“Listen, man,” he said to me. “You look like a pretty sensible dude. I mean communicating with that dog and all. You’ve got sensitivity to other peoples’ vibes. I can see that. Talkin’ to a dog, man. That is so cool.”
James interrupted the skinny guy, pointing out the basics of the conflict. “Mac, this little ferret goes by the name Merlin, and he thinks he can talk me out of payin’ his toll. He’s always paid before and he’s short now, so he’s puttin’ out some shit about bein’ brothers together over the undersoul.”
“That’s `under the oversoul’, butt breath,” retorted Merlin. “It’s the Emersonian concept of all living things joining a mass consciousness at the time life leaves their bodies.”
“Shut the fuck up, you crazy mother fucker,” said James. “Listen, McCall, I don’t wanna hurt this guy. He never gave me any trouble before. But I got a territory to protect. I got no pity for a man not having his toll. When you travel, you gotta be prepared.” He pointed his finger at Merlin’s chest. “I’ll tell you exactly what happened. This crazy stoner smoked his toll. He’s higher than a fuckin’ falcon right now. He always pays us a quarter and now he got none, but his eyes are so fuckin’ glazed over, looks like he’s got cataracts. Had to put his shades on cuz he can’t take the light.”
“Dude, you are totally correct about the toll, Dude,” Merlin responded. “But please listen to me. What I’m saying is we should be working together in this shitty city. Hey, wow, man, a rhyme. Poetry from the subconscious. That’s what happened last night, man. There was a full moon. I was inspired with heavy thoughts about our predicament. Man destroys self. Earth bitch smacks humanity. Very depressing, dude. Slapped DARKSIDE OF THE MOON in the i-pod and then I just had to smoke some gange to expand the thought process. Guess I smoked a little more than I planned. Top notch Indica, Dude. Super mellow. So I’m a little short. I’ll pay you next time through. I promise.”
“I can’t cut you no slack, Merlin. Besides, there wasn’t any full moon last night. Lyin’ to me ain’t a good choice, man. This is business. I can’t be teachin’ my boys about runnin’ a territory by lettin’ people talk me out of tolls. You can leave your bike or that backpack as deposit and when you pay the toll, I’ll give it back to you. Final offer. Otherwise I have Wind Chill kick your skanky little ass for about five minutes.”
Merlin looked to the sky and raised his arms up, as if in appeal to a deity. He slowly turned a complete circle and stopped, lowering his arms to shoulder length and pointing to the magnificent statues that towered above us.
“You know what those are, James?” Merlin asked the clan leader.
“Indians and horses,” responded an impatient James.
“No, James. They are not just Indians and horses. You ever seen an Indian? A real live one?”
James shook his head side to side.
“Neither have I. And that’s my point about us working together. This whole fucking country used to belong to the Indians like three hundred years ago. It was beautiful unspoiled land. Ocean to ocean of forests and prairies and mountains and desert, untouched by any stain. Then the white man came and turned the whole thing to shit. Bad karma, man. The white man has always had bad karma. Now we got a land blighted by roads and cities and rusting vehicles and useless bridges and dams, and populated mostly by skeletons…”
Merlin ran out of breath. Noisily sucking in a giant lungful of air, he continued, “…and not one fucking Indian to be found. How’s that shit grab you?”
“The way it grabs me,” said James, “is that you are a fucking white man and you are giving me a whole bunch of shit.”
“But I’m not like those other white men, James. I don’t want to control you and make you submit. I just want us to live in harmony, man. Work together. Build something beautiful.”
“Only thing I see,” said James, “is a slick talkin’ white mother fucker tryin’ to talk his way out of his toll. You’re pissin’ me off, Merlin.”
James walked over to me and pulled me aside for a conference out of earshot from the other three.
“Listen, McCall,” he appealed. “I usually like Merlin. He’s a harmless little fuck and good for a laugh. He also knows his shit. And is a top rate scavenger. But he’s makin’ me look bad in front of my boys with all that bullshit. We ain’t in the 20th no more. He better get back to the real world or I’m gonna have to hurt him.”
I looked over to Merlin and saw him engaged in earnest conversation with Angel and Wind Chill. They looked at him as if he were speaking Japanese. He was making no headway. The philosopher could not break through to the soldiers.
And the officer, James, speaking to me now of his reluctance to resort to force with Merlin, was also immune to the young thinker’s message. In James’ case, I think reality had too strong a hold on him. His world was too dangerous, too cruel, too full of the basic survival rituals for his mind to have time for the luxury of strange and challenging thoughts—ideas that could shake the way he perceived his environment and his clan’s mores.
I understood James’ need to force Merlin to comply with the rules that had been set down by the clans. He had responsibilities to his people. He was protecting turf. Without secured turf, his clan couldn’t survive. It was his duty to protect it. His personal feelings about the likability and harmlessness of Merlin had to be cast aside.
I also identified with James’ reluctance to sanction Merlin. He was indeed an interesting little fellow, and I think James realized that having a philosopher of sorts, albeit a perpetually stoned one, in our midst added some small dignity to our lives. Merlin could definitely be a pain in the ass, but the little man could make all of us look at things from a different perspective.
So as James and I talked, I made him an offer that allowed him to save face and remain within the guidelines of his duties to the Black G. D.’s. He happily accepted.
We both walked the few steps back to the three others and I interrupted Merlin as he was explaining to the awestruck soldiers the concept of synergy as it applied to the responsibilities of human beings on the planet.
“Listen, Merlin,” I said. “Here’s what is going to happen. I’m paying your toll. I have enough herb in my possession to pay a quarter for each of us. This is acceptable to James. You pay me back or that dog you think is so cool is gonna chew your leg off.”
Merlin began walking in a circle and gesturing with his hands and arms as he spoke. “Dude, that is so excellent. I can’t thank you enough. This is like some kind of sign, you know. I smoke my last doob so I can commune with the beauty of nature and the Floyd vibes, and what happens? I meet The Good Samaritan, and Mr. hard-ass Nazi boy James shows a little humanity. James, man, you see what I’m saying? Can’t you feel the vibe? See the aura? Mother Nature is saying to us, `Work together. Be brothers. Seek harmony.’”
He walked over to James and put his arm around the leader’s shoulders, reaching up a good six inches to do so. “James, man, thanks a lot. You just expanded your whole world. Your mind is opening up to a whole new scene. Can you feel it?”
Merlin removed his arm and stood face to face with James, standing up on the tips of his toes. “Oh yeah. I see it in your eyes. There’s a glimmer of a new consciousness in there. I can see a metamorphosis for you, James.”
James looked down at him and smiled.
“Metamorph your scrawny butt outa here, white bread. I’m tired of your mumbo jumbo.”
He raised his hand and picked the two foil wrapped quarters I tossed him out of the air.
“See you next trip, Mac. Good hunting. Take this crazy fucker with you. He knows this territory better than anybody. Lives somewhere around here. Nobody’s ever been able to find his crib, though.”
The three of them turned and left, heading toward the lake. Merlin hurled a final rejoinder at their departing backs.
“Only the pure of heart will ever find my dwelling, James. Keep working on it. You may get there someday.”
He turned to me,
displaying a huge grin.
“Dude, break out some more of that weed. Let’s party.”
We did.
• • • •
I followed Merlin, that first day we met, down the entrance ramp cars used pre-collapse to gain access to a gigantic underground garage that stretched beneath Michigan Avenue and a wooded area called Grant Park. We were safe now. Many of the clans had a strict code of honor. If a toll was paid, the Black Gangster Disciples guaranteed us free passage and would even defend (or avenge) Merlin and me if anyone messed with us while you were under their protection.
Merlin and I stayed on the first level, close enough to the entrance that sunlight filtered its way in so that we could see each other while we talked and smoked. Duke and I checked the territory first, scanning for fifty meters into the garage to ensure we were alone. Our only companions were the abandoned cars that dotted the cracked concrete floor. The garage was damp and the vehicles had lost their battle with mildew and rust, more lonely reminders of humanity’s lost prosperity. We sat on the bed of a rusted pickup and filled a bowl.
We spent two or three hours together talking high talk and laughing about things that seemed absolutely hilarious. I felt a kinship with Merlin, and I think it was because he reminded me more than a little bit of Stevie. Merlin was only four or five years older than Stevie. Stevie was built similarly to Merlin, each of them thin as a mangy dog, Stevie several inches taller.
But most of all, they were both survivors. Merlin’s self-imposed isolation was remarkably similar to the choice Stevie had made. I asked him about his preference for solitary existence.
“I’ll tell you, Mac,” he said. “You aren’t going to believe this, but I grew up in a clan. Maniac Flyers. Way up north by that huge airport. They used to sit in those empty planes and pretend they could fly. That’s where the name came from. You should see those planes, Mac, they are unbelievable. They got some up there bigger than an apartment building. They were great fun playing in.”
He smiled at the memory. I asked him what went wrong.
“The whole clan system is wrong,” he replied. “We were Folks. That meant People were our natural born enemies. What the fuck is that all about? How can I hate anybody I don’t even know?”
“I think it has something to do with being part of the human race,” I said. “Been going on forever.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to partake in it,” he said. “When I was fourteen, seven years ago, we went out on a turf tussle against the Snakes. I got fucked up pretty good. Almost bled to death before someone showed me how to find a pressure point and apply a tourniquet. While I was recovering, I thought, `What the fuck am I doing, almost dying for some concept of hatred I don’t even subscribe to?’ So I decided to be an indie. Not live with a bunch of indies. Be a real one. All alone. Hell, indies aren’t independent anyway. They live in total fear all the time. Just because you aren’t with a clan doesn’t mean you can call your own shots. Shit, indies got both Folks and People to deal with. Not just one or the other. So I don’t live with anyone.”
“How did you leave?” I asked. “Never heard of a person surviving an outing.”
“There was no way I was going to go to the council and asked to be outed,” he said to me, fire in his eyes. “It’s a death sentence. I saw one once when I was eleven. Guy said he just wanted to take his girl and move way out into the country. No problem. Even offered to supply the clan with food he was planning to farm. Council said fine, just gotta go through the ceremony.” Merlin shook his head, as if trying to dispel the memory. “About five minutes in the guy knew he wasn’t gonna make it out alive. I could see it on his face as the punches just kept on coming, growing more and more vicious. He lived about two hours after they finished with him. He just laid with his head on his girl’s lap breathing blood bubbles. Then the bubbles stopped.”
“What about his girl?”
“They told her she had to be outed too. She swore she’d stay, never think about leaving again, but they said she broke the code. What fucking code, I asked myself? They didn’t kill her. But it ended up crippling one of her legs, so they sold her to the Two-Two Boys. The Deuces needed a cook. Theirs died. Infected cut turned to gangrene. We got fifty rounds of ammo for her.”
“So how did you get out?”
“I simply disappeared in the night,” he replied. “Didn’t take a thing except the clothes on my back and shoes on my feet. I figured they’d remember me if I stole anything. Probably have no memory of my existence by now. Been seven years. But I’ll tell you, Mac, I sure as hell don’t travel up in that area. Just in case someone recollects. What about you, Mac. What’s your story?”
It was a question that had never been asked of me. Not even Sarah had asked that question. Of course, she knew she didn’t have to. Each of us knew the other’s history. But the question had never been vocalized.
“Had a family. They got killed. I survived,” I recited.
“Kind of the condensed version, huh?” Merlin responded.
I felt bad about my abrupt response. But not bad enough to talk about it. Once was enough.
“I’m sorry, Merlin,” I said. “Not something I talk about much.”
True to his namesake, Merlin sensed my anguish and adeptly switched subjects. An hour or so later, as we began to straighten out, Merlin and I struck our business arrangement.
“You know,” Merlin said, “I sure would like to buy some of that herb you grow. It is absolutely the best weed I’ve ever sampled.”
“I’d be happy to sell it to you,” I replied. “All we’ve got to do is fix a price.”
Our hours together had put us beyond the point of trying to take advantage. Neither of us would attempt to bargain beyond the limits of the friendship that was beginning to develop. I wanted him to have the pot, and he was willing to pay a fair price.
“What I’ve got,” said Merlin, “is information. The reason I say that is because I see you as being fairly self-sufficient. Material items I think you’ve got plenty of. Judging from the artillery you’re packing, I’d say weapons are probably not a priority either. So what I can give you is data. You want to locate a certain item, I’ll find it for you. Food, military hardware, tools, supplies—you name it; I know where it is. You want to know who’s doing what, I’ll give you the latest buzz. You need drugs, I know who manufactures the best meth, who produces the best acid, where the PCP’s at. Slammer, Brain Fuck…You name it. I can get it. That’s what I’ll give you, man. I don’t keep these things myself. Too risky. If I run across something I think might be valuable, sometimes I might hide it or camouflage it. But I won’t take it with me. I move around too much.”
“O.K.,” I said. “Give me a generic example of the kind of information you’re talking about. No specifics. I don’t want to put us in the position of haggling over the value of something I may not need or already know.”
“Some of the stuff I get,” he replied, “is hard data. Other info is just rumor. I’ll always tell you which is which. Rumors I can’t guarantee. Let me give you an example. Troop movements. There’s some stuff going on up north. Not sure what, but some clans are arming and recruiting.”
“OK. That kind of information is always useful,” I said. “Particularly when I’m planning an excursion. What other kinds of items are you talking about?”
“There’s a new drug making the rounds in the People clans. They call it “Bad Boy…”
I kept my face neutral. Didn’t mention Weasel and I had come across the factory nearly a year ago during our excursion into The Babe’s Satan’s Messenger camp.
“…It can be really, really good. Or fry fuck your synapses. The chem hasn’t worked out the bugs yet. I heard about one guy took two snorts, thirty seconds later, he had a seizure so bad it snapped his fucking neck. Died looking like an expressionist sculpture. Stay away from it, Mac. You’ll recognize it by the grey flecks in white powder.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I make it a general
policy not to put anything in my body that isn’t 100% earth grown.”
“Good plan, man,” Merlin replied. “Herb, wine, shine, shrooms. That’ll pretty much cover you.”
“Not to mention food,” I replied.
“Yeah, food. I forgot about food,” Merlin said, smiling sheepishly and then rushing on, trying to give me the right data to seal our deal. “Here’s another example,” he continued. “This will give you an idea of how bits of information that filter in over a long time can be coalesced to provide new conclusions. You’ve been roaming around this area for about seven or eight years now. Right?”
“Close enough,” I responded.
“That’s about the same amount of time I’ve been out here, too. But you’ve never seen me, have you?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Bet you never heard of me either, have you?”
I shook my head.
“That’s my point. I know a hell of a lot about you; but you don’t know shit about me. Why? Because I make a point of presenting myself as being totally non-threatening. To the clans, I’m part of the background. Harmless. Barely noticeable.”
“Well, hell,” I said in defense of myself, “I’m pretty much trying to stay out of the light too.”
Merlin laughed. “I know you don’t go looking for someone to go up against. But take a look at yourself, Mac. You and Duke don’t exactly come across as timid. And when someone fronts you, the response is generally bad for their health. That’s your style. No problem. But with me, I’ve got to approach confrontations from a different angle. I’m not a warrior; I’m a fucking magician—a man of grace and finesse.”
Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation Page 21