He nods, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to argue about their relationship, anyway. Whatever the future holds this day has been one to remember. It's never too late to ruin a good thing, but he will not do anything to ruin this one right now. He wants to post it in his mental scrapbook just the way it is.
Chapter 9
She gathers her stuff up and goes, leaving Blaine not quite the man he’d been yesterday. Nothing truly settled between them, no real commitment still. Sexually content as a man can be, though. Something to be said for that.
It feels almost as if the clock has gone backwards, and he has travelled back in time.
That doesn’t scare Blaine because he believes in time travel, like any good brain scientist does. After all, what is it when you have a memory of an event that occurred long ago? A strong visceral memory, like he had seeing and being close to Renee? Time travel of a sort, for sure. You raided the past to think about the now and make plans for the future. Brain scientists called it memory of the future.
That was what memory was. It was a time machine designed to take you back into the past to someplace that had been useful to you, someplace that would help you survive. Though sometimes it seemed like a device made to torture you, he knew that wasn’t really so.
And what about a good book or novel, or a movie? The best ensconced you in some type of virtual reality so convincing that you momentarily forgot where you actually were, took you into the distant past or yet-to-come future or some physical place you’d never been in "real life." Conventional novels were usually set at least slightly in the past, using "said" and "asked" in the dialogue, making it all a bit easier for readers to follow. Although readers ignored that after a while: they translated the words of conversations and books into the "gist" of it all. Most folks had an automatic tendency to make stories intelligible.
And they played with time in other ways in those media also. Lifetimes were compressed into 90 minutes. Entire eras collapsed into an hour. It was magical the things that could be done to time. A good book could cover the entire history of the universe. Maybe you’d be done with it in a few days.
He brings his mind back to the present and his own recent past with his gal Renee. He thinks the main thing bothering her is the fact that he has no real steady income. That pisses him off in a big way, makes him wonder. Is that all it’s ever about? If you didn’t bring the bacon home in some form or fashion, no women for you, pal. But he knows it's not that simple.
She and her mom had grubbed along her entire childhood. She had told him that. No dad, struggling to make ends meet, with never enough money for nice clothes or going out with her little girl pals. So she’s got this whole complex deal going on in her head, with the no male role model and the poverty thing going on, except for the times when her mother had hooked up with guys, which from what she had told Blaine, were frequent enough, but the guys never had seemed to last, and as Renee had grown older and more mature, at least a couple had tried to hit on her. Maybe succeeded. She was sort of vague about that, hadn’t actually said it or anything. It was just a feeling he got listening to her. So she had issues, definite issues.
Also she hops cocktails, in a classy enough bar, sure, but Blaine knows that guys are in there hitting on her all week long and it has always been hard for him to take. He also has the sneaking suspicion that the two guys she had admitted to might not be the entire iceberg, so to speak. So there’s that.
She says that she’s just doing it till she gets done with school. She’s a student up at the University of Houston and doing real well, got a 3.7 average, brighter than she lets on. But Blaine thinks it might be a little more than that.
He knows she pulls down money that you wouldn’t believe doing the cocktail waitress gig. When she told him how much money on a good night, he had almost choked on a sandwich. God only knew what she would make if she showed some skin. We’re such suckers, men are, he thinks. We see a girl that looks like that, have a few beers, and we’re throwing our life savings at her, trying to get in her pants.
And he’s seen her at work enough to know she eats that stuff with the men up. Eats it up. Floating through that bar like a butterfly, stinging like a bee, breaking it off in hearts or libidos, or whatever, all over the place.
Blaine has got to admit it isn’t exactly painful to be seen out with her. He’s walking along beside her, not really that big a guy or that good-looking, just 6 inches or so taller than she is, but most eyes are on her anyway, and she really is striking in that way she has, drawing attention like a wreck on a highway. Blaine can feel the guys looking at her, looking at him, sizing up the odds at taking their shot. Puts a little more strut in his stride, maybe, makes him walk just a hair taller.
It doesn’t scare him, that’s for sure. When he’d been a kid he hadn’t gotten the fight thing for a while. Walked away, not because he was scared, but because he simply didn’t get it, didn’t believe in hitting somebody. He'd been scared some, okay, but that hadn't been the issue. Just didn’t see what it solved. But after a while, as he got older, he had seen the way things were; that people really did take something away from you when you didn’t fight for it. And that had been the end of his pacifist stage. He’d enrolled in a Tae Kwon Do school for two years and learned to fight. It wasn’t like some magic wand that made him invincible; it simply gave him a skill set. He sparred against some pretty good people and did all right. Had a few street fights, mostly when he’d been younger, out drinking in one club or another. Always were fights brewing in the clubs where he drank in his younger days. Take alcohol, add testosterone, blend well with pretty girls, and bam!
Of course he’d felt some fear. He wasn’t saying he hadn’t been afraid. In his experience you always felt some fear when you were doing a dangerous thing. Sometimes on the bike he’d felt it, or in the mountains when he climbed, or at work dealing with some dangerous substance or situation. The important thing was to keep moving and work through the fear. Once you were moving that knot in your belly vanished, and you climbed into that envelope of the now, which was liberating enough, and did what you had to do. That was what he had learned: Keep moving, don’t let the fear freeze you into inaction. It almost always got better when you acted.
Of course he carries a gun now, most of the time, but it is not a cure-all. He has the certificate to carry concealed and that’s great, but he knows that most of the time if you pull a gun, bad things are going to happen. It’s just that simple. It’s not something to take lightly.
He doesn’t bring one in a bar. Federal building. Any of the other restricted places. The way he sees it, the weapon gives him an edge when he might need it. That’s it. It doesn’t make him Superman, more aggressive, or make him think he’s got more rights than anybody else. He takes several of his guns out to the range every month or so, just enough to stay fairly proficient with them. He’s been carrying the little one so long it has become a habit like brushing his teeth. Just a part of his life. No false confidence though. Guns were not the answer to most of the things that happened in life, and the way these guys were shooting up schools, killing youngsters, or the people that had fired them at work, or random strangers in fast food franchises, that stuff just sickened him.
He sighs again thinking how screwed up the world can be. It is the middle of the night and he is wide awake again, so he heads to the kitchen and makes some more of that good coffee and sits at the dining table leafing through one of the brain books, focusing on that for a while then thoughts drifting to Renee or the accident or his future. After a while it is 5 a.m. again, and he gets down on the floor and runs through his exercise routine, dresses in his running clothes, and heads out to the street.
Chapter 10
Another great night: stars and moon out and glowing. He thinks about the death thing as he rolls along down his street, beginning to sweat. He is not really very aware of his surroundings because he is probing deep inside, trying to find a trace of that memory of the seconds and mi
nutes after his head hit that pole. He has this feeling that if he could just remember that time all else will suddenly be clear. He searches inwardly, going deep for that memory.
But nothing.
A few minutes of that and he realizes there is not going to be anything right now. His head comes back up and he refocuses on the things around him. Death is such a funny subject, he thinks, because it is the unknown. Funny, odd, and scary too. We all go about our business trying to ignore the reaper. Don't ask who he is coming for, because he might be coming for you.
He remembers a movie, Meet Joe Black, that had made a lasting impression on him. Brad Pitt had played dual roles, one of them being death embodied somehow, come for Anthony Hopkins. Love interest Claire Forlani.
But apparently Death had never had occasion to actually exist in a live body, and he becomes slightly enamored of life himself, which is an ironic twist. Since he is having so much fun he gives Anthony Hopkins some extra time to get himself together for the big leap, while Death explores a very human romance with Hopkins' daughter, including some very real joys of the flesh.
Some of the reviewers had panned the movie as being slow-moving without enough action, but Blaine thought it was one of the greatest of all time. Love and death, he thinks. What greater themes are there?
And that thought brings him back to Renee, of course, and he runs the silent, dark street wondering if the great loves only exist in the movies, on the screen. Untouched by petty feelings.
He thinks about that ability we have to make things up, to bring forth that which doesn't exist. Imagination is a great gift that makes so much possible. It was the faculty that had propelled us down from tree branches and into skyscrapers. It was the ability that let writers, or anyone else: film-makers, poets, whoever, create. He remembers reading somewhere that if you can imagine something, and it is not against the laws of nature, and thus impossible, sooner or later you can make it happen. David Deutsch, the physicist, had said it.
The thing he loves about writing is that he can make something nobody else ever has, something unique to him, even though the language he uses and the ideas he has have their basis in the common pool. He gets to put them together in ways that have never been, and never will be exactly again. Sure he is standing on the shoulders of those who came before. How could it be any other way? But that is the glory of it: he can stand on those shoulders. That is what makes humanity great, he thinks. We talk about being individuals, but all the time inside we know that we are more than that. We are linked to each by blood and history, and we form really a type of super organism, a great being, continually shifting and changing form, with parts falling off and others being added, coming and going, but the larger organism going on.
So he is running along thinking all this, sweating and warmed up inside and out now, ground flowing beneath his feet and ideas running through his mind. And he realizes in some sense his wish for insight into the death thing has been answered. He has never been very religious, but he has always been spiritual, and as he runs he suddenly is more aware of the ground pushing against him as he pushes against it, and the breath flowing in and out, and the stars and the moon shining above.
He finishes up in front of the house and walks around to cool off some, stretching as he goes, trying to keep the old muscles from seizing up. Of course it is the middle of the night again, and he is wide awake.
Porch lights shine up and down the street, including the one at Mandy's house, and he wonders if he will ever really get any money from her. The hospital bills are probably going to mount up to considerable, though he hasn't turned in a claim to his insurance company yet. He had thought her company would be paying. He kicks that around in his mind as he walks by her house. Her lack of coverage made his insurance company pay. They, in turn, in response to higher claim costs, would raise rates at some point. At which time, he and the other policyholders would in effect be picking up the slack for those like Mandy, who messed up and had no coverage.
And ain't that the way it always goes, Blaine thinks. Got to pick up the slack for those that can't handle the freight, for whatever reason. That is what our society has become. He really doesn't know if it is good that we do that or not. It is wonderful in one way that there is a safety net in place for those who are unable to get medical service or are disabled, or need welfare help or whatever. It seems to him like it is a good thing for people to have. On the other hand, he thinks that when people give you stuff you don't work as hard for what you need. It is the nature of the beast. Of course if the country fails financially, nobody is going to get their needs taken care of. And right now, the country is closer to failing than it has ever been. Debt up the kazoo. Debt that will saddle their children for generations. Sustainability, he thinks, that is what it is all about. We've got to start doing things that work. We can't keep borrowing from the future.
He has walked all the way down the block away from his house as he pondered all this, and he turns around now and goes past Mandy's house toward his own. He thinks about his train of thought on the run, and he realizes he had gone from a great insight about the wonder and glory of human ability, to a soliloquy on how screwed up everything is. Schizophrenia in bloom, he thinks and goes inside.
Chapter 11
A couple of reporters make the effort to contact him, one or two coming to the door at the house, but for the most part they had quit after the "press conference" at the hospital and gone elsewhere looking for stories. His brother and his mother, out in California but in different towns, call to check on him, his mother getting a bit choked-up on the phone. His sister calls from down in Dallas. He reassures everybody he is fine. And for the most part he is. The neck is still stiff sometimes, but it seems to be getting less so, and all else is good.
He starts sinking into his normal routine, getting up in the middle of the dark nights occasionally: writing, researching, running. No shutdowns coming that he knows of anytime soon. Middle of the summer wasn't a good time for the plants to schedule those deals. It was like Christmas; everybody had something going on. Schools were out, and the guys with kids had vacations scheduled. And it was hot. So hot you could literally fry an egg on the sidewalk. Blaine doesn't remember the exact numbers, but the accident rate is always higher in heat like this. Heat stroke and exhaustion. Plain old fatigue. Sometimes the plants don't have any choice but to go down in the heat of summer because some piece of equipment had failed, or just because it is good for them financially. That's what it boiled down to with those big companies, the bottom line. They talked a good game about employee health and safety, but when it came right down to it, the dollar ruled.
He fires his old Dodge Ram up and runs it a bit, going to the Chevron on 61st Street, watching the tourists and fishermen roll in and out of town, floats and tubes and fishing gear standing up dancing in the wind, stuff strapped on top or back, the beach deal going on in all its glory and variety. He gets his gas and rolls inside with his sheath of preselected numbers for the lottery and the power ball and the mega millions, hands it to a hard-looking brunette at the register to risk a few bucks for the chance to dream of riches and the good life. Seems like a fair trade. Though he knows the math doesn't hold up, he likes the feeling of possibility it gives him.
Apparently his brother Todd doesn't believe him, or thinks he needs checking up on, because he calls and tells him he's coming into Hobby the next afternoon, and can he get a lift to his house, and stay there by the way?
All of that is good with Blaine. He will be happy to see his sorry ass. He straightens up the guest bedroom and throws a fresh set of sheets on the bed, tidies the rest of the house and heads up I-45 the next day, Dodge gassed up and rumbling, sounding mighty fine.
The sky is cloudy, and he runs in and out of showers on the way up to the airport. I-45 has become a river of the modern age, with all sorts of malls and restaurants and other entrepreneurial emporiums to sell you stuff, on the banks. Plenty of pawn shops. The traffic is always heavy th
ese days, people going to and from work, families on vacation headed to the beach. The road is full of billboards, the conventional and the newer electric that change constantly: brighter, with more bang for the buck, he guesses. The dog track juts up on the left, a huge, modern stadium, but his understanding is that it had never really made the money they thought it would. Whataburgers, with those distinctive orange and white triangle shapes, seem like they are every few miles, along with Schlotzsky's and McDonald's. The medical branch of the University of Texas had diversified its properties after Hurricane Ike had shut down Galveston for so long, and here and there are derm clinics, cardiac, various and sundry others. Fitness clubs and oriental restaurants. Some television show had made a big deal about all the girls that had been killed on this stretch of road throughout the years, or disappeared. The show had given this sinister aura to the area, like killers lurked behind every bush, but Blaine had been driving up and down it his entire life, almost, and it doesn't seem particularly sinister to him.
It was an ungodly number of girls killed in the past 30 years or so, but he didn't think that some serial killer was running loose. It was just a major thoroughfare with a ton of traffic, and a growing number of towns tucked into the sides of it.
Texas City, La Marque, Webster, Clear Lake. And more. Growing constantly. Back in the day, when it was mostly overgrown fields full of trees in a lot of places, it probably made a convenient place to dump a body. I-45 mystery solved.
Todd is standing waiting with one rolling piece of luggage in the pickup area when Blaine drives up, and he collapses the handle and throws it into the rear seat, hops in and they are off. Like an Indy race car, they used to say.
"You look pretty good for a dead man," Todd says, smiling at him from behind an expensive pair of shades, reaching over to grab his shoulder. He is a younger, slightly better-looking version of Blaine; he's got the same thick brown hair, lighter blue eyes, and a bigger smile. People tend to like him right off the bat.
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