Dhalgren

  When none of us answered, he sucked his teeth, turned back to the white aluminum cylinder (black rings around the middle) and looked down the open end. "Well, some-body'll come along who does, now."

  I wondered if George or June knew.

  "The paper said it was November ninth," California said, "this morning."

  To which Kamp didn't even look up. "If the planets are where they're supposed to be, that more or less means the Earth's where it's supposed to be." He glanced aside long enough to grin. "In the face of all this cosmological confusion, finding that out should make everyone feel a little better."

  "Suppose it's not?" I asked.

  "I," Kamp said, "think it is. But knowing it will make us all happier."

  "I guess that's a pretty good reason," Angel said. He stepped up and looked down into the tube. "Hey, I can see my face upside down in there!"

  "I think it would be a good idea, politically, to be able to print in the paper, now, that we know that- much. It would calm things down-some people have gotten very upset. And I can see why." Kamp looked up the same time Angel did; their eyes caught. "Now you boys-" which he used as an excuse to look away at Lady of Spain and add an inclusive nod-"aren't interested in politics, I guess, but it seems to me . . ."

  In the pause, Cathedral said: "You're into politics, huh?"

  "I'm into . . . politics, I guess so now." His hands lay across the white tube. He moved the bones about inside his flesh as though it were a glove. "But I think your Mr Calkins is a pretty conservative politician. Now don't you?"

  Cathedral, with dark thumb and forefinger, moiled his thick earlobe. A darker pucker where the gold ring went through meant he'd only had it a little while.

  "I'm sure he thinks he's radical. But I think I'm the radical and he's the conservative." I thought he would laugh: he squinted at the clouds, at the telescope. "Now I guess that's what I've been thinking."

  "You're so conservative," Lady of Spain suggested, "it comes out the other way and gets radical?"

  "No." Captain Kamp laughed. "No. That's not it. Maybe I'm not really . . . into politics." He paused. "But it's just that this is such a big country now. Roger . . . well, I guess it's hard for anyone to know . . . that it's such a big country."

  "Unless you've seen it," I asked, "from a space ship?"

  "Rocket," he said. "No. No, that's not what I mean. The Megalithic Republic-now, the Megalithic Republics: the Republic of the United States of America, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and the People's Republic of China-they're very different kinds of political entities from, say, France, Borneo, Uruguay, or Nigeria. The people who live in small nations know it, but they don't know why. The people who live in the Megalithic Republics simply look at the little ones as alien, exotic, bewildering, but aren't even sure why the little ones' histories read the way they do. Two hundred million people, ninety per-cent literate, all of them speaking one language! Now hold that up beside a country like . . ." During his pause, I wondered how many examples he had. "Greece, now. Only eight million people-less people in the country than in New York City. Guy from Macedonia can't understand a guy from the Peloponnesus. Hell, the guy from the north side of Crete can't understand a guy from the south side. My wife, she said we should go there. And we stayed for six weeks. That was my first wife now. But there's no place in Europe where you can go in a straight line more than eight hours by mechanical transportation without running into a different language, different currency, a different culture! How do they expect to teach three thousand years of European politics to American kids in American schools, or Russian kids in Russian schools, in a land where you can go three days by car in any direction and not cross a border? You have to have been there to understand. I mean, have any of you ever been to Europe?"

  Cathedral nodded.

  Angel said, "I was in Germany, in the army."

  "I never been there," California said.

  "I've never been," I echoed, remembering Japan, Australia, Uruguay.

  Lady of Spain said: "I haven't."

  But even two had undercut Kamp's point. "Yes, well I guess you know what I mean now. America . . . America's so big. And Bellona's one of the half-dozen biggest cities in America. Which makes it one of the biggest in the world." He frowned, mostly at Cathedral. "But you guys here, Calkins too, just have no idea how big that is, and how different that makes the people in it."

  "You going to be able to see anything with that?" I asked. "When there is a break, it doesn't last very long."

  Kamp mmmmed in agreement. "You don't need much . . . information-like I was telling you once, back at the party? Mask out almost everything: still, even a little bit will tell you an awful lot." He looked at the sky again. The lines out from his eyes lengthened. His lips parted and thinned. "Hey, we been in Europe," Angel said. "You gonna tell us about the moon? You the only one here's been there."

  "Shit, I seen that on television," Lady of Spain said. "Live. I never seen anything in Europe on television. Except in pictures."

  Kamp chuckled. "Now I was on the earth for thirty-eight years." He looked down. "I was on the moon for six and a half hours. And I've been back from the moon, well . . . a handful more years. But that six and a half hours is the only thing anybody is really interested in about me, now."

  "What was it like?" Tarzan asked, as though that followed perfectly from what Kamp had said.

  "You know?" Kamp stepped around the telescope. "It was like coming to Bellona."

  "How do you mean?" Priest put both hands on the stone steps and leaned forward, waiting to see whether what Kamp had said was from hostility, or just a new thought; or both.

  "When we got to the moon, now, we knew a lot about where we were; and at the same time, we hardly knew anything about it at all. And that's just what it's like here. After six and a half hours-" Kamp mused, his eyes narrowing in the smoke-"it was time to go. And if I can't figure, out where we are this evening, now, I think it will be time for me to leave here too."

  Lady of Spain looked at the sky, then at me-"Where would you go?-" then at the sky again.

  "Someplace where I can tell where I am."

  The sky was fused, side to side.

  "Good luck," Cathedral said.

  "I guess that's good-bye too, then," I said.

  Priest stood up from the steps.

  Kamp nudged one leg of the tripod with the toe of his shoe. "Maybe it is." The metal tip scraped awfully loud.

  "So long," Cathedral said.

  We walked down the hill.

  Angel wanted to know what Kamp had said about information at the party. I tried to reconstruct. Which turned

  Angel on, and he began a sort of dithyramb about how much everything, while we

  Speech is always in excess of poetry as print is always inadequate for speech. A word sets images flying through the brain from which auguries we recall all extent and intention. I'm not a poet because I have nothing to walked through brash and rocks and brushes, told him about the park; that was much fun.

  We came out of the trees, talking a lot to each other just as somebody jammed a log into the furnace. Sparks went high into the late, grey afternoon; the smoke plume thinned.

  "Hey!" John said and came over, through, and around the kids sitting and standing. "How are you guys? How you guys been?"

  I watched the smoke.

  Thinning.

  Two kids (pink tank-tops; long, straw-colored hair) hauled sleeping bags from under the picnic bench.

  Overtaking John, Woodard, yellow as a leaf and woolly as ... well, Woodard, came to a dead stop and blinked at me (us?). I think at first he'd thought he knew us, but then wasn't sure.

  I was going to say hello but John overtook him, now, ruffling at the boy's hair, and said, "Kid, I haven't seen you around for a long time." His hands were just as clean, but Ms blanket-vest looked like he'd actually done something in it since that last I'd seen.

  "How's it going?" I asked.

  John gave a tepid
grin. "About as well as it can, I guess."

  I felt something was wrong; as if I was looking at a place I didn't recognize but should-or did recognize, even though I'd never seen it.

  "Kid!" which was Milly.

  They went on talking without giving me a chance to introduce the others, which I thought was silly, but Milly and John did things that way. Talking the most, Milly stepped forward over a sleeping bag where an older guy sat up and began to rub his-glasses on the tail of a Sweet-Orr workshirt.

  Then I figured, fuck it, they better know who everybody was so I just said, loud enough to make them stop talking: "This is Cathedral. And this is . . ." going down the line. While I was doing that, I saw this guy walk into

  give life to make it due, except my attention. And I don't know if my wounded sort is enough. People probably do hear watches go tic-tok. But I'm sure my childhood clock went tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic . . . Why do I recall this in a city without time? What hairy men find on their bodies is amazing. the clearing with a gun under one arm, which was what started the fight.

  And which, after going through all this, I don't really feel like describing again because I've been over it with so many people at that bar and at the nest already. Lady of Spain

  was all enthusiastic and kept asking where the guy was from. John and Milly I think were going to say they didn't know, but Jommy said he was from the God-damn downtown department store, and Milly said, "You don't know he's from the Emboriky for certain," and Jommy said, Shit, he knew, and that they'd already run them from one side of the damn park to the other; which I didn't even know about. "Man," John said, beating at my shoulder and grinning, "You're really crazy, Kid; you're really crazy . . ." He shook his head, laughing like something was very funny. "Man!"

  Second thoughts: since there've been so many repercussions, I should go into it once more just to clear it up for myself. A few things stick with me: like, they had the box of food all ready for him, sitting up on the end of the picnic table (like it used to be for Nightmare). And he was wearing very high-waisted khaki pants, a khaki shirt (army? marine? I don't think so), and orange construction boots -shirt, pants, and boots all looked brand new. But I couldn't tell you the color of his hair Also: the riffle, which I mentioned right off, didn't strike me as odd at the time. Until he started talking and waving it around and once pointing at the guy still sitting in the sleeping bag. I was going through something about maybe he was some loner friend of theirs like Tak, and had I seen him before; and where? I've told a couple of people since that he was somebody I'd met before, to sort of explain that feeling away. I'm not sure now; but for one moment I was certain it was the guy who'd sat in the balcony that night at George's. But now I'm just as certain (however certain that is) it wasn't. Cathedral actually moved first-something no one mentions when they talk about it. I thought he was going to take the food carton for himself I guess the guy did too; that was what made him raise the gun.

  What were the dozen people standing around thinking?

  What was I thinking?

  I grabbed the barrel with one hand and hammered the heel of the other against the stock so hard I thought my wrist had green-sticked. Thinking (all part of that first feeling of displaced familiarity): I've done this before . . . No ... I've never done this before, but if I'm ever going to, I've got to do it now! And if I didn't get shot in the chest, it was because the guy was too scared or just not used to killing people. For which I'm very glad. I twisted, with my arm on fire, and "You want the carton?" Milly was saying. "We should give that food to them, John. We used to give food to Nightmare."

  "Shit," Priest said. "We got a whole cellar full of food."

  "Come on," I said. Come on, let's get out of here and leave these poor-ass mother-fuckers alone!" Which I delivered right at John (and it went right over his shoulder to Frank who was sitting on the table beside the food carton as if he was guarding it. And you know, all the bastards kept grinning right through). So we left.

  Angel kept prancing around and started tugging on me just like John (Priest was carrying the rifle and had started examining it, and I said: "Man, throw that

  watched his face go from surprise to pain as his fingers wound in the trigger guard.

  The gun cracked! I thought the explosion had happened in my mouth. But the barrel was pointing over my right shoulder. (If you'd asked me then, I would have said I felt the bullet tip my ear-but that's impossible, I guess.)

  The gun dropped/fell/slipped(?) from him; I swung it away, swung it back and wopped it against his hip. He staggered, grunting. I guess he thought I was crazy. (Was I crazy?) He started to come at me, but Lady of Spain grabbed him; then Cathedral.

  I hit him again in the stomach with the butt of the gun.

  Afterward, John kept saying: "Kid, you're crazy, man! Man, you're crazy, Kid!" in a paroxysm of gleeful hysteria, while Cathedral et the five other al kept their shoulders near mine. My thoughts were carbonated (Yes, I shouted after the guy, when he got up and limped away, "Get the fuck out of here and get your own food!" because it was the easiest thing to say that would give what I did a reason; but while everyone was standing there yakking about how tough it was getting hit up for food all the time, and maybe they wouldn't come back for a while and leave them alone, I kept thinking I should just take the carton of food with me [with the stash under the house we didn't need it] because we didn't need it) but the detrius was: Take it; because that was the only way to make them understand why my reason for doing it was.

  I forgot it-the carton.

  I was halfway back to the nest with Cathedra! and the others going on loudly about how cool the whole thing was when I remembered three times and forgot what I'd decided to do. I told them about it, which took a lot of energy to start. But they didn't understand ("Yeah! Yeah, that's what we should have done!" from Tarzan; and from Lady of Spain: "That would've been all right. They wouldn't of minded.") and kept yelling.

  I'm not a poet.

  I'm not a hero.

  But sometimes I think these people will distort reality in any way to make me one. fucker away! You

  hear me? Throw that fucker away - break it on something, nigger, or I'll break your black head!" He smashed the stock on a stone, "Yeah!" grunting, and twisted up the firing

  chamber so it was pretty much beyond use. I said: "That's

  no scorpion weapon! A scorpion's got a fucking sting!"

  and lifted up my orchid. They liked that.) just like John

  and saying, "Man, you're something else!"

  "I should have taken their fucking carton."

  "Yeah," Lady of Spain said. "Yeah. That's what we should have done."

  Tarzan said: "Yeah. That would have been all right. They wouldn't have minded."

  "You're too much," Priest said again, and Cathedral laughed and shook my shoulder.

  They kept it up all the way into the nest. Tarzan and Priest came in with me. Cathedral, Lady of Spain, and Angel got stopped outside where they began to tell the story. Well, I guess that was all right. There were enough people around drunk-a bunch of nonmembers who were apparently friends of Devastation or something, I didn't care-to absorb it.

  I was going down the hall when Denny swung out of the living room and grabbed my arm. "Hey-!" He was really excited.

  I thought he was going to say something about what happened in the park. "Hey what?"

  He just blinked.

  So I started down the hall again.

  He followed and said, "Lanya's in the room, in the loft but-" I looked like I was about to go in-"I think she's busy."

  So I stopped.

  Denny said: "You probably shouldn't go in."

  "What's she doing?"

  "Balling."

  "Here?" I said, not that loudly. Beside being surprised, I remember I thought it was not very cool for someone as down as she was on the gang-bang bit (but basically pretty together when it came to keeping her thing in front of assaulting-type male personalities) to be making it
with one of the guys from the nest in my loft.

  And sometimes I think reality will distort me any way to make me appear one-but that's insanity, isn't it? And I don't want to be crazy again. I don't Somebody was coming up the hall from the john.

  "Come on," I said to Denny. We went out on the service porch. "Who's she fucking?" I knew the answer was going to be a surprise; and also that there were six-no, five guys I would particularly not like it to be: Spitt, Copperhead, Thruppence, Jack the Ripper, or Fireball; because they were all the sort who, through malice or ignorance, might try to make it into something unpleasant.

  "Some guy I picked up downtown."

  I was surprised. "-you picked up?" I hadn't expected to be relieved, though. "You balled him too?"

  "Naw. Naw, it was her idea."

  "This sounds very familiar," I said. "What do you mean, her idea?"

  "She asked me to go out and find somebody who wanted to fuck her for money . . . for five dollars."

  "Whose five dollars?" I asked. "His or hers?"

  Tarzan and D-t came up the steps and through the porch door, Tarzan to listen, D-t to wait for Tarzan to finish listening.

  "It's hers now." Denny grinned, "She said she was listening to us talk about hustling, I guess, a lot, and I guess she was curious. Christ, was it hard to find someone with any money at-"

  "We didn't talk about hustling a lot."

  "Didn't stop her from listening. She told me she was curious. She said she wanted to try it."

  "Yeah, yeah. Sure." I cuffed his shoulder. "I just want to know why you're not in there doing your thing."

  "Shit." Denny scowled. "The guy's a creep. He didn't seem so bad when I met him. But he's a creep, you know?"

  "Jesus Christ." Tarzan leaned against the sill of the screenless window frame. "You let your old lady. . . ?" and stopped; probably because of the way I looked at him.

  I said: "Let her what?"

  "You know, mess around with . . . well . . . you know."

  "Tarzan," I said, "if my old lady wants to fuck a sheep with a dildo strapped to her nose, that is largely her concern, very secondarily mine, and not yours at all. She can fuck anything she wants-with the possible exception of you. That, I think, would turn my stomach. Yes, that, I think, I would not be able to