Part 1 (1/2)

RANDOM ACTS.

by Jerry J. Davis.

1. LITTLE RED LIGHTS.

HAVE YOU SEEN A.

LITTLE RED LIGHT?.

If you have, you'll know it, and if you want to share your experience with others who have seen and heard the same thing then come to 225 W.

Poplar Street, Berkeley, at 8:30 PM on Friday 6/20/84.

The building at 225 W. Poplar Street is an ugly Co-Op meeting hall with brown-painted stucco walls and a flat roof that's trimmed in orange. Nervous-looking people stand on the front lawn smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices; they watch Tom, Pris and I with haunted expressions as we pull up in Tom's car. Tom looks back at them and they turn quickly away, staring at their own feet, a companion's elbow, a tree . . . anything but us. As we get out of the car and walk up the rough, rock-imbedded concrete sidewalk toward them, they move away.

Tom nudges me. ”If they kick me out, I want you to stay. Say you don't know me. Okay?”

I nod slightly. We've been over this before --- they'd already told him they don't want publicity, even though they'd been putting up those weird signs all over town. A reporter from the Berkeley Barb would not be welcome.

The inside the building is dim and smells of marijuana. There are folding metal chairs set up in rows, and at the front of the room there's a cheap utilitarian table and an obviously hand-built podium that's wired for sound. All throughout the room people gather in little groups, whispering, and one mustachioed man dressed in black is lighting candles and placing them on the cheap table. Everyone glances at us and at each other but they avoid direct eye contact.

I lean over and whisper into Pris's ear. ”Boy, do these people know how to party.”

Pris grins. This brightens my mood a bit, but only for a while; the place has a feeling of musty, suppressed dread, and I'm beginning to wonder if we've stumbled into some sort of satanic cult. Tom is quiet, taking it all in; his eyes are like camera lenses, and they affect people the same way a camera does. They've very blue, and he stares with such an intensity and clarity of focus that they put people on the defensive. He's also a big guy, with big square shoulders --- he's not really muscular, and he's not fat, he's just big. He dwarfs Pris, who stands between us, touching both of us. She watches him and then watches what he's watching, as if trying to fathom how he sees things. Occasionally she glances at me and flashes her brilliant little Pris-smile, which always sends a little thrill though my nerves. I watch her, and see she's breathing fast and shaking. It makes me want to hold her, an urge that never quite leaves me when she's around.

Pris taps on Tom's arm and whispers, ”Isn't that the b.u.m that hangs out on your front steps?”

Tom and I look over; in the back corner of the large, dim room, in the darkest part, is a thin man standing by himself. He's facing the front with a mask-like face and piercing, beady eyes.

He's dressed in an old Army jacket and tattered pants, and his hair hangs in oily strings to one side of his forehead. Yes, that's our b.u.m. He's acting strangely calm tonight --- it's odd to see him standing still, not moving a muscle, not even talking to himself. The only time I've seen our b.u.m motionless is when he's asleep in the bushes next to the steps of our apartment building --- other than that he's always moving, always doing something . . . usually something mindless, like dragging things out of the public trash cans and playing with used straws and rubber bands.

The mustachioed man in black finishes his candle-lighting and then takes quick steps to the door. At the door, he glances at his watch for about twenty seconds then looks up, grunting. ”Excuse me,” he says to the people loitering outside. ”Meeting's about to start.” Turning from the door, he takes more large, quick steps to the table, where he takes a seat. The people around us find a seat and settle down. Tom, Pris and I take seats toward the back.

Someone closes the door to the room and the only thing that breaks the sudden silence is a few low whispers.

The man in black clears his throat then introduces himself as Bob Thorn, then he introduces the two dumpy-looking women who have positioned themselves next to him as Virginia Beach and Lori Angstrom. Pris and I share a glance and a stifled laugh at ”Virginia Beach.” Jokes would come from that later. Virginia stands up and positions herself behind the podium, clearing her throat into the microphone. ”I a.s.sume everyone here has seen the little red light?”

There is a general nodding of heads, and a few muttered admissions.

”I see a member of the press has shown up,” Virginia says, looking straight at Tom. ”Is that because you've seen the light, or are you here to do a story?”

”I'm here to find out what this is about,” Tom says. ”I'm just curious. I mean, your signs are all over the place.”

”I'll tell you what it's about,” Virginia Beach says with hostility. ”For the past five weeks there has been a freak occurrence in this area where a tiny, bright light appears out of nowhere in someone's house or office. It lasts anywhere from a minute to three hours, and is often accompanied by disembodied voices.” She pauses, glaring at him. ”This meeting is to give those of us who have experienced this phenomenon an opportunity to share our experience with others, and hopefully ease our anxieties and neutralize our trauma.”

”Trauma?”

”Yes, trauma. For some of us it's been a very intense, unpleasant experience, a breakdown of reality. But it's hard to explain this to someone who hasn't experienced it. Your presence here may intimidate some of us from openly expressing ourselves.

We are not seeking attention. One of your articles in the Barb would certainly bring about public ridicule, and at this stage that is something we are not ready to deal with.”

”You're speaking for everybody.” Tom looks around.

”I'm antic.i.p.ating their best interests.”

”Then you're asking me to leave?”

The woman's expression closes down like a mask. ”No. This is a public meeting. I'm just hoping you'll understand the situation.”

Tom stands up and addresses the whole room. ”I don't know if I'll end up writing about this or not, but I promise that if I do I won't use anyone's name unless I have your permission. If you feel you have to hide this . . . experience you've had, that suggests to me you're ashamed of it. If you really did have such an experience, why be ashamed?”

”You don't understand,” Virginia nearly shouts at him. ”This is the first meeting, a big step for everyone here, and you could ruin it. As a matter of fact, I am going to ask you to leave. You can come back after we're used to being public about our experiences.”

Tom nods. He turns to Pris and I and gives me a long, meaningful look with those camera lens eyes of his. He reaches down and takes Priscilla's hand; Pris stands up, and Tom keeps staring at me. I stay where I am and he and Pris head toward the door. I look wistfully after Pris, and when she and Tom are out of sight I suppress a sigh and feel lonely. The meeting continues, and one by one people stand up and nervously tell their stories.

Every one is much the same: He woke up and saw this red light on the wall; she looked up from the television and saw a red light on the wall; he and she and another were studying and they heard voices and looked up to see a red light on the wall . . . it was hardly a spectacular experience by the way they told it.

Nevertheless they all seem haunted by it, and many of the people around me, young and old, glance around with wide eyes as if they expect the little red light to appear at any moment.

When it comes to the b.u.m's turn, he quietly clears his throat and in a husky voice says, ”Yeah, I saw it . . . I saw it on the surface of a building, and it said, 'Look, there he is,' and I ran. I saw it again on the same night in a different place, but didn't hear it speak.” I'm impressed. I've never heard him speak so clearly. I'm sitting there pondering this when Virginia Beach clears her throat and says, ”Excuse me.” I turn to look at her and she nods. I stare blankly, wondering why she nodded at me, then suddenly realize it's my turn to tell everyone how and where I saw the Little Red Light. Jesus Christ! I think to myself. What do I say? Everyone is looking at me expectantly, and Virginia's eyes are narrowing, suspicious . . . she's probably figured out I'm with Tom Harrison and that I've stayed behind to spy on the meeting.

”I was in my bathtub,” I tell them. ”The light appeared on the ceiling and stayed there for three minutes. I didn't hear any voices, thought.” I swallow, wondering if they'll buy it. I can't tell about the rest of them, but Virginia Beach is glaring at me.

She doesn't say anything, but she continues to stare. I smile, shrugging, but she doesn't react, doesn't s.h.i.+ft her gaze. Finally she turns and points to the next person and I nearly slide out of my chair in relief.

The rest of the meeting takes form as a discussion as to what this mysterious light is, what it means, what it wants . . . et cetera. Most of them think it's Aliens from Planet 14 trying to contact them, but there's all sorts of suggestions. Someone says Russian psychics are causing the phenomenon; another forms a theory attributing it to an electrical condition caused by the over-abundance of radio and television signals. I myself suggest ball lightning, but no one goes for it. The discussion winds down, and when they adjourn the meeting I am the first person out of the room.

Tom and Pris are across the street, sitting on a public lawn under a streetlight. Pris sees me and raises both hands, waving, her face bursting out in a tremendous smile. I feel my heart-rate increase, and I smile back --- I have no choice, her smile is one of those that are so warm and natural and happy that you smile back out of reflex, whether you feel like it or not. ”You made it out alive!” she exclaims in her throaty voice; it cracks a little at the peak of her emphasized ”alive.”

She and Tom get to their feet and we head toward the car, ignoring the stares of the people drifting out of the building --- people realizing that I was, indeed, a spy for the Barb's most notorious reporter. I tell them about what went on in the meeting as we pile into the car and Tom starts the loud, throbbing engine.

Tom listens to me, but I can tell he's lost interest. There's no story here for him, unless he wants to write for the National Inquirer. The car jerks forward, leaping down the road, and in two minutes we make it to Euclid Street. Tom parks in his rented spot way up the hill from the building where Tom and I share an apartment. The building, named ”The Euclid,” is right across the street from the Berkeley campus, and there's never any parking anywhere near the campus. This spot way up the hill is the closest he could get. For the same reason my vehicle is even farther away --- I haven't seen it in over a week.

Pris and I help Tom put the rubberized canvas covering over his car ---it's a gleaming 1967 Camero convertible with a totally un-stock, high performance engine and transmission, not at all street legal --- and having secured that, we plod down the hill toward the Euclid. I'm right in the middle of suggesting we stop at Rodney Red's Bar, which we're pa.s.sing, when Tom suddenly exclaims ”Hey!” He stops and points.

”What?” Pris asks.

”The b.u.m. Look.” He's pointing at the Euclid building, which is only a half block away. The steps are clearly visible, and sitting on them is our b.u.m.

”No, that can't be the same . . .” I start, but trail off. It is the same b.u.m. I can tell by his jerking, uneven motions, like a wind-up toy with broken gears. n.o.body else moves like that. How in the h.e.l.l? I wonder. How in the h.e.l.l did he get here before us?

”That must have not been our b.u.m at the meeting,” Tom says.

”It looked like him to me,” I say. Then again, the b.u.m at the meeting didn't act like our b.u.m. We reach the steps of the Euclid and he looks up at us, grinning a grotesque, rotten-toothed grin with gaping holes, and bobs his head up and down like a lizard.