Fractal Paisleys

by Paul Di Filippo

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Hey, how come you gonna tell me lies? People do it alla time back home.”

  “Where the hell is home?”

  “Pill-a-peens,” said Dewey, lapsing in her sorrow into the native pronounciation. Then she began to cry.

  She came to live with Stevie and Peter that day two years ago. Budd had appeared belligerently looking for her shortly thereafter. Master Blaster and Whammer Jammer had stuck his head in a barrel of gurry and booted his ass halfway down the block. He never came back.

  “What you boys got in there?” says Dewey, advancing a step or two down the porch. Ice underneath her bare feet makes her hop back up. “I’m feeling some sort of major weirdness now.”

  “Something you’re not gonna believe, Dewey. Just hold on a minute, we’re bringing it in.”

  Whammer Jammer enters Bullwinkle now. The emotional radiance of the Groove Thang is mounting the closer he gets, a powerful beat warming his head and heart and groin. Before he can be overpowered and transfixed, he tosses himself at the alien.

  For a microsecond he feels something like an armadillo. Then in instant succession it changes to a snake, a tiger, a butterfly, a flower— Wrestling Proteus, fer shure.…

  Whammer Jammer falls face first to the floor. The Groove Thang is gone, dispelled along other dimensions by Whammer Jammers gain of tactile information.

  And the Groove Thang has taken the tarp with it.

  “It’s out here!” yells Dewey.

  Whammer Jammer gets painfully up and exits the van.

  The Groove Thang, still tarp-covered, is sitting in the middle of the street.

  “Let me try,” says Master Blaster.

  Rush, tackle, pop. Dewey screams. The Groove Thang has materialized right beside her on the porch. Then her face goes all slack and gooey with bliss. She moves in a hypnotized fashion to embrace the Groove Thang. Whammer Jammer, standing on the brown winter-dead lawn holds his breath, wondering where Dewey’s embrace will send the alien next.

  She wraps her arms around it.

  The Groove Thang lets her.

  “Holy shit!” says Whammer Jammer.

  “It’s not jumpin’, Pete?” guesses Master Blaster. “Dewey, Dewey, pick it up!”

  “Bring it inside, quick, get it in the house!”

  As if from deep within a trance, her dark eyes glazed over, Dewey obeys. She clutches the tarp-covered Groove Thang to her in a bear-hug, bent slightly backward to lift it off the porch. Then she waddles into the house.

  She makes it up the stairs to their third-floor apartment before succumbing completely, coming to a halt in the front room as if frozen.

  “Drop it, Dewey, drop it!”

  No reaction. Tentatively, Master Blaster and Whammer Jammer sidle up to her, grab her arms—instant electric transmission of the Groove Thang’s full power threatens to blank out their minds—and tug her away.

  All three sprawl out on the floor. Dewey is unconscious, the other two nearly so. After a minute the boys get up and carry Dewey to the room farthest from The Groove Thang.

  She wakes up shortly.

  “What’d it feel like under the tarp?” asks Whammer Jammer.

  “Can you tell us what kind of Groove Thang it is?” says Master Blaster. “Like, animal, vegetable or mineral?”

  “I don’t remember nothing so specific, guys. My mind wasn’t working that way. That’s gotta be why he lets me hold him, cuz I got the right kind of thinking. You Western boys too analytical. You gotta learn my secret Oriental ways if you wanna touch him. But I’m telling you—he’s worth it! I can feel him even now.”

  “He?” says Whammer Jammer.

  “Him?” echoes Master Blaster.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s one thing I did learn. Your Groove Thang’s a he.”

  Pete and Stevie register dubiousness. Dewey takes offense. “Hey, you think I don’t know men, you got another think coming!”

  They leave it at that. But from now on, the Groove Thang is no longer an “it.” Dewey just won’t allow such inexact terminology

  When they feel completely recovered, they look slyly and shyly at one another. Here in the far room they can still feel the inexhaustible outpouring of the Groove Thang in an attenuated form which is nonetheless strong enough to make them smile continuously, in a goofy way.

  “Should we go back in there with it?” says Whammer Jammer.

  “Him, I told you, its a him.”

  “Well,” says Master Blaster, “why shouldn’t we? Ol’ Groove Thang can’t hurt us, he just feels good. Real good. And you know, during that time at the dump when we were so close, I sorta got the impression that he liked having people around. He might need us as much as we need him. Who knows—maybe we give off some kind of vibes that Groove Thang gets high on.…”

  “Okay,” agrees the cautious Whammer Jammer. “But I’m worried about us catching some hint of his shape thru the tarp. We don’t want him jumping again. So we’ve got to fix some kind of screen around him.”

  Dewey dashes suddenly for their bed in the corner and yanks off all the blankets and sheets.

  “Gotcha,” says Whammer Jammer.

  In a few minutes, working tipsily atop a step-ladder within the Groove Thang’s sphere of utmost potency, clumsily wielding hammer and nails, the trio have erected a makeshift tent around the tarpaulin-clad Groove Thang. They stand back to admire their handiwork.

  “Maybe he’s uncomfortable with that canvas on him,” suggests Dewey dreamily. “No reason he needs it now.”

  Whammer Jammer kneels down and slides one hand and arm under the blankets puddled on the floor. Then he pauses. “What am I supposed to be doing?” he asks.

  “I forget…,” says Dewey.

  “Um, you’re reaching for something…,” hints Master Blaster.

  Whammer Jammer feels a scratchy canvas corner and intuitively yanks it back out with him.

  “I guess that’s that,” he says to his companions.

  But there is no reply. Master Blaster is collapsed spinelessly on the couch, Dewey seated spraddle-limbed on the floor with her back against his dangling arm.

  Whammer Jammer crawls over and lies down with his head cradled in Dewey’s lap.

  As in a dream contained within the mind of a god, time passes. Maybe. It might just possibly be stopped for good. The three people remain unstirring, their breathing shallow, adrift on the soft, rose-scented seas of the Groove Thang’s harmonic soporific aura. Their minds are filled with a shapeless calm and peace, not so much an absence of all unhappiness as a presence of all that is good and pleasing. This hyperaware oblivion stretches on endlessly, everything they could ask for, the ultimate in contentment. All their cares are forgotten. Money-, coffee-, cigarette-hunger, the memory of being slapped around—all are negated, made less than nothing.

  The gatekeeper of the universe has locked himself out and is pounding on the mile-high brazen doors with his mammoth steel-wrapped fists.

  Whammer Jammer pulls himself reluctantly back to reality. The knocking continues, only diminished in tone and importance. Whammer Jammer shakes Dewey and Master Blaster roughly.

  “Wake up, someone’s banging on our door.”

  Whammer Jammer tries to get to his feet. His legs feel like a string of loosely connected water-balloons. Dewey bestirs herself and starts to say, “My thighs are sure numb, boy—” when Master Blaster howls. “My arm is dead!”

  Dewey pulls away from the arm she has been leaning on. “Sorry, Stevie.”

  “Can you move it, man?”

  “No, it’s dead, it’s dead!”

  Dewey and Whammer Jammer begin furiously to oscillate Master Blaster’s arm, as if he is a balky pump. “Stop, stop! It’s alive, it’s alive—but that’s worse! Yeee-oow! It’s the baddest pins and needles I ever felt!”

  Leaving Dewey to massage Master Blaster’s arm, Whammer Jammer moves unsteadily to the door.

  On the other side stands Mister Histadine, their landl
ord. Mister Histadine looks like a dyspeptic raccoon. Big black pouches under his eyes betray a soul too ill at ease with its sour self even to enjoy a good nights sleep. The accumulated bile, anger, jealousy, spleen and futile remorse of five decades has made Mister Histadine into a vengeful ogre.

  Living on the first floor of the tenement, Mister Histadine is easily as close to the influence of the Groove Thang as Famous Amos was at the dump. But so constipated and cramped is his spirit that even now, standing only a few feet from the Groove Thang, Mister Histadine is still his old bitchy self.

  Before Mister Histadine can say anything, Whammer Jammer asks, “What day is it?”

  “Thursday, the first, as you well know, you scruffy little twerp. It’s no use pretending with me to be spaced-out on some kind of drug. It’s time for my rent, and I want it right now!”

  Thursday. They’ve been under the influence of the Groove Thang for three days! Whammer Jammer’s stomach suddenly clenches in on itself, and he feels intriguing pressures in his bladder and bowels. Holy Moly! They might’ve wasted away, had not Mister Histadine come knocking. Clearly, the Groove Thang has its possibilities for misuse.…

  Whammer Jammer surveys the irate face before him. Mister Histadine looks ready to spit in his eye. Whammer Jammer decides to feel only gratitude to Mister Histadine, because he has saved their lives. Therefore he says, “Come right this way, Mister Histadine. We got what you’re looking for right in here.”

  The landlord bulls past Whammer Jammer and down the hallway into the front room. Dewey and Master Blaster have retreated to the kitchen, where the effects of the Groove Thang are less.

  Mister Histadine sees the blankets nailed to the ceiling, and manages to say, “This’ll cost you your security deposit—” Then his features seem to shatter and crack, falling to pieces before reassembling themselves into an unprecedented beatitude.

  “Stevie, Dewey, come help me carry Mister Histadine to the couch!”

  With their landlord in a trance on the couch, the three roommates—after a pisspot pitstop—sit down around the kitchen table for a strategy session.

  At first they are a little tense from the unexpected intrusion and the way it has focused their attention back on the mundane demands of the outside world. But under the pervasive somatic throbbing of the Groove Thang they find themselves mellowing into a confident acceptance that somehow Everything Will Be All Right.

  “First off,” says Whammer Jammer, “what are we gonna do about Mister Histadine?”

  “Can’t we skip right to Problem Number Two?” asks Master Blaster.

  “Okay. What are we gonna do with the Groove Thang?”

  “Let’s go back to Mister Histadine.”

  “I don’t want that old monkey-faced bastard laying on my couch alia time,” says Dewey. “I say let’s wake him up and just tell him we don’t got no rent money for him this month.”

  “Great. And we’re out in the cold on our tails.”

  “I think maybe not, Pete. I think maybe Groove Thang be having some effect on even Mister Histadine, grouchy like he is.”

  “Any other ideas? No? Okay, we’ll try it. Now, as for ol’ GT—”

  “We can’t keep him to ourselves,” says Master Blaster with a sense of earnest conviction that surprises them all, until they realize what he’s said is just the plain truth. “He’s too big and good for three people to monopolize. I say we share him with all our friends. With strangers, too. With everyone, in fact.”

  “I agree,” says Whammer Jammer.

  “Me too,” chimes in Dewey. “And the more people we got here the better, because then someone can always be on duty like, to make sure no one stays in the groove too long. And if we got a lotta folks around, no one has to be watchdog for too long, without enjoying Groove Thang himself.”

  “I guess everything’s settled then. I’ll go wake Mister Histadine up.

  “Not yet, Pete. The longer he stays in the groove, the better for us, I think.”

  “Good idea. Well, then—I don’t know about you two, but I want a shower. Three days, and these coveralls feel like wallpaper on the wall.”

  The bathroom is closer to the Groove Thang than the kitchen. The hot steamy spray in the crowded shower feels like liquid kisses. Even in the bedroom, furthest from the radiant alien, the stained ticking of the bare mattress against their bare skin is smooth as cornsilk.

  After dozing in a more normal sleep than they have had these past three days, the roommates dress and go to rouse Mister Histadine.

  “Mister Histadine, hey, rise and shine, happytime’s over! It’s no good, he under deep. Steve, let’s haul him outa here.”

  Out in the hall they shake Mister Histadine awake. When the landlord opens his eyes, he smiles. It is something the trio have never seen before. Even the bags under his eyes seem diminished in their morose puffiness.

  “Hi, kids. Gee, you’d never believe where I’ve just been. It was a place—well, I don’t really know where it was, but it was a long, long way from here. There were no burst water pipes or city taxes, no aching bunions or slipped discs. It was really, really peaceful.”

  “That’s nice, Mister Histadine. Was there anything else you wanted to tell us?”

  “No, no, not that I can remember.… Well, I guess I’ll be going now.” Mister Histadine put a hand on the doorknob, stopped, then turned. “Say, do you mind if I visit you again tomorrow?”

  “No, man. I mean sure, anytime.”

  “Okay, see you later.”

  Mister Histadine leaves.

  Dewey and Whammer Jammer exchange looks of relief, and Master Blaster wipes his sweaty brow.

  “I wasn’t quite sure that was gonna work.…”

  There is the sound of footsteps ascending their stairs. Famous Amos sticks his head around the corner.

  “Amos,” says Whammer Jammer, “what’s wrong? You ain’t left that shack of yours in ten years.”

  “Since you boys drove outa the dump, I been feeling lower than a worm’s belly. I wondered if you mighta knowed why?”

  “C’mon in, Amos, we got the cure for what ails you.”

  After Amos is settled down in front of the Groove Thang, Whammer Jammer says, “I’m going out to round up some more people and spread the word.”

  “Dewey and I will take turns staying straight. And I’m gonna grab something to eat.”

  Whammer Jammer sets out. An hour later, he returns with a vanful of friends.

  There is Hakim Bey, the Goofy Sufi; Ramona from Pomona and Sexy Sadie; Doug the Slug, Sol Solfeggio, and the Mojo Hobo; Sue St. Marie, Slick, and Nasty; Jeno and Daddy G.; Cavedog and Surf Nazi; Dixie Chicken and the Tennessee Lamb; and a couple of others. They all crowd up the stairs behind Whammer Jammer, eager to sample this new high he has promised them.

  “How much is this going to cost us?” someone says.

  Whammer Jammer stops in mid-step, deeply offended. “Nothing. I wanna make that very clear. It didn’t cost us nothing, and it wouldn’t be fair to charge anybody else. This is free, a gift from the Big Enchilada itself, Señor Cosmos.”

  Everyone is appropriately awed and hushed and reverent like.

  When they get inside the apartment, of course, they understand everything.

  This is the beginning of a month of frenetic activity somehow laced with serenity. Whammer Jammer, Master Blaster and Dewey are glad and proud to be spreading the gospel of the Groove Thang. News spreads fast about the mysterious high freely available in the apartment of the former trash-haulers and dump-pickers, and people begin to trickle in without personal invitation, attracted by word-of-mouth. They are made welcome. Most are content simply to bask in the aura of the Groove Thang, but some demand an explanation for what they are experiencing.

  “It’s a crystal that focuses mental vibrations,” Whammer Jammer tells someone.

  “It’s a magic statue from my homeland,” Dewey tells another.

  “GT, he’s like ET, only groovier,” adds Master Blaster.


  People accept whatever explanation appeals to them, or none. But they all keep coming back.

  Eventually the trickle starts to turn into a flood, and the original finders of the Groove Thang are forced to institute a rigid, somewhat onerous system of Groove Thang utilization.…

  Whammer Jammer is on door duty right now. He stands by a podium that holds one of those big appointment books that maitre d’s use. There is also a machine for dispensing numbered tickets, as in a bakery. A couple approach the door, hand in hand.

  “Hi, how’re you doing today? Names, please? Fine, fine, here’s your numbers. Tuck ’em in your pocket, so you don’t lose ’em when your grip goes slack. Let’s see, it’s two o’clock now. That means we’ll be waking you up at four. Try to find a spot to crash somewhere, don’t step on anyone on the floor, please. Thank you, thank you very much.”

  This last comment is addressed to an unsteady departing fellow whom Dewey is showing out. The guy has dumped a handful of bills and change into a big wooden salad bowl at Whammer Jammer’s elbow. For, despite the protestations of that first day, the trio have come to accept money for the privilege of basking in the presence of the Goove Thang. To their credit, they did not institute the practice. People just began leaving money when they got up to go. At first, the roommates tried giving it back, but people insisted. It seemed that even the bounty of the Groove Thang meant more when people felt they had bought it. So the salad bowl was set up to hold contributions. It also works as a charity for those who need it, as anyone is free to take money from it too. Predictably, after experiencing the Groove Thang, no one abuses the freedom to take.

  Dewey looks now at the money bowl. “This is just like that novel I read inna whorehouse, which some GI left behind. You know, Stranger Inna Strange Place.”

  Whammer Jammer shakes his head wearily. “Well, I hope no Charlie Manson shows up.…”

  It’s later that evening, long after midnight. The three people sit around their kitchen table, ignoring the persistent knocking on their locked front door from a frustrated celebrant. (Each morning they open the door to find people sacked out on the stairs, enjoying the fringes of Groove Thang’s aura.) They are tiredly munching sandwiches and discussing what they have wrought.