Short Stories - Metrognome and other Stories

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  A switch and several minutes turned the coils of the hot plate red; she, it, and the clock were the only alive occupants of the apartment. The hot plate and the ancient refrigerator filled what would have been the closet. There was a tiny bathroom nearby with a stall shower, john, and sink. The white porcelain was badly wounded, ugly black streaks and circles showing through.

  Filling a cup with hot water from the pot on the hot plate, she added instant coffee and a little sugar, moved to the chair facing the window. Cream was a luxury not to be thought of.

  She sipped tiredly. The water purchased by the beach city was highly mineralized. It gave the coffee a strong alkaline taste she could never get used to.

  The window looked out on the apartment building across the alley. Yellow roll‑up shades walled off the win­dow directly opposite her own. She'd never seen they open. If humanity resided anywhere beyond that impen­etrable barrier of faded yellow paper, she had no idea what it might look like.

  Nor would she ever inquire. Prerequisites for com­munication in the megalopolis of Los Angeles were a willingness to initiate conversation and a car. Pearl had neither.

  To her surprise, she found her hand was shaking. She'd thought Frank and she had it all together, and that had been helping her get it all together. Now her life was back where it had been last year, one of a karma kind with the broken windows in the back of the building that the garbage men consistently refused to pick up and that, the building's manager obstinately refused to break up and place in cans.

  She surveyed her collection slowly, savoring each item so painfully paid for, and managed to smile. Her stopped shaking. A hobby was good for the soul, she'd been told. It also gave her something else to think about', besides her life, which had taken on all the aspects of permanent residence in a dentist's chair. A friend had suggested the hobby. That friend was dead, killed a year ago by a drunk driver, her body and mind shattered like, the windows back of the building's garage.

  Bad year, Pearl thought, sipping. Worse before.

  But the collection helped soothe her, took her mind off the comic‑opera confrontation earlier.

  The glass dragons stood neatly aligned on top of the dresser, guarding the steady tick of the old clock. Four dragon planters scattered around the room held plants in various stages of decomposition or health. The two coleuses were doing well, but they were notoriously tough.

  The dieffenbachia was not as strong, and the purple velvet was nearly dead. But the planters alternately grinned or growled or pouted back at her, unchanged and overly enthusiastic.

  Wings and teeth, claws and tails, scales and eyes of various size and composition and color filled the tiny room. They hinted at unknown lands and times, strange worlds where grace and power were the norm instead of the exception and wonderful magics made life a kalei­doscope of unending delight.

  At night a dragon light lit the room, its horned head supporting the torn shade, a forty‑watt bulb embedded neatly in its upcurving spine. From the ceiling hung a dragon kite, vast paper wings hiding the worst of the peeling plaster. Everywhere dragons concealed, bright­ened, or served some useful function.

  Her thoughts drifted on the smell of decaying kelp and salt. Eventually they came around to consider the mist shape she'd thought she'd seen on the ceiling, wall, and backboard of the bed this morning. A fine dragon shape that had been!

  She recalled the vein marks in the wings, the powerful talons, and the floating, limpid eyes. For a vision it had been very well defined. She could imagine herself seeing something like it in a moment of great mental stress. It resembled none of the dragons in her collection, nor any she'd seen but been unable to afford.

  Surely it had been staring back at her: Its expression puzzled her. At first she'd imagined it to be a leer, but that could have been due to her own unfortunate position at the time and the circumstances of the moment. It could have been expectation, she thought deliciously. Or per­haps indifference, or contemplation.

  Another puzzle came from the name. Ehahm‑na‑Eulae. All of her dragons had pet names, but nothing like that. It had been there, in her head, simultaneous with the vision. Where had it come from? It sounded faintly bib­lical, but many strange names sounded "faintly bibli­cal." That's a product of your upbringing, she told herself. Life had been more solid in Oklahoma. And colder.

  Ehahm‑na‑Eulae. eHAHM‑na‑eulae. Oriental, maybe? She'd certainly read enough about Oriental dragons, ev­erything that was available in the local library. Always she had the books to herself. Usually she had the library to herself. In her neighborhood literacy was not consid­ered a prime ingredient for survival.

  If not Oriental, not biblical, how about Hindu? She resolved to research the lineage as soon as she had the chance. It would be fun. Anything that involved dragons, even imaginary ones, was pleasurable. It was research in the real world that was difficult. Like trying to locate a real friend or true lover (and forget such fantasies as true love).

  She washed the dragon spoon carefully, then the dragon mug. Its tail formed the mug handle. She moved to the dresser and brushed back her hair, the dragon framing the top of the mirror, holding the mirror firmly for her.

  The face that looked back at her out of the mirror was used. Lines formed in her forehead like ripples in the sand, and there were sandbags beneath each eye. No time or need for makeup now . . . she tucked the blouse back into her skirt and secured her hair in back with a rubber band.

  Next to the dresser was a small cabinet. A dragon of Mexican onyx rested on top. Inside the cabinet were ad­ditional clothes, other personal effects, and old movie magazines. The top drawer released a couple of bottles, thick‑walled and squat, with seductive mouths now sealed tight by pungent corks. She hesitated, chose one.

  She sipped ladylike from it. Honey‑colored liquid burned her throat. She stared at the bottle, muttered a silent "what the hell," and downed a full, gut‑scouring swallow. She recorked the bottle then, inordinately proud of not choking, and forced herself to put it back in the cabinet and close the doors.

  Two tiny china dragons flanked the black hulk of the telephone. She stared at it for several minutes before di­aling. The click‑click ricocheted inside her head. Ciga­rette. I wish to God I had a cigarette.

  The phone made some peculiar, unfamiliar noises. A strange voice came on.

  "Is this . . . ?" and the voice repeated Pearl's number.

  "Yes . . . operator? What's the trouble?"

  "I'm terribly sorry, Miss, uh . . . Sommer. This is the United Telephone business office. There seems to be some discrepancy in our records. You appear to be two months behind in your account? I'm afraid until at least the oldest bill is paid . . . you understand."

  "But I‑" She stopped herself. She was a lousy liar. "Look, please, can I make one collect call?"

  "I don't . . ." The voice turned unexpectantly human. "Collect? I suppose that would be all right. What num­ber would you like, please? I'll try and connect you through this exchange."

  "Thank you, operator, really. I promise I'll get those back payments in right away, right away." She gave the number. Dialing noises came back at her. Fearsomely beautiful, a dragon on the far wall snarled down at her from a poster and gave her courage.

  Faint noises, then: "I have a collect call for Frank from Pearl. Will you accept the charges?"

  Mumbling . . . two mumblings, one female. A single click, final in the room, like the opening of a switch­blade. Then the operator's voice, embarrassed.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Sommer. The‑"

  Pearl hung up. On the operator, on Frank, on that incredible little bitch Maureen, on that part of her soiled world. Golden haze clouded her thoughts, and she thought again of the bottles in the cabinet: The onyx dragon guarding it sat expressionless, solid.

  No . . . no, dammit.

  She happened to glance at the clock. It was nearly eight. Oh, God.

  She splurged on bus fare. Normally she walked to work, but she happened to rea
ch the stop just as the bus was pulling up. It would save her twenty‑five minutes.

  The precious quarter clanked forlornly as it tumbled out of sight into the collection box. She walked unsteadily toward the back of the bus. People turned nervous or curious stares on her. She felt like shouting, screaming back at them. There wasn't a damn thing wrong with her. Not a damn thing! She was as good as any of 'em, ­better, even. Just some bad luck lately. That didn't affect the way a person looked, did it? Then what were they all staring at? Mind your own goddamn business, she yelled silently at them.

  Poor commuters crowded the bus, those unable to af­ford a car, the Untouchables of the freeway society.

  Brakes screeched a shrill about‑to‑stop warning, and she found herself stumbling forward, oddly fascinated at her inability to keep her balance. A vapid‑faced youth in glasses and jeans caught her, kept her from falling. She almost said thank you, until she felt one hand fumbling beneath her skirt.

  He smirked at her, the oily grin making her angrier than the cheap feel. He exited the bus before she could curse him.

  Her face burning, she slumped into a seat. His hand was branded into her flesh. Down the aisle, an old black leaned on his cane and chuckled at her. She turned away, pressed her forehead against the window. In the chill of early morning it was comfortingly cool. By noon the fog would have burned off and the coast would be sweltering, unusually humid and hot for southern California.

  A streamlined, writhing shape cavorted through the air outside the bus and glared with enormous yellow eyes back into her own. She sat up straighter on the worn seat. Ehahm‑na‑Eulae, she thought excitedly. Again, here, out­side the sanctum of her collection.

  He was very clear now, the outline sharp and precise, each individual scale outlined in sunlight. This morning's horror, the sallow‑faced pervert who'd accosted her, all faded at the sight of the glorious bewinged apparition paralleling the bus.

  He kept pace easily, skittering across the tops of cars and trucks. One time he settled himself on the hood of a big semi like the king of all hood ornaments, gleaming talons clutching the engine cover while the triple tongue flicked tantalizingly at her.

  He launched himself ahead to perch nimbly on a stop­light, balancing himself with translucent wings that fil­tered the fire from the morning sun, an eagle atop a metal broomstick.

  For the first time she saw true colors, scales of metallic iridescent green and blue shot through with slivers of silver. Once he opened his mouth wide and emitted a flash of pure dragon flame and smiled haughtily at her as if to say: I am pure, I am clean, I am a dragon of a lineage unbroken back ten thousand years through time and space, and this is but the barest hint of what I, Ehahm‑na‑Eulae, can do!

  She almost missed her stop, and when she stepped onto the sidewalk, the dragon‑wraith was gone.

  Howard Johnson's lay two blocks north, a threatening tower of twelve stories that lay athwart two of the town's main streets like a vision out of Piranesi. Within lay twelve stories of soot‑filled ashtrays to be emptied, spilled sodas to be mopped up, torn paper to be collected by hand, and a Hades of missing towels that she would have to pay for. Worst of all were the hectares of unmade beds that she would painfully have to remake, only to find on the morrow that, like Tantalus, she would have to begin again from the bottom.

  A vast presence confronted her in the building's first sublevel. It stood by the clock that held the card that recorded the substance of her life. Miss Perkins was a tow­ering harpy, a violent, gutter‑mouthed giant of a woman with shoulders like a fullback and a voice like a Nean­derthal.

  Actually, Emma Perkins was a smallish middle‑aged woman of pleasant disposition and firm but fair inclina­tions. She was the supervising housekeeper, and she looked sadly at Pearl as she came tottering in, breathless from running the two blocks from the bus stop.

  "You're forty minutes late, Pearl," she said more pit­yingly than accusatorially. "That's three times in two weeks." She eyed the floor uncomfortably. "Last time it was over an hour. "

  "I‑I know, Miss Perkins. I'm sorry. I've had some trouble and‑"

  "Everyone in this world has trouble, Pearl. I have trouble, my sister Jane has trouble, China has trouble. The world's full of troubles."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "The trick is not to bring your troubles to work, isn't it?"

  "Yes, ma'am, but I‑"

  "Some of us are better at doing that than others. That's a sad fact, but still it's a fact. " She stared at Pearl, shocked by her appearance and trying hard not to show

  "I'll . . .try to do better, ma'am. Really I will. I won't be late ag‑"

  "I understand, dear. You look terribly tired." Miss Perkins forced a smile. "Why don't you take a few days off? There's a three‑day weekend coming up week after next, and we'll need everyone at full strength then." She took one of Pearl's hands, patted it in grandmotherly fashion.

  "I'm sure with a little genuine rest and some time to think about what you really want, you'll find yourself feeling much better." She used the hand she was patting to guide Pearl toward the door leading out to the subter­ranean garage.

  "Yes," Pearl began desperately, "but I need the‑"

  "I understand, dear." The door was closing behind Pearl. "In two weeks, when you're feeling better. If you still want the job." The door closed.

  Pearl stood, swaying slightly. Then the import of what had just happened penetrated the fog in her brain. "God­damn you, you rotten old whore! You can take your job and shove it! You hear me? SHOVE IT!"

  The door did not reply. Pearl turned, started toward the distant exit of the dark garage. Something made a noise behind her. She stopped. The sound came again, louder this time. It sounded like garbage cans being moved around on the level below hers. It echoed through the otherwise deserted garage, bounced off shiny new Chevys and Fords. She turned.

  Ahead was emerging from between a Corvette and a big muraled van. Vast globular eyes stared at her, stared through her own eyes into the brain beyond. The red slash of a pupil expanded in the left, then the right one, contracted lazily as the eyes rolled independently, like a chameleon's.

  Teeth of all sizes and shapes were revealed by the hun­gry, half‑opened mouth. Some were curved and outthrust tike tusks. Others were slim as needles and just as straight. A few curved backward like the fangs of a snake.

  Orange flame came in hot puffs from the dark gullet, the fire shining on the crystal cave inside those jaws. The dragon padded toward her on massive cushioned feet, the only sounds the faint roar of its breath and the regular tick‑click its claws made on the concrete.

  Pearl was backing instinctively away from this very real, very uncuddly monster. She was alone in the garage. "M‑M‑Miss Perkins . . . Miss Per‑KINS!"

  She spun and ran, feeling the hot breath closing on her back, expecting her skin to shrivel and crisp or hot fire of another kind to shoot through her as long teeth sank into her back and legs.

  Then she was out in shockingly bright daylight. She slowed to a reluctant walk. A glance over her shoulder showed nothing emerging from the cave of the garage behind her. People stopped staring at her when she ceased running. A mother inconspicuously shooed her two chil­dren across the street, away from an encounter with Pearl.

  She lifted her head, lengthened her stride, and assumed a confident air. I see dragons all the time, she told herself firmly. Real ones. In my apartment. When I'm under pressure, I sometimes conjure up imaginary ones, that's all. It happens when I nightdream, sometimes when I daydream, and occasionally, like today, when I'm not thinking intentionally about them at all. They're my refuge, and it's good to have a refuge, she told herself.

  Idly, she examined the faces around her, the awkward bodies flowing past. Dragons are always perfect, she noted disdainfully. Fat ones, thin ones, big or small, they're always perfectly proportioned and exquisite of design. Their wings are never too big, their heads never at the end of necks too long, their tails constantly
pro­ducing just the proper counterbalance for weight and length. Not like clumsy, inelegant human beings.

  That night she finished the bottle of the morning and part of another. It was dark outside now, cooling off rap­idly as the fog trundled in to cloak the beach communi­ties.

  Somewhere nearby a stereo was playing a scratched copy of a song she thought she recognized, full of elec­tric guitars and challenging moans. A stubborn car was grinding dully on the street below, refusing its impotent owner's fervent demands to turn over.

  She tried the phone again. It was possible the business office hadn't disconnected her yet. Surprisingly, there was a dial tone. She fingered the numbers.

  The voice that answered was not Frank's. She could even have coped with Maureen's, anyone's, just someone familiar to talk at, if not to. But the voice was perfunc­tory and mechanically unsympathetic; a recording.

  "I'm sorry, but the number you have reached has been disconnected, and there is no new number."

  The phone hummed patiently at her until she placed the receiver back in its cradle. She lay back on the bed, hearing the springs creak in the room's remaining heat, and began to shake.

  Jesus, got to stop this. C'mon, woman, get ahold of yourself. Cigarette . . : got to have a cigarette.

  She fumbled unsuccessfully through the drawer in the phone stand, then had a thought and looked beneath the bed. A crumpled white rectangle lay there. Exhausted from the effort of placing her swimming head lower than her torso but feeling triumphant, she picked it up. Two white cylinders remained in the pack.

  Selecting the unbroken one, she located matches and lit up, leaning back contentedly against the stained pil­low. The smoke's usual acridness was smothered by the residue of the liquor in her throat. She puffed deeply. Then she began to cry.

  A scratching penetrated the room. It came from the open window. Her eyes turned, tried to focus through the smoke in front of her face and behind it: In the cabinet the brown lines of the onyx dragon seemed to shimmy. A faint breeze stirred the wings of the dragon kite, set it turning slowly overhead.