Orbit 13 - [Anthology] Read online

  There was something naggingly familiar about the hitchhiker. Was he— Sorry, thought Lindsey, and drove away so fast that gravel scattered from the Camaro’s rear tires. Pebbles leaped and ticked around the hitchhiker’s feet.

  Veach appeared unexpectedly on the passenger’s side of the seat. He looked across at Lindsey with a Cheshire grin. “Hey Lindy, come home with me tonight and meet the wife.”

  What wife, thought Lindsey. Some nice boy you picked up on Forty-second? He instantly regretted the thought and felt ashamed; Veach had more taste. “No thanks, not tonight. Mona’s having friends over.”

  “Mona,” said Veach. “Who the hell’s Mona? Lindy, baby, you ought to see a shrink.”

  I love her, thought Lindsey.

  “It won’t kill you,” Veach said, taking a cigarette from a gold case and tapping it against the dashboard.

  “What?” Lindsey said vaguely.

  Veach was disgusted. “You’re not listening.”

  “I am. Why should I see a psychiatrist?”

  “Are you unhappy?”

  Lindsey admitted he was.

  “Shrinks help. Trust me.”

  “Psychiatrists fool around with things that aren’t their business.”

  “That’s their business,” said Veach.

  Later: the elder Lindsay, implacable. “You’re a good, solid man, Lindsey. An asset to the firm.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But I think perhaps you are upset. Lately your work has been uneven.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “I want you to take some time off. Maybe . . . seek some professional help.”

  “I’m fine, sir. I’d rather not.”

  “I’d rather you did, boy.”

  “Sir ...”

  “Mr. Veach can recommend an extremely competent man.”

  Sometime during the night, the sky above the hills to the southwest began to lighten. In an hour it became a white glow. Another hour: Las Vegas. Lindsey had never been to Las Vegas—he had never before been west of Pittsburgh—yet he had heard . . . The coins in his right trousers pocket pressed against his thigh. Lindsey unconsciously touched the wallet in his jacket. He realized it was too easy a dream and instantly denied it, laughing.

  Lindsey took the freeway bypass to the west. On his left, the carnival glared and blared, merging his night with others from long before. Neon incandescence, flashing:

  CAESAR’S PALACE

  TILT-A-WHIRL

  THE NUGGET

  FREAK SHOW

  DUNES HOTEL

  COTTON CANDY

  Dizzy, Lindsey hunched forward over the wheel and concentrated on the stripes. He heard a chorus of “In the Good Old Summer Time,” as though played by a distant calliope, the sound teasingly distorted by wind. He twisted the knob of the radio, but the radio was already off.

  The sound, he realized, was distorted by time.

  A sign of soft, reassuring green swept by on the right:

  LOS ANGELES 280 MILES

  It was an anchor of tangibility; a promise he could grasp.

  “Where’s the ashtray in this thing,” said Veach.

  “Under the radio.”

  “How was the session with the shrink?”

  ‘That’s, uh—”

  “None of my business, right?”

  “The psychiatrist was quite pleasant.”

  “Crap,” said Veach, “you hated it, right?”

  “I didn’t hate it, no.”

  Veach exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Don’t obscure your hostilities, chickie. Did you tell him about Mona?”

  “He didn’t ask.”

  “Stop and let me out,” said Veach. “I can get further with a desert cactus.”

  As the road began to climb into the Sierras, Lindsey checked the fuel gauge. The needle rested well below E, so he exited at a station where the floodlit signs assured him ALL NIGHT, LOWEST PRICES, LIVE GILA MONSTERS, and CACTUS CANDY. The attendant told him the live gila monsters were asleep in their pens, not to be disturbed until morning.

  On the access road to the highway, Lindsey passed a hitchhiker again. The hitchhiker. Lindsey stared as the hitchhiker put out his thumb. Unaccountably terrified, Lindsey swung wide into the left lane to avoid him and pressed the accelerator to the floor. He looked back in the mirror; there was only darkness.

  Lindsey joined the westbound freeway and felt his panic subside. There was nothing frightening about a recurring hitchhiker. It was an anomaly, but nothing sinister. Lindsey concentrated on keeping his lane as the highway wound farther up the Sierra slope. At times traffic from the opposite direction swept down around the curves toward him, headlights strobbing between posts of the divider fence.

  He wondered about the time. The luminous dial of his watch read three twenty. A uniformed man at the agricultural check station across the California border gave Lindsey the correct time.

  “I have time and money enough to see a psychiatrist,” said Lindsey, “but not the inclination. What for? I know how things are.”

  Do you have any citrus fruits, vegetables, or other plants?

  Yes I have no bananas, Lindsey indicated. He had heard his mother say that.

  Don’t give me a hard time, buddy.

  Time, that’s all I want.

  “You’ll love him,” said Veach. “His name is Dr. Van der Mark. He’s a pussycat.”

  Coasting down the long grade into Barstow, Lindsey looked into the mirror and once again saw a glow. This time it was morning. A reddish sun edged above the mountains and the Mojave instantly turned incinerator. Having no air conditioner, Lindsey rolled his window down and suffered.

  Dr. Van der Mark (Veach explained) spent a number of years interned by the Japanese in New Guinea. The experience gave him a profound insight into mankind; a great compassion for humanity. Only a child then, at war’s end he determined to become a psychiatrist.

  Lindsey wondered aloud why his experience in the Japanese internment camp hadn’t caused Van der Mark to become a misanthrope.

  Maybe he’s crazy, Veach suggested.

  So why should I waste my money on a crazy person?

  Because he’s a pussycat.

  “I will want to see you again in one week,” said Dr. Van der Mark. His voice was precise. He smiled only slightly, allowing his lips little freedom to disturb the meticulously tended Vandyke.

  Lindsey silently collected his hat and coat.

  “Next week I should like an introduction to Mona.”

  “Did Veach—”

  “That would be unprofessional,” said Van der Mark.

  “Then how—”

  Van der Mark carefully touched his Vandyke with one finger. “You talk; I listen.”

  The air temperature rose, all the way from Barstow into San Bernardino, where Los Angeles actually seemed to begin. Berdoo—Lindsey dinsinterred the word from a youthful memory of a motorcycle film. Berdoo was palms and lanai apartment buildings, light-to-medium industry spread along the freeway, and air that made Lindsey think of home. His lungs began to smart, his eyes to water. From time to time he glanced sidewise at the roadmap on the seat. The processional rolled past: Riverside, Ontario, Pomona, West Covina. He repeated the place-names, a potent incantation.

  Lindsey felt a tangible relaxation, barely short of unconsciousness. The long drive was nearly ended; he was Here. But where was that? His reach and grasp were suddenly equivalent.

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” said Lindsey. He wanted to pull over on the side of the highway and be sick or fall asleep, or both. He craned his neck stared out the windows and into the mirrors. There was no way. Lindsey’s Camaro was in the fourth lane from the right of six lanes westbound. Traffic chains of multicolored links bound him on both sides. Lindsey flashed his turn signals first one way, then the other. He pressed on the horn.

  Some of the other drivers ignored Lindsey; some cursed him; some laughed.

  Veach reached for the lighter. “Well, Lindy, you’re here.” He p
aused to light his cigarette. “Are you just going to drive indefinitely west in this lane?”

  Lindsey looked helplessly across the hood of his car. Traffic in the lane immediately to his left was moving slightly faster than he; cars in the right lane were traveling slower.

  “It may take an hour or two,” said Veach, “but you’ll run out of gas. Here you’ll be. Helpless and surrounded.”

  “I’ll make it,” said Lindsey. “I’m here. Just give me time.”

  “No time, bunny.”

  Signs abounded on either side of the freeway and overhead: guidance for the lame and halt, or for strangers.

  SAN GABRIEL RIVER FREEWAY

  POMONA FREEWAY NEXT

  NEXT RIGHT

  RIGHT

  SAN BERNARDINO FREEWAY

  LEFT LANES

  TO SANTA ANA FREEWAY

  YORTY SKYWAY CENTER

  KEEP LEFT

  LANE

  LOS ANGELES LEFT

  LANES

  “I can help,” said Dr. Van der Mark, “but for me to help you, you must help me.”

  “What?” said Lindsey.

  “You must help me.” Dr. Van der Mark slumped in the tan leather chair. He was tall and stoop-shouldered, with the unconscious slouch of the tall man who doesn’t wish to intimidate men of shorter stature. “I wonder if you could tell me your goals.”“

  The Rorschach inkblots had been easier. Finally Lindsey said, “I don’t know. I’m not sure. I want to be warm and safe.”

  “And loved?”

  “There’s a difference?”

  From interchange to interchange the traffic fragmented and reformed, shifting Lindsey from lane to lane.

  “This is scary,” said Lindsey aloud. “I didn’t expect this.” The sun was nearly overhead and he looked at his watch: the hands stood at three twenty. Lindsey turned on the radio.

  “—ee-twenty in the afternoon, this is KLA in Pasadena with a Wild Wax Weekend in store—”

  He could see Mona, blurred.Hard to focus, Lindsey thought.

  Eyes deep in shadow, Dr. Van der Mark regarded him. “It’s not uncommon for a child to invent an imaginary playmate.”

  You fool! “I am twenty-six years old,” said Lindsey.

  ”Please, I meant no—”

  “Listen,” said Lindsey almost pleading. “Please don’t fuck around with reality.”

  “Mr. Lindsey, will you listen—”

  You stupid, irresponsible—

  “—to reason?”

  —bastard. Nothing gives you the right.

  “I can only help you with your full cooperation.”

  Nothing.

  The radio: “—sule News. Today Los Angeles inaugurates its new multimillion-dollar traffic control plan. Acco—”

  At the apex of a four-level traffic stack, Lindsey saw an opening on the right and cut in. The new signs read HOLLYWOOD FREEWAY.

  “—rding to LA Traffic Czar Chase, the new system will cut freeway congestion ten percent in the first month of operation. Further—”

  Quickly, quickly! Lindsey cut to the left. The VENTURA FREEWAY. He glanced at the map; red freeways tangled in an unstrung skein.

  “You don’t need that map,” said Veach.

  “I don’t know where I’m going,” Lindsey said.

  Veach nodded. “You feel it. The map won’t help.”

  The radio: “—ozen random exit ramps and sites selected for maximum disposa—”

  The freeway rose to the penultimate level of a five-layered interchange and Lindsey looked down at California from a dizzying height. “It’s got to be here somewhere,” he said. “It’s got to be.” The route divided and Lindsey drove the San Diego Freeway south. To the right the sun glittered on water. “The Pacific,” Lindsey said. “I’ve never seen it.” He strained his eyes but saw nothing but hard glitter.

  The freeways forked and spread like lovers’ legs, and Lindsey followed them. The map was nearly useless, but in time he came to believe he was driving widdershins around the golden city of the golden state. The ocean to the west gleamed closer.

  The radio: “—oday’s QLI Report. QLI Authority reports smog concentration moderate, eye irritation severe, potential respiratory damage moderate. High temperatures today will range to the hundred-degree mark. Traffic levels are maximum. The retail price index is up four-tenths of a percent. All factors considered, the Quality of Life Index has receded to an all-time low of six. In oth—”

  “Can’t you describe her?” Dr. Van der Mark asked.

  “Of course,” said Lindsey. “As easily as my own face.”

  He heard the long-drawn thunder of waves rake the beach.

  Blaring horns shocked him up one level of consciousness. The Camaro swerved back into its own lane. Lindsey gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles began to ache.

  “Just watch the stripes,” said Veach. “They’ll guide you. Watch the stripes.”

  The radio: “—ily as my own fa—”

  “The quality of life is strained,” said Lindsey. Immensely satisfied with his own cleverness, he said it again.

  “We’re here,” said Veach, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray.

  The sign blocked out the sun:

  TEMP. ALTERNATE EXIT

  SANTA MONICA FREEWAY

  FAR RIGHT LANE

  Lindsey found himself in the far right lane. The main body of traffic broke and flowed away to the left. The Camaro climbed an exit ramp describing a wide, asymptotic curve into the west.

  The radio: “—ongratulations. You have opted for participation in the Los Angeles Traffic Control Plan.”

  The road angled free from the shadows of the interchange and Lindsey saw the ocean. The ramp arched high out over the beach.

  “Just follow the stripes,” Veach said.

  East to west, the line was complete. Lindsey followed the ramp as it curved downward, followed as the stripes disappeared in a swirl of white water, as the waves of the Pacific broke above the roof of his car.

  <>

  * * * *

  James Sallis

  MY FRIEND ZARATHUSTRA

  MY FRIEND Zarathustra has stolen my wife.

  Yes—I mean what I say, and you must listen; must hear what’s not said if you’re to understand properly what is said. For, as with him, silence is to me an instinct.

  So (I repeat) Zarathustra—carrier of the ashes of the old to the mountains in order to prepare a new beginning, spokesman for the inseparability of creation and destruction, teacher of the eternal recurrence—this same Zarathustra has stolen my wife.

  The bastard.

  I try to recall, now, when it might have begun between them; at which point, perhaps, she first reached out to touch the hand he offered, but memory fails—I must have been working too hard at the book to take notice. I suppose she may have loved him from the first. That those months of close friendship in the huge house on the hill overgrown with vines—the fires at night as we read together, the fourteen rooms, the quiet, hollow Sundays—concealed all along the slow slide of this fact, and others, beneath me. As I worked in my room on the top floor above the trees. Sometimes when I wake now alone in early morning hours, I imagine there were moments when I felt, dully, never perceiving the truth, that some intangible thing was dipping from me; felt some pale remain of sadness inside, irretrievable. If so, these moments were few, and quickly passed.

  (There were times he was happy; he remembers. Now he stands at the window, looking down on the town. Neons are coming on, like exclamation marks for something the darkness is trying to say; they show red on the glass. In the distance radio towers rise against the sky. Fragments accumulate on his desk. He is aware of the space between things. He holds broken facts in his hands.)

  Her work grew ever better, the colors bold and the rapid strokes finding relief in sudden, unexpected islands of close detail, ever more explicit, the content increasingly erotic—a body in grey fleshtones with three heads turned each to t
he other, the lips livid, against a background of alizarins and ochre; my own became increasingly subtle and sparse, moving toward silence. It occurred to none of us, I think, to wonder for so much as a moment whether things outside proceeded along the course which had brought us, or driven us, there; to that sole, solitary refuge.