Seated at an empty desk that was announced to be his permanent station, Howie waited for his first assignment.
He spent the first couple of hours looking around the office, watching the assorted men and women work at their incomprehensible tasks. Telephones rang, typewriters and printers clattered, and people whispered among themselves, ignoring Howie.
When watching grew tiresome, he donned his headphones and listened to music.
By lunchtime no one had yet approached him with a task.
Thoughts of $750 a week helped him get through the afternoon.
The next day was the same. Howie tried engaging his coworkers in conversation, wandering over to their areas. They replied in monosyllables and returned to their secretive chores.
On Friday, when handed his paycheck by the receptionist, Howie opened his mouth to quit, saw the printed figures on the piece of paper, and changed his mind.
The second week seemed two years long.
Something kept Howie hanging in there.
And so now, in the afternoon of the first day of his third week at The United Illuminating Company, with Mr. Wargrave standing noncommittally by his desk, Howie was ready for anything, and not the least bit ashamed of having been caught with his feet up, dreaming to the music of the Police.
He was ready to be fired.
He was ready to quit.
He was ready to work.
It turned out to be work.
Having gained Howie’s full attention, Mr. Wargrave reached inside his precisely buttoned jacket and extracted a slim envelope. He offered it to Howie in an extended hand. Then he spoke, in his voice like the slither of silk over skin.
“Mr. Piper, you will deliver this message to the address indicated. You must ensure that it reaches the person named hereon at exactly 11:00 a.m. I trust that you wear a watch.”
Howie was too dumbfounded at Mr. Wargrave’s calm assumption that keeping an employee in the dark for two weeks was normal procedure to protest or ask any of the hundred questions that were on his mind. Instead, he merely replied, “Uh, yeah, sure, I got a watch.”
“Very good. We will now synchronize our timepieces. At the mark, I have 10:17.… Mark.”
Howie adjusted his watch, which was slow.
“One last thing,” said Mr. Wargrave. “You will take Mr. Herringbone with you on this mission.”
“Okay. Who the hell is he?”
Mr. Wargrave indicated with an economical gesture a man seated across the room. “There.” With this he left.
Howie watched his boss walk off. He sat amazed for a moment. Then he rose and went to the fellow who had been pointed out.
Mr. Herringbone sat flanked by six terminals. Three were large IBM models, and atop these sat various smaller ones from other makers. All these active screens cast an unearthly glow on the man’s pinched features, which nestled compactly beneath a chaotic mop of red hair.
To,” said Howie, “how are you, man? My name’s Howie; what’s yours?”
Herringbone raised his eyes from the screens to Howie’s face. His fingers ceased their activity on the keyboards. He spoke.
“Gentle tellings die blue greasy up ten dales.”
“Huh?”
Herringbone sighed and reached into a shirt pocket, coming up with a business card. Howie took it. He was so confused that at first he couldn’t focus on it, and thought he saw the phrase: I FEAR A WAR ON BRAINS. Looking more closely, Howie saw that the card really said:
EUGENE HERRINGBONE
THE UNITED ILLUMINATING COMPANY
I SUFFER FROM
A LESION IN THE
WERNICKE’S AREA
OF MY BRAIN
AND CAN SPEAK ONLY GIBBERISH
Howie tried to hand the card back, but Herringbone motioned that he should keep it.
“Wow,” said Howie. “That’s really weird. Sorry to hear it, Eugene.” The man’s name, Howie felt, didn’t fit him somehow, and so Howie, contemplating their work together, asked, “Can I call you Red?”
Herringbone nodded yes.
“Okay, Red, listen up. The big man says we have to deliver a message together. And we’re really gonna have to move, ’cause the address is way uptown, and we can’t be late. So let’s go.”
Standing up, Herringbone revealed himself to be a neurasthenic individual whose motley clothes fit him like a scarecrow’s.
Stuffing the envelope in one of his many pockets, Howie said, “Hey, Red, since we can’t really talk, I hope you don’t mind if I listen to some music.”
Herringbone shook his head no.
It seemed he had plenty to occupy his thoughts.
2.
Rock and roll is the Esperanto of the global village.
— Samuel Freedman
The Hooters were droning “All You Zombies” into Howie’s ears when the train pulled into the station.
Herringbone had to lay a sinewy hand on Howie’s shoulder to drag him out of the music. Howie came out of his fugue reluctantly. There was something mesmerizing about pop music that could often suck Howie down into bottomless depths. He felt truly in touch with some altered state of existence when he had his ’phones on, as if he were tuning in to some indecipherable but vital message traveling the shared neural system of all humanity.
He could never say, upon returning to this world, what the import was of what he had been hearing.
But still, he knew some hidden information lay just beneath the music’s surface.
Howie doffed his headphones and stood in the swaying car. Outside the graffiti-smeared windows, the platform columns rushed by in a blur, as though the train were standing still and the whole world accelerating.
Herringbone unfolded his lanky self, too. Howie told him above the roar, “Thanks, man, I would’ve gone right by, I guess. IH put in a good word for you with old Wargrave.”
The screech of the brakes swallowed up Herringbone’s reply, which was probably just as well, since the part Howie could make out sounded like “green breast calls duck potato.”
Looking around the car for a few seconds before the doors opened, Howie noticed something.
Everyone in the train was getting an information fix.
There were people reading newspapers: the Times, the News, the Post, the Dreck, the Blurb, the Smash. There were others reading hardcovers and paperbacks and comics. Others studied the overhead advertisements: EAT, DRINK, TASTE, BUY, SELL, LEARN, SEE, GO, DRIVE, HEAR, SMELL, FEEL. Businessmen and -women examined the contents of their briefcases. In short, there wasn’t a person present not processing data in some way.
It all looked very weird suddenly to Howie.
The doors juddered open, and Howie followed Herringbone out.
Howie missed the station number in the hustle, but if this were indeed the correct stop, he knew roughly where they should be, according to the address on the envelope. And when they got aboveground, every last scent and sound and sight proved him right.
They had come up in the middle of Harlem, where the cross streets sported triple digits, and the air was funky with music and poverty, and the bars were so tough they didn’t even have names.
After orienting himself, Howie said, “Okay, Red, I believe we got to go three blocks or so east. Let’s move. It’s a quarter to eleven.”
They set out.
At the first intersection, traffic flowed to block their path, so they waited for the light to change. When it did, Howie noticed the walk sign. It was malfunctioning, and said:
DONT WALK WALK
The one at the next crossing was defective too. This one said:
WALK DON’T WALK
And the third one said simply:
DON’T
Now they found themselves on Lenox Avenue. Howie scanned buildings for numbers, and spotted the address they were seeking, just a few paces away. He moved toward it, and stopped on the first step of the stoop. A large, crudely painted signboard hung above the door. It read:
THE WELCOME-WHOSO
EVER-THIRSTETH-FOR-THE- BLOOD-OF-THE-LAMB-CONGREGATIONAL-ASSEMBLY-OF-THE-LORD CHURCH
Howie scrabbled in several deep pockets until he found the envelope.
“The Reverend Mr. Evergreen. Yeah, I guess this makes sense. Okay, Red, c’mon. It’s nearly time.”
The two messengers went into the church.
Inside they were greeted by a friendly Black woman in a flowered dress, who agreed to conduct them to the Reverend Mr. Evergreen. She brought them through several rooms—one of which was a hall filled with folding chairs—and into an office where many people came and went. A radio playing added its noise to the frenetic atmosphere.
Behind a desk sat a big man in an expensive suit. His skin was the color of a glossy horse chestnut; his short hair was stiff with a mousse of some sort; his fingers were covered with rings. He looked like a cross between a riverboat gambler and a boxing promoter. He was very busy issuing orders.
“Harold, I want you to look into that busted pipe at the soup kitchen. It’s got to be fixed before suppertime. Alvin, you check with the mayor’s office about gettin’ the community pool opened before school lets out for the year. Fred, I want you to call Lieutenant Waverly and find out about increasin’ the patrols around the projects.”
People rushed off to obey, and Howie found himself alone with Evergreen and Herringbone. The minister sized him up and said, “You got something for me, son?”
Howie offered up the envelope, and the minister took it. “Is there some answer expected?” asked Evergreen.
Feeling self-important upon completion of his first mission, Howie said, “I bet there is. I’d better wait.”
Herringbone waggled his carrot-thatched head on his scrawny neck in a violent gesture of negation. He grabbed Howie’s sleeve and tried to pull him out of the office. Howie resisted, and Herringbone gave up and waited with a mournful look by the door.
The Reverend Mr. Evergreen slit open the envelope with a long fingernail.
It was 11:00 a.m.
As Evergreen read the contents of the envelope, the music from the radio suddenly ceased and an announcer came on.
“The jury has just returned its verdict in the Warwick case, which has divided the city for the past month. Officer Warwick, accused of negligently shooting three unarmed Black youths, has been found innocent on all counts. We now return to our regular programming.”
The minister’s face had gone dark as a storm cloud. He looked up ominously at Howie, back to the document, then up at Howie again.
“Son, do you know what this is?”
Howie started to feel nervous. “No, sir.”
Evergreen shot to his feet, upsetting his chair, which crashed to the floor. Howie backed up warily to stand beside Herringbone. People appeared at the door, curious about the commotion.
“This is a photocopy of a secret police report that proves Warwick was guilty!” Evergreen shouted, trembling with righteous indignation.
The people behind Howie began to murmur sullenly.
“Goddamn! Someone’s gonna pay!” Evergreen declaimed. “We’re closing this city down!”
Shouts of agreement arose from the crowd at the door. Howie felt his spine collapse. He knew he was dead.
Suddenly Herringbone threw up his hands and shouted.
“Bountiful! Laggards mean pain! Crazy tides afflict all horses, black and cool and chalk! Light, hell, scalded, brash! Elephants!”
The crowd fell back.
“Tongues! He’s talkin’ in tongues! The spirit’s in him! Let him by!”
Howie, nearly fainting, followed Herringbone down the narrow aisle formed by hurt black faces showing both anger and amazement.
The two men made it back to the subway and managed to get on the last downtown train before the first of the riots began.
3.
Somebody had to lose.
—Graffito seen on the Berlin Wall
Luckily, although power was off in the entire city, leaving it a murky Jungian jungle, Lesley’s boombox had fresh Duracells in it. So Howie was able to listen to the Talking Heads sing about “Life During Wartime,” while Lesley read by candlelight.
The subway had ground to a halt fifteen minutes after Howie and Herringbone had boarded. All passengers had been forced to disembark in midtunnel and find their way in the putrid dusk to an emergency exit, which consisted of a ladder rising into darkness.
The first person to emerge toppled a blind man who was standing on the trapdoor set in the sidewalk and selling pencils. The rest had trampled him until Howie emerged and helped him to his feet.
“Thank you, thank you, stranger,” the blind man said. “Take this, please, as a token of my gratitude.”
Howie took the proffered item without even seeing it, and hurried away from the hole in the sidewalk that was still vomiting up people like disturbed ants from a trodden anthill.
Herringbone had disappeared somewhere. Looking around disorientedly, Howie found himself in a Times Square rendered strangely quiet and less garish by lack of electricity. All around him, chaos was growing like a multicolored paper flower dropped into a glass of water.
Howie was stranded half the city away from his own apartment on the Lower East Side. He was dazed and confused and didn’t know what to do.
Then he remembered that Lesley Wildegoose, his sometime girlfriend, lived nearby.
Howie made his way through the rapidly disintegrating city to Lesley’s building in the Clinton section, formerly Hell’s Kitchen.
Luckily, she was home.
Moving wordlessly past her, Howie dropped weakly to a couch and motioned Lesley to shut the door. Eventually he managed to tell her how he had caused the growing tumult engulfing the city.
“Wow,” said Lesley.
“Wow,” agreed Howie.
This had been several hours ago.
Now, the Heads tape automatically ejecting and silence filling the apartment—save for the muted wail of sirens—Howie contemplated what he was going to do if things ever calmed down. Just as he was wishing Lesley would talk to him, she raised her gaze from her book.
In the candlelight, Lesley’s rather lank hair and plain face looked astonishingly pretty. Howie was overwhelmed by an unexpected rush of affection for her and the sanctuary she offered.
Pushing back the bill of her ever-present Greek fisherman’s cap, Lesley said, “Hey, Howie, listen to this: ‘Mysterious agents, meaningless actions, infiltration, and finally an irresistible attack from nowhere.’ Now doesn’t that sound like the mess you’re stuck in?”
Intrigued, Howie said, “Yeah. Yeah, it does. Who wrote that?”
Lesley, a finger keeping her place, turned the book’s cover up. “Some guy named van Vogt.”
“Well, what’s the hero doing? How’s he gonna solve his problems?”
“I haven’t finished yet, but I think I can guess the ending. Although the guy doesn’t know it yet, he’s somehow the mastermind behind the whole conspiracy.”
Now Howie was disgusted. “Great. Some stupid author’s harassed gimmick. Well, I’m not the mastermind behind anything. But when it’s safe to go out, you can bet I’m gonna confront Wargrave and find out just what’s going on.”
Howie jammed his hands into two of his many pockets for emphasis. He encountered the object the blind man had given him, and took it out.
It was a fortune cookie.
Howie opened it.
In the wavering candlelight the skinny slip of paper seemed to say:
HATE ICE DAY
But on second inspection, it read only:
HAVE A NICE DAY
4
He who controls the agenda controls the outcome.
—David Gergen
A crowd was gathered in front of the store window. Howie stopped to see what they were looking at.
It was a display of televisions, all tuned to MTV. Right now, Tears for Fears were onscreen playing “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.”
Howie watched and listened u
ntil the song was over. Then he moved off.
As the crowd broke up, Howie was struck once again—not for the first time today—by how embarrassed everyone acted. Now that the riots were over, and most of the damage had at least been hidden behind tarps and scaffolding and sheets of plastic, the citizens of the city—Black, White, and every shade in between— all acted like people who had awakened the morning after a drunken spree only to learn that they had propositioned the boss’s wife, sung a bawdy song off-key, and perhaps ended up face foremost in the gutter with their pants down around their ankles. People carried themselves with a certain tentativeness. There was an overabundance of politeness, of opening doors for strangers and giving up seats on the bus to elderly standees and saying “Please” and “Thank you.” People were treating each other as if the whole city were on its first date with someone it really hoped to impress.
It was really strange, Howie thought, to venture out and find himself in such a place.
He wasn’t sure what he thought about it.
Maybe it was good.
But he wondered if the price paid hadn’t been a bit excessive, in terms of lives and property lost.
Well, Howie shrugged, the city would no doubt be its old rancorous self in a few more days.
The question now was: Would Howie?
As he walked toward the establishment that called itself The United Illuminating Company, Howie considered what he was doing.
Lesley had tried to convince him that he should just cut his ties with the company by not ever showing up there again. Howie had stubbornly resisted this suggestion. He wanted a confrontation. He resented being used, and was bent on getting some satisfaction from Mr. Wargrave.
Additionally, he had to admit, in the back of his mind lay a desire to salvage his job, if he could do so with his pride intact.
Strange Trades Page 10
