To Sleep Gently

by Trent Zelazny

  He snapped to and shook away the past, and asked himself what the hell he was doing. He commanded his feet to stop, and that's when he saw the two-story stucco building, white trimmed windows, double doors, a small group of homeless men gathered around a radio on the small spread of lawn.

  The library. The wonderful world of books, discount tickets to everywhere, bound pages capable of taking one beyond the limits of imagination. His savior, his sanity, the one thing, other than the knowledge of eventual freedom, that kept him going for five years. The one thing that let him know he was not alone.

  He allowed his feet to carry him up the walkway, agreed with his hand as it opened the door. His senses sparkled as he stepped in and found himself in a foyer with two large bulletin boards on the left and front walls. A generous magazine rack packed to the gills with periodicals free for the taking. On the low windowsill sat a box filled with romance novels and Reader's Digests. Someone had written FREE on it in black magic marker.

  Glancing at the bulletin board, amidst fliers for concerts and lectures, services and garage sales, used furniture and cars, his eyes were drawn to a bright yellow sheet pinned just below eye level. He read it three times, each time a little slower, then glanced over his shoulder, saw that no one was around, removed it from the board, folded it in half, and entered the lobby. There was a checkout desk on the left, an information desk on the right. Two people sat behind each, all of them as bored as if they were at an insurance seminar. People of all types wandered about. Everyone from soccer moms to has-been hippies to intellectuals and pseudo intellectuals who wore clothes that didn't fit right. There was a sign written in calligraphy for Josh Willis, a painter who had his work displayed upstairs. The show was titled Summer Mornings in a Summer Sun. Dempster didn't feel a need to check it out.

  Instead he just stood there a while, taking in the same sights over and over again. Between the two desks he saw a second entrance/exit, as well as several computer stations just to the right of it. To his immediate left was a short corridor that opened up into a large area with a series of shelves. A sign said FICTION. To the right was non-fiction, as well as copy machines, restrooms, and a water fountain. He walked between the desks and veered right. There were more computer stations, also several computer card catalogs and shelves of reference (FOR LIBRARY USE ONLY) books. Many desks and chairs stood about like tiny islands, some with individuals stranded on them.

  Okay, so why are you here? You could putz around here all day but to what end? What good is it gonna do you?

  It was a good question, and he didn't have an answer. But he had been drawn here for something, he knew. There was some reason why he'd come here.

  He entered the non-fiction area, which crossed by the lobby where he'd entered, and continued down into another long room. He stopped at the water fountain and had himself a drink, then wandered through the aisles looking at nothing in particular.

  Coming to the end of the room where a series of large windows looked out onto Washington Avenue—the street he'd entered from—he folded the yellow flier once again in half, and slid it into his back pocket.

  A red Nissan drove by, out on the street. He jolted, gave it his full attention. But unless Sandra had all of a sudden become a bald, heavy-set Hispanic man with a beard, it wasn't her.

  Is that why I'm here? To have a joke played on me?

  He turned around and walked back to the lobby, deciding there wasn't any reason for him to be here. Strange emotions tugged at him. For some unexplainable reason he felt jealous, though he had no idea of what. He entered the foyer, passed the magazine rack and the bulletin boards, then pushed his way out the door.

  6

  Freddy called half an hour later. "You guys ready?"

  "Ready as we'll ever be."

  "Everything still looks okay?"

  "As good as it's ever gonna look."

  "You all right?"

  "As all right as I'll ever be."

  "Nervous?"

  "No."

  "Having self doubt?"

  "Always."

  "Well, if there are any problems, call."

  "I know," Dempster said. Then, "I've been watching this town, Freddy. This is not the kind of place used to something like this. It's gonna be a really big deal when it happens."

  "And a really big haul," Freddy told him. "Also, not being used to it, they won't know as well how to deal with it. Get the stuff and bring it to Corrales. If you're gonna be delayed, call. Any problems you have with the police down there, that's your problem, but Dempster—please try not to kill anybody. Like you said, it's gonna be a big deal. We don't wanna make it any bigger."

  "We're on the same page."

  "You think you can keep those kids under control?"

  "I hope so. I don't think they should be much of a problem, I'm more concerned about Gardner."

  "I know you are."

  Silence lumbered through the phone.

  "You're worried about him too."

  "I'm not," Freddy said. "He'll be just fine. You just keep everything together. As far as I'm concerned, you're in command down there. You're in charge. I've spent a hell of a lot of money and a lot of sweat setting this thing up. I want it to pay off."

  "Like I said," Dempster told him, "we're on the same page."

  "So we'll see you in Corrales in a couple of days."

  "Right."

  "Good luck and be careful."

  "Will do, you too."

  Chapter Twelve

  Just before ten o'clock that night, Dempster entered the Eldorado. He took a seat at one of the glass-topped tables in the lounge and waited patiently until a tall woman with pretty green eyes and a black tie about her neck flung a coaster down in front of him.

  "Just a coke," he told her, and didn't bother to watch her leave.

  The lights were dimmer in here than in the rest of the hotel. Somehow at night the contrast was clearer. He paid for the coke right away, leaving a good tip, then stared at the reflection of the overhead chandelier in his tabletop. He wasn't exactly sure why he had come here. It wasn't as though he was casing the joint or anything like that. He practically wasn't even aware of where he was. Maybe he just didn't want to deal with the adolescent behavior back at the house. Maybe he just felt like being out. Or maybe he was still refusing to let go of some inane hope clinging steadfast to his heart. The kind that seems impossible to get rid of, like stubborn mildew in a dingy shower. Scrub and scrub and scrub, but no matter how hard you try, it just won't go away.

  All around him were voices and faces, blurred and smeared, having no meaning to him.

  He sipped his coke, shifted his focus from the reflection of the chandelier to that of his own face. It was odd to watch himself in such a strange lighting. He never looked how he imagined himself to. He always pictured himself more handsome, a bit more of a caricature, but always found himself plain.

  Then it was quiet at the table. He was looking at himself, and himself was looking back at him.

  Without sound, the reflection said, "So just what in the hell are you doing?"

  Without sound, Dempster said, "I'm having a coke."

  "Everything you've got going on, everything you've created, and you're walking around in circles."

  "Sometimes that's the only way to go."

  "You're groping after something, aren't you? But you don't know how to go about it."

  "Oh really?"

  "Yes. You don't know where to begin. You know you have a quest, but you don't know where or when it started, and you don't have any idea what it is. And not knowing, unable to know where to search, you're running around in circles."

  "It's not impossible to make progress that way, going in circles."

  "But if you pursue it too much of the time, you'll forget what it is to take the straight course."

  "Did I sign up for some preachy sophomore philosophy class without knowing?"

  "You, your ego, you're confused by the illusions of the world. Always have
been. You'd never considered the Absolute before. You'd never considered anything before. Not until your lockup, when you had no choice but to look at things differently."

  "Is that it?"

  "Problem is, while your perspective may have changed, it was also misdirected."

  "Is that so?"

  "The world, with all of its mirages and misconceptions, became your Absolute, rather than the other way around. You blew a great opportunity while you were in stir."

  "Then you can go live there. Enjoy your Absolute. Leave me alone."

  "Years ago, you set up a fake identity for yourself. Overall an anonymous identity but an identity nonetheless. At that point, you realized that you had the power to influence things. If you really wanted something, you could find a way to make it happen."

  "That's what everyone does."

  "And it's the biggest mistake, striving for things that bear no weight on anything and are, in the end, meaningless. You build desires, and as a result, rather than just being who and what you are, you create one, ten, hundreds of false egos, which in turn create more desires until there's no sense of self left anywhere in the jam-packed auditorium of schizophrenic nobodies."

  "Are you through, you dogmatic creep? I didn't ask you to preach enigmatic bullshit at me. When you come down to it, I'm really not that different from anyone else on the planet. Whether I'm good or bad, right or wrong, I think I have a better sense of self than most people do. As Popeye would say: 'I am what I am and that's all that I am.'"

  "But what you are is a fake."

  "No moreso than you."

  "You're running around in circles because you want things, but you're so cluttered with wants and desires that you don't exactly know what it is you want. It's become a confusing jumbled mess and not a single thing is clear."

  "Like everything else you've said, it happens to everyone. Now go away."

  "You are going to be alone for the rest of your life if—"

  "I've grown quite used to it."

  "But what you learned, or what you saw, in prison—it's always going to be there. It's going to nag at you, keep you up at night, and all the while you'll continue to run around in circles. You'll always swim against the current, and wonder what the hell you're doing wrong."

  He lifted his drink and ran his hand over the reflection. The innocuous sounds of people laughing, of glasses clinking and of vapid conversation, seeped back into his ears. He rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass, then set it down over the dim reflection of his eyes.

  "Would you like some more coke?"

  Dempster looked up at the waitress. He hadn't noticed until now that one of her pretty green eyes was lazy. "I'm fine, thanks." Then before she could vanish, "Can I ask you something kind of personal and stupid?"

  "I guess."

  "How long have you worked here?"

  "About two years."

  "I don't mean to bring you down or anything like that, but do you ever feel like you're just running around in circles?"

  Her brow furrowed the slightest bit. She sighed. Then, "Yeah, pretty much every day."

  "Thanks." When she was gone he looked back at the table. "See?"

  He rose from his seat and strolled through the hotel. Outside the air was hot and dry. The sky was black as ink, with tiny little studs of light punched into it. He walked slowly up San Francisco Street, towards the Plaza. The night was quiet, with hardly a person about. When he reached Don Gaspar Avenue, he stopped, thought about it, then made a right and headed down towards Water Street, a stone's throw away from the two bars he'd been at last night.

  As he got closer to the street, he thought of Carly Whittaker and the fight they'd had that morning. What in the world was she was doing now? He knew from reading the sign on the front door of Essentials that the place closed at eleven. And here it was a quarter till. Chances were that if she went into work at four o'clock she was still there, getting ready to close. How long did it take for them to close after the doors were locked? Half and hour? An hour? He didn't know. And why in the world should he care?

  He watched the street sign that announced Water Street grow bigger in his eyes. What he wouldn't have given for a strong scotch about now.

  He stopped at the corner and looked right, down the opposite way of the one-way street. He had parked two blocks down and one block to his right. He was going around in a circle just to get to his car. It wouldn't take him but a couple of minutes to get there. And Essentials was only eight-or-so blocks away at most. He could easily make it before they locked the doors. There would still be time to—

  What the hell are you thinking? I can't believe the thoughts going through your mind. Maybe your reflection was right. You are going around in circles. What did you say the other day at dinner, when Mike brought up your fiasco at the Romeo and Juliet high school play? One definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? Who originally said that? Einstein? Pretty sure that's who. He also said, "Strive not to be a success, but rather to be of value." Also good words, and so far it's been—

  A thunderous crack echoed through his ears. At the same time lightning blazed through his skull, the world spun around him, something slugged him in the gut, and he found himself dropping to the sidewalk. Unable to breathe, he saw two men standing above him. He tried to blink away stars, and through them he saw it was the man from last night. The man who had demanded a cigarette from Clark.

  "Once again the faggot's hanging out on the street corner looking for some man ass," he said, and kicked Dempster in the ribs, setting off hellfire all the way to his chest and stomach.

  Hands hooked under his armpits. Suddenly he was rising like a fast, drunk elevator. When he was on his feet he was looking into the ugly mug of the man he'd beaten just last night, nose swollen, eyes focused. Other than that he looked exactly the same, only maybe a little more angry. Or happy, given the situation.

  "All right," the man said, putting up his fists, "let's go."

  The hands that had picked him up now grabbed his arms and doubled them around, up against his back. He looked at the man, faintly superimposed over a group of people standing on the street beyond. They were all watching him. They were also all people he knew. Mike and Angela. Freddy Skeele. Shelley was there. Charlie Powers was there. So were Evan and Jimmy and Clark. Carly was off to one side. Everyone was there, except for one. Where was.?

  His head twisted from the blow. Before he could consider it he was hit again. He fell back into the man holding him and was clapped in the jaw. Blood filled his mouth. He wasn't aware of its taste, only that it was warm. He heard laughter behind him, grunting in front. A fist cracked against his left temple, and as he dropped, the one laughing lost hold of him. He shook his arms free but a kick to the gut kept him from making a blind swing. He doubled up and collapsed forward, clinching.

  "Not so tough now, are you?"

  He vaguely saw the man's shape drop to one knee in front of him. Knuckles smashed his face once more. Then again. A chop, followed by a thundering punch that brought up the lights and then shut them down. The fists found him again. They smacked him around for a minute. Then he was hoisted up and shoved back against the wall of the nearest building. About to drop another time, something inside him refused to allow it. He wasn't going to let himself fall again. His legs were hot wobbling rubber, but he wouldn't let them buckle.

  A wicked jab sent his head back to smack against the wall; and in that moment rage filled him. His mind cleared, then went red. Then the man suddenly let his guard down.

  Dempster threw a left against the man's eye, then a right to the temple. Moving very fast, he hooked a right, a left, then hooked again into the man's side. And as the man bent forward, Dempster, with all his strength, hooked another right to the jaw, and watched two teeth eject from the man's mouth in a bloody spray. Stumbling backwards, the man collapsed into his friend's arms.

  Dempster regarded the two of them, smiled a blood-red smi
le and beckoned the one as of yet unharmed.

  Even in the darkness he could see the man's face had gone pale. Dempster watched him get his friend's arm over his shoulder, and move him away as quickly as he could. He watched until the darkness had swallowed them, then allowed his legs to collapse beneath him. For a moment he stayed there. Then forcing himself to sit up, he leaned against the wall, drew his knees up and hugged them, and worked on his breathing until it was steady and calm. His mouth was now aware of the metallic taste swishing around inside it. He spit several times, then closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. This revitalized the pain.

  Finally he dragged himself to his feet and the world darkened. He blinked several times, looked both ways, trying to remember where his car was. Down there, to the right, two blocks then another right. Keeping his shoulder against the wall, he took baby steps, down there, where the streetlights faded to black.

  Half a block. Still no one around. Not even crickets singing tonight. Another step, another, one more and a rest, catch your breath, clear your head. Everything's so damn dark, a blinding light of shadow. How does that work? That isn't possible, is it? Another step, c'mon, another step. Spit. Blood tastes awful. Another step, down there. Head's spinning, going in circles. Another one, now another. A full block now. Keep going. Mouth hurts, stomach hurts, head hurts. Dizzy. Shake your head. Neck hurts. Take a deep breath. Take another step.

  Suddenly he felt relaxed. The darkness became soothing and he drifted off, went far, far away from everything.

  He blacked out just before he hit the ground.

  2

  Jack sat out in front of the school on a bench, reading "A Rose for Ecclesiastes," waiting for his free period to end and for geometry to begin. Other than he and his book, the front of the school was empty. The air was quiet and peaceful, with the light chirping of birds and nothing more.