Millennium

by John Varley

  The thing is, it was good, athletic fun at night, but it always left me feeling shitty. I wanted to know the girl, I wanted to use a devalued word a relationship. I didn't insist on marriage. I wasn't that far behind the times. But I thought we should get to know each other.

  My wife would have had a good laugh over that.

  I patronized a certain massage parlor on Q Street. I didn't do it more than once every two or three weeks; my sexual urges didn't seem to be what they once were. What I liked was the no-nonsense atmosphere. It was quick and efficient, and though I felt bad when I left, it wasn't so bad as the one-night stands had been.

  That was the wild and free bachelor life that happily married Tom Stanley seemed to delight in thinking about. And that's what had happened to the carefree jet-jockey too young for Korea and out of the service by the time of Nam but who had so goddam much of the Right Stuff he could have written the goddam book. Somehow, he didn't quite remember how, he'd ended up at a desk. For a good time he got drunk and went to bed with whores.

  In that frame of mind I hardly noticed where I was going. Keeping my eyes on my feet, I stepped on a down escalator, and a pair of low-cut brown shoes stepped on with me. I looked up the nylons to the skirt, then quickly to her face.

  "We do keep running into each other, don't we?" she said, with a smile.

  I was still staring at her when there was a jolt. I had one hand on the rubber rail; with the other I grabbed her arm. For one wild moment I thought earthquake! Then I looked around and realized the escalator had stopped.

  "Maybe we'd better get acquainted," she said. "We might be stuck here for hours."

  I laughed. "You've got the advantage on me," I said. "You know my name, but I've never had time to ask you yours."

  "It's Louise Ba " She covered her mouth and coughed. There was a cigarette going in her other hand. "Louise Ball." She looked at me with a tentative smile, like she wanted to know if that was okay with me, her being Louise Ball. Well, I don't meet a lot of Louises anymore, but it was better than Luci or Lori or any of the cutesy names moms were giving their girls these days.

  I smiled back at her, and her full-blown smile emerged. You could have used it to light candles. I became aware I was still holding her elbow, so I let it go.

  "No relation to the famous redhead?" I asked.

  She looked blank for a moment and I thought I might have dated myself with a reference to ancient history, then she had it. It was only later that I thought it odd she'd miss a reference to "I Love Lucy." With a name like hers, wise guys like me must have brought it up a hundred times.

  "No relation. I hope I didn't embarrass you. I'm always doing thin s like that."

  I thought we were still talking about Lucille Ball, then realized she was referring to the coffee she'd spilled on me. It seemed like a trifle compared with the privilege of sharing an escalator step with her.

  "No problem."

  The people below us were moving, so we started down the unnaturally high steps.

  I considered and rejected several things to say to her. I was attracted to her as I hadn't been attracted to a woman in a long time. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to dance the night away with her, sweep her off her feet, laugh with her, cry with her, say bright, witty, gay things to her. Okay, I wouldn't have minded going to bed with her, either. To do any of those things, I should start by enchanting her, fascinating her with my wit, deliver some of those fine lines movie stars toss off with such ease in screwball comedies.

  "You live around here?" I asked. Brilliant conversation opener number 192. I've got a million of 'em.

  "Uh-huh. In Menlo Park."

  "I don't know the area. I've only been here a couple of times, and hardly ever left the airport." Will you show me the city? But I couldn't quite bring myself to ask her that. We had come to rest in a quiet little eddy beside the rushing river of humanity. We almost had to shout to hear each other.

  "It's across San Francisco Bay. On the peninsula. I ride the underground to work."

  "You mean BART?"

  Again there was that pause; she looked blank, like computer tapes were whirling around in her head, then, bingo.

  "Yes, of course, the Bay Area Rapid Transit."

  An embarrassing silence began to settle over us. I had the gloomy feeling she'd be away in a moment unless Cary Grant stepped to my rescue with a good line.

  "So you probably don't know the East Bay very well."

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I was wondering if you knew a good restaurant. All I know are the ones around the airport."

  "I've been told there are some nice ones in Jack London Square."

  And she just stood there, smiling at me. I hesitated again frankly, I'm always awkward with people I've just met, unless it's in the line of business. But she clearly wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere, so what the hell? "Would you like to have dinner with me, then?"

  "I thought you'd never ask."

  Her smile was better than amphetamines, and worse than heroin. I mean, here I'd been feeling like I'd been stepped on by an elephant, and then we were together, and just like that it was like I was twenty years old and just woke up from a good night's sleep.

  On the other hand, I felt it might be habit-forming, and it sure as hell did disorient me.

  We were already walking through the public parking lot in the drizzle with me babbling away like a speed freak before I recalled I had a car of my own, over at the Hertz lot. I told her about it, and she looked up at the sky. It was starting to rain harder.

  "Why don't we take mine, anyway?" she said. "I can drop you off here later."

  It sounded like a good idea, until I saw her car.

  It was one hell of a car. I looked at it, then at her. She was smiling innocently at me, so I looked back at the car.

  I'm not even sure what it was, but it was Italian, looked like it had been built about twenty or thirty years from now, was about eighteen inches high and thirty feet long, and seemed to be doing sixty just sitting there. I figured it had to cost eighty or ninety grand.

  Okay. This is her boyfriend's car. Or she has a lucrative side income. Maybe a rich uncle just died, or her parents had money. There was no way she could have paid for it on an airline ticket agent's salary.

  Frankly, I was getting a little dubious about her. Small things were adding up the wrong way. For instance, with this sitting in the garage she rode the "underground" to work? And let's be brutally frank. With a face and a body like that, she was eager to go out with a guy like me? I began to fear she might be a disaster groupie. They exist, though they tend to be male.

  But when they're female, they can be very weird. Suddenly I remembered that morning in the hangar, when she'd run away from me. She'd been looking very hard at those plastic bags full of debris. Was she getting some kind of kick out of it? Back in the airport she had seemed like an impossible dream. So when I finally understood that she was trying to help me, that she actually wanted to go to dinner with me and was doing her best to get me to ask, I hadn't questioned my good fortune. But what did she really want from me? I doubted it was my dashing good looks and suave conversation.

  I shoehorned myself into the passenger seat and she backed out, the foreign fireball under the hood rumbling like a big cat. The car purred along to the parking lot gate and we got in line. She looked over at me.

  "Was it very bad today?" she asked.

  Right. Here we go. I get to trot out my gruesome stories for the lady.

  "It was terrible."

  "Then let's forget about it. Let's ban all talk about crashes. Let's don't even talk about airplanes."

  So there was another theory out the window. I just couldn't figure where she was coming from. As we neared the toll gate I studied her again in the blue glare of the parking lot lights.

  Something else had been bothering me.

  It was her clothes. There was nothing wrong with them. She looked good in them. But they were old-fashioned. She was in her c
ivilian clothes now, and I hadn't seen anything quite like them for ten years. I don't claim to be a fashion expert, but even I could see they didn't go together. The skirt didn't match the blouse. The hemline was too high on her skirt. Her blouse was thin enough for me to tell she was wearing a bra.

  I was still puzzling over it when she paid the parking charge by dumping a fistful of coins into the attendant's hand and letting him pick out what he needed. I remembered doing much the same thing at Calcutta airport.

  Then she eased the lean, hungry machine out onto the access road, and we took off without waiting for clearance from the tower. It was like being in one of those car commercials where they try to prove their machine is more suited for aviation than for mere highways. We made the freeway in one piece, and then she really opened it up. She cut in and out of holes I never even saw, like the other cars were stationary obstacles.

  After the first surge of fear I stopped reaching for the brake that wasn't there, sat back, and admired the performance.

  Damn it, that lady could drive.

  She took me to Jack London Square. I'd heard about it but never seen it. It looked touristy, but then I'm not a gourmet.

  She parked, and I pried my fingers loose from the sides of the seat and managed to sort of roll out, amazed to be able to breathe, thankful for my life. She looked at me like she couldn't figure out what was wrong. I felt very old all of a sudden. I decided she probably hadn't been going all that fast, it was just me turning into a fossil. I'm sure I drove just as fast in my own hot-rod days, and as for some of the stunts we pulled in our Navy jets ...

  We went into a place called Antoine's, which was crowded. Naturally, we didn't have a reservation. The maitre d' told me it would be about forty-five minutes. I reached for my wallet, thinking I might grease his palm a little, when a magic thing happened. He got a look at Louise.

  I guess he couldn't bear the thought of having her cool her heels in the lobby. I didn't see her do anything; hypnosis, maybe. Whatever it was, there was suddenly an available table by the window overlooking the water.

  There were a lot of little boats out there, bobbing at anchor and drenched with rain: It was beautiful. I ordered a double scotch on the rocks, and she said she'd have the same. That pleased me. I never did understand why people want drinks that taste like candy and have paper umbrellas in them.

  The menu was in French. Guess what? She spoke it like a native. So I let her order, hoping she wouldn't saddle me with snails or eels or something.

  Our drinks arrived at a close approximation of the speed of light. I could see in our waiter's eyes that Louise had made another conquest.

  Somebody started playing a piano. Louise paused, and I saw that look again. She was consulting the memory banks, but she couldn't have had to look hard for that one.

  "'As Time Goes By,'" she said.

  "Here's looking at you, kid," I said, and raised my glass.

  She drained hers neat. I must have stared.

  "I needed that," she said.

  I motioned for the waiter, and sure enough, he'd been looking at Louise and some of her magic rubbed off on me, because he was there very quickly with another of the same.

  "It certainly looked like it." I needed one, too, but I sipped at mine. She sat sort of sideways in the chair, one arm draped along the back, her legs stretched out to the side of the table. She seemed totally relaxed, and more beautiful than ever. She cocked her head slightly.

  "What's the matter?" she asked.

  "Nothing. Nothing at all. Don't get mad, but I've got m say it. You're very beautiful, and I'm doing my best not to stare too much."

  She dimpled at that, and accepted it with a wry nod.

  "I can hardly believe my good fortune."

  The smile faded a little. "I'm not sure how I should take that"

  "What I mean is, I know anybody could see what I see in you, but I'm having a hard time understanding what you see in me."

  She sat up a little straighter, and her smile faded some more. Actually, by then it was almost a frown.

  "At the risk of letting you think I was feeling sorry for you, you looked lonely and depressed. You looked like you needed a friend. Well, so do I, and I don't have any. I wanted m get my mind off the things I saw today and I thought it probably wouldn't do you any harm, either. But if you -- "

  "Wait, I'm sorry I said -- "

  "No, let me finish. I'm not doing you any favors. And I'm not out to get anything from you. I'm not a reporter. I'm not a disaster freak. Don't talk about me like I'm your 'good fortune.' I'm me, and when I accepted your invitation it was because I was impressed at how you handled all those fools at the press conference and how you seem to be working so hard at unraveling the mistakes made by the people I work for and I thought I might like to get to know you."

  She looked me up and down, clinically.

  "Of course, I could have been wrong."

  I hadn't until that moment thought she might have been a reporter. I still didn't think so.

  But I wasn't spending a lot of time worrying about it one way or the other, as all I could see just then was something beautiful in danger of being wrecked by my suspicions.

  "I wish I hadn't said that," I said.

  "Well, you did." She sighed, and looked away from me. "Maybe I did come down on you a bit hard."

  "I was asking for it."

  "It's been a hard day." She looked at her second drink. She tossed it down. I did the same, hoping her opinion of her own capacity for liquor was close to the truth. It wouldn't be much fun if she got sloppy drunk.

  "How old are you?" she asked.

  "You're certainly direct."

  "It saves time."

  "I'm forty-four."

  "Good God," she said. "Were you worried that I was too young for you? Is that what you couldn't figure out?"

  "Part of it."

  "I'm thirty-three: Does that make you feel better?"

  "Yeah, I figured you for twenty-six." That wasn't quite true. When I first saw her I thought she was a lot younger, and later I thought she might be a little older. Twenty-six was splitting the difference.

  "I wish I could just wipe out the last couple minutes and start all over with you," I told her.

  "I'm willing." She lit another cigarette from the butt of the one she had been smoking. It was the only thing about her I didn't like, but you can't have everything.

  "You were right about me," I said. It wasn't as hard to say as I'd thought it would be. "I am lonely, and I've been depressed. Or I was. I felt a lot better as soon as you bumped into me."

  "Even with coffee in your lap?"

  "I meant later; on the escalator -- "

  She reached over the table and touched my hand.

  "I know what you meant. I hate airports in strange towns. You feel so anonymous. All those people."

  "Especially this time of the year."

  "I know. They're all frowning. It's better out at the gates. People are happier out there, meeting the people they came to pick up. But I hate to work the main terminal. Everybody's in a hurry, and there are always computer problems. Reservations getting lost ... you know."

  I felt a chill there. What if she was a reporter? "When they pulled me off the ticket desk and sent me out to the hangar I was almost relieved, can you imagine that? I mean, after they promised me there wouldn't be any dead bodies out there."

  I didn't say anything. If she wanted horror stories, this was the time to ask me about them.

  "But we weren't going to talk about work," she said. "Except I would like to know how a man who's only forty-four years old came to have such a sad face."

  "I put it together here and there over the years. But you don't want to hear about that."

  So that's exactly what we talked about: my life and hard times. I tried to stop myself but it was no good. I didn't get weepy about it, thank all the gods, and beyond a certain point and a terrain number of drinks I can't recall exactly what I did say except I'm sure
it wasn't about the details of my work. At least we stuck to that part of the agreement. Mostly I told her about what the job was doing to me. About what had happened to my marriage, about waking up with a fear of falling, and the dream where I'm moving through this long dark tunnel full of flashing lights.

  The drinks didn't hurt anything. By the time dinner came we'd each had quite a few, and I was feeling as relaxed and unguarded as I ever get. There's a wonderful feeling of release in talking about things you've held inside too long.

  But when the food arrived I calmed down enough to realize what we'd been having could hardly be called a conversation. Her part in it had been to provide the ears and a sympathetic comment or two.

  "So how do you like your job?" I asked, and she laughed. I met her eyes for a moment, and saw no reproach there. "Listen, I'm sorry I've been carrying on tike this."

  "Hush and eat your dinner. I don't mind listening. I told you, I thought you looked like you needed a friend."

  "You said you did, too. I haven't been a very good one so far."

  "You needed to talk worse than I did. I'm flattered that you chose me to talk to. I must have an honest face, or something."

  "Or something."

  I'd almost forgotten what it was like, feeling good about myself, and I was grateful. So I asked her about herself and she told me a few things while we ate.

  Her father had a lot of money. She had a degree in art from some college back east. She hadn't grown up thinking she'd ever have to support herself. She married the right guy, who turned out to be not so right after all. She left him and had been trying to make it on her own.

  There'd been a miscarriage.

  I gathered the art career was a failure. She'd been shocked to discover how hard it was to make a living, but she did not want to return to her father. He kept sending her gifts that she didn't have the will power to refuse, like the car outside.