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17
Harry was happily surprised to find out that they were going to have another baby. It would be nice for Harry Junior to have a little sister. And, he agreed, that they really did not want to wait any longer to have a second child. As it was, Harry Junior will be five when the baby was born. I think thats a large enough difference in ages. Harry started looking forward to seeing the glow in Lindas face and eyes that came with pregnancy, and feeling the baby kick and protest at being confined in that small dark place. It would not be long before the baby would fight and wiggle its way to freedom and the light. Just a matter of time.
And it is just a matter of time until history once more becomes a living reality. The reality came for Harry one day when he walked out of a restaurant without paying the check, and did not realize that he had done so. There were no wave and faked instructions to bring the action
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to his consciousness. He had walked a block or so before he became aware of what he had done. Actually the first thing he was aware of was the fact that the accustomed feeling was not there. There was no feeling at all. Not even a vague memory of apprehension or anxiety before leaving, or the slightest hint of excitement now. He just felt flat. Deserted.
He closed his office door and thought about it for a moment, but soon had to stop as his body started to shrivel with dread. He could only think that somehow this meant he would go back into the living nightmare, and he would rather kill himself than do that. He couldnt. Not now. He dismissed the matter from his mind and buried himself in his work.
But the
thought and fear nagged at him on the way home, fighting for recognition, but he shoved them down out of sight and sound. The next morning he told Linda that he was going to work late, and when he saw the expression that suddenly clouded her face, he quickly added that he would not be too late, that he would wait to eat and have a late dinner with her.
A couple of hours after everyone went home that night he roamed through the office. In all the vast expanse of offices and space, he was the only one there. It was a strange and almost eerie feeling.
He browsed through offices and desks and was amazed to find money, jewelry, watches and a hundred and one little odds and ends.
He walked to the floor above and went through a few of the offices there. Again he seemed to be alone. It was quiet. Tomblike silence. He could hear himself breathing—then he heard the sound of an elevator and he froze and waited until it had obviously passed the floor he was on. His legs and knees felt almost rubbery. His gut churned and twisted. That thrill and excitement were there again. All of his senses were not only alive, but magnified.
He roamed through the office, opening and closing desk drawers, at first very carefully and quietly, and then in a more natural and open manner. He collected a total of seventeen
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dollars and thirty-seven cents, almost half of it in change. Small change. He walked down the stairs, slowly, to his office, then took the elevator down to the ground floor. Conscious of the weight of all the change in his pocket, he could feel his heart pound and ring in his ears as he said good night to the security guard. He had thought of putting the change in a bag and dumping it down a sewer immediately, but decided instead to carry it all the way home. Just feeling the coins in his pocket kept the excitement alive. The feeling of elation was intense. The following day he stopped in a bank and got a supply of coin wrappers.
Dr. Martin was delighted with the tremendous improvement in Harrys condition. It was obvious to him that he had penetrated Harrys barrier and that the process of sublimation had been successfully accomplished and that they could now delve deeper into Harrys childhood and his Oedipal involvement without any trauma. Yes, Dr. Martin was extremely pleased indeed and smiled and glowed inwardly and puffed on his pipe as he listened to Harry.
Although Harry was coming home late occasionally, Linda was not upset now. Actually it was no different than when they were first married, almost six years ago, except, of course, the trip home was longer. Everything else was the same. Harry was cheerful, and they had their evenings and weekends together, and she was able to give all of herself to him and wait for him with open arms.
And there was life in her belly. A life that she could feel and see. And Harry would put his ear to her growing belly and tell her she was right, it sure sounds like a girl to me honey. And as her belly, and the life within her, grew, so did her glow of peace.
Through exploring his own office building Harry found many ways to obtain access to other buildings, even those with
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security guards. It was simple to determine the approximate time that they made their rounds, if ever, and adjust the time of his explorations accordingly. On one occasion he stayed in a mens room for more than an hour, waiting until he was certain the office was empty. As he sat in the small cubicle, time felt heavy and endless. Then he became aware of the increasing feeling of excitement in his legs and loins, and the rumblings of the fear of being caught in his gut. He allowed himself to become consciously involved with the feelings, and the sensations, caused by the sweat sliding down his back, and he lost his sense of time and caressed himself with the feelings that throbbed through him.
He walked through offices, opening and closing drawers, making just a little more noise each time. At first he just took some of the money he found lying around because it was completely unidentifiable. No one could stop him on the street and arrest him as a thief for the few extra dollars in his pocket, even if he did have an inordinately large amount of change. But eventually the excitement started to wane and he started walking around the offices as if he owned them, making as much noise as he wanted. Then he started taking little objects such as rings and watches and kept them in his pocket until he was almost home; then he threw them away.
As the months crowded into each other it became more difficult to replace the tension in his body with excitement. He started taking larger objects from the offices, such as adding machines and calculators and various office machines and equipment, making certain he carried them at least two blocks before he left them on the street. One night he took a typewriter from the tenth floor of a building, and before he was halfway down the stairs, he thought he would have to leave it. His arms ached and started to cramp. His hands felt like they were being cut. His heart pounded and his eyes were almost blinded with sweat. He started stumbling and teetered on the edge of a step and could feel his body slowly leaning forward, ready to topple down the stairs and maybe get his head crushed
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by the typewriter, and he fought desperately against the forces of gravity and finally staggered back and banged against the wall and just stayed there, panting. . . .
He
did not want to leave the typewriter there. He thought that maybe he should just put it down for a minute and rest. Yeah, just a minute ... just a— No! No! He would never get it up again. He knew that. Definitely. And he had to get this thing out of the building. He had to. He leaned against the wall, feeling the sweat roll down his face and watching it splat on the typewriter. Every goddamn muscle ached and he felt like he could not last another second, but the excitement was so intense he was actually rolling his hips slowly and rhythmically. . . .
He licked his
lips over and over and pushed himself away from the wall and slowly descended the stairs, leaning against the wall, tentatively putting one foot down, and then the other, reaching for the next step, counting each one carefully so he would not suddenly pound into a landing. Eight steps, a landing, turn, another eight steps to the next floor. Three more floors to go. Impossible. The machine hung from his hands. He rubbed against it. He rested on the landing. His body screamed to put the fucking thing down and go. But he wouldnt. He was going to get it down and out of the building. He would not give in to the pain. He would endure. Another eight steps. Turn. Eight more steps. Two floors to go. His rib cage felt like it would s
plinter. He wanted to at least rest. Jesus he had to rest. He kept going. He could not stop. He would never start again. He had to keep up the momentum. Eight slow steps. Searching and finding each one with a probing foot. A landing. Slide along the wall. Head pulled forward. Sweat blinding him. Drops floating on the keyboard. Down the steps. Down the steps. Down the steps. Another floor. Just one to go. Sweet Jesus. Still one more. Almost slides to the floor. Inches along the wall. The machine cutting into him. The
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steps are further apart. Cant find them. Down. Down. A landing. Thank krist. Slide, slide. Eight more steps. Find the fucking step. The step. Just a few more. Almost down. One more—THERES ANOTHER ONE!!!! Holy shit! He almost fell. He leaned against the wall, straddling two steps. He peered over the machine. Four more. How the fuck can that be? Should only be eight. Why twelve? Cant make it. Cant do it. Cant turn. Cant get straight. Have to turn. Find the next step. Where is it? Have to get down. Thats right. Twelve in the first staircase. One more. One fucking more. Down. Down. Down, goddamn it. Made it. The door. What the fuck! Cant open it. Cant pull it in. He leans. Tentatively. It moves out, IT MOVES!!!! He peers into the lobby. Staggers through. More doors. Leans them open. The street. The open fucking street. Cold. Move. Staggers along street to corner. Leans against building. Turns and moves. Move further. Move, goddamn your ass. More. You can do it. More. Body screeching. Be a fucking man. Move. Down the street. Yeah, here. Here. Stops. Lowers machine to the ground. Stand. Panting. His body and clothing saturated with sweat. Wipes head, then takes handkerchief from pocket and wipes face. Made it. I/ll be a son of a bitch. I made it. Yeah, hahahahahahaha. Still laughing as he starts walking. Stops for a moment and feels crotch. I/ll be a son of a bitch. That goddamn typewriter got me horny. Better than sniffing bicycle seats. Laughter. Laughter and a slow walk to the station. His body weak and exhausted, but the adrenalin high, blood pulsing through his veins to the strained muscles. A feeling of intense and almost unbearable stimulation and excitement. He remembers Finn Hall, the American Legion, Knights of Columbus and a hundred and one nameless and forgotten dance halls where he danced and talked and laughed and looked into a pair of eyes and put his open hand firmly on an inner thigh, then slowly walked from the dance hall into the street and took a cab to a house, wondering if an unexpected husband would be there or would suddenly come home while he was still there. Jesus krist, he
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feels great. Every bone and muscle in his body aches and screams and he feels great. He feels magnificent!!!!
Harry had stayed in an office so long the night before that he almost had missed the last train home, yet he had felt flat when he left and now, only halfway through the morning, his body was starting to cringe from a free-floating anxiety. Another small change in his routine was needed. He wouldnt be able to wait for a week or two as he had hoped, or even a few days. He would have to go out again tonight. With that decision came almost instant relief as the apprehension and anticipation grew.
But there was also another kind of anxiety. Linda was in her ninth month and could be ready any day. Any day or night. He wanted to be with her. This he wanted desperately. To be able to take her to the hospital and be there when the baby was born so he could hold his wifes hand and kiss her forehead when she came back from the delivery room. Harry Junior was already at his folks house, and Lindas bag was packed and ready. Jesus he wanted to be with her, but he knew he could not go directly home tonight.
What he could do though would be to start earlier—an instant flush of excitement bolted through him. Yeah, before he could be certain everyone had gone home. Jesus—he was squeezing his thighs together and tensing his muscles—that should do it. He was familiar with the schedule of most of the security systems in the large office buildings; they did not vary much from one another. He would start early and see if he could miss the guard by only a few minutes. Jesus krist that sounded great. He could feel the lump in his gut and at the back of his throat. His body jerked spastically for a moment, then he attacked his work for the remainder of the day.
He did not have to wait until the security guard was almost due to satisfy the craving within him that night. He had been walking through an office for a few minutes when he
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turned a corner and almost tripped over a cleaning lady. He grabbed her arms to keep her from falling and she started apologizing while they were still tottering and he instantly went hollow as he looked at the woman looking at him and he thought he would puke and shit and panically tried to get his legs to move and he clutched the woman and screamed at himself to stay, dont run, and he realized his hands were clamped on the womans arms but he couldnt release them and she kept saying she was sorry, are you all right? I hope I didnt get your clothes dirty and Harry clung and fought and nodded and shook his head and the pounding of his heart almost drowned out her voice and somehow she managed to free herself of his grip but he couldnt seem to open his hands and he felt his face shattering into a smile as he asked her if she was all right and he stuffed his cramped hands into his pockets and the damn woman wouldnt stop apologizing and Harry wanted to get the hell out of there and he kept smiling and smiling at the stupid lackey and finally started easing away with that same goddamn smile stuck on his face and the deafening pounding in his ears, its all right, no trouble, no trouble at all, and he finally turned and walked away slowly and felt himself get dizzy as his vision blurred and he opened the door to the stairway and walked down the stairs and down through the basement and out to the street, then turned into and alley, still conscious of the people and cars passing just a few feet away, and threw up and stared at the pool of vomit at his feet as he leaned against the wall and felt his body tingle with that excitement and he felt the air suddenly rush down his burning throat and he retched again, then once more, then slowly stood erect, hearing the voices of the people passing by and wanted to shout and laugh and pound people on the back and wish them a happy birthday or happy new year or happy Chanukah or some damn thing or maybe do a soft-shoe and sing a song or two and open the jailhouse doors and follow that yellow brick road to Oz and goose Frank Morgan and maybe pull a fuse or two from his wizards machine and everybody trip off into a technicolor sunset be-
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cause by krist he felt great and all he needed was to whip out his sword and yell to the masses of churls rushing up and down the street to bring him giants, by jesus krist thats what he needed GIANTS!!!!
GIANTS!!!!
or perhaps a
baby. Yes, by God, a baby. A jewel of a girl to go with his son and heir. He wiped his mouth and face with his handkerchief, then his shoes and pants legs, tossed the handkerchief into a garbage can with finesse, then rushed to the corner and took a cab to the station.
He got home just in time. He took Linda to the hospital and stayed in the waiting room for a short time, until the nurses finally convinced him to go home, that it would be hours at least and there was no point in his staying there.
The excitement that had been driving him disappeared instantly when he closed the door behind him in the empty house. The place suddenly seemed huge and had dozens of dark corners. He turned on the television and tried to force his attention on it, but his mind kept drifting back to the barren house, the dark corners and Linda. If he closed his eyes for a second, he would see her body in a casket, so he would get up and walk around and refill his cup with coffee, then sit back down and try to concentrate on whatever it was he was looking at, and eventually he dozed off in the chair for perhaps a few hours and was awakened abruptly by the telephone. He could come to the hospital now. A routine delivery and mother and daughter were doing fine.
He forced himself to drive carefully and not exceed the speed limit. He could feel the elation pounding through him again. Mother and daughter doing fine. Fine. Everything was fine. For a year now, or however long it was, everything had been just about perfect. Ever since he started stealing—not that that was really stealing. A fe
w pennies here and there. And the machines belong to large corporations and were insured and no one really was hurt by their loss, if they were in fact lost. They were probably found the next day and re-
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turned. No, it really was not stealing. Not in the real sense of the word. And even if it was, it was no big deal. No one was being hurt and it certainly was solving his problem Things in his life had been just fine, splendid, since he started That was the important thing.
Linda had a bow in her hair. A pink bow. She was propped up slightly in bed when he went into the room. She glowed like a thousand stars. He kissed her. Again. Then again and held her hand and smiled at her. They just smiled for many long, loving and beautiful moments. . . .
You
lost some weight. She squeezed his hand and glowed brighter.
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18
Harry had to terminate his relationship with Dr. Martin. He had wanted to terminate it for quite some time, but knew he would have to face protests from the doctor and his colleagues.
It was not an arbitrary decision. Harry had had hopes when he started therapy, but it had become obvious to him that he would not be able to continue. It was a feeling that was so strong and so deep that it had become an absolute conviction. He just could not spend a few hours each week consciously searching for, and living in, problems, problems that continued to disturb him when he left the doctors office.
He knew he would have to wait until the proper time to start his withdrawal. After things had been going well and he was feeling, acting and looking better, he asked Dr. Martin if he thought that it might be a good idea if they cut the therapy down to one hour a week, that he felt he would get enough strength from the doctor in that hour to carry him
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