Dystopia

by Richard Christian Matheson

  I met my across-the-hall neighbor, quite by chance, over a game of poker. I beat him over and over, and he had to write me a few IOUs. When I asked him what room he was in (so I might stop by and "collect"), it turned out to be the room directly across from mine. It's weird how you can overlook someone who is right under your nose.

  Anyway, he's a nice guy, but is badly in need of tutoring in the finer points of the gentlemanly wager. He is absolutely the worst gambler I have ever encountered. I suspect that his brain has decomposed from excessive exposure to Jim, who is his favorite card player. They play to one another's caliber, it seems. Two drunks leading each other home.

  My neighbor's name is Marcum Standile, Jr. As a rather unusual point of insight into his personal life, we figured out tonight (in my room, after the party), that Marcum owes roughly $40,000 to various other dormitory inhabitants with whom he has played poker. This sum is exceeded only by Jim' s, whose debts, accrued in two short months, amount to a figure which is something akin to the annual budget for Red China. Perhaps my training in calculus is coming in handy for once.

  I'll write more about Susie later. Everything is pretty good academically-speaking and the sun is, even, occasionally making a token appearance. Miss you very much and send all my love.

  With endless computation,

  P.S. Got a letter from you-know-who. Guess he took the accident a little too seriously. Tell him to relax.

  April 4

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  I'm rich!

  Marcum got his monthly allotment from his financially overstuffed folks and came through with over $400 for yours truly. So far, this much money has me in quite an influential position. Since word of my monetary windfall has spread like an epidemic, I am popular beyond belief.

  I've considered opening up a loan service (with determined interest), so as to make the entire endeavor worth my expended energy, as well as expended funds. An idea which I took from a movie with George Segal, "King Rat." The entire prison camp, where he was being held captive by the enemy, had less money than George, so he became the nucleus of all existing finance. The concept appeals to me. I'll probably just buy a heater and an electric blanket, though. Fancy dies so quickly in a young man's heart. Sniff.

  I am referred to alternately as "Rockefeller" or "pal," depending on the plight of who I'm speaking with. I never dreamed any one person could have so many "pals." Last night, someone pinned a sign to my door that says "Fort Knox North." It's only right. Being rich is such toil. Tell you-know-who I will use it wisely.

  My lab partner and I have become even better friends in the past few weeks. I think I mentioned in the last letter that her name is Susie, actually Susan Johnson. What I failed to include in that brief description, is that she is kind of like my girlfriend, stunningly beautiful, intelligent and popular, and maybe the first girl, since Beth's death, that I really care about.

  Without pouring forth excessives about Susie, I'll simply say that I know you'd love her. She is quite a unique person, and around here that's a godsend, the prevailing ambiance being composed of uptight females. I only hope that she feels the same about me. But that will come in time. I think it would crush me if she were just experiencing feelings of friendship. But I suspect that her eyes are the best spokesman for her affections and they tell me everything is going perfect.

  Tell you-know-who not to hold his breath. She isn't at all like Beth, so don't let him even attempt to connect things. Beth was just something that happened. I'm sorry about it, but it was, after all, an accident and I think I would resent you-know-who making more of this than there is. Or maybe making less of it. It feels right to me. Not like with Beth. So, please keep you-know-who off the subject completely; it's not fair.

  By the way, I think I might make the Dean's list, so cross your fingers. Philosophy 1 is going very well and Marshall B. Francis and I are becoming friends of the close variety. As I predicted.

  I miss you all very much and send my love.

  Please write.

  With Krupp-like fortune,

  P.S. Thanks for the latest batch of cookies, Mom. I'm not sure I can eat all of them myself. Plenty of willing mouths around here, though.

  April 17

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  Terrible news.

  Remember Jim, the guy who belched and kept everybody up? He was found this morning, in his room, dead. The school won't issue any kind of statement, but everyone thinks it might have been suicide. I don't think there was a note or anything, and it could have just been an accident.

  If it was suicide, it would have made a lot of sense, speaking strictly in terms of motivation. He wasn't a very happy person, his weight and all making him almost completely socially ostracized. He was only eighteen years old. It's a shame things like this have to happen.

  It certainly is going to be quiet around here without his belching and carryings-on; which is kind of a relief even if the circumstances are so tragic. Nobody has mentioned the funeral but I hear his parents are going to have him buried locally. That's the nicest thing they could do for him. He really liked the college, the town, and everything, and although unhappy, was happier here than he would have been anywhere else.

  It's going to be abnormally quiet around here. Maybe with the improved conditions, we'll get some new scholars out of this dorm. I know I'll sleep better.

  Still, I feel as if every death has a meaning; a reason for happening. I may bring that up in Philosophy 1. Anyway, it's a damn shame about Jim. Marcum lost a great card partner.

  On a slightly cheerier note, Susie and I are still seeing each other, but I have a difficult time figuring her out. Maybe she isn't the demonstrative type. If that's the case, I can understand her reticence, but if not, I can't help wondering what's wrong. We talk all the time, but she doesn't seem to be able to let me know she cares. It's odd, because Beth was similar in that way.

  I'm sure time will make its own decision.

  Sound familiar, Dad?

  It's another one of your polished "classics." What would life be without my father's inimitable cracker-barreling? A bit more relaxing perhaps. . .

  Incidentally, the loan business is beginning to take shape. I'll write more about it later. For now, it's looking quite hopeful. Monte Carlo, here I come.

  Pass the word to you-know-who, about my business. It's what he likes to hear. Former client makes good and all that stuff. Miss you all very much and send my deepest love.

  Destined to be wealthy (but in semi-mourning),

  P.S. My room is starting to bother me. Maybe a change!

  April 25

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  You-know-who wrote me a letter.

  He wants me to come home. The onslaught of Jim's death, along with the isolating geography up here, has him surprisingly alarmed. He feels that the milieu is just too strenuous for me to manage. I disagree with him completely and feel that I'm taking Jim's death very well. I'm not overreacting beyond what is reasonable. After all, Jim and I were almost complete strangers. Maybe the ease of detachment comes because of that.

  I wrote you-know-who tonight after dinner, but I think a word from you might help to quell his skepticism. I know you told him about the death out of good conscience, but, as I recommended, it may have been a bad idea. All in all, I couldn't be happier and the thought of leaving depresses me very much. I think my letter will stand on its own merit, but a word from you would assist the cause enormously.

  Meanwhile, business is in full swing here at "Fort Knox North."

  I've made over $15 in interest this week. Once again, I'm baffled as to how to spend the newly mounting sums. Perhaps a place where liquor and painted women are available to book-weary students? However, I'll probably squander my gain away on decent food. The indigenous delicacies are becoming as palatable as boiled sheet metal. Really disgusting. I look forward to a meal by the greatest cook in the known world. I hope you're listening, Mom.

  I talked to the Dean of Housing today ab
out changing rooms and he told me (morbidly. enough) that the only available room is Jim's. It seemed grisly at first, but I gave it serious thought and am going to move in tomorrow. It's been cleaned up (all but boiled out), so there's no trace of anything that indicated someone lived in it. Or died in it. For obvious reasons, I think you would agree, telling you-know-who would just fuel the flame. He can't expect everyone to react to death the same way. It doesn't spook me to be in Jim's room.

  I wonder, though, if his spirit will inhabit my lungs and create zombie burps. All, no doubt, from your cookies, Mom. He was really hooked. Phantom gases are an interesting concept, but don't exactly arrest me aesthetically.

  Quiet. . . I think I hear a cookie crumbling.

  My studies are going exceptionally well and something interesting happened in Philosophy 1 today. Remember I told you I was going to mention the point about Jim's death maybe being the happiest salvation he could have chosen? Well, I made the point and nobody would talk about it. They all seemed disturbed about the personalized nature of the question, since it wasn't just a hypothetical inquiry. Some people even made peculiar comments. People are unpredictable when it comes to death.

  Things are "OK" with Susie. We're supposed to go to a concert tonight. Will tell you about that in next letter.

  Sleeping better,

  P.S. Susie may get my class ring tonight. Lucky girl.

  April 26

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  Something ghastly has happened. It's hard to even write this letter, as I am extremely upset.

  Susie and I returned from the school auditorium sometime after midnight, following the concert, and sneaked into my dormitory room to listen to some music. I had planned to ask Susie how she felt about me after we settled in. The concert had been very stimulating and we were both being quite verbal, competing for each other's audience as many thoughts were occurring to both of us. We talked for several hours before quieting down.

  As we sat listening to the music, on my bed together, I bent over to her cheek and, kissing her gently, asked her how she felt about our relationship and where it was going. She was silent for what must have been minutes. Then, she spoke.

  In almost a pale whisper, she said that we would always be good friends and that her regard for me was quite sincere, but that she couldn't feel romantically about me, ever. She didn't explain why, even though I asked her over and over.

  Maybe the fact that I was tired had something to do with it, but I began to cry and couldn't stop. Her admission had taken me entirely by surprise. I had thought things were just beginning to take shape.

  I guess Susie sensed that my hurt was larger than even the tears revealed, and she got up from the bed to walk to the other side of the room. Working things out in her mind, I guess. She walked to the window to let in some air. As she raised it, I could feel the cold wind rush in, and I looked up to see Susie's hair blowing, as she kneeled near the window, looking out over the fields.

  It was so quiet that the whole thing seemed like a dream; the cold air plunging in on us, the music playing with muted beauty for us alone, the near darkness making shadowy nothings of our separateness.

  Susie leaned out the window, and I watched her, transfixed, thinking that what she had said was a story, that she was only playing. She only continued in her silence, staring into the night's blackness.

  I guess she wanted more air or something, because she raised the window, and as I rose to help her with it, a screaming cut the air.

  She kept screaming until she hit the walkway below. Then, there was silence again. She was taken to the hospital and operated on for a fractured skull, broken shoulder, and internal injuries.

  She was pronounced dead at 6:30 this morning.

  The police questioned me today, but seemed satisfied that it was a tragic accident. They could, I'm sure, see my grief was genuine.

  I am left with almost nothing now. Susie was everything I worked for, other than school, and without her here, that means nothing. I am thinking of coming home. You-know-who needn't say anything to you, or me, about what he thinks. He's wrong. And, at this point, I don't need advice. My treatment will be mine alone from now on. I don't want interference from him anymore.

  I am very seriously depressed. I keep thinking that, had Susie told me long ago that she cared, we wouldn't have spent so long, last night, in my room. If only she had cared, everything might have been different. I think these thoughts must occur to anyone who loses someone cherished.

  I didn't think something like this could happen to me. I find it hard to go on without someone caring. If you don't care about someone who cares about you, why should you even exist? Without that, there is no reason.

  In deepest hopelessness,

  P.S. Maybe no letters from me until I feel better.

  April 28

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  Things are no better with me than my last letter reported.

  Since Susie's death, I am unable to concentrate on studies and am falling seriously behind in my classes.

  I sit alone most of the time in my room, watching the fields, as the winds create giant patterns.

  Before today, I had thought it the most beautiful view in the dorm.

  Speaking of the dorm, I now find myself unable to associate with any of the other residents. They all remind me of Susie. I almost hate this building because it remembers everything that happened in it. It will not forget anything, and each time I get inside it, I feel subsumed by its creaking examinations of me.

  I am now easily given to imaginings about many things and question all things.

  I trust only myself now.

  My loan business is being attended to assiduously, with the scrutiny of a watchmaker fearing he has left out a part from a shipment of hundreds of timepieces. I am losing money now. The clientele is not paying me back punctually, or with owed amounts adequately covered. Everybody on my floor, and many people scattered throughout the building, have taken out loans. Almost none have returned them. I am almost near my wit's end trying to get the money. But you can't torture people to get it.

  I'm really getting desperate. I have such contempt for those who borrow things, and either refuse to return them, or consciously allow themselves to let their obligation slide through negligence.

  Negligence should beget negligence.

  It's only fair that way.

  I have been going to concerts the past two nights. They seem to help me relax, but, I despise returning to the dormitory more and more. Every time I get inside, I feel suffocated. I realize that I must try to adjust and get back into the swing of things, but it is not easy.

  I am trying.

  Tell you-know-who.

  That's all I can tell you.

  I can't foresee much of anything now.

  My dearest love to both of you. Please write.

  Confused with sickness,

  April 30

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  Last night, almost as if the dormitory knew my hate for it (like a dog who senses its master's loathings), it took its own life, along with the lives of many inside its cradling horror.

  As I walked back from a 10:30 concert (Chopin) at the campus center, I came upon the dormitory burning bright orange in the night. Firemen say it was caused by an electrical short circuit or something. Nineteen students were eaten by flames, unable to escape the building. The remains were charred beyond recognition, and teeth and dental records are being matched to discern who the students were.

  It doesn't seem to matter who someone is, once he is dead. Only what he did while he lived. An honorable life will not tolerate an impure death. But the life that deceives, and cloaks its meaning with artifice and insensitivity, cannot die reasonably. All death seems to need is an attached philosophy to resolve its meaning. Otherwise, it is just an end.

  Perhaps Marshall B. Francis would have something to say about that. I may talk to him.

  There is nothing left for me now, of course. I am numbed b
y the death which surrounds me here. My room and belongings were destroyed in the fire, and the purpose of my schooling has become inconsequential to both myself and what I want.

  I will try another school, in another place. Things must be different elsewhere. Somewhere there must be a safe place. A place where things, such as what I have seen, haven't happened. If there is, I will find it.

  I'm catching a plane tomorrow at noon, and should arrive at about 5:30. My love to you until then.

  Forward looking,

  P.S. I got an A in philosophy.

  The Pitch

  "What is a pitch?"

  A pacing glance.

  "It's where it all begins. Genesis. The note which precedes melody; the fuse which presages apocalypse."

  Smoking.

  "Pitching is everything; everywhere. What cannot be immediately seen, measured, tasted, heard, weighed or otherwise made indisputable, must be pitched. It must be made real, though it is perhaps far less than that. It must be made flame, though it may be only primitive spark, starved for grander ignitions. It must be made real because then, and only then, does it have a chance of being allowed to come to life."

  Clock ticking.

  "DNA pitches color schemes and nuance, allowing sperm to pitch to the egg, so the infant might pitch tentative perception, via blurry communiques, to those who pitch behaviors in return. And on it goes; the endless reciprocities, the inexorable compulsion, species-deep, to market something, whether real or abstract. To sell."

  Staring.

  "The pitch itself? Methodology is key. It must blend sexuality, tension, suspense, humor, hope. There must be mystery . . . as when a lover first undresses, slips into bed, allowing their scent to entreat, their eyes to restore possibility. The pure, stunning thrill of it cannot be overestimated . . . the untasted amperage and gourmet curvature."