“No, this one’s different,” Barney said, stepping forward and lifting the phone off its hook. The dial lit up as he held it in his hand. He could hear the dial tone, a thin strand of sound connecting them with the rest of the world outside. “Here,” he said, handing the phone to Billy. Startled, Billy reached up and pressed the instrument to his ear.
“Put it back on the hook,” Mazzo commanded. “It’s a goddamn telephone, not a toy. It’s to call people up on, not to play with. You look stupid with that phone on your ear without a call to make.”
Billy handed Barney the telephone with regret, and Barney replaced it on the hook. What a bastard Mazzo was. But he got away with it because of his beauty. Nurses hovered over Mazzo, despite his grunts and groans, as if they wanted to preserve his beauty as long as possible, as if his beauty was so rare and radiant that the world would be left desolate by its going.
Mazzo smoothed the sheet with long, thin fingers. Artistic fingers. Barney’s were short and blunt. “I didn’t even want the phone,” Mazzo said. “The goddamn thing is no use to me.”
“You made a big production out of it when it was installed,” Barney said.
Mazzo smiled, an astonishing thing, giving an additional sparkle to his eyes, softening the jawline. “That was for your benefit, Barney.”
“Well, what have you got a phone for if you don’t want it?” Barney asked.
“My mother, that’s why,” he sneered. “She wants me to have a phone so she can call me. I won’t let her in this lousy place, so she wants to call. She’s already called once, but I didn’t answer the damn thing. I let it ring. I hate the sound of the thing but I let it ring. I don’t want to talk to her.”
Barney winced at Mazzo’s remark, recalling his own mother. Or trying to recall her. Since he had begun taking the merchandise, he sometimes found it hard to concentrate. Like now, when he tried to summon his mother’s face and couldn’t. Or when you are blinded momentarily by a flashbulb, and able to see everything but that bright spot left by the flash. That’s the way it was now as he thought of his mother, unable to summon her face clearly but remembering how she always wore a lot of jewelry, junk jewelry, and she made music when she walked, you could hear her coming a mile away. But he couldn’t bring back her face at this moment. One of the aftermaths. Which was why he was glad he wasn’t having any more merchandise for a while.
“Okay, you guys, now that you’ve seen the phone, get out of here,” Mazzo said, dismissing them, closing his eyes as if that would make them disappear. Barney realized for the first time how much Mazzo’s eyes contributed to his beauty. With eyes closed Mazzo seemed ordinary, good-looking maybe, but nothing special. Some people, babies especially, are beautiful when they sleep. But not Mazzo. Did the nurses wake him up at three in the morning just to see those eyes light up his face?
“Listen, Mazzo, can we do anything for you?” Barney asked. “I mean, is there anything you want?”
“In return for a phone call?” Mazzo asked, sarcastic, eyes still closed. Mazzo was not so dumb.
“I mean it, Mazzo. If there’s anything I can do, name it.”
Barney knew his words sounded ridiculous. What could he do for Mazzo that nobody else could do, that Mazzo couldn’t do himself with all that money?
The telephone rang, surprising and startling, out of place here in the hospital room. Billy leaped in the wheelchair. Mazzo grimaced, pulling the sheet up around his neck. Instinctively, Barney’s hand went to the telephone. A phone rang, you answered it, like a law of nature.
“Don’t touch that phone,” Mazzo said, his voice flat and deadly.
The ringing continued, loud, insistent, shrill. Rang and rang. “She knows I’m here and she knows I can’t get away and that’s why she lets it ring,” Mazzo said, eyes closed again.
The hell with it. Barney picked up the phone. “Cinemas One and Two,” he said, singsong fashion, into the mouthpiece.
The sudden silence left a small echo ringing in Barney’s ears. And out of the echo he heard a sigh and then a sound he couldn’t identify. Somebody crying maybe? He was sorry now that he had picked up the phone, but he couldn’t stop for some reason. “Cinemas One and Two,” he said again, with rhythm this time, tempo. “Want to know what time the movie starts?”
A small click and then the dial tone buzzed in his ear. Barney replaced the receiver on the hook. He didn’t look at Mazzo and he didn’t look at Billy the Kidney, either. He looked at the floor, wondering why he had answered the phone, for Christ’s sake. Don’t let it ring again, Barney thought, because there is nothing I can do to help.
The telephone did not ring. Without saying anything and still not looking at Mazzo, Barney pushed Billy the Kidney out of the room and down the corridor. It wasn’t until he arrived at his own room that Barney wondered why Mazzo didn’t simply leave the phone off the hook.
3
DID YOU FUNCTION NORMALLY IN THE PAST 24 HOURS?
Barney stared at the words, uncertain about how to answer.
REPEAT.
REPEAT.
DID YOU FUNCTION NORMALLY IN THE PAST 24 HOURS?
Again Barney waited, studying the words on the video screen, wondering what was normal, after all. He knew that the question would be repeated exactly twenty-five times, and if he still didn’t answer, the screen would grow blank, setting off an alarm somewhere, summoning either the Handyman or Bascam or someone else as if a state of emergency had been declared.
REPEAT.
REPEAT.
DID YOU FUNCTION NORMALLY IN THE PAST 24 HOURS?
What the hell. Barney pressed the button marked YES. There were three buttons that could be pressed in response to the questions: YES, NO, and one containing a question mark. The Machine, of course, was programmed to ask questions requiring either an affirmative or negative reply. The question mark was for use only when the inquiry wasn’t clear. Then there would be a pause, a humming sound as if the Machine were actually thinking things over, and the question would come back phrased differently. This always gave Barney the shivers, and he’d tell himself that there probably was someone sitting at a keyboard in another part of the Complex typing the questions. The Handyman assured him that this was not the case. The apparatus, he said, was sophisticated enough to carry out its own reprogramming and to modify its approach to the answer it sought. He could also go on at length about the operation of the Machine—the thousands of doodads that meshed together in precise and marvelous sequences—but it was all too complicated for Barney to understand or bother about. All he knew was that each evening at seven he came to this small windowless room, little larger than a closet, and faced the Machine. Next question.
Barney anticipated what the next question would be, or at least its essence. After all these nights he had learned the sequence, and although the wording was slightly changed, the substance of the questions remained the same.
DID YOU EXPERIENCE PAIN IN THE PAST 24 HOURS?
Barney pushed the NO, button.
DID YOU EXPERIENCE PHYSICAL DISCOMFORT IN THE PAST 24 HOURS?
Which was another way of asking the pain question again. Or was it? The Handyman was cute about pain, though. He never used the word. He preferred a word like discomfort or its many variations. This may make you uncomfortable for a bit. Or: You may feel a twinge from this. Or: This may be distressing for a moment or two. But never pain. He let the Machine use the word, but Barney had never heard it on his lips.
NO, Barney answered again.
WAS YOUR ROUTINE ALTERED IN THE PAST 24 HOURS?
This question and its variations always touched off a reaction in Barney, depending on what kind of mood he was in. Sometimes it amused him. What would happen if he answered YES? Yes, my routine was altered because I only went to the john twice today instead of three times. Could the Machine handle that kind of answer? Billy the Kidney claimed it could. Billy said Barney was lucky because his responses were those of a normal person in good condition. “Take the pain questi
on,” Billy had said. “Answer YES to the pain question and the merry-go-round starts. What kind of pain, and a long list to choose from. The location. How often. How long. The intensity, by degrees. Wow.”
REPEAT.
WAS YOUR ROUTINE ALTERED IN THE PAST 24 HOURS?
Barney was tempted to fool with the answer, to push YES to see what would happen. It would also break the monotony. But the Handyman had warned him at the outset against that kind of stuff. The Handyman had said that anything but the truth would foul up the project. And foul up Barney’s place in it.
“But why use a machine when anybody could ask these questions?” Barney had asked.
“It saves staff time,” the Handyman explained, “and it gives us complete access to the information by storing it. I can summon anyone’s history and receive it in a matter of moments. Actually, this particular unit is a diagnostic tool—it is capable of coming up with evaluations of the data it receives from patients.”
“But why me?” Barney had asked. “All I do is answer: no pain, nothing abnormal, no change in routine.”
“It’s a requirement we must fulfill. As long as you are receiving drugs, you must be monitored. Knowing the reaction to the drugs—and even no reaction is a reaction of sorts—is vital. It is why you’re here, Barney.”
REPEAT.
WAS YOUR ROUTINE ALTERED IN THE PAST 24 HOURS?
He thought of the moment on the fence today when he had seen the car hurtling down the hill. Hell, he’d been inside the car, and it hadn’t been a dream or a nightmare, it had been happening at that moment. The car, the steering wheel, the wet pavement, the slanting street and the girl stepping off the curb. That wasn’t normal, was it, to have a thing like that happen in broad daylight? Yet he knew that there was no way he could tell the Machine what had happened in a series of YES and NO questions. The Machine handled only objective data, the Handyman had said. Subjective matter like dreams were covered in personal interviews. Barney had told the Handyman about the dream of the car—it had occurred three or four times in the past few weeks—but the Handyman had only shrugged and made a note in Barney’s case history. If it keeps recurring and if it bothers you, we’ll get someone in to discuss it,he had said. Barney knew who that someone would be: a psychiatrist. He wasn’t in love with the idea of talking to a psychiatrist.
REPEAT.
REPEAT.
WAS YOUR ROUTINE ALTERED IN THE PAST 24 HOURS?
Barney pressed the NO button and watched the word appear on the screen.
The Machine hummed its tuneless song again and then fell silent and blank. A short session this time. He felt disappointed. This always happened when the questions ended, as if somehow he had failed a test.
Suddenly he was tired. He left the room and passed through the silent corridor, past all the doorways—doors closed, red lights glowing above the doors—of poor Billy the Kidney and pathetic Allie Roon and Mazzo with the telephone that he didn’t want but Billy the Kidney did.
Barney took a chance as he swung Mazzo’s door open slowly and quietly. The patients weren’t supposed to be disturbed after the staff turned the red light on. A small lamp burned on a table near Mazzo’s bed. Mazzo was an indistinct form under the blanket. Letting his eyes get accustomed to the dimness of the room, Barney waited, not breathing, not moving, listening for footsteps in the corridor. He heard the hum of the machine Mazzo was connected to, the ping of his heartbeats being monitored. He could not see the telephone: It was lost in the shadows.
“Mazzo,” Barney called softly. “I meant what I said. If there’s anything I can do, let me know. I can get around this place and you can’t.”
No response. Or had there been a slight movement in the bed, a small stirring, and had he seen a flash of perspiration on Mazzo’s forehead as he moved?
Barney waited a moment, then withdrew, closing the door gently.
The corridor was empty, the red lights glowing. Silence, except for the hum of a motor somewhere in the walls. Odorless and colorless, the walls a drab gray, the ceiling a dull white. He felt lonesome, suddenly.
What am I doing in this place, anyway? Barney asked himself.
But he knew what he was doing in this place, after all, Barney thought as he viewed himself in the mirror. Each night before taking the capsule and slipping into the bed, Barney inspected himself in the mirror, as if to confirm his presence here in the Complex, to reassure himself that the figure in the mirror was actually Barney Snow. It was easy to lose your identity in an institution, in a place where everything was planned and scheduled and arranged ahead of time. The merchandise, which he had received three times since his arrival, often left him woozy and vague, although there had never been any pain involved. Of course, the merchandise was the reason he was here. And also the fact that he was the balancing factor, the stabilizer, the norm by which to measure the abnormal. On his arrival he had been told by the Handyman that he would also serve another function here, the subject of later tests that would be designed specifically for him. Spare me the details, Barney had said. Medical terms scared the hell out of him.
Barney squinted at his reflection in the mirror. He wished he were good-looking like Mazzo. He thought of all the worlds he would have conquered, all the girls he would have impressed. He knew that it took more than good looks to be successful at anything, but the good looks at least got you up to bat. Barney had seldom gotten up to bat. He was not tall, about five six, and slightly bowlegged. Hair cut short to keep it out of his eyes. Adolescent acne spotting his cheeks like small wounds healing. Good eyes, though. He didn’t need glasses. Snappy brown eyes.
Barney heard the squeal of Billy the Kidney’s wheelchair and turned to find him rolling into the room.
“You’re going to catch hell cruising around this time of night,” Barney warned. Actually he was glad to see Billy, glad to see anybody in the evening, when everybody went under wraps early and Barney had nothing to look forward to but television, in which he couldn’t summon interest, and then the annihilation brought about by his nightly capsule.
“What are they gonna do? Kick me out?” Billy said. “I couldn’t sleep, even with a pill.”
Barney sat on the bed. “What’s eating you, Billy? Like today, outside. You were in a lousy mood.…”
“Maybe it was the junkyard,” Billy said, rolling the wheelchair back and forth, back and forth.
“What about the junkyard?”
“It reminded me of all the cars I stole.…”
Barney had to suppress a laugh. Of everyone he had ever known, Billy was the least likely car thief. Small and shriveled in the wheelchair, his face innocent and young, Billy reminded Barney of an altar boy. “You stole cars?” Barney said, trying to hide his astonishment.
“Sure, for a whole year,” Billy said, pride in his voice.
“How many cars did you steal?”
“Twenty-four. I counted them, kept track of them. On a board in my room, a bulletin board I made out of a cardboard box. That time I lived outside Philly for two years with the same family. I marked off the steals on the board. But nobody knew what I was doing. I’d steal a car and mark it up. Had codes for the names. Like a Monte Carlo was the Phillies. And a Malibu was the Yankees. I named the cars for baseball teams. Everybody thought I was a big baseball fan, keeping those names up on the board.”
“So tell me. What did you do with the cars you stole? Sell them to the Syndicate?” Barney still wasn’t taking it all seriously, figured Billy was telling tales to pass the time.
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything with them. That’s why I never got caught or got into trouble. I’d just steal them and take a ride. Go someplace for an hour, maybe, get away from that place I was living. I’d drive around and then bring the car back near where I took it, because it’d be a long walk back if I left it out in the boondocks.”
“How did you learn to steal cars?” Barney asked, curious now because he was becoming convinced Billy was telling the truth. Billy was too i
nnocent to be a liar.
“I learned from a friend of mine. He served time in tough places. He knew all about stealing cars, punching out, the switch, everything. And other stuff. Like always take cars in the movie parking lot or at a restaurant where you know the people are going to be busy for a while. Never outside stores in a shopping mall where the owner could come out any minute.” The wheelchair continued to rock back and forth.
“You never got caught?”
“Never. That’s because I didn’t really steal the cars. I borrowed them.”
“That was a big risk, just for a joyride.”
Billy leaned his head against the back of the wheelchair and closed his eyes. His pallor was terrible in the lamplight, yellow and deadly. “Jeez, it was nice, driving along. I’d open all the windows and let the breeze blow in. I’d turn the radio up loud. Once I took a car that had CB stuff, and I turned the knobs and dials and heard all these voices out there calling to each other. It was beautiful.”
Barney didn’t say anything. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a car, and sent his mind back for the memory but encountered only that nightmare car slanting down the street. At the same time he thought of the MG in the junkyard, shining and spanking new in the middle of all those ruined cars and trucks.
“Remember this afternoon how I said I saw that car, how it looked like new?” Barney said, raising his voice a little because Billy’s eyes were still closed and he wasn’t moving and Barney wondered whether he was dead, whether he had died quick, just like that, the way the Handyman said it could happen. Then Billy’s eyes fluttered open and Barney breathed a sigh of relief.
“I remember,” Billy said. “Know how long you were on top of that fence? Like you were frozen, a statue? Hell, I started counting after a while, and I counted to one hundred and twenty-five. Which is a hell of a long time if you take a breath between each number.”