do my thing, you'll do your thing, andwe'll both be rich and living in New York before you know it. Do youunderstand?"
"Not really."
"OK, that'll have to be good enough for now. Jesus, Art, I'm doing my best here,all right?"
"Say hi to Linda for me, OK?"
"Don't be pissed at me, Art."
"I'm not pissed. I'll stall them. You do your thing. I'll take it easy, rest upmy back."
"All right. Have a great time, OK?"
"I will, Fede."
Art rang off, feeling exhausted and aggravated. He followed the tunnel signs tothe nearest up-ramp, wanting to get into the sunlight and architecture and warmhimself with both. A miniscule BMW Flea blatted its horn at him when he changedlanes. Had he cut the car off? He was still looking the wrong way, stillanticipating oncoming traffic on the right. He raised a hand in an apologeticwave.
It wasn't enough for the Flea's driver. The car ran right up to his bumper, thenzipped into the adjacent lane, accelerated and cut him off, nearly causing awreck. As it was, Art had to swerve into the parking lane on Mass Ave -- how didhe get to Mass Ave? God, he was lost already -- to avoid him. The Flea backedoff and switched lanes again, then pulled up alongside of him. The driver rolleddown his window.
"How the fuck do you like it, jackoff? Don't *ever* fucking cut me off!" He wasa middle aged white guy in a suit, driving a car that was worth a year's wagesto Art, purple-faced and pop-eyed.
Art felt something give way inside, and then he was shouting back. "When I wantyour opinion, I'll squeeze your fucking head, you sack of shit! As it is, I canbarely contain my rage at the thought that a scumbag like you is consuming *air*that the rest of us could be breathing! Now, roll up your goddamned window anddrive your fucking bourge-mobile before I smash your fucking head in!"
He shut his mouth, alarmed. What the hell was he saying? How did he end upstanding here, outside of his car, shouting at the other driver, stalkingtowards the Flea with his hands balled into fists? Why was he picking a fightwith this goddamned psycho, anyway? A year in peaceful, pistol-free London hadeased his normal road-rage defense systems. Now they came up full, and hewondered if the road-rager he'd just snapped at would haul out aSecond-Amendment Special and cap him.
But the other driver looked as shocked as Art felt. He rolled up his window andsped off, turning wildly at the next corner -- Brookline, Art saw. Art got backinto his rental, pulled off to the curb and asked his comm to generate anoptimal route to his hotel, and drove in numb silence the rest of the way.
19.
They let me call Gran on my second day here. Of course, Linda had already calledher and briefed her on my supposed mental breakdown. I had no doubt that she'dmanaged to fake hysterical anxiety well enough to convince Gran that I'd lost itcompletely; Gran was already four-fifths certain that I was nuts.
"Hi, Gran," I said.
"Arthur! My God, how are you?"
"I'm fine, Gran. It's a big mistake is all."
"A mistake? Your lady friend called me and told me what you'd done in London.Arthur, you need help."
"What did Linda say?"
"She said that you threatened to kill a coworker. She said you threatened tokill *her*. That you had a knife. Oh, Arthur, I'm so worried --"
"It's not true, Gran. She's lying to you."
"She told me you'd say that."
"Of course she did. She and Fede -- a guy I worked with in London -- they'retrying to get rid of me. They had me locked up. I had a business deal with Fede,we were selling one of my ideas to a company in New Jersey. Linda talked himinto selling to some people she knows in LA instead, and they conspired to cutme out of the deal. When I caught them at it, they got me sent away. Let meguess, she told you I was going to say this, too, right?"
"Arthur, I know --"
"You know that I'm a good guy. You raised me. I'm not nuts, OK? They just wantedto get me out of the way while they did their deal. A week or two and I'll beout again, but it will be too late. Do you believe that you know me better thansome girl I met a month ago?"
"Of *course* I do, Arthur. But why would the hospital take you away if --"
"If I wasn't crazy? I'm in here for observation -- they want to find *out* ifI'm crazy. If *they're* not sure, then you can't be sure, right?"
"All right. Oh, I've been sick with worry."
"I'm sorry, Gran. I need to get through this week and I'll be free and clear andI'll come back to Toronto."
"I'm going to come down there to see you. Linda told me visitors weren'tallowed, is that true?"
"No, it's not true." I thought about Gran seeing me in the ward amidst thepukers and the screamers and the droolers and the *fondlers* and flinched awayfrom the phone. "But if you're going to come down, come for the hearing at theend of the week. There's nothing you can do here now."
"Even if I can't help, I just want to come and see you. It was so nice when youwere here."
"I know, I know. I'll be coming back soon, don't worry."
If only Gran could see me now, on the infirmary examination table, in four-pointrestraint. Good thing she can't.
A doctor looms over me. "How are you feeling, Art?"
"I've had better days," I say, with what I hope is stark sanity and humor.Aren't crazy people incapable of humor? "I went for a walk and the door swungshut behind me."
"Well, they'll do that," the doctor says. "My name is Szandor," he says, andshakes my hand in its restraint.
"A pleasure to meet you," I say. "You're a *doctor* doctor, aren't you?"
"An MD? Yup. There're a couple of us around the place."
"But you're not a shrink of any description?"
"Nope. How'd you guess?"
"Bedside manner. You didn't patronize me."
Dr. Szandor tries to suppress a grin, then gives up. "We all do our bit," hesays. "How'd you get up on the roof without setting off your room alarm,anyway?"
"If I tell you how I did it, I won't be able to repeat the trick," I sayjokingly. He's swabbing down my shins now with something that stings and coolsat the same time. From time to time, he takes tweezers in hand and plucks loosesome gravel or grit and plinks it into a steel tray on a rolling table by hisside. He's so gentle, I hardly feel it.
"What, you never heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?"
"Is that thing still around?"
"Oh sure! We had a mandatory workshop on it yesterday afternoon. Those arealways a lot of fun."
"So, you're saying that you've got professional expertise in the keeping ofsecrets, huh? I suppose I could spill it for you, then." And I do, explaining mylittle hack for tricking the door into thinking that I'd left and returned tothe room.
"Huh -- now that you explain it, it's pretty obvious."
"That's my job -- figuring out the obvious way of doing something."
And we fall to talking about my job with V/DT, and the discussion branches intothe theory and practice of UE, only slowing a little when he picks the crud outof the scrape down my jaw and tugs through a couple of quick stitches. It occursto me that he's just keeping me distracted, using a highly evolved skill forplacating psychopaths through small talk so that they don't thrash while he'sknitting their bodies back together.
I decide that I don't care. I get to natter on about a subject that I'm nearlyautistically fixated on, and I do it in a context where I know that I'm sane andsmart and charming and occasionally mind-blowing.
"...and the whole thing pays for itself through EZPass, where we collect thepayments for the music downloaded while you're on the road." As I finish myspiel, I realize *I've* been keeping *him* distracted, standing there with thetweezers in one hand and a swab in the other.
"Wow!" he said. "So, when's this all going to happen?"
"You'd use it, huh?"
"Hell, yeah! I've got a good twenty, thirty thousand on my car right now! You'resaying I could plunder anyone else's stereo at will, for free, and keep it,while I'm stuck in traffic, and because I'm a -- what'd you call it, asuper-pe
er? -- a super-peer, it's all free and legal? Damn!"
"Well, it may be a while before you see it on the East Coast. It'll probablyroll out in LA first, then San Francisco, Seattle..."
"What? Why?"
"It's a long story," I say. "And it ends with me on the roof of a goddamnednuthouse on Route 128 doing a one-man
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