Part 4 (1/2)
TOM Do you use any kind of drug to help you get from one plane to the next? Like LSD?
LAUREL Oh h.e.l.l . . . I used to. I don't need it anymore, though.
TOM I'll bet. [SNAP! POP!]
”That's it,” Tom says, reaching over and turning the recorder off.
”He's brain damaged from too much LSD. But there's a connection here: for some reason, a cube made out of straws or sticks seems to have a strange effect on someone high on hallucinogenics. Laurel described almost exactly what Felix described. Felix told me the universe was a lot bigger than he'd thought it was, and that everything stretched into infinite different levels.”
I sit for a moment in silence, trying to remain calm. If I had the cube here with me, I'd show him its shadow and tell him what I'd discovered ---since I don't have it, however, I'm not about to open my big mouth and make him think I'm a fool with a head full of nonsense.
I'll wait, and show him tonight at the apartment.
No, I realize, not tonight. We're going to be at Heather's birthday party. Tom is going to be busy dumping Pris and I'm going to be busy ”going for her.”
”So what do you think?” Tom asks, prompting me out of my silence.
”What do I think?” Okay, d.a.m.n it, you asked. ”I think there may be a lot of truth to what our b.u.m was talking about. That cube is a four-dimensional cube.
Tom stares at me with his camera-lens eyes. ”What do you mean?”
”It's a four-dimensional cube. It really has four physical dimensions.”
Tom continues staring at me in silence for perhaps ten seconds, then suddenly grins, then starts laughing. He thinks I'm joking. And as he laughs I find myself smiling, and then he's laughing harder, so I start to laugh. Okay, I think, let him think it's a joke.
Why not? Maybe it is a joke.
In San Francisco Tom slows for traffic. We follow the freeways out to the panhandle then exit, twist and turn through the streets and pull up in front of Priscilla's small apartment house. She's at her window, watching for us; she waves, smiling her beautiful Pris-smile. Still smiling, she disappears from view only to reappear a few seconds later at the front door. She bounces down the steps, skips across the street and up to the car. G.o.dd.a.m.n it! I am so in love with her that I can't stand it. I can't stand the thought of her being hurt! I turn and look at Tom but of course Pris is there and I can't say a d.a.m.n thing. She climbs in, gives Tom a kiss, then sits on my lap --- there is nowhere else for her to sit, the car has no back seat because Tom removed it when he was modifying everything.
”Hi!” she says in her throaty voice. She leans over and gives Tom another kiss then settles back against me, half turning and giving me a kiss too. I put my arms around her waist and give her a squeeze, and she rests her arms on mine, holding my wrists and keeping my arms around her. Her head rests against my shoulder as Tom sends the car flying forward, up the hill and to the left, heading back across town to Heather's house.
Heather lives in the North Beach district, sharing a house with five other women who in various ways are ”into” the theater. Cable car tracks run right in front of the place. There are so many tourists in this area there is nowhere to park, so we find a place about six blocks away and walk back. Like most San Francisco houses, this one is squeezed in between two others, with no side yards whatsoever, nothing more than an inch of s.p.a.ce between the houses. Steps lead up to the front door; the driveway leads down, the garage being under the house. Six cars are jammed into a driveway built to accommodate only two.
We walk up the steps to the open door; music is blasting inside and there is a drone of yapping voices. We enter and Heather is right there in the front room, surrounded by people. Aaron is already there and looks relieved when we show up --- he hates Heather but he loves parties. Heather sees Tom and breaks off her conversation, rus.h.i.+ng forward, throwing her arms around him with a squeal and hugging him.
”Oh, G.o.d, I'm so glad you could come!” she says, as if there were any doubt.
As Heather is molesting Tom, Aaron makes his way across the crowded room to where Pris and I still stand, and says, ”The beer's in the 'fridge, kids!” He leans over and gives Pris a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Pris buries herself into his hug, smiling, then steps back with sparkling eyes. What is this? Is she in love with Aaron, now? No, she's just happy. Tom and Heather are still embracing but Pris is enduring it like a champ, confident that Tom belongs to her and Heather is getting attention only because it's her birthday.
Heather breaks away from Tom with a final kiss and turns to us, saying h.e.l.lo and, for some reason, giving me a hug and a kiss on the lips. She hugs Pris, too, then turns around and hugs Tom again. Then she says something to Tom and the two of them walk away.
Just like that, I think. Now what happens? Am I officially in charge of Pris? No, Pris is following right after Tom and Heather, trailing along like a puppy. I watch her back as she walks away and can tell by the lack of bounce in her stride that she is already worried.
Tom blatantly left her behind.
I start to follow but Aaron grabs my shoulder. ”As your lawyer, I advise you to stay out of this.”
”Oh Christ, Aaron. This is terrible.”
”Come on, let's get some beer.”
Beer? Jesus, what a one-track mind! But no, Aaron is right; I follow him to the kitchen and get my first beer of the evening. I suddenly feel the intense need for alcohol in my bloodstream.
The kitchen is like a pedestrian's freeway; people are constantly bringing in freshly bought beer and putting it in the refrigerator, and everybody else is constantly removing it. Aaron and I grab some imported German beer someone has just put in there and then escape to the back porch, where a man with long blond hair and black horn-rimmed gla.s.ses is cooking chicken on a barbecue. The sun is just setting, and fog is rolling in, but we both have jackets and the air is still quite comfortable.
”Aaron, what am I going to do?”
”Avoid Priscilla until Tom breaks the news to her.” He swigs his beer. ”Otherwise, you see, she'll a.s.sociate you with what's going on.”
”She won't if I wait until after he tells her?”
”Then you'll be the one to comfort her. Also, make sure you have some chocolate to give her. Women who suffer a romantic loss crave a certain chemical that just happens to be in chocolate --- it mimics a hormone. If you're the one that provides it she will subconsciously a.s.sociate you with the chocolate. Hence, she will crave you.”
”Are you sure of all this?”
”Never fails. Trust your lawyer, son.”
n.o.body pays this man enough, I think to myself. What a G.o.dsend!
”I've got to go find some chocolate.”
”Relax. There's a mini-market two blocks away . . . you've got plenty of time.”
”Okay.” I take a deep breath, let it out. I notice my hands are shaking. Drink, I tell myself. Drink and calm your nerves, gain control over yourself. Remain calm. I raise my bottle to my lips and begin pouring the dark, rich beer down my throat.
”Ever see any more little red lights?” Aaron asks.
I lower the bottle from my lips and shake my head. ”No,” I tell him. ”And nothing ever showed up on Felix's G.o.dd.a.m.n snow, either. It took me almost three hours to sc.r.a.pe that s.h.i.+t off the windows.”
”We'll probably never find out what was going on,” Aaron says. He seems like he truly believes I saw a laser light in my room. Would he believe the rest of the story, then? And what about the cube --- what would he say if I showed it to him under a bright light?
Thinking about the cube and the laser beam at the same time gives me a chilly thought. If Alvin Laurel can build a four-dimensional cube out of plastic drinking straws, what would keep someone on some other plane from building a four-dimensional prism? Wouldn't a four-dimensional prism have the ability to reflect light, particularly a laser beam, from one plane of the universe to another? I don't know, probably not --- I lose the train of thought completely as I see Pris.
She wanders out onto the back porch, alone and looking upset.
”Have you seen Tom? Has he come out here?”
”No,” I tell her.
She looks at me for a long time, silently, then looks at the man who's watching over the cooking chicken. Without another word she turns and walks back into the house. I feel one of my legs moving forward, planting my foot on the ground, propelling me toward the door. I swear to G.o.d it's moving with a will of its own, and I'm following Pris again, but Aaron grabs my arm and says, ”Stay.” I force myself back against the porch railing and take another swig of beer.
An hour later I'm in the living room talking to a thin, graceful lesbian woman about The Church when Pris comes walking through the room, closely followed by Felix, who I guess has just shown up. I'm immediately burning with jealousy but I hide it, not even letting myself look at them. Pris makes her way though the other party guests and to my side, grabbing my upper arm with both her hands. ”I need to talk to you,” she says, interrupting the lesbian.
”Okay.” I excuse myself, and let her lead me out to the front steps. Felix of course is following. ”Is Tom dropping me?” she asks as soon as we're outside.