Voices From the Street

by Philip K. Dick

  “What real things? What do you mean?” Two spots of high, bright color glowed in her cheeks. “Don’t you believe I meant what I said?”

  With an impatient wave of his hand Hadley dismissed her words. “You know what really exists between us; it’s the same thing that exists between any man and woman sitting like we’re sitting. This is the only relationship; everything else is a lot of hot air. Between us—” He turned toward her. “What is it? What’s really there?”

  Apprehensively, she waited to hear.

  “You can spiritualize it all you want, but what it really boils down to is simple biological reality.” He reached down and closed his hand around a fistful of the woman’s tweed skirt. “What I want is some of that stuff you have under there. I want to get in there; that’s what I’m here for and that’s what you’re here for. That’s why we’re on this earth… So I can pull up your skirt and climb in, right up there inside you.”

  “I see,” Marsha said levelly. “Is—that the way you’ve always felt?”

  After a moment Hadley admitted: “No. I had a lot of hot-air ideas, a lot of pink-cloud illusions, like everybody else. But I’ve come around to viewing things more realistically.”

  Marsha found a cigarette and got it between her lips. She lit up and sat scratching mechanically at the button on her sleeve. Finally she asked: “Do you want me to tell you why I left Ted?”

  “If you want to gabble about it.”

  Marsha flinched. “I—don’t know if I can stand this.”

  “You want me to get out now?”

  She considered. “No.” Brightly she said: “Well, I’ll go back to the beginning; I feel better when I can talk about it. I don’t believe that look on your face means anything; I think you’re listening to me. Aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a terrible effort for her, but she continued: “I left Ted right away… I only went back for a couple of days. It was awful—worse than anything before. He didn’t say anything; he just went on with his work.” Blowing gray smoke through her pinched nostrils Marsha said: “I think he’s the finest man who ever lived. He’s completely good. It’s not like other people, when they’re good; it isn’t the same thing at all. He just doesn’t have the capacity to do harm… Goodness is part of his physical body. It’s all through him.”

  “Is that why you started living with him?”

  For a time she was silent. “I was attracted by him. When I first saw him and heard him speak… I knew he was unique. He has power; it’s a magnetic thing, like gravity. He draws people to him. He drew you…didn’t he? He just reaches out and takes everybody into him. And I came, like everybody else. I wanted to be close to him. I wanted to touch him and be a part of him. What happened came about naturally…it wasn’t planned out. It wasn’t some kind of conspiracy; it was spontaneous.” She gazed past Hadley, troubled and somber. “But you know, even living with him, sleeping with him, I never got close to him. He’s a long way away; he’s always listening to things I can’t hear, seeing things I can’t see. His mind is—” She shrugged. “You know; you tried to reach him. You can’t. He’s not for any one of us.”

  “I know,” Hadley said. “I’m out, too.”

  “We lived together only a month or so. Hardly anybody knows; the Golds don’t know, of course. I never followed him very far… I stayed in my apartment. He came there; it was a place for him to stay. I opened it to him and he came there naturally…the same way he came to me when I opened myself to him. He simply came in and took… He took the way he gives. Like a child. With his hand out, trustingly. And then off he goes, when he’s received. But—” She laughed. “Well, you saw him eat, didn’t you? Eating is nothing for him; he just pushes food between his teeth, back and forth, like a machine. It’s the same way with any physical thing for him…he does it, he goes through it, has it, gets it over with. But it never really involves him; it never really touches him or gets down inside him.”

  “He’s not against sexual relations?” Hadley inquired.

  “There was very little sexual intercourse between us.” She was willing to talk openly about it, almost matter-of-factly. He had hurt her all the way to the bottom; apparently she didn’t have any further to go, any more to lose. Or so she seemed to think. “The first time,” she said. “We did it then, and after that a few more, now and then. I forget how many times. He came to the apartment, bathed, changed his clothes, spread out his work on the desk, and worked. Then he came to me, in bed, and that was that. And he went to sleep. It’s dim in my mind…” She shook her head unhappily. “I suppose he took it for granted that I felt the same way, that it was as unimportant to me as it was to him. But I wanted it to mean more.”

  “Women always make a big thing out of it,” Hadley said.

  “He was right, I suppose,” Marsha continued, tautly ignoring him. “I tried to feel the same way; I knew I was wrong. I elevate it so much, like everybody else. Like you, I can’t escape from it, either. It’s part of me; I was born here; this is the world that trained me. I wanted to go along with him and see things the way he did, but I can’t.” Earnestly, she said: “He’s too good, Stuart. I stood it as long as I could and then I broke off. It was hell because he was so kind. He just let me go. He made no claim on me. Damn him.” She glanced up. “And damn you. It was your fault, too.”

  “Don’t blame it on me.”

  “Oh, yes. That night, when you said that. You called him a nigger. I couldn’t stand it, because it was true. He is a Negro; I can’t forget that; neither can you.”

  “I told you I’m sorry!” Hadley said angrily.

  “It’s too late for that. That’s what I mean…neither of us is good enough. Neither of us measures up to him; we’re not worthy. Isn’t that so? When you said that word, and when I responded, I knew we weren’t fit to be around him.”

  Hadley nodded begrudgingly. “All right.”

  “Is it true?” she persisted.

  “Yes.”

  Marsha went on: “So we’re in it together, Stuart Hadley. I drove back up to San Francisco knowing Ted and I were finished. He makes me ashamed of myself, and at the same time I’m restless and unsatisfied. The kind of life I want is something ugly… I’ll never have it with him. Not ugly, exactly. I don’t know what to call it. When I saw you I knew you were my kind; I knew I could understand you and your way of life. And—you’re very good-looking. I always did go in for the sweet Nordic blond type. I was physically attracted to you from the start.” She laughed shakily. “So you see, it’s your fault we split up. You’re responsible…the same way I’m responsible for messing up your life.”

  “You would have left him anyhow,” Hadley said.

  “Of course. But not for a while, not so soon.”

  “How many men have you lived with before?”

  “I’m thirty-two years old,” Marsha said. “You saw two of my children; I have a daughter up in Oregon, in a private school. She’s fourteen years old. Does that shock you? I was just out of high school; I was eighteen, living in Denver. A midwestern country girl. I was going to be a feature writer on a newspaper. Charlotte—my first daughter—was born in 1936.”

  “Christ,” Hadley said. “I was only ten years old.”

  “Her father was a very wonderful man, a young engineer. Don Frazier was killed in the Second World War. It’ll interest you to know we married, later. In 1940, just before the war. During the war there were a number of them; I’ve lost track. I lived in England for a while; I was with the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps—attached to the Office of War Information. While I was there I met Sir Oswald Mosley. Most of my political opinions were formed then. I was disillusioned about the war… I saw too much of it.”

  Curious, Hadley asked: “By now are you legally anybody’s wife? Did you remarry?”

  “You know that part. I married an Army major while I was stationed in England. Timmy and Pat are his children.”

  “You’re still married to him?”


  “Yes.”

  Hadley brooded. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not.”

  “It’s the truth.” She coolly blew a cloud of smoke at him. “It doesn’t matter; I don’t know where he is, probably in New York with somebody. Last time I saw him he was living with a wealthy society woman—he’ll get along. Of that I’m positive.”

  She didn’t continue, and Hadley had nothing to contribute. After a time he reached behind him and again opened the car door.

  “Where are you going?” Marsha demanded quickly.

  “Home, of course. I’m hungry. I want to eat dinner.”

  Her gray eyes fixed on him, Marsha said: “You really aren’t going to forgive me, are you? You’re going to make me suffer for not going to bed with you that night.”

  He didn’t have to answer; it was obvious. But that was not the whole story. “I believe you,” he said aloud, “when you say you couldn’t have. I believe you wanted to, but you couldn’t go through with it.”

  “Then why make me suffer?”

  “Because,” Hadley said simply, “I’m suffering. And I want to share it.”

  “Don’t go,” Marsha said tensely, reaching out and touching his arm. “Stay with me. I’ll do whatever you want; there aren’t any strings to it, nothing. I’m free; I’m completely cut loose. I saw Ted for the last time yesterday. It isn’t the same as it was; now it’s different.”

  “I see,” Hadley said thoughtfully. “In other words, you’ve decided you would like to go to bed.”

  The woman’s face withered. She huddled back in a stricken heap, gray eyes swimming.

  “Well?” Hadley demanded. “Yes or no?”

  She nodded mutely without speaking.

  “Answer me!” he demanded.

  “Yes.”

  Hadley reflected. “I’m hungry. I want something to eat first.”

  After a struggle she managed to find words. “We can stop at a drive-in.” Groping feebly for the ignition key, she got the motor going, and then the headlights. “Please, will you close the door? I can’t drive with it open.”

  “Sure,” Hadley said easily, pulling it shut.

  Tears running down her cheeks, Marsha released the parking brake and edged the car out onto the dark, silent street.

  At a drive-in they bought themselves milk shakes and sandwiches. Hadley had the girl wrap them up; he paid her and she carried off the little metal tray, leaving them alone. There were other cars parked here and there in the circular lot around the building itself, mostly high school kids and young couples. The metallic sounds of dance music drifted across the darkness to Hadley and for a time he sat listening, his milk shake and sandwich in a paper bag on his lap.

  “It takes me back,” he said to Marsha.

  After a moment she murmured, “In what way?”

  “I haven’t had a car since college. Sitting here like this reminds me of the old days, when I was dating Ellen. And before that; when I was a high school kid, like that fellow over there.”

  A high school youth in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, arms brown and fuzzy, wearing dark jeans, his heels scraping noisily, hair long and plastered down, sideburns all the way to his jaw, walked in front of the Studebaker to his own hot rod.

  “Were you like that?” Marsha asked feebly. She had begun to regain some of her poise. “I can’t believe it… You’re so blond.”

  “I dressed that way. Dave Gold and I both dressed that way, except that Dave wore a coat, a dirty brown tweed coat.”

  “Do you still see the Golds?” Marsha asked.

  Hadley sobered. “No. Not since that day up in San Francisco when my brother-in-law dumped them off. That day they came to you for a ride.”

  “They were certainly—chastened,” Marsha said. “I never found out what happened; they just mumbled.”

  “I dumped them,” Hadley said moodily. “I sat there and let him walk over them. The big bastard… And I didn’t do a thing; I joined in, actually.” He stepped from the car and came around behind it to the other side. Opening the door he said: “Move over.”

  Marsha edged uncertainly away from the wheel. “Why?”

  “I’m going to drive. I want to see how this thing runs.” Hadley slid in behind the wheel and slammed the door. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes,” Marsha said nervously, “I guess so.”

  Hadley started the car and backed it from the lot, onto the road. Beside him, the woman watched anxiously as he shifted into high and gained velocity.

  “You do well,” she said.

  “Why not? I’ve been driving since I was a kid.” Slowing for a light he said: “This isn’t a bad little car. Cold-blooded… It’s sluggish as hell—but it’s smooth.”

  “It doesn’t use much gas,” Marsha said. “It’s cheap to run.” She clutched the two bags of food, hers and Hadley’s. “Where—are we going?”

  With a shriek of tires Hadley turned from the town out onto the approach to the freeway. Bits of blinding light flashed along: cars moving at high speed from San Francisco to San Jose. Without stopping he passed through a yellow light, into the first lane and then the second. In a moment he had reached the center lane; with his foot grimly on the gas pedal he began to inch the little coupe up to seventy.

  “Take it easy,” Marsha said faintly. To their left, beyond the dividing strip, searing headlights shot past in a bewildering trajectory. She squinted and sank down against the door. “I don’t like this lane…it’s too close to the other side. And they go so darn fast.”

  Ignoring her, Hadley reached down and threw in the overdrive handle. Beneath them the motor sound instantly ceased; the car seemed to fly above the surface of the highway. There was no sound but the roar of wind, nothing visible except the whirr of headlights to their left. “You keep this out?” Hadley asked her.

  “For town driving… I forget to put it back in.” Lamely she murmured, “I’m not on the highway much; I’m usually driving around San Francisco.”

  They were between towns. On each side of the highway lay black fields, and occasional power lines. The sky was overcast; the wind that rushed about the cabin was chill and acrid with the odor of the Bay.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get a ticket?” Marsha asked apprehensively.

  “Not in suicide lane. It’s almost impossible to stop a car driving in this lane.” A moment later he added: “Anyhow, we’re not going far.”

  He eased the car over to the right and allowed it to drop down to sixty. When he was going fifty he cut into the extreme right-hand lane. To their left, cars swept past them and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  Marsha shivered. “It makes me a little sick, driving that fast. I always wonder what would happen if a tire blew.”

  “We’d be Swiss steak.” Hadley slowed to forty, then to thirty-five. Ahead was a cutoff of sorts, a minor paved road leading to a cluster of neon-lit buildings: a gas station, a few roadside bars, some houses, a factory. At a little over thirty he made the turn and left the freeway.

  “Where are we?” Marsha asked.

  “Almost there. We’ll be drinking our milk shakes soon.” He made a wide turn and brought the car around the far side of the cluster of buildings. Turning up a side road he shifted into second and began to climb the side of a gloomy hill. Trees and buildings wavered past on both sides; they were slowly rising into a small roadside town.

  “I’ve never been here before,” Marsha said, with visible distaste.

  “This is San Sebastian Heights—a tract.” The car had reached the top of the hill; Hadley brought it to a halt and pointed. Ahead of them the ground dropped breathtakingly; a wide valley lay spread out, a solid expanse of neatly arranged lights. They were looking down at an immense housing development, a subdivision so large that its edges were lost in the night haze.

  “Every house is exactly alike,” Hadley said as he let the car begin its descent. “California ranch style, it’s called.”

  At the foot of the hill
he made a right-hand turn and passed an illuminated building: the subdivision administration building. Beyond that the road widened into a shopping center. Most of the stores were closed; only the drugstore and bar remained open. The vast supermarket was shut down; the clothing store, the dime store, the shoe store, all were dark and deserted. Hadley drove past a dimly lit Shell gas station and then a launderette.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  Ahead of them rose the luminous red sign of a motel. He shifted into second and crawled up the driveway, past the first ring of cottages, past the black square of lawn, and up to the cabin marked office. A Vacancy sign was out; Hadley came to a halt and pulled on the parking brake.

  “There’s always an empty,” he explained leisurely. “It’s too far off the highway; they built it when most of these houses were for sale and people came down from San Francisco to look at them. Now this outfit can’t pee a drop.”

  From the motel office came a waddling figure in a heavy overcoat. Muttering and peering, the man approached the car and flashed his light into the cabin. “Evening,” he said suspiciously, examining the faces of the two people. “One left; you’re lucky.”

  Hadley grinned starkly and reached for his wallet. “Good for us. How much is that?”

  “Four fifty,” the man grunted; in his heavy red face his eyes glittered and shifted. “In-state, are you?”

  “That’s right,” Hadley agreed, a five-dollar bill held out. “Which cottage is it?”

  “What the hell,” the man said, resigned. “No kids, I suppose.” He fumbled in the pocket of his overcoat for his receipt book. “Yeah, I have to have the money in advance,” he said, accepting the bill. “Some people get up before I do.”

  With the stub of a lead pencil he wrote out the receipt, copying the names from the identification papers in Hadley’s wallet.

  “Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Hadley,” he said, tearing off the receipt and handing it to them. “Third cottage to the right.” He handed them the keys and waddled sullenly back to his office. “Sweet dreams,” he said, and disappeared inside.

  Hadley promptly started the car. “These places are more private,” he explained, “once they let you in.”