Part 7 (1/2)

The sound of tires scrunching over gravel reaches me, and a green security car comes driving up the road. It stops right across from me and a short guy in a uniform steps out. He's got black hair and a bushy black mustache, and silver reflecting sungla.s.ses. ”Can I see some I.D.?”

he asks.

”What?”

”Did you know this is a restricted area?”

”Restricted to whom? I'm a Professor in the biology department, I collect specimens up here.”

”Can I see your I.D. please?”

I stand up, too quickly, and there's spots in front of my eyes. I feel dizzy and sick. Fumbling in my back pocket, I pull out my wallet and flip it open, handing it to him. ”I don't feel so good,” I tell him.

”Can you give me a ride back down to the campus?”

”You know, sir, that even though you're a part of the faculty you are still not authorized to be in this area.”

”No, I did not know that. Arrest me. Anything, just get me out of this sunlight.” It's the lack of sleep and too much to drink, I must have some sort of brain damage. This explains everything. ”Please, I don't care, just get me out of here.”

”Okay.” He hands me my wallet and opens one of the back doors. I climb in, he closes the door, then gets back in the driver's seat. I stare at the back of his head through a heavy-duty black metal screen.

Air-conditioned air flows past him and into my face. It feels good. I don't care where he's taking me, I don't even care that there's no handles or window cranks on the doors. I close my eyes and sleep comes slithering up into my head like a snake.

Minutes later he's letting me out on the main campus grounds, warning me not to pull this again. I say yes to everything, heading for my cla.s.sroom, praying for my next cla.s.s to be over with quickly so I can go home and get some sleep. I've convinced myself that sleep is all I need, that everything that's gone wrong today is due to the lack of it.

Sleep deprivation causes confusion in test subjects, that much I know. I also know I'm pretty d.a.m.n confused.

Once again I reach the cla.s.sroom and find it empty. The carpet is still the wrong color, and cla.s.s is still a half hour later than I remember it. I stare at empty chairs facing me in neat rows, wondering what is wrong with me. It has to be the lack of sleep, it has to be. By sheer determination I remain awake as the students come trickling in, and when cla.s.s starts I give probably the longest and most cryptic lecture on the metabolism of cold blooded animals in the history of Herpetology. Even as I try simplifying what I've just said to the poor students, I'm making it even more complicated. I have their attention, too, I guess from the anger and frustration in my voice. I see beads of sweat forming on foreheads, and furrowed brows, and no doubt their thinking I'm going to include all this in their finals.

After cla.s.s I plod on tired feet all the way across the campus grounds, across Hearst Avenue and up the steps of the Euclid. I make it to my bedroom and lie down, thinking that I should at least take off my shoes, but I'm asleep before I have the chance. My last conscious thought is me wondering at the sensation I'm feeling; a sinking, settling sensation, as if I were melting into my bed.

I awake to the sound of a bell and heavy footsteps pounding down the hall outside my bedroom door. The phone is ringing and Tom has just come home, and he's running to answer it. I sit up, yawning, feeling much better. I look at the time: it's 10:10 PM. G.o.d, I think to myself, what a weird dream. The dream was about schedules being mysteriously changed, and buildings changing shape, and police persecuting me.

Yawning, I make my way out of my room and to the kitchen, pulling a beer out of the refrigerator. I plod into the living room and sit down across from Tom, who is talking in a low voice on the phone. He silently waves h.e.l.lo. To the phone he's saying, ”Uh-huh. Yeah. Yeah, really.

Uh-huh.” It's his ”on the phone with a woman” voice, he's no doubt talking to Heather. I tune it out, and concentrate on drinking my beer.

”Yeah, he's right here,” Tom says to the phone. ”Okay, bye.” He holds the phone out toward me.

I give him a puzzled look.

”Pris,” he says. ”She's calling for you.”

My heart picks up it's pace and my hands are suddenly damp. I take the phone, which is still warm from Tom's hand, and say, ”h.e.l.lo?”

”Hi,” says Priscilla's throaty voice. ”Are you doing anything?”

”No, not really. I just woke up.”

”I haven't slept at all.”

”You must be tired.”

”I am. Well, I am, and I'm not. You know? It's like I've got my second wind.” Both of us are silent for a few seconds. ”You want to come over?” she says suddenly.

”Oh, uh, sure.”

”I've got a bottle of Portuguese wine I want to drink, but I don't like drinking alone. Do you like Lancers?”

”Uh, yeah.” My throat has gone dry. If there were a little devil on one of my shoulders and a little angel on the other, the devil would be saying, ”All right man! You're gonna score tonight!” and the angel would be saying, ”No, don't listen to him, she just needs someone to talk to.”

I clear my throat and ask, ”Do you want me to bring anything?”

”Just yourself,” she says. She gives a little nervous laugh. The little devil on my shoulder is doing somersaults of glee.

”Okay,” I tell Pris, ”I'm on my way now.”

”Bye,” she says, and I hear her take a breath.

”Bye,” I tell her.

We hang up.

Tom is sitting across from me on the couch acting like he hadn't heard a thing. As I stand up, he says, ”Did you find out anything about the government project?”

”Only that it exists and that it's secret.”

He nods, then lets loose a tremendous yawn. ”We'll talk more about it tomorrow,” he says. ”It's been a long day.”

Tom goes to bed, and I grab my jacket and head out the door. As I hit the street, I feel a strange calmness from the cool night air and the sounds of the rock band playing in the bar up the street. Everything is familiar. The parking places all up and down Euclid Street are filled with cars, and there's a parking meter at every s.p.a.ce. It was a dream, I tell myself. It really was. This is an enormous relief.

I brave the walk up to my car, and find that, yes, it's still there. A green, beat-up old Toyota land cruiser. There's a thick coating of dust across the winds.h.i.+eld and numerous parking tickets stuffed in the winds.h.i.+eld wipers. It seems I keep forgetting to move it when it's time for the street sweeper to come by. It's a wonder it hasn't been towed. Gathering up the tickets, I unlock the door and get in. I put the key in the ignition, give it a turn, and the engine goes ”click” and nothing else happens. Well, it hasn't fixed itself yet --- the starter hasn't worked for two months. Fortunately for me, it's parked on a hill.

I push down on the clutch, pump the gas pedal, and release the emergency break. There's a lurch, and I fight like mad with the steering wheel as the car and I go rolling away, gaining speed. When it's up to 25 mph I pop the clutch and the engine sputters, dies, sputters again, then backfires like a shotgun. By the time I reach Hearst Avenue the car is running, and I turn west and head toward the freeway.

The trip to San Francisco takes twenty minutes. Traffic is light, and the view from the Bay Bridge is beautiful. For once I feel in control, like tonight marks the start of a new life. As I come gliding down the bridge and into San Francisco I feel like I should be in a movie, and that a helicopter should be filming me right now, and some sort of wonderful Hollywood soundtrack should be playing. It does, in my head --- which is the closest thing since the radio doesn't work.

There's a parking s.p.a.ce just up the hill from Priscilla's place; I maneuver into it and shut the engine off. The car is aimed downhill. I laugh, thinking that I don't really need a new starter if I can continue to park like this.

The walk down the hill to her apartment house is quiet. There's a mist in the air, and a stillness. In the distance I can hear a ambulance, probably miles away. I can hear an occasional car pa.s.s several blocks over. All the houses and apartments I pa.s.s are either dark or only have a low light coming through the windows. It gives me the impression that everyone in the neighborhood is either asleep or copulating.

When I arrive at Priscilla's I feel very calm, so much so that I'm amazed. I would think my heart would be banging away against my ribs, which is usually how Pris effects me. She answers the door and says h.e.l.lo in a soft voice, and she's wearing a silvery silk blouse with no bra.s.siere and tight jeans. There's still no sudden increase in my heart rate, I just feel this high, transcendent fountain of pleasure, and I say h.e.l.lo back and smile at her smile. Her hair falls over her eye and she pushes it back, then steps forward, reaching up with her thin, graceful arms, and gives me a hug. I hug her back, feeling I could die right then and there, the happiest moment of my life.

The hug lasts a long time. It seems she's going to let me stand there and hug her for as long as I want. I'm afraid she's going to catch a cold in this chill air, though, so I pull back and she lets go, then leads me into the apartment. I close the door behind us.

One of her roommates, Lori, is sitting in the front room in her night gown watching television. She glances up and gives me a look through a lock of her hair, and smiles, and says, ”Hi there.”

”Hi,” I say back, but Pris has a hold of me by my arm and she pulls me through the living room to the kitchen. In the kitchen she pulls a red bottle out of the refrigerator and hands it to me along with a corkscrew.