Bug Jack Barron

by Norman Spinrad

  “I think you’re probably a rotten swine,” she said softly. “You like to play with people’s heads, and you’re playing with mine, and I’d go take a walk if you weren’t so damned good at it.”

  Knowing now he had her definitevely made, Jack Barron said, “That’s the way I keep food on my table. Want me to split? Or would you rather I told you I loved your mind? Or would you rather let me play with your…head? It’s not all that bad, if you lean back and enjoy it.”

  “I don’t like you at all, Jack Barron,” she said. But as she said it, he felt her fingernails through his pants on his thigh.

  “But you’re pretty sure you’re gonna like what I’m gonna do to you, eh?”

  “I’m queer for the smell of blood, just like you said,” she answered, (feral, lost little-girl smile sending a pang through him, déjà vu pang déjà vu smile déjà vu honey-haired girl, hip-brittle carapace over sweet sigh loser softness) “even if it is my own. A man like you can smell that on a girl, can’t he? Okay, monster, lead me to the slaughter.”

  Easy as that, thought Jack Barron. Better be if you want a piece of the action, baby—dozen others in here hungry as you, dozen other bars, dozen other honey-haired…(Cool it!)

  “Let’s split for you-know-where,” he said, taking her dry, cool hand. “I’ll give you something to tell your grandchildren about.”

  Picking instant pussy up off the rack was a sometime thing with Jack Barron, specifically a Wednesday night after the show ritual and Claude, the ordinarily wise-ass doorman didn’t even crack a small behind-the-chick’s-back smile as he ushered the honey-blonde through the door, across the lobby, and into the penthouse elevator and that bugged Jack Barron.

  Fucker Claude’s used to this, not even an in-joke between us anymore, Barron thought as the elevator swept them silently upward. Makes me feel like some goddamned fetishist. How long’s this Wednesday night thing been going on, how many Wednesday night Saras…? (Cool it—too late to cool it, man, who you shucking?)

  As the elevator stopped, Barron looked at the nameless girl clutching his hand, saw honey-blonde-dyed hair big brown eyes slightly-prosthetic made-for-balling body, saw the latest in interminable line of honey-blonde, big-eyed not-Saras, felt pattern enmeshing him like fate, like creature plugged into Kismet-relay circuitry, felt stronger-than-lust weaker-than-love thing for the nameless girl, girl hungry for living-color image-prick of world-famous Jack Barron. Fair deal, he thought, value given for value received, like Howards’ Freeze Contract: ball me with your image, baby, and I’ll ball you with mine.

  The elevator door opened and Barron led the girl out into his private entrance foyer with its bearskin carpeting, kinesthop mural (great humming retina-reversing, image-after-image calculated instability, yellow-on-blue spirals) facing the elevator, and shepherded her silently forward into the narrow dark hall wombtunnel between the closed doors to the office and kitchen and into the inevitable living room stupefaction.

  On the twenty-third floor of a New York apartment house in the East Sixties, Jack Barron lived in Southern California. The hall opened onto a narrow breakfast-bar deck that overlooked a vast red-carpeted sunken living room, with the entire far wall great glass sliding doors that opened out on to a palmettoed, rubber-plant-festooned patio. Backdrop was the East River lights haze, ever-dusk of Brooklyn. The ceiling of the penthouse living room was an enormous, clear plexiglass, faceted geodesic-dome-skylight. Living room furnishings: an entire wall of build-in electronic bric-a-brac—TV screens, video-tape-recorder, tape-recorder, AM-FM-stereo rig, color organ complex, blipper, vidphones, yards of interlocking control consoles—couches in orange, rust, blue upholstery, black-leather hassocks, redwood benches with half a dozen assorted matching tables, camel saddles, six mounds of varicolored pillows, oriental style, all arranged around a ten-foot square sunken open-flame tiled firepit (sidedraft automatic gas type) casting tall, flickering, orange-red shadows from the already-kindled-by-switch-in-foyer ersatz bonfire.

  Barron switched on a remote-control console by the bar (remote-control switches to all gizmos scattered throughout the apartment) and Barron-edited taped music-collage droned electricity into the air and the color organ scintillated the skylight facets with ever-shifting spectrum-flashes modulated to the music.

  The honey-blonde gasped, eyes turned big (Berkeley eyes for hipstyle-campus hero Baby Bolshevik crusader adore worship eyes always those eyes before she blew him) with wonder on him, surprise-synapses whited out, and said dumbly, “Mr. Barron…”

  Barron blinked away déjà vu tenderness-images, hardened, picked up color organ flickers, firepit warmth, in hair, in half-opened mouth, eye-hollows, said, measuredly sardonic, “And you haven’t seen the bedroom yet.”

  “I think I’d like to,” she said with hard-little-girl sweetness. “I have the feeling it’s going to be quite an experience.”

  Barron laughed, found himself suddenly with this girl, right here right now, whatever her name was, smell of her stronger than lingering image-odor of Sara. Just a good simple fuck, he thought as he led her down the redwood stairs, across the carpet to the bedroom door. Make it with her, not with Sara.

  Feeling like a horny, healthy, mindless phallic animal, he opened the door and they stepped inside to outside.

  A balmy late New York May night, and the far wall of the bedroom was open, ceiling to floor, side to side, to the open-air rubber trees of the patio against the city-twilight dusky blackness ceiling was a single continuous clear-glass sky-light-bubble starless city-sky blackness wall-to-wall carpet was sensuous green plastigrass undulating in the breeze off the patio big circular bed elevated on stage center illuminated in gilded light projected from the semicircular living-ivy-covered, weathered-wood headboard (built-in bookshelves, control console) that half encircled it. Taped distant surf-roar, quiet insect-sounds tropical night sounds filled the room, replacing the music as Barron adjusted a wall console.

  “It’s…why, it’s…” the girl stammered, looking at him with new eyes no longer sure eyes looking down into depths she knew (he knew she knew) she could never fathom, knowing flash-fashion that this (not luck, not accident, not trick) was why she was a reality-hungry executive secretary and he was Jack Barron.

  Barron smiled a warm, proud, little-boy Berkeley smile, took both her hands in his, paused in ye olde bedroom routine to savor a moment of genuine non-seduction-oriented pride in the way the bedroom softened her eyes, softened his image, her image, made them two simple human beings holding hands before a bed on a warm spring night. The living room was a purposeful tour de force extension of living-color Jack Barron, but the bedroom was Jack, was Berkeley Jack-and-Sara pad up on the hill was little Los Angeles house in the Canyon warm summer night plant-scent balling was beachhouse in Acapulco Sara smelling from surf-body-sweat was outdoors-indoors-outdoors wistful double (New York-California-New York) expatriate image happy science-fiction California of the mind.

  She broke the moment, fell forward against him, flung arms around his neck; he could see her mouth open tongue already hungrily extended in the instant before her lips touched his mouth—open, waiting, but sardonically compliant role-reversal.

  Her tongue live desperation live wanting live make-me-real live in his mouth, she pressed her body undulating from shoulders down breast first belly finally hard angular pelvis totally against him pressed hard body hard tongue hard mouth hard his jaws aching stretching against him on all points of him—her interface pathetic frantic attempt to breach interface merge her vague body-image-self with the hard-edged living-color Coast-to-Coast electric reality of Jack Barron.

  Through his open eyes light-years removed, he saw her tightly shut, felt yawning sucking energy-reality-life vacuum of her leaching hungry against him, mouth inhaling his magic-breath reality-breath in total desire to be filled, engulfed, permeated, transfigured (in his skin body image, inside looking out, to share electric-circuit-satellite network, public-property hyperexistence) by him.

 
Repulsion-attraction oscillating, he pressed against her, began to move his tongue drifting her back to the bed, felt her go soft-sigh totally yielding live-limp as she felt him at last as an active principal—softwomanflesh feast wanting only to be devoured, digested, incorporated in his flesh-image-power.

  Slipping off his sportjac, he eased she drew him down on the bed nailed fingers clawing away his shirt digging into bare back flesh as he unzipped she slid out snakewise from discarded-skin sheath-dress fumbling his pants as he pulled-kicked them away with his loafers on to the plastigrass floor reached down lefthanded flipped off socks unhooked uplift hemibra glided down red silk kini (curled hairs dyed-blonde-black, as predicted) and they were naked together, breeze moving over skin.

  Suddenly a strange moment of pause (full beat) as bedroom ripping clothes passion image hungers shifted by flesh-to-flesh in virgin breeze to new style of perception-reality: naked bodies elemental reality. Barron looked down, eyes slow, hands soft and still, saw nipples-breasts-belly-navel-crotch simple right-here-right-now woman’s body, warm, soft, well-turned woman-body, is all. The girl held her breath, smiled simple human smile up at him, eyes smoldering pure ball-me eyes simple you-Tarzan-me-Jane anygirl smile. He smiled back at her. Happy, sweet, shift-gears moment’s pause before…

  She clamped legs-vice around him moved under him sucked him welcome in her eyes closed little grunts fingernails in buttocks he moaned moved over her into around with hands chestmuscles mouth organ, his consciousness in skin in hands in muscles in slowly-thrusting organ, tactile kinesthetic rhythmic he-she pleasure interface rippling itself wildly, independent of either of them.

  He closed his eyes opened himself, felt pleasure-waves crescendoeing through organs skin thighs of perception muscles in cresting rhythm-wave rising rising rising felt her riding half-beat ahead of him—me-you me-you—with each other meshing liquid-smoothly-functioning pleasure-pump organic mechanism to one beat from his own pain-pleasure her-him synapse-white-out reversal spasm and she—

  Came. Moaned screamed dug nails “Jack, Jack, Jack” cries mouth enveloped his ear tongue inside flicked him over the edge into timeless moment rushing orgasm: pleasure whiting out into reversal unbearable delicious déjà vu harmonic spasm, touch-see-hear-remember ecstasy-images—

  Tongue in ear “Jack, Jack, Jack” cries of Berkeley L.A. California houses Acapulco beach her hair lips body sea-salty wet, moving Sara-tongue of Jack-and-Sara ears bodies, shared breath sighs smells sweats coming face to face (he opened eyes saw big blonde brown eyes ecstasy grimace) together, coming together, coming coming coming…together.

  “Sara, Sara, Sara,” he cried, spending himself spending seed pleasure-images flashing through him leaving him moment of reflex-warm tenderness-emptiness; lips tender, he moved toward her mouth, stopped all at once, was back New York Wednesday night back, revulsion-remorse, and the wind blowing in from the patio turned cool, real cool cool.

  “The name is Elaine,” said the blonde from continental long-distance operator hip-hard carapace 27ish executive secretary pick-up distance.

  “No shit?” said Jack Barron.

  4

  “Benedict Howards?” Jack Barron repeated into his office intercom, as if disbelief might make the wraith vanish in a puff of ectoplasm. Oughta stay away from this goddamned office, he thought, let network have me for one hour a week then lie doggo in the pad the rest of the time, trouble like Howards comes looking for me, at least it’d be on my own turf. But the powers that be, are, insist I warm dumb chair under network noses on Fridays to deal with screams of anguish after cooling-off Thursdays, Mondays to plot new Wednesday screams of wounded vips to soothe again next Friday—sado-masochistic daisy chain.

  “Send Howards in,” Barron half-groaned, hoping Carrie had the intercom volume up so Bennie would know how pleased he was to see him, but knowing she ran tight ship under network orders (try to keep Barron from devouring vips for chrissakes, Miss Donaldson) cool, competent Carrie, efficient and distant even in bed. (Network orders there too? he often wondered.)

  The office door opened, held by willowy, dark, sup-pressing-her-distaste-for-sloth’s-den (I sit here on sufferance) decor of inner office Carrie, as ’70s-elegant (black buttonless silk suit, white ascot over red ruff-collared shirt), tall, pink-skinned, thin-hair-worn-long, semichubby Benedict Howards bustled by her to stand wordlessly in front of the randomly-littered desk.

  “Split, Carrie,” Barron said, knowing it would bug Howards, who wouldn’t publicly first-name secretary he had been balling for five years. (Wonder if he is balling that iceberg of his?) As Carrie left, Barron motioned Howards to the moldy ancient leather-covered chair in front of the desk, and grinned as Howards gingerly planted his ass on the edge of the chair like a man thoroughly convinced you could too get clap from a toilet seat.

  “Well, Howards,” Barron said, “to what do I owe the somewhat dubious pleasure of your company?”

  “You’re not on camera, Barron, so you’re wasting your smart-ass cleverness on me,” Howards said. “And you know goddamned well why I’m here. I don’t like knives in my back, and I warn you, no one does it three times to Benedict Howards. First time you get a warning, second time you get squashed like a bug.”

  “If you weren’t so fucking charming, Howards, I’d take that as a threat,” Barron said. “Fortunately for you, I’ve got an easy-going disposition. Because I don’t like threats, man: they bug me. And this Wednesday you got a small taste of what happens when you bug Jack Barron. But it was just a taste, Howards, nobody got really hurt, and we both know it. I made some points because that’s the name of the game, but I gave you a chance to get out from under. It wasn’t my fault you didn’t take me up on it. I hope you got yourself a big one.”

  Barron smiled as he saw Howards’ face go blank for a moment. (Mr. Howards is on a hunting and fishing trip in Canada, Mr. Barron.) “I thought so,” Barron said. “I don’t know why you thought it was a smart move to be out to me when I was on the air, but I didn’t like it. You got cut up, it was strictly your own fault. You had your chance to make points for your goddamned Freezer Bill, and you blew it. I run a simple show, Howards. You make me look dumb. I return the favor. Which is why I cut up Yarborough and gave Luke Greene the floor.”

  “I seem to remember that you and Greene were pretty tight at one time,” Howards said. “For all I know, you’re still involved with the Social Justice Coalition. The way you made Yarborough look like an asshole, and then let that goddamned coon spout his Communistic—”

  “Let’s get a couple things straight,” Barron snapped. “One, John Yarborough is a self-made asshole. Two, I’m in show business, Howards, I’m not a politician. I kissed the S.J.C. good-bye when I got this show, and I consider it good riddance. I’m interested in my ratings, and selling cars and dope and nothing else. You don’t like me, fine, but give me credit for being a cut above an imbecile. I use the show to roll any party’s little red wagon, I get stomped by the F.C.C. quicker than you can pass the word to your two tame commissioners and then I can really go back to waving picket-signs. But there’s mighty little bread in that line of work, and I like the way I’m living now a lot better than I liked scrounging around Berkeley and Los Angeles.

  “And, finally, Howards, while I don’t give a shit about Luke’s politics, he is an old friend of mine, and if you call him a coon or a nigger to my face again, I’ll kick your ass all around this office.”

  “Do you know who you’re talking to?” Howards shouted. “No one gives lip to Benedict Howards! I’ll squeeze your sponsors and the network and put pressure on the F.C.C., and I’ve got more than enough muscle to do it. Cross me, and I’ll cut you to dogmeat and feed you to the fishes.”

  “And how long do you think that’d take?” Barron asked mildly.

  “I can have you off the air in a month, and you’d better believe it.”

  “Four weeks, four shows,” said Jack Barron. “Think about that. Think about what I could do to you if I h
ad nothing to lose because you were killing my show anyway. Four weeks’ worth of sheer spite. Four hours in front of a hundred million people, and me with nothing better left to do than take revenge on you and your Foundation.

  “Sure, you can destroy me if you want to commit hara-kiri—and, for that matter, I can always kamikaze you. We’re both big boys, Bennie, too big for either of us to do the other in without making it a Samson-smash. I don’t like you, and you don’t like me, but you’ve got nothing to worry about from me unless you back me into a corner. But if I go, you go too, and don’t you forget it.”

  Suddenly, unpredictably, Howards went smooth. “Look,” he said, with jarring reasonableness, “I didn’t come here to trade threats with you. You hurt my Freezer Bill, cost me a few votes, but—”

  “Don’t blame me,” Barron said. “Blame that schmuck Hennering. He’s your boy, and that’s why I put him on, to let your side make points and even things out. It’s not my fault if the dum-dum—”

  “That’s all ancient history, Barron,” Howards said. “I’m interested in the future. Man like me’s gotta take the long view. (Howards smiled a weird beatific smile. What the hell’s that? Barron thought.) The real long view…And the Freezer Utility Bill’s mighty important to my future, to the future of the human—”

  “Aw, spare me that crap, will you…” Barron drawled. “You want a bill passed to give you a Freezer Monopoly, that’s your bag, but don’t try to bullshit me about the future of the human race. You’re looking out for Number One, period. Keep it on that level, and maybe I’ll listen.”

  “All right, Barron, I’ll lay it on the line. You’ve got something I need—Bug Jack Barron. You’ve got a pipeline to a hundred million Americans, and what they think about the bill can swing some votes in Congress, not as many votes as they’d like to think, maybe, but some. I want those votes. I want you to do the kind of shows that will get me those votes——not every week, we can’t be too obvious, but just the right touches here and there. You’ve got the following and the know-how to pull it off. That’s what you can do for me, Barron, and in return—”