair by one’s offspring under the age of sixteen—’”
The crowd got angrier as she read and some called for immediate trial and punishment. The driver, to no effect, told the crowd he was a public servant and thus a state officer and had everything under control. He then called Intercom from the bus and asked what he should do, and they said they’d be right out. Someone asked who I was, and my driver took my passport, recited my name and address and said he’d in fact just seen my loved ones a few miles from here at a bus stop. Then let’s get them before they escape,” one of the other drivers said, and she and about thirty people got in her bus and started out after my wife and child.
I’d never felt such fear for my family. What did the Book say again about punishing an offender’s immediate loved ones—those in close association, the genetic offspring as compared to the adopted children? And was the punishment harsher for the loved ones of a Book of the State desecrator—one who spits on the Book, no less? I’d never read the Book. It had all been such infantile nonsense
to me. I’d stuck with the disenfranchised novels and poetry anthologies, books kept in my house illegally and which they’d now find. I had to help my family and didn’t see any other way of doing it except by calculated violence, which had to overcome my growing hysteria. I edged myself nearer to the driver, who along with the crowd was waving at and cheering the bus that had pulled away. I found a wrench under his seat, came down on his head with it and, as he was trying to hold onto my legs from the floor, his head gushing blood, I pulled the door lever and shoved him outside, his body knocking over the people trying to get in.
The key was still in the ignition switch. I started the engine, almost had to run over a group of people to get past them, and drove after the other bus. I began gaining on it, this bus pulsing with excited passengers, and through the rearview mirror I saw the other bus behind me, though its headlights gradually getting smaller. I overtook the bus in front, passed the stop my wife and child had been at, and drove to our home. I left the engine running and ran through the house till I found them in the kitchen, both weeping. “Dearests,” I said, “get into the bus outside—quick. No time for explanations”—when Janet asked me for one—“just move, move.” But she looked even more bewildered, even frightened, and withdrew with Lila behind a chair.
“Goddamnit, do what I say before they get us.”
“Who is they?” she said.
The people: Intercom, psychopaths, latent killers.”
“And why should these people be after us?”
“Because we’ve desecrated the Book of the State—now I said move.”
“I didn’t desecrate anything. And Lila and I can’t be responsible for another one of your dangerous acts.”
“Because I’ve desecrated the Book,” I said, thinking that even though I still loved her I’d never seen her so stupid, “it means all my immediate loved ones who are either living with me or are my genetic offspring, are almost as responsible as I am.”
What Is All This? Page 4