Part 13 (2/2)

There's still no sign of the men in the black suits, so I turn and walk toward the campus. On the campus grounds I stop short. The buildings are all different, and to the East there's a big silvery dome. It's a wondrous sight, but it's also more than a bit upsetting. I thought I was lost before! This, I tell myself, this is lost.

There's no sign of Tom or the group of students. Feeling bleak and hopeless, I wander across the campus to see if my apartment building is still where it is supposed to be. When I reach the other side of the campus, I find neither the Euclid nor the Escher building; there is, instead, a grocery store. It looks like a 24-hour place, and the sign says ”Windemello Plux!” I wander inside, wondering if the English language has changed beyond my ability to understand it.

The young man behind the register is tall, thin, and white. His neck is very long, making him look freakish. The uniform he's dressed in is white with vertical red stripes, and he has a hat that reminds me of a beanie minus the propeller. He looks at me with pale blue eyes as I wander around the aisles, staring at the unfamiliar name brands.

There's ”Amgood” canned corn, peas, soups, chili, meats --- just about everything. The labels read, ”Buy Amgood, because we am good!”

There's also Yumyum Cola, Bay Beer, Lackfam Frozen Dinners, Laddie Bread, Mother Russia toiletries, and ”Gig!” deodorant. Nothing at all is familiar. No Coca-Cola, no Budweizer --- no Rainbow Bread.

”Are you having a problem with finding things?” the man with the long neck asks.

Yes, my apartment building is gone. Of course I don't say this.

”What's the best beer you carry?”

”Bay is best,” he says, sounding like he's been programmed by a thousand commercials.

Feeling relieved that at least the language is familiar, I pull a bottle out of the cold section and take it up to the register. I take my wallet out, open it up, and find it stuffed with blue dollar bills.

Weird. One of them buys the beer and I get change in little rectangular ingots. They're silver, with ornate engravings stamped into them.

Flipping through the wallet, I find a bizarre-looking drivers license with my picture on it, and an address in San Francisco. Swigging on the beer --- which is good, I'm amazed --- I wander back outside, wondering if I have a car. If I do, I doubt I would recognize it.

Down what used to be Hearst Avenue, where the underground BART station used to be, is an above-ground BART station. The signs don't read ”BART,” though, they read ”WC Freerider.” As I sit in the station on a bench, next to an old wino with a bruised face, clouds come in from the west and blot out the sun. I finish the beer and stand up, tossing the bottle into a wastebasket, just as train comes streaking into the station. I'm shocked to see it looks exactly like the Disneyland Monorail. As the name implies, it costs nothing to board.

Inside is the usual a.s.sortment of subway riders. I find a seat for the two minute ride to Oakland, where I have to get off and transfer to a train to San Francisco. The ride is uneventful, and all but silent.

The only noise is the occasional cough and sneeze of the pa.s.sengers. In the Oakland station, the walls are unusually clean --- there's no graffiti anywhere. I wander around looking for the San Francisco train, which turns out to be on an upper level. It's already in the station, doors open, and I have to run to catch it. The doors close silently and the train glides out of the station without a vibration. This one is full, so I stand holding a handrail as it accelerates toward the bay.

There is no underwater tunnel --- the train goes over the bay bridge on a level above the traffic. I watch out the window, thinking that this train is going d.a.m.n fast, and there's a sudden rush of darkness as it pa.s.ses through a tunnel in Treasure Island. We're on the other side within seconds, and the island is behind us.

The train decelerates as it reaches the other side of the bay, forcing me to hang on with both hands to keep from being thrown into the woman in front of me. As it is, I brush against her and she glances up at my face in annoyance. Then she does a double take, and stares at me.

”I know you, right?” she says.

I have no idea --- maybe in this world she does. But I've never seen her before. ”I'm sorry,” I say, very formally. ”You don't look familiar.”

”I've seen you before,” she says. ”Recently.”

I shrug. She's pretty, and has long brown hair. I would have remembered her for sure. ”Maybe you've seen me on the train.”

She shakes her head, and turns away. The train reaches the first San Francisco stop and the doors open. I head for the door, hoping I have enough of that blue money in my wallet for a cab ride.

The station is huge, multi-leveled. It takes me several minutes to find my way out. Once outside, I head for a row of parked blue-and-black cabs ---oddly enough, they look like cabs --- but a man in a business suit intercepts me and grabs for my hand, and starts shaking it. ”I really admire your work,” he says. ”It's such an honor to meet you.”

”Oh, thank you.” I look at him with what is probably a very dazed expression.

”I had the opportunity to see you two weeks ago, and it was wonderful. I had the time of my life.”

”I'm very glad.”

He lets go my hand, suddenly self-conscious. ”I'm sorry to accost you like this. I'm just so excited.”

”It's okay.” I point at the cabs. ”I've got to go now.”

”Yes, of course. Thank you for, um . . .”

”You're welcome.” I feel awkward as I turn around and walk away from him. What in the h.e.l.l was that all about? Am I a big scientist here? Who knows. The taxi driver doesn't seem to recognize me, and takes the address I give him without a word, starting the meter and pulling out into the street.

San Francisco is radically different. s.p.a.cious, clean, everything constructed from wood and brick and no tall buildings. At the address on my drivers' license there's a large one-story house with a large yard. I mean a front and side yard, too, not just a cubicle of fence in the back. There's an wrought-iron fence and hedges and a manicured lawn. The whole neighborhood is like this. I'm in amazement.

I step outside, feeling like I'm stepping onto the moon, and pull my wallet out to pay the cab driver. A blue twenty-five dollar bill does the trick. He smiles, says thanks, and drives away. I turn and look back at the house, hoping this is actually where I live. I walk up to the front door and knock. I can't bring myself to simply open it up and step in.

I close my eyes, hoping Tom will be here.

The door opens, and I open my eyes. Pris is standing in the doorway, staring at me. ”Why did you ring the doorbell? It wasn't locked.” Before I answer, she turns and walks back into the house, leaving the door open.

My heart surges and my arms tingle. I live with Pris? Hardly daring to breathe, I follow her inside, softly closing the door behind me. This is incredible. This is wonderful! I walk down a hallway with a high ceiling, past oil paintings of sea-scapes and farms, and into a large wood-paneled bedroom with one huge bra.s.s bed in the middle. Pris has boxes all over the place, and her clothes cover the bed. I stop, watching. She's putting her things into the boxes.

”What are we doing? Moving?”

She gives me an angry glare, but says nothing. My heart starts to sink, filling with lead. I don't like this at all.

”You know, I uh, I got hit on the head today,” I tell her. ”Now my memory is all screwed up.”

”Not funny.”

”No, really. What's going on?”

”What does it look like? I'm leaving.”

”Please don't.”

”Huh! What do you care?”

”I care a lot.”

”Yeah, right.”

I get down on my knees beside her, grab one of her wonderful legs.

”Pris, whatever I've done, I'm sorry. I don't want you to go. I'll do anything, anything you want. I love you. I----”

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