I’m fucking gone.
But that’s not me. I’m not Josey Wales. Maybe something’s lacking in me, something is lost.
Oh, yeah. It looks like I’m going to be reading Ulysses this weekend. That’s right. James fucking Joyce. I’ve read it before. Or to be correct, I have tried to read it in the past but always failed. I was too stupid, too lazy. I was too drunk. It’s a difficult read, no question. But I love it. I love the elasticity of time, the doubtful state of reality. As if reality were a liquid. And you can only imagine my delight when Leopold Bloom trots off to a funeral with a fried kidney in his pocket.
Dear Jude.
Moon is dead. Perished.
I sit on a curb, staring. The blue notebook in one hand, a black felt-tip pen in the other. But every word is a struggle. I watch cars pass with the dull wonder of an animal that wants to cross the road but is so mesmerized by the noise and speed and lights that its ears lay flat and its eyes achieve a glossy sheen and soon the beast has no idea how it ever came to sit beside this road.
Now a bus rattled to a stop. Angry black exhaust and I climbed aboard. I regarded the other passengers with profound suspicion but no one else got on or off. I sat down and waited for the bus to move. But it just sat there, trembling. The driver must have disappeared for a pee or a smoke. I was not fond of buses. I always felt like I had been physically erased when the doors hissed shut and the driver was taking me to hell and I recently spent two horrifying days on a slow-moving Greyhound and fuck it anyway. I could have taken a cab to Eve’s place but I was feeling thrifty and altogether too mournful about Moon to hurry anywhere. I pulled out Ulysses and opened it to a random page and read: beingless beings. Stop. Throb always without you and the throb always within. Your heart you sing of. I between them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I. Shatter them, one and both. But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter me who you can…oh, that was fine. That was lovely.
Eyes upon me and I lifted my head.
A young man, nineteen or so, was staring at me with the flat cold eyes of a fish. But the boy was not staring at all, I realized. The gaze was unfocused, fixed on a spot above and to the right of my head. The boy was blind. I felt a slight flush and opened my mouth to apologize, but this was unnecessary.
What does your tongue feel like? the boy said.
I hesitated, hoped the boy was speaking to someone else. But of course he wasn’t. He was speaking to no one. He was possibly unaware that he had spoken out loud at all.
Silence.
A woman sitting near the boy got up and moved to another seat.
Your tongue, the boy pleaded. What does it feel like?
Excuse me? I said. It feels like an ordinary tongue.
Mine is soft and slimy, said the boy. And warm. Do you think that’s right?
Again, silence. The other passengers stared at the boy with the satisfied horror and joy of the unafflicted. The boy stuck out his tongue and flapped it up and down and sideways, tasting the air. I found myself smiling and moved abruptly to sit beside the boy, surprising myself. I was sure that I had made no sound but the boy quivered slightly, as if the small hairs along his arms and neck were so sensitive that he could detect a molecular shift in the air around his body, the slightest change in temperature.
Why do you ask? I said.
Because it’s all I think about sometimes. The boy stared straight at me and I was briefly alarmed by the way his face contorted as he spoke, the way he sucked and chomped at his lips. Then I realized that the boy must have never seen himself in a mirror and so his facial muscles were free to wiggle and twist with the unbound chaos of a monkey’s.
It’s all you think about, I said. How can that be?
The boy nodded violently. Yes, yes. It fills my head, you know. It sleeps there in the dark of my mouth like a beast. Warm and soft. And unpleasantly slimy. And I want to know if that’s right.
I might not have chosen the word slimy, I said. But yes. That sounds about right.
The boy seemed relieved and said nothing more. But I was uneasy. I remembered a Charlie Brown comic from childhood in which Linus became aware of his tongue, to the point that he could think of nothing else. And the more he tried not to think about it, the more his tongue conspired to swell in his mouth, to become a limp of oppressive flesh. Lucy listened to this story, sneering as she was wont to do, then walked away. Moments later she was clutching at her throat and cursing her brother, for now she too was aware of her tongue.
I stared straight ahead, consciously licking at my teeth.
Theseus the Glove:
My, my but that was close.
He took one last bite of his sandwich and dropped the crust into Moon’s overflowing dustbin. Theseus sighed, wondering if there was anything he needed to tidy up before his fellow officers arrived. It was his own error, of course. Damn his police instincts anyway. He had called this in too quickly, before he had tasted the blood and identified it as cow, not human. Before he had searched the apartment and found no body. On top of which, that idiotic Ray Fine person had blundered in at precisely the wrong moment.
Theseus scanned the living room again. A fine mess, but not extraordinary by Moon’s standards. The blood was dreadful of course, but he barely noticed that anymore. He took a deep breath of the pungent air.
It was sweet as milk.
Of course. He rather liked it. But fucking hell. He could only assume that Moon had faked his own death but why he had done so was quite another matter. The man may have simply lost his nut and the real shock was that it hadn’t happened sooner. Lord knew the fat bastard had been on the edge. Moon had been literally melting. But perhaps he was only trying to evade the game.
Theseus cursed, now.
He had been so confident that Moon was unaware of his rather unique status within the game of tongues. This was an irritating and unexpected twist, to be sure. Another one. That murdered Fred had been enough for one day, thank you. And unless he was blind as a newborn, the two were connected.
His eyes hurt, just considering it.
Theseus didn’t have much time and truly he would rather just disappear, or at the very least give the impression that he was too horrified by the apparent death of his partner to be of any use. Theseus glanced at his watch and calculated that while the coroner would likely realize straight away that this was not human blood at all, he would not be able to confirm it until he got back to the lab.
But this was of little consequence. As a police matter, this scene barely interested him. It was the game that concerned him.
And Ray Fine, also. Ray Fine was a concern. That fellow was certainly not as stupid as he appeared.
Detective McDaniel? said a voice behind him.
Theseus willed his face to become pale and crushed. He should appear to be in shock, after all. His partner was dead, his body apparently stolen for some vile purpose. He rubbed at his eyes and forced a tear and turned to face the uniforms that had arrived.
Yes, he said.
It was easy enough to break into Eve’s apartment, what with the door standing wide open. Her things were exposed to the elements. And having just come from Moon’s place, my stomach fairly churned at the sight of it. My stomach became a wide black hole and escape velocity was doubtful.
But I wasn’t so worried, really.
Somehow I knew she was just gone. Vacated. Most of her clothes and all of her furniture remained, but I could tell she wasn’t coming back.
Now I poked through her bedroom with peculiar reluctance, with an older brother’s nervous fear and vague arousal that I might stumble onto her diary, her vibrator.
There were clothes, mostly. And shoes.
And a thousand small fragments of Eve: strange little drawings and a collection of pocket knives, polished stones and bottle caps, a few Wonder Woman comic books, chewing gum and nail clippers and ribbons, matchbooks and foreign coins and panties and various girlish items that I couldn’t quite name. She had left in a big h
urry. I drifted into the living room, sat down on the floor in pretty much the same spot where I had eaten my eggdrop soup yesterday. I told myself not to worry about it. Eve was a tough little bird. She would turn up, undamaged.
Eve/Goo:
The candles had burned low and the gospel was nothing but static.
The food that Dizzy had prepared for them lay mostly untouched on the floor and she thought it was a wonder that gamers never starved. They ate like such nervous birds. But the three of them had already gone through half a bottle of the Pale. In an hour or so they would leave the house without comment and drift into the game. Mingus and Dizzy sat on the floor, facing each other but not speaking. They spoke, but not in complete sentences. One of them would produce a word from black depths, an image. The other would then examine the word, taste it and roll it around on the tongue. Then sigh, nodding.
Goo was not terribly worried about Chrome.
She didn’t quite love him, not enough to worry. And he was known to disappear. Mingus was worried, though. Obviously. She had seen it in his face when she came downstairs and said Chrome was gone. The way his lips had curled and his hands clutched at nothing. But he wouldn’t say why. Goo lit a cigarette and paced around. She felt cold, disconnected. She felt like Eve.
Are you performing tonight, said Dizzy.
Yes.
Have another drop of the Pale.
Goo shrugged. No, thanks. It makes me too clumsy.
What’s the matter? said Mingus.
I don’t know. I wonder where he’s gone, that’s all.
He could be anywhere, anywhere.
And you have no idea?
Mingus hesitated. He sniffed and looked at Dizzy, who now pulled uneasily at her hair.
Tell her, said Dizzy. You have to tell her.
Goo felt her throat tighten. A small cold fist inside. Tell me what, she said.
Mingus spoke in a halting monotone. Chrome killed someone yesterday, a Fred.
She smiled. But he does that every day. Twice a day.
No, said Mingus. Not like this.
What are you saying?
He took this one beyond Elvis, said Mingus. It was real.
He killed somebody, said Goo. Dead, you mean.
Dead, said Mingus.
His hair, she said. There was dried blood in his hair today. But I thought it was fake, or cow’s blood. I thought it was part of the game oh shit.
Are you okay? said Dizzy.
No, she said. I’m not.
She was not okay. Faint, she felt faint. Her voice seemed to come not from her mouth but from her belly or spine. The words flickered between her lips like moths. This will be the end. The end of the game, thank God. Two candles drowning and the room got a little darker. Goo sat down, or fell. She fell into someone’s strong arms. Dizzy, perhaps. Oh, no. Goo was slipping back into Eve’s disorderly mind. A velvet couch, a Barbie doll. Shadows and starvation. Thin dark rope, alien tissue. The red skin of a fish and now she remembered. Eve wanted to warn Phineas about the apartment. And for that matter, she had better tell him to watch out for Chrome.
Oh shit, she said softly. This is insane.
Insane, said Mingus. He looked numb, he looked like he was made of wood.
How could he kill someone? she said.
Dizzy shrugged. Easily, she said. I’m sure it came easily for him.
Eve took a couple steps back. She felt like she was dreaming, like she had been dreaming of a birthday party two minutes ago and unwillingly stepped through a window into this other dream. She was lost.
But shouldn’t we do something, she said. We should tell someone, report it.
Yes, said Mingus. I’m going to tell Theseus, tonight.
Dizzy nodded. He will take care of it, I’m sure.
But she didn’t sound so sure at all. Eve wanted to go back to the birthday party. It was nice in there. Ice cream and cake and funny hats. They had helium balloons and she wanted nothing more than to shrink her voice down to munchkin level.
Do you have a telephone? she said with some effort.
Dizzy blinked. What an odd question. I think so. I have no idea if it works.
The telephone rang and my mouth dropped open. The phone. What fucking phone. There was no phone, I was sure of that.
The phone rang insistently and I followed the noise to the couch. Beneath one cushion was a little portable. I shook my head in disgust and pulled it out.
Hello.
You are there. It’s me, she said. Eve.
Hey, I said. Where are you?
She hesitated. I’m at a friend’s house.
I nodded, realized she couldn’t see me nodding.
Everything okay? I said.
Yes, she said. And no. The apartment isn’t…safe.
I glanced around. How’s that?
Oh, well. This may sound strange.
This is me, I said. This is Phineas you’re talking to.
She laughed. Okay. The apartment isn’t stable.
What do you mean, Eve?
Don’t ask me how, but it’s sort of disintegrating.
I glanced down at my feet and the wood floor appeared normal enough.
Are you okay? I said.
It’s hard to explain, she said. But look at the wall behind the couch. It’s like…fading. The molecules are breaking down.
Uh-huh.
And there’s a hole in the floor, near the bathroom.
Eve, I said. Are you high, or something?
Listen, she said. This is not a joke. Look at the wall.
I lowered the phone and stared at it. Fucking crazy. I felt crazy, like I was really holding an apple in my hand and Eve’s voice wasn’t real at all and she only existed in my head.
Nevertheless.
I walked back to the couch and hesitated, then reached out to touch the wall. It was pretty ordinary textured Sheetrock, and it felt very solid. It was real. I knocked on it with my fist.
Eve, I said. There’s nothing wrong with the wall. Where are you?
I can’t tell you, okay. I’m sorry. Please get out of there.
Where are you? I said.
Something else, she said. You met my friend Chrome, yes?
Yeah, I said. He seemed like a really nice guy.
He’s dangerous, she said. If you see him, walk away.
Dial tone.
Eve, wait a minute.
Dial tone and I wondered, not for the first time, exactly what sort of research had gone into the selection of that particular sound. The military had been involved, no doubt. The psychological discomfort that the dial tone caused was no accident. The phone company did not want the sound of a dead connection to be pleasing and Eve had hung up on me. I chewed at my lip and nearly tossed the phone at the disintegrating wall, then smiled and star sixty-nined her. I felt very clever for about two seconds, but an automated voice soon told me it was sorry and my call could not be connected as dialed. Please check the number and dial again.
Then I got a fresh dial tone.
I threw the phone against the wall and it shattered pretty convincingly but I didn’t feel any better. Eve was in some kind of trouble. Everyone was.
I touched the wall again, almost hoping I would fall through it. But the wall was solid. Then I noticed the damp, brown lump on the floor beside the couch. It looked like a hat, a crumpled sock. I bent to examine it, to touch it. The lump was a dead bird, its neck broken.
Jimmy Sky:
Christ on fire but he was fat. He was large. He caught a glimpse of his tubby profile just now and about lost his lunch. His belly boiled over the edge of his waistband and his thighs rubbed together as if they were in fact connected. It was no wonder he was soaking wet all day. He had no neck at all, really. There was a confounding clump of flesh there between his collar and chin that couldn’t be called a neck, not by anybody’s standards. And he had tits, okay. That was the big kick in the ass. That was the final straw.
Here was the thing about Jimmy. He only had
access to this body on a very limited basis. Detective Moon was tooling around in it most of the time, and abusing it with pure suicidal flair. He was killing himself. Jimmy, though. He tried to eat right and lay off the booze. Jimmy sighed. All of this was going to change, and fucking soon. If he could only shake Moon out of this psychofunk he was wallowing in. Here was the thing. Moon wanted to kill Jimmy. He had asked his sketchy pal Phineas to find him, to find Jimmy. Hilarious, wasn’t it. Except for the fact that Moon’s intentions were unfriendly. He wanted to wipe him out. He wanted to strip Jimmy of his status as a character. It was annoying, to say the least. Jimmy had been Moon’s very reliable undercover identity for two or three years now, an alias is what he had been. Nothing more. Moon had trotted him out now and again for a little police business and Jimmy would make the buy or solicit the blow job or kick the shit out of somebody while Moon took a breather. He had always known that Moon got a laugh out of Jimmy, for Jimmy was a lot cooler and sexier and had no worries about electric bills and taxes. Jimmy was a vacation from himself.
Then Moon got sucked into this game, this game of tongues. Which was interesting for a while. A nice, harmless fantasy ripe with vampires and magic spells, with medieval weirdness and good drugs and a fair amount of nudity. The drugs were a concern, though. Moon had got himself hooked on this sweet narcotic potion called the Pale. Or Jimmy did, as Jimmy Sky was his name within the game. Jimmy was a rare self-aware Fred who was angling to hook himself up as a Redeemer. But Jimmy had a problem, a nasty and fairly frightening problem. Moon and Jimmy were estranged. They barely knew each other anymore. His state of awareness was tenuous at best and he seemed to have no control over how and when he slipped in and out of the game. He would drift into Moon’s world without warning and completely forget he had ever been Jimmy. Then he was helpless, he was trapped in daylight with no memory of the game and a powerful ache for the Pale that he didn’t understand. And meanwhile, Jimmy was fucking tired of the game and he was mighty tired of being toyed with by Theseus the Glove.