Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

by Philip K. Dick

  “Just two left,” the corporal said almost soundlessly; he let his fingers speak for him as he drew them across the rental lists. “A Mrs. Ruth Gomen in two eleven and an Allen Mufi in two twelve. Which’ll we hit first?”

  “The Mufi man’s,” one of the uniformed officers said; he smacked his plastic and shot nightstick against his fingers, eager in the dim light to finish it up, now that the end had at last come into sight.

  “Two twelve it is,” the corporal said, and reached to stroke the door chimes. But then it occurred to him to try the doorknob.

  Good. One chance out of several, a minor possibility but suddenly, usefully true. The door was unlocked. He signaled silence, grinned briefly, then pushed the door open.

  They saw into a dark living room with empty and nearly empty drink glasses placed here and there, some on the floor. And a great variety of ashtrays overfilled with crushed cigarette packages and ground-out butts.

  A cigarette party, the corporal decided. Broken up, now. Everyone went home. With the exception perhaps of Mr. Mufi.

  He entered, shone his light here and there, shone it at last toward the far door leading deeper into the over-priced apartment. No sound. No motion. Except the dim, distant, muted chatter of a radio talk show at minimal volume.

  He trod across the wall-to-wall carpet, which depicted in gold Richard M. Nixon’s final ascent into heaven amid joyous singing above and wails of misery below. At the far door he trod on God, who was smiling a lot as He received his Second Only Begotten Son back into His bosom, and pushed open the bedroom door.

  In the big double bed, pulpy-soft, a man asleep, shoulders and arms bare. His clothes heaped on a handy chair. Mr. Allen Mufi, of course. Safe and home in his own private double bed. But—Mr. Mufi was not alone in his very own private bed. Involved with the pastel sheets and blankets a second indistinct shape lay curled up, asleep. Mrs. Mufi, the corporal thought, and shone his light toward her, with mannish curiosity.

  All at once Allen Mufi—assuming it was he—stirred. He opened his eyes. And instantly sat bolt upright, staring fixedly at the pols. At the light of the flashlight.

  “What?” he said, and he rasped with fear, a deep, convulsive release of shaking breath. “No,” Mufi said, and then snatched for some object on the table beside his bed; he dove into the darkness, white and hairy and naked, for something invisible but precious to him. Desperately. He sat back up then, panting, clutching it. A pair of scissors.

  “What’s that for?” the corporal asked, shining the light into the metal of the scissors.

  “I’ll kill myself,” Mufi said. “If you don’t go away and—leave us alone.” He stuck the closed blades of the scissors against his hair-darkened chest, near his heart.

  “Then it isn’t Mrs. Mufi,” the corporal said. He returned the circle of light to the other, huddled up, sheet-covered shape. “A wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am one-time gang-bang? Turning your foxy apartment into a motel room?” The corporal walked to the bed, took hold of the top sheet and blankets, then yanked them back.

  In the bed beside Mr. Mufi lay a boy, slender, young, naked, with long golden hair.

  “I’ll be darned,” the corporal said.

  One of his men said, “I’ve got the scissors.” He tossed them onto the floor by the corporal’s right foot.

  To Mr. Mufi, who sat trembling and panting, his eyes startled with terror, the corporal said, “How old is this boy?”

  The boy had awakened now; he gazed fixedly up but did not stir. No expression appeared on his soft, vaguely formed face.

  “Thirteen,” Mr. Mufi said croakingly, almost pleadingly. “Legal age of consent.”

  To the boy the corporal said, “Can you prove it?” He felt intense revulsion now. Acute physical revulsion, making him want to barf. The bed was stained and damp with half-dried sweat and genital secretions.

  “ID,” Mufi panted. “In his wallet. In his pants on the chair.”

  One of the team of pols said to the corporal, “You mean if this juve’s thirteen there’s no crime involved?”

  “Hell,” another pol said indignantly. “It’s obviously a crime, a perverted crime. Let’s run them both in.”

  “Wait a minute. Okay?” The corporal found the boy’s pants, rummaged, found the wallet, got it out, inspected the identification. Sure enough. Thirteen years old. He shut the wallet and put it back in the pocket. “No,” he said, still half enjoying the situation, amused by Mufi’s naked shame but becoming each moment more and more revolted by the man’s cowardly horror at being disclosed. “The new revision of the Penal Code, 640.3, has it that twelve is the age of consent for a minor to engage in a sexual act either with another child of either sex or an adult also of either sex but with only one at a time.”

  “But it’s goddamn sick,” one of his pols protested.

  “That’s your opinion,” Mufi said, more bravely now.

  “Why isn’t it a bust, a hell of a big bust?” the pols standing beside him persisted.

  “They’re systematically taking all victimless crimes off the books,” the corporal said. “That’s been the process for ten years.”

  “This? This is victimless?”

  To Mufi, the corporal said, “What do you find about young boys that you like? Let me in on it; I’ve always wondered about scans like you.”

  “‘Scans,’” Mufi echoed, his mouth twisting with discomfort. “So that’s what I am.”

  “It’s a category,” the corporal said. “Those who prey on minors for homosexual purposes. Legal but still abhorred. What do you do during the day?”

  “I’m a used-quibble salesman.”

  “And if they, your employers, knew you were a scan they wouldn’t want you handling their quibbles. Not after what those hairy white hands have been handling outside the workday. Right, Mr. Mufi? Even a used-quibble salesman can’t get away morally with being a scan. Even if it’s no longer on the books.”

  Mufi said, “It was my mother’s fault. She dominated my father, who was a weak man.”

  “How many little boys have you induced to go down on you during the last twelve months?” the corporal inquired. “I’m serious. Are these all one-night stands, is that it?”

  “I love Ben,” Mufi said, staring fixedly ahead, his mouth barely moving. “Later on, when I’m better off financially and can provide, I intend to marry him.”

  To the boy Ben, the corporal said, “Do you want us to take you out of here? Return you to your parents?”

  “He lives here,” Mufi said, grinning a little.

  “Yeah, I’ll stay here,” the boy said sullenly. He shivered. “Cripes, could you give me the covers back?” He reached irritably for the top blanket.

  “Just keep the noise level down in here,” the corporal said, moving away wearily. “Christ. And they took it off the books.”

  “Probably,” Mufi said, with confidence now that the pols were beginning to depart from his bedroom, “because some of those big overweight old police marshals are screwing kids themselves and don’t want to get sent up. They couldn’t stand the scandal.” His grin grew into an insinuating leer.

  “I hope,” the corporal said, “that someday you do commit a statute violation of some kind, and they haul you in, and I’m on duty the day it happens. So I can book you personally.” He hawked, then spat on Mr. Mufi. Spat into his hairy, empty face.

  Silently, the team of pols made their way through the living room of cigarette butts, ashes, twisted-up packs, half-filled drink glasses, to the corridor and porchway outside. The corporal yanked the door shut, shivered, stood for a moment, feeling the bleakness of his mind, its withdrawal, for a moment, from the environment around him. He then said, “Two eleven. Mrs. Ruth Gomen. Where the Taverner suspect has to be, if he’s anywhere around here at all, it being the last one.” Finally, he thought.

  He knocked on the front door of 211. And stood waiting with his plastic and shot nightstick gripped at ready, terribly and completely all at once not caring
shit about his job. “We’ve seen Mufi,” he said, half to himself. “Now let’s see what Mrs. Gomen is like. You think she’ll be any better? Let’s hope so. I can’t take much more of that tonight.”

  “Anything would be better,” one of the pols beside him said somberly. They all nodded and shuffled about, preparing themselves for slow footsteps beyond the door.

  13

  In the living room of Ruth Rae’s lavish, lovely, newly built apartment in the Fireflash District of Las Vegas, Jason Taverner said, “I’m reasonably sure I can count on forty-eight hours on the outside and twenty-four on the inside. So I feel fairly certain that I don’t have to get out of here immediately.” And if our revolutionary new principle is correct, he thought, then this assumption will modify the situation to my advantage. I will be safe.

  THE THEORY CHANGES—

  “I’m glad,” Ruth said wanly, “that you’re able to remain here with me in a civilized way so we can rap a little longer. You want anything more to drink? Scotch and Coke, maybe?”

  THE THEORY CHANGES THE REALITY IT DESCRIBES. “No,” he said, and prowled about the living room, listening…to what he did not know. Perhaps the absence of sounds. No TV sets muttering, no thump of feet against the floor above their heads. Not even a pornochord somewhere, blasting out from a quad. “Are the walls fairly thick in these apartments?” he asked Ruth sharply.

  “I never hear anything.”

  “Does anything seem strange to you? Out of the ordinary?”

  “No.” Ruth shook her head.

  “You damn dumb floogle,” he said savagely. She gaped at him in injured perplexity. “I know,” he grated, “that they have me. Now. Here. In this room.”

  The doorbell bonged.

  “Let’s ignore it,” Ruth said rapidly, stammering and afraid. “I just want to sit and rap with you, about the mellow things in life you’ve seen and what you want to achieve that you haven’t achieved already…” Her voice died into silence as he went to the door. “It’s probably the man from upstairs. He borrows things. Weird things. Like two fifths of an onion.”

  Jason opened the door. Three pols in gray uniforms filled the doorway, with weapon tubes and nightsticks aimed at him. “Mr. Taverner?” the pol with the stripes said.

  “Yes.”

  “You are being taken into protective custody for your own protection and welfare, effective immediately, so please come with us and do not turn back or in any way remove yourself physically from contact with us. Your possessions if any will be picked up for you later and transferred to wherever you will be at the time.”

  “Okay,” he said, and felt very little.

  Behind him, Ruth Rae emitted a muffled shriek.

  “You also, miss,” the pol with the stripes said, motioning toward her with his nightstick.

  “Can I get my coat?” she asked timidly.

  “Come on.” The pol stepped briskly past Jason, grabbed Ruth Rae by the arm, and dragged her out the apartment door onto the walkway.

  “Do what he says,” Jason said harshly to her.

  Ruth Rae sniveled, “They’re going to put me in a forced-labor camp.”

  “No,” Jason said. “They’ll probably kill you.”

  “You’re really a nice guy,” one of the pols—without stripes—commented as he and his companions herded Jason and Ruth Rae down the wrought-iron staircase to the ground floor. Parked in one of the slots was a police van, with several pols standing idly around it, weapons held loosely. They looked inert and bored.

  “Show me your ID,” the pol with stripes said to Jason; he extended his hand, waiting.

  “I’ve got a seven-day police pass,” Jason said. His hands shaking, he fished it out, gave it to the pol officer.

  Scrutinizing the pass the officer said, “You admit freely of your own volition that you are Jason Taverner?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Two of the pols expertly searched him for arms. He complied silently, still feeling very little. Only a half-assed hopeless wish that he had done what he knew he should have done: moved on. Left Vegas. Headed anywhere.

  “Mr. Taverner,” the pol officer said, “the Los Angeles Police Bureau has asked us to take you into protective custody for your own protection and welfare and to transport you safely and with due care to the Police Academy in downtown L.A., which we will now do. Do you have any complaints as to the manner in which you have been treated?”

  “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “Enter the rear section of the quibble van,” the officer said, pointing at the open doors.

  Jason did so.

  Ruth Rae, stuffed in beside him, whimpered to herself in the darkness as the doors slammed shut and locked. He put his arm around her, kissed her on the forehead. “What did you do?” she whimpered raspingly in her bourbon voice, “that they’re going to kill us for?”

  A pol, getting into the rear of the van with them from the front cab, said, “We aren’t going to snuff you, miss. We’re transporting you both back to L.A. That’s all. Calm down.”

  “I don’t like Los Angeles,” Ruth Rae whimpered. “I haven’t been there in years. I hate L.A.” She peered wildly around.

  “So do I,” the pol said as he locked the rear compartment off from the cab and dropped the key through a slot to the pols outside. “But we must learn to live with it: it’s there.”

  “They’re probably going all through my apartment,” Ruth Rae whimpered. “Picking through everything, breaking everything.”

  “Absolutely,” Jason said tonelessly. His head ached, now, and he felt nauseated. And tired. “Who are we going to be taken to?” he asked the pol. “To Inspector McNulty?”

  “Most likely no,” the pol said conversationally as the quibble van rose noisily into the sky. “The drinkers of intoxicating liquor have made you the subject of their songs and those sitting in the gate are concerning themselves about you, and according to them Police General Felix Buckman wants to interrogate you.” He explained, “That was from Psalm Sixty-nine. I sit here by you as a Witness to Jehovah Reborn, who is in this very hour creating new heavens and a new earth, and the former things will not be called to mind, neither will they come up into the heart. Isaiah 65:13, 17.”

  “A police general?” Jason said, numbed.

  “So they say,” the obliging young Jesus-freak pol answered. “I don’t know what you folks did, but you sure did it right.”

  Ruth Rae sobbed to herself in the darkness.

  “All flesh is like grass,” the Jesus-freak pol intoned. “Like low-grade roachweed most likely. Unto us a child is born, unto us a hit is given. The crooked shall be made straight and the straight loaded.”

  “Do you have a joint?” Jason asked him.

  “No, I’ve run out.” The Jesus-freak pol rapped on the forward metal wall. “Hey, Ralf, can you lay a joint on this brother?”

  “Here.” A crushed pack of Goldies appeared by way of a gray-sleeved hand and arm.

  “Thanks,” Jason said as he lit up. “You want one?” he asked Ruth Rae.

  “I want Bob,” she whimpered. “I want my husband.”

  Silently, Jason sat hunched over, smoking and meditating.

  “Don’t give up,” the Jesus-freak pol crammed in beside him said, in the darkness.

  “Why not?” Jason said.

  “The forced-labor camps aren’t that bad. In Basic Orientation they took us through one; there’re showers, and beds with mattresses, and recreation such as volleyball, and arts and hobbies; you know—crafts, like making candles. By hand. And your family can send you packages and once a month they or your friends can visit you.” He added, “And you get to worship at the church of your choice.”

  Jason said sardonically, “The church of my choice is the free, open world.”

  After that there was silence, except for the noisy clatter of the quibble’s engine, and Ruth Rae’s whimpering.

  14

  Twenty minutes later the police quibble van landed on the r
oof of the Los Angeles Police Academy building.

  Stiffly, Jason Taverner stepped out, looked warily around, smelled smog-saturated foul air, saw above him once again the yellowness of the largest city in North America…he turned to help Ruth Rae out, but the friendly young Jesus-freak pol had done that already.

  Around them a group of Los Angeles pols gathered, interested. They seemed relaxed, curious, and cheerful. Jason saw no malice in any of them and he thought, When they have you they are kind. It is only in netting you that they are venomous and cruel. Because then there is the possibility that you might get away. And here, now, there is no such possibility.

  “Did he make any suicide tries?” a L.A. sergeant asked the Jesus-freak pol.

  “No, sir.”

  So that was why he had ridden there.

  It hadn’t even occurred to Jason, and probably not to Ruth Rae either…except perhaps as a heavy, shucky gesture, thought of but never really considered.

  “Okay,” the L.A. sergeant said to the Las Vegas pol team. “From here on in we’ll formally take over custody of the two suspects.”

  The Las Vegas pols hopped back into their van and it zoomed off into the sky, back to Nevada.

  “This way,” the sergeant said, with a sharp motion of his hand in the direction of the descent sphincter tube. The L.A. pols seemed to Jason a little grosser, a little tougher and older, than the Las Vegas ones. Or perhaps it was his imagination; perhaps it meant only an increase in his own fear.

  What do you say to a police general? Jason wondered. Especially when all your theories and explanations about yourself have worn out, when you know nothing, believe nothing, and the rest is obscure. Aw, the hell with it, he decided wearily, and allowed himself to drop virtually weightlessly down the tube, along with the pols and Ruth Rae.

  At the fourteenth floor they exited from the tube.

  A man stood facing them, well dressed, with rimless glasses, a topcoat over his arm, pointed leather Oxfords, and, Jason noted, two gold-capped teeth. A man, he guessed, in his mid-fifties. A tall, gray-haired, upright man, with an expression of authentic warmth on his excellently proportioned aristocratic face. He did not look like a pol.