Gather Yourselves Together

by Philip K. Dick

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Two weeks. Two weeks—And now it’s over. Back to the old grind. And everything else.”

  “You’re leaving? When?”

  “Later tonight.”

  “So soon?”

  “We’re taking off tonight. Bill and I.”

  “Bill?”

  “You haven’t met him. He’s the person I’m taking along. I still haven’t found a third rider. Bill is an old friend. You might like him. Maybe we’ll see him later on. He’s around town someplace.”

  “What kind of person is he?”

  “Plays piano in a band. Back in New York. Bill Herndon is his name. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Does a lot of arranging.”

  “No, but I don’t—”

  “This is progressive jazz.”

  “You told me you were interested in it.”

  There was silence. Verne finished his drink. He waved the bartender over. “Two more of the same.”

  Barbara started to protest but the bartender was already gone with what remained of her drink. “How do you know I want another? Maybe I’ve had enough.”

  “Everybody wants another. It’s part of life.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to drink any more.”

  “You’re still sober, aren’t you?”

  “Is that what we’re drinking for? To get drunk?”

  “Oh, get off it!” He scowled at her. “Put your god damn soap box away.”

  Her heart thudded. She became quiet.

  “Sorry.” He removed his glasses and polished them. “You can leave any time you want.” Without his glasses he looked like a little child. He peered up at her, nearsightedly. There were great circles around his eyes. Like rings.

  “What is it?” Barbara said.

  “I see you’re still here.”

  “You don’t have to be so nasty.” She watched him put his glasses back on. His hands seemed to be shaky and nervous. The bartender brought the drinks and Verne paid for them.

  He lifted his glass. “Here’s to.”

  Verne drank quickly. Barbara took a swallow. This one did not seem to be so strong. She managed to drink almost as much as he did this time. She felt a faint glow of excitement begin to form inside her.

  “It’s not so bad,” she said.

  The sensations of the room increased. She found herself more aware of the warmth and the sounds of voices. She noticed the colors of the bar, the glasses, the wood. The lights of the jukebox. She leaned forward to speak, but before she could start she found Verne already talking.

  “…And there never was such a one again,” he was saying slowly. What had he said? She had not heard the first part.

  She started to ask him to repeat it. But all at once he was gone. She blinked. What had happened to him?

  He was at the bar. He came slowly back to the table, carrying two glasses with great care. He set them down on the table with a bump.

  “There,” he said, sighing.

  Barbara took her drink. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all.”

  She sipped her drink. It did not seem to have any taste at all. But it was cold. She liked that. The room was too warm. She concentrated on the coldness.

  “How long?” Verne said.

  Barbara rubbed her forehead. The room was so hot! She was having trouble breathing. “What?”

  “How long have you been up here?”

  She focused carefully on his face. The ashtray was filled with cigarette stubs. She shook her head wearily. Lord, for some fresh air! She stood up.

  “What’s the matter?” Verne said.

  “It’s so close.”

  “What?”

  “The room.” She was standing by the door. But Verne was between her and the door. A man and woman pushed past them, coming inside. Cold air blew around her.

  “Be reasonable,” Verne said. He raised his hand, finger extended admonishingly. She giggled, covering her face so he would not see. “What are you laughing at?”

  “At you,” Barbara said.

  “Me?”

  He helped her sit down. She was having trouble with the chair. “Thank you.”

  Verne’s breath blew against her face. The room revolved slowly. She put her head in her hands and waited. When she looked up again the room had come to rest.

  As she drank she talked.

  “We came up, the three of us. It was—” She was not sure. “A few weeks ago. Felix and Penny and me.”

  “How did you come?”

  “By bus. We have two cabins. I live in one. Felix and Penny live in the other.” She felt sudden horror: what had she said? “Penny and I live in one, I mean. Together. I didn’t mean that, what I said.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she doesn’t go walking. I know.” Barbara felt suddenly sad. “I know. I know.” She wiped at her eyes. Her tongue was thick; her lips seemed frozen. Like when she had her tooth out, once. “I know.”

  Verne patted her hand. “It happens to the best people.”

  “Am I one of the best people?”

  He nodded.

  “Really?” She felt a little better. “But I know. She never tells me anything. But when she comes back she’s warm all over. And the smell. I can tell. Like an animal. It’s like animals. Pungent. Like—musk. All over her.”

  “The best people get to earth that way.”

  “Do they?”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “I guess I knew. Is it wrong to know things? Things like that? Does everybody know?”

  “Yes. Everybody knows.”

  It was true, she realized. Everybody knew but her. She was alone. She pulled back, away from the table. She was cut off. The noise, the sounds, the warmth of the room—it was beyond her. Away from her. Another world. She could not reach it.

  “I want to be—to be together,” she said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Not like now. Not on the edge. Not like I was. Don’t you remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “I was sitting on the edge. So far off. By myself. But you came over.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you come over?”

  Verne considered. “To meet you.”

  “Did you want to meet me?”

  He nodded.

  Barbara leaned forward. “Why?” She waited, tense. It was very important. She felt numb all over, waiting. “Why, Verne? Why?”

  “You looked—nice.”

  She settled back in the chair. “I was glad you came over. It’s a long way.” She tried to explain. “I mean, for me. Perhaps not for you. But it seems so far to me. Penny and Felix are going to get married when we go back. Everything’s arranged.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I know. Have you ever been married?”

  He was scowling. “Yes.”

  “Why are you scowling?”

  “No reason.”

  “Don’t you like marriage?”

  “It depends.”

  “I’m glad they’re getting married. But I wish—If only—”

  “What do you wish?”

  “I—I don’t know.” She was silent for a long time. An age passed, an immense measure of time. At last she stirred. She felt heavy all over. With a great effort she raised her eyes.

  Verne was waiting for her to go on. He had moved his chair very close to hers, not on the other side of the table at all. She looked down. He was holding onto her hand. Suddenly tears rushed up into her eyes. She felt them running down her face, down her cheeks.

  He wiped them away with his necktie. That made her smile. Verne smiled back.

  “Don’t let go,” she said. “Please don’t let go. Promise you won’t.”

  “I won’t.”

  He smiled more, a funny little wrinkled smile. Like a prune. She thought of a song, a record her father had played for her. The Prune Song.

  “I’ve never heard it,” Verne said.

  Had she spoke
n out loud? It was hard to think. Now he was holding onto both her hands. She could feel him close by her.

  “Do you understand?” she said. He was nodding, so apparently he did. It made her feel better. “I hope you do. It’s all right for them. I hope it’s wonderful. It will be wonderful, won’t it?”

  She sat in silence for a time, thinking about it. Again she felt terribly lonely and sad. She was all by herself. There was no one with her, no one nearby. Verne had gone again. She sipped at her glass, but there was nothing left but ice in it.

  Suddenly Verne was back. He was talking, but not to her. To whom, then? She started to get up, but all at once the room leaped up and began to twist slowly. She caught hold of the edge of the table to steady it. Verne looked at her sleepily. He had turned his chair sideways and was sitting, his legs crossed, playing with his tie.

  “I feel funny,” Barbara said. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from somebody else.

  “…If we leave at one we’ll never get across the highway approach…” Verne was saying. She blinked. Who was he talking to? To her?

  She looked around, but her head felt heavy and refused to turn. There was another man sitting at the table. He was all in black, his suit, his hat, his clothes, even his skin. He was a Negro.

  Her hand was touching something cold. She was setting down her glass. She did not remember picking it up. The Negro smiled and spoke. Who was he?

  It was Bill. Verne was saying so.

  Bill repeated something, over and over again, looking intently at her. She nodded. What was the matter with him? He got up and left. He came back again.

  Her hand was cold. The glass, icy, drops of wet against her fingers. The glass was full. The glass was half empty. She was belching.

  She caught herself and pulled herself upright in the chair, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. Verne was gone. She could see him on the other side of the room talking to some people, hanging over the back of a chair. His feet were up; his soles needed mending. He was like a little child. A dried-up little elf. Why was he so small? Bill was huge. He was black all over. But he was a Negro.

  Now it was “Time On My Hands.” She said, can’t you play something else?

  The man with the glasses said, what do you want to hear?

  She was on her feet. The room was moving slowly along like a carpet unrolling. Or maybe one of those little red amusement carts. The bar swung over to her. She saw a woman with a big wide face. And two men. Bland, round, filling up in front of her. She tripped. Her hands were numb, aching with pain. One of them was going along her cheek, rubbing against her face.

  She got up. Verne said something, over and over again. Everything murmured and buzzed around her.

  Now it was cold. She was cold all over. It began with her feet and went up her legs, through her body and into her arms. She lifted her arm up slowly. A terrible wind caught it and pushed it back. There was a vibrating. Was it the ocean? The ocean made her restless. She could see nothing but darkness ahead of her. Something hard was pressing into her side. She felt for it. It seemed to be a rod of some kind.

  She felt fear. The rod would not move. She tore at the rod. Her nails cracked and bent. Then a hand closed over hers. Someone spoke. She forgot the rod.

  She was in a car. The car was moving. Wind roared about her; she was against the door. The voice was telling her that, warning her about something.

  Then she was sitting at a counter, staring into a stack of pies. Each pie rested on a little wire rack. A man in a white costume opened a little door and took out one of the pies. It was an apple pie.

  “With ice cream?”

  “Just plain,” Verne said.

  “Just plain.”

  Everything was bright. Her head ached. Her whole body ached. She turned slowly. Verne was sitting on one side of her, wearing a heavy overcoat. She turned the other way. A large good-looking Negro was sitting, drinking a cup of coffee.

  “Good morning, Miss Mahler.”

  She stared at him. How did he know her name? He was smiling broadly. He said something more, but she could not make out the words.

  “…Better, I hope,” Verne murmured.

  Barbara leaned forward and rested her head against the counter. Something seemed to be gurgling through her, crawling around inside her body.

  She got to her feet and stood by the stool with her knuckles against her face. The two men looked up at her, Bill with his coffee cup half lifted, Verne smoking a cigarette. Bill was watching her with a polite expression on his face. An expression of tolerance and understanding. And amusement.

  “I’ll—be back.” She turned toward the counterman. He looked at her without expression.

  “It’s over to the left,” Verne murmured.

  She walked unsteadily across the room and pushed open the door. Then she was hanging over the washbowl, violently sick. The only thing she could think of was: Verne was wrong. I am being sick. I am.

  Disgust at being sick filled her with misery. She pulled away from the bowl, drawing herself up. In the square mirror over the bowl she saw her reflection. The grey face of a young woman vomiting stared back at her. The eyes partly closed with fatigue. The hair dry and stiff. She felt tears come, and she shut her eyes tight, squeezing them shut.

  The sight was blocked out. She felt better. After a time she ran water into the bowl, cleaning it slowly. She ran the water over her hands and wrists and then rubbed her eyes. The water was cold. Her left hand stung.

  Barbara sat down on one of the toilets and wiped her eyes with her fingers. The tears trickled down, along her wrists. She tried to make them stop; she did not want to cry. If she were to cry things would be worse. She wanted to pull everything into her. She did not want to release anything. If only she could hold herself in, pull herself together, smaller and smaller…

  She rubbed her face clean and brushed at her dress. It was stained and rumpled. There was a bitter taste in her mouth and her nose. She blew her nose on a bit of the toilet paper.

  Presently she went unsteadily back, into the room again. Verne and Bill were gone. No one was at the counter. She gazed dully around. They were in a booth.

  She sat down next to Verne and stared at the napkin in front of her. She picked it up, twisting it with her fingers. She could see Verne’s wrist-watch, buried in the hair on his arm, at the end of his cuff. What time was it? Nine o’clock? It was after nine, almost ten.

  She looked through the window at the street outside. Sun was shining down. Trees and people. A few cars parked. Stores. A couple moved along. Older people, well-dressed. She wondered where they were going.

  The café was almost empty. The counterman was at the back, washing dishes, turned away from them. He was a huge man with broad shoulders. He was whistling; she wished he would stop.

  She rubbed her face. Her skin was dry and rough. Her body felt sandy, as if sand had got into all her joints and was making them stick and grind. She did not want to move. Everything in her resisted motion.

  “Verne,” she said.

  He turned toward her.

  “Verne—what am I going to do?”

  “Do?” His face wrinkled. “What do you mean? You’ll feel better. Drink some of this coffee.”

  “Verne knows better than anyone how it feels,” Bill purred in a deep voice. “Don’t you, Verne?”

  “Try something to eat. How about some mush? Or some soft boiled eggs?”

  “I’m not hungry.” Her voice was low and thick. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Nothing? Not even some coffee?”

  Her lips twisted. “I was sick in there.”

  “You were sick in the car, too. But not on anything important It happens.”

  Barbara turned away.

  “We should be taking off pretty soon,” Verne said. “Bill would appreciate it. He has to get home by nightfall. We hadn’t expected to stop this long, if we’re going to make schedule we better start.”

  “Where are we?”
/>   “Aberdeen.”

  She shook her head.

  “A little place. Off the highway. About half way along. We drove all night. At least, Bill did.”

  “It was a good thing I was along,” Bill purred.

  Barbara turned her gaze on Verne. She had not realized he was so untidy. His tie was gone and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top. He had not shaved. His skin was dirty and splotched. There were countless little stiff hairs pushing through the skin of his jowls and neck. A green spot of color showed from his coat pocket His tie. He had put it there.

  “I guess you don’t feel well either,” she said.

  “I’ll live.”

  “Who wants more coffee, before we go?” Bill said. “Refills are free here, according to the menu.”

  The last of his words blurred off. Darkness and fatigue rolled over her. The room faded away.

  They were walking across a lawn. Everything was dim. Indistinct. She could scarcely see. Verne was holding onto her arm. He was saying, don’t trip.

  A man loomed up out of the gloom. There was a building of some kind. The man said, right here. If you will, please.

  She was reading something. Was it a telephone book? No, she was not reading it. She was holding it in her hands. The book was heavy. It began to slip away from her, faster and faster. Someone steadied it. Her hand was being moved, guided.

  The woman was saying to her, and if you don’t see what you need come over to the office and ask.

  Verne and the woman went off. She was sitting down, waiting. Where had Bill gone? She tried speaking his name experimentally, but nothing happened. Everything was silent around her. Silent and unmoving.

  She was on her feet. It was light only in some places; all the light was concentrated into tiny knobs. And between there was only darkness.

  The darkness moved up and down. The lights were drifting past her, flowing back away from her.

  Then it was light all around. And warm. There was warmth for the first time; she sucked it greedily in. The warmth and light were bringing her to life. She was coming back into existence again, faster and faster. Her insides churned; she was belching.

  She stopped herself, putting her hands over her face. Presently she took her hands away, peering out.

  Verne was sitting on a bed. On the floor beside him was a suitcase. The suitcase was open. Its contents were shirts and socks, ties. Things wrapped up. Verne was leaning over, doing something on the floor.