Hey.
A hand touched him. From a woman.
Hey.
He looked sideways a little.
How you doing?
Okay, he said.
Feel any better?
I feel okay, he said.
He watched his coffee and the steam and did not look at her or any of them; he looked down and down at the coffee. He liked the warmth of the smell.
You could see somebody when they passed by directly in front of you, and only then. Or whichever way you were looking, no other. If a leaf or something floated over your eye, that would be it, forever. Only the leaf. Nothing more; you couldnt turn.
Okay, he said, holding the coffee, the cup with both his hands.
Imagine being sentient but not alive. Seeing and even knowing, but not alive. Just looking out. Recognizing but not being alive. A person can die and still go on. Sometimes what looks out at you from a persons eyes maybe died back in childhood. Whats dead in there still looks out. Its not just the body looking at you with nothing in it; theres still something in there but it died and just keeps on looking and looking; it cant stop looking.
Another person said, Thats what it means to die, to not be able to stop looking at whatevers in front of you. Some darn thing placed directly there, with nothing you can do about it such as selecting anything or changing anything. You can only accept whats put there as it is.
Howd you like to gaze at a beer can throughout eternity? It might not be so bad. Thered be nothing to fear.
Before dinner, which was served to them in the dining room, they had Concept time. Several Concepts were put on the blackboard by different staff members and discussed.
He sat with his hands folded in his lap, watching the floor and listening to the big coffee urn heating up; it went whoopwhoop, and the sound frightened him.
Living and unliving things are exchanging properties.
Seated here and there on folding chairs, everyone discussed that. They seemed familiar with the Concept. Evidently these were parts of New-Paths way of thought, perhaps even memorized and then thought about again and again. Whoop-whoop.
The drive of unliving things is stronger than the drive of living things.
They talked about that. Whoop-whoop. The noise of the coffee urn got louder and louder and scared him more, but he did not move or look; he sat where he was, listening. It was hard to hear what they were saying, because of the urn.
We are incorporating too much unliving drive within us. And exchangingWill somebody go look at that damn coffeepot to see why its doing that?
There was a break while someone examined the coffee urn. He sat staring down, waiting.
Ill write this again. We are exchanging too much passive life for the reality outside us.
They discussed that. The coffee urn became silent, and they trooped over to get coffee.
Dont you want some coffee? A voice behind him, touching him. Ned? Bruce? Whats his nameBruce?
Okay. He got up and followed them to the coffee urn. He waited his turn. They watched as he put cream and sugar into his cup. They watched him return to his chair, the same one; he made certain he found it again, to reseat himself and go on listening. The warm coffee, its steam, made him feel good.
Activity does not necessarily mean life. Quasars are active. And a monk meditating is not inanimate.
He sat looking at the empty cup; it was a china mug. Turning it over, he discovered printing on the bottom, and cracked glaze. The mug looked old, but it had been made in Detroit.
Motion that is circular is the deadest form of the universe.
Another voice said, Time.
He knew the answer to that. Time is round.
Yes, weve got to break now, but does anyone have a fast final comment?
Well, following the line of least resistance, thats the rule of survival. Following, not leading.
Another voice, older, said, Yes, the followers survive the leader. Like with Christ. Not vice versa.
We better eat, because Rick stops serving exactly at five-on fifty now.
Talk about that in the Game, not now.
Chairs screaked, creaked. He rose too, carried the old mug to the tray of others, and joined them in line out. He could smell cold clothes around him, good smells but cold.
It sounds like theyre saying passive life is good, he thought. But there is no such thing as passive life. Thats a contradiction.
He wondered what life was, what it meant; maybe he did not understand.
A huge bunch of donated flashy clothes had arrived. Several people stood with armfuls, and some had put shirts on, trying them out and getting approval.
Hey, Mike. Youre a sharp dude.
In the middle of the lounge stood a short stocky man, with curly hair and pug face; he shifted his belt, frowning. How do you work this here? I dont see how you get it to stay. Why doesnt it loosen? He had a three-inch buckleless belt with metal rings and he did not know how to cinch the rings. Glancing around, eyes twinkling, he said, I think they gave me one nobody else could work.
Bruce went over behind him, reached around him, and cinched the belt looped back through the rings.
Thanks, Mike said. He sorted through several dress shirts, lips pursed. To Bruce he said, When I get married Im going to wear one of these.
Nice, he said.
Mike strolled toward two women at the far end of the lounge; they smiled. Holding a burgundy floral shirt up against himself, Mike said, Im going out on the town.
All right, go in and get dinner! the house director yelled briskly, in his powerful voice. He winked at Bruce. How you doing, fella?
Fine, Bruce said.
Sound like you got a cold.
Yes, he agreed, its from coming off. Could I have any Dristan or
No chemicals, the house director said. Nothing. Hurry on in and eat. Hows your appetite?
Better, he said, following. They smiled at him, from tables.
After dinner he sat halfway up the wide stairs to the second floor. No one spoke to him; a conference was taking place. He sat there until it finished. Everyone emerged, filling the hall.
He felt them seeing him, and maybe some spoke to him. He sat on the stairs, hunched over, his arms wrapped around him, seeing and seeing. The dark carpet before his eyes.
Presently no more voices.
Bruce?
He did not stir.
Bruce? A hand touched him.
He said nothing.
Bruce, come on into the lounge. Youre supposed to be in your room in bed, but, see, I want to talk to you. Mike led him by waving him to follow. He accompanied Mike down the stairs and into the lounge, which was empty. When they were in the lounge Mike shut the door.
Seating himself in a deep chair, Mike indicated for him to sit down facing him. Mike appeared tired; his small eyes were ringed, and he rubbed his forehead.
I been up since five-thirty this morning, Mike said.
A knock; the door started to open.
Very loudly, Mike yelled, I want nobody to come in here; were talking. Hear?
Mumbles. The door shut.
Yknow, you better change your shirt a couple times a day, Mike said. Youre sweating something fierce.
He nodded.
What part of the state are you from?
He said nothing.
You come to me from now or when you feel this bad. I went through the same thing, about a year and a half ago. They used to drive me around in cars. Different staff members. You met Eddie? The tall thin drink-a-water that puts down everybody? He drove me for eight days around and around. Never left me alone. Mike yelled suddenly, Will you get out of here? Were in here talking. Go watch the TV. His voice sank, and he eyed Bruce. Sometimes you got to do that. Never leave someone alone.