* * *
Happy Farraday had left a priority clearance for me at Realty HQ, so I didn’t have to hang around that long. To tell you the truth, I was scandalized by how lax and perfunctory the security people were becoming. It’s always like this, after a quiet few weeks. Then there’s another shitstorm from Section C, and all the writs start flying around again. In the cubicle I put my clothes back on and dried my hair. While they okayed my urinalysis and x-ray congruence tests, I watched TV in the commissary. I sat down, delicately, gingerly (you know how it is, after a strip search), and took three clippings out of my wallet. These are for the file. What do you think?
Item 1, from the news page of Screen Week:
In a series of repeated experiments at the Valley Chemistry Workshop, Science Student Edwin Navasky has “proven” that hot water freezes faster than cold. Said Edwin, “We did the test four times.” Added Student Adviser Joy Broadener: “It’s a feature. We’re real baffled.”
Item 2, from the facts section of Armchair Guide:
Candidate Day McGwire took out a spot on Channel 29 last Monday. Her purpose: to deny persistent but unfounded rumors that she suffered from heart trouble. Sadly, she was unable to appear. The reason: her sudden hospitalization with a cardiac problem.
Item 3, from the update column of Television:
Meteorological Pilot Lars Christer reported another sighting of “The Thing Up There” during a routine low-level flight. The location: 10,000 feet above Lake Baltimore. His description: “It was kind of oval, with kind of a black circle in the center.” The phenomenon is believed to be a cumulus or spore formation. Christer’s reaction: “I don’t know what to make of it. It’s a thing.”
“Goldfader,” roared the tannoy, scattering my thoughts. The caddycart was ready at the gate. In the west now the heavens looked especially hellish and distraught, with a throbbing, peeled-eyeball effect on the low horizon— bloodshot, conjunctivitic. Pink eye. The Thing Up There, I sometimes suspect, it might look like an eye, flecked with painful tears, staring, incensed. . . . Using my cane I walked cautiously around the back of Happy’s bungalow. Her twenty-year-old daughter Sunny was lying naked on a lounger, soaking up the haze. She made no move to cover herself as I limped poolside. Little Sunny here wants me to represent her someday, and I guess she was showing me the goods. Well it’s like they say: if you’ve got it, flaunt it.
“Hi, Lou,” she said sleepily. “Take a drink. Go ahead. It’s five o’clock.”
I looked at Sunny critically as I edged past her to the bar. The kid was a real centerfold, no question. Now don’t misunderstand me here. I say centerfold, but of course pornography hasn’t really kept pace with time. At first they tried filling the magazines and mature cable channels with new-look women, like Sunny, but it didn’t work out. Time has effectively killed pornography, except as an underground blood sport, or a punk thing. Time has killed much else. Here’s an interesting topic sentence. Now that masturbation is the only form of sex that doesn’t carry a government health warning, what do we think about when we’re doing it there, what is left for us to think about? Me, I’m not saying. Christ, are you? What images slide, what specters flit … what happens to these thoughts as they hover and mass, up there in the blasted, the totaled, up there in the fucked sky?
“Come on, Sunny. Where’s your robe.”
As I fixed myself a vodka-context and sucked warily on a pretzel, I noticed Sunny’s bald patch gently gleaming in the mist. I sighed.
“You like my dome?” she asked, without turning. “Relax, it’s artificial.” She sat up straight now and looked at me coyly. She smiled. Yeah, she’d had her teeth gimmicked too—by some cowboy snaggle-artist down in the Valley, no doubt. I poled myself poolside again and took a good slow scan. The flab and pallor were real all right, but the stretch marks seemed cosmetic: too symmetrical, too pronounced.
“Now, you listen to me, kid,” I began. “Here are the realities. To scudbathe, to flop out all day by the pool with a bottle or two, to take on a little weight around the middle there—that’s good for a girl. I mean you got to keep in shape. But this mutton routine, Sunny, it’s for the punks. No oldjob ever got on my books and no oldjob ever will. Here are the reasons. Number one—” And I gave young Sunny a long talking-to out there, a real piece of my mind. I had her in the boredom corner and I wasn’t letting her out. I went on and on at her—on and on and on and on. Me, I almost checked out myself, as boredom edged toward despair (the way boredom will), gazing into the voided pool, the reflected skyscape, and the busy static, in the sediment of sable rain.