“I think that sounds correct,” said Mangrove.
So with that, we three intrepid spacemen issued out of the Mansion—we didn't see anyone, they were all still at Hibben's—and got into our escape pod, previously known as a Chevrolet Caprice Classic. As I revved the engine, preparing for takeoff, I said, “I think the future of space travel lies in the spiral. Previously rocket ships and space shuttles have traveled in straight lines. But if they really want to voyage great distances, they need to spin or corkscrew, mimicking the movement of the earth and the sun. The spiral is in, the straight line is out. I read in The New York Times Science section about the power of the spiral.”
“Well, later dash off a note to NASA, Sergeant,” said Mangrove. “In the meantime, warp drive, please.”
Following the commander's order, we then careened, without getting arrested by any space constabulary, into town, and I am very fortunate that as a drunk and stoned driver—the roads were quite dark—I did not hit any innocent citizens of Saratoga, and in retrospect I condemn my selfish, impaired driving! But at that time, it was rather fun, especially since we all had taken to this notion of being spacemen searching for serotonin, and that my Caprice had transformed itself into a highly advanced escape pod.
“Commander,” I said as we neared the library, “we're approaching the town vector and my instruments indicate the presence of serotonin.”
“Very good, Sergeant,” said Mangrove. “Decrease speed of main thruster engines.” Under the influence of Mangrove's fine medical marijuana, we had fallen naturally and capably into the argot of space travel.
The library was just off Broadway, Saratoga's old-fashioned main street, the kind of main street America specialized in before the advent of the shopping mall and the great obesity plague at the end of the twentieth century. Visible to my scanners were restaurants, bars, clothing stores, coffee shops, newspaper stands, and drugstores. Most things were closed because it was evening, but the bars and restaurants—it was racing season—appeared to be doing a robust and healthy business. It was a Friday night and nearly 11 P.M., but things were lively.
I turned down the library's street, and behind the library was a grassy, elegant park where several sulfur-water fountains had been built.
“There is adequate docking space two hundred meters from the serotonin source,” said Tinkle from the backseat, as the fountain closest to the library was now visible.
“Thank you, Science Officer Alan Tinkle,” I said.
“By the way, I think we should be in the Federation, like the Enterprise,” said Tinkle, who was turning out to be something of a master of contemporary culture, having referenced Star Trek, Dune, and inadvertently, Lost in Space.
“I have no problems with us being in the Federation,” I said. “Do you, Commander?”
“I'm pleased to be a Federation officer,” said Mangrove.
I then parked the escape pod. “Shields up, Commander?” I asked.
“Yes, shields up,” said Mangrove.
“They should be photon shields,” said Tinkle.
Using the master electronic window device, I put all our photon shields up.
“Commander,” I said as a brilliant notion came to me, “after we drink from the spring, I suggest that we go to one of the alien bedding stations and locate their alcohol service area. I had discussed earlier with Science Officer Alan Tinkle the possibility of securing information regarding the whereabouts of a female alien comfort hospital.”
“You're too stoned,” said Tinkle.
“I am,” I said. “But let's try to stay in our rôles.”
“All right,” said Tinkle. “But I told you I can't do that.”
“What are you talking about, Sergeant?” asked Mangrove.
“In non-Federation speak, I was referring to the possibility of going to one of the hotels on Broadway, sitting at the bar, and finding out if there are any brothels in town.”
“You're referring to docking procedures with female aliens?” asked Mangrove.
“Possibly, Commander. I know it's outlandish, but it's something I had thought of earlier in the day, and now that we're on leave, like sailors, the idea came back to me.”
“You're against this plan of attack, Science Officer?” asked Mangrove, not indicating his own position on the matter.
“I am against it, Commander,” said Tinkle. “I prefer to just drink from the serotonin fountain.”
“I think then we should only drink from the fountain,” said Mangrove, “but we might consider it as a future mission. Important things could be learned from the local female alien population. All agreed?”
“Yes,” said both Tinkle and I.
“Let's have a moment of silence and then proceed to the serotonin fountain,” said Mangrove, taking quite nicely to his appointed rôle as our commander, giving orders both practical and spiritual. He wanted us to gather our mental forces before venturing forth into the alien village.
But thinking I had better keep watch during our moment of silence, while Mangrove closed his one eye, and Tinkle closed both his eyes (as I observed in the rearview mirror), I noted that a lot of people were on the streets, either strolling off their dinners or barhopping. When Mangrove opened his eye after about a minute, an indication that our moment of s. had passed, I said, “There seems to be a good deal of alien-humanoid activity.”
“Is it alien or humanoid?” asked Tinkle, a little fraternally competitive with me, possibly because I had put him on the spot yet again about this business of going to a brothel, which I probably shouldn't have done, though my intentions were good.
“I'm not sure,” I said. “They look like humans but they must be aliens. Correct of you to point this out, Science Officer.” I was trying to be conciliatory, to win him back over.
“They are aliens, but they have a very human appearance,” said Mangrove. “So be careful.”
“There appears to be a dairy-and-sugar station to the right of the serotonin fountain,” said Tinkle, getting back into the swing of things. “Most of the aliens are drawn to that.”
An ice cream shop was directly across the street from the bubbling mineral fountain. In fact, no one was at the fountain, but they were all on line at the ice cream place.
“Those aliens are ignoring the serotonin fountain,” I said. “Must not be an advanced civilization.”
We then got out of the escape pod and made our way to the spring. It was underneath a wooden pagoda and there were several benches surrounding it, where you could rest between sips. The spring was essentially a large water fountain that was perpetually gurgling. It had a three-foot-high ceramic base, topped by a round metal bowl, for collecting the overflow, and out of this bowl rose two upside-down, L-shaped pipes, or spigots, if you like, from which the sulfur-smelling water splashed.
We circled the bowl and studied the liquid. The bowl was stained orange from the water's rich mineral content.
“We have found the serotonin, Commander!” I said.
“Wait a second,” said Tinkle. “Remember, it's not supposed to be serotonin; we made a mistake when we came to this planet.”
“You're right,” I said. “I'd like maybe to change the script. Could be interesting if it really was serotonin.”
“No, we always have to be searching for it. We can't ever find it, if we want this to be a television series…. If it's a movie, we can find it,” said Tinkle.
“I was thinking in terms of a movie, at first,” I said. “But a TV series would be fun.”
“Whether it's a movie or a TV series, I think we should think that it's serotonin,” said Mangrove. “Then we drink it, and it works on us, but only because we're deluded. The placebo effect. And it's only later that we discover we're in Saratoga Springs and not Serotonin Springs, and we're so devastated by this that the placebo effect goes away. Don't forget we're at the start of our mission; we don't know yet that we've landed on the wrong planet. Then later, as ourselves, we can figure out whether it's for T
V or a movie or both.”
Mangrove then dipped his head and drank a snortful of the water. His eye patch got a little wet, but he didn't seem to mind.
“Delicious,” he said. “And I feel happy.” He smiled. I had never seen him smile so broadly before. Minuscule grins had been all he had previously dispensed. He sat on one of the benches and stretched out his long commander legs.
Then Tinkle went. He dipped his powerful jaw beneath the flowing water. “I like it,” he said, and sat down, joining the commander.
I drank some, and to my stoned palate the water was fantastically charged, better and richer than the water I had drunk from that stream in Sharon Springs. I then sat on the bench next to the one inhabited by the commander and the science officer.
We three were happy and stoned on our warm summer night adventure. Every few minutes or so, we stood up to drink another mouthful of water. Then I had the brilliant idea that one of us should procure plastic cups from the dairy and sugar dispensary, a mission which Tinkle bravely undertook.
When he returned alive, the commander and I complimented him on his courageous action, venturing into an establishment overrun with aliens. Then we three space travelers sipped the waters like gentlemen, refilling our cups when we needed to. Occasionally, an alien or two would join us at the fountain and then move on, and we would keep a wary silence; Tinkle informed us that his “phaser is on stun.”
It was all quite amusing and exciting.
Then I seemed to be sobering up; the passage of time and the drinking of the water was undoing the blissful effects of the marijuana and the booze, and right when I was about to propose that we head back to the main space station and absorb more alcohol and marijuana, a large, shapely female alien approached the fountain from behind us, walking between our two benches. She then bent over the fountain, showed us a rather lovely backside in a short blue skirt, dipped her head, took a healthy dose of the serotonin water, and then turned to us with a wet and smiling and beautiful face.
The female alien was Ava.
CHAPTER 31
A delightA fantasyA bitter lookA talk in front of a doorA discussion of positions with JeevesA trap is laidA slammed door
We all went back to the Mansion. Ava, in her blue skirt, was in the front seat next to me. She felt bad that she had displaced Mangrove from his earlier position of honor and insisted that he also sit up front. He tried to politely decline, but she persevered and he gave in to her wishes. So it was the three of us up front, and that put her right against me. Her bare thigh against my khaki pants. I tried to delight in this bit of incidental contact, putting my whole spirit into my leg, in case that was all I would ever know of her.
I pretended that it was the 1950s. Saratoga could pass for the 1950s, especially in the dark—the movie-set main street, the old houses, the tree-lined roads, the racetrack. I was the husband, Ava was my wife, Mangrove was our eccentric friend, and Tinkle, in the back, was our strange, gifted child.
“We're approaching the compound, Commander,” said Tinkle.
He and Mangrove were still playing Federation, but I had moved on to this more adult fantasy of 1950s married life.
“Starboard thrust warp hyperspeed vector, Sergeant,” said Mangrove, searching for the right nautical galactic terms.
“I can't believe how stoned you guys are,” said Ava.
At the fountain, we had tried to explain to her the search for serotonin, and she had seemed amused but also bored by the whole thing and asked us for a ride back. She had walked into town and eaten dinner by herself.
“Yes, Commander,” I said in a rather low voice, embarrassed to be playing space traveler in front of Ava, but I couldn't be completely disloyal to my two friends and abandon ship, so to speak.
I turned right and we drove down and through the narrow tunnel of dark trees, my headlamps illuminating the winding ribbon of driveway that led to the Mansion. After I parked the escape pod/Caprice, we all entered the mudroom together, and a few people were in there now, reading papers, playing cards, though it was nearly midnight. Hibben's party had obviously broken up.
We three space travelers felt sheepish, worried that the remnants of our stoned state might be visible. Beaubien was there reading Artforum. She gave me a bitter look. Whatever hostilities had been displaced during the capture of the bat seemed to have resurfaced. Seeing her, I remembered that I had to set up my slipper snare if I was going to clear up that trouble.
We passed through the mudroom, not really lingering. We simply mumbled hellos to our fellow colonists and advanced to the main hall. At the foot of the grand staircase, Mangrove declared that we should all convene in Tinkle's room. He invited Ava, but she begged off, said she was tired. I said I had to run to my room but would join them shortly.
As we climbed the red-carpeted stairs together, I tried to position myself to be alongside Ava, and while Mangrove and Tinkle continued on to the third floor, Ava and I proceeded down the wood-paneled hallway of the deuixième étage. We passed the rather lovely antique—filled library—velvet couches, a gold-leaf-trimmed desk, voluptuous chairs—and then walked past numerous closed doors which led to bedrooms.
I was starting to learn my way around the maze of the Mansion. If I continued down this hall, I would eventually descend a half-flight of stairs that led to the former servants' hallway and to my rooms.
I was pleased to have a few moments alone with Ava, though I also felt quite shy. We came to her door, which was just two doors down from Beaubien's chambers.
“Thanks for the ride back,” Ava said. We stood at her threshold.
“You're welcome,” I said, and then added, “I saw your sculpture at Dr. Hibben's tonight. It was really something. So beautiful.”
She smiled. Her full mouth was even more lovely when cast this way. And her nose was fantastic. It looked different from one moment to the next, the light doing all sorts of things, casting shadows, revealing contours.
“I'm glad you liked it,” she said. “I should read something you've written. You have anything here?”
“I've only written one book…. It's out of print … but I do have a few copies in the trunk of my car. I could get one for you….”
“Give it to me tomorrow. What's it called?”
“It's sort of an immature title … I Pity I.”
“I like that title.”
“I'll get it for you tomorrow then … first thing…. My new book has a better title, The Walker…. And I'd love to see more of your work. Maybe I could visit your studio?”
“Sure,” she said, and then she looked a little uncomfortable. Her eyes darted away from my face. I'm boring her, I thought. Inwardly I panicked. How not to bore someone? But before I could solve this dilemma, she said, “I'm going to go to bed now.”
“Okay.”
“Good night.” She gave me one more smile, then went into her room and closed the door.
There's nothing worse than boring someone. I limped off to my rooms and felt impotent and ashamed of myself, which was an overreaction. We'd had a nice enough talk, but it seemed to me that I had blown everything with Ava. It must have been the alcohol and the pot. I was speaking clearly and was able to walk a straight line, so I had the outer manifestations of sobriety, but my emotions were all distended and strange. It was that time of the night, bender-wise, when self-pity and melancholy come out and flex their muscles.
I went into my writing room, and Jeeves was there, sitting on his cot and reading Powell. He was dutifully keeping up with our club. He was on the first novel of the final movement, beautifully titled Books Do Furnish a Room.
“Hello, Jeeves,” I said, and sat at my desk. It was good to see him, but I still felt rather inconsolable. I had a taste of what Tinkle was going through all the time—I didn't think I would ever be loved. Like I said, the pot and the alcohol were doing things to me. Not positive things now, as they had earlier, when they had freed me up to be a little boy again and play at space travel.
&nbs
p; “Good evening, sir,” said Jeeves.
“I'll be direct, Jeeves,” I said, and loosened my tie. “No use trying to hide it. I got drunk again and I'm still drunk. I also blacked out again. Came to at Dr. Hibben's drinks party and was nearly killed by Dr. Hibben and his wife. Then smoked marijuana. Then drove drunk. If you want to call the FBI, I won't stop you, Jeeves.”
I had told him everything, except for being a dull fool at Ava's door. That, I couldn't admit. I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened.
“You've done quite a lot, sir. It's not yet midnight.”
“I try to be efficient, Jeeves…. And I'm going to do more. I'm hopeless. So I might as well enjoy myself, right, Jeeves?”
“That is a position one could take, sir.”
“But it's not a position you would take, Jeeves?”
“I don't think I would be in a position to take that position, sir.”
“That's a lot of positions, Jeeves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me put it this way. Do you think it's a position that I should take? I want to go rejoin my two friends, Mangrove and Tinkle, and drink more booze and smoke more marijuana.”
“I do not have an opinion, sir, on the position you should take in your position.”
I squinted an oysterish glance at Jeeves, but it didn't have much effect. I wasn't very good at oyster looks. A snail was more my range.
“All right, Jeeves. I know that it's not very pleasant to talk to someone in their cups. If it's any consolation to you, the marijuana I smoked was medically approved.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I'm not sure who approved it or what organ of the state was involved, but nonetheless it was certified marijuana. So that eases my conscience. I still think it was illegal for me to smoke it, but maybe not as illegal.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, Jeeves, I can see you're not feeling very approving of me. I wish you wouldn't be so judgmental. I can't help it. There's something wrong with me. I'm mentally weak!”
“I'm not judgmental, sir.”
Wake Up, Sir!: A Novel Page 26
