But I still felt guilty about not finishing. Old habits die hard. If you train yourself to think a certain way, will you keep on thinking that way, even after it's no longer a valid way to think? Hm.
Did I think like a duck? Was that it? Did I keep on doing ducklike things because I didn't know how to do anything else? Was it that obvious to the people around me?
Maybe I should stop being me for a while and start being someone else-someone who didn't have so much trouble being me.
I wasn't hungry anymore. I got up, took my tray to the bus window and left the commissary.
I wondered if I walked funny. I mean, I was short and a little pudgy around the bottom. Did I look like a duck? Maybe I could learn to walk differently-if I stood a little taller and carried my weight in my chest instead of in my gut-"Oof! I'm sorry." I had been so busy walking, I hadn't been looking, and had plowed straight into a young woman. Quack. Old synapses never die, they just fire away. "I'm really sorry-oh!"
It was Marcie. The thin girl with the large dark eyes. From the bus. Colonel Buffoon.
"Hi-" I flustered for words. "Uh, what are you doing here?"
"Feeding my dog-they give me the scraps." She showed me the package she was carrying.
I held the door for her. She stepped through, but didn't say thanks. I followed after.
She stopped on the sidewalk. "Are you following me?"
I shook my head. "No."
"Well, then, go away."
"You're very rude, you know." She stared at me blankly.
"You don't even give people a chance."
She blinked. "I'm sorry. Am I supposed to know you?"
"Uh-we were on the bus together, remember? Last night?" She shook her head. "I don't remember anything from last night. Were you one of the boys I screwed?"
"Huh? No ... I mean . . . what?"
"He doesn't use me at all. I know that's what people think, but he's never touched me. But he likes to watch me do it with the young men he picks out. And then he likes to-well, you know."
"Why do you stay with him?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. I don't have anywhere else to go." And then she added, "I really am sorry. I don't remember you at all. I was stoned last night. He had some Atlanta Blue. I don't think I did it with anyone, but I'm not always sure. Were you there?"
"I told you. We were on the bus together. Remember? The bus into town?"
"Oh, yeah. I'm sorry. Sometimes I don't remember things at all. If you say so." She turned away from me then, bent to the ground and unwrapped her package to reveal a large pile of meat scraps and bones. "He's going to love this. Rangle!" she called. "C'mon, boy. Here, Rangle, come and get it or I'll give it to the dog!" She turned back to me. "I don't like to do dust, but-well, it helps sometimes. You know. Sometimes I get ... lonely. You know?"
"Yeah. I know."
"That's funny, isn't it? There are still lots of people, if you know where to go, but it's all crowds of strangers. I don't know anybody anymore."
"I know what you mean. And everybody always seems so agitated. It's like-you know, the social Brownian movement has been speeded up-"
Her expression was blank. She didn't know.
I said, "It's because there are less people now-we all have to move faster to make up for the difference."
She was staring at me. Had I just said something stupid? Or had she not gotten it? She said, "I used to be smart. Like you. Only it stopped being useful to be smart. So I stopped being smart." She looked sad. "The dust helps a lot. You can get real stupid real fast with dust." She caught herself then, as if she'd said something she shouldn't have. She lifted her voice again. "Hey, Rangle! Come on! Where are you, boy?" There was an edge of impatience in her tone. She turned back to me. "You'll like him. He's really a very friendly dog-I just don't know where he is now."
"Oh, well ... maybe he got caught up in traffic, or something."
She didn't react to the joke. She turned her wide-eyed stare on me again. "Do you think so?"
"Are you still dusted?" I asked.
"Oh, no. I haven't sniffed since yesterday. I don't like it. Why do you ask?" Before I could answer, she clutched my arm. "Am I being weird? I'm sorry. Sometimes I get weird. It happens. But nobody ever tells me if I'm weird or not. That scares me sometimes-that I might be so weird that no one will tell if I am or not. One time, everybody else got dusted and I had to stay squeaky-because it was my period and I didn't want to risk hemorrhaging-and I was really bored. They didn't understand why I wasn't giggly like them-"
"Yes," I said. "You're being weird."
She looked into my face. Her eyes were very large and very dark. She looked almost like a little girl right then. She said, "Thank you. Thank you for telling me that." She blinked and I saw the tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't know anything anymore, except what other people tell me. So thank you for telling me the truth.
"Do you hate me?" I shook my head. "Do you feel sorry for me?"
"No, I don't." I thought about my father for an instant. "No, I don't feel sorry for anyone anymore. It only kills them."
She kept on looking at me, but she didn't say anything for a long moment. We stood there in the Colorado dusk, while overhead the stars began to come out. To the west, the mountains were outlined in a faint glow of orange. The breeze was warm and smelled of honey and pine.
The silence stretched until it was uncomfortable. I began to wonder if I should apologize for being honest with her. Finally she said, "I wish I knew where that damn dog went to. It's not like him to miss his dinner! Rangle!" She looked annoyed, then as if embarrassed to have been angry, she said, "I don't know why I'm getting so upset-he's not my real dog. I mean, he's just a stray. I sort of adopted him-" And then she admitted, "-but he's the only person I know who ... well, he doesn't care if I'm weird. Rangle doesn't care. You know?"
"Yeah, I do. We all need someone these days." I smiled at her. "Because we're all we've got."
She didn't answer immediately. She was staring at the paper with the meat scraps on it. Overhead, the street lights came on, filling the twilight with a warm glow. When Marcie finally spoke, her voice was very soft. "You know, I used to know what was important in life and what wasn't. Being beautiful was important. I had my nose fixed-my whole face-because I wanted to be beautiful. Like, you could have that bump on your nose fixed-"
"It was a motorcycle accident," I said.
"-only you'd still be you inside, wouldn't you? Well, that's what happened to me. I had my face remodeled-only afterwards, I was still me. I think that's what's happened to the world. We're all still who we were last year-only our outsides have changed and we don't know it yet. We don't know who we're supposed to be anymore. I'm nervous and I'm scared-all the time," she said. "I mean, what if I do find out who I am, and then someone comes up and tells me no, that's not who I am after all? Do you know what I mean?"
I said, "Ducks. We want to feel like swans, and they keep telling us we're ducks-and not even very good ducks at that."
"Yeah," she said. "That's good. You do understand. Sometimes I wonder if there's anyone else in the world who feels what I do-and sometimes I find someone who does; but it's always a surprise to find out that I'm not completely alone."
She shivered and I put my arm around her. "I know."
Petulantly, she said, "I just wish I knew where Rangle was. He'll probably show up tomorrow, grinning and wagging. He's a real practical joker, but I don't like worrying. You've seen him around, haven't you? Sort of halfway between brown and white, almost pink-real shaggy, with big floppy paws like bunny-feet slippers. Big brown eyes and a black gumdrop nose."