by Richard Cox
After the night of the concert and the Whataburger incident, Gloria and I still saw each other in computer lab, but we didn’t speak very much. She would often leave early or arrive late, and sometimes I did the same. But that didn’t stop us from chatting on ICQ when we were supposed to be studying. It was mainly surface conversation, like what the weather was like or how classes were going. I knew I shouldn’t talk to her anymore. For one thing it hurt to be social when I really wanted to be close to her, but I also guessed, if I left her alone completely, she might miss me. And maybe if she missed me she would change her mind. I’ve never been good at playing games like that, though, so I didn’t.
A couple of weeks later, toward the end of the second summer session, Gloria didn’t show up on Tuesday for computer lab. It wasn’t unusual to miss a session, even in the summer, but when she also missed on Thursday I became concerned. Summer sessions move quickly because there are just as many assignments but not nearly as many days in which to complete them. I hoped she hadn’t dropped the course. I hoped she was okay.
She called me the following Sunday around noon. I could immediately tell from her voice that something was wrong.
“Thomas,” she said. “My mom is sick. She has breast cancer.”
“Oh, no, Gloria. I’m so sorry. How is she doing?”
We talked for a while about her mother’s prognosis, which wasn’t good. She’d begun chemotherapy and was already so weak she couldn’t get out of bed. Gloria had been with her all week, and didn’t want to leave, but her mother insisted. She would have to drop her classes if she missed another week.
“The problem is, my dad came down last week to pick me up. He told me in the car. Now I need to come back, and I don’t want him to leave my mom alone again. And Jack is in Big Shell on a fishing trip. He has that cell phone in his truck, but there’s no service out there.”
“I’ll come pick you up.”
“Thomas, it’s four hours each way. I don’t want you to miss your entire Sunday. I—”
“Tell me where to go and I’ll be there in four hours.”
“Thomas, are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Now where do I go?”
I’m not going to lie. I felt like a hero going to pick her up, and this time I honestly thought things would be different. It wasn’t Jack’s fault he was unreachable, but nevertheless he was. I longed for the chance to spend four hours cooped up in a car with her. For all I cared we could drive all the way to California.
When I arrived, she was home alone. Her parents were both at the hospital. She had made a couple of hamburgers, and we sat in the breakfast room to eat. The house was quiet and lonely without its regular tenants. I wanted to lighten the mood, make Gloria laugh, but the situation seemed to demand more respect than that.
“I really appreciate this, Thomas. A lot.”
“I’m happy to help.”
“You are a really good friend. You are very sweet to me.”
Those words hurt, but I ignored the pain. There was a study adjacent to the breakfast room, and in the evening light I could see a banjo propped against a computer desk.
“Your dad plays the banjo?”
“He tries. He’s been on this bluegrass kick lately. But mainly he plays guitar.”
“Now I know why you like guitar players.”
Gloria laughed a little a that. “Maybe so. My dad was in a band once, but it was before I was born. He doesn’t play very much these days. On holidays, when we’re all together, or if he gets a good buzz going.”
“What does he play?”
“He loves the Doors, the Beatles. His all-time-favorite song is “Sweet Home Alabama.” He loves to play that. And, like I said, lately he’s been trying to learn bluegrass.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah,” she said. “My dad is cool. I just wish I had been able to see him play live, you know? But he says he’s too old for that anymore.”
On the way back Gloria talked at length about her mom. What she liked to cook. How she was a hawk for grammar and spelling. Gloria had struggled with phonetics at a young age, but her mom kept after her, and in fifth grade she won the school spelling bee.
“I made it to the ninth round of the city championships. I misspelled the word dirigisme. My mom had specifically identified it as one of her ‘challenges’ and couldn’t believe I had missed it. But I knew she was proud of me, considering how far I had come with my spelling.”
For a while, as we neared home, Gloria fell asleep. Her head tilted and fell to one side. She had pushed her sunglasses over her hair, and they were about to fall off, so I removed them and put them on the center console. She stirred but didn’t wake up. Her hair was so smooth and soft, like everything about her, and I turned off the stereo and listened to her breathe. By the time we rolled into town it was dark. Gloria was groggy when she woke up. For a moment she forgot where she was. I stopped in front of her apartment and she thanked me again for coming to get her.
“I really owe you,” she said. She hugged me tightly and then kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.”
She opened the door and got out. She didn’t turn around or wave as she walked away. I knew she was worried about her mother.
At that point I still didn’t know what would happen to us, if I would ever win her over, but that night I decided to accelerate my lessons with the guitar.
A plan took shape in my mind, and I knew it would work. It had to work.
THIRTY-FIVE
“Philip.”
The voice drifts toward me from some faraway place, through a fog bank of haze, and I wonder if someone has me confused with a famous science fiction author, or perhaps I am a famous science fiction author, and then I realize the voice is not asking for Philip but rather—
“Phillips.”
My last name.
I open my eyes and light is everywhere, smeared across my vision like a dream, white, fluorescent haze, glass everywhere, reflections of another life, another man in bed, machines everywhere. I don’t know where I am.
“Phillips, wake up! It’s time to go home.”
I try to respond but my lips are glued together and my throat is a solid tube of tissue.
“Phillips, I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Ahhm awehh.”
“Then get your ass up,” the voice says. “I don’t have all day.”
A moment later I’m somehow on my feet, the world spiraling around me as if I’m standing in the center of a large tornado. I look to my right and see the portly officer who escorted me to the cell last night, which could have been a few hours ago or a few years ago, it’s all the same to me.
He’s laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Pat,” he says.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“My wife’s name is Pat. You thought you were so smart last night, asking my wife’s name. You thought you could confuse me. But her name is Pat. Pat Conley. So fuck you, Mr. Smart Guy.”
“I wasn’t trying to outsmart you,” I say. “I just asked your wife’s name.”
“And I know what it is. So there.”
I look at him, at the triumphant look in his eyes, and somehow I know he’s lying to me. But rather than challenge him I just nod and stare at the floor, because I’m ready to get out of here.
He leads me out of the cell and back to the post where I saw him last night. I am reunited with my personal effects, like my wallet and my belt and money and keys. Then he escorts me to another office where I am asked to fill out some paperwork, a few photocopied pages with my name and address and phone number. He hands me a slip of paper with the address to the impound lot, which as luck would have it is only a few blocks from my house.
When I am finished with that, the officer walks me toward the front lobby, where he says I will be able to call someone to pick me up. I still haven’t decided if I should ask Gloria. Then
we reach the front lobby and I see Runciter there, apparently waiting for me.
“Hey,” he says. “They let you go?”
“I think they had the wrong guy.”
Runciter’s eyes frown a little, and he looks toward the ground, as if digesting this information.
“I was waiting for you to get out before I called a cab,” he says. “My car is downtown. If you want you can ride with me and call your phone on the way. We can get your car or your phone or whatever. Or I can take you home. Your choice.”
It’s almost six o’clock in the morning. I want to see Gloria. I want her to know I’m okay. I want to win her back. But if there’s any chance that she might believe me—about Philip K. Dick and VALIS and everything—it can’t begin with her picking me up from the police station. That would only blind her to the truth.
“A cab would be great.”
Runciter places the call, and a few minutes later the two of us squeeze into the back seat. In this cramped space Runciter is bigger than he seemed before. Once we are moving he pulls out his cell phone and hands it to me.
“So call your phone,” he says. “I’m curious to find out where it is.”
I dial my number and the phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
Four.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Voicemail.”
“I thought that might happen. You can try again later. At the very least we can get you home. You look as exhausted as I feel.”
I disconnect the phone and then remember it’s possible to check voicemail messages from any phone. I call myself again and this time, when I hear the greeting, I push the star button and enter my password. You know the drill.
“You have five unheard messages,” the voicemail greeter informs me.
“First unheard message: ‘Thomas,’ Gloria says. ‘It’s me. I’m coming home to get some things. If it’s okay, I’d like to talk to you.’ She pauses and then says, ‘I’ll be by around 6:30. Hope to see you then.’”
Despite everything that’s happened, this makes me smile. I push the pound button and move on to the next message.
“Thomas, you aren’t here. I don’t know if you got my message from before but I thought you would at least let me know if you weren’t going to be here. Is everything all right? I saw your computer. What happened to it? Will you please call me? I want to make sure you’re all right.”
Third message: “Thomas, I called William, on the off chance you might have gone to work. He told me you showed up drunk and then spent the entire afternoon in the parking lot, passed out. Honey, I don’t know where you are or if you are getting these messages but will you please call me? Please let me help you, okay? Please call me. I love you.”
“Lot of messages?” Runciter asks.
“Yeah.”
I feel horrible. Gloria is worried sick. I need to call her. I look away from Runciter and move on to the next message.
“Hey, I haven’t talked to you in a couple of days now.”
This is Sophia.
“Are you avoiding me, Thomas? Ha. I know better than that, but I also saw you haven’t been on your Facebook page in a couple of days. Where the heck are you? I need some answers, buddy. Call me. Bye.”
Next message. Gloria again.
“Thomas, baby. You must not be getting my messages. I’ve been calling around the hospitals. I’ve called all your friends. I went to a couple of the bars where you sometimes go and couldn’t find you. I don’t know what else to do. Please call me when you get this. What happened at the house? You left it in such a mess. Were you looking for something? And what happened to your computer? You left a bottle of rum on the kitchen counter and William said you tried to get some files off your computer. He said you were a mess, baby. Please call me back and let me help you. I’m staying at Juliana’s house tonight. Please, Thomas. Please. I’m sorry about what happened earlier but please call me. I’m so worried. I love you. Please call me and let me know you’re okay.”
“End of messages,” the voice mail greeter tells me.
I disconnect the phone and hold it for a minute. Do you realize how good it feels to know Gloria is worried about me, that she still cares for me? I do not deserve her. I am a jerk. I ignored her when she tried to help, I’ve let her drift away from me for years. And then tonight I kissed another woman. How am I going to tell her the truth? Where do I begin?
I don’t want to call her just yet, though, not when Runciter can hear. I’ll have my car in a few minutes. As soon as I leave the impound lot I’ll go home and call her from there. I’ll get my bearings and be in a familiar place, alone, and I’ll be able to tell her what’s going on. What is really going on.
I hand the phone back to Runciter.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
“Everything’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s fine, really.”
“Anyone looking for you last night?”
I can’t tell if he’s fishing for information or just trying to be nice. I’m too tired to figure it out.
“No,” I say, looking out the window. We’re driving through a part of town I don’t see very often. Most of the houses here are in various stages of decay, lawns are un-mowed, cars are ancient and showing signs of rust. There are pawn shops and laundromats and check-cashing stores and auto repair shops operating inside old corrugated steel buildings. We pass an industrial bakery and a large, squatty building that turns out to be a furniture store.
“This used to be a nice area of town,” Runciter says. “These houses are all built so well…someone could come in here and make a fortune turning them around. There’s a lot of history here just crumbling away.”
“Yeah. It’s too bad we let it get like this.”
“Where do you live?”
“South side of town.”
“New neighborhood?”
“Fairly new. My house is two years old. How about you?”
“I live a little closer to downtown.”
“Old neighborhood?”
“Yeah. My house turns one hundred next year, actually.”
“Oh, wow.”
I expect him to go on about his house, tell me the history, and then sell the idea that old houses have more character and people who live in new neighborhoods have no soul. But instead he doesn’t say anything for a bit. We just sit there, riding in silence.
“So,” Runciter says, “what happened with those FBI agents?”
“They asked me questions.”
“Okay. You don’t want to talk about it. I understand.”
I imagine what I must look like to this guy, him giving me a hand with my car and phone and everything, and me barely willing to talk to him. He must think I’m a total prick. I don’t want to be a prick.
“They had the wrong guy. They thought I was someone else.”
“Who did they think you were?”
“I don’t know. They thought I was a spy of some kind.”
“A spy? You get thrown into the drunk tank and the FBI shows up almost immediately and thinks you’re a spy? Amazing.”
“I know, right?”
“How long were you in the cell before they showed up? An hour? Two? That isn’t very long. Something about you set off a trigger. Law enforcement doesn’t move that fast, at least not around here.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been arrested until tonight.”
“Well, it strikes me as strange. What did they ask you? Who were they after if not you?”
I don’t know how to lie without creating some elaborate story, and I think I already made it clear I don’t have that kind of energy.
Finally I say, “When they gave me the breathalyzer test it wouldn’t work. So they took blood to analyze my alcohol level and that didn’t work either. They thought I was doing it on purpose.”
“Well, were you?”
“How would I do something like that?”
“That isn’t a ‘no.’”
“N
o, I wasn’t doing it on purpose.”
I can see downtown through the windshield and I wish the cab driver would go faster.
“You don’t feel like answering all these questions,” Runciter says. “Do you?”
“I’m just really tired, man. I’m sorry. I haven’t slept since yesterday and I didn’t sleep very well then, either.”
“Well, I didn’t feel like answering your questions, either, buddy. You grilled the hell out of me last night.”
“I’m sorry for that. I was still drunk. I wasn’t making sense.”
“Yeah,” Runciter says. “I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve been thinking about those questions you asked me.”
Our downtown is a collection of moderately sized office buildings. The tallest one is maybe sixty stories. One of the buildings is an almost perfect replica of the old World Trade Center buildings, except there is just one of them and it’s half the size of the originals. All in all it’s a very non-descript downtown. The morning is foggy and gray and you can’t see the tops of the tallest buildings.
And despite the fact that we are driving directly toward them, those buildings don’t seem to be growing any closer.
“The thing is,” Runciter says. “I couldn’t remember the answers to some of those questions. Like which teams were playing the baseball game.”
“You were drunk.”
“Sure, but this is the first week of November. You know what that means for baseball?”
“No.”
“It means it’s supposed to be over. The World Series ends in October.”
“So maybe you were watching highlights? A rerun? ESPN Classic?”
“No,” Runciter says.
“No?”
“The other thing you asked me is when was the last time I used the bathroom. Now why would you ask me that?”
“I don’t know. I was drunk.”
“Like I said,” Runciter tells me, “I’ve been thinking a lot about those questions, and something is seriously fucked up. Pardon my French.”
