by Frank Lauria
The calm covered his consciousness like a blanket of cashmere, warm and light and soft, its subtle weight nudging his awareness toward the light.
The light. The unflickering radiation of his being.
He breathed deep, his body opening easily and parting the invisible webs of resistance blocking his passage toward the light.
And then he was there, floating in the center of the incandescent compression of all reality. The code gene. The unique combination of his existence; past, present, and future.
He was a thousand deaths, a thousand births, a thousand lives all vibrating together at the same time. He was all time at once, unfragmented by the fearful politics of learned perception. An unrippled pool of pure light, existing rather than reflecting.
He bathed in the pool, sensing the infinite tides of the universe, the swelling motion of its direction. He swam there for eons until the restless currents carried his consciousness back to the gritty shores of thought.
He blinked.
He was still lying on the towel on the floor. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and took a long, luxurious breath. He extended his arms and arched his neck back. His muscles felt supple and his mind felt refreshed. The crustations barnacling his brain and body had all been hosed away by the purifying liquids of his journey.
He dressed and began rolling the rest of the contents of the envelope into cigarettes. He was just putting them into his silver case when Joker came in.
"You know, Doe," Joker said, sitting down and folding his arms behind his head, "ever since I first seen you in Central Park yesterday I got the strangest feelin’."
"Really?" Orient folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. He knew that his proximity to a telepathic potential would cause some disturbance but he didn’t quite know he would deal with the question if it came up directly. He wanted to know more about Joker before attempting to teach him the techniques of controlled thought transference. In the wrong hands, or head, it could be a dangerous toy.
"Yeah, really," Joker said, his eyes half closed. "I been around some, Doc, and I got a surefire instinct for people. And," He lifted his head and looked at Orient, "I learned to depend on my instincts. Know what I mean?"
Orient nodded.
Joker dropped his head back on his hands. "What I’m getting’ at, Doc, is that I can’t figure you out just yet. I see a lot of dudes come down here every day tryin’ to find somethin’ or hustle somethin’ or get away from somethin’." He lifted his head again. "But you’re different, you dig?"
"I’m not sure what you’re getting at."
Joker came up to a sitting position, swung his legs over and put his feet on the floor. He ran a hand through his long red hair. "Well, what I mean is that you don’t seem to know what’s happening, but then again you do." He waved his hand impatiently. "No, that’s not what I mean either. Damn, but you’re a confusin’ fella, Doc."
Orient smiled. "Maybe I can help."
Joker leaned back on his elbows and waited.
"I wasn’t exactly a practicing MD but a kind of research specialist," Orient began uncomfortably. He hadn’t planned on going into personal details. "The only hitch was that I was out of touch. My fancy lab equipment and preoccupation with my experiments was preventing me from reaching the people I wanted to help. I was like some kind of robot."
Joker nodded. "I got you covered so far, Doc."
’So I gave it all up and started looking for a way to make contact with the ordinary human race. That’s how I came to get involved in that riot."
Joker’s eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. "Say, Doc," he said with elaborate casualness, "how did you come to pull me out of there special?"
Orient hesitated. It wasn’t time to start explaining psychic mechanics. "I went out after my bag," he said, "and I recognized you from the park that afternoon. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do at the time."
Joker stared at him for a moment and Orient could feel that the cowboy still wasn’t convinced. "Well," Joker stood up slowly, "sure was a break for me." He poked Orient in the rib as we walked back to the living room. "And it sure was a break for you."
Orient followed him. "That’s the truth. I had no idea of where I was going or what I would do."
Joker went over to the stereo and switched it on. He slipped a record out of its jacket and placed it on the turntable. An electric guitar began a high, twanging blues line.
"Yeah, I want to talk to you about that too." Joker leaned against the edge of the table. "You got any plans at all, Doc?"
Orient sat down on the mattress. "None. But look, Joker, I understand that my being here with Sun Girl and Julian must be inconvenient and I can..."
"Hold up, Doc. That’s not what I’m into at all here." He scratched the side of his nose. "I’m just trying to clear up the situation in my mind."
Orient waited.
"Look here, man," Joker said finally, "how much bread do you have ?"
"Bread?"
"Money, Doc." Joker shook his head and snapped his fingers, coming down directly on the beat of the music. "I can see I got to work with you extra heavy."
"I’ve got about eighty-five or ninety dollars."
Joker frowned. "Well, you’re traveling light all right."
Orient didn’t answer.
"Well, how about this, Doc, how’d you like to go to work for me?"
"Doing what?"
"Well, I got a lotta things goin’ for me these days and can’t hardly keep track of everything. I need a man to sort of keep my appointments straight and maybe do some delivery work now and then."
Orient frowned. "Just exactly what is it you do?"
Joker sat down next to him. "I wheel some, deal some. If somebody needs somethin’, I kind of arrange things. But mainly I’m a gambler. Cards, dice, any kind of sportin’ proposition. I make money at it, y’understand, but that’s not the whole reason I do it."
"What is the whole reason?"
Joker leaned closer. "Doc, you may think I’m crazy, but I feel I got a callin’. I believe in hustlin’. Keeps me circulatin’ and pickin’ up new things all the time. I meet plenty of interestin’ faces and it pays the rent. And I got ethics, Doc. I don’t touch nothin’ that hurts nobody. Don’t mess with hard drugs or crooked games. Just honest gamblin’ and happy times."
Orient shook his head. "I don’t think that’s what I’m lookin’ for, Joker."
"Listen, Doc, just listen good one minute here." Joker paused and in the brief silence Orient thought he could sense a gleaming vibration of truth. "Think on it. You’ll meet all kinds of people. Contact like you said you wanted. And you can buy yourself some time while you figure out your next move."
Orient didn’t answer.
"Well, come on, buddy. Don’t keep me in suspense here. If you decide to throw in with me, I can start teachin’ you all you need to know about life in the street right away."
Orient looked at Joker. The cowboy’s face was earnest and his words rang notes that were clear and close to his problem. And his hexagram seemed to support the move. Perhaps it was time he took a chance. At least it would be a positive step.
"All right," he said finally. "But on one condition." His eyes met Joker’s and held. "I want none of the profits. No money. As far as we’re concerned, this is an educational experiment only."
Joker solemnly extended his hand. "Doc you got my word that everthin’ is absolutely cool."
CHAPTER 5
In the weeks that followed, Orient became increasingly absorbed in his new way of life.
In the mornings he practiced the physical exercises, breathing patterns, and meditation figures of his spiritual path. In the afternoons he answered the telephone, set up appointments, and discussed the variations of his apprenticeship with Joker. Orient was needed at the phone to record bets and it was necessary for him to learn to interpret the code words of various betting systems. It was also his job to pick up and deliver envelopes contai
ning cash or betting slips.
The legalization of off-track betting had cut into part of Joker’s business, and he complained often and righteously about the development. Orient noticed, however, that the cowboy was extremely generous with expenses, and continued to lavish money on entertaining his various women. Orient was hazy about all the sources of Joker’s income, but he ascertained that they were many, and for the most part, illegal. The cowboy booked bets on all sporting events and was a regular face at poker sessions and crap games in the city. He was also involved in other business deals, but hc spoke little of those affairs, explaining that they were "private propositions."
Sun Girl and Julian made the rounds of casting offices during the day, and in the evening, after his appointments were complete, and the tallies computed, she and Orient would spend long lazy hours just talking. Their conversations were sometimes profound, often silly, but always a source of joy for him, as his communication with Sun Girl grew into real friendship. Orient enjoyed her independent point of view and blithe self-confidence; she was a completely positive, honest, and reasonable woman who never let her capacity for sentiment and passion upset her thinking.
It was for this reason that Orient was curious when Sun Girl came home early one day, in a state of abject depression. "Why the gloom, lose an audition?" he asked, looking up from his work. "I just don’t understand life, Owen," Sun Girl sighed. She plopped down wearily on the couch and stared at him.
"In what way?" He went back to his accounting.
Sun Girl sighed again. "Oh, I ran into an old girl friend of mine on the street today. And she looks awful. When I tried to talk to her she started raving about something. I got the funniest feeling. Do you think you could drop around to see her? I told her a little about you."
Orient crossed out some figures he had added incorrectly. "Is she sick?"
"Betsy is a bad lady," Julian singsonged as he pushed a toy truck across the floor.
"Maybe she’s sick," Sun Girl mused. "But I think it’s something else. Too much acid or speed, maybe. Whatever she’s on, it’s a bum trip. The poor girl’s practically frothing at the mouth. And she must have lost twenty pounds."
"She’s bad," Julian repeated.
"Now don’t say things about people you don’t know, Julian," Sun Girl admonished. "I’ve known Betsy for years and she’s always been sweet and level-headed." She looked at Orient. "A couple of months ago she started living with some kids in a commune down here. Maybe they’re some kind of bad influence on her. She looks completely spaced out. Half crazy, in fact."
Orient put aside his tabulations and looked at her. Sun Girl’s usually bright, cheerful expression was pinched with concern.
"I’ll go have a talk with her if you think it will do any good."
Sun Girl’s anxious flown relaxed. "Thanks, Owen," she said softly. "The commune’s not far away. Why don’t we walk over there and you can judge for yourself. Perhaps I’m getting myself all worked up over nothing. Even possible that I’m becoming a busybody in my old age."
Orient smiled. "Who knows, you might be becoming an arch-conservative."
"Me too," Julian said. "I want to be an artist conserber too."
When Orient, Sun Gift, and Julian arrived at the headquarters of the commune, however, it was obvious that Sun Gift’s appraisal had been accurate. The storefront itself was like hundreds of others in the city that had been converted for occupancy. The glass door and show windows had been painted over to prevent passersby from seeing inside. When Sun Girl knocked on the door, it was opened by a thin, blond-bearded boy wearing a Japanese robe. He looked angry.
"Yeah, what is it?" he grunted, glaring at them.
"We’re looking for Betsy," Sun Gift said.
The boy closed the door in her face.
"Must be a love child," Orient said.
"That’s what I mean, Owen," Sun Gift said. "Usually commune people are very friendly and very hospitable."
Orient’s comment was interrupted by the door opening. He looked down and saw a very skinny, almost emaciated young girl wearing a dirty white dress. Her long black hair was tangled and unkempt, and there were hollow blue circles around her eyes. But despite the fact that she looked starved, the gift radiated a peculiar kind of ecstatic energy almost like that brought on by nervous exhaustion, or too many sleepless nights on amphetamines.
"Hi, Betsy," Sun Gift smiled. "I brought Owen over for you to meet. Is it all right if we come in?"
Betsy looked Orient over, rather arrogantly he thought, as if she were inspecting a slice of meat. Then she brushed the hair away from her face and smiled. When she looked at Sun Gift, the smile became almost a sneer. "Not bad," she said. "Sure, why not. Come on in."
Sun Girl reached down to take Julian’s hand, but the boy suddenly pulled away from his mother and retreated a few steps. "No," he shouted, "I don’t want to go inside. I don’t like it there."
Orient was surprised. In the time he’d been living with Sun Girl and Julian, he’d never known the boy to be cranky or ill-tempered. But now the little boy stood glaring stubbornly at them, his tiny fists clenched and his legs poised to run if anyone tried to touch him. "I want to go home," he yelled. "I don’t like Betsy."
"You little brat," Betsy taunted. But she seemed amused at Julian’s behavior. Sun Girl looked at her helplessly. "Sorry, Betsy," she said. "He must be overtired or something."
"Maybe you should take him for a walk," Orient suggested. I’ll see you later."
"I suppose that’s the best thing," Sun Girl nodded. She looked at Betsy. "I’ll come back to visit you when Julian’s feeling human again."
"Anytime," Betsy didn’t sound enthusiastic. She looked at Orient. "Sure you want to leave him behind? He’s tempting, you know."
"He’s also a big boy," Sun Girl sniffed as she walked over to join her son. "Come look around," Bets said, holding out her hand. Orient took it. It was warm and curiously damp.
He stepped into a room that was badly lit and very dirty.
The mattresses that lined the walls were stained and torn. The floors were covered with dust, and there were some greasy plates in one corner with bits of food still clinging to them. Orient saw a couple of roaches crawl under the plates. At one end of the room there was a door curtained off by two tattered pieces of velvet that had been nailed to the wall. The boy in the Japanese robe was sitting near the door on one of the two mattresses, talking very quickly and intensely to two girls. The girls weren’t more than sixteen, and were dressed identically in belled jeans and T-shirts. No one looked up as they entered.
"That’s Thor," Betsy whispered. "He’s very heavy."
Orient looked around. "Do you all live here, Betsy?" he asked.
She stopped smiling. "Look, Owen, Sun Girl made a mistake. My name’s not Betsy any more."
Orient nodded. He knew that many young people in the East Village community took on, or were given, new names. "What shall I call you?"
When she answered, there was a trace of fierce pride in her voice. "Kali is my name now."
"Nice name," Orient said, but he was curious. The name had a special significance for him.
"And to answer your first question," Kali was saying, "No, I don’t live here. No one does anymore. We did, but the place became too crowded. Everyone wants to join us. So I took a pad across the street." She looked at Orient and smiled. "I’ve even got a waterbed," she said softly, squeezing his hand.
"You mean you’ve managed to make the commune work? In the city? That’s beating big odds." Orient gently disengaged himself from her grip. Kali was going to have to take a bath before they extended relations.
She shook her head. "We started as a commune, but now we’re into something different. I’ll show you the rest of the place." She reached out, grasped his hand tight, and led him to the door behind the ragged curtains.
The sparkling cleanliness of the inside room was a startling contrast to the disorder of the front. The floor was laid with immacul
ate white tiles, and the walls had been freshly painted with gleaming black lacquer. Fat velvet pillows in various colors were strewn attractively over the floor, and a crisp linen curtain walled off one end of the long room.
"What do you think?" Kali asked. She let go of his fingers and put her hand on her hips. "Super, isn’t it?"
"Why is this room so special?" Orient asked.
"Because it’s for spedal people." She inclined her head toward the door. "The outside room is for Slavies. Like the teeny-boppers talking to Thor."
Orient furrowed his brow. "Slavies?"
"You know, little girls to run around and do things for the Circle. There’s only a few people in the Circle. I’m in my last phase now. Anyhow," Kali went on, "Slavies aren’t allowed in here except to clean
up or receive instruction. Sometimes they attend meetings."
"How come I’m allowed in here?" Orient asked, his mind racing. The conversation was beginning to make a strange kind of sense to him.
"Because you’re special," Kali said, coming closer. "I could feel it when I first saw you. Gregory is going to like you."
Orient was just about to ask who Gregory was, when he heard a scream from behind the curtain. As he turned his head, the curtains flew apart and a naked girl came stumbling into the room. Right behind her was a short, very thin boy wearing a black leather jump suit. "Stop her," he said calmly.
Karl blocked the girl’s path with her body and grabbed her arms. The girl didn’t resist. She shut her eyes and stood trembling in front of Kali. Her mouth was moving in a grotesque, grimacing attempt at speech, but no sound came out.
