Kampus
Page 17
He felt so good he did not even think when he saw ahead of them a solitary figure walking beside the road. Automatically he pulled up beside the figure and stopped. The hitcher was a young man, blond and curly-haired, irresistibly attractive, with a curly blond beard, blue eyes, and neat clothing.
“Gavin...” Elaine began when the car started to slow, and then it was too late.
“Get in, brother,” Gavin said cheerfully, feeling his pleasure multiplied by the prospect of sharing it with the less fortunate.
“Thanks, brother,” the young man said, and when Elaine didn't move, he tossed his pack into the back seat and vaulted over the back of the car to land beside it.
“Glad to do it,” Gavin said, smoothly gliding onto the highway and toward the horizon, which had leveled off as they got farther into central Kansas.
Elaine said nothing. Gavin could feel the weight of her disapproval in the seat beside him, but the comforting presence of the freak in back more than made up for it.
“Where from, brother?” he asked.
“All over, brother,” the other said. “'I've been seeing the country for the past year, and now I'm going home.”
“Home?” Gavin repeated. He remembered his own recent euphoria, and he felt a wave of sympathy for the young man.
“Home to Dallas,” the hitcher said.
“You're going in the wrong direction, brother,” Gavin said. “We're going to the West Coast. Texas is off south.”
“I know,” the hitcher said, “but you got to take what you can get. Rides are scarce these days. Seems like people are scared of hitchers.”
“I wonder why,” Elaine said.
“Well, sister,” the young man said, “people are afraid of a lot of things.”
“Like thieves, rapists, murderers,” she suggested.
“Well, of course, sister,” the hitcher said. “But you can't go through life looking for thieves, rapists, and murderers. You might find them. And you'll miss all the wonderful things, all the beautiful people.”
His enthusiasm was like laughter. Gavin found himself smiling. “Just what I told her,” he said. “My name's Gavin. She's Elaine.”
“Chester,” the hitcher said, touching his chest with his index finger, “but some folks call me ‘Chet’ and others call me ‘Jet.'”
“Is that because you're fast?” Gavin asked.
“That, and I move around a lot,” the hitcher said. “So much to see, you got to keep moving. And I never met a stranger. Right, brother?”
“Right,” Gavin said. “Is that all you do, Jet? You're not a student?”
“Used to be a student,” Chester said, “but I wanted to get into something more active. So I became an activist—an organizer.”
“What do you organize?” Elaine asked skeptically.
“People,” Chester said breezily. “Movements, demonstrations, riots...”
“Bombings?” Elaine asked. She seemed immune to his charm.
Chester leaned forward to tousle her hair. She pulled away from him. “No need to be unfriendly,” he said. “Those, too, but that's all in the cause of a better world.” He tapped Gavin on the shoulder. “Right, brother?”
“Right,” Gavin said. He hadn't felt such solidarity since he left the campus, and he hadn't met such a likable, attractive young fellow for years.
“I can't tell you how grateful I am that you picked me up,” Chester said.
“That's what brothers are for,” Gavin said. Joy rose in his throat, to make talking difficult.
“You don't often find brothers driving new convertibles,” Chester said. He sat on the edge of the narrow back seat, looking from one of them to the other with delight, the breeze coming over the windshield tumbling his blond curls, twisting its fingers in his blond beard.
“It's not my car,” Gavin said.
“Gavin...” Elaine began.
But Gavin continued, unheeding. “It's the girl's here. I'm just a hitcher, like you.” He wanted to increase the solidarity, build upon it. “Got a ride yesterday.”
“Yesterday, brother?” Chester said. He looked at Elaine with even greater pleasure. “A rider yesterday, a driver today. That's progress.”
“That's right,” Gavin said. He had a feeling he was babbling, but he couldn't help it. “Spent the night at a motel just this side of Junction City.”
“At a motel, eh?” Chester said, grinning at Elaine.
“In separate rooms,” Elaine said, and then looked as if she wished she had remained silent.
“Of course, sister,” Chester said. “But where did a little girl like you get a new convertible and the money to stay in a motel—in separate rooms? I know Gavin here wouldn't have any money.”
“That's right, brother,” Gavin said. “The possession of money is the first surrender to materialism.”
“I worked for it,” Elaine snapped. “That's something you wouldn't understand, because you expect everything to be handed to you.”
“Oh, I work, too,” Chester said cheerfully, “but not for it. Not for money or for what money can buy, but for liberty and justice and equality. Right, brother?”
“Right,” Gavin said.
“I didn't pick Gavin up because he was a hitcher,” Elaine said, “but in spite of it. I knew him, so it wasn't what you think.”
“What do I think?” Chester asked, spreading his arms wide to indicate his insignificance, grinning to indicate his harmlessness. “What do I matter? I'm just a knight of the road, a pilgrim of the revolution. I've taken a vow of poverty, and my opinions are just as worthless.”
“Personal property is an illusion, brother,” Gavin said happily. “Those who need and those who have are rightful partners in a process of equalization.”
“That's right, brother,” Chester said.
“God!” Elaine said.
“All men have created the wealth that man has accumulated,” Gavin continued, “and so its use and benefits belongs to all men—not to the few who have expropriated it and wrongfully withhold its use from others.”
“Right, brother,” Chester said.
“Nobody owns anything, and everybody owns everything,” Gavin said triumphantly.
“Right, brother.”
“Then why do I work and others loaf?” Elaine asked.
“That's your hangup,” Gavin said. “If everybody refused to perform the meaningless tasks this twisted society demands, it would soon order things better—distribute goods equitably, give people what they need, and let them use their time in the only meaningful way we have.”
“And what's that?” Elaine asked.
“Self-discovery,” Gavin said. “The exploration of one's humanity. The perfection of one's personality.”
“Right, brother,” Chester said, his white teeth sparkling in the sun.
“And what of this personality,” Elaine said skeptically, “where did it come from?”
“Why,” Gavin said in surprise, “we're born human.”
“And the baby in the crib,” Elaine said, “he's supposed to lie there exploring his humanity, growing up, alone, perfecting his personality which was given him at birth through a casual meeting of chance genes?”
“Well, there's an interaction with other people,” Gavin said. “Exploring one's humanity is done in relation to other people who are exploring their humanity. One reacts, involves oneself, builds a sane society...”
“It isn't all studying one's own navel?” Elaine asked. “Sometimes you study other people's navels? It seems to me what you have is a program of equating man's genetic traits with man himself, ignoring his environment, ignoring the social evolution of ideas, ignoring the dynamic tensions that have made man first intelligent and then conscious of himself as a developing species. What about the mysteries of life, the birth and death of suns and worlds and universes? Where does your exploration of humanity make room for quest, for the sense of being human by pitting oneself against great odds, great questions, great challenges?”
“Right,” Chester said, and in the same cheerful voice added, “Now pull over to that rest stop.”
“You mean you need a rest stop already, brother?” Gavin asked.
“I think we all do, brother,” Chester said.
“Gavin...” Elaine said in a frightened, warning voice.
“Don't turn your head, brother,” Chester said calmly. “There's the point of a knife at the hinge of your jaw.”
Gavin could not control his head. It jerked to the right, and he felt a sharp pain in his jaw at the same time as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a switchblade in the steady hand of the angelic Chester.
“There, now,” Chester chided him, “didn't I tell you not to turn your head? Now you've cut yourself.”
Gavin turned his face back toward the road, holding his head rigid. Something touched his jaw, and he drew back.
“Now, don't get nervous, brother,” Chester said solicitously. “I'm just wiping away the blood. There! It's only a small cut, really, and you'll hardly know it's there by tomorrow. It'll be nothing beside the big cut in your throat if you don't slow down right now. Be careful, girl, or this blade will get knocked right into the neck of your boyfriend, here. That's it, brother. Slow. Slow. Now, turn off here.”
“He's no friend of mine,” Elaine said sullenly.
“I'd judge differently, sister,” Chester said, “but that don't matter.”
Gavin had swung the car off the road onto the gravel drive that led up to a little park area and a stone hut with a red roof. The gravel gritted under the car's tires.
“Now, swing the car onto the grass behind the shelter house,” Chester said. “That's great, brother. Now, stop the car. Turn it off. Put on the hand brake. Move slowly! I wouldn't want this knife to slip. That's it. Now, open the door and get out of the car. Easy. Slow. I'm right behind you with the knife at your back, getting out. There, now, brother. You're a good student. You learn good.”
Gavin stood beside the yellow car, his muscles tight, his back conscious of Chester behind him. “Jet,” he said, “you wouldn't do anything to a brother, would you? Somebody who took you off the road?”
“I wouldn't have a chance to do it to anybody else, would I?” Chester asked reasonably. “Anyhow, you know how it is with private property, brother. You just convinced me. Nobody owns anything. Everybody owns everything. Well, brother, I'm claiming a little bit of mine and relieving you of something you don't own.”
“I told you,” Gavin said, “it's the girl's.” Back behind the rest rooms, he had no view of the highway. Which meant that nobody could see them.
“As I understand you,” Chester said, “it doesn't belong to her, either. Right, brother?”
Gavin suppressed the automatic response.
“Don't move hastily there, sister, or this knife ... you know? I'll tell you when to move. Until then, just sit there. Now, brother, lie down, here in the grass on your belly, and don't move. You, sister, will find a piece of rope sticking out of the top of my pack. Pull it out. That's right—keep on pulling, and it will all come free. Very good.”
Gavin felt a foot in the middle of his back, shoving him deeper into the grass. He struggled to keep his head up out of the grass. Maybe he could roll out from under the foot, he thought, but he didn't believe that Chester intended to harm them, talking so calmly, and as long as he talked about rope, there was hope for a fate less than final. “Someone's going to hear you,” he said. “Better get out while you have time.”
“Now, that would be too bad, wouldn't it?” Chester said. “They'd get hurt, and you'd get hurt, and the girl would get hurt, and all for nothing. Right, brother? Now, sister, I want you to tie up your boyfriend here. Hands behind you, brother. That's fine. You learn real good, brother. Now, tie ’em tight, sister. Real tight.”
Gavin felt the touch of Elaine's fingers for the first time, and he thought, inappropriately, that we go through life not touching other people, not being touched. There was something electric and meaningful about her fingers as they twisted the smooth rope, and then the rope bit into his wrists and he granted with surprise.
“Now, run the cord down and tie his ankles the same way, sister,” Chester said cheerfully. “That's good. That's great! Now, flop him over.”
Gavin felt himself turned like a sack of potatoes. He faced into a blinding sun and then twisted himself until he could look at Chester for the first time since the organizer, if that was what he was, had pressed a knife against his face. “You lousy son-of-a-bitch!” he said.
“Don't be bitter, brother,” Chester said. He was standing behind Elaine, his arm around her waist familiarly, his right hand behind her. “I'm just engaged in a process of equalization between those who have and those who need. Me? I need to go to Texas, so I'm taking the car.” He plucked the credit card from the case at Elaine's waist and dropped it into his pocket. “With a little help, I'll make it by noon tomorrow. Now, I want you to understand that it's in my best interest to leave you two here dead, but I don't want to do that. Too messy, for one thing. I hate a mess, and I do like you, brother, and I wouldn't want to do that to you. So don't make any noise. As you said, it might bring somebody, and I might be forced to act against my will and my basic altruism. Right, brother? Now, there's something else I need, and I don't want either of you to make a sound. I could gag you, but let's consider this a lesson in self-control. Something else to learn, brother.”
The birds sang and the locusts buzzed, and Chester put his hand on Elaine's shoulder and then pulled his hand back and down. The dress peeled away from her body like flower petals opening to the sun. Elaine jumped and then stood quietly, her head up. She was slender and pale in the sunlight. Gavin struggled against the ropes that held him. “You son-of-a-bitch!” he said. “You bastard!”
“Easy, now,” Chester said, displaying the knife in his right palm. The sunlight rippled along its edge. “I'm trying to control myself. You must do the same thing.” His left hand was on Elaine's bare shoulder as his right hand moved behind her back. Her brassiere pulled tight and then loosened. Chester brushed the strap from her left shoulder, and the brassiere fell forward onto the ground at Gavin's feet.
Gavin clenched his teeth and struggled, as he noticed, inconsequentially, that Elaine was not as flatchested as he had supposed. Her breasts were small but well-formed and firm, and the nipples were virgin pink. And then he noticed that her face was tight, as if she were trying not to cry.
And then her underpants fell away, the elastic severed, like the brassiere strap, by Chester's knife.
“You shit!” Gavin shouted. “You lump of filth!”
But Chester was no longer listening. With one hand he closed the switchblade and slipped it into his pocket; with the other hand he swung Elaine around to face him, his face beatific.
As if the clicking of the blade were a signal, Elaine moved with the turning hand and drove her right knee toward Chester's crotch. He partially blocked the blow with his right thigh, but he winced when the knee hit him. Then he grinned, straightening, and hit Elaine in the face with his fist.
She exclaimed, and turned as if to run. But Chester had her arm and was hitting her methodically with his left hand.
“I'm glad,” he said, grunting with each blow, “you ... did ... that! I like ... a girl ... who ... struggles.”
After the first blow, Elaine was silent, but she fought with him, raking at him with her fingernails. Once she broke free and ran a few steps before he caught up with her.
Gavin watched helplessly, trying to free himself, until someone's foot caught him in the head and turned the world black. Gavin didn't know how long he was unconscious, but the sun was still high in the sky when he felt wet hands tugging at the rope around his wrists, and he opened his eyes. With one tug the ropes fell away. His hands were free.
“What was the matter with you?” a voice asked faintly behind
him. “I tied the rope so that you could get free just by pulling the loose end. He ... he was so busy talking, he didn't notice.”
Gavin sat up, his stomach sinking with the thought of his stupidity, of what he might have prevented. Elaine was on her hands and knees. She was still naked, but her white body now was covered with red welts and darkening bruises. Her head hung down, and he couldn't see her face. It was obscured by limp, sweat-wet hair. The car was gone. They were alone.
“Is he gone?” Gavin asked.
“All hitchers,” Elaine said, her voice breaking, “should be taken out and shot.”
“We can't let one pervert destroy our faith in all the wonderful people,” Gavin said.
“Damn you, Gavin!” Elaine said. Her hand swung toward his head. Too late he saw there was a rock in it. “Damn you!” And the day returned to darkness.
7. The Organization Man
Radicals always complain about the resistance of the establishment to change. They might reflect that the conservative renders as great a service to revolution as the rebel. If every damn-fool idea were accepted and implemented immediately, we would all be engulfed in chaos. The conservative weeds out the casual impulse, the inept proposition, the ridiculous proposal, and the half-baked concept; only the fittest survive—those changes which have the force of truth and the irresistibility of historical necessity, and even then many ill-conceived and ill-fated innovations fight their way through social inertia, like Prohibition, like law and order.
—THE PROFESSOR'S NOTEBOOK
Gavin was forced to slip into the hospital by stealth. He was late for visiting hours, and the visitor's gate kept rejecting him. The hospital, always authoritarian, was the last remaining citadel of tyranny and the frustration of the individual.
“Visiting hours are over,” the gate said in a flat, mechanical voice. “You may return at ten tomorrow morning.”
Gavin's patience accepted euthanasia. Beyond the gate was a waiting room with plastic chairs and tattered old videotapes. A dimly lit corridor on the other side of the waiting room extended into the remote bowels of the hospital itself. Gavin vaulted the gate. As his feet hit the floor, a metal door slid from the ceiling to close off the hospital corridor, and the gate said, more urgently, “You have violated a regulation of this hospital. Regulations within this building have the force of law. Within thirty seconds the front entrance will be closed, and anesthetic gas will be released. Anyone found here...”