Voices From the Street

by Philip K. Dick

  He crossed the loading platform and entered the waiting room. It was virtually deserted. Lights blazed down on the dismal benches, suitcase lockers, gum and cigarette machines, drinking fountains, discarded magazines. He located the ticket window and headed toward it.

  Halfway there he stopped and got out his wallet.

  Fifty dollars were left. Two twenties and a ten. He searched all his pockets. Ticket stub for the bus ride up the coast. Handkerchief, blood-soaked.

  Five or six match folders, from Cedar Groves bars. One pocket sagged with silver. Quarters and fifty-cent pieces, dimes and nickels. With numb despair he counted it all out. The whole thing added up to fifty-three dollars and twenty-two cents. That was all he had left from the hundred. He had lost the rest—or spent it.

  He approached the ticket window. “When’s the next bus back to Cedar Groves?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Thirty-five minutes.”

  Hadley bought a ticket and wandered miserably off. The waiting room was cold. He found a large wall clock and read it. One fifteen.

  He knew, of course, why he had come to San Francisco. He was still looking for Theodore Beckheim, retracing his steps back into the past, trying to find the big black man the way he had found him before. But Beckheim was no longer at the apartment on Hayes. He had left Marsha; he would not be there.

  Yet deep inside Hadley the yearning subrational need remained.

  Again he searched his pockets; gazing with fascination at his moving hands he wondered what they were after. It was a long while before he understood: abruptly he stopped and stood limp and immobile, a wave of hopeless futility sweeping him.

  He didn’t know Marsha’s address.

  The phone book was no help. No Marsha Frazier was listed, of course; that wasn’t her real name. She had kept the name Frazier, but it was not legal. God only knew what it really was. He gave up and wearily left the phone booth.

  After that he paced wretchedly around the waiting room. He couldn’t sit still; something kept him moving, an inner ache that made his arms and legs work in spite of his overpowering fatigue. He wanted to do something—but what? What was there left?

  Finally he went across the street to an all-night café and ordered coffee. He sat hunched over at the counter, sipping the scalding coffee and rubbing his damaged mouth. His mind was dull. Now, no thoughts came. He was conscious only of his broken teeth, his ruined nose and clothing, his overwhelming sickness and fatigue and misery; nothing else.

  Two bus drivers came in and sat down a few seats from him. Young men, big and good-looking. They glanced at him with curiosity, faintly critical and contemptuous. “You get in a fight, buddy?” one of them asked.

  Hadley shook his head. “No.”

  “Celebrating?”

  Hadley turned away without answering. They laughed and ordered hot-cakes and ham. The café was warm and brightly lit. It smelled of coffee and frying ham. The jukebox began to play over in the corner; one of the bus drivers had put a nickel in it. Glenn Miller’s “Anvil Chorus.” The sound blared out and mixed with the genial murmur of voices, the bus driver’s and the waitress’ as she stood in the back, arms folded, talking to the fry cook as he fried the ham.

  It was like Jack’s Steakhouse and his own kitchen all mixed together. Suddenly Hadley got to his feet and left. He wandered rapidly up the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. The cold night San Francisco wind whipped at him. He hunched over and half shut his eyes, face turned down. He crossed Mission and headed toward Market Street, his mind blank, walking mechanically forward.

  Presently he reached Market Street. Only a few cars moved along. Here and there an occasional bus. The night was clear. The great street stretched out for miles, disappearing finally in a tangle of glowing signs and streetlights. On all sides of him were theaters, huge neon signs winking and blinking and buzzing. Men and women hurried past him and through the squares of blinding white in front of each theater. Cafes, parked cars, closed-up bookstores, clothing stores, vast drugstores, all shut for the night. Only the theaters were still open. He avoided the glare of their signs and crossed Market Street to the far side. He plunged into the darkness of a side street.

  For an endless period he roamed aimlessly, along silent, deserted streets, past huge office buildings. No lights showed. Only the darkness. On and on he walked. An occasional gas station glowed, then faded behind him. His heels rang in the stillness. Finally he came to Kearny, hesitated, then turned to his left.

  He entered the first bar he reached. A small place, off to one side.

  THE BRASS RAIL

  He pushed his way through a laughing, chattering horde of young men that blocked the doorway, and over to the bar. The bar was made of old wood. Wood tables were scattered around. Sawdust on the floor. An old-fashioned upright piano in the corner. On the black-paneled walls were modern prints, and a few modern originals. The place was dim and opaque; he slumped over on the stool and automatically got out his silver.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, a small mean-looking man with close-cropped blond hair. His voice was thin and raspy.

  Hadley studied the ancient wood paneling; he rubbed his forehead and muttered, “Bourbon and water.”

  The bartender went to get it. Up and down the bar were young men, well dressed, most of them in sweaters and slacks. A few were in jeans and dark turtlenecked sweaters. They laughed and chatted; their excited voices rose in a high-pitched concord all around him. A great swarm of bees. It was as bad as the Health Food Store. He tried to ignore them as he counted out silver for his bourbon.

  The young man on his right was gazing at him with interest. A slender youth in a sports coat, sweater, and silk tie. Gray slacks. Two-tone shoes. Through a haze of cigarette smoke Hadley made out two intense brown eyes, fixed on him intently, a half-smiling mouth.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” the youth inquired politely, in a lilting tenor.

  Hadley nodded dully.

  “Shouldn’t you put something on it?” The youth’s hand flew to his cheek. “Good heavens, you’re bleeding?”

  “What’s the matter?” Three or four more of them appeared and crowded anxiously around Hadley. “Is he hurt?”

  “Did he fall down?”

  “Did he hurt himself?”

  A whole group of them pressed around Hadley. Inquiring hands fluttered at his face and neck like moths. “Oh, the poor thing!”

  “Look at him!”

  “Oh, the dear!”

  “Somebody hurt him. Look at his clothing! Somebody has just done awful things to him.”

  The murmuring voices, the warm presences, the clouds of pale, anxious hands that billowed and rubbed against him, made Hadley drowsy. Confused, he pushed at them. “Get going,” he muttered. “Goddamn fairies.” But the hands went on fluttering, and the shapes remained. He tried again feebly, then sank down against the bar in weary despair. Everything, the sights, the sounds, blurred and ebbed. He closed his eyes and rested his head gratefully. The warmth of the place made him sleepy.

  “Don’t die!” voices whispered anxiously.

  “Look at him, he’s dying!”

  “No, he’s just sleeping. Poor little sweet, he’s all tired out.”

  “We’ll have to take care of him.”

  “Has he got a place to go?”

  Warm fragrant breath blew against his ear. A voice sang: “Where do you live, sweet?”

  Hadley grunted.

  “Look in his wallet.” Hands felt at his jacket; his wallet was slid cunningly out and examined. He could hear them exclaim and whisper among themselves.

  “He lives far from here.”

  “He’s lost.”

  “The poor sweet got lost. Here’s his bus ticket.”

  “But it’s too late. He can’t go back now—it’s been too long. He’ll have to stay here.”

  An intense, protracted conference followed. Hadley dozed. Arguments, angry words, a sudden flurry of spitting and slapping. He went on sleeping; i
t all came from a vast distance. Finally a decision was reached.

  “I’ll take him with me.”

  “You bitch, you’re always favored.”

  “Doesn’t she always get the breaks?”

  A gentle, insistent hand touched Hadley on the neck. “Come on, sweet. Time to go. The Rail is closing.”

  Other hands helped rouse him. “Go along with her. She’ll take care of you.”

  “Come along, sweet.”

  Hadley opened his eyes. A tiny brown-haired youth stood close to him, waiting excitedly, eyes bright, lips twitching avidly. “Come with me, sweet. I’m going to take care of you.”

  “And how,” voices agreed.

  Hadley slid from the stool unsteadily. Hands guided him; the tiny brown-haired boy had firm hold of his arm. He was led from the bar, among the hordes of well-dressed youths. At the door he abruptly halted.

  “No,” he said.

  A flurry of excitement and dismay. “What is it?”

  “Don’t be afraid,” others put in quickly. “Tommy’ll take care of you. He’ll feed you and make you well.”

  “Yes, he’ll make you.”

  “He’ll put you to bed and take good care of you.”

  “He’ll put you to bed and you can eat candies and sleep and grow fat and you won’t have to do anything ever again.”

  “No,” Hadley repeated. “Get your goddamn kike hands off me.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “What’s the sweet saying?”

  Hadley stood his ground dully. Did he hear right? Were they really saying what he heard? He shook his head, but it didn’t clear. Everything was misty and uncertain. The slender, pretty shapes flickered and wavered. The faces, the walls of the bar, all receded and dimmed, then came reluctantly back. He tried to lock them into hardness, but they stayed agonizingly insubstantial. Even the floor under him was soft, like jelly. It flowed and dissolved.

  “Get away,” he grunted, flinging himself around and pulling his arms loose. “Let go of me!”

  His violence terrified them. They retreated in fluttering, squawking flight to form a safe circle a few feet away. Eyes gleaming, they waited watchfully. Voices whispered. Pale hands flitted and were never still.

  “Don’t let him go,” voices said. The youth named Tommy was shoved forward. “Don’t let him get away from you. He’s cute. Look at his sweet face. Look at his blond hair. His little mouth. Look at his blue eyes. Tommy, he’ll get away! Your lover’s going to get away!”

  “He’s not pretty,” other voices contradicted. “He’s puffy. Look at his eyes. Red eyes. Like a hen.”

  “But such a nice little plump hen.”

  “Too plump. He’s too soft.”

  “Like dough. He’s sticky.”

  The pitch of voices rose angrily. “He isn’t!” protests came. “Stop saying that! It’s not true!”

  “He’s too much like a girl. He’s nothing but a nasty dirty girl.”

  “He’s lazy,” others chimed. “Stupid and lazy.”

  “And he left his wife.”

  “Yes, he ran off with a whore. He lost his job and he left his wife and he hit his best friend. And he left his poor little baby locked up in a car.”

  “He’s all washed up. He couldn’t keep an awful little salesman’s job.”

  A voice protested: “He quit!”

  “He couldn’t keep even a dirty little job like that. He wasn’t good enough for that.”

  “He was too good. He wasn’t made for a job like that. Look at his hands. He’s an artist. Look at his face. He’s not a common person. He’s noble. He has a noble face and hands. He was made for greater things.”

  “He can’t earn a living and support his wife.”

  “That bloated toad! Who wants to support her?”

  “She was a millstone around his neck. He must rise to better things. He wasn’t made for that.”

  “What was he made for?”

  “Tommy, see what he was made for. See if you can make him for better or worse.”

  “Until death.”

  “Until death does him part.”

  Hadley found the door and pushed through. A blast of frigid night wind struck him in the face and he gasped. The wind blew around him furiously as he hurried away from the door, down the gray, silent sidewalk.

  A crowd spilled out after him. Luminous shapes that glowed faintly white. Pale and waxen. They drifted around him, darting, touching, and blowing away, like bits of leaves. Like phosphorescent night leaves.

  “Don’t go!” one cried faintly.

  “Come back!” voices wailed plaintively.

  “Stay with us!”

  “You belong with us!”

  “…belong…”

  The bits of light danced and were swept away by the night wind. Fairy wands in the frigid darkness, lost behind him as he turned a corner and ran blindly. He was the only living thing. Empty, deserted streets. Great abandoned buildings. A vacant sky above. Remote stars. The wind lashed at him as he raced, mouth open, eyes half shut, gasping for breath.

  He ran crazily, around another corner and down the center of the street. Faster and faster he raced. Behind him a great sound swelled. A vast booming sound that grew with frightening suddenness. Without warning he was illuminated. Etched in shadow against the side of a building.

  He halted, bewildered. The roar beat against his ears. A vast thundering rumble, mixed with a shrill whine. And the light. He was blinded. He moved in a dazed half circle, hands over his eyes…

  Something hit him. Weightless, he flew soundlessly through the night sky. A tiny cinder, drifting through the darkness, caught up by the wind. He felt nothing. There was no sound, no weight, no sensation.

  Even when he hit, there was no feeling. Only a dim realization that he was no longer moving. And then the darkness dissolved what remained of him. There was only an empty void, an infinite formless gloom, where he had been.

  He woke up slowly. Everything was strange. With a flashing stab of panic he hunted his own identity. Who was he? Where…

  He managed to focus his eyes. He was in a small room; a strange, unfamiliar room. It was day; bleak, gray midmorning light filtered in the window. The sky was overcast; it was raining. Cold, moist fog lay over a dripping wood fence, a backyard littered with rusty beer cans and weeds. The room itself was ancient. An incredibly high ceiling. Yellow paint. An old-fashioned iron chandelier, hanging at the end of a twisted mass of black wiring. A chipped, white-painted wood dresser, tall and stern. Round china knobs. The floor was covered with faded, cracked linoleum. The bed was iron, wide and high off the floor. A narrow window. Tattered shades.

  Dusty lace curtains torn and heavy with age. A heap of ancient leather-bound books was propped up in a row; they filled the corner of the room in a wall-to-ceiling bookcase. Beside the bed was a cane-bottom chair. And his clothing.

  While he was gazing blankly at his clothing, he became aware of the man and woman peering into the room at him.

  It was a little old couple; two withered, fragile people huddled together, staring at him with anxious black beady eyes. The woman wore a cotton lace shawl and a shapeless dress, covered with the remains of a housecoat. The man was dressed in a brown shirt, red suspenders, baggy dark trousers, and some kind of slippers. Their hair was thin and gray, spidery wisps clinging drily to their wrinkled skulls. Paper-thin skulls, weathered, aged…

  The old woman spoke first. Her voice was thick, guttural, heavily accented. They were German; their faces were straw brown, noses large and red, lips prominent. German peasants, with large hands and feet. “Bitte,” the old woman muttered, “es tut uns fruchtbar leid, aber…” She broke off, coughed, glanced at her husband, and continued: “How do you feel, mister? How are you?”

  “I’m all right,” Hadley said.

  The man coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said gruffly: “We hit you with our truck. You were standing in the street.”

  “I know,”
Hadley said.

  Rapidly, the old woman added: “It wasn’t our fault; you were just standing there. Selbstmord…” She glanced apprehensively at her husband. “Er wollte selbst vielleicht—” Back to Hadley she asked: “Why were you there? What were you doing?”

  “You’re lucky,” the man grunted. “No bones broken. We were driving home from the country, back from Point Reyes Station. My brother has a grocery store up there.” The ghost of an uncertain smile, the faint trace of shared, covert knowledge, twitched his thick lips. “Ah, you were drunk, nicht wahr? Getrunken, mein lieber junge Mann.”

  “That’s right,” Hadley said impassively. He felt nothing, only a dull emptiness.

  The old man sucked in his breath excitedly; he turned to his wife and jabbed his finger at her. A flow of German followed; both of them spluttered at once, gesturing and waving their hands. Triumph glowed on both ancient, seamed faces: a weight had been lifted from their shoulders.

  “Drunk,” the old man repeated proudly. “You see? You were drunk.” Pointing his finger at Hadley he cried meaningfully, “It was your fault!”

  “Sure,” Hadley said listlessly. “My fault.”

  The tension was broken. Amiable pleasure flooded the old couple; they burst into the room and came gratefully around the bed, faces radiant with joy. “You see,” the old man explained to his wife, “I told you. Saturday night, junge Leute freuen sich—Ich erinne mich ganz.” He winked at Hadley. “You were lucky, mister,” he repeated. “Next time you might not be so lucky. Yes, we picked you up and brought you here. We took care of you; we fixed you up.”

  Hadley knew they had been afraid to call the police, afraid to do anything but pick him up, put him in their car, and drive home with him. But he said nothing. It didn’t matter… Neither their previous terror nor their present good humor mattered to him. He was thinking about Pete in the back of the Studebaker. It had been twelve hours.

  “Now look here,” the old man was saying to him. “You can’t make any trouble for us; you could be arrested for being drunk. Verstehen Sie? Ha,” he muttered, nodding wisely, with the eternal cunning of peasants. “We were very good to you; we brought you here and fixed you up. We took care of you… Look at your face—we bandaged you. Yes, my wife’s a trained nurse. We took good care of you.”