Amnesia Moon

by Jonathan Lethem

  His voice wasn’t low enough. Conversation died as people stopped to listen.

  Fault’s response was to bleat like a sheep, quite loudly.

  “Billy,” said Chaos softly, “maybe we should go somewhere else to eat—”

  “No way,” said Fault. “I’m hungry.”

  Now they were the center of attention. When the waitress came back out with a plate, the whole restaurant watched to see if she would go to their table. When she put a single ham sandwich in front of Chaos, there was a roar of whispers.

  Chaos tried to defuse things by pushing the plate to a spot midway between them; the sandwich was cut in half, after all. But Fault pushed it back. “Where’s mine?” he said loudly.

  The waitress swiveled away.

  “Shit,” said Fault. He turned around and made faces at the people behind him. Chaos chewed the corner off a triangle of sandwich hopelessly, his hunger draining away.

  Fault made the bleating sound again, then ostentatiously emptied the pocket of his leather jacket onto the table. Out tumbled a hypodermic syringe and a stoppered glass vial. Fault plunged the needle into the vial, drew the contents up into the syringe, and began rolling up his sleeve.

  A man across from them rustled in the pocket of his coat, took out a ticket book and pen, and began scribbling, like a parody of the waitress taking their order. Then, as though the ice only had to be broken, five or six other people flipped open identical books and began racing to fill out the ticket. Fault just stared. The first man and a fat woman with her chubby son in tow jumped up at the same time and held finished tickets out to Fault.

  “I was first,” said the woman quickly, edging in front of the man.

  “No. I saw them first,” said the man tensely.

  “We all saw them,” said the woman. “That doesn’t count for anything. We all saw them the moment they walked in here.” She thrust her ticket at Fault, who was slapping at his arm to raise a vein.

  “You’d better take it,” she said. “I can write you another one for resisting citation.”

  “Stuff it, lady.” He injected himself.

  “Stop that,” said a man who’d fallen too far behind in writing his ticket and given up. “You can’t do that in here.”

  “You’d better take the ticket and leave,” advised the woman.

  “I don’t think it matters,” said Fault. He put the needle back onto the table. “I’m not from around here, see? And where I’m from, people don’t go around giving each other tickets.”

  “Give it to him,” said a man at the booth behind Fault. He pointed at Chaos. “He lives here. And he brought him here. He should know better.”

  “Fair enough,” said the fat woman cheerily. “You take it.” She handed the ticket to Chaos, who took it and put it in his pocket. He wanted to go, but felt paralyzed.

  At that moment the waitress reappeared with a grease-smeared cook, his hair in a net, who stood glowering behind her.

  “Get out,” she said.

  “Fuck you,” said Fault.

  “I called the government,” she said. “They’re on their way. You’ll be very sorry if you don’t go. Now.”

  “I’m not leaving until I get my sandwich. Or until you make Palmer O’Brien come here himself.”

  “That can probably be arranged,” growled the cook. “But you won’t be laughing long, if it comes to that.”

  “In fact, I want Palmer O’Fucking Brien to bring me my sandwich and serenade me while I eat,” jeered Fault. “That would do the trick.”

  “Okay, you jackass,” said the cook, pushing past the waitress and grabbing Fault by the collar. He jerked him up out of the booth and pushed him towards the door. Chaos took Fault’s motorcycle helmet, leaving the vial and needle on the table, and followed the cook and Fault out the front door of the restaurant. The man who’d written the first ticket, the waitress, and several others followed. Outside, a crowd from the mall was already gathering around Fault and the cook.

  “Pay up,” said the cook, shoving Fault backwards.

  “I didn’t get anything,” said Fault. He spat on the ground between them and straightened his collar defiantly.

  Several of the people around them were busily writing up tickets. “He won’t take it,” someone warned. Someone else said: “That one’s staying with Gerald Bitter’s ex-wife. If he won’t take it, you can send it to her.”

  Chaos pushed forward past the cook and handed Fault his helmet. “Let’s go,” he said. Fault spat again, but the cook didn’t notice; he was distracted by someone’s trying to give him a ticket, for leaving his post in the restaurant. “—thinks he’s on TV,” said a woman disdainfully.

  The event degenerated into squabbles between the Palmer O’Brien loyalists who’d been in the restaurant and others who’d only seen the cook roughing up Fault outside. The crowd buzzed with the news that the government had been summoned: who would appear? Someone claimed she’d seen President Kentman himself. Chaos and Fault slipped away to the parking lot.

  Fault, it turned out, didn’t know the way back to Edie’s house. He’d only gotten there the first time by following Chaos’s dreams, he explained again. They found the house by taking the highway all the way out of town, to the east, then doubling back, until Chaos spotted the right overpass. His pink-splattered car was gone from where they had abandoned it—a loose end the government didn’t permit, apparently. It made Chaos think of Melinda, their trip together. He felt a pang of guilt.

  As Fault slowed in front of the house, Chaos could see that something wasn’t right. Edie’s car was gone, and another was parked in its place. There was a spotted black-and-white dog leashed to the front porch, and it barked at them as they dismounted.

  “Shit,” said Chaos.

  “What?”

  “Moving Day.”

  “Oh man, I’m sorry.”

  Chaos went up the porch steps, let the dog sniff his hand, and knocked on the door. The woman who answered was middle-aged and black. “Sorry to bother you,” said Chaos. “The people who were here before . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you see them?”

  “They were a little late getting out, as a matter of fact. How can I help you?”

  “Was there a little girl with, uh, fur all over her body?”

  “Yes. Her and an older woman.” The black woman peered out past Chaos at Fault and his motorcycle. “But who’s asking?”

  “You don’t know where they went, do you? They didn’t leave any word?”

  “No. I’m sorry.” She shut the door.

  As Chaos walked back down the porch steps, Cooley drove up and parked behind Fault’s motorcycle, then got out and strolled over to where Fault was standing. Chaos hurried to intercept him.

  “Hello, Chaos,” said Cooley. “Looking for Edie?”

  “Well actually—”

  “I know. I just saw her. She’s all worried, says you went off with some old friend. I told her to relax. Said I’d go back and find you. This your pal?”

  “Yeah, Billy—”

  “Ian. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Yeah.” Fault shook his hand.

  “Where you from?”

  “San Francisco.” Billy sounded nervous.

  “Really. I haven’t been to the city for a while. What brings you this way?”

  Fault jerked his thumb, indicating Chaos. It should have looked casual, defiant, but Fault’s expression made it come off as tongue-tied.

  “Old pals, eh?” Cooley’s tone was insinuating. “Heard you got into a little bit of a fuss up at the mall.”

  Fault took a step backwards. He seemed cowed. Chaos wondered if Fault was sensitized to Cooley’s status as a government star, tuned into the ideology like everyone else around here. It didn’t make sense otherwise: Cooley wasn’t any more imposing than the cook at the mall, and he wasn’t backed by a crowd.

  “A bit of one,” said Chaos, answering for Fault.

  There was a moment of tense silence
, then Cooley laughed, loudly. Fault stared, then tittered too, sycophantically. He suddenly reminded Chaos of Edge.

  “Bit of one,” Cooley repeated. “They give you a ticket?” He held out his hand.

  Chaos dug it out of his pocket, and Cooley examined it. “Well, well.” He tore it in half and then into quarters, and let the pieces flutter into the mud of the road. “Edie doesn’t need any more of those at the moment. This one wasn’t her fault, anyway. For once. Or your fault, for that matter. Except it was your bad luck that brought this little shithead into town.”

  “What?” said Fault.

  “You heard me,” said Cooley. “You used a fake card in that cash machine. Stole money from the folks that live here. We don’t need that fancy San Francisco crap around here. Give me the card.”

  Fault handed Cooley the bootleg cash card, and Cooley pocketed it. “Okay, Motorboy. Basically I want you out of town. Except you can give your pal Chaos a lift to Edie’s new place. So go sit over there on the porch while Chaos and I have a word or two.”

  Fault walked over to the porch without a murmur.

  “You and Edie are a real magical combination, Chaos. Bad luck is exponential, you know. If you’re going to add that much bad luck to your life, you better upgrade your radar and quick. Learn to spot trouble like this one a mile off.” He jutted his chin at Fault.

  “Where’s Edie?” asked Chaos.

  “I’ll give you her new address, Chaos. But I want something in exchange. I want you to say you’ll come in Monday morning and take the test.”

  “I could find Gerald’s building,” Chaos pointed out. “Wait there until she comes to pick up the boys. I don’t need your help.”

  “You don’t understand. You think I’m jerking your chain. But I’m trying to help. I’m saying take the test, get squared away with us, get on the rolls. We’ll sign you up for a work shift, too. I’m saying welcome aboard, stick around a while. The test is just the way we do things around here. Not everybody’s all hounded and paranoid all the time, Chaos. Not everyone’s like Edie. You’ll find that out if you give it a chance.”

  “You want me away from Edie.”

  “Okay, Chaos.” Cooley grinned his wide grin. “Whatever. Here I am about to give you her address, and trying to help you get lined up for a test, which if you’re going to stick around here, with Edie or not, is a must, and you’re suggesting you might prefer to spend the night with Gerald instead. Your choice.”

  Chaos didn’t say anything.

  “Edie’s due for a work shift Monday. She can drop you off at my office on her way to punch in. Test takes about an hour and a half.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Saying this, he felt defeated.

  “Good enough.”

  Cooley gave him directions, and Chaos immediately felt cheated; Edie had moved just a few blocks away. “And I don’t mean to be harsh—” Cooley continued.

  “Yes?”

  “But after that sonofabitch takes you to her place, I want him gone.”

  They drove off, Chaos and Fault towards Edie’s new apartment and Cooley in the opposite direction. Fault began muttering oaths the minute Cooley’s car was out of sight; Chaos didn’t ask him why he’d waited so long.

  “I’ve got to get some sleep,” Fault said absently when they pulled up in front of the three-story apartment building. Edie was at the top. “Otherwise I’d stick around.”

  “That’s all right,” said Chaos. He wanted to go upstairs. He needed to think.

  “So you get things settled,” continued Fault. “I’ll be back to pick you up tomorrow, okay?”

  “What?”

  “Bright and early, while this town’s still asleep, so we won’t run into any of your fascist friends, you know? Just slip out while they’re fixing their morning coffee.”

  “Well . . .”

  “You’re coming to the city, right? Cale’s expecting you.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.” He didn’t want to leave Edie. But he didn’t want to take the luck test, either. It couldn’t hurt to have Fault come back, he decided. He wouldn’t go if he didn’t want to.

  “Here,” said Fault. He dug in his satchel and pulled out a black plastic cartridge. “Cale wanted me to give you this. You need a VCR to watch it.”

  “VCR?”

  “Ask Edie. They’re built into most of the televisions around here, I think. She’ll know.”

  Chaos took the cartridge.

  Fault lit a cigarette and struck a pose on his motorcycle, as though reconstituting his image as a rebel after Cooley’s dismantling. He strapped on his helmet and revved the engine. “See you tomorrow, Everett.”

  Everett. Chaos had momentarily forgotten.

  He took the name, and the cartridge, upstairs.

  The tape was about three minutes long. The first two and a half were Cale—Cale Hotchkiss—talking at the camera, a tight headshot. The first thing he said was, “Listen, Everett: do you remember when we were twelve or thirteen, and we broke into the train yard?”

  Chaos remembered. They’d walked the tracks to the end of the line, to the yard where the trains sat overnight, with spray cans for painting graffiti. They’d covered one car with paint from top to bottom, then gone uptown to wait for it to roll through the station, except they’d fallen asleep on the bench on the platform and missed it. Cale had been his best friend. The question was obviously meant to trigger the memory, and it had worked.

  Clearly Chaos was going to have to get used to the name Everett.

  “I want to see you,” Cale went on. “I’m glad you’re coming back. There’s something I think you can help me with.”

  He paused, looked away from the camera, and Chaos felt that he ought to say something, answer. The face and voice on the tape were in some way more real than anyone or anything he’d encountered in a long time. Through them he could almost taste his life before the break.

  “You were right, Everett,” continued Cale. “All the stuff you used to say about what mattered, you were right. Everything else is just what you have to work through to get back to what you know matters when you’re twelve or thirteen.” Cale paused. “The change is weird. When you’re young, you’d like to remake everything, you want the world to be growing up with you. Now it’s sort of true.”

  Chaos wanted to believe that this dark-eyed man was his friend. He wanted it to be true that Cale needed him, missed him. Knew him. Chaos wanted to be known, known in a way that would help him know himself.

  “We’ll talk when you get here,” said Cale. “I don’t want to overwhelm you. I’m just worried that you might not remember enough to know to come back. That you’ll get this close and then wander away again.”

  Cale looked away from the camera, and the screen went blank. Then there was another clip, this one very short. A woman stood against a black backdrop, wearing a black suit, so she was barely more than face and hands floating in a mist of static. She pushed her hair back, and the camera moved in closer. She was beautiful.

  It was Gwen, and the neutral space she inhabited on the television screen was just like the darkened room where Chaos had met with her in his dreams.

  “Everett.” She blinked and looked down. “Cale says you’re really there. He says he knows from his dreams—but I don’t dream anymore.” She looked up and laughed softly at whoever was behind the camera. “I don’t know what to say. Uh, come and see me, okay, Ev? I’d like to see you. That’s all, I guess.”

  The camera held her for a few seconds more, and then the screen went black.

  Edie had shown Chaos how to use the VCR, then sat back in a chair and watched the tape in silence. But when Gwen appeared on the screen, she got up and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Melinda just sat on the floor and fidgeted. When Chaos switched the television off, she made a sour face and said, “Where’d you get that?”

  “A guy gave it to me,” he said absently. “Guy I used to know.”

  “Th
e motorcycle man?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” He got up and knocked on the bedroom door, and when Edie didn’t answer, he went in. She was sitting on the edge of the bed beside a pile of clothes.

  “Somebody left some old clothes here,” she said. “They might fit you. You have to wash the ones you’re wearing.”

  “I thought you couldn’t take anything.”

  “Clothes are up for grabs. You’re supposed to take them with you. So if they’re left behind, you can have them.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll try them on. Thanks.”

  She got up nervously. “When you change, put your old clothes in the bathroom. I’ll wash them and hang them up.”

  “I think I’m going to San Francisco tomorrow.”

  “So?”

  “They probably wouldn’t dry in time.”

  “They smell,” she said. “Either wash them or throw them out.” She turned away from him and left the room. He followed her out, past Melinda, who’d switched the television back on, and into the kitchen.

  Edie began to inventory and rearrange the items in the refrigerator and cabinets, but from her manner Chaos suspected she’d done this once already. Neither of them spoke. After a few minutes she pulled out a box of crackers and a hand-labeled plastic container of peanut butter and began jamming roughly smeared crackers into her mouth.

  “What’s the matter?” said Chaos.

  “I don’t like your new friends,” she said thickly, through a mouthful of crackers.

  “They’re not my new friends, they’re my old friends.”

  “Well, I don’t like them, especially the one this morning, the only real one. Mr. Leather Jacket. He’s awful, Chaos. And he’s getting you in trouble already.”

  Chaos didn’t want to argue Fault’s merits. He wasn’t sure Fault had any. “What do you mean, the only real one?”

  “The other two are just pictures,” she said. “On television. They’re like your dreams. I don’t believe they’re real. They’re from inside you.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. It’s a tape, Edie.”