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?