Surface Style

He woke up too early on a Saturday in August, with an emotion he was sure he'd never felt before. He sat up in bed and tried to classify it, but the mood eluded him. He yawned and stretched, looked at the clock, yes, eight o'clock too early. He could not go back to sleep. He sat up in the bed, and looked around the room. The clock was digital, it glowed in orange corners, resting on the dresser top beside the bed, next to the bending imitation bronze bedlamp. The walls were white, and there was nothing on them, except over by the door a poster of the General looking calm, austere, and confident. The sheets on the bed were white, the blanket green like neon green, the afghan patched in patterns of pastels. His furniture was wood; a desk, a chair, the dresser, all painted chocolate brown to match the princess model phone.

There was nothing on the desk, the chair was neatly tucked beneath, the closet door was closed, thin carpeting covered up the floor, a sort of not quite brown, it was immaculately clean. Francis yawned again and blinked. He was vaguely troubled by a dream, but it was gone, no memory remained of it, and he was up again too early, on a saturday at that. He knew from long experience that there was no going back to sleep. Now he was awake, he might as well get up, won't get anything accomplished sitting here in bed. He climed out and made the bed, he smoothed the sheets, and neatly tucked the blankets in, carefully arranged the pillow in the middle, inpected it, then padded off into the bathroom, in his flannel blue pajamas.

Francis felt the cold tile on his feet and disapproved. I forgot my slippers. The bathroom light was bright, the room was sparkling clean, white tiles and silver mirrors gleamed. One hair was lying in the sink, not too far from the drain. He picked it up and dropped it in the basket on the floor. His feet were cold. I'd better get my slippers, Francis thought, so he turned off the light, and padded back into the bedroom, opened up the closet door, bent down, and picked them up. He took them over to the bed, sat down, and put them on. Standing once again, he smoothed the bed where he had sat. Returning to the bathroom, he turned the light back on, and observed his image in the mirror. He saw a well groomed man.

His short blond hair was cut just so, suggesting slanted bangs. His mustache was thin and starkly outlined. His eyes were pale blue, his face was thin and pale between a small mouth and a high forehead. He appeared to be quite calm, and he was pleased. I'm still a handsome man, he thought, age hasn't ruined me yet. He pulled down the pajama pants and sat back straight upon the toilet seat. He let the functions function, not contributing an effort. He listened to the piss fall in the bowl, he heard a piece of shit plop in, he stood and wiped and flushed, and there she goes, he thought, she's off. Removing the pajamas, he lay them neatly folded on the purple chest, and stepped out of the slippers. He turned the faucets on, thoughtfully adjusted them, then let the shower run, and then stepped in.

The water falling on him did not soothe, he took no pleasure in it, it was wetness falling on the skin, and dripping off, no more, warm wetness filling up the pores, and falling on the head. He soaped up rapidly, and let the water rinse it all away. He shampooed and rubbed it to a lather, and let the water wash it all away. As soon as this was done, he turned the shower off, and stood there, dripping wet, uncomfortable. The towel was conveniently nearby, he reached for it and began to dry. He dried each water drop away. He stepped out of the shower, and put the slippers on. There, he thought, that's over with for now.

It was time to comb the hair. He did this cautiously, the fine tooth comb slid gently through the strands, rearranging to perfection. My God, he thought, I forgot to brush my teeth! Something is definitely wrong! And I've been seeing things as well. I saw just now the face in this same mirror and the hair was neatly combed, when obviously it could have been in no such state. Ah, he thought, the tricks the eyes can play, especially too early in the morning. He smiled, relieved, and brushed the teeth. No harm done, Francis thought, it's all right after all, I'm just not totally awake. He liked the spearmint toothpaste, it made the mouth feel good and clean, the way the mouth should feel. He rinsed the brush and dropped it in its slot. What else? he asked himself. That's it, he thought, it's time to put the clothes on.

He gathered the pajamas, and took them to the bedroom, where he put them in their drawer. From another drawer he removed a pair of underpants and another pair of socks. He put them on. He opened up the closet, and examined the apparel there. It's saturday, he told himself, what shall I wear today? Well, it all depends on what I'm going to do. What am I going to do? He was puzzled for a moment, then walked over to the dresser, but there wasn't any note. I forgot to leave a note, he thought, something is definitely wrong! Perhaps I left it in the kitchen, Francis thought, so in his underpants and socks he walked into the kitchen, through the hall and living room, but there was no note in there. He went back to the bedroom, puzzled.

This is not like me, he thought, not to leave a note, I wonder what I had in mind. He thought back to the night before, and sighed in recollection. Of course, he thought, I was with Marie, and when I got home I was very sleepy. I went right to bed. No wonder that I didn't leave a note. That solved, he tried to think of what it was that he had planned to do this day, but he couldn't think of anything at all. This is definitely strange, he thought, to have no plans, or not remember them. Something is definitely wrong. He looked again into the walk-in closet, and he saw the clothes. There were a lot of them. Slacks and shirts and jackets all lined up on hangers, folded neatly, all carefully arranged. He didn't know which ones to wear. Lacking plans, it was not possible to get dressed.

Francis was disturbed. He stood there, very puzzled. Moments passed, but the situation failed to improve. He was at a stalemate. He tried to think, but though he puzzled long and hard, no answer came to him. It's saturday, he thought, and I've woken up too early. I forgot to brush the teeth first thing as always, and I saw the hair all combed before I combed it. I didn't leave a note, so I don't know what I'm going to do today, and, not knowing what I'm going to do, I don't know what would be appropriate to wear. The situation was intolerable. He would have to make some kind of decision soon. It wouldn't do to stand there puzzling all day in underpants and socks. He was wasting time. Am I supposed to work today? But no, it was definitely saturday, of this he was completely sure, and John the Weekend Man would be there was he always was. Perhaps Marie and I made plans last night, he thought, and he decided he should call her He went over to the phone and dialed. Her phone rang seven times, and then he hung up his. Where could she be?

What if I was supposed to meet her somewhere, right now she's waiting for me, and I simply can't recall. But if that were true, then she would surely call eventually. I could go back to bed and wait, he thought, but he knew that wouldn't do. He could not go back to sleep, and it made no sense to stay in bed. That was only wasting time. I must get dressed, he told himself, so he confronted the dilemna once again. There must be a way out of this, he thought, and he considered the alternatives.

What is the worst thing that can happen? I might wear the most inopportune attire, and find myself in a most inappropriate situation, but would that be so bad? I might as well wear anything, and hope the choice is not so disagreeable later on. So he took down one of the casual black slacks, and a pale blue dress shirt and he put them on. He chose a red-striped tie and put that on as well. And then the shoes, a pair of dark brown loafers. There, he thought, that's done, and now he felt much better.

It's time for breakfast, Francis thought, so he proceeded to the kitchen. He didn't know what he wanted to eat, which was most unusual. I wish I'd left a note, he thought, it would make everything so much easier. He turned on the light, and was pleased with what he saw. The kitchen was extremely clean, the white walls shone, the tiles immaculate on the floor, the cabinets were shut, the sink was spotless, and nothing sitting on the countertop. Everything was in its proper place, as they should be.

Over in the corner stood the white oak table, with the gadgets all arranged, the mixing bowl and blender, cuisinart and toaster in a row, a cannister for cooking spoons, utensils in the drawer, the pots and pans beneath the sink sat on their proper shelves, and Francis stood, inspecting everything, quite satisfied, but still not knowing what to eat. He opened the refrigerator, examined all the contents. It was full of every sort of food, he could have anything at all he might desire, but he could not decide. I'm really feeling strange, he thought, it's elusive, how I feel, I can't quite put it into words, but I know it's not like me to wake up unprepared like this, or make so many errors.

He chose to recollect the week, and so he went into the living room and, in the cabinet beneath the stereo, he found the file box full of this year's notes. They were perfectly arranged, in chronological order, from January first until the day before,each note exactly like the others in their shape and size, but different in content. He had always lived one day ahead as far back as he could recall. His future had already occurred for him, it was perpetually tomorrow in a most peculiar way, he always knew what he would want to do or eat the following day, but never what right now.

The file was a collection of these premonitions, and he hoped someday to find and understand a pattern. He hoped, in fact, to someday catch up with himself, but so far it hadn't happened, and in all his years he'd never quite adjusted to this facet of his nature. Everyone has his oddity, Francis thought, but mine is one that no one else appears to have. The file was no help, it only held old memories. So he'd had eggs on thursday, and cereal on friday, and he had a sense that he'd be in the mood for pancakes sunday morning, but today was saturday, and he'd quite forgotten what he'd known he'd want to eat when this day came.

He felt completely lost. This had never happened, no, not once before had he awakened without a plan, without a note, because he knew quite well that sleep and dreams effectively erased this foreknowledge of the day to come. He always woke up helpless, but he'd always had a note prepared for the occasion.. But now he walked back to the kitchen, breathing deeply, trying not to panic, thinking, it will be okay, and look, I've come this far already, I managed to get dressed, and thinking this he looked down at the shoes and noticed that they did not match the slacks, and for a moment he was stunned. My God, he thought, brown shoes with casual black slacks, something is definitely wrong!

He bent and took them off, then hurried back into the bedroom, where he dropped them on the closet floor, not even straightening them up. He retrieved the black pair, went over to the bed, sat down and put them on. He stood, forgetting now to smoothe the bed, and walked back to the kitchen. That was close, he thought, I almost lost it there He realized with a sudden force how drastic the situation really was. He was facing, totally unprepared, an alien day, a foreign, unknown stretch of time, and he'd be absolutely helpless, unless Marie could somehow help him, but she wasn't even at home.

He sat down at the table, and stared at the empty countertop. What am I going to do? he thought, I don't know what the day will bring, and I won't even know about tomorrow until this evening comes. I shouldn't have gone out last night, how could I go and do this to myself, what got into me that I didn't leave a note? Well, he roused himself, I'll just have to make the best of it. I can write off one day, chalk it up to experience so I won't do it again, and maybe it will be interesting, to be like other people for a change, who don't know what their whims will be until they actually occur. I've always wondered what it's like for them. So, why not have french toast? he asked himself. He was indifferent to the notion, but decided to proceed in any case. Perhaps I've made the right decision, Francis thought, who knows?

He opened the refrigerator and removed the eggs and milk. From the cabinet he fetched a bowl, and set it down on the counter. He cracked the eggs into it, and added a little of the milk, and with a fork he beat the mixture to a froth. He opened the refrigerator once again, removed a loaf of bread, and a stick of butter. He found a pan beneath the sink, and set it on the stove. It wasn't hard. he'd done all this before, every twenty- seven days, on average, or so he'd figured out, and it was with the utmost concentration, yet detachment, that he performed the ritaul and stood quite patiently awaiting the results. There was no sound at all in the apartment but for the sizzling of the battered bread in the buttered baking pan, and the silence reassured him.

Home was the only place he knew where he would not be distracted by too many things occurring all at once. He liked things to happen in consecutive order, one thing at a time, one after another, never overlapping or confused, not disjointed or chaotic, not that he couldn't adapt, and he did each day at work, but he preferred to have some rest, some sanctuary where the only sounds were those of his own making, the only movements those he caused, and he liked to start from basics and then slowly build, so at first there was the french toast cooking, and its sounds, and then the water boiling, and then the water dripping through the filter filled with coffee into the cup that he preferred, the one with C.C.'s logo on the side.

The first batch done, he took the pieces off the pan, and put the next round on, and once more waited patiently. Soon everything was done, and he sat down to eat. It did not bring him pleasure, and he knew that this was not what he had known he'd want to eat today, he felt it but he couldn't find out what it was he'd be wanting so he ate the pieces peacefully, he drank his coffee wondering what had happened, and how it could have happened, and he felt it like a crack, like a fissure in the wall. There was a danger that unknown, unwanted things could squeeze into his consciousness today, and he would be defenceless, at the mercy of the moment, like other people seemed to be, but like he'd never been before, and he knew what forms they would assume, ideas in the guise of memories, associative tricks, mental musings and meanderings and doubts, uncertainties, creeping, undermining, burrowing into his mind unbidden, undesired, and he would have to be on guard.

Already thoughts were forming of self-pity, sorrow for the way he was, sadness about his nature, he who was born stolid, unspontaneous, even boring, this way he'd always been but had adapted to, knowing full well when he was still a child that the only task in life is to conform to who you are, but suddenly this morning he had woken up as someone else somehow, it was a new condition, and he'd have to find a way to come to terms, adapt, placate this temporary self for just awhile until the usual returned at five o'clock, the magic hour, when intimations of the day ahead would come to him, and he'd know exactly what will come. Until that time he'd have to wait and do his best to get along.

He finished up his breakfast, and rose to wash the dishes. So this is what it's like, he thought, to be spontaneous. It seems like one big nuisance, never knowing what you'll feel like doing next, you can't plan anything, you have no self security. I wonder what it was that I was going to think about today, I'm sure I had a topic, like I always do, but what?

Francis had forgotten to open the apartment door and get the paper which he always read with breakfast. Something was definitely wrong. Anomalies accrued at an alarming rate, and he was not prepared to cope with such a situation. He was a scrupulous and meticulous type of man, had always been, in fact. It was partially his mother's doing. She had a dreadful phobia of losing things, and couldn't stand the sight of dust or messiness. She used to chatter constantly as she performed her chores, lest she lose her train of thought in silences. She knew her territory well, and did not like surprises, and had taught her son to always be prepared, but on this saturday in august he was caught off guard.

Sleep, as usual, had cancelled out the day before, the raging dream had vanquished all the memories, and he was used to this. This battle had gone on for years, each day recovered lost terrain only to lose it all again in sleep when night arrived, and neither wakefulness nor sleep would ever ultimately win. The battle was interminable, it would go on and on and hence the notes, the preparation. He knew no continuity from day to day but that which he'd prepared beforehand, and now the continuity was lost, the drinks and then the dreams obscured the memories. the day before was gone, the day ahead was blank, to be filled in, with what?

Francis didn't know. He'd made some plans, of this he was quite sure, for he always made some plans and wrote them down, but today there was no note, already things were going wrong, the illusion in the mirror, the teeth not brushed in sequence, the breakfast which was not what he had wanted, and now the paper, forgotten in the hall. It lay there unattended as he sat before the table, and stared across the room. His mind was blank, and he was wasting time. I don't like this, he thought, something is definitely wrong. I don't know what to do. I cannot face the day. I should go back to bed, but that won't solve the problem.

I have to face it calmly. Okay, then, so I didn't leave a note, I went to sleep, it dreamed its dream. I woke up empty and without a note, and since then everything's been wrong. Marie is not at home, and it's still too early to be awake, on a saturday in august. Recapitulations got him nowhere. I know what I'll do, Francis thought, I'll go shopping in the underground. That will be fun, and perhaps it's what I'd planned on all along. I haven't done that in awhile, not since I bought the picture frame I put the General in. Who knows what I will find? The underground goes on and on, so many different shops, and for every single mood there is a corresponding item you can buy. This is an established fact. He had proved it many times.

Yes, he told himself, that is exactly what I'll do. But what will I be shopping for? He didn't really know. That could be a problem. No, it's good, because I'll have to let the item come to me. I'll go and walk around and then it will appear and yes. it will be fun. But it was still too early, not even nine o'clock, so he'd have to wait awhile. What will I do while waiting? Perhaps I'll read something, he thought. My God, the paper! I've forgotten all about it. Stunned, he stood and went over to the door. He opened it, and there the paper lay. He picked it up and took it to the living room, where he sat down and opened it to the front page.

The headline was big and frightening: STOCKS FALL IN HEAVY TRADING. That's too bad, Francis thought, I hope they didn't hurt themselves. He chuckled quietly to himself. The stocks were at their lowest point in months, but they'll get over it, he thought, we all have our low spells. CULT LEADER FINED. Judge orders Mr. Acid Reign to cease calling for the overthrow of Pittsburgh. Reign insists it was a joke. BRAZIL DEFAULT AVOIDED. Three hundred forty billion dollar debt has been renegotiated. Bankers in agreement that Brazil will never pay. It's curious, he thought, this phantom money that does not exist, and yet the world depends on it. It's curious, he thought.

The news was reassuring, and calmed him greatly, for within its pages continuity resides, as one disaster overtakes the last, as the next impinges on it, editors must pick and choose disasters to report, but though some are excluded, there will always be enough, insuring no great loss. At least one murder is reported every day, and another brand new scandal. The President says something, or someone has something to say about him. There's a war somewhere abroad, the equivalent of war at home. All things seem to rise and fall, improve and then decline, decrease and then increase, fill up and empty out, crescendo, taper off, and Francis followed all the movements variously indifferent. Nothing really touched him. He thought that every season is a short one, when it's viewed from later on, the transitory stories are like shadows flickering in print, recovery, discovery, turmoil and confusion level out.

He is more than passive. He is distant. The Jamestown Times could be the news from Vega Three for all he knows. The effect on him would be the same. All things are curious. They are mildly interesting, one shakes one's head and sighs, one chuckles in amusement. There are only so many possible responses to a stimulus, and they are interchangeable. Some will smile where others frown. Relativity comes home to roost in this the final decade.

History repeats itself, as if there's nothing else for it to do. What do you expect? He reads the paper from a distance. He finishes a couple of items, but mostly the headlines are enough, along with the first paragraph, and what he learns does him no good. He can talk about the news, but that is all. Reading it is like preparing for a class called 'general conversation'. He can talk about Brazil, or Acid Reign, or NASA, or the trial of Stephen Bailey, or the Fixture still growing out there, or even the woman who vanished live while being interviewed on the set. The course is neither pass nor fail. It doesn't really matter. The ones above don't ask for your opinion, but still you hear it daily, in a coffee shop, a bakery, on the sidewalk, in the office, they discuss the president, they say that Bailey is insane and innocent and guilty and insane, we listen to each other, and we are not embarrassed, we actually believe in what we think, and think that we believe.

Francis doesn't bother, when his colleagues talk, to venture an opinion. He listens to them and he reads the paper, and wonders what we do with all the information that we have. Fifty four percent approve of Peterson, thirty six percent do not, another ten percent have no idea, and Francis belongs to this group, those forever undecided, for whom no staggering amount of facts can ever sway, whose contemplated, well thought-out position is to have no position at all. The news is all the same, just like the box scores in the sports section. Some win, some lose, the story is the same, and Francis doesn't care.

He had always been indifferent to the world at large, for the world at large had always been indifferent towards him. He could remember, as a child, attempting to negotiate a truce, to make a peace with the world. He had been a rather tedious child, always properly attired, polite, well-mannered, well-behaved. The other children did not like him, they called him names, and excluded him from their activities, and he'd thought, well, it's best like this, since I don't like them either, and he made a vow that when and if the world would let him be, he'd do his part and let it be as well, and it had come to pass. As long as there was a group, Francis wasn't in it, and there had been no end of struggle, of them against him, and he opposing them, and it had gone on that way for years.

There were new schools, new groups, and Francis didn't change. At twelve, his fascination was geology. While other boys his age explored the girls, he was exploring strata in the rocks. As they plunged onward into puberty, he retreated to the neolithic age. The sciences intrigued him. The arts were something else. He didn't understand them. Music he had never liked. He saw no point in painting, certain that reality was enough for anyone. Literature told stories, but not as surely as the facts. The adventures of a person seemed insignificant compared to the entire evolution of a world. He read a lot of textbooks, spent hours in the library, but he never got good grades. It seemed he always knew the wrong material.

His teachers were convinced that he was stupid, but his mother didn't listen to them. She encouraged him in his independent ways, and wanted him to be a famous scientist. You're lonely now, she told him, but every great achievment costs a lot of loneliness. It will all be worth it in the end. She was a nurse. His father had been one of those mysterious men who'd actually died in someone else's senseless war. Vietnam. It was hard for Francis to imagine someone going off and doing that. He wondered if his father was insane, or just a fool, to go and sacrifice yourself for some irrelevant ideal, some words, to die for words, so Francis hated words. They cannot be trusted, they must be set apart, used carefully, and never fully believed.

Facts were best, but somewhere in his youth he'd lost the scientific urge. That was when he lost all other urges too. For years he had no interest in anything. He went to school and sat and didn't listen. He came home and sat up in his room, and didn't move. He woke, he ate, he slept, he did the things that he could not avoid, but he had no feeling for them. Life became a dreary repetition, a deadly boring, endless solitaire, and he felt like he was dead. He invented his own rules. He learned to stifle all unwanted thoughts. All desires were scrutinized, and finally rejected. Nothing was permissible unless prepared for in advance.

He started leaving notes for the following morning, specifying which aspects of the game he'd play, which of the possible ideas he would think about, which of the possible emotions he would feel, which of the choices he'd select, in food and dress and everything. By the age of seventeen, the routine was complete. Life was just a stupid game, and since any rules would do, he made his own. He finished high school, then went on to college. He studied medicine, but gave it up. He wasn't interested anymore. He had a serious dilemna. What to do? He didn't care for anything at all. History was boring and depressing, anthropology was sifting through the dead, politics was for manipulative overgrown brats, religion was beside the point, philosophy was deliberate confusion, psychology was dangerous and futile, the sciences were too hard. What else was he to do? He'd never been athletic, never been a thinker, never been an anything at all. He finally solved his problem by the process of elimination, and ended up in retail.

It was just the thing for him. Economics was a sort of science, although somewhat unreal. Its models bore no correspondence to the world, but the material was comforting. As long as people had demands, others would supply, and business was a flow. Inventory waxed and waned, and the central notion was to keep an equilibrium. This appealed to him. It was rational, methodical, orderly and dull, much like himself. He was in his element, and from that time on he had no doubts, his future was assured. A path had opened up, which led directly from the college to the retail world, eventually to menswear on the fourth floor of the Consumer Center located in the heart of Jamestown's vast underground bazaar.

He soon lost interest in the paper, as he always did, which is why he read it during breakfast, for his interest rarely lasted longer than the meal. He folded it up carefully, and placed it on the pile of that week's papers, which he'd put out for recycling monday morning. Standing in the kitchen, he once more checked the time, but it was still too early, and he had time to fill before he went outside. He wondered what to do. The dishes were all washed, the counter had been cleaned, the dishes dried and put away, the paper read, and he had too much time. Ordinarily, events would not proceed like this. If only he had left himself a note, he'd know what should be done, but it was no use to groan or complain anymore about that.

He had to face the situation squarely in the face, and if his attitude was right, this misfortune could be turned into an opportunity of interest. I must make decisions now, he thought. Usually they've all been made, and it's easier like that, but perhaps this is the freedom people talk so much about. For example, there's Marie, who insists on spontaneity, even though it's obvious that this so-called freedom is a lie, a sweet self- satisfied delusion, for what can it be used for? One must work and eat and sleep, and see and hear and taste and touch and smell. One must expel the waste, and one must breathe. One must move and talk and think and even keep one's mouth shut, every now and then. One must experience emotions, must respond to stimuli, must cause- effect all things one comes in contact with, and there is no other way. This freedom, then, what is it?

Oh well, he thought, it seems I'm stuck with it today, so I shall make the best of it. So he told himself, but returning to the living room, he realized that he had settled nothing, and still did not have anything to do, so he sat down, and examined once more the file of that year's notes. I should make a study, Francis thought, to get to know the patterns. I could chart them on a graph, everything from what I think about to what I feel to what I do and what I have for dinner, and maybe, if it all works out, I could take a further step, and plan my days much farther in advance, and then I'd never have to wind up in a situation like this one again. But he didn't act on this, because it was impulsive, had not been specified in a note, and couldn't be relied on as a notion. Only well-considered plans are worth pursuing, Francis thought. Impulses are wasteful. They lead one rushing all about without stability, they lack foundation, lack all sense of practicality.

He'd watched how others act, and didn't want to be like that. They never rested, never caught their breath, never really knew where they would be tomorrow. They chased their phantoms through the streets, believing what they thought, and never noticing that the phantom was inside them all along. The phantom was what they would not admit, and even those who seemed to know themselves still thought there was a phantom somewhere to be sought. But Francis knew himself, and knew there was no ghost. Everything is illusion, trickery and deceit. The good is what we wish for, the bad is what we fear. There is no good or bad, but only fantasy and fright. He put the notes away. They were only memories, as useless as a photograph.

Maybe there's a word, he thought, which says what all the others fail to say, a word which opens everything, which clears the way, that comes and doesn't stay, begins and never ends. The word is 'a', he thought. Having solved the riddle, he sat there smiling to himself, and he thought perhaps the day would turn out all right after all. He spent several minutes in the chair, sitting straight, feet firmly planted on the floor, arms by his side. He was looking at the wall, at the poster of the Canyon, its eras obvious in layers of the time it builds upon incessantly, and he wondered how much time had passed since people first had names, and nodded when he realized just how little time had passed since then.

For a moment he was peculiarly pleased. It was a sunny day, perfect for a saturday in august. A bit too hot, of couse, and muggy, but cities built on swamps can never lose the swampiness, the heavy air made thicker by the car exhaust, contributing to a static haze which lasted till the fall. Nonetheless, despite the humid heat, Francis wore a jacket with his pale blue shirt and tie. He inspected his apartment one last time - everything was orderly and clean - and then he stepped into the hall.

He lived in a quiet complex, a twelve unit co-op, on sixteenth avenue near seventh street, in the northern section. He did not know his neighbors, only saw them now and then, collecting mail, or going out, or coming in, and inside the building's thick walled structure, no one heard anybody else at all. Francis dwelled in silence. He wasn't fond of music, and neither did he watch TV, although of course he had one, but usually spent his evening quietly, considering the pre-determined topic of the day. Frequently he tried to make the time stand still. He wouldn't move or think, but simply sat in darkness, imagining that each moment was an hour, and each hour just a moment. Many nights thus occupied were like a single night. But he was rarely bored. He enjoyed the silence and the solitude, the bare white walls, the spotless floor, the straight-backed chair, the absence of redundancy, for he had everything he needed, and much more he did not.

He'd spent many shopping days accumulating all sorts of time- enhancing devices, the conveniences of modern life. His place was filled with things, each of which had served some purpose at some time, and most of which sat idle now, but the apartment wasn't cluttered. Each thing had its designated spot, and was properly arranged. He had two conflicting tendencies; on the one hand, simplicity was his creed. He would have preferred to possess nothing, to sit there only with the walls to keep him company, but on the other hand, his possessions all made some task simpler to perform. There was no way to solve the contradiction. It was easy to ignore the things, pretend they weren't there, like the stereo and the TV set he never turned on anymore, the books he didn't read, the discs he never listened to, the statuettes he never saw, bought long ago for some idea, things that he would never throw away, because it never occurred to him to do that.

He liked especially the empty hall, the empty walls and wooden floor, the nothingness was soothing, and he walked calmly down the stairs and through the door into the street. The heat was devastating, causing instant sweat, but yet no thought of loosening the tie, or taking off the sports coat. The discomfort was not too much to bear, and he was only capable of doing what he always did. If one gives in to every circumstance, he thought, allowing it to dictate one's behavior, how can one ever know who one really is? It was only twenty steps to seventh street, along which ran the number fourteen subway-surface cars, and he debated taking one downtown.

Usually he did, on a weekday, for it took him straight into the underground, and let him off a block from where he worked. The journey would be quicker, as well as not so hot, but he was in no hurry. Since he didn't know what he was going to do, or even where he was going to go, it wouldn't do him any good to get there any faster. And perhaps he'd pass a store on street level which might afford the very thing he sought, which would otherwise be missed, and that simply wouldn't do. He had determined to make a close inspection of every store he passed, since the cure for this peculiar mood might be anything at all.

He was being vigilant. Already on this day he'd made too many errors, and every unpredictable event must be prepared for in advance. the trolley car rolled to the corner, where it stopped. He considered one more time, and decided to proceed on foot. The impatient driver frowned, and drove away. Seventh street's sidewalks were deserted. He was the only person walking there just then, and he passed by rows of identical looking co-ops like his own, interrupted every now and then by a single story house. The buildings were almost exactly alike, distinguished only by the colors of the curtains, an occasional plant or statuette, a risque doorknob now and then. This was Jamestown, where carbon copy design was elevated to the status of sublime. No other place could boast such uniformity, such endless repetition, such sheer monotony, but the overall effect was quite astonishing. One had to live there for awhile to appreciate the wonder of the place.

It made you feel, no matter where you were, that you were home. Your house could be just around the corner. There was familiarity at every step, a sense of continuity. One was never really lost in Jamestown. Downtown, every office building was the same, and, in the residential areas, nothing was especially unique. Of course there were a lot of residents who never could get used to it, but for Francis it was the only place to live. He'd grown up in Washington, D.C., which was somehwat similar, but not nearly so extreme, and when this town was built he'd gone so far as to request a transfer to the new Consumer Center branch.

His superiors obliged. After all, he'd been ten years with the company, and was considered to be an outstanding menswear manager. Three years later, no complaints. He felt curiously alone as he walked down the street, momentarily unsure. He looked around as if expecting someone to be walking by his side, but of course there was no one. The flickering mood vanished, and again he felt reassured by the pleasant street and it's pretty little buildings. he encountered fifteenth, fourteenth, twelfth, eleventh, but it wasn't until then that he came across a store. But it was a grocery store, and he was mildly disappointed.

He was convinced that this peculiar mood, whatever it might be, was not one to be satisfied by food. Other moods might be susceptible to that. For instance, when the movie's finally over, and the body asks for equal time, a pastry does the trick. Or when Marie is brooding about Jean-Paul, her depression can almost always be alleviated by a box of chocolate almonds. And a midnight restless weariness is sated by a toddy, but the way he felt was different. He had never felt this way before, and he didn't know the cure, but he knew it wasn't food. Whatever it might be, and he was sure of its existence, he somehow felt it would require some kind of deeper sacrifice.

So he went on past the corner grocery without even looking in. He crossed the street, and continued towards the center of the city. Gradually, the streets began to offer more in the way of retail, and he came across a writer sales and service shop on the other side of tenth street. Francis stopped, and looked inside the window for a moment. They had some nice old pen points on display, two of the newer fiberglass affairs, sleek, smooth and streamlines, tempting him, but he already had a writer, had one for years although he rarely used it, only for the occasional letter, and as far as he knew it wasn't in need of repair, and somehow the idea didn't ring any bells. This mood was not like being broken, or needing to be fixed.

Perhaps there was a maladjustment somewhere, his memory was perhaps impaired, but writers, even fancy ones, seemed beside the point. He continued down the street. Two doors later there was a picture framing place. A sign in the window said 'do it yourself', but he had let them do it when he'd had the General framed. He wasn't any good at that sort of thing, and it only seemed reasonable to let the experts do what they do best. There was practically no need for anyone to do anything oneself; there was always someone who could do it better, someone who did it for a living, and for the same reason that he wouldn't dream of fixing his writer by himself, he saw no reason not to let the picture framers do all the framing they could. But just now he had no pictures to be framed.

Perhaps that's what I need, he thought, something new to keep my apartment company while I'm away. The walls need something new to look at. But if that was the case, he should be going to a gallery. There was nothing in this place, and so he turned away. The idea stayed with him - a new picture of someone, but who? Or maybe of some thing, but what? I won't know it till I see it, he decided, and it didn't do any good to try and conjure something up. He passed a travel agency. There was a poster for Hawaii in the window, of a lovely brown skinned buxom girl, splashing in the waves, bending over towards the foam so her breasts were perfectly exposed. Francis turned away. He didn't want to be invaded by these images. It was why he didn't watch TV. He didn't need to be bombarded everyday with visions inciting men to rape, inviting women to be raped, suggesting that they like it, and they want it all the time, they try to make you want to fuck the poster, fuck the screen, to fuck the billboard by the road, to fuck the girls you see around who try to look like that, who copy what they see, and Francis looked away. The agency had lost another client who wasn't going anywhere.

As if we were animals, Francis thought, but aren't we? And everything we build is proof of our inferiority complex. Other creatures do not do such things. They travel without cars or planes. They eat without utensils. They clean themselves without hot water heaters. They sleep without a mattress. They see without eyeglasses. They are dressed in what they are. If Marie was here, she'd tell me all of this, he thought, all these are her ideas, not mine. He had escaped again, the image vanished in the past. The feelings that it fostered faded too.

He came across an auto parts outlet, incongruous in that setting, the clean neat street, the orderly procession of the houses, and suddenly this big glass cage of a window, all cluttered with sparkplugs, transmissions, batteries thrown in, an utter mess, and Francis quickly looked away, out of aesthetic taste, if nothing else. And he didn't own a car, he had no use for auto parts, so this was evidently not the place that he was looking for. Neither was the mattress store next door, but it was rather strange to see this huge showroom with big beds all lined up, and no one in the place, and it was something that he had to stop and think about. Maybe my old mattress is responsible for all of these disturbing and unpleasant dreams that I've been having lately, Francis thought. He never could remember exactly what the dreams were all about, only that he didn't like them and he wished that they would stop. And he had a feeling that that very morning, right before awakening, an especially unpleasant dream had been raging through his mind, but he had no memory of it at all.

It seemed unlikely that a bed could be responsible for anything like that, but it was a possibility. Since he wasn't sure, however, he decided to postpone such a purchase. It wouldn't do to buy one, throw the old one out, and then discover that the former one had been improperly accused, and unfairly mistreated and discarded., and besides, he had no idea what kind of new one he should get, and the thought of going in the showroom, and lying down on beds in full view of the world, and trying to compare them, seemed ridiculous to him. He'd be too embarrassed, and in a panic he would choose unwisely anyway. So he crossed mattresses from his mental potential shopping list.

Next door there was a dentist's office, but Francis did not tarry there. He had no use for dentists. He'd rather let his teeth fall out than sit there in a chair while someone stuck their fingers in his mouth and scolded him. It would be easier if dentistry was fully automated. One could submit to a machine more readily. He came to the corner of ninth, and waited at the light. Now there were a few more people walking on the street, most of them in short-sleeved shirts and shorts, but Francis didn't feel uncomfortable, at least no more than usual, for a person only needs to please himself, and the opinions of others are more useless than an empty parking lot.

He never cared what people thought of him, he only feared the censor in his mind, the disapproving father of himself, who monitored his every thought, and had to be appeased. Yet this was himself, and thus no stranger to him, and today it was cooperating rather well. Like the censor, Francis didn't want to see the poster of the nearly naked girl, and both were searching for a way to satisfy the peculiar mood which had settled on him overnight. The light changed, and he crossed the street. Already, though still several blocks away, the tall brown office buildings towered above the rows of condo co-ops, and beneath them lay the underground. If he was going to find something, he'd probably find it there.

In the underground, there was anything that anyone could ever possibly want. He passed a laundromat, which really didn't count, because, although you pay, you leave with only what you came in with, and nothing more. And the liquor store did not entice him either. He had alcohol at home he never touched, and it seemed he only drank when he was out with people, and then he often drank a lot, not in order to have fun, but, in fact, precisely to prevent such a thing from happening. Fortunately these occasions were rare. He didn't go out much, and usually only with Marie. The liquor store seemed frightening to him somehow, and he walked more quickly past it. He'd always felt that alcohol was like a dark road leading to a sudden cliff.

He stepped off the curb, but the light hadn't yet changed, the horn of a rushing car startled him back onto the sidewalk. Whew, he thought, I almost did it that time. I'd better be more vigilant. The mood, by distracting him, was already very dangerous. This can't go on, he thought, something is definitely wrong, and I'd better make it right as quickly as I can. But what could it be? We had a decent time last night. Everything was fine. We had dinner at the Stonewall, like I knew we'd want to, and then afterwards we wandered to the river, had a lot of irish coffees on the Embarkment balcony, watching the lights play on the water, talking about the spontaneity of dreams. Marie loved dreams, unlike her friend. She claimed she lived for them. But that is fine for her, he thought, confined as she is to her wheelchair since the surgery, and she's getting on in years, there isn't all that much that's left for her. But I have no use for dreams, they're morbid and disturbing, full of foolish thoughts and idiotic actions.

He had no respect for them. They're just the infant mind in all of us, he thought, there's no perspective of experience, as if we'd never lived our lives at all, as if we had learned nothing. We fall asleep, go back again to who we were at first, and it's ridiculous. The light had changed, and he had crossed the street. His thoughts were further prompted by the children's clothing store he passed. He had no interest in it. He did not like kids at all, and had no desire to ever, ever have one. I could not be bothered, Francis thought. I didn't like it when I was one, and I wouldn't want to have one either. I'm just glad it's over with forever. Just look at Marie's daughter. Practically my age and what's she doing now? Absolutely nothing. She sits at home, annoys her mother, has no job at all. She's still a kid, imagine having one and never being able to get rid of it. I don't know how she does it, well, Marie's to blame as well, I would have kicked her out on her own a long, long time ago, make her make her own way in the world instead of clinging to her mom. Marie once wanted me to marry the girl, but I would never do it, never marry anyone, especially not her, thank God, she let it drop, we wouldn't still be friends if she'd kept on about it.

Francis passed the pet shop on the corner of sixth and seventh, stopping for a moment to observe the parrot in the window. For some reason he was reminded of the famous Pennsylvania cult leader Acid Reign. Perhaps it was the way the parrot hopped up on his stick, the way Mr. Reign would hop across the stage when delivering his sermons - no, it was that Reign had only recently called the mayor of Pittsburgh ' a parrot for the special interest groups ', that's it, but Francis had no need of pet supplies or pets. He didn't like the things. They were a nuisance and a hassle. Who needs a stupid animal whining in the dark, or chirping all night long, or, like a parrot, never shutting up at all, and cleaning up their shit, who needs it, I don't, Francis thought. That's no solution, not at all. And then he passed a passport photo shop, no thanks, a picture wouldn't help, and besides, what if I went in and had my picture taken and came out with someone else's face sitting in my wallet? It's been known to happen, and that wouldn't do at all.

The last thing I need now, he thought, is to take a stupid risk. I can't afford that kind of chance today. There was nothing in the Cherokee Hotel for him, and so he passed it by. Then near fifth there was a uniform sales and rental place, which also seemed absurd, irrelevant to him, the smiling manakins in nurse's clothes did not induce a smile in him, but merely a shrug of indifference. Then there was a candy store. He thought about Marie again, her life reduced to simple pleasures. What a shame, he thought, the poor old girl, she used to love to work, and she was good at what she did, and ever since retirement, and then the surgery, her life revolved around the few things she could do, and most of them were things that gave her pleasure. She could eat, she could go out for 'rolls', if not strolls, she could watch TV or go and see a movie, she could be with friends, or read, she could drink and nod out in her chair, but she had no work to do, and every morning she awoke to face an empty day, which she could only fill with trivial entertainments.

He pitied her. She, like everyone, was made for work. She said she'd done her bit. She'd worked for forty years, and raised a daughter too, and she said she was happy. She certainly seemed to be so, but Francis had his doubts. He simply couldn't understand. Happiness, for him, was using up the time to best effectiveness. And now look at me, he thought, it's saturday, and all I have to do is walk around and hope to find something to buy. I'm not happy now.

There was a bar at fourth, but he didn't stop. The idea that a bar was even open in the morning slighly nauseated him, and yet there would be people in there at nine or ten o'clock, already getting drunk. They are the losers, Francis thought. He felt bad thinking this, but he quickly justified himself. Why should I respect them? They're all strangers. They have no claims on me. I'm not a so-called humanist, like Katherine or Marie. I don't have to empathize with every scum who walks upright on two feet wearing clothes. It's not my job to be a brother to the world. I'm just a man, and there are things I do not like, and that is as it should be.

He crossed the street. Soon he would be downtown. It was just a few more blocks to Independence Avenue, and then beneath into the underground. And then he came across a store he'd never seen before. It must be new, he thought. Imagine such a thing. He had to stop, amazed, of all the things in the world, now there is a water store. For that's what it was called, and in the window there were rows of jugs and bottles, each containing a different kind of water. Intrigued, Francis went inside. It was a tiny space, two rows of tall and narrow shelves was all. Behind the counter stood a smiling man, a smiling balding man who said hello, and Francis said hello to him. He walked along the aisles, reading all the labels, scarecely believing what he saw. There was the usual distilled and mineral waters, the kind you find in any supermarket, but then there were some stranger things; water from hot springs, and natural healing waters, water from the polar caps, and water made from glaciers. There was water from the Middle East, and water from the Phillipines, a sale on water from Japan, and from the PRC. There was water from New York, from Kansas, California, and a 'domestic vintage' from the Shenandoah Valley. The cheapest was a dollar for distilled, and the most expensive was eleven ninety five from Mozambique.

Francis walked back up the center aisle, thinking, this is strange. When he emerged, the balding man asked him if he could help. I don't know, said Francis, I certainly don't think so, but, what are those up there? and pointed to a shelf behind the counter, which was lined with bottles ranging from transparent to yellow, then to green and brown and finally a murky mud. Ah, my prize collection, said the man, the spectrum of pollution. The clear one at the end, that's naturally distilled. The next one, with the bubbles, is water from the backroom tap. Next, the slightly yellowed stuff, is water from the James. Then the sewer water, water from the Burlington plant, then the water from a West Virginia mine, then from the Delaware Bay, the water from Lake Erie...

Please, enough, cried Francis, I don't want to know where the last one's from. It's from canada, the man replied, from right across the Minnesota line. I didn't want to know, Francis said. Why do you have that stuff? The man said, water is the planet's greatest resource, and this is what we've done to it. I'm just reminding people. We tend to take it all for granted. Who thinks about it when they flush, or when they take a shower? No one thinks about the water. Francis asked if there was any money in this business, and the man said, you would be surprised what people buy. Confidentially, you wouldn't believe how many folks have offered to buy my spectrum, but it is not for sale, at any price. Are you, perhaps, interested in water?

Francis shook his head. To be honest, he said, I can't think of anything that interests me less. That's the trouble with the world today, the man replied, nobody care about the things that really matter. They just worry their little heads off over the trivial things, like what to have for breakfast, cereal or eggs, you know what I mean? Good day, said Francis, and he turned and walked away. The balding man still smiled, but Francis did not look back. He felt intentionally insulted, and would not forgive the stupid weirdo shinehead. What does he know about the things that really matter, Francis told himself. All he knows about is water. Can you imagine that? But water is no help to me today. Nothing so obvious is going to resolve this dilemna. A water store, how strange, he thought, as he walked across third street. I've never heard of anything more ridiculous in my life. Next thing you know, they'll have a store for air, or a store that sells the sun.

And yet it seemed inevitable, and only natural, for man had long since tried to sell the things he didn't own, so why not sell the things he couldn't own? Why not, indeed. But come to think of it, that's done all the time, like priests who sell salvation, politicians who sell promises, schools that sell intelligence, or ads that sell prestige, as art sells entertainment, while all these things you pay for, can only come from inside yourself. You just pay to be yourself, that's all, but these ideas fled his mind as abruptly as they'd entered. He was intent on being vigilant, and was annoyed by these spontaneous meditations.

Come on, pay attention, Francis told himself. I can't afford to miss what could be it. Towards second street he passed a series of shops which couldn't do him any good. The post office was irrelevant to him today, the xerox copy center held no attraction. I have nothing to be copied, Francis thought, except the note I didn't write, but let's not think about that now, what's done is done and I will simply have to carry on. He wasn't hungry, so the restaurant was useless, and the movie theaters hadn't opened yet, and even if they were, he had no desire to see ESCAPE TO EXER'S WORLD, or THE FORCE OF HABIT, stupid science fiction on the one hand, and stupid non-science fiction on the other. More make-believe, he grumbled to himself. What we need is less of that and more of real life.

It seemed to him that all there was in art was futile wishful thinking, exaggerated melodrama, empty horror, vapid sex, mass fabricated panic, unrealistic hyperbole, or monotonous platitudes about the future or the past. People are either full of joy or woe, they love or else they hate, the run away or run towards, nothing happens without a bunch of violins, all moods and all expressions have been used up, worn down by a world of too much art, of too much self-expression. We should all just shut up for a change, he thought, attempt the art of silence.

Another liquor store was hopelessly redundant, and the flower stand did nothing to entice him, not that he didn't care for flowers, but that it was too typical, too easy to expect that a flower would cheer him up, and one does not buy a flower for oneself, especially when one has little faith in their magical happiness powers. He had paused, but soon he was on his way, deciding that if flowers were the answer, he'd stop and get them next time. There was no end to flower stands downtown.

He was well aware that any kind of store which might tempt him at first could safely be passed by, for he was sure to run across a similar establishment somewhere else. He found it rather curious that, given all the people in the world, six billion or so by then, and all the cities in the world, in all the countries in every region of the globe, all in all one could expect to find about a hundred different kinds of stores. It was a strange fact, appalling even, when one considered what this meant. How can enterprise be 'free' when the choices are so limited? And why should it be free? Why bother with it anyway? Again he decided that freedom is a silly notion, quite contrary to the facts of life, unrealistic in general, certainly not so wonderful as its proponents made it sound, and definitely nothing to get yourself killed over.

At least it's not for me, he thought. There's no accounting for what other people do. There is something in a human being that wants to die for a reason. Anything is better than to die in uselessness. But we can appease history as little as we can appease the gods, and anyway, Francis thought, what am I thinking all this for? The whole day has so far been so wasteful, uncontrolled, I can't think anything through like I usually do, when I've prepared my topics in advance. Now all I can do is skim along the surface, and jump from one idea to another, haphazardly and superficially. Marie always likes to say that every shallow item has its correspondence in the depths, each gesture is related to some previous experience, each act responding to some unknown stimulus, and if one would know the depths one need look no farther than the surface, but observe it carefully.

But that was Marie, the kind of thing she'd say. Francis didn't want to go into a barbershop. It didn't seem like losing hair was going to solve the problem, and neither did the beauty salon appeal to him. This is not an external problem, he decided, it has nothing to do with surfaces or appearances, and once he decided that he realized he'd excluded almost all the shopping possibilities, so he decided to undecide that matter, consoling himself with the idea that perhaps a problem in the depths can be allayed by attention to the surface. But now I'm all confused, he thought, best to cancel all the thoughts I've had so far today, and begin anew.

What are the facts? I woke up feeling odd. I had a most disturbing dream, I think, although I don't remember it at all. In any case, I'm not the same as usual today, something is definitely wrong. I forgot to leave a note, my mind is muddled and confused, and I feel a certain something deep inside. I don't know what it is, but I know, from long experience, that there is always something one can buy in order to appease a given mood. And so I'm going shopping. I haven't seen a thing so far, but that's okay, because I'm still not in the underground, so all this doesn't really count. I didn't expect to find anything up here, I only walked it just in case, but now it's only one more block, and then I'll finally be there.

Of all the things I have no use for, Francis thought, a dog grooming salon is probably the least thing I could use. I do not have a dog, and even if I did, I would never have it groomed. It seems like all the stores on this block are absurd. Ah well, it's a process of elimination, I suppose. I don't need any cutlery, and I do not need tobacco. I don't need any office supplies, and I don't need any shoes. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable, passing all those stores and needing nothing from them. He wondered, briefly, what other people might have thought of him, this well dressed man, sweating in his suit and tie, pausing for a moment in front of each and every shop, only to decide each time to go ahead along his way. He imagine that they might laugh at him, little girls would point, and boys would call him names, but he quickly pushed these unwelcome thoughts out of his mind, with the judgment, I don't care what people think, no, I don't care at all.

He passed a church, and here was definitely nothing useful one could buy, except, perhaps, a minute from a candle. Above, the sky was slightly overcast, the clouds were coming from the south and west, and with the heat, a thunderstorm was possible. He was glad he'd had no outdoor activities planned, or, if he had, was glad that he'd forgotten them, for he'd be safe and dry once he was underground. How stupid, Francis thought, I forgot to bring an umbrella, and, even more absurd, I forgot to listen to the weather forecast like I always do. Damn, I'm forgetting everything today. It's a wonder that I managed to get dressed.

He was angry with himself, but that didn't last too long. It was no use to get angry, because that would not accomplish anything. He was a master of the art of remaining calm and even- tempered in any situation, which was one reason why he was good at his job. He could handle any customer, no matter how abusive, difficult, or strange. His clerks were always glad he was around, even though they didn't like him very much, even though he made them work too hard, but at least they could relieve themselves of any problem customer, and Francis didn't mind, he actually enjoyed them for they gave him the opportunity to demonstrate his famous unflappability. It came from self-control, and it was also due to this that he was able to monitor and regulate his attitudes, so it was no problem to dismiss that momentary rage.

But the problem that was nagging him lay somewhere beyond his self-control. He couldn't even find it, let alone control it, or make it go away, and his frustration was increasing. Like a sound he couldn't hear, it bothered him, and kept disrupting his attempts at vigilance. I'll be glad when this is over, Francis thought, and wait and see, I bet it will be nothing after all, the simplest, most obvious little thing will serve to soothe it, and then I'll laugh and say, Cosine, you shouldn't have let it get to you, you should have known it was nothing all along. These thoughts cheered him, but he knew it wasn't over yet, and had only just begun.

Now he crossed the busy Independence Avenue, and was suddenly downtown. The huge brown brick glass buildings towered high above, and people filled the sidewalks just as autos filled the streets, and just in front of him was an entrance to the underground. Francis went down the steps and thought, oh good, it will all be over soon. He hoped so, anyway. It was not as bright down there, for there was no sunlight anywhere. The underground was lit by pale yellow fluorescent ceilings, which contrasted comfortably with the grey floor carpeting. The city maintained a large staff of janitors, who scrubbed and vacuumed all night long. This was one reason why Francis felt so good down there, and as soon as he was in it, he felt the inner tension loosen up a bit. He was in familiar territory. His own store was also in the underground, but several blocks from where he now was, and he had no intention to visit there, for, after all, it was saturday, and John the Weekend Man was there.

Francis walked more slowly now, and the other people didn't bother him. He felt that all were equal now. There are situations which tend to equalize, such as shopping, or waiting in line, it didn't matter who you were or what you were doing with your life, when you were just another nobody waiting to fill up. And he felt the world of strangers more acutely on the street, where there was more space, more light, more possibilities. In the underground, people shared a common condition; they were either shopping or working. No one lived down there, so there were only two possible reasons for being there, except, of course, to merely escape from the weather. And so no one could be stranger here than anybody else, and Francis felt more keenly now the kinship between himself and other humanoids. He didn't feel conspicuous, didn't feel different, although on this day he perhaps felt some distance from his real self. Normally, he would never idly browse, or slowly wander through the mall.

On a normal day, he'd know exactly what he wanted, and he would go directly to the source and rapidly acquire it. He felt, for a moment, a hint of that precious freedom he so often scorned, but then he realized that this freedom was just another name for ignorance. When one knows nothing, one is free. When one has no plans or obligations, one is free. When one has no ties to anything or anyone at all, then one is free. In other words, one is like a balloon, drifting in the breeze. One is an agent of the void, open and receptive, maybe yearning for some kind of chain, to tie one down to reality. When one is free, one wants to be obligated. When one is obligated, one yearns only to be free.

The underground was packed with shops. They lined up on the walls, side by side, big plate glass windows, open doors, displays of every kind, most temporarily inhabited by shoppers, more permanently settled by employees. There were human beings in every one, and there were hundreds, even thousands of stores in the undergound mall. And yet he could not find the one he needed, the one he'd come here for. He went by many, which did not suit his needs. He was not hungry yet, so the fast food places, the restaurants, cafes and cafeterias, might not as well have been there as far as he could care. There seemed to be an eating place at every fourth establishment, of one kind or another. There was an italian every dozen blocks, a chinese every nine, burgers every three and chicken places every six. Thank God for city planners, Francis moaned. For this place was all planned out, to every inch. There was a master plan, and no deviations were allowed. It was intended to be the perfect human mall. Francis had memorize the essentials of the blueprint by now. He wanted to forget, so that there might be some surprise, but it was impossible.

He closed his eyes and turned the corner, guessed, and was correct - there was another florist there, according to the rules. There was a fabric shop. He paused, and looked at the display. He thought, perhaps I need new curtains in the kitchen. But no, he told himself, the kitchen needs no curtains. And he had no other use for fabrics, though he saw patterns and colors that appealed to him. He almost went inside to touch one pale blue paisley in particular, but decided not to do it. One does not go in and simply touch something, and then walk out again, he thought.

He went along, past tax preparer's offices, past a fruit- juice stand, a self-defense school and gymnasium, a temporary employment agency, but he didn't need a job. And then there was the predictable cinema, this one showing two adventure films, one about a man who returned in time and tamed the prehistoric men, the point being that because of this future individual, the first domesticated animal was man, and our ancestors were the household pets of our descendants, or something like that. Francis decided that if there ever were such a thing as time travel, it would probably turn out to be pointless. I mean, what happened happened, it cannot not have happened all of a sudden, and any alteration would merely be what happened, and who could tell, anyway? And are we pets? Well, we're noisy, messy, unruly, disobedient. Maybe.

The other film was different, about a man who (but aren't they all about "a man who" or a "woman who", never about "A shrub which" or "a jar of applesauce that") saved the world by unplugging something dangerous just in time. If only death could be unplugged. As for this man who - what a hero! No one else considered that it might be such a simple thing, to pull a plug, for if he hand't pulled it, the lab would have exploded, the force would knock out powerlines, and since the lab was underground, it would have blown the sewer pipes sky-high. Now, it was also on a faultline, and the earth would have opened up, buildings would collapse, roads would fall apart, and the experimental thing in the lab was of such a nature that its discharge would have carried through the air, on all the frequencies, causing a high pitched sound throughout the atmosphere that was kind of like a helicopter landing, at such a vibration that buildings elsewhere would collapse, and a red dye would somehow color all the clouds, and a chain reaction of earthquakes, along with power failures, would have quickly rendered the entire Atlantic seaboard ruined and destroyed. It was a little difficult to believe, and yet, after the hero has explained the various dangers, he goes and stops it all from happening.

Accordingly, the audience feels cheated, and the film received the worst reviews in many years. Francis had no desire to see it, but he paused and studied the poster for several moments, wondering why the ad depicted horrors that weren't going to happen, not even in the movie. Not a single building falls on film, but here, on the poster, was a city made of rubble. They said it was "suspenseful". Francis doubted it. They said it was "exciting". Francis walked away. He went on past a locksmith's shop, but he had no keys requiring duplication, though the thought occured to him that he should probably have an extra set on hand, in case of an emergency, but he didn't stop to have it done.

Another liquor store, prompting the exact same thoughts the other one had brought on earlier. An adult computer store, floppy disks with simulated boys in bondage on the cover, and T-Shirts that read "Androids Do It Automatically". These adult computer stores were fairly new, and very popular. They'd reached a high degree of technical proficiency, and were virtually lifelike, but still the theme was limited. Not even cybernetics could devise new ways to climax. Naturally, Francis had no interest in such things. He passed another barbershop, and decided once again not to willingly lose his hair. And then a bank, his own, the Fourth Fidelity, but he didn't need to go in there. He had some cash already, and a wallet full of credit cards, most of which he never used. Her felt a twinge of loyalty, of belonging, as he passed the bank. He belonged to it, and it belonged to him. The other banks were strangers.

He walked past a camera shop, which once again reminded him of his deep-seated hatred for photography, a passion he could not explain. It seemed absurd to him, to take a picture, instead of looking with one's eyes. He knew his prejudice was irrational, but he clung to it. It was one more pivot by which he judged the world, on which his perspective found an axis to rely upon. Next door to it there was a church, one of only seven in the underground. Francis stopped, and read tha placard on the door. It was the American Secular Society, a local branch of the frequently hysterical cult headed by the charismatic and gregarious Acid Reign. Francis had long been intrigued, and now considered entering. Of all the millenarians cropping up on schedule, at the end of the last decade of the century, Acid Reign was probably the most successful, and therefore dangerous.

His call was a return to practicality, the scientific worship of the planet Earth. He called Man, not God, the custodians of the planet. His message, which was loudly and dramatically proclaimed, had touched a nerve, affecting everyone. He called for Regress, The Humbling of Science, the cosmic view of man as like the beasts whose excrement serves to fertilize the soil, but man prevents his excrement from fulfilling its natural responsibility, and this was a symbol for man's selfishness in general. Yet Acid Reign, for all his bold oration, continually made mistakes and blunders caused by getting so carried away.

He had no idea when to stop, he let his mouth talk on and on, and thus he worked against himself. People loved and mocked him, respected him, but their respect was mixed with ridicule. His long standing feud with the government of Pittsburg was the country's favorite joke. And Francis, tempted though he was, decided not to enter, and he slowly walked away. He was bothered by the sense that maybe that was it, the answer to this mood, but his self rebelled against the thought, his self-esteem would not permit him to go inside a church of any kind. He had made a promise long ago, a secret vow, and he had no desire to break it now, no matter what the cause.

He walked away somewhat regretfully, knowing that someday he really should stop in and find out more about it. One couldn't depend on what one heard about such things, but ought to find out for oneself. But it wasn't in his nature to get involved in any group, especially not then, when the causes were numerous and involvement nearly ubiquitous. He was certain that as soon as the century turned, all this would fade away, as such things come and go. With all the prevalent hysteria, one had to keep a level head, and not let the general near-panic infest one's self. There had been times like these before, albeit not exactly, for now there were more things to rail against and decry, the contemporary luddites had more machines to smash, and many were turning their backs on "modern ways". In the name of Animalism, they turned off all their lights, and used candles only, they threw away their gadgets and appliances, they sang instead of listening to albums, they bought food daily, and unplugged refrigerators, nor did they eat meat - but there were many different sects these days, and each one had different rules.

The game remained the same, as far as he could tell. He didn't want to criticize. To each his own, he thought, but there was a problem building in the country, a problem of under- consumption. He could see it at his job. People simply were no longer buying more than they had use for, and the economy just wasn't geared for such behavior. Production could decline, and that was fine, for it was cheaper to produce things overseas in any case, but consumption was the key to the whole affair. Francis didn't see what was so wrong about the gadgets. Since we have them, he decided, we mioght as well use them. As far as he was concerned, such items, and especially kitchenware, were among the species' most outstanding claims to fame. And yet, although he thought this, he felt he wasn't in the mood to buy another kitchen thing, not even to help prop up the failing g.n.p.. Those he bought when he was depressed, and he regularly scheduled his depressions, and he was reasonably sure he hadn't had one scheduled for today.

He believed very strongly in such built-in anomaly factors. He thought that every system which intended to survive must have built-in escapes. And so, naturally, a happy life is one which includes a dose of misery every now and then, just as a stable government tolerates opposition, or as a law-abiding people has its favorite criminals. But I'm not depressed, he thought, I know it isn't that, it's just that something's wrong, some vague emotion has gotten hold of me, and I must find out the cure. But then, he thought, perhaps it's that I don't really want to know, perhaps that's why I didn't leave a note, because I knew I'd have to face this blank, this unknown quality, and if I did know yesterday, it could be that I've deliberately forgotten what it was, and one should leave it all alone.

In a sense, he almost wanted to do just that, just walk away from it, write the whole day off, chalk it all up to a necessary mystery, and think instead about the day to come, and plan an especially nice one in advance. And he had a sense that he'd encountered this before, it must have been a long, long time ago, when he was a child and still in school, he had been haunted by some vague desire, a prompting which had frightened him, he'd hid from it, he'd shut it out, and turned away, but he could not be certain, he only felt that it was somehow familiar. He was only realizing this now, that there must have been a day like this before. If only I could remember, Francis thought, then I'd have the answer.

But it didn't come to him, the long-forgotten time, if indeed it had ever been, was gone, and it was like Marie once said: when we were newborn babies, we knew the language of the universe. But the more we learned of human ways, the more that knowledge had receeded, until it was long past all recall. And yet it stays there, we can never lose it, and sometimes, maybe in a moment, a feeling comes upon us, and we know. But Francis knew no such experience, only the blank of unexplainability that he felt now, and the nagging thought that he could find the key, that it was possible, and it was this that kept him in the mall.

Normally, no matter what his mood, he would have stopped in to the Pantry Shop, just to see the gadgets that they had, for future reference, but since he'd cancelled out the idea of depression, he didn't want to deal with that at all, and so he walked on by his favorite kind of store. He didn't even dare peek at the window, lest he see some new appliance that he couldn't live without. He'd discovered clay pots there, and the magical onion chopper, which not only peeled the things but diced them too, and all inside a plastic case so they couldn't make you cry. And he'd also bought his coffee grinder in that very shop, on a rainy day in february, when the cold wind and the stinging rain had driven him below the ground. He hadn't even been depressed. On the contrary, he'd been very happy then, he felt as if he was floating far above the ground, and nobody and nothing could have reached him.

He was above it all, and he felt majestic. He stretched forth his hand and lo, there was a coffee grinder just for him. Carrying it home was like proceeding with a scepter to a throne, he placed in on the counter like a crown upon his head. He'd plugged it in, put in some coffee beans, and pressed the plastic top down. It whirred, and Francis saw that it was good. That cup of coffee was the all time best, as he sipped it in the living room, while the wicked nasty rain poured down. He'd turned off the lights and watched the only tree, swaying in the wind, and thought that he could easily do without every other gadget in the place. He smiled to remember that, but each gadget has its special memory, they were all equally wonderful and important.

Francis sighed. Such memories were nice, but did nothing to resolve the situation at hand. He stopped outside a shoe store, and decided to think very hard, to face the situation squarely and devise some plan of action. But again there was the blank. He couldn't even see the problem, let alone define it, but he knew that it was there. He decided just to let it be, again. I might as well go on, he thought, which what I have been doing all along, and let it solve itself, if it so intends. I'll just shop for shopping's sake, forget about the problem. I don't even have to purchase anything. I'll just look.

But it was nice to buy things, and it really would be nice, he thought, it felt so good to find a thing desirable to look at, and to hold it in one's hand, to judge it and perhaps decide to take it home with one, to pick it up and stand in line with it, anticipating all the coming joys of ownership, to pay for it with one's own credit card, to even have them wrap it like a gift, although it's for oneself - they needn't know. And one goes home, unwraps it, one is pleasantly surprised and thanks oneself. One says you're very welcome. One finds the perfect place for it, and puts it there. One stands back, admiring it, proud owner of the thing. He smiled for a moment, but then the feeling came again, and it was almost like a hunger, it was wrong, he knew it and he couldn't fool himself.

I must get on with it, he thought. This cannot go on. The sooner I find something, the better it will be. It may be nothing, but then, that would be something. What will fill this void? He considered possibilities. I've ruled out kitchen things, at least for now, and I've ruled out food. I doubt that entertainment will suffice, and I don't think it has anything to do with my external appearance. I also doubt that other people, or any involvement with them, will solve the problem either. It's something else, something entirely different. I have no idea what. But since I have no idea what, how can I rule out anything? I'm unfamiliar with this game, this hunt-the-phantom-thing. I don't know what to do.

He realized that his mind was of no use just then. I'll have to go by instinct, Francis thought, so I was right before. I'll just keep on shopping, and something's bound to click. I'll cover every hallway if I have to, go by every store. I know that down here there is something waiting for me, something just for me just now, and I will have to let it find me. The idea was troubling. He wasn't sure if he was hunting phantoms, or if they were hunting him. He felt like laughing from embarrassment, but was too embarrassed to laugh. The whole thing is silly, Francis thought, and just because I didn't leave a note. I won't do that again, one can count on that! If I had left a note, I wouldn't be here now. I'd be doing what I was supposed to do, whatever that might have been. I wish I could remember. It's probably so obvious, and probably absurd.

What was I going to do today? I only have this peculiar feeling because I am not doing it. That's all it really is, he thought, but he failed to convince himself. He thought of other saturdays, days that he'd had planned, and to be sure, there had been times when he'd gone shopping on a saturday, but that was different, because it had been well thought out, considered and arranged and approved in advance. His days were always like that. Any novelty was not appreciated, spontaneous events were generally distracting and annoying. Of course, one had to make allowances, for each day held surprises, but for this reason, they were no surprise. There was little that might happen on a given day that was unusual, and certainly nothing which could be called unique. It was simply a question of which anomaly might crop up; the irate customer, the visit from the boss, problems at the warehouse, employees not on time, or needing to leave early, cashiers absent without leave, a broken escalator, or a shipment which did not arrive, which of the endlessly repeated litanies would be repeated once again, the tiresome process of being forced to listen, the infinity of pleasantries.

Like the weather, one can never precisely predict what's coming next, but it will either rain or not, it will be partly or mostly cloudy or not cloudy at all, it will be cool or cold or warm or hot, a gentle breeze or a biting wind, it's bound to be among the possibilities, and nothing else. So too the happenings of daily life. They bored him, and he only played the game according to his rules. This was his only joy, the only thing which he could call his own. He recalled them as he'd set them down on paper, so many years ago. Everything is determined, nothing is free. The trick is to be the one who determines. He'd decided this when he was twelve, and he still agreed. He felt he hadn't changed. He'd done his best to be the one who determined as much of everything as possible in his life, and he felt a little sorry for the others, the millions of others who had made the other choice, or who had never considered that there was a choice, who lived wholly unpredictably "in the moment", in an unreality characterized by the illusion of unlimited possibility.

He saw them around him now, shopping, browsing, examining the various items before giving them the final validation of personal selection. This one, they thought, is the one I want. And the rejected items were essentially the same as the selected ones, and their only fault was that they didn't strike one's fancy at the time. It is a curious thing, Francis thought, that one item will appeal while its twin will not. Is there really such a thing as taste, or do we invent it so as to assure ourselves of our individual identity. What would an individual be like, who had no personal preferences. Could one even speak of an individual in such a case? He selects at random, it matters not to him what color, shape or size the item is. He selects it from the rest for no reason whatsoever. He does not think about it. He does not compare. For him there are no relative merits, and no qualitative differences. He has no taste. Where, then, is his individuality?

This is someone who will wear any old thing, read any book, listen to any music without discrimination, eat any food, drink any drink. He will sit in any chair, watch any program, on any TV set, eat with any utensils off of any dishes. He will live in any neighborhood, in any city anywhere, not saying 'this is mine' or 'this is what I like'. It is all the same to him. He thinks any thoughts that happen to come into his head, feels any old emotions, walks in any fashion, speaks any language in any dialect. One would say he has no individual identity, but it is not true. No matter what he wears, others will judge him by his clothes. They will say he likes jazz if he happens to be listening to jazz. He will be an egghead if he happens to be reading. No matter what he does, he is still an individual. He is who he is. He never had any choice in that.

But most people prefer the fantasy, pretending they can be the person they want to be, instead of who they are. They believe that they create themselves, and make themselves, and they work very hard at it. The things they own add up, they think, but the things are all beside the point. Francis had the momentary thought that, instead of buying something, he should be getting rid of things, that this was an opportunity to rid himself of something nonessential. But he dismissed ths thought. It was interesting in theory, irrelevant in practice. I don't know where these strange ideas are coming from, he thought, it's not like me at all. Here I am in the underground, and thinking about giving things away, when I know full well I came to buy. But even as he laughed it off, he was beginning to feel that maybe he had the wrong idea all along, that shopping not only might not be the answer, but that it might even be involved in the peculiar problem itself.

He had no way to consider such a thought. It was completely foreign to his mind. Shopping, and the marketplace, were so closely interwoven with his daily life that any criticism of it was inconceivable. It isn't wrong at all, he thought, it couldn't be, or else then everything is wrong, and that's just not the way it is. The only thing that's wrong is this unidentified sensation, this feeling that is wrong, and I know it's nothing serious, a slight anomaly, no more. Any minute now I'll find a thing, and it will go away, just like that, it'll go away, and by tonight the whole thing will be back to normal, I'll plan out my sunday like I always do, and write this day off to experience. Next time I wake up unprepared, I'll know exactly what to do, and with this thought his confidence was restored, and he set about intently spying out the shops once more.

He came across a lighting store. Inside were lamps and lights of every sort, pole lamps, table lamps, track lights, fluorescent lights, bulbs of every color, attractive bases and designs. The whole interior was lit so bright there were no shadows at all in there, and Francis paused in front of it, reflecting on his apartment's lighting equipment. A quick check revealed that he had plenty of lights at home. He remembered when he'd bought the lamp that sat upon the table in the living room, and the day he'd bought the bedroom reading lamp. On those days he had particularly prepared himself, had written in the note 'buy lamp', and had obeyed it to the letter. He'd even specified the very lamp to seek, and had spent a pleasant saturday engaged in finding it. He'd made a list of stores, some in the underground, some not, and had visited each one in turn. Eventually, as he knew it would, the very lamp turned up, and he'd bought it without hesitation.

That's the way it should be, Francis thought, and he walked on. Another might be nice to buy sometime, but not today. Next there was another shoe store, and this time Francis stopped. It had been his habit for many years to purchase his shoes, as well as all of his apparel, at the Consumer Center where he worked, and where he was awarded a substantial discount. He'd never been dissatisfied, and indeed owned several pairs of shoes, all of which he liked, but he thought now that perhaps he'd been too indolent, had been playing it too safe. he could afford to buy any shoes he wanted, so why did he always settle for the discount? it wasn't rational. I've been too lazy, Francis thought, and haven't even gone into any shoe store all these years. I really ought to do it, just for practice, just to get used to the idea. And he almost did go in, but close inspection of the window revealed that this store had no other and no different shoes than the ones in the department of his own, and the prices were much higher here, even without the discount.

No, he reconsidered, it would simply make no sense. All this time I've been correct. Why pay more, and why go out of one's way, when one finds what one needs within one's reach? And any shoes will do, the thought crept in, it made no difference at all. He was alarmed at that last, unbidden thought, and quickly turned away from the shoe store window display. Of course it makes a difference, Francis told himself, what one wears on one's feet, and what one elects to buy with one's own credit card, reveals much about one's self image. Only a man with no conception of himself would make decisions indiscriminately like that. But I know who I am and what I like, and it really makes a difference.

Don't be stupid, said the partner of the thought, it's only shoes. It isn't only shoes, he said to it, it's a fundamental issue. One is what one thinks one is, one has no objective identity, self-image is the key to how one makes onceself appear, and so if one wears any kind of shoes, one appears to have no high opinion of oneself, and thus others do not either. That's ridiculous, he thought, appearances are nothing. That's the very problem. Appearances are meaningless, and they are everything, so everything is meaningless. How odd, he thought, something is definitely wrong, and getting worse. I have never talked to myself like this before, and I do not like it. But I do know that the choices that I make determine not only who I am, but who others think I am. What I choose to buy is what stamps me in the world.

Everyone's a pirate, Francis thought, we'll do anything at all to get what we want. He blinked and wondered where that idea came from. This is very strange, he thought, I don't recall a time when I've had so many bizarre ideas. He passed a cheese and wine shop, and ignored it. I've never had a taste for cheese, he thought. Next there was an optometrist, with a banner announcing everyday low prices. I have no use for glasses, Francis thought, I see perfectly well as it is. And anyway, what is there to see that's so important anyway? People with lousy vision probably have it for a reason - because they do not want to see. And then they go and get glasses, and that's very strange. It's as if they do not know themselves at all.

I must find something soon, Francis thought. As soon as I have find something I will return to normal, I will be able to concentrate again, and determine what I think. As it is, I have no topics, so any thoughts crop up, but this will not go on for long. He turned the corner, and walked along the subway level of Discovery Street. This ought to do it, he told himself, I know that there are many interesting stores along this route. But first he passed a butcher shop and the dead flesh in their cases made him look away disgusted, and next there was a cutlery, with its sharp knives all lined up, and then there was a software store, displaying all of its revolutionary new programs, bound to change the way the world works, certain to transform reality itself by means of information, yet more information, as if there wasn't a surplus of the stuff already.

We have an information glut, he thought, it's been devalued everywhere. Nowadays it's cheap and almost worthless, it doesn't pay to know, most people are like me, they're cutting back, there's more than they can use, they have no room for it, there's information everywhere, so much that if you let it, it can easily prevent you from doing anything at all. It's time they started reducing the supply, he thought, and then all of this new software will simply melt away, and the latest and the last will be a program to abolish all other programs.

He came to a door that had a list of names on it, each name followed by a series of initials, and finally, beneath them all, a warning tag - Psychologist. Francis scrutinized the names, as if he could learn anything from them. And while he memorized them, he was surreptitiously considering going in and seeing one. The thought was subtle. He was almost unaware of it. It thought, perhaps this is the answer I've been looking for, the cure for this peculiar mood, but no, it couldn't be, because the antidote must be immediate, I cannot afford to wait, and psychologists take too much time and beat around the bush. It would be years before they realized that all I had to do was buy something, some very special unique thing, that corresponds precisely to the mood. And in the meantime I'll have wasted too much time.

He broke off his study of the names, and walked away, but he hadn't gone two steps before he came across a most intriguing sign. It said, simply, "Null", and there was nothing else. The door was solid wood, and there were no windows. He had never seen this place before, or even heard of it. He turned the handle of the door. It opened. He went in. He came into a luxurious waiting room, with fancy chairs and oriental rugs, an antique- looking desk, upon which sat a little bell. On the walls were portraits of distinguished gentlemen, from various historical periods. One reminded him of General Lee, with a crisp white beard and comandeering gaze. He approached the desk, and gently tapped the bell.

It rang, and instantly a woman appeared from behind another door. She seemed to be very young, seventeen perhaps, with short blond curls and faddish purple lips. She smiled and asked if she could help. I'm just curious, he said, I saw the sign outside, and I'm wondering what kind of shop this is. Oh, she said, you haven't an appointment? No, I just stopped in. I was only passing by. The sign intrigued me and I decided to inquire as to the nature of this business. Wow, she said. Francis blinked and didn't move. He was embarrassed to say more, and didn't know if she was going to bother to explain. She didn't have to, really, since he didn't have an appointment. Still, it would be rude to simply turn him out without a word.

She sat down behind the desk, and opened the top drawer. He exhaled, relieved with the thought that she would hand him a brochure or some such thing, but instead she removed a nail file, and began to trim her long magenta nails. She seemed to have forgotten about him entirely. A minute passed, and Francis became uncomfortable. He was about to leave, or else speak up again. He couldn't decide which would be the best to do, when the woman finally spoke up. It's like null, she said, like the sign says. I'm afraid that I don't understand, he told her. We sell personalities, she said, and smiled. He wasn't sure if she was being serious or not.

Personalities? he asked, that's very odd. It's really very simple, she replied, you come in as you are, and you leave as someone else. It's very technical. Oh, he said, and he thought, technical. Do you mean it's like hypnosis? Oh no, she said, it's not at all like that. It's a surgical procedure, having to do with the place inside the brain that manufactures your self-image. Like I said, it's technical. Medical, if you prefer that term. Francis was confused. I've never heard of such a thing, he said. She nodded, and replied, it is a new technique, not widely known as yet. But you'll see. My boss says in a few years it'll be the rage. You'll hear about it everywhere. He said, oh, and didn't move. Would you like to make an appointment? she asked. Oh no, he said, I was only curious. It doesn't hurt, she said, at least that's what they tell me. Thank you, no, he said, I'm sorry I disturbed you. He turned and left the place. You might be right, she called out after him, the price will probably be coming down in a while. Right now it's still a bit expensive.

How very odd, he thought, once he was safely in the corridor, that's really most peculiar. He walked along, not noticing the shops he passed, still thinking about 'Null'. He passed a T-shirt shop, a ticket outlet, and a stationers. Since he did not wear t- shirts, or attend too many ticketed events, or even write any letters, he would have had no interest in them even if he had been paying attention. Null, he thought, how very strange, how very very odd. And he felt a sense of relief, as if he had narrowly escaped from some tremendous danger. He was even shaking a little, frightened by the thought that somewhere hidden in his brain there was a spot that told him who he was.

There'd been too many revalations about that sort of thing of late; chemicals that determine happiness, blood cells circulating jealousy, the very spot where fights begin within one's elbow joint, places you can press to wipe out headaches, codes locked tight within one's cells that explain it all for you, and thanks to scientific progress there was less and less room for the illusion of freedom every day. The idea only coexisted comfortably with ignorance. But the word was getting out, and children growing up were learning in their classrooms that all things are physical in fact, all stimulus-response. The older moral arguments could not be reasonably voiced. Francis was agreed with these developments. He felt they proved that he'd been right all along, but this Null thing was disturbing to him, and he wasn't quite sure why.

Of course, he told himself, it's only logical that self-image comes from somewhere, and likely that the place is in the brain, but knowing is one thing, and doing is another. It's just not right. One shouldn't be allowed to have whatever self-image one might choose. The world has its demands. we can't all be the king. Some must work, and others must suffer. And yet it wasn't the practical concerns that bothered him, but something far more subtle, a suggestion, a vague hint, a corollary which would say that since all things are material, and all things are determined, then this peculiar mood I'm in is just as real as other moods, it's not irrelevant, no quirk or accident which might simply disappear. It has utility, it serves some unknown purpose, it has meaning, it has reference and validity. I am not free, I know this very well, but now it seems that I am not in control, and this is something new. I followed the rules, but today they do not work.

No need to get upset, he told himself, perhaps I'm simply wrong. It's only a new facet which I hadn't come across before. He knew his customary states, and this certainly wasn't one of them. It was completely unfamiliar. That doesn't mean the rules do not apply, he told himself. There's still a chance that this peculiar mood can be appeased the way all others are - by shopping. I haven't yet exhausted all the possibilities. I must keep on. And he did keep on, he walked and walked, and passed by many stores. There was a record shop that caught his eye, and he almost went inside, but realized that he'd long since stopped listening to albums, and he couldn't see how that could be the answer. One sits and listens, that is all. Music comes from the machine, one sits and listens to it. It all goes in the ear, and that is all. It doesn't solve a thing. It takes about an hour, and then one must get up, and turn it off.

The kind of music doesn't matter much. No matter what one's preference is, one's taste, essentially the experience is the same. One likes what one hears, and that's all very nice, but that is all. Lots of things are nice. Nice is not enough. Music can be soothing, or it can be rousing. It can be depressing or inspiring. One likes the sounds or one dislikes the sounds. All very nice, he thought, but it's not the thing I need. If I bought an album now, I'd take it home and put it on. I'd sit and listen to it, and sixty minutes later I'd be right back where I started from, that's all.

He passed it by, and then there was a bookstore. This was slightly more appealing, and Francis went inside. He browsed uncertainly, unsure of what to look for. He had no need of cookbooks, nor was he interested in gardening. Children's books and books about pets were of course ruled out. He looked at humor books, but he was not amused. He had no use for books on chess or bridge or solitaire or harness racing - sports were nothing to him. He saw no sense in them. People run around and play, while others sit and watch. No, it makes no sense at all. It only fills the time. He felt the same way about the theater, films and art. Francis wasn't fond of entertainment merely for it's own sake. He felt that there was something fundamentally wrong with it. Entertainment comes between a person and his own experience. One preys on others' lives, and doesn't live one's own. One laughs at them or cries with them, identifies or is repelled by them, one loves and hates these fictions more intensely than one feels for anyone one really knows. One wants to be like them, one envies them or pities them, and all the while, one is not oneself, but someone else whom one is not.

It is a lie, he thought, it's all a fantasy, and it's got to stop somewhere. This is what appealed to him in Acid Reign and his American Secular Society. It heralded the end of fantasy, the victory of reality over illusion. Reign mocked the entertained, compared them all to manakins who neither think nor feel, who cannot move, who are forever locked into a pose, a certain attitude, who are passive in the world, who don't accomplish anything, who are merely entertained, and he said that it's sick, the sign of an insane society, not that some perform, for this is right and natural, but that the others don't, that they constitute an audience, and it's not the way it should be, in a sane world, everyone would be creative, everybody would express themselves, there would be no division between 'the artist' and 'the audience'.

Francis didn't look at the novels, for he never read such things. He preferred biographies, but when he looked through that department, he found nothing that intrigued him. They were all about the movie stars, or the music stars, or the heroes, great men, statesmen, artists, generals, scientists and so on. There were no buiographies of people, only of exceptions. Francis was annoyed. Something about 'the great' disturbed him, since they thrived on tragedy, and were only great in proportion to the misery surrounding them. He didn't know what he was looking for. Perhaps a book about a man who doesn't know what's going on, a man who can't do anything, because there's nothing to be done, a man who has no answers, and who has no questions either, a life without momentum, or without momentous changes, a simple tale, a point of view, no more than that, some refreshing new perspective, some new angle, some hint that's shouted out, something that revealed the cells inside the brain that would explain it all.

He didn't find this book. He looked at history, psychology, religion and philosophy, at science, nature, health and reference books. He didn't look too closely, because he really didn't want to buy a book. He was just exhausting possibilies, for the sake of form. But a book is entertainment, it's like listening to music. One sits there and absorbs it, it's all happening somewhere else. One lets the words invade one's mind, and likes it or does not, and of course it's very nice, one learns a thing or two, one has the illusion that one learns. One's not sure what it means, perhaps, or even if it does mean anything, but nonetheless one lets the words come in, they sit there for a moment, and are then displaced by the words that follow, as successive notes swallow up the tune, each word comes in, is brushed aside, and shortly fades away entirely. One is left with the sensation that one has learned something, just as when the album ends, one sits inside the silence, and thinks that one has experienced some music.

One thinks this, in the silence. There is no music playing, but there was, but it's all over now. It's gone and isn't happening. So too, one puts away the book. One had paid for it and brought it home, sat down with it and spent some hours reading it. One finishes, and puts the book away. One thinks, I have read the book, but that is all, it's over now, and one is right back where one started from. So Francis spent ten minutes in the bookstore browsing carelessly, and when he left he felt like he hadn't even gone inside. And he didn't care. He knew that books were not the cure.

There seemed to be no cure at all. He passed by a musical equipment store, for which he had no use at all, a TV sales and repair, a stereo equipment store, and a place that specialized in gardening supplies. He passed by two adjacent furniture stores, but he had all the furniture he required, and had no use for more. There was an airline agency, but Francis didn't want to fly away. He liked it where he was. He was not the sort to take an extravagant vacation. There was nowhere in the world where he would rather be than Jamestown. But the items in the local tourist shop had no appeal for him. he lived there, so he didn't need momentos, didn't need a John Smith mug, or a Pocahantas ashtray, a John Rolfe pipe, or a Susan Constant wooden boat. He didn't want to wear Jamestown apparel, or hats that said, 'Virginia is for lovers', or dishes that portrayed the scenes of early settler life.

The tacky items turned him off, and he passed by other stores of similar non-interest; drug stores, appliance stores, sporting goods and art supplies, antiques and auto sales, leather goods and luggage, pastry shops, redecorators, video arcades and carpet stores, telephones and laundromats, film developer stands and bakeries, pottery, gymnasiums, schools, a library, a key duplication booth, a hobby shop, real estate, wallpaper and tiles, another fabric store, another liquor store, another bar, countless restaurants, another ice cream parlor and yet another bakery, a hat store, an occult shop, watches and repairs, a shop containing only things made out of wood, another movie theater and a sex shop. Soon, there were no novelties. He wandered all around, and all the kinds of stores simply repeated themselves endlessly. Francis was beginning to lose hope. It seemed he'd seen at least one each of everything, and it puzzled him. He'd thought there were more kinds of stores, there had to be more somewhere.

He was overlooking something, surely. He tried to think of all the things he'd ever bought, but he couldn't think of any other kind of store. The choices cannot be so strictly limited, he thought, this is a free economy. But there's only so much to be sold, only so much to be bought. It almost made him laugh. One is supposed to want to have a lot of money, Francis thought, so that one can buy whatever one desires, and yet, there is only so much one can buy, and then there's only more of the same. And what a bore it is, to be trapped in such a vicious cycle. No wonder then the rich are so frustrated. No wonder they go insane. They dreamed of having everything, and once they have it, there is nothing more but more. It's crazy, he thought, and he was glad he'd never been driven by such desires.

I never wanted to be rich, he thought, I only wanted just enough, the things I need, and I do have them all. I have enough. This thought occurred, but stuck. It didn't pass like all the other thoughts, it wasn't displaced by the next to come along, but stuck, reverberated through his mind, got caught up in a loop and he thought it over and over again, I have enough. He had everything he'd ever needed or desired. He had bought it all. There was nothing left to buy, and suddenly he realized that this shopping trip was wrong, all wrong. I don't need anything, he thought, so I shouldn't be out here looking for something to buy. What am I doing here? He could not answer that. He had no idea.

He stood there, growing more uncertain all the time. He didn't know why he was there, he didn't know what he was looking for, or even why he was even looking. It was ridiculous. Something is definitely wrong, he thought, but his mind refused to sort it out, or even to go through the motions of reasoning. It just left him in that state. He found that he was staring at a bright red neon sign that said "The Chamber of the Moon". It was a fashion store for fashionettes. No use to me, he thought. But nothing was any use. There was nothing he could buy. It isn't going to go away, he thought, it will not be appeased. There is no cure, and I cannot escape. He stood there by the fashion store, uncertain and disturbed. The game had changed, and he didn't know the rules. It can't go on like this, he thought. What am I going to do?

Subway Style

I, Francis Cosine, found myself uncertain in a place beyond the chamber of the moon, I felt quicksilver flash, I felt the quivering of newborn flesh, I felt a slice of terror then of peace as if magicians would resolve the mess, straighten out the hope, the moon was full and red on the horizon as I watched. All around me pirates stood, injured, raving, menacing, they bled on piss- stained pants, the red of social fire burned, inspecting things they don't know how to fix, poking through the wreckage with their sticks and muttering about the end, blonde ones spitting in the dust, steel pillars fell and echoed clanging through the air. Litter scattered on the streets, rusty sheets of steel aluminum smashed up and rattling in the drains, the sewers overflowed and everywhere the squeaks of rats and dogs caught toes in chain- linked fences. I'd hurt my leg and limped, I had to run away, I couldn't run, the beggar pirate children laughed, they opened up their fists, I saw the scabs and scars their grubby hands and toothless faces opened wide, a car was overturned and burning in the street. A building had collapsed, dust rose cascading skyward into mist and cold air freezing. My jacket torn, my arm was sore and red, the cold air froze my face, the wind whipped wildly, people's screams were everywhere, the moon was full and red on the horizon while I watched.

I could see the fires burn and ashes float up to the sky, the howling wind ripped through my ears, I froze in sudden horror as an owl flapped by and screeched my name. Slaughter, the machine cried, tortured the machines bled, oozed parts perched on windowsills, almost falling onto heads or tails blank faces on the coins, anonymous world leaders hid, the fire blazed, the towers roared and fell, the noise incessant banged and screamed, the city fell, the pirates rummaged through the waste, the sky was red and blazing, everywhere was noise chaotic and unseen and I, Francis Cosine, stood uncertain in this place, alternately terrified and clam, as if magicians would, certain that magicians would. A beggar boy of four surrounded me, his eyes were sore and red, his tossled hair, his missing tooth, his crooked smile and show me what you have, he said, give me what you have, but I had nothing, though, I limped, my jacket torn, my bare hands showed him all, I shook my head, he grinned and lunged at me, I heard a woman's voice yelling and whosoeveer hath not shall lose even that little which he does not have, I stepped aside, he disappeared behind me and I heard him whimper 'help'. This too I did not have to give. Stars fell and light failed sparking one more time extinguished in the puddles forming from the sweat of broken wires, crackling they hissed and snapped, whipped with the wind and sliced, the lightning of the wires sparked, shot flames and fires spread, the water from the sewers seeped along the streets.

It was given I to witness, not participate, they laughed, the pirates' scorn. They bared their blades, approached, I called on the magicians hear me now, they came, I stood my ground, I felt an eye go out, I felt a body hit the ground, I felt a tremor in my bones, a breaking in, I stood, impassively surveyed the scene, the wreckage and the waste, the awful waste, tin cans and sewage floating by, my shoes were soaking wet, my face was dry, the tears on other men brought none to me, brought rats for food and jello for dessert, brought items in for refunds, if not for cash than for exchange, it doesn't fit me, so they say, I know, they won't fix it, a carnival of sounds, the sound of men hysterical relief, the engines roar, you find your place and wait in line, on sale at two for one, the flame of social red, the social red of fire. I saw cats wrestling on the floor, one turned and arched her back, she walked away, he licked his balls, she waited patiently in line, your turn will come, who's next? The pirates hunted down the girl and nibbled on her toes, the rest of her was safe, the moon was full and red on the ellipse. Regrets? I asked, but no, it was well spent, but she was after all a novice in these things, she blew up small balloons and watched them float away, a bang exploded, boom, carress, a night of pestilence, they swarmed, emerging from the swamp below the city's beach.

Three levels like a bridge in half and peering down the lane, the city on three levels cut in half, and everything collapsed but slowly now a TV on the blink, the time between a flash and a bang, the speed of sound slowed down, but only for a moment, I felt aloft, my feet above the street, my body light, my head was loose, it spun, it swam, the pirates swarmed and I was in their midst, but like a ghost I wasn't there, they ran beyond and through my corpse and I was on my back, my legs stretched out, above the stars collide, the moon was full and falling back on the horizon as I watched, deciding not to rise, I saw the sun rise from the west but it too sank, the clouds alone remained, high clouds of red and organ soot, a ring of smoke, a pillar of pollution, the dreadful waters spilled and bubbled white and foamy sud surf breaking, filling up the space between my limbs, a helicopter overhead, a searchlight, speaker ranting, don't nobody panic, y'all hear? Shrill blades sliced the air, the motor whipped and chopped, the pirates called up to it, descend and save, descend and save and buy now get one free, you can really save a lot on this little beauty right here, you see? It's made of silk and polyester, handsewn collars, handsome fit, the color is just right and now on two for one on two for one on two for one of them fell upon me swearing, on my ribs, I bit his ear, he jumped away and poked me with his stick, the blind man crawled away, his knees in suds, in dirty sewer stench, and bricks fell all around, I saw the trees grow upside down, their roots were in the clouds, tomatoes green and small and peaches not in season, not in preachers climbed the walls, began to shout about the end, the final chance for salvation two for one, they said it was a war, the last of days, the Antichrist or someone somewhat like him in the men's department trying out new slacks, he wore those new hoof shoes that are the style, he had a pointy beard and a Consumer Center Credit Card, his canines showed, he grinned, I'll take these two, he said, and handed me the card, and verily it was authorized.

I smelled his aftershave and traced the false suggestion, must have been the show I watched last week, there was a man like him that's why I'm dreaming now, the chaos overwhelmed, I decided to stand up, I stood, the sirens wailed, the workers out on strike, and nothing gets accomplished, picket lines thrown up around the church, no penances, no absolutions read the signs, preachers on the wall but not on top but dangling by their collars glued to bricks, they kicked their legs, they squirmed and yelled about damnation, the firemen with their hoses pissed all over the red of social life, they watered down the terms, they proposed solutions and the helicopter flew away, the pirates chasing it, they ran through all the puddles, got their shoes and pants all wet, the laundromat was soot, the dryers baked, the linen closet full of pretty clothes, the final reckoning was thirty thirty two, he handed me the card and verily it was authorized.

I removed the safety tags and put them in a bag, he walked away clip clopping in his hoof shoes on the tiles, and John the Weekend Man was there, but it was only tuesday. He asked me if I'd heard about the fire and I said no and he said that a church was burning down on Bacon Street, the firemen were there suspecting foul play, and the Jammers lost again last night, the Pirates beat them four to one, and aftershave cologne is over there, past the linen closet full of John the Weekend fire the red the clock was slow, the sound was late, the small hand kept quite still until the last possible moment and then it clicked another second time around, and now Marie was waiting for me at the Zoo beside the leopard cage, the beggar boy fell down upon his knees demanding anything, I helped him up, he clung around my waist, the screeching didn't stop, the bus passed by and didn't stop, the bridge club sandwich cut in half, in layers peeling, buildings softly falling, piles of brick and broken glass, we stepped upon them cautiously, the beggar boy and I walked to a place where no one else would see.

Something paratroopers rant we ran back out, the sky was filled with parachutes that fell, the pirates all lined up, the captains were inspecting them, torn jackets? good. Grimy faces? Excellent. Some broken laces? good. Ragged trousers? Excellent, they passed with falling colors and the kites propelling groundwards, drawn tails collapsing biplanes sparking green and smashing into shopping malls, we wait in line to die like good consumers that we are and death is one more thing you have to buy, the twisted gypsy stops to read the ashes on the street, she's caked in thousand year old mud, for culture's sake she never bathes, she wears the history of all, a dusty specimen from the age when people died so they might live, where they spent so they might save, where they destroyed in order to create, where they grew old in order to be young, where they scrubbed the oceans clean after having killed off all the filthy fish, but not before, I told the beggar boy, behold, this is the end they've secretly been praying for.

I am a refugee, he said, from here. Then escape to where you are, I said. The gypsy laughed and cried, the future is now, the ashes tell me so, they say that there has been a fire and the city is burning down and all that will be left is them, the ashes say. You have come into being so that we may be produced, they claim, the beginning and the end. The beggar boy was sad, incurably, he was the only one who cried, the pirates cheered the troops as they cascaded from the sky, the city burned but what a show, the dressing room is down the hall, why don't you try them on? He smiled and thanked me for my help, I watched him walk away, I sighed, the chutes fell in the sewers and the rats gnawed on the ropes, they squeaked, the preachers struggled free and fell and bruised their knees, the payphone out of service and the firemen struggled to control the flames. In sudden silence now the pirates still lined up and marching out of town. From the ashes came the thing with hairy legs, it opened wide its jaws and screamed in nothing was the product code, and afterwards the quaking of the sky, it ripped open wide, the jewels fell into pieces on the patterned dinnerware, or shaving in a broken picture frame, its legs bent up, it opened wide its legs and screamed, and stopped in front of me. What's going on? she asked, I'm sorry but we are sold out, perhaps next week if you stop back, she's only seventeen I told myself, I smiled and it was closing time, the paratroopers fell, the autumn dance parade, the semen in the sewer pirates marching out of town, desertion, where have all the people gone, and suddenly I was alone, they'd left, the ceiling crumbled underneath the neighbors' noise, the leaky paint, the rust, the swooning poisoned rats, and out it came beneath the foam and stirred, a thing with hairy legs, and gold and bangled stockings on the third floor, aisle three, behind the boy's department Calvin lurked awaiting customers he grinned and bared his teeth, he threatened them to come, he stood with a machete raised aloft, it fell and sliced the glass case full of key chains, let them try to buy something, he said, and I'll show them what it's worth.

Beyond the town the river swelled whitecaps connected in a chain, the ocean waves still wait in line, await their turn to crash and fall upon the ragged shore, the flag at dawn was raised aloft, the breezes made it swell and then my mouth upon her hairy breast, and then I opened wide, I waited for my turn, there were kids ahead of me for burgers fries or at the bank the safe blew up, the dollars soared above the sky and fell, the afternoon passed slow, did not collect, he left the parcel at the desk and never did return, she claimed she didn't know the way and after all, she said, I'm not from here, come here, I thought, I'll show you, down there and make a left and outside to the right and down a block and past the flower girl's spongy violets. My sweaty hands, the sudden urge to run, I only wanted to escape, I saw a gypsy wagon train, the beggar boy was by my side, the sky was full of ashes falling down and caking us in dust, the moon was bleeding white, and just above the church, the people had returned, they were in line, they were waiting for the coffee.

It's one of those department stores, only underground, with escalators everywhere, and people swarming all around, perfume smells pervade the place and make me sick as women drag their screaming kids and little boys think nasty thoughts about their mother's friends, greek alphabets spelled backwards on a grimy piss-stained wall, the fire escape is putrid, rusty, smells like ancient garbage cans are cluttered on the street where dogs have knocked them down, and aftershave cologne, this way, pocket watch repair, inspecting what they don't know how to fix, I saw a leopard from the Zoo but in the underground, snarling at the shoppers, daring them to try. The paratroopers fell and bruised their knees, they cursed, a pirate chopped it off, an envelope beheld the stamp, it talked, I wept when Janice finally died, though she'd been waiting patiently, I see her face above me in a sooty cloud, I see a hundred faces beaming down, they seem to smile and beckon, join us now, it is your turn to rise, the preacher tumbled off the wall, his collar stuck and stayed their glued to brick.

The morning rainbow came, the final excrement, the shades of blue and rust and peeling skin in patches on the fine ground roasted heaven scent, the pillars of communities deformed in refugees, pink purple aspects of the name, and there will be no mornings anymore, the last one's come and gone, the ultimate pariah scorned the world and laughed at all the the dust on armor- coated planes, the paratroopers lost their limbs in freefall scattered on the rooftop puddles of cement and very soon the echoed shrieks, the fire alarms, the burning noises of the kids in regiment brigades of plastic toys, a boring game room on the second floor behind the pet supplies, you'll see the sign, the preacher roared, as prophecized, the sale extends through monday afternoon, but hurry, there's no time to waste, the savings will not stop they absolutely will not stop, the ladders to the roof collapse, the rescue mission fails, he falls, the baby wails, the mother leaps and lands in piles of shit, she smiles, I knew it'd be all right, the baby brown and slick, the beaches washed away, the moon has fallen and the sea is red and racing to the shore, the last one there's a rotten wave, but Calvin in his tight pants looks at customers beware, you don't know what's in store for you, you don't know he's insane, prepared for all contingencies, a paranoid always is prepared but normal people bob and float, they don't know how to swim, the waves could take them anywhere, deflated life preservers on the shelf in aisle nine, the sound of charge cards authorized, sounds of paper rustling, small change tinkling in drawers, a penny fell, he bent to pick it up, they knocked him on the head and walked away.

Fortune tellers grin, they lie, you know it very well, they say you died last year from anorexia, she wouldn't eat, she said she wasn't hungry for a year until the end, she lost her appetite, but you can find it in the lower deck, the restaurant is open, and quite good, if I may say so myself, though the prices are too high but aren't they always nowadays, especially the carrot cake if I might recommend you die and go up to the clouds, your blood will rain upon the sea, your bones will scatter in the wind, you dissipate and fall, on judgment day, I'll be there, rotting away, and you'll be there too, no matter what you say, what was once was once was once upon a cloud of waiting rain, your turn will come, your blood will fall upon the heads of pirates fleeing from the rust, the falling modern cities' must endure until the end, they can decay eternally, the end is not in sight, the red of chaos vision all confused, no clarity, too many things spontaneous and free and therefore damned to impulse engines roar back fire, explode, implode, a pile of junk and rotting dust.

In the river small boats sink, canoes torpedoed by the breeze, the infantry in squalor in the trees collapse, and disobey a general rants, the tide sucks out the sand, the clams dig deep, the oysters disappear and no one knows where they have gone, the price goes up, the fishermen lament, but sailors swim towards the shore amidst the teeming whites of waves linked out across the sea in chains await their only turn to break and crash upon the shore. The mind says stop the whirring in my head, I stand amidst the ruins of the town, too many things are happening all at once, I know that nothing really is, I was asleep, I tell myself, I am asleep, it doesn't really matter, but I shout because a rat runs by my feet, she sqweaks my name and disappears into the rusty pipes which spew the foam, the bubbling shampoo detergent of the final load, we spin the dryers spin next door, they're in a parked truck on the street, they launder curtains and the neighbors' noise goes on, and then it rains, the water falls, the day breaks down, the clouds descend and mist embraces piles of bricks and rusty pipes and concrete dust flies with the wind, a hammer for the battle cry, the rain is hot, its steam evaporates, the ground is dry beneath the rubble and the silt, I stand there soaking wet, I realize, I tell myself, something is definitely wrong, I never felt like this before, it's like forgetfulness, like a pick and choose amnesia, I'm holding in my hand, it reads 'cereals and peaches', it reads 'shopping at the mall', it reads 'chocolate cake for lunch' and 'think about Marie', and will she really die as she expects to die? It reads 'telephone Jim Dent', it reads 'forget what you have read', it floats away, the rains are bearing it aloft, I see the spray from broken sewer pipes, the upscale rain ascends, it drowns the source, the lampposts sway and fall, the lights are out but still the wires burn, the yellow sparks, blue hum, and spit the fire of social red, the river rising with the moon along the ledge, the beggar boy asleep atop a hill of fallen bricks, I stare, the pirates swarm, the people sing the fear they chant the end is near, but no, it's gone, the end is over with for now, we'll have to carry on, and in between the figures I can see a sparking hope, a vision of dry heat, a circus of rebirth, a preacher laughs, he thinks that he was right, but is relieved to be so wrong, the end has not begun, he shouts, all of this is just a previous attraction at the Circle Star a girl sings phony songs about the love she never felt, the audience applauds, a sliver of her soul gas died but is replaced by whirring automatic interchangeable immovable parts that spin, collide, and fall, she flees, the rescuer persues, the captive innocence that doesn't come, she passes by, I hear her voice resounding as the boats bob up and down, the sailors reach the shore before the waves, the cavalry appears in plymouth trucks, the general aftershave cologne in aisle five behind the toothpaste lying on the sink, I see and do not see, my hair is neatly combed, my piss falls in the bowl, I sit impartial in the judgment seat. I look around, the floor is fresh and clean, too clean.

I want the dust to fall, I pound the wall, the ceiling holds, I stand still pissing on the floor, I get down on my knees and lap it up, it goes around again, I stoop imagining a girl in front of me, all time has stopped, the world is frozen, and I close my eyes, the scene remains, I'm sitting on the judgment seat, my shit plops in, the room is nice and clean, I am at home, the city is still here, it hasn't died, I stand and wipe and flush, the pipes spew foam again, I'm on the avenue, the beggar boy asleep, the pirates line up for coffee, and the anti-rain, the rain-not- rain still falls, the crackling wires, the roar of useless maintenance men, the elevator shafts collapse, a pile of broken bricks still lie across the street, the moon is red and full on the horizon as I watch and know I'm in the shit again, still in this shit again.

The end of privateers, policemen confiscate the loot and keep it for themselves, the red light beam of private nights inflicting pale blue humor on the wall, the shadows scatter, run away, kaleidoscope of grey shapes scatter on the wall, playing with the lights, the sizzling wire, the twilight of the long neglected integered computer code commands, the credit card is authorized, I smile, I thank him in their name, I beg him please come back again, we need you desparately, a bad dream in a cashier world, they want to give me everything they have, they're always asking for the manager, all fingers point my way, I dread as they approach, I'm just a manager, I cannot solve your problem, no I do not have solutions.

I am a balance maintenance equilibrium adjust, they must exchange the item, it's simply not the right size for the man, I sigh, the floor is ruins, pillars, mirrors crack and fall exposing pale yellowed paint in patches falling off, the racks are spinning round, the shirts spin to the floor, the dummies star infantasize, the piles of brand new clothes in heaps, their hollow eyes demand adjustment, now, they cry, my arm's been stuck like this for years, I cannot move, the dreadful state of frozen manakins, I pity them, I twist his arm, it comes off in my hand, the others freeze, they cannot flee, I don't approach, I back away, they totter on displays, they threaten to collapse and topple to the floor, the showroom is a mess, the overstock is on the warehouse floor, all things have fallen to the ground, I make a note of this, it doesn't matter whether in the stores or in the streets, all things have fallen to the ground, and nothing has been left aloft or standing upright in the air, they fall, and we are sitting on the ground, the wheelchair groans and sags, he hands me seven foreign coins and on the coins the faces of a royalty I've never seen, but I don't understand, he doesn't say a word, I shake my head, he rolls away, the light falls from his eyes and grubby feet, I see his crooked fingers clutching at the rims, his massive head is sunk into his chest, the overthrow of Pittsburgh, cars are overturned and burn. They win.

The rain is hot and steams, it melts, corrodes, and wipes away, obliterates the mist is poison gas that came down from the sky, we don't know how or why, we feel it burning on our sleeves, the rancid patches molting all our skins, the faces melt away and on each face a secret smile that blends into the clouds which beckon, join us, now it is your turn. Forgetting after all the nature of the crimes, the punishment remains, but no one has a heart, it's useless, politicians say, we bump into the wall and curse the stone, our noses bleed, we hold our heads aloft parading through the streets and no we are not proud, we hold our heads up high because our noses bleed. The girl spent all her money on her hair, and now she wants to eat. The beggars laugh at her, they say, and now it's come to that, there are no luxuries at all, yet in the absence of our needs, we are the priveledged ones for we have nothing left to lose. Everything we had has fallen to the ground, and soon the ashes will be all that we've produced.

I explain it to the beggar boy, he smiles and says, adjusting to the real is what is easy for us now, and what we want we stoop and fetch. Policemen roam the streets with clubs, another gang, the bankers cannot jump because the buildings have collapsed, they perch on shattered windowsills which lie upon the ground, and weep. The telephones are dead, the coded messages repeat, you've reached the end of the line, hang up, don't dial again, antennas useless on the ground, but no one wants to know what's bad enough. An old man passes by and shouts at me, you boy, what are you gaping at, you think it's some parade? I almost did, I almost do, I thought the pirates' costumes and the whole effect, I thought a movie, I thought a filming crew in copters up above, I thought a talk show or a seminar, a laboratory test, the scientists were somewhere in the sky, I thought, but no, all things have fallen to the ground and there is nothing up above except the clouds and faces in the clouds and red, a lot of red.

I fell into the street, I felt the night grow dark, I stood, the yellowed ashes flew, the toilet flushed, the morning paper in the dust, the acid rain removed my face, my name, my bones were green and petrified and glowed, the pirates shed their deaths and danced a quadrille on the square, they sang a ballad of the west, of cowboys riding into town and riding out, but always riding somewhere as another wind blew up, the plastic glass expanded, finally burst and and rained, we scattered quickly to escape the tinkling shards. I ran towards a staircase leading down, I lept into it, and I was in the underground, the muzak hummed, the lights were dim, and no one was around. I looked, astonished at the scene. I blinked, and everything was fine again and I was finally safe, and I was all alone, blue silence falling off the sparkling walls, the crackling neon, dead and grey, the smell of mildew and decay, my footprints only in the dust, I peered into the endless avenue ahead and saw no one at all. I called out and the voices multiplied, then died in stuffiness and leaden air, the heat, I let my shredded jacket fall, it fell, lay crumpled on the floor, I saw it all too slow, the speed of sound too slow, but only for a moment, and then the colors fade. I brushed my hair back and the sweat stuck to my hand, I felt my lungs fill up, my chest all swollen from the heat, the hollow empty walls, I tapped, the dull reply, I slowly moved ahead, I heard the scraping of my soles, my breath was loud, distinct, my heartbeat pounded in my breast, my pulse was racing but my movements were too slow and cautiously I stalked, the lack of shadows and the open doors beside me.

There were no lights in the stores, I saw the ruins and the shelves knocked to the floor, and it was clear that everything had fallen to the ground, and everything was gone, the stores were looted clean, and by now everyone but me knew there was nothing under here, there was nothing left at all. Some windows had been smashed, the trash was scattered all around, I passed by cautiously and slow, the empty jewelry store, the empty trinket shop, no gifts, no souvenirs, no nothing left at all, the stereo store was silent and the TV store was dark, the bookstore like a crypt, the curling yellow pages softly slept on tables overturned, the restaurants were starved, the clothing shops were nude, the offices were closed. I saw a ruin of a telephone, its wires poked through helpless in the wall, I felt the silence and the heat press down, the pale and yellow grey, the ashes of cigar shops, the liquor stores passed out were reeling from the absence of their stock. I wasn't sad, it didn't make me sad, and I did not react, I didn't think, but just walked on, expecting nothing and not even hoping for a hope, as if I had no stake in all of this, it wasn't my concern, I was a tourist from another town, I wondered how they lived like this, I even smiled and told myself Virginians must be strange., their caves and caverns filled with tourist shit but in their cities, nothing to buy at all. They build a massive rubble in the swamp and leave it hollow and deserted, and silence reigned, no monsters pounced, no actors fleeing through the halls, no film crews watching me, I thought, there's no one up above, I thought, we are not watched, because the viewers all got bored, incessant reruns, puny lives unfold, God changed the dial but we go on as if the current hadn't died, displaced by Vega Three, discovered by the scientists last year, who once again admitted that they don't know shit and never did, and they were only guessing all the time and whistling in the dark I walked along the empty corridors past empty shops on left and right, I felt amused and very calm like it was natural and right, the useless things have all been swept away, and all that's left is naked walls, dead neon signs, and toppled shelves, the broken glass, the tables overturned, the manakins are crushed and lying on the floor, they cannot bleed, they stare up at the leaks, the dust falls in their eyes, they cannot blink, a steady stream of dust, the sewer pipes that burst, the floor is underwater now, my shoes are wet, my legs are caked with crap, I think about disease, it doesn't seem to matter anymore, I think about a spoon that's caked with someone's filthy germs, I think about Marie, she must be dead by now, and up there in the clouds with all the faces smiling down and beckoning, Marie, I'll be there soon, don't fret, she always was a worrier, she used to wipe the toilet seat before she sat, she used to wait before she sat down on the bus until the seats cooled off from the heat of someone else's ass, she used to kiss me on the cheek and wipe away the lipstick with her sleeve, she used to wash the dishes twice, she must be dead by now, I saw her house collapse, she must be up there in the clouds.

I wanted to leave the stale and putrid air, the stink of sewer filth, the lack of light, the lack of anything at all, the underground that died but was already buried anyway, you couldn't find a thing, not even if you knew what you were looking for. I made it to the exit, and I ran up all the steps, emerging to the streets, the roar enveloped me once more, the stamping of the roaming crowds, the fall of houses, crackling of wires, the red of social fire, the moon now high, still red and bloated in the sky, the stars were gone, the clouds were gone, the pirates swarmed, the hissing blues, the sparking sticks, the cars were all on fire and all I saw was red or blue and blazing, but the air was cold, the wind was cold, the rain was melting all the stones, big holes had opened in the streets, and children jumping in the holes were swallowed, all the pipes, the bricks, the fragments of the pavement and the shattered plexiglass, a whirring up above, the copters watching down, the pirates screamed but there was nothing there.

I saw the subway-surface in between like bridges sandwiched sliced, the brakes were jammed, the driver pinned behind the wheel, his forehead cracked the glass, blood trickling down the instrument display, the endless sway, the matchbook at my feet, the wet tips wilt, the cardboard soaked and bent, I light a cigarette that fizzles in the rain, the acid smoke of failure sizzling with distress, the gypsy woman calls my name, the ashes are ascending, see them rise, the ashes of the saints-to-be, the saints-who-never-had-a-prayer, magicians with no magic words draw circles in the mud in vain, and after all the benefits of death insure us of no pain, no one to grieve when all are dead, it isn't sad when no one's left to mourn, it makes it easier they say that death is only for the living anyway, the child upon the ledge, his bandage bleeds, his nose curled in a snarl, the wild mass of matted hair he curls upon the ledge, he squints, the ledge about to fall and to the rescue no one comes, he is finally on his own, he falls, all enemies together now and no one left to blame, we only know the sky is flames, the burning rain, the emptiness of doing anything at all, the absence of desire, the heart, the mind are calm and we are shells beneath the trembling waves uncovered by the sand to crawl and see, to crawl on two feet standing in the middle of the street, the one named after he who burned it down two hundred years before, but still this city loves to burn, a history of red, they starved all winter long, and in the summer came malaria and every year new corpses from the old world came to take their place, they tried and tried, succeeded for a time with corn, tobacco, shops and slaves and later architects and banks, but in the end it burns, this city made for fire and red, appease the gods of heat, the gods of senseless light, they call them many names, they come by any one and bring the torches, burn it down, the gods reside in fissures underground, they yawn, the structures tumble and collapse, they stretch, the gorges open and the city falls apart, the vermin crawl and fire eats the air, the fire that eats the wind, it comes and has no name, it scatters all the trash like dogs, the heat it social dies, the dust it foreign screams, the people shout it doesn't hear, they sacrifice it doesn't care, they sing and call on other gods, who wouldn't dare, but water falls as fire, the sand is hot as steam, the air explodes, the gods of flame, it comes and doesn't go, the wind, the clouds, the boiling sun, but then the day will never come, I feel myself deflate, my lungs lose all their strength, I cannot breathe but now there is no need, we're captives of the wind, it pours into my chest, the absence of desire, the end of knowing less.

I feel like a machine, or no, a toy, it plays with us, this blowhard god, the wind, we bleed more blood than there was in our veins, we shed more tears and do not drink the steam against the wall, the pirates have no will, they dance around the square, they laugh hysterical, the ceaseless sway, impossibility of sleep, they laugh and cannot stop, we are posessed by nothing, nobody at all, and we are finally free, it does us good, a prisoner pardoned at the end, my thoughts are not my own, the words pour through my head responding to the stimulus, a toy that's uncontrolled, a devil doll that stalks the nursery night, I stalk the dying streets, I know it is my fate to crawl and see the absence of our needs. I don't want anything at all. I don't want anything to buy. There are some gods who cannot be appeased, who will accept no sacrifice, no gift, they ask for more than we can give, for we are not enough, we never were. The total of our value is a sum of negative results, a wishful thought, a waste of time, a harmless joke, a beggar in his dreams, I laugh hysterical and think of all the things the ashes used to be, now rising to the clouds, the semblances of order, the appearance of necessity, the logical insanity, I used to want but only in the presence of my needs, the luxury desire, but now a Q tip is a sin, a matchbook's a disgrace, a bandaid is a crime, I shed my jacket like the burden of morality, the tons of mass conformity, the narrow tomb of custom suffocating good and bad alike, we smile and kill what was sincere, we cannot be the animals, we are the vermin, crawl, but do not conquer Earth, because they owned it all the time.

Just me me hate. I thought, at least let that be real, and yet the falseness of my words, each one alone, I want to stop, I can't say anything at all, it makes me sick, I cannot stop, I have to crawl and see, the pressure moves me on, compulsive need to watch the dead and dying die, I see a pirate fall, the dancing doesn't stop, they do the corpse waltz brothers, do the death dance on and on, and all the pigeons hover, flap their wings, they coo my name, the one called Andre asks me for a light, I say I'm sorry, I don't smoke, he huffs away and thinks, but soon you will you piece of shit, I turn my back, inspect the rack of slacks and Josie wants to know if she can go to lunch, I send her off, this ancient man cannot decide between a blue shirt and a green, I watch him fret, and such a life to be reduced to such a choice, and shopping is a crime, evasion, an escape, it covers up the real, we must appease the gods we know as moods, we buy instead of sacrifice, it's long since our religion and the merchants are the priests, I am a preacher and my altar filled with cash, we ring up sales instead of playing the pipes, and the money is the same, they give and we give unto them, they leave the store refreshed, they came in heavy, burdened with desire, the litany goes on and on, I'm looking for a suit, yes sir, what color would you like, yes sir, I'm sure that we can help you, sir, that's what I'm here for, you, yes sir, and your profession sir is sir? and I'd suggest the dark one sir, a serious profession sir indeed, conservative attire preferred, something like this perhaps, yes sir, this one should do, oh, can I try it on? yes sir, the dressing room is over there sir, oh please,sir, not at all, sir, I insist, yes sir.

It's like a psalm, you know I can't control myself, I do not like this man, I don't know why, I think that you, sir, are a wicked man and let your days be few, sir, very few, and let another take your job, sir, yet another take your wife, and you would be condemned, sir, yes, sir, you, to life in all its glorious desire, and let the executioner not miss, and let the stranger spoil your work, and the undeserving garner all acclaim, and yes, sir, it is in the Bible, you should know, sir, one oh nine, the psalms, and he's done not a thing to me and I'm a decent man, I catch myself and he returns, I tell him he looks good, he wants to dance, he smiles and asks me for a light, the red of social blood is on my hands, and I know not what I pray for everyday, and the stranger goes his way and let them all go on their way, I am a modest man, I think, these evil thoughts and yet they are the words of Lord Thy God psalm one oh nine, forever and forever.

Remember in your dream the menswear manager who said the church is on the second floor beyond the jewelry and the kitchenware upholstery ideas, the escalator doesn't move, a pregnant woman on it stands and stares, a skateboard clatters down the steps, the p.a. system calls my name, the prices doubled overniight, I think of afternoons of earth and peaches, death is on the seventh floor, that's right, sir, you can't miss it, even if you try, the steps descend I dreamt I climbed down all the way, there was a trap door on the bottom floor, I lifted it, there was a well beneath, a rope, I didn't dare descend, I turned around and came back up and everything had changed and I was lost. I opened up a door marked do not knock, and inside was a carpet and a man, the carpet fluttered at the seams, the man knelt on his knees, a voice said, don't be stupid, go away, I woke up in a sweat and I remember dreams I don't recall, I think it's odd because this is a dream, I think how odd to dream of other dreams, I want my fortune told, I want to have a child, I want my name in lights, I want to go to sleep, I want to buy an ice cream cone and let it melt down all the way, I want the sticky ice cream on my hands, I want to write a note that says stay home, don't go outside, don't go downtown, because you just don't know the danger, just don't understand, I see it all the time, I see it every day, the customer anxiety, consumer breakdown every day, and yes, they have to make a purchase, sir, and anything will do, their money burns their hands, their credit card expires at noon, and it's the only chance you have, imagine, if you had one day, just one, in which to make all of the decisions in your life, each one, and you would have to say yes to everything, you'd go home with the boxes piling high, but that is all, and every other day would be one in the absence of desire, they need need need, they want want want, but the system died, the inventory's all we have we can't get anymore, the lights are out, the buildings have collapsed, the trucks have all run out of gas, the factories are closed, the workers are on strike, the owners have gone broke, the computers are unplugged, the trains are off the tracks, the telephones are down, the pirates roam the streets, and everything's been sold and now there isn't anything to buy, there's nothing you can do, you listen to the news but they don't know, you read the paper and it says goodbye, you're on your own, the world in flames, the red and blue of fizzling stars and stripes.

I roam through department stores and all the people stop, they're frozen in their steps, the dummies come alive and walk around inspecting pirates and their rags, they laugh and say that one looks dumb, and this one looks ridiculous, the dummies circle all around and gape at me, my bleeding arm, my swollen leg, my filthy face, the sweat upon my eyes and they are polished, clean and smooth-skinned, hairless, and they say it's our turn now, we are the ones to come. I pity them, I say goodbye, good luck, you're on your own, I walk away, the pirates melt, the puddles on the floor, the baggy suits collapse and fall, the pants around the shoes, the watches fall and break on plastic tile, outside the window dummies shatter glass, ecaping from the cages, running happy in the streets, they laugh hysterical, the hot rain doesn't bother them, the sewage they can't smell, they are the heirs, the only ones, and dressed casually in back to school attire as well, the young ones occupy arcades, the older ones head for the bars, the women to the florists pick out pretty plastic flowers and pin them to their wigs, the pirates throwing bricks, the dummies do not hide, ar arm falls off, it stops and screws it on again and laughs, the pirates run away this time.

I count the plastic spoons, I set the store on fire, I watched the kindled flames, the suits go up, I realize that I am henceforth unemployed, it seems absurd, so I pull down my pants and pissing on the flames I think of all the papers I have known, the little ones, the bigger ones, the white and yellow ones, the numbered ones, the ones with staples through their sides, the others merely joined by paper clips, important papers and the meaningless tiny scraps, the typed ones and the scribbled ones, the old ones on the floor, the folded and the flattened ones, the ones I wrote, the others that I read, all ashes now ascending to the clouds and I run out of piss, the floor falls in and I fall in and land on Calvin's desk, I pull my pants back up, I start to move, the pirates come alive again, the moment of their frozen stop is done, we have a common enemy at last, now maybe something can be done, we've found the ones to blame it on, the manakins who want to take it all away from us, I run to where the pirates go, back out to the searing rain, the piercing wind, the rumbling in the clouds, the sparking wire, the windows burst, the streets are filled with glass, we stare at one another wondering, what can you do for me? Are you a dummie in disguise, a dreaded manakin? and could I please consume your flesh?

A tangible disgrace, you hold it in your hand, a shattered masterpiece, the work of generations, bricks and wire and pride in their achievments, who created fire, the first invention and the last, they say the manakins have come to life, they're strolling down the street, not arm in arm but side by side, they smile, they tilt their heads, the pirates hate, they pick up stones and throw them at the dummies and the war is on, the final battlefield, and men will only kill the things they do not understand, the manakins however do not understand a thing, they do not hate, they only pity us, knowing we're a race about to finish, and they will miss us when we're gone, we weren't so bad, well, just a bit insensitive perhaps, we never knew that plastic things have feelings too, that even dummies have to have their exersize, they stroll along and think so this is what the human world is like, you'd never know it from inside the store, and now they understand why we go shopping all the time because after all the streets are quite a mess, the walls on fire, the sky all falling down, the buildings all collapsed and so there's nowhere else to go but shopping at the store, they nod, they smile, they always smile, the pirates yell at them, they have new insults all prepared, hey emptyhead, hey fossil dung, hey plastic ass, hey nothing face, hey cueball you, now plastic is the dirty word, the worst thing you can say, I smile to think how proud we were to have them on display and look at them and laugh at them, but now the table's turned, they laugh at us and have no fear at all, they have no shame, a rock knocks off an arm it picks it up and screws it on again and smiles, and most of them are white and most of them are WASPs and most of them are dressed quite well in all the latest fashions, even furs.

Where are the hungry manakins? Where are the poor ones and the sad ones, but there aren't any like that at all, we've given them the best of everything, we made them in our exalted image, the rich white anglomen, are truly now the master race, it's come to this, they have blue eyes, they all have handsome fingernails, they're smiling all the time, they live the best of lives, and we are pirates in the street, mere scavengers and bums, we watch the sunset of our day and crawl and see the heirs of what we have destroyed, the pirates scream and hunt down manakins who don't resist, they smash their heads in, scatter all their limbs in rage, they smash and kill the stupid harmless manakins, but cannot eat their flesh, the hunting only makes us even hungrier but all the food is gone in flames like every other thing, there's nothing left, we starve, the acid rain still smoldering our skin, some rummage through the sewage pipes for food, some drink the rain and shriek with tongues aflame, some don't do anything at all.

I learned it from the beggar boy, to wait it out, hold on as long as possible, don't waste your strength, don't fight, don't waste your breath, don't talk, don't waste your energy, don't move, just crawl up on a ledge and wait, but I cannot keep still, it is my fate to crawl and see, I walk past where there used to be a library and the fire in there still burns the wisdom of the ages up in smoke, I think, why not, I think, I'm glad I lived to see it, all our vanity in flames, our pride in red, our social tangible disgrace, still someone blames the moon and others blame the ones above, they say they're all aligned against us now, conspiracy in space, alliance of the stars, and others say it was the nukes but no one really knows what happened, only that it did, and here we are, it's only hours since the real world was real, and we are pirates, scavengers and bums, already we are vermin, once again we came so far so fast and now we're back again, I smile, I think, why not, I think, I'm glad, I never really liked us anyway, this self-centered pompous ego-ridden race of wasters, morons, bozos, talk so big and act so small, there's nothing left that isn't almost gone.

I think, monstrosity of flesh and bone, I think, an aberration of the faith, the ones who talked of God now crawl and see, just crawl and see, it isn't very much, but now I think of Love and Light and wonder what they mean, I knew love once I thought, Marie, but I was wrong, it was more like playing a trick on myself, like it's my turn and now it's yours to cry, I didn't know the rules, she didn't know the game, I tallied up the score, it didn't balance out, it ended sort of in a dream, but not like this, it disappeared a little at a time, a smile that vanished quietly, a touch no longer felt, I find myself surrounded by a group of manakins.

His crusty lips like spilled decaying wine, the drooping eyelid, missing ear, bent at the knees like shotput stance, he stands, he looks me in the eye, a question on those crusty lips, his friends around him quiet, patiently detached, it's his affair, not theirs, they seem to think he wants to ask a question and it comes out not in words but head to head, he asks me what the hell we've done, I say that I don't know, but then I never did, it's always been a game to me, I say, he doesn't understand, the woman says, then you are what they call a loser, I say yes, I always was, I never had a chance, I've lost at every turn, I realize it's true, I changed the rules to my own favor, yet still I never won, I just stopped playing, and she pities me but I say, everyone's a loser now so ha ha ha, and he says, so you're happy, I say yes, it serves us right, he doesn't understand. I'm not afraid of you, I say, and you can have it all, but they don't want it anymore, they thought it would be different, they want it back the way it was, and wish that they could cry, I show them what I've done, the body of the beggar boy now curled up on the ledge, the inner otherness, I say, it wasn't me but something else inside my skin, I had to let it out.

They have no skin, no eyes, no teeth, they cannot talk, they walk away, disgust is in their heads, returning to the underground to hide, there's nothing there for them, the pirates follow, flinging bricks and words and hate, the helicopter overhead, the film crew from Japan, the motorcycle race is next we'll be right back so have yourself a nice cold one right now, I want to lick your balls, she says in posing, buy this item now, the syndicated news was made up overnight by small news elves in Washington D.C., they live in plastic trees and call my name, the sum of antidotes, the mood of passing shops, the humor of a meal alone, unthinkable to turn it off or never turn it on at all, I went in every day at nine and left at five, at one to two was lunch, I ate it in the phony park, I didn't waste a breath, I did it every day for years, I loved and hated it for there was nowhere else to go, I lived and breathed that store, the little dummy girl sits by my side and listens to my voice, she stayed behind, her name is Plastikate, remember me? she asks, I used to stand across the aisle in women's silken scarves, I wore a new one every week, I have no legs beneath my knees, no arms, they weren't necessary since I was only made for scarves, I stood there day and night, I used to watch you sell to customers, I fell in love with you because you moved so steadily, you were always in control, you didn't display emotion or impatience ever, always in control, you knew exactly what you did and why, as if you'd planned it out before.

I did, I say, I planned it every night before I went to bed, I don't like anything to happen unless I know what it will be. I adored you everyday, she says, don't leave me here alone, but can you walk? I ask and she says, yes, upon my knees, she says, let's go and crawl and see, the game is finally interesting, a matter of survival now, and who will be alive when morning comes, although, she says, I cannot die. I guess we have to pity one another, I reply, but the pirates do not like you, they will try to hurt you, I explain it all to her, then let them I don't care, she says, I just don't want to go back there, I hate the scarves, I hate the stores, I never want to see another one, you won't, I promise her, you won't.

Magnets tearing at her flesh, she rises to the middle of my thigh, this little doll, this unit of display, this awkward creature staggering on her knees, her rounded armless shoulders sway, her chin is tilted to the side, she's looking down, forever modelling the scarves she loathes, the muzak ringing in her ears, the scam she pours on customers, they notice her, they look away indifferently, she's not alive but even not alive, to have no arms and legs no tongue, you wonder what she thinks about, she tells me now you wouldn't want to know, the nastiness, the stupid things, the other manakins, the silent games they play, the dummy hopes and dummy dreams, they count the ankles on the feet, they count the earlobes on the heads, so bored they count the fingernails, the lips, they dream about white dollar days, they tell each other dirty linen tales, they never move or flinch, they're frozen in the loneliness, the frozen smiles, the bleak impassive eyes, she wants to crawl and see with me, she clumps beside me step by step, the pirates jeer and laugh, they yell, she doesn't understand, I tell her to ignore them since they lost their memory of when the real was real and dream a dream, their circuits all shut down, a power failure overnight, the pirates lost their souls to acid rain, it melted them away, I saw the residue ooze down the drain, the carbon souls, the methane souls, the asphalt clover leaves, the bloody moon, the falling stars all melting in the pirates' hearts which drop by drop in puddles on the street, they jump around, blood splashing, splattering, and Plastikate is terrified, she'd cling to me if she had arms, she hides behind my shins, I stride on undeterred, the pirates do not frighten me, I know that they are weak, their energy is draining out, the hours winding down, we stride along, we aren't going anywhere at all, there's nowhere left to go, the rodents sqweak and call my name, the stars above are watching me, the knife is in my hand, the beggar boy is dead, the manakins at court accuse, I don't defend myself, it doesn't matter anymore, they line up on the broken escalator, each one taller than the one below, they smile their frozen smiles, they pose, they advertise, I didn't kill him, I just watched him die while something in me did the deed.

They don't believe my tale, they say, and where were you on friday night, last night, where have you been tonight and I was with Marie, we went down by the James and had some drinks, I wheeled her home, I went to bed, forgot to write myself a note, my God, the note, I didn't leave a note, oh damn it all, oh what the hell am I going to do when I wake up, I just don't know, I don't know what tomorrow is. I've already forgotten what I planned. How could I do this to myself? How could I fal to leave a note? I'll die. I don't know what I'm going to do. I can't believe, I don't believe, oh shit, oh no, the manakins are laughing now, I fix the escalator mentally, they tumble down and fall in one big heap, who's laughing now and Plastikate is by my side, she says, it doesn't matter anyway, and I, it doesn't matter that it doesn't matter, so why not, what the hell, a change, but no, disaster is a change, it won't be good, I don't know what to do, and she says, bring the beggar boy to life, you can do anything at all, the universe is rigidly determined except for every moment, when there is no law at all, but bring him back to life, I say I can't because he knows my name, the pirates killed him anyway, I only watched him die, the flooded floor, the dummies float away, the flowers drowning in the plant department, serves them right, it's water you want so it's water you get you stupid plants, but much too much of anything, too many roses in the vase, a wheel is spinning slowly on the wall, the flag at half mast wondering who died what for, the gentle lonely afternoons, the magnets pulling us apart, the social escalation of the moon, monotony, the overpriced desserts, the papers I have known, I smile, the store is going to drown, it can't sink any lower underground, and I the captain going down and I the rats abandoning the I the soldiers watching people die and I the warning trumpet blast, the ant despairing on the wall, I chase it with my fingernail, the screws are falling out, the cars are slowing down, we're losing power now, the engines grunt and moan.

I saw an empty stadium, I saw a darkened room, I saw a fourteen story building fall as if it was a toy, I saw the windows popping out, the glass in splinters on the street, I saw the street crack open wide, I saw the young girls flirting in the mirror at themselves, I saw the lipstick woman polishing their mouths, I saw accountants lost in shreds, I saw, I heard the red of social fire burn, the roof collapsed, the pirates dancing madly in the park, the manakins all came to life, awoke and walked around, they ran into the streets where pirates waited, hated them, the dummies fled and driven into hiding in this sham disgrace, this broken toy, this world that now has ceased to be. I had to scream at all the pirates, give it up, you see it's given up on you, why dance, why close your eyes, why laugh, it makes no sense to laugh or cry or get upset or anything, we came from out of nowhere and into nowhere we return, we're going home, the pirates didn't hear or hearing didn't care, archaic rituals emerged from down below, and weaving patterns in the dance they shouted words they didn't know, in languages they never learned, they sang and threw off all their rags, and they turned cartwheels in the rain, the solar flares, they called on every god who ever was made up by stupid us, they called on Jupiter, they prayed for sin, damnation please, don't stick us in the clouds, we want to go down there as far as we can go, malrah keresh masi nasolan ni kede fortas nasi manolan ki nese spata ki nese ree cee la dara porti nes runin malrah keresh ni nese kin of demons hear my plea, don't rescue me, I want to die and burn, it's punishment I crave, I want to burn in everlasting flame, I want hot gasoline ignited on my flesh, I want the torches at my feet, I want the tar pit, drown in tar, I want my face to burn away, I want to feel the everlasting pain, we want to die. Oh Lord, please let us die our children not be born, no children after that, you promised that you would if we were bad and oh, we've tried so hard, they scream, they sing, they pound the pavement with their fists, the paltry echo of our paltry efforts have no resonance at all, the laughter of the moon, the hissing of the stars, the planets watching us with scorn, you puny pirates clad in rags, you punk humanakins, we hate you, always did, but now the nine degrees of Scorpio bring the best to pass, habitual absurdity, believing what you think, and thinking you believe.

There was a sale on vests and no one came, it was ridiculous, it seemed that no one wanted vests that week, not even two for one, we couldn't sell them, couldn't send them back, I almost lost my job because the stupid ugly vests, but luckily they blamed it on the marketeers, not me, I saved my ass, but I was cowardly, I didn't raise my voice or speak my mind, I let them yell at me, and it was not my fault, I had them on display, I did my very best, I said, it's not my fault that no one wanted vests that week, and they said, Cosine, listen up, you just don't understand, you have to make them want them anyway. Then blame it on the marketeers, I said, they did, I saved my ass, but I was mad and I went out and drank a lot and then regrettably I wound up having fun despite myself because the alcohol, it wanted to, and everyone was right, they'd been all right all along, and only I was wrong, I hated it, but I admitted my mistake, remember, at the bar with Josie, Calvin and Marie? I got drunk, I stood up and I yelled, I want to burn in hell, I want to burn forever, and everybody said all right, they said you said it, man, I realized that all along I didn't understand that people go to church because they want to burn, because their lives are dry, because they hate the good, because they're bored with heaven and the saints, the emptiness is upside-down, the nothing that's inside must be appeased, must be announced and recognized, we find it and we run away, and then we cling to it, hold on to nothingness, hold on to emptiness, disgrace us in the void and keep us there because that's where we all belong, we want to burn in hell, we want damnation, the ingratitude of God, you made us, asshole, don't blame anything on us, we didn't ask for this, but now we're asking now, we make demands, we want to burn in hell.

I said all that when drunk, the pirates cheered, they whistled, stomped their feet, the women waved their hair, I saw more coming from all sides, from every alleyway the pirates swarmed, instead of dozens there were hundreds now, and every one familiar, with a certain similarity, a brand, an attitude, a look, I see they lean on one leg slanting, jutting hips out, and the hand upon their waists, their faces pouting, such a cute expression, babylike, and they're winking and they're puckering their lips but not at me, but not at anyone. In general, pirates pose like TV girls, they wiggle when they walk, the women jiggle when they move and now a pirate has a kind of fit, he's like a newsman on TV, his expressions changing rapidly, he bobs his head, he looks askance, now serious, now in jest, now eyebrows raised, and now a look just like compassionate concern, what's this, a you-can-trust-me look, he's babbling, the pirates stand and watch but after thirty seconds he is still, and another takes up where he left off, she's like a sitcom, yes, she talks and laughs and talks and pouts and smiles and coy and devious suspicious laughs behind somebody's back, another pirate kicks the tires, another pirate pulls a gun and shoots his rival dead, the pirates gather round, they sit down in a circle, there are hundreds now, they stand up one by one and do their bit, then sit, it's like a unitarian TV and everyone has got some part to play, it's entertaining, I forget the scalding rain, the angry moon, the rumblings of the buildings yet to fall, the sewage littering the streets, the sizzling wires, the red, the fire, I crawl and see, and Plastikate is by my side, we see a pirate claiming that special times require a special brew, a pirate is a doctor is a lawyer is a shrink a tennis pro a football star a daytime soap celebrity, a pirate is a lemon scent detergent dog food deoderant supressant analgesic laxative skin sensitizer hemmerrhoid bad breath and body odor night repair shampoo nail polish ice cream shadow skin tooth whitener athlete's foot vacation in the blue jean shoes and leather goods and YOU COULD BE A WINNER someone shrieks and sobs, some disagree, BUY NOW AND GET ONE FREE another yells, but no, BUY NOW AND SAVE, she says I understand that this is who we are, we are the fossils now, all that remains, we look and act and talk and move like everyone that used to be a dream, the pirates go around now jumping up, announcing their identity, proclaiming their allegiance to one or another product personality performance, and I want to laugh, I want to take my place, jump up and shout, but look at me, a name brand suit, I am the quality you expect, I am more value than you get, I am the dignified professional, the manly man, the one whom women turn their heads and gape like guppies, swallowing the moon, I have the cut, the style, the fit, the price is right, the look that can't be beat, I strut, I shout, the pirates don't applaud, the next one has his turn and I go back to Plastikate who says that I was good, I smile, this ragged group, this filthy bunch of almost animals, again we do our best to totally regress until the end, it's what the gods expect.

We have a million years to go through, back to the beginning when they say we lived in trees (what trees?), we hunted game (what game?) we washed in streams (disgusting), and we breathed the open air, but now it's closed, we dressed in skins, we barely have our own, we fashioned tools, they're broken, melted down, and we can't get back, we waited far too long, the road is closed behind, the cliff is straight ahead, we rush along, and who can stop us now, we have no enemies, no friends, we are alone, we threw it all away, the trash heap of our history, the cumulative disgrace, the smelly rot of smelly deeds, the shame, the stink of man, the pirates laugh and sing, they dance, now everyone's a star, in groups of threes they leave, and run towards the river, in the river, don't come out, but go on laughing, singing, smiling, dancing into death.

We want to burn in hell, we do, we meant it all along, the priest has found the words, he stands up on the rocks and shouts, let there be none to extend mercy unto them, neither let there be any to favour his fatherless children, let his posterity be cut off, and in the generation following let their name be blotted out, and let them be before the Lord continually, that he may cut off memory of them from the earth, and as he clothed himself with cursing like as with his garment, so let it come into his bowels like water and like oil into his bones, but do thou for me God the Lord for thy name's sake, for I am poor and needy and my heart is wounded within me, I am gone like a shadow, I am tossed up and down as the lowest, but the priest's words failed to echo or be heard, the word of God fell helpless to the ground, he sobbed and wept, the Lord will not forgive thee, and I answered him again, we want to burn in hell, why else would we invent an angry god, a jealous god, a cruel and nasty god, we want to die like Jesus, painfully, we want to be maligned and tortured and disgraced, we want to be insulted, criticized and hated by the ones that we despise, the strangers have no claims on me, you strangers all are none of my concern, the priest has fallen off the wall, his collar stuck, the rats surround him, run away, the rats and manakins can bide their time, they are the generation that will follow us that will not know our name, but what is life unto the dead, and what are its creations, and every death is just the end of someone's universe, so why lament the death of all of us at once, it's only right, I say these things to Plastikate, and suddenly I see her, she whom I once loved or thought I did, she is a pirate now, her golden hair is streaked with grey, her ruddy cheeks have swelled, her eyes are still the same, they look at me, she calls my name, I go to her, she says, I've been promoted now I'll be moving to Kentucky, the indifference in her eyes, she knows my name but that is all, she doesn't really know me anymore, I don't know her, she walks away, I watch her go, I know I'll never see that face again, but I don't care, I only want to scream, to let the rest fall off as if I were a building and I want my eyes to pop and shatter in the street, I want my knees to tremble and collapse, I want my stomach to back up and overflow, I want my veins to burst and hiss, I want my brain to die like telephones, I want my feet to crack like streets, and let me fall into the deep, I want my head to swell red like the moon, my thoughts to sizzle like the stars, fade out, I want my belly to explode, my fingernails to cut and stab like knives, I want my spit to be like fire, to be like acid rain, I want to burn in hell, to be hell, to be burning now, but most of all I want all this to stop, I want to crawl away and not see anymore, I want to go back home and be in bed asleep, but without dreams, I want to snore and toss and turn, I want the blankets over me, the pillow on my head, I want a darkened bedroom all alone and nothing else is happening but this is where I am, I can't control, I can't say stop, and so it goes relentlessly, the owl returns, the scavenging mosquitos, and again the vaguely threatening sound of copters overhead.

Someone is watching me, I feel it in my bones, I feel exposed, ridiculous, I feel like such a fool, I walk around, I don't see anything, I want the absence of my needs, I don't know what to do, and it's that emptiness again, the chill of nothing there, I stop and look around, the sight is meaningless, it's only fire and filth and ruin, the pirates dancing, running off, the manakins in shadows wait, I feel a chill, the burning rain, the clouds are looking down and watching me, I want to shout at them, okay, so I'm absurd, so what, it doesn't matter anyway, and Plastikate suggests it doesn't matter that it doesn't matter, but it isn't comforting at all, she says it sets you free, but I don't see the use, I don't want freedom now or anytime, I only want to feel secure.

We walked and found ourselves on unfamiliar streets, the noise had died, the moon was yellow here and high above the wispy clouds, the streets were wide and free of brick and glass, the silence was astounding, eery stillness, motionless facades, the houses whole and lights all off, the cars parked by the curb, normality, suburbia, no people anywhere, you never have a neighbor or a friend but everybody knows about you, can't go anywhere at all unless they see, and yet there's nowhere you could go in any case, you might as well stay home, keep lights off, TV on, yourself not watching, body sitting, mind in many pieces scattered, through this place we crept, afraid to make a sound and gliding through the unknown streets, if she had arms she would be clinging to me now, but she kept by my side, we walk through one street and the next, there are no pirates anywhere, no noise, no falling anything, and now I'm really scared, there's nothing wrong, she says all that was bad enough but this is death itself, I say, of course, perfection reeks of death, it is disease, superlatives are only reached at death, the best, the most, the perfect, all the single family units and the double car garage, blue neon from the sets, and corpses guzzling desire in easy chairs, we want to have it all, we can, but only at a cost, we never feel, we're merely entertained, we never think, we only play the games, I tell her there is only one important thing, it is the preservation of the lie, that you and I are you and I, the rest is just a sham, the ego and the heart, pride, love and dread and fights and broken hearts and war and love again, you see, we skim along the surface, names we never know, the nameless deep, I lecture tediously, we creep along, I know I'm wrong, the preservation of the lie is nothing either after all, and all that is that is that is, it goes no farther than it is, but suddenly we round a bend, an edifice appears, a gleaming white smooth marble thing, surrounded by the ball lamps yellow on their poles, the windows letting out the light, smooth glistening front, wide doors inviting entry, we approach, it is the only light, it makes the darkness disappear, and katie whispers no, we shouldn't go in there, I say why not, it's open all the time, and she says that it's wrong somehow, I don't know what I mean, it just seems wrong, let's go away, please turn around, if she had arms she would be tugging at me now, she says, let's go back to the place where pirates sing and dance, where sewers overflow, where rats crawl out to see, or anywhere but there, we must not go, it's wrong, I know, I feel it, but I laugh, come one, you'd speak of evil in connection with department stores? I know this place, they have a lot of stuff, and maybe we'll find something nice to buy, let's take a look in any case, and she says no again, please don't do this, she pleads, but I say, well, I'm going in, but you don't have to come with me, it's up to you, it's all the same to me, and she says, Francis, look, the parking lot is empty, no one's going in or out. Don't you see the signs?

I see the one that says it's open all the time, it's just that no one else is shopping now, coincidence, it's night, it's not unusual, it's slow, that's all, come on, I'm going in, I move ahead, I near the door, I hear no sounds within, the lights are very bright, I blink my eyes, adjust, she tags along, but fearfully and shivering, she's only been alive an hour and already she's afraid, we go inside and instantly I know that she was right, a panic in my throat, I turn around, there is no door, the salesman grins his wicked grin, and he says, welcome to our store, please take your time and look around, we have a special on right now, I hope you brought your credit card, I try to smile, I thank him, walk away, but no he follows me, he won't leave me alone, he asks me how I've been, I tell him fine, he asks me what's my sign and I say Cancer, he says, oh, that's very interesting, he steps between my Plastikate and me, he steers me towards the jewelry nook, I ask him, why are you following me around and he says it's store policy, I shouldn't take it personally, the company will not allow its customers to wander idly unattended, it's against the rules, their motto is that total customer service is the ultimate weapon, here no one is all alone, no one can feel left out, he says he's not a salesman, he's what they call a professional friend, he likes his job, it's fun, he asks me what I do, I tell him, she says, oh, that's very nice, we're almost brothers then, but I don't like his yellow teeth, his nasty breath, his bleary eyes, his hair all greasy black and combed straight back, he walks hunched over like a monkey, swinging arms, his chin is thin and sharp, his nose is curled into a sneer, he asks me what I'm shopping for, I say I'm only browsing, and he laughs, he says, you don't know what you want, so how do you expect to find it, and I say, I don't know, I say that something might appeal to me, he laughs again, you're at the mercy of the moment, you're an agent of the void, well come on and let me show you what we have, I try to walk the other way, he grabs my arm, he pulls me toward him, look at these, he says, I look astonished at a jewelry case that's filled with earlobes all lined up, and he says, every kind of ear is here, do you see one that you like, I say I like my own, he shrugs, he says most people don't, they want to change their ears, it's very popular nowadays, especially with the ladies and the queers, I say I'm not a queer, he laughs and says, of course you are, don't lie to me, you fool the others all the time, but I know who you are, Cosine, he asks me when's the last time you got laid, I say, it's none of your damn business and he laughs again, come on, he says, we have a lot of other things for you, but I don't want to look.

I see the store and know what kind of place it is, where they sell fingers, not gold rings, and hands not gloves in piles in the bins, they have eyes revolving in the plastic covered spinning racks, and eyeballs lined up on the walls, and there are lashes all in rows, I want to leave, he leads me all around, come on, he says, and look at these, he shows me arms on tables, legs in cubbyholes all folded up, he says that he has every size, from small to extra large, from thin to ultra fat, and you should see our hips, he says, he leads me all around the women's store with packages of tits and cunts sheer beauty every shape he says, do you like 'em small or big, and I say, I don't care, I like the person not the tits, he says come on, we have a cunt for you, what flavor do you like, he laughs, and now I see the store is filled with shoppers, and some of them like me are led along by 'friends', some come in groups that aren't allowed to separate, we don't allow the shoppers to be lonely, each one must be accompanied by someone.

He asks me if I've ever killed a man, he asks me if I've had a checkup recently, he makes small talk, he asks me stupid questions and he won't leave me alone, and every now and then he shrieks, oh look, oh isn't that adorable, that's just the thing for Jack, don't you agree, I don't, I don't know Jack, I don't know what he likes in men's innerware these days, their torsos hanging on the racks in every shade from african to wasp and every color in between, will you look at the hair on that chest, he whines, will you take a look at those muscles, squeezing them, come on, you too, but I resist, I look around, I see the salesmen standing at their counters brandishing machetes, threatening daring, if you can go on and ask me something stupid, a sign above them says, please do not talk to clerks, please never ask them anything, we cannot be responsible for the actions of our employees, big signs warning DANGEROUS KEEP OUT above the cash register stations, I ask, what kind of place is this, he says, I ask the questions here, you're just a shopper, don't you know your place, next time I'll have to punish you, and I see endless lines of people waiting to make purchases, loaded down with rumps and skins and heads of hair, with fingers, ears and legs, you see, my friend intones, they do not like the ones they have, they're always out to change them or at least to cover them up, it's normal, no one likes his self, he covets other selves, he wants not just to be like them but be them totally, he goes and buys another's look, his own appearance never satisfies, the shoppers wait in line, but no one helps them and I know they've waited there for hours and the line will never move, they cannot leave or else they'll lose their place, and they are patient like the rats, frozen in their feet.

Eternity condemns them to this place, they'll wait in line until the universe explodes and then some billion years from now they'll wait again, in a brand new universe, they'll wait, the shoppers led around and most are looking at the things and thinking of their credit line, the menacing cashiers, such evil grins, arms folded, their machetes dangling from their belts, not belts but waists, we have a sale on them right now, he says, buy one and get one free, but what could I possibly do with two more waists, I already have my own, he laughs, but yours is never good enough, it's probably too wide, most people think so anyway, you must be weird, we pass the feet department, big feet, small feet, boot feet, high-heeled feet, the latest innovation so I'm told, and we have running feet and walking feet and working feet and leisure feet, cold weather feet and beach feet, water resistant, fireproof feet, yes, every kind of foot is here, so what kind would you like, I say I like my own feet and he frowns before he smiles and says, I don't know why you're shopping, then, since you seem to have no wants, I say I don't know either, maybe I should leave, and he says, no, that wouldn't do, you must be shopping for a reason and we'll find out what it is, we'll just keep looking, you don't want to go home all alone with nothing do you, I don't know, I want to shop, I have an urge, but now the manakins are jeering, pointing at the shoppers, and shouting, look at that one, what a stupid face, he don't look real at all, and look at how she's standing, I'll bet she's very uncomfortable like that, they yell at me, hey asshole, where'd you get that ugly suit?

They laugh, I look away, the dummies jeer, the store is in an uproar now, the voices of the manakins, incessant babbling of the friends, and now I hear the raucous jarring muzak blaring from the walls like sharp-clawed cats on flame-retarded couches, screeching violins, shrill flutes and clanging chords in no tune whatsoever, nothing is in key, the p.a. voice comes out announcing sales in men's rear ends today, two cheeks for one, but hurry, the sale only lasts while supplies do too so buy right now and save, my friends says, want some balls? Is that what you need? I say I have my own and he says, I don't believe you, show me, I say no but then he's pulling down my pants, my penis springs aloft, the dummies scream and cackle hey, he's taking off his pants, look here, I pull my pants back up, I blush, I'm full of hate, I want to kill my friend but he says, come, let's go upstairs.

He leads me to the escalator, and pushes me on first, he stands behind me and we rise, we seem to rise for hours. I cannot see the top, the escalator has no end, we rise and rise, he asks me how much money I am making at my job, he says I could do better, he says with your experience you could take home twice as much at least if you worked here, and I say, sorry but I like my job, and he says, so you think, I bet you'd like it here, it's fun, I do not answer him, we rise and then I see the curve is levelling off, we're coming to the top, he laughs and says so long, my heart leaps, soon I will be rid of him, we level off, there is no floor, there is no up at all, the escalator is a cliff with nothing down below, I close my eyes, the escalation ends, it dumps me off, I fall and fall into unending dark abyss, I close my eyes and fall, I want to cry out but my lungs expel the air, I feel so light, I fall, I swear it is the end, I scream and make no sound, and suddenly I'm on my back, I don't remember having hit, I'm lying on the floor, the friend is there, he says, get up, we aren't done shopping yet.

I've forgotten Plastikate, I don't know where she is, I ask my friend, he says, she's at her job, over in the neck store where she works, I want to weep, my katie lied, she tricked me all along, she was with them and brought me here, it's all her fault and mine for being so dumb, I want to wring her neck, I want to kill my friend, but I'm in shock, I still feel like I'm falling, but he pulls me up, we're in the game department now. I see guns and knives and rifles, bows and arrows, slingshots, bullets, laser beams, and victims are for sale, their ragged faces teary in their slots, both young and old ones, black and white, and children, mothers, priced accordingly, with targets crayoned on their shirts, and there's a practice room, my friend is handing me a bayonet, you wanna try? he asks, I drop it on the floor, perhaps you would prefer an atom bomb, he says, I thought you were that type, we go along, the nasty manakins, the deadly clerks, obnoxious friends, and endless stationary lines, and there are other games, lead weights to throw or drop, hard bats and clubs with spikes, and whips and chains and mannacles and swords and razor boomerangs, I want to run away, there are no exit signs, I see you're not impressed, he says, well, then, there's always fire, you want some, I say no, he asks me who my father was, I say he was a soldier, died in Vietnam, he says, ah yes, I think I know the one, he raped a peasant girl and died of syphillis, I say it isn't true, he won a purple heart, my friend says, so you think, your mother knew it all along, I say again, it isn't true, my father was a good man, aren't they all, he says, and leads me to the board games, chess sets mined and boobytrapped with nitroglycerine-filled kings, he says perhaps you'd rather drown, well, we have granite drowning suits, he laughs, I hear the blitzkrieg muzak and the screams of practice victims, the applause of manakins, nice shot, the cashier throws glass splinters in the shopper's face, the walls are white, the lights are hot, the noise is loud, the aisles are jammed, my friend is dragging me along, he says there's something you must have, I just know you're going to love it.

My only desire was flight, but this proved to be impossible, my new friends held me firmly by the arm and led me through the teeming swarm, while babbling endlessly about the great selection, the outstanding value, and the unbeatable low prices. He shouted look at this look at that just nine ninety nine, where else can you find such quality, such savings, never minding the fact you'd never need the thing, whatever it even was, and we have everything, he yelled. I tried hard not to listen, but even though the muzak and the other friends, the manakins, all kind of noise, I heard his every word as if implanted in my skull, he scolded me for spending time with crippled old ladies and their fat and lazy daughters, chided me for not living right, for brushing only once a day, for eating too much sodium, and all my faults he listed one by one, the way I stand up too abruptly and the way I leave too soon, they way my eyes glaze over when I'm bored, the way I fail to laugh at certain jokes, and then again I eat too fast, I talk too softly, walk too slow and go to bed to early in the night, he said I sleep too much, I should go out more often, dance or play, I need a cat, he said, I need a dog, I need a girl, a real one that can walk, he led me to the home appliances and screamed, just look at all these things. We have microwaves that don't turn off, toasters that will not pop up, blenders that will slice your fingers off, food gadgets that turn anything to mush, just look at all this shit, he said, it's shit, it's crap, you don't need crap like this, you use a knife, you use a stove, and I said, I have all these things, he said, that's it, you shouldn't, you should throw them all away, I hate this stuff, come on, I want to show you something that I know you're gonna love, he led me through the crowd, we jostled, fought out way to where he wanted us to go, and then he stopped, he pointed proudly at a tall rectangular thing, I didn't know what it was, he said, this does it all, it is the only thing you need, come on, I'll show you how it works, but what is it? I asked, he said, come on, he pulled my arm, we went right up to it. It had a glossy white exterior just like a fridge but taller, seven feet at least and maybe four across, we stood before it, the front was blank and white, I said I don't understand, what is this thing? he laughed, he asked me, do you really want to know, and I began to be afraid, I wasn't sure, no, maybe not, I said, I don't know what I want, and he said I do, this is it, the thing you really want.

Remember when you were a child, he asked, you cried and cried all night, your mother asked you what was wrong, you said you didn't know, well, this was it. Remember when you went to school that day you didn't want to go, you begged and begged, it didn't work, you had to go, remember when you kissed that girl, she screamed and ran away, remember that, the way you felt, and what you wanted then, remember when your father died, remember when the bullies pushed you down, remember when you ran away and what you wanted then, remember that? Remember when the years went by and all they left you with was just a feeling that they never even happened, and all the work you did and what you got back in return, and all the strength you had and where it went, and everything that boiled away, the residue it left, remember that? Well, this is it. I don't know what you mean, I said, and let me go, and he said, now it's yours, assuming you still want it, as I'm sure you do, I was afraid, I backed away, while he just stood and smiled and then he said, it's free, it doesn't cost a thing, I turned and ran, I stumbled through the crowds, the manakins pursued me and I ran, I ran toward the escalator down, I jumped onto it, I ducked, they passed me by, and I went down and down, the escalator had no end, I couldn't see an end, I started running up but down there was no up but still fluorescent lights white tiled walls the sounds all disappeared I wondered what was going on I thought I didn't think I closed my eyes but still I saw the brightness everywhere and silence all except the creaking of the moving steps, this isn't right, I told myself, I have my credit cards.

I was hanging by my ears on hooks, my nose on iron bar, my feet were dangling in a pool of blood, the walls were slimy green, around deep in a well, my whimpers echoed spiralling no resonance, I saw my arms stretched forth, my hands were sliding in the slime, I heard the kicks of swimming rats, the yellow light so high above, the plastic clack of purple nylon cords, my hair was in a net, they asked me for i.d., I showed them and they asked me for my work phone and my day phone and my voice mail and my box, they asked me for my home address, I told them and they asked me and I told them everything, they said, don't take it personally, I said I never do, they smiled and disappeared, and I was on display, my eyes were tinted blue, I bent down at the knees, my head was tilted back, my mustache painted on, I stared ahead, I faced a wall of feet, I couldn't move, my heart was made of plastic and my feet were nailed down, I saw Marie wheel towards me and I must have fainted then, she smiled, I opened up my eyes, I looked behind me and the escalator levelled out, I prayed that I was free, it levelled out, there was no floor, I tumbled off and fell.

I've been through all of this before, I thought, I smiled, I opened up my eyes, I'm not afraid, I said, you should be, said my friend, the manakins are mad at you, you managed to elude them once but now they're going to find you anyway, and when they do, so do you want to open it? would you like to go inside? You can hide in there, it's safe and very warm and it'll feel like home, that's guaranteed, I said, no thanks, I'll take my chances here, but thank you anyway, you've been so kind, he smiled and said my pleasure and he walked away, I stood there, not believing it, my friend had walked away, I felt betrayed, I felt forlorn, but mostly I was lonely so I went around comparing items, calculating tax, and looking at my fellow customers, waiting for a reason to find something to buy, just anything would do, just to hold it in my hand, to wait in line, I would be happy to be waiting in the line, anticipating all the coming joys of ownership, and even though the line would never move I wouldn't mind, and even if I had to take it back, I looked around, I saw the gadgets and I saw that they were good.

I looked at things that sliced and things that opened up, at butcher knives and corkscrews, silverware and pots and pans, I felt that I was safe at last, the worst was over now, and all I had to do was look around awhile and then walk out the door. I didn't mind the noise, it seemed familiar now, I smiled, I whistled to myself in tune, I studied my reflection in a toaster, this is where a man belongs, I thought, among his versatile inventions, in the midst of all his deeds, I laughed aloud, a man came up to me, are you alone? he asked, I am, I cried, and glad of it, he said, that's not allowed, why not? I asked, he said it was the rules, please come with me, we have to see the manager. I went with him, I followed, his head bobbing up and down, his body weaving through the crowd, his hair kept changing color and his size, he grew and shrank and soon I lost the sight of him but kept on moving anyway, trying to catch up, the shoppers didn't notice me, I moved through them as if invisible, their pale forms did not obstruct, I walked right through, I couldn't see the man, I wondered why I followed and I stopped, surrounded by the frowning browsers who stood sullen, staring at the wares, department store disease was in their eyes, that listlessness, that lack of will, that overloaded circuit of abundance look, there are so many things and no one really needs them, none of them at all, we are the individuals, we are unique, and we own this, not that, we choose, we're free, but then I saw it clearly, that there is no individual unique, we are the mechanisms, we respond, we're trained from birth, ingrained opinions, attitudes, predispositions, and we are what we are made to be, we are what went in, coming out, they stared, I stared at them, I felt I lost my name, and I said Francis, quietly, and laughed hysterical, the other Francises, how many are we, have we been, how many of us own this one, not that, and all the Francises together might add up to everything that we can be, it's possible.

I saw him with another customer, leaning over like he'd been leaning over to me, and saying the same things that he said to me, I saw him turn and walk away, the shopper followed willingly and soon was lost, the man had disappeared, he was the law, he only wanted to be known, and then he's gone, The Rules, I told you, My Responsibility, I said, the law, the wall, an empty box, a void, a nothingness, a mute stone, center of the molecule, the inner core, the hollow sound, the pang of some mistaken deja vu, the word you can't recall, the way you felt that time, the joy you would have felt if only she had let you give your love, the sudden danger, shock that didn't kill, the noble deed that turned out wrong, the good intentions backfired in your face, the sand that blew away, the one who wasn't there, the things you lost, the things you never had, the way you feel sometimes when you realize it doesn't matter anyway, the friends that you betrayed, the ones who lied to you, the law is cold, forgets your name, your love that went away, the truth you faced and found to be another joke, the strangers that you thank, a million times a day, they thank you back, you are polite, you want them to return and buy some more, but otherwise who cares, a stranger is a stranger is a friend you haven't met, an enemy you haven't fought, a wilderness of traps and shared banality, it is the rule, he says, no one's allowed to be alone, nature has infested you with need.

No one notices my presence and my reverie until a manakin detects me with a sneer, he curls his lip, he snatches for his hand, he says you're not allowed to be aware, these truths are not for you, you mustn't think or realize, they'll kill you everywhere, in stores, TV, the news, the movies, radio, the books, the magazines, the popular opinion polls, the new things all the time, excitement, entertainment, sports and politics and intrigue, gossip, scandal, notoriety and fame, illusions of success, the murder of the word, the ceaseless torture with exaggeration, promise, melodrama, human interest, terrorists and fashion fads, miracle tots and Uncle Ed, their innovations, breakthroughs and improvements, the brink of war, the unpredictable routine, the constant shock all go to serve to mask that things remain the same, they haven't changed, the game goes on, you're not allowed to know the rules, you only know the laws and not the law you know, what's right and wrong, but what's allowed. You have opinions, yes, but you never have the facts, the law that nowadays you must have some opinions, one for everything that's none of your concern, you ride the wave, you stay in line, all caught up with the time, and don't look back, it's dead, and anything not new is old is dead and useless, don't look back, and don't feel this and don't feel that and don't look back or else you might see where you're going, forget the past, forget what still endures, don't look ahead or else you might see where you've been, and I forgot what I was thinking of, he stopped and I blinked several times too fast, the store became alive again, the customers, the business hum, the shouting of the friends, the catchy muzak tune, I wondered what I'd come to buy and I remembered kitchenware, I smiled and looked around, I read the signs, I turned and walked away.

I hurried to the section and I browsed, I looked at dinnerware and silverstone, I looked at wisks and wooden spoons, and I liked everything I saw, I knew that I'd buy something but I couldn't quite decide, I roamed around, I judged the quality and calculated mark-up, thought of wholesale discount shops, I lingered by the toaster ovens, opened up their doors and peered inside, I looked at cutting boards and knives, and cannisters and jars, and tins and pitchers, thermoses and meat thermometers, basting brushes, ladles, spoons and strainers, griddle pans and kettles, waffle irons and crock pots, heating grills and coffee pots, and I was happy, I felt right at home, and I was even glad when suddenly my friend appeared, he grabbed my arm and said, so there you are, and I said, where were you, and he said, I've been looking all around for you, you always were a sucker for these appliances, I smiled and I said, I just can't decide which one, I want them all, and he said, I know what you really want, but it's not here, come on, I'll show you and I'm sure you'll be surprised.

He led me through the kitchenware to where we'd been before, past throngs of milling customers, I felt I knew them all and even loved them too, the screeching of the manakins was fine, it added atmosphere, the shouting of the friends was nice, these people care, I thought, considerate of them to give us friends we can rely on so we won't get trapped inside our minds and bored by silences, so we don't fall asleep, we stay alert, awake, there's always some distraction, something curious going on, and you don't have to make your own life, you have friends and company, there's lots to see and do, I followed him, I listened carefully, I heard him say, I know you well, and I know what you really need, the answer to your prayers is here, how many times you've wanted it, you've sought and never found, and all because the time was never right, but now it is, you had to wait, the waiting is all done, and you can have it now, and all you have to do is take it and it's yours, and you can go, your expedition's almost at an end, you see? You thought it was a waste of time, you didn't really want to come, you thought that you'd be going home with nothing in your hands, that you would never find the very thing, and instead you've really found it now, the real McCoy, amazing, isn't it, just when you've given up, just when you let it slide, forgotten all about it, all these years you guessed it was impossible, just wasn't going to happen, and you'd given up the thought of it, it hadn't happened so it never would, you thought, you'd waited long enough, the time had passed, you thought you must have almost had it once but let it slip away, you thought you'd missed your chance, it came when you were unprepared and then it went away, you'd given up entirely, and yet here it is now, here it is, he pointed, and I saw the thing again, the huge white thing but even bigger now, at least eight feet or nine and maybe five across, the front was blank and smooth, I saw no seams, it seemed a mere facade, a wall that had no depth, I saw its sides extending back but just how far I couldn't tell, the sides were also blank clean white, I laughed, what is this thing? I asked, and why do you keep bringing me back here, it must be your idea of a joke, I guess, I laughed again, and thought this couldn't be the thing that I'd been looking for, it couldn't be, the idea was ridiculous at best, at worse inane, although I must admit I'd never known, I'd only had a vague idea, I guess I'd long forgotten what I had in mind, it wasn't on a note I could recall, but this could not be it, and I was sure at least of that, but my friend was not amused, he frowned and said, it's not a joke, don't laugh, it isn't funny, is this your idea of gratitude? I lead you to the very thing you seek, you gape and laugh hysterical, I'm hurt, I am offended. Aren't I your friend?

Of course you are, I said, I'm sorry, and I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, not at all, it's just that I don't understand and your insistence seems so strange, you must explain it all to me, I guess I'm somewhat dense, forgive my ignorance, he smiled and said, that's better, now we're talking business, let me tell uou all about this marvelous invention, you'll agree, you'll see that it's exactly what you need and what you deeply crave above all else, oh God, I love this thing, I know you'll love it too, it's not for everyone, you know, at least it's not at first, it takes some getting used to, and you have to have the need, it's something that you have to wait for, you can't just have it anytime you please, no sir, it's not a cheapo gadget type of thing that lies around for years upon the shelves and is always there for anyone who feels like taking it, oh no it's not, this one is special, absolutely special and unique, it's not the same for any two, each one is separate, personal, adaptable and versatile for you and you alone, it will be yours, while theirs belongs to them, it can't be shared, it is exclusive, custom made for you and no one else, tailored just for you, the perfect fit, the right design, it has your style, your way of being in the world, oh yes, it's you all over, every inch, and they don't make them any two alike, so special are these things that you can't find them anywhere except right here right now, we are the only ones, the only place, though other places try, they can't compete, it is a secret thing, we never give the name of our supplier out to anyone, and they can't make copies of them, no, though imitations do exist, they don't come close, this is the genuine affair, the highest value quality and it's not available at any price in any other place, unique and special, we're the ones, so don't you see now just how lucky you have been today, you stumbled on the right place after all, the very place, of all the possibilities, you are here, it's destiny, it's fate, and nothing less that brought you to this point in time and space today, incredible as it may seem, sometimes it works that way, and now by accident, almost, you've found the very thing you're looking for, a thing so rare you couldn't have found it any other way, you couldn't say, well, I'll go there today, it had to be pure chance, blind luck, an accident, almost, and that is just another feature that makes this thing unique.

But what is it? I asked, I know it's rare, unique, you've told me that, but still I don't know what it is. Ah, he sighed, how can I possibly explain it, since it's unique for everyone, it's not at all the same for any two, and so it's one thing for myself, another thing for you, how could I tell you "what it is" in such a case, how could I share my own experience since yours is bound to be completely different anyway, you'd go in unprepared, I'd only steer you wrong, I'd give you false ideas, erroneous expectations, I'd mislead you and you wouldn't be prepared, you can't be anyway, no, I just can't do that, I'm your friend, and I wouldn't lie to you, I don't want to mislead you, there's only one way and that's to find out for yourself, he said, and I became suspicious, and I questioned him, I said, how can you say it's just the thing for me, if you don't even know what it would be like for me, I don't know, I think you're only trying to sell me on it, I'm familiar with these tricks, I'm a salesman myself, you know, I'm not so easily deceived, I've heard it all before, they try to sell you anything so they can make a buck, and they don't give a damn, don't really care, they'll lie and make believe, say anything at all to make the sale, no I don't think you're being sincere with me, my friend was hurt, he frowned, he looked away, I thought I saw a tear form in his eye, he looked at me and said, I'm very disappointed, I thought that we were friends, I thought you knew me well enough by now, and trusted me. I trusted you, it's sad to think you know someone and then they go and say these things, it isn't true, and I can prove it to you, because I don't make an extra cent, it's true, some salesman everywhere will act like that because they're on commission but I'm not, I'm not a salesman, even, I'm a friend, I'm only here to make your shopping experience as pleasurable and rewarding as I possibly can, I am a public service, you can ask, it's true, I wouldn't be like that with you, you think I have no feelings, that I'm callow, out for money, now I'm hurt, I thought we had a good rapport, I thought you liked it here, I thought that we were friends, but I guess I was wrong. Oh well.

I aplogoized again, I didn't mean it personally, I said, it's just that I'm afraid, the blank thing frightens me and I wish he wouldn't make a big thing out of it, let's go, I said, let's go back to kitchenware, that's fun, there's lots of neat stuff there, we'll browse, come on, let's forget about all this, okay? He shook his head and said, I'm afraid it isn't possible, I'm telling you, this is just for you, it's custom made especially for you, you can't abandon it, I brought you here because it is already yours, this thing belongs to you, I must insist, I cannot let you turn your back and walk away, you'll never have this chance again, you have to do it now, you cannot wait, you've waited too long as it is, you're ready now, the time is right, just as you knew it would be, I can see inside you and I know that you agree, deep down you understand, and it's that part of you I'm talking to, this isn't any shopping spree, it's not like all the other times, it really matters now, it is a question of your deepest self, you have to let it out, don't run, you want to run, you want to run and browse at kitchenware, but what is kitchenware, it's nothing anymore.

Don't you realize where you are? what's going on? Just look around, you have to understand that you don't have a choice, the thing is yours, it calls for you and you must go to it. I backed away, he yelled at me, there's nowhere you can go, it's not a game, this is the real thing, the rules are not your own, you must obey the law, you must, his voice was getting shrill, his smile had disappeared, those kindly eyes turned black and glared, the wrinkles on his face, the canines in his snarl, I backed away, I was afraid, this is my friend, what's going on, I backed away but bumped into a wall or something, I could not go back, I stared at him, I felt myself move forward but against my will, I struggled but my feet would not obey, I looked around, there was a manakin behind me, he was pushing me and there were other manakins around him and I screamed but they kept pushing me, my friend was saying it's for your own good, Francis, trust us, we know what we're doing, don't resist, we're going to solve your problems, don't you see, we'll make them go away, it's easy, we can do it for you, Francis, like you've always wanted and you'll feel much better afterwards, you'll be at peace, you'll feel all calm and restful, no more aggravations, no more worrys, no more nagging doubts or unfamiliar moods, all that will go away, it's just for you, you have to have some faith, and I yelled back, but I don't want them solved, I'd rather have my problems and they're really not so bad, I can live with them, please let me go, I begged the manakins, to let me go, and he said, you still don't understand, you cannot have a problem and refuse its cure, it's not allowed, all struggles end, they all come to an end, but I'm not ready yet, I said, and he said, then you never will be if not now, so why not now, you have to face it, have to face the truth, so why delay, don't be afraid, don't act like this, as if you were a child, as if you didn't know the rules, did you think it would all go on and on and stop, if so then you were wrong, and it's one thing when the good must end, we all know what it's like and then it's right to grieve, but now you should be overjoyed, the bad is coming to an end, we're helping you and look at your behavior, now you should be glad and grateful, going to it like a man, with courage and with confidence, no, no, I yelled, you're wrong, you aren't telling me the truth, but you do not have a choice, he said, why not, I cried, why does it have to be this way, I want to stay, I don't want anything to end, please let me stay, I won't get in the way, I'll browse awhile, I won't make any trouble, but he shoved me to the floor, my back against the thing, he came towards me, and he said, you are a fool, an idiot, and what did you expect, you'd go home with a shiny wisk, a mixing bowl, a spatula, is that what you expected, that some stupid little trinket thing was going to be the answer to your prayers, it's not so easy, Cosine, not at all, you only have one choice and here it is, so hurry up and choose, we're very busy and you're not the only one, you know, don't make it difficult for us, we have to do our job, we're got new shoppers coming all the time, this place ain't big enough for everyone at once, and so you want to stay, you want to have another look around, well, it's too late for that, you've had your turn, now be a man, stop dawdling, you'll only make things worse.

No, I won't, I said, I stood, I flung myself against him, but he knocked me down again, he towered over me, he bent and picked me up, he turned me to the thing, he shoved my face against it, Now, he said, I felt the wall dissolve, the white was fading rapidly, behind it was all black and dark, I felt it open up, it looked like it went on and on, I saw no floor, no wall, no ceiling high above, and I realized that he was going to throw me into it, I screamed, I heard somebody scream, I fell, and someone fell on me, I heard a million voices shouting, angry voices shouting and I heard a long forgotten voice, and it was calling out my name. She said, Francis, hurry, follow me, I looked and saw that it was Plastikate, and she was hopping up and down, come on, she yelled, we don't have any time, I squirmed and freed myself from underneath the manakin, I stood and ran, I followed her, I heard my friend behind us cursing and I ran, I followed where I saw the path she made, the manakins behind me, I could hear them and I ran, it seemed like miles I ran, I couldn't see her, only where she'd been, the shoppers pushed out of the way, I dove and pushed them all again, they shouted after me, more manakins were coming now from every side, I thought I'd never make it out, I almost gave it up, it seemed impossible, I couldn't see the doors, had no idea where to run, I only followed katie as she flew, no time to think, my breath was running out, the manakins were closing in, I stumbled and I fell but I got up again and ran, I ran and ran through sections that I hadn't seen before, I didn't look, I didn't think, I was afraid, I didn't want them to catch me, anything but that, and then I saw a door ahead swing open and a glimpse of katie in the lights, I summoned all my strength, I leaped and fell into the street, I hit my head, it hurt like hell, I lay there on the pavement and I felt the blood come out. I looked around, and there was nothing there. The store had disappeared.

Quicksilver was the neon gas, it hissed the heat, fell down, the heavy air, the parking lot was filled but not with cars as katie stood by and couldn't help me to my feet, my hands were bleeding and my head was cracked, I stood and nearly fell again, I asked, where did they go, she said I didn't have to worry anymore, they're gone, that's all I need to know, she said, come on, let's find the beggar boy, I followed her, she stumped along the street, and I was mad at her, I didn't want to be out here, but back in there where I was safe from falling bricks, from broken glass, the red of social zeal, I only wanted kitchenware, a little gadget I could bring along, is that too much to ask, I missed my friend, the customers, the liveliness, the streets out here were empty, dead, the quiet death, I felt the earth collapse once more, we fell, then all was still, it settled to its final resting place, we stood again, and marched along through nothing streets, no sign of life, no sound but echoes of our shoes, I yelled at her, why did you desert me, she said that she was captured and they wouldn't let her go, they took off my head, she said, and they took off my bottom, and they stuck me on a pole, like this, she showed me the position with a scarf around her headless neck, I had to be like that for hours and hours and I couldn't see or move, I didn't even know where I'd been put, I lost my knees and couldn't get away, while you were having fun, I was a prisoner and the other manakins called me a traitor and a spy, a skinner, human lover, taunted me and threatened to abandon me - is this your gratitude? I suffered for you and I saved your hide, and now you yell at me? They would have thrown you in there, and you didn't want that, and I apologized for the millionth time today, but I don't understand, I was beginning to enjoy myself in there, she said you can adapt to anything, you know, only have to make some slight adjustments, look around, it's not so bad, the worst is long since over and there's no need for despair, you can begin again, it's just the rules have changed, the luxuries are gone, and you must concentrate on real needs for a change, and I said, yes, it's possible, but is it really worth it, after all, there's nothing left to buy, and only manakins could enjoy a world like this one now, we turned the corner, saw the pirates fill the square, but they were calm, the wires no longer sparked, all the buildings now were down, they gathered in the rubble and they sat, I don't know what I look like anymore, she pulled her lashes out and let them fall, she held her hands out, saw her orange fingernails and sobbed, sher blurted out, must they be always orange from now on? My hair will turn all brown again, I don't know what I'll look like anymore, it isn't fair, she said, there's no more choices left, and I remembered someone else who looked around the store for hours, she was there all day, she looked at everything until she finally said, I can't find anything to buy, she left and we were all amazed, with all the things we had there, there was nothing she desired, the pirate woman turned away and walked off down the avenue, we listened for awhile, and we could hear the clicking of her shoes fade out, and everybody knew that she was going to the river.

A man stood up, a big, strong looking man, he wore a tie around his torn up shirt, his hair was wild, his beard was three days old, he said, who am I now, I used to be someone, I had a prestige job, a big house in the north, three cars, a swimming pool, a wife, three kids, two dogs, a live-in maid, employees at my beck and call, I used to bring the kids downtown and they could all have anything they wanted, they told me, Dad, I love you very much, I felt so proud, what could I give them now, there's nothing left, nobody knows my name, I used to be important, what's the point, he shook his head, a beggar boy stood up and said to him, you think you had it all, well, let me tell you this, your life was not so different from mine, a little beggar boy, I had enough to eat, not good food but enough, I had a place to sleep, not nice but quiet and dark, I had a shirt to wear, I got around and did stuff, saw some things, met people, learned a bit, and sometimes I'd go see a movie all about a guy like you, I lived your life, I stole your cars, I went swimming once or twice, you had too much, I had too little, but essentially it's been the same, you're jetting off to London while I hitch a ride to Richmond, you go shopping with your wife, I snatch her purse, go shopping somewhere else, we got along, our good and bad, our this not that, so don't you cry to me. Maybe you lost more, but all of us lost everything, no matter how much or little that it was, and if you don't have your money, than how can I get mine? He sat down, and the big man smiled and said, so what's the use in trying, and you're right, and then he stood and starting walking to the river down the road.

Katie whispered in my ear, what's wrong with them, are they so blind, they're still alive, and isn't that enough, my people never even had that much before, I said, it's hopeless, don't you see, there's nothing left to buy, she said, that's crazy, I said, no, it's not, he's right, the beggar boy, we all had dreams, and they were money dreams, and now we can't go back, the golden age was here but now it's gone, it's not so easy to adjust to that, as if Apollo had to sell his sons as slaves, as if Athena had to srub the sewers, as if Jesus had returned and could not find a job, but maybe as a busboy in some greasy joint, he smiles his gentle smile, the cockroach scurries on, the cook is spitting on the food, the patrons are all drunk and rude, they want to kick his butt and Jesus smiles his gentle smile, his useless stupid smile, Athena on her knees forgets her wisdom in the grime, Apollo's sons don't shine, they curse and hate their only god, we never will forgive this day and those who made it happen. The pirates standing one by one confess, lament, and walk away, all heading for the river.

They've made their final choice, I said, the only possibility to express themselves one final time, the only choice that's left is will I let this happen, or will I just refuse, refusal is the only course, she said, they're panicking, that's all, if only they would wait and ride it out and let things settle down, you talk about identity, who cares, what's that, it's all we have, I said, it's all we have that's ours, and when we have it, all other things fall into place, our pride, our vanity, our confidence, our hopes and dreams, our loves and hates, without it they are nothing, but as long as there's an I, you see, we humans are the only animals who cannot communicate with one another easily, we are the only animals who do not feel at home in our environment, we are the only animals who do not know what's real, and so we have a consciousness, we are the only animals who do not know who we are, and so we have identities, we are the only animals who have no natural habitat, so we have clothes and fashion, we are the only animals who are never satisfied, and so we must have choices, we are the only animals who do not like ourselves, so we have to have the opportunity to change, we are the only animals that know that we will die, so we invent some meaning for our lives, we must have these illusions, for we are the most inferior of all the animals, the lowest form of life, and this is why we needed to evolve.

Katie was silent, and she had no answer to these things. The pirate crowd was thinning out as more and more strode towards the river, and suddenly I felt I understood, a certainty arose in me like I had never felt before. My friend was right. All these years there'd been only one thing that I wanted, one thing that I needed and I could have had it all along, I almost had it then, I laughed, I was a fool to turn it down, resist, escape, and he was right, it was the very thing, something so special, so unique, that it could only be for me, I had to have it now, and I hoped that it was not too late, I had to have the thing. I shouted out, the River Box, that's it, the River Box, I must remember this, I can't forget, the River Box, I jumped up and ran towards the pirates, wait for me, I yelled, they marched, I ran and ran, I have to have it now, I thought, I know exactly what it is, I must remember, where's a note, I have to write this down, and I ran, I had to reach the river, but the city seemed so big, and I was running out of breath, I wasn't sure that I was going to make it, but I have to, I just have to make it, now I know, the river box, I won't forget, I'll write it down, I ran, I couldn't see the end, the pirates marching stretched out in the distance, endless line, they marched but didn't seem to move, I ran and ran but couldn't catch up, I ran and ran and woke up, much too soon, on a Saturday in August.