Time Travelers

by Peter Haining (ed)

  Desert nights in that country are enormous; the moon is closer. I watched the moon for a long time and decided that Kihn was right. The main thing was not to worry. All across the continent, daily, people who were more normal than I’d ever aspired to be saw giant birds, Bigfeet, flying oil refineries; they kept Kihn busy and solvent. Why should I be upset by a glimpse of the 1930s pop imagination loose over Bolinas? I decided to go to sleep, with nothing worse to worry about than rattle-snakes and cannibal hippies, safe amid the friendly roadside garbage of my own familiar continuum. In the morning I’d drive down to Nogales and photograph the old brothels, something I’d intended to do for years. The diet pill had given up.

  The light woke me, and then the voices.

  The light came from somewhere behind me and threw shifting shadows inside the car. The voices were calm, indistinct, male and female, engaged in conversation.

  My neck was stiff and my eyeballs felt gritty in their sockets. My leg had gone to sleep, pressed against the steering wheel. I fumbled for my glasses in the pocket of my work shirt and finally got them on.

  Then I looked behind me and saw the city.

  The books on Thirties design were in the trunk; one of them contained sketches of an idealized city that drew on Metropolis and Things to Come, but squared everything, soaring up through an architect’s perfect clouds to zeppelin docks and mad neon spires. That city was a scale model of the one that rose behind me. Spire stood on spire in gleaming ziggurat steps that climbed to a central golden temple tower ringed with the crazy radiator flanges of the Mongo gas stations. You could hide the Empire State Building in the smallest of those towers. Roads of crystal soared between the spires, crossed and recrossed by smooth silver shapes like beads of running mercury. The air was thick with ships: giant wing-liners, little darting silver things (sometimes one of the quicksilver shapes from the sky bridges rose gracefully into the air and flew up to join the dance), mile-long blimps, hovering dragonfly things that were gyrocopters …

  I closed my eyes tight and swung around in the seat. When I opened them, I willed myself to see the mileage meter, the pale road dust on the black plastic dashboard, the overflowing ashtray.

  “Amphetamine psychosis,” I said. I opened my eyes. The dash was still there, the dust, the crushed filtertips. Very carefully, without moving my head, I turned the headlights on.

  And saw them.

  They were blond. They were standing beside their car, an aluminum avocado with a central shark-fin rudder jutting up from its spine and smooth black tires like a child’s toy. He had his arm around her waist and was gesturing toward the city. They were both in white: loose clothing, bare legs, spotless white sun shoes. Neither of them seemed aware of the beams of my headlights. He was saying something wise and strong, and she was nodding, and suddenly I was frightened, frightened in an entirely different way. Sanity had ceased to be an issue; I knew, somehow, that the city behind me was Tucson — a dream Tucson thrown up out of the collective yearning of an era. That it was real, entirely real. But the couple in front of me lived in it, and they frightened me.

  They were the children of Dialta Downes’s ‘80-that-wasn’t; they were Heirs to the Dream. They were white, blond, and they probably had blue eyes. They were American. Dialta had said that the Future had come to America first, but had finally passed it by. But not here, in the heart of the Dream. Here, we’d gone on and on, in a dream logic that knew nothing of pollution, the finite bounds of fossil fuel, or foreign wars it was possible to lose. They were smug, happy, and utterly content with themselves and their world. And in the Dream, it was their world.

  Behind me, the illuminated city: Searchlights swept the sky for the sheer joy of it. I imagined them thronging the plazas of white marble, orderly and alert, their bright eyes shining with enthusiasm for their floodlit avenues and silver cars.

  It had all the sinister fruitiness of Hitler Youth propaganda.

  I put the car in gear and drove forward slowly, until the bumper was within three feet of them. They still hadn’t seen me. I rolled the window down and listened to what the man was saying. His words were bright and hollow as the pitch in some Chamber of Commerce brochure, and I knew that he believed in them absolutely.

  “John,” I heard the woman say, “we’ve forgotten to take our food pills.” She clicked two bright wafers from a thing on her belt and passed one to him. I backed onto the highway and headed for Los Angeles, wincing and shaking my head.

  I phoned Kihn from a gas station. A new one, in bad Spanish Modern. He was back from his expedition and didn’t seem to mind the call.

  “Yeah, that is a weird one. Did you try to get any pictures? Not that they ever come out, but it adds an interesting frisson to your story, not having the pictures turnout.

  But what should I do?

  “Watch lots of television, particularly game shows and soaps. Go to porn movies. Ever see Nazi Love Motel? They’ve got it on cable, here. Really awful. Just what you need.”

  What was he talking about?

  “Quit yelling and listen to me. I’m letting you in on a trade secret: Really bad media can exorcise your semiotic ghosts. If it keeps the saucer people off my back, it can keep these Art Deco futuroids off yours. Try it. What have you got to lose?”

  Then he begged off, pleading an early-morning date with the Elect.

  “The who?”

  “These oldsters from Vegas; the ones with the microwaves.”

  I considered putting a collect call through to Lon-don, getting Cohen at Barris-Watford and telling him his photographer was checked out for a protracted season in the Twilight Zone. In the end, I let a machine mix me a really impossible cup of black coffee and climbed back into the Toyota for the haul to Los Angeles.

  Los Angeles was a bad idea, and I spent two weeks there. It was prime Downes country; too much of the Dream there, and too many fragments of the Dream waiting to snare me. I nearly wrecked the car on a stretch of overpass near Disneyland, when the road fanned out like an origami trick and left me swerving through a dozen minilanes of whizzing chrome tear-drops with shark fins. Even worse, Hollywood was full of people who looked too much like the couple I’d seen in Arizona. I hired an Italian director who was making ends meet doing darkroom work and installing patio decks around swimming pools until his ship came in; he made prints of all the negatives I’d accumulated on the Downes job. I didn’t want to look at the stuff myself. It didn’t seem to bother Leonardo, though, and when he was finished I checked the prints, riffling through them like a deck of cards, sealed them up, and sent them air freight to London. Then I took a taxi to a theater that was showing Nazi Love Motel, and kept my eyes shut all the way.

  Cohen’s congratulatory wire was forwarded to me in San Francisco a week later. Dialta had loved the pictures. He admired the way I’d “really gotten into it,” and looked forward to working with me again. That afternoon I spotted a flying wing over Castro Street, but there was something tenuous about it, as though it were only half there. I rushed into the nearest newsstand and gathered up as much as I could find on the petroleum crisis and the nuclear energy hazard. I’d just decided to buy a plane ticket for New York.

  “Hell of a world we live in, huh?” The proprietor was a thin black man with bad teeth and an obvious wig. I nodded, fishing in my jeans for change, anxious to find a park bench where I could submerge myself in hard evidence of the human near-dystopia we live in. “But it could be worse, huh?”

  “That’s right,” I said, “or even worse, it could be perfect.”

  He watched me as I headed down the street with my little bundle of condensed catastrophe.

  THE TIME DISEASE

  Martin Amis

  Twenty-twenty, and the time disease is epidemic. In my credit group, anyway. And yours too, friend, unless I miss my guess. Nobody thinks about anything else anymore. Nobody even pretends to think about anything else anymore. Oh yeah, except the sky, of course. The poor sky… . It’s a thing. It’s a situation. We
all think about time, catching time, coming down with time. I’m still okay, I think, for the time being.

  I took out my hand mirror. Everybody carries at least one hand mirror now. On the zip trains you see whole carloads jackknifed over in taut scrutiny of their hairlines and eye sockets. The anxiety is as electric as the twanging cable above our heads. They say more people are laid low by time-anxiety than by time itself. But only time is fatal. It’s a problem, we agree, a definite feature. How can you change the subject when there’s only one subject? People don’t want to talk about the sky. They don’t want to talk about the sky, and I don’t blame them.

  I took out my hand mirror and gave myself a ten-second scan: lower gumline, left eyelash count. I felt so heartened that I moved carefully into the kitchen and cracked out a beer. I ate a hero, and a ham salad. I lit another cigarette. I activated the TV and keyed myself in to the Therapy Channel. I watched a seventy-year-old documentary about a road-widening scheme in a place called Orpington, over in England there… . Boredom is meant to be highly prophylactic when it comes to time. We are all advised to experience as much boredom as we possibly can. To bore somebody is said to be even more sanative than to be bored oneself. That’s why we’re always raising’our voices in company and going on and on about anything that enters our heads. Me I go on about time the whole time: a reckless habit. Listen to me. I’m at it again.

  The outercom sounded. I switched from Therapy to Intake, No visual. “Who is it?” I asked the TV. The TV told me. I sighed and put the call on a half-minute hold. Soothing music. Boring music… . Okay—you want to hear my theory? Now, some say that time was caused by congestion, air plague, city life (and city life is the only kind of life there is these days). Others say that time was a result of the first nuclear conflicts (limited theater, Persia v. Pakistan, Zaire v. Nigeria, and so on, no really big deal or anything: they took the heat and the light, and we took the cold and the dark; it helped fuck the sky, that factor) and more particularly of the saturation TV coverage that followed: all day the screen writhed with flesh, flesh dying or living in a queer state of age. Still others say that time was an evolutionary consequence of humankind’s ventures into space (they shouldn’t have gone out there, what with things so rocky back home). Food, pornography, the cancer cure… . Me I think it was the twentieth century that did it. The twentieth century was all it took.

  “Hi there, Happy,” I said. “What’s new?”

  “… Lou?” her voice said warily. “Lou, I don’t feel so good.”

  “That’s not new. That’s old.”

  “I don’t feel so good. I think it’s really happening this time.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  Now this was Happy Farraday. That’s right: the TV star. The Happy Farraday. Oh, we go way back, Happy and me.

  “Let’s take a look at you,” I said. “Come on, Happy, give me a visual on this.”

  The screen remained blank, its dead cells seeming to squirm or hover. On impulse I switched from Intake to Daydrama. There was Happy, full face to camera, vividly doing her thing. I switched back. Still no visual. I said, “I just checked you out on the other channel. You’re in superb shape. What’s your factor?”

  “It’s here,” said her voice. “It’s time.”

  TV stars are especially prone to time-anxiety—to time too, it has to be said. Why? Well, I think we’re looking at an occupational hazard here. It’s a thing. True, the work could hardly be more boring. Not many people know this, but all the characters in the Armchair, Daydrama, and Proscenium channels now write their own lines. It’s a new gimmick, intended to promote formlessness, to combat sequentiality, and so on: the target-research gurus have established that this goes down a lot better with the homebound. Besides, all the writing talent is in game-conception or mass-therapy, doing soothe stuff for the nonemployed and other sections of the populace that are winding down from being functional. There are fortunes to be made in the leisure and assuagement industries. The standout writers are like those teenage billionaires in the early days of the chip revolution. On the other hand, making money—like reading and writing, come to that—dangerously increases your time-anxiety levels. Obviously. The more money you have, the more time you have to worry about time. It’s a thing. Happy Farraday is top credit, and she also bears the weight of TV fame (where millions know you or think they do), that collective sympathy, identification, and concern that, I suspect, seriously depletes your time-resistance. I’ve started to keep a kind of file on this. I’m beginning to think of it as reciprocity syndrome, one of the new—

  Where was I? Yeah. On the line with Happy here. My mind has a tendency to wander. Indulge me. It helps, time-wise.

  “Okay. You want to tell me what symptoms you got?” She told me. “Call a doctor,” I joked. “Look, give me a break. This is—what? The second time this year? The third?”

  “It’s different this time.”

  “It’s the new role, Happy. That’s all it is.” In her new series on Daydrama, Happy was playing the stock part of a glamorous forty-year-old with a bad case of time-anxiety. And it was getting to her—of course it was. “You know where I place the blame? On your talent! As an actress you’re just too damn good. Greg Buzhardt and I were—”

  “Save it, Lou,” she said. “Don’t bore me out. It’s real. It’s time.”

  “I know what you’re going to do. I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to ask me to drive over.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  “It’s not the money, Happy, it’s the time.”

  “Take the dollar lane.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You’re, you must be kind of serious this time.”

  So I stood on the shoulder, waiting for Roy to bring up my Horsefly from the stacks. Well, Happy is an old friend and one of my biggest clients, also an ex-wife of mine, and I had to do the right thing. For a while out there I wasn’t sure what time it was supposed to be or whether I had a day or night situation on my hands—but then I saw the faint tremors and pulsings of the sun, up in the east. The heavy green light sieved down through the ripped and tattered troposphere, its fissures as many-eyed as silk or pantyhose, with a liquid quality too, churning, changing. Green light: let’s go… . I had a bad scare myself the other week, a very bad scare. I was in bed with Danuta and we were going to have a crack at making love. Okay, a dumb move—but it was her birthday, and we’d been doing a lot of tranquilizers that night. I don’t happen to believe that lovemaking is quite as risky as some people say. To hear some people talk, you’d think that sex was a suicide pact. To hold hands is to put your life on the line. “Look at the time-fatality figures among the under classes,” I tell them. They screw like there’s no tomorrow, and do they come down with time? No, it’s us high-credit characters who are really at risk. Like me and Danuta. Like Happy. Like you… . Anyway, we were lying on the bed together, as I say, seminude, and talking about the possibility of maybe getting into the right frame of mind for a little of the old pre-foreplay—when all of a sudden I felt a rosy glow break out on me like sweat. There was this clogged inner heat, a heavy heat, with something limitless in it, right in the crux of my being. Well, I panicked. You always tell yourself you’re going to be brave, dignified, stoical. I ran wailing into the bathroom. I yanked open the triple mirror; the automatic scanlight came on with a crackle. I opened my eyes and stared. There I stood, waiting. Yes, I was clear, I was safe. I broke down and wept with relief. After a while Danuta helped me back into bed. We didn’t try to make love or anything. No way. I felt too damn good. I lay there dabbing my eyes, so happy, so grateful—my old self again.

  “You screw much, Roy?”

  “—Sir?”

  “You screw much, Roy?”

  “Some. I guess.”

  Roy was an earnest young earner of the stooped, mustachioed variety. He seemed to have burdensome responsibilities; he even wore his cartridge belt like some kind of hernia strap or spinal support. This was the B-credit look, the buffer-cla
ss look. Pretty soon, they project, society will be equally divided into three sections. Section B will devote itself entirely to defending section A from section C. I’m section A. I’m glad I have Roy and his boys on my side.

  “Where you driving to today, sir?” he asked as he handed me my car card.

  “Over the hills and far away, Roy. I’m going to see Happy Farraday. Any message?”

  Roy looked troubled. “Sir,” he said, “you got to tell her about Duncan. The new guy at the condo. He has an alcohol thing. Happy Farraday doesn’t know about it yet. Duncan, he sets fire to stuff, with his problem there.”

  “His problem, Roy? That’s harsh, Roy.”

  “Well, okay. I don’t want to do any kind of value thing here. Maybe it was, like when he was a kid or something. But Duncan has an alcohol situation there. That’s the truth of it, Mr. Goldfader. And Happy Farraday doesn’t know about it yet. You got to warn her. You got to warn her, sir —right now, before it’s too late.”

  I gazed into Roy’s handsome, imploring, deeply stupid face. The hot eyes, the tremulous cheeks, the mustache. Jesus Christ, what difference do these guys think a mustache is going to make to anything? For the hundredth time I said to him, “Roy, it’s all made up. It’s just TV, Roy. She writes that stuff herself. It isn’t real.”

  “Now I don’t know about none of that,” he said, his hand splayed in quiet propitiation. “But I’d feel better in my mind if you’d warn her about Duncan’s factor there.”

  Roy paused. With some difficulty he bent to dab at an oil stain on his superwashable blue pants. He straightened up with a long wheeze. Being young, Roy was, of course, incredibly fat—for reasons of time. We both stood there and gazed at the sky, at the spillages, the running colors, at the great chemical betrayals. …

  “It’s bad today,” said Roy. “Sir? Mr. Goldfader? Is it true what they say, that Happy Farraday’s coming down with time?”