Fractal Paisleys

by Paul Di Filippo

  “This is almost like having a real job,” says Whammer Jammer.

  “Yeah, but it’s in a good cause,” says Master Blaster, as if trying to convince himself.

  “Sometimes I could wish you guys never brought Groove Thang home,” adds Dewey.

  They sit in silence awhile, letting the object of their conversation extend his comforting mantle of bliss over them, unkinking their muscles and minds, kneading smooth their mental charley-horses.

  “It’s not such a bad life, handing out tickets by day,” says Whammer Jammer.

  “I’d miss Groove Thang if he was gone,” says Master Blaster.

  “Hey, Groove Thang, if you was listening, I didn’t really mean it,” says Dewey.

  “You’re talking to him nowadays, I notice,” says Whammer Jammer.

  “Yeah, I been feeling Groove Thang more like a person lately. It almost seems sometimes like he’s trying to talk to me, so I talk back.”

  “There’s never been any evidence that Groove Thang’s even alive, you know. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t crap.…”

  “Oh, he’s alive, and he likes us—he’s just real different from us.”

  Master Blaster speaks up. “You know, I’ve been thinking about how Groove Thang got here, to Earth.”

  “It’s obvious. He jumped.”

  “Yeah, but consider, Pete: whenever we laid our senses on him, he jumped a few yards at most.”

  “Well, that must’ve been because we didn’t get much information off him.”

  “Right. Our minds are too low-grade like.”

  “So?”

  “So, what kind of mind could cause Groove Thang to jump across lightyears?”

  The notion makes Whammer Jammer shiver. “Oh, I get what you mean.…”

  At the end of another week with particularly high-volume attendance, the three are forced to abandon their apartment as living quarters. The Groove Thang’s aura, seemingly fed by the attention lavished on it, has intensified to the point where anyone on the second floor of the building gets the same charge they used to feel only right next to the alien. (The elderly working-class Lithuanian couple who used to live there has moved out, explaining that they have invested their entire life-savings in a Club Med franchise.)

  The amiable Mister Histadine gladly puts Peter, Stevie and Dewey up in his flat.

  Some people aren’t even bothering to come inside the house anymore. They hang around outside in the young spring air, grooving to the alien presence many feet away. Cops in cars arrive to investigate the gathering, and leave satisfied.

  “He’s putting out one hell of a signal now,” says Whammer Jammer.

  “Yeah,” agrees Master Blaster. “I wonder who else can feel it.…”

  Whammer Jammer shivers again, tho it’s a warm day.

  Looking out the window soon thereafter, Whammer Jammer spots “Bodacious” Budd, Dewey’s husband, out in the crowd. Shit, just what they need, a confrontation. He hurries nervously outside.

  “Okay, Budd, whadda ya want? Dewey ain’t gonna talk to you, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

  “Oh, that’s cool, I don’t wanna see her, I just wanna stand here.”

  Whammer Jammer is left with nothing to say. “Oh.… Well, that’s cool.” He tries to see how far he can push Budd’s new attitude. “You know, Budd, that Dewey, Steve and me are never gonna break up.”

  Budd’s eyes are focused on infinity “That’s good. Whatever makes her happy. Hey, tell her I’m sorry, willya?”

  Whammer Jammer shakes Budd’s hand with unforced admiration. The Groove Thang’s strength is passing all bounds now.

  It’s four am. Master Blaster, Dewey and Whammer Jammer are sleeping peacefully, limbs sprawled this way and that. In a blink, all three awake instantaneously.

  The continuous background presence of the Groove Thang has been reduced to a scared whimper in their minds.

  They rush upstairs, barefoot, clad in boxer-shorts and tee-shirts.

  The tent of blankets is still there. They can feel a frightened, diminished Groove Thang within.

  Hovering above the Groove Thang is something they literally cannot look at. From it emanates an immense intelligence. Words fill their minds.

  I HAVE COME FOR MY PET.

  The next second they are standing hunched over in the back of Bullwinkle. The Groove Thang, covered in blankets, has jumped there, taking them along.

  The Groove Thang’s owner pops in a second later.

  LET HIM GO.

  The sun is shining. Bullwinkle sits in the middle of a featureless desert. It might be Africa.

  “Let him go?” says Whammer Jammer in disbelief. He scrambles into the driver’s seat automatically, as if he could drive them out of here, back to America. Master Blaster joins him up front, and Dewey comes to sit in his lap, throwing her arms around his neck. The van is heating up under the blazing sun.

  GIVE HIM UP.

  Whammer Jammer’s head bumps the ceiling of the van. They’re weightless. Bullwinkle spins eerily. The full Earth heaves into view in the front windshield, filling three-quarters of it.

  “Hold your breath, hold your breath!”

  HE DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU.

  A puff of lunar dust rises from beneath Bullwinkle’s tires. They have weight again. The full Earth is much smaller.

  “Drive, drive!” yells Dewey.

  “Where, where!” Whammer Jammer yells back.

  HE WILL ONLY DO YOUR PLANET HARM.

  Bullwinkle’s tires loosely bite the grit composing Saturn’s rings, adhering by microgravity. The van would appear to be riding a peaceful, curving, rocky, frost-rimed road back home, save for the gigantic planet visible through Master Blaster’s window.

  “We should be dead by now,” explains Whammer Jammer calmly.

  “Groove Thang’s protecting us, I guess,” says Master Blaster.

  “If you can call it that—”

  THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING.

  The next jumps come too fast for talk.

  They are underwater, watching giant saurians feed.

  They are riding a comet toward a fat red sun.

  They are surfing on the wavefront of a nova.

  They are in the middle of a crystal city peopled with beings with anteater snouts. A crowd of them flick long ropy tongues across Bullwinkle to taste it briefly, before they jump again, still pursued.

  They are in a glowing cavern, on a beach lapped by green waves, circling a cindered globe, falling into a black hole—

  Suddenly all their anxiety is gone. They feel better than they ever have before, suffused with joy. It’s almost more than their brains and hearts can stand. Looking out the window, Whammer Jammer sees a hundred fractures in the air of this world, a hundred Groove Thangs.

  “It’s GT’s home…,” he says, before passing out from satori overload.

  When Whammer Jammer opens his eyes, he sees they are parked out in front of their house. He stretches luxuriously, turns to Dewey and Master Blaster beside him. They all must’ve fallen asleep inside the van somehow, although he could swear he remembered going to bed.

  “Wow, what a dream I just had, guys—”

  PAY ATTENTION.

  “Yeow!”

  I WILL GIVE YOU ANYTHING YOU ASK FOR, BUT YOU MUST VOLUNTARILY RELEASE MY PET FROM THE BONDS YOU HAVE CREATED WITH IT. YOU, THE ONE CALLED MASTER BLASTER—WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE AGAIN?

  “Hey, man, I was born blind. I’m used to it now.”

  WHAT ABOUT YOU, DEWEY BUDD? I CAN MAKE YOUR HUSBAND DEVOTED TO YOU.

  “I got two guys now, I couldn’t handle no more.”

  SURELY YOU WOULD LIKE WEALTH, WHAMMER JAMMER?

  “No thanks. We just want to keep the Groove Thang.”

  “Yeah!”

  “Right!”

  The Groove Thang’s owner is silent. The three humans wait. They would be scared, but the Groove Thang is putting out reassuring waves aimed right at them.

  VERY WELL, YOU WIN. I SUPPOSE I M
UST TRAIN ANOTHER. BUT YOU CANNOT KEEP HIM JUST AS HE IS. FROM NOW ON, HE WILL BE ATTUNED ONLY TO YOU THREE.

  And with that, the second alien’s gone.

  “Well,” says Whammer Jammer after a moment, “I guess we got what we wanted.”

  “I suppose,” says Master Blaster.

  “Hey, Groove Thang, how you feel about this deal?” asks Dewey.

  And the Groove Thang—he just sit there and hum.

  When Ed Ferman purchased this story for F&SF, he called it one of the funniest he had ever read. That was high praise indeed, although I’m not sure the story sits at the very pinnacle of comic SF. But I think it does capture a Thorne-Smithian ambiance quite well. The Li’l Bear Inn actually exists in Tiverton, Rhode Island. I’ve never dared set foot inside, for fear of ending up on its walls.

  Fractal Paisleys

  That night the Li’l bear Inn was as crowded as the last copter out of Saigon.

  But the atmosphere was a little more frenzied.

  All three pool tables were hidden by tight packs of players and spectators, protruding cues making the whole mass resemble a patchwork porcupine. The dartboards looked like Custer’s troops. Harley Fitts was rocking the pinball machine toward a high score: a sizable task, given that two sisters who called themselves Frick and Frack were perched on it. Rollo Dexadreen was monopolizing the single videogame as usual. Archie Opterix, on kazoo, was accompanying Gig von Beaver—who was making farting noises with a hand under his armpit—in a rendition of “Born To Run.” Kitty Koerner was dancing atop the jukebox, which was playing Hank Williams Junior, though Kitty was doing something that looked like the Watusi.

  Above the sounds of clicking pool balls, thwocking darts, ringing bells, exploding aliens, kazoo, farts, Hank Junior, and the bug-zapper hung outside the screen-door that gave onto the gravel parking lot, the calls for drinks were continuous.

  “Tracey, two shots!”

  “Tracey, another pitcher!”

  “Tracey, six rum ’n’ cokes!”

  The woman behind the bar—Tracey Thorne-Smith—was on the tall side, and skinny as a book of poems by a sixteen-year-old virgin. She had long straight brown hair and a sociable smile, though her features were overlaid with signs of worry. She wore a white shirt knotted above her navel, and a pair of cheap jeans. Moving like an assembly-line worker with the belt cranked up, the piece-work rate cut in half and the next mortgage payment due, she paused only long enough to wipe the sweat from her forehead now and then.

  A weary waitress appeared at one end of the crowded bar, where she set down her tray. She was short and round-faced, and her wavy hair—dyed a color not found in nature—was pinched in a banana-clip, one tendril escaping to hang damply against her cheek.

  The bartender moved down to take her order.

  “What’ll it be, Catalina?”

  “It’s ‘lick it, slam it ’n’ suck it’ time again, Trace. Larry and his city-friends, in the corner there.”

  “Four margaritas coming up.”

  Catalina leaned gratefully on the bar. “Lord, it’s hot! You think that cheap bastard would get some air-con in here.”

  Her back to Catalina, Tracey said, “You best not hold your breath waiting for the Westinghouse van to arrive, Cat. You know well as I do that Larry’s been pinching every penny, so’s he can buy into the syndicate those boys he’s with represent. And something tells me he’s pinched himself a considerable sum, what with the way those lizards are crawling all over him. No, I wouldn’t count on no air-conditioning anytime soon.” Tracey set the salt-rimmed glasses two at a time on Catalina’s tray. “How they tipping tonight?”

  The waitress tucked the loose hair behind her ear. “Not bad. But I aim to get a little more out of Larry later, after closing.”

  Tracey made a sour face. “I don’t see how you can bring yourself to be nice to him like that.”

  “Oh, he’s not that bad. He’s been real lonely since Janice died. It’s downright pathetic sometimes. He keeps telling me, ‘She was my Honeypot, and I was her Li’l Bear.’”

  “Eee-yew!”

  Primping her hair, Catalina said, “That remark don’t show much sympathy, Tracey, nor much common sense. You should try being nice to Larry, like I do. Might get yourself a little bonus. You sure could use it, I bet, what with Jay Dee being outa work.”

  “Forget it! Not only would I never let that man touch me in a million years, but if I did and Jay Dee found out, he’d kill him. Why, he can just about stand me working here as it is.”

  Catalina shrugged. “Your call. It’s not like you’re married or nothing.”

  After Catalina had sashayed away, Tracey went back to filling the non-stop orders.

  She was bending over for a fresh bottle of Scotch when she felt a hand on her rear-end.

  “You shore got a nice ass for such a skinny—gack!”

  Tracey straightened up and turned around. “Jay Dee,” she said, “turn that poor sucker loose.”

  Jay Dee McGhee removed his chokehold from beneath the impulsive patron’s jaw and released the burly man’s wrist, which he had been holding at about jaw-level, only behind the man’s back. Shoving the gagging man away from the bar, he dropped down onto the vacant stool.

  “Draw me a Bud, Trace. I had a long hot walk.”

  Jay Dee was shaggy and unshaven, with the looks of a mischievous five-year-old, perhaps one just caught affixing a string of firecrackers to a cat’s tail. He wore a green workshirt with the sleeves ripped off and the same K-Mart-brand jeans as his girlfriend. In fact, they were a pair of hers, since the two were much of a size. He had a tattoo on each wiry bicep: on the left was a dagger-pierced, blood-dripping heart with the admonition TAKE IT EASY; on the right was a grinning horned and tailed pitchfork-bearing devil above the legend CLEAN AND SERENE.

  Tracey pulled the tap. “You walked all the way from the trailer park?”

  After a deep sip, Jay Dee answered, “How else was I supposed to get here? You got the car—not that it’d do me much good anyway—and ain’t nobody we know gonna give me a ride.”

  Slopping a dirty rag onto the bar in front of her lover of six months and scrubbing violently, Tracey said, “Only thing is, you weren’t supposed to come here at all.”

  “Jesus, Trace, gimme a break! How long can a man sit and watch television? Day and night, night and day! Zap, zap, zap with the damned remote! I’m going outa my head! I hadda get out.”

  “But why here? I told you, I get nervous with you around when I’m trying to wait on people. I can’t do my job.”

  “It’s a damn good thing I did come, or the next thing you know, that asshole would’ve had your pants off.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. I can take care of jerks like that without your help. I got along just fine all those years before I met you.”

  “Well, maybe. Though the two black eyes and the busted ribs I seen them tape up at the clinic don’t sound to me like you could take care of anything except getting knocked around.”

  Tracey glared. “I told you, Gene was a little too much for me. But you don’t run into someone like him twice in your life. And what do you mean, you watched the doctor fix me up?”

  “Well, it’s true.”

  “The janitor at the Lakewood Walk-in Emergency Clinic was allowed to spy on patients?”

  “It wasn’t a case of being allowed.”

  “Oh, I get it. How many women did you size up, before you settled on me?”

  “Well, lessee— Christ, Trace, we’re getting off the track! The plain fact is, I missed you tonight! This routine sucks. With you working till two and sleeping till noon, I hardly get to see you no more. And then I got to rattle around in that tin can like a lone pea.… I’m sick of it!”

  Tracey stopped polishing the counter. “I know, I know, Jay Dee. We’re going through a rough time now. But it won’t last forever. I don’t like it anymore than you, but right now we need this job. And if Larry sees you here, after what happened the last time—”


  “That fight wasn’t my fault.”

  “It don’t matter. He’s still pissed at you. If I didn’t work so good and so cheap, I woulda been fired right then.”

  “Well, there’s no law says a man can’t visit his girlfriend at work. Long as I don’t cause no trouble, there’s nothing he can do.”

  “This is his joint, Jay Dee, he can do whatever he—look out!”

  Holding onto the bar, Jay Dee shoved his stool backward into the crotch of the man he had choked, who grunted and dropped the beer bottle he had been aiming at Jay Dee’s head. While he was still recovering, Jay Dee laid him low with two succinct punches.

  “It’s plumb foolish to hold a grudge—” Jay Dee began.

  “What in the hell is going on here?”

  Larry Livermore was shaped roughly like a traffic-cone, and only marginally taller. Balding, he wore enough cheap gold around his neck to outfit a pawn shop window. He was accoutred in a checked shirt and lime-green trousers. Spotting Jay Dee, he turned to Tracey.

  “I warned you about letting this troublemaker in here again, Thorne-Smith. And now he’s made me look bad in front of some important friends, like I can’t even manage my own joint. I don’t need headaches like this.”

  Tracey had stepped out from behind the bar. “It won’t happen again, Larry—I promise.”

  “I’m sure of it, ’cause I’m canning you now.” Larry reached into his pocket, took out a roll of cash secured with a rubber band, and peeled off a hundred. “Here’s half a week’s pay. Take off.”

  Jay Dee moved menacingly toward the squat man. Larry’s mouth opened in shock. “Hey, wait a minute—”

  Tracey laid a hand on his shoulder. “No, Jay Dee, it’s not worth it. Let’s go.”

  Out in the parking lot, gravel crunched beneath their shoes. They walked silently to their car, a 1972 Plymouth Valiant, more rust than steel, its flaking chrome bumper bearing a sticker that advised ONE DAY AT A TIME. Tracey opened the passenger-side door and slid across the seat to take the wheel. Jay Dee got in after her. When the engine finally caught, they drove off.

  Halfway back to the trailer camp, one of them finally spoke.