The Mind Game

by Norman Spinrad

“Weird,” Weller said, cocking his head in her direction. “Yeah,” said Susan. “They remind me of the Salvation Army, all bright and clean and wide-eyed.”

  “But they run a good place,” Bob said, perhaps a bit sharply. “So how are things with you lads?” he asked.

  “Still got a contract for fourteen segments of Monkey Business a year,” Weller said. “Annie’s auditioning for a commercial next week. …” He gave Annie a sympathetic look and gilded the lily a bit for her. “… and she’s up for a major part.”

  “In an unsold script,” Annie added somewhat wearily.

  Bob shook his head. “Chimp shows. Agent’s bullshit. What’s wrong with you kids? You’ve got the talent, all you—”

  “Bob!” Susan hissed. “Will you leave them alone? Bob forgets that if he hadn’t gotten to Amie Palucci in a drunken moment, he’d probably still be back writing cartoon shows.”

  “For Chrissakes, Susan, that’s the whole point. It’s not what you know—”

  “ITS WHO YOU KNOW,” the other three chorused.

  The waitress arrived with their drinks. She set them down with a little bowl of nuts and four copies of a lithographed brochure. On the cover was the same photograph that hung enlarged on the wall and the words, “TRANSFORMATIONALISM AND YOU!”

  “Who is this guy?” Weller asked.

  Bob lifted his glass and toasted the wall photograph. “Our host and benefactor, John B. Steinhardt,” he said. “Guru of Transformationalism and proprietor in absentia of this noble saloon.”

  “Weird-looking duck,” Weller opined.

  “He used to be a science-fiction writer, I think,” Susan said. She gave Bob a little false smile. “All writers are crazy.”

  “Hey, Bill, over here!” Bob had caught the eye of a balding, middle-aged man drinking at the bar. As he lurched over to their table, Bob whispered to Weller: “Bill Wallenstein, story editor on Harrison’s Company, make the most of it, Jack baby.”

  Wallenstein sat down, none too steadily. “This is Jack Weller,” Bob said. “He’s a director.”

  “Yeah? What’s he directed?” the story editor said with a certain shit-faced belligerency.

  “And this is Jack’s wife, Anne Weller, she’s an actress.” Wallenstein beamed a woozy smile at Annie. “Ah yes, I believe I know your work,” he lied transparently. Annie gave him a sickly smile and pointedly began leafing through the brochure. A story editor on a TV series usually had about as much to do with hiring directors as the script girl and even less to say about casting. Which, however, did not always prevent them from using the old casting-couch come-on.

  “So … ah … how’s it coming, Bill?” Bob said, a shade uneasily.

  “Ah, the usual,” Wallenstein grunted. “We’ve got a backlog of a lousy two scripts, and Irv wants me to knock out two myself this month, in between rewriting the crap we’ve got. Say … how about you doing one for us, Bob?”

  “No way,” Bob said. “I’m doing a TV movie, and I’m happily booked up.”

  “Lucky bastard,” Wallenstein muttered. “Say, Mrs. Weller, maybe you’d like to come down to the studio and maybe I could introduce you to Irv. …”

  Oh, brother! Annie didn’t bother to look up; she continued reading the brochure.

  “Mrs. Weller—?”

  “Annie—?”

  “Huh?” Annie finally looked up. “What … ? Sorry. …”

  “I said maybe you’d like to come down to the studio and I cound introduce you to my producer.”

  Annie smiled sweet-sour at him. “I’m tied up for the next few weeks, maybe I’ll give you a call after that,” she said, and pointedly went back to reading “TRANSFORMATIONALISM AND YOU!”

  “I’d be glad to come to the studio and meet your producer,” Weller said, giving Wallenstein a somewhat toothy smile as he put a slightly fey lilt into his voice. “You wouldn’t happen to be bi, would you?”

  Wallenstein cringed woozily. Bob looked aghast. Susan tried to choke back giggles. Annie kept reading, ignoring the unseemly scene.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Transformationalist Celebrity Center.” Mercifully on cue a tall, gray-haired, almost regal-looking woman had mounted the small stage and was speaking into a small throat mike slung around her neck. She carried herself like an actress, and her cold, unblinking green eyes dominated the room.

  “Uh-oh,” said Bob, “here comes the commercial.”

  “For those of you who are here for the first time, let me tell you what this place is all about. Candidly, Transformationalism wants you” She pointed at the center of the room (deliberately?), mimicking the famous Uncle Sam poster.

  “And we want you to want Transformationalism! Transformationalism has centers throughout the United States and the Western world. As many as twenty million people have had some Transformational processing, but this is something new. John has decided that it’s time to reach out directly to people like yourselves who mold public consciousness. Our goal is to transform the mass consciousness, to raise the total consciousness of the human race to ever-higher levels. You are in key positions to further this great cause, and we can transform you into happier, more successful, more highly conscious human beings. …”

  As the dull rap went on, Weller’s attention began to wander.

  His eyes moved around the room, and way over at a comer table he thought he saw Marsha Henderson. He had known Marsha when he was in the children’s-programming department at CBS, they had gotten along well, and now she was a hotshot studio executive overseeing a whole stable of primetime shows. Maybe she’d remember me, he thought. Maybe this evening won’t be a total loss.

  “—to give you a real feel for what Transformationalism is about, our founder, the first Transformed man, the highest consciousness on the planet today, John B. Steinhardt.”

  The lights dimmed slightly, and a section of the wall behind the stage slid upward, revealing a giant-screen television set, a full five-by-seven job. A moment later the face of Steinhardt appeared on the screen, approximating the pose on the wall photograph and the brochures, but in full color. His complexion was ruddy like a Colonel Blimp, and his eyes were blue and somewhat watery. Looks a bit like a rummy, Weller thought.

  “Hi, I’m John Steinhardt, and I’ve served my time in the entertainment racket too, written three hundred science-fiction stories and a shelf of books as long as your arm, you probably never heard of. But that was many moons and many transformations ago. I remember what it was like to crank out wordage at peon wages, working like a maniac just to survive, never even having enough time to think about why the hell I could never get anywhere, why a so-called creative person had to run at top speed all the time just to keep from slipping backward like the Red Queen. Yes, friends, I know your, problems and your dreams and your frustrations all too well. …”

  Steinhardt spoke in a gravelly voice with the speed of a used-car salesman doing a thirty-second commercial, yet Weller found the performance instantly capturing his attention. Steinhardt didn’t come off like the usual slick guru; he had the ability to project himself as one of the boys, to give this video-tape spot the immediacy of beery barroom rap.

  “… The world moves so fast these days even those of us who fancy we’re leading public consciousness can’t keep up with the changes we’re creating every day. Politics, media, the stock market, our own kids—zip, zip, zip, everything transforms itself faster than we can follow it. You have to be a moron not to realize that none of the old rules describe reality anymore. But a lot of otherwise smart people fall into the contemporary trap of believing that somewhere, somehow, someone or something is going to give you a new set of rules and simple step-by-step instructions for putting Humpty Dumpty together again. …”

  The man had energy. Weller saw that most of the people in the room were paying attention, Bob nodding over his drink, even Annie staring at the screen and toying unconsciously with the brochure. This good old boy sure could sell snake oil! “… Syn
anon, Arica, est, old-time religion, the world is full of outfits that claim they can navigate you through all the whirlpools if you’ll follow their instructions. Well, not Transformationalism, I kid you not, friends. Transformationalism faces the truth, and the truth is that the human race has evolved to the point where ongoing change has become permanent. There will never again be a set of rules or a fixed consciousness that will make sense out of the world for you, because the only thing that’s certain is that anything that describes how reality works today will be obsolete tomorrow. …”

  Over in the comer Marsha Henderson was getting up and walking toward the ladies’ room. Got to find some way of introducing myself before she leaves tonight, Weller thought.

  “… So I’m not trying to sell you rules or sets of perception or a static road map of reality but a series of processes designed to give you Transformational Consciousness, to free you from the trap of seeking permanent perceptions of anything, to evolve your minds into instruments capable of riding the changes, transforming the world as the world transforms you. So take a look around, ask questions, see if you don’t want to get involved in what’s happening here. In the meantime the drinks are on me!”

  Steinhardt saluted the room with his hand in the manner of your genial host; off went the TV set, up came the lights, and onto the stage came the woman who had introduced the taped speech. “Upstairs we have demonstrations and detailed literature for those of you who are interested. Any of our people here will be glad to assist you.”

  She left the stage, and the room was immediately transformed back into a bar. Drinks were ordered, people resumed their conversations, and over in the comer Marsha Henderson was standing beside her table talking to her party.

  “Well, what did you think of that?” Bob Shumway asked. “He could sure move used cars,” Weller muttered distractedly, looking over his shoulder at Marsha Henderson who looked as if she were preparing to make her exit. Can I just walk up to her and say, “Hi, you remember me, I’m Jack Weller… ?”

  “He was kind of impressive, wasn’t he?” Annie said.

  “Good line of bullshit,” Wallenstein woozed.

  “Well, it made some sense to me. According to this brochure they claim they can make you as psychically together as he is, and he’s sure got charisma. If they can really teach you to project like that. …”

  I could wander down the bar, maybe order a drink there, Weller thought. Then I casually turn, catch her eye. Say … pardon me, you look familiar, aren’t you … ah … er… . That would be subtle enough; it wouldn’t seem too gross. I really don’t have anything to lose.

  “They say this organization is worth hundreds of millions,” Bob said. “And lotsa tentacles.”

  “There’s no business like the guru business. ”

  Yeah, I’ll do it! Weller decided. He turned his attention back to the table and started to rise. “Uh, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back. I have to—”

  “Hello, I’m Tanya Blaine. May I join you for a moment?” A well-built redhead, about twenty-five, wearing a white blouse and black slacks, had appeared beside Weller and was already pulling up a chair.

  “I’m one of your hosts at the Celebrity Center,” she said, “and I’d be happy to answer any of your questions about Transformationalism.” Her voice was professionally friendly, yet also coldly insistent, and her eyes had a repellent rodential quality. Here was a beautiful woman who gave off no sexual vibrations at all.

  Weller tried to ignore her and continue his move, but Annie spoke up immediately, and he couldn’t walk out on her fine. “Just what do you do to … uh, process people?”

  “We use many techniques,” Tanya Blaine said. “Rolereversal. Gaming it through. Block auditing. Meditative deconditioning. It’s quite a complex technology, and we’re developing more every day.”

  Marsha Henderson turned away from her party and began slowly walking toward the exit along the length of the bar. “—demonstrations of some of the techniques upstairs—” “—maybe later—”

  Damn it! Weller thought, as Marsha Henderson disappeared through the door while Tanya Blaine and Annie continued to babble about Transformationalism. I’ve blown it. So near and yet so far, the story of my life.

  “Well, it’s been nice talking to you,” Tanya Blaine said, finally getting up to leave. “If you want any further information, feel free to come upstairs. If you’ll excuse me. …”

  “You’re excused,” Weller snarled in frustration. Tanya Blaine’s composure cracked for just a flash at the tone of his voice; she gave him a puzzled look, shrugged, then departed.

  “What the hell was that, Jack?” Annie said angrily. “Why was it necessary to be rude to that woman?”

  “I was rude? That woman barged in here and screwed everything up, and I’m rude?”

  “What are you talking about, Jack? Screwed up what? What’s gotten into you?” Annie was looking at him as if he were nuts, and Weller suddenly felt very foolish, and he knew that he would feel even stupider having to explain it in front of Wallenstein. There was a long tense moment of eyeball-to-eyeball silence.

  Fortunately Wallenstein, even through his booze haze, managed to pick up on the vibrations. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’ve got to see a man about a turkey.” And he lurched off in the general direction of the bar.

  “Well?” Annie demanded.

  “Yeah, Jack,” Bob said. “What the hell was all that about?”

  “Ah, I’m sorry,” Weller said sheepishly. “I saw Marsha Henderson over there—you know, the production executive —and I used to be fairly friendly with her years ago when she was doing kiddie shows at CBS. I was about to go over and see if I couldn’t subtly do myself some good when Little Miss Sunshine came along. Now Marsha’s gone, and I’ve blown it.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t know,” Annie said.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Weller said distantly. Their eyes met, clashed, looked away.

  “At least you’re learning, boy,” Bob Shumway said. “You’re learning. There’ll be other chances, if you just put yourself in the way of them.”

  “Yeah,” Weller said. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe this place does have its possibilities.”

  “Told you it did. ”

  They sat around for another hour or so, having two more rounds of drinks and talking of the inconsequential. Bob Shumway spotted two more low-level producers, but Weller’s energy, or his nerve, or both, were at too low a level for him to contemplate introducing himself, especially since these were people he didn’t know.

  They called it a night at about eleven, and the Wellers drove home largely in silence, Weller concentrating on his driving, thinking about his lost opportunity—if a real opportunity it had been—and Annie sitting quietly beside him, fingering the brochure she had taken from the table.

  As they drove down Moorpark, past eerie empty Valley sidewalks, Annie finally spoke. “Maybe we ought to go back there soon.”

  “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing.” There did definitely seem to be a goodly number of producers drifting through the Celebrity Center. No real heavyweights, maybe, but if we hung around the bar by ourselves, we might be able to strike up a conversation with someone who could put us onto some prime-time segment work. And that’s certainly a step up from where we are.

  “What did you think of it?”

  “Seems like there are some useful people hanging out there,” Weller said.

  “I mean what they’re doing there,” Annie said. “Steinhardt. The processing.”

  Weller pulled up into their driveway and looked over at her quizzically. “Steinhardt? Transformationalism? I wasn’t paying much attention to all that stuff. Why, were you?”

  Annie seemed to draw into herself slightly. “Oh, not really. I looked through that brochure while that creep was trying to come on to me. Kind of interesting. ” She showed it to him as they left the car. “I brought it along, if you want to take a look at it,” she said
.

  “Uh-huh,” Weller mumbled, already thinking about tomorrow’s shooting, another long, tiring, tedious, essentially pointless day of Monkey Business.

  They got ready for bed quickly, and Weller began to drift off to sleep almost immediately thereafter, going through tomorrow’s shooting sequence in his head, which for boredom certainly beat counting sheep. As he dropped off, Annie lay on her back beside him, staring at the ceiling and thinking her own private thoughts.

  Two

  Feeling tired but more emotionally up than he usually did returning home from work, Jack Weller closed the front door on the late-May heat and sucked up the first cooling blast of the air conditioning.

  For once the shooting had gone smooth as butter, and he had even gotten a little ahead of schedule. A nice dinner, and then later maybe we’ll go to the Center and see what we shall see.

  They had gone to the Center four times in the last three weeks, and while no hard contacts had yet been made, they had become familiar-enough faces to talk casually with anyone there without seeming to come on too strongly. Weller hadn’t seen Marsha Henderson again, but he had had a few brief and casual conversations with two prime-time producers and a director who was getting regular work on a cop series. He hadn’t come on as an assignment-chaser to any of them, but at least now there were some potentially valuable people who knew who he was. And it seemed only a matter of time before some random talk drifted onto the subject of his directing career and from there to a “come see me at the studio.” Maybe tonight would be the night.

  He went into the living room to make a drink. Annie wasn’t there. “Annie? I’m home!” he shouted in the general direction of the kitchen.

  No answer.

  “ANNIE?”

  Nothing.

  He went into the kitchen. No Annie. Nothing on the stove. She must be in the john, Weller thought. Then he noticed the note on the kitchen table, secured under the sugar bowl.

  “Dear Jack,” it said, “I’ve gone to the L.A. Transformation Center, and I won’t be home for dinner. There’s some salmon salad and vegetables in the refrigerator for you. Be back about eight. Love, Annie.”