"No." Tommy turned and headed toward the door. As he reached it he turned and said, "I'm not fucked."
The Sartre reader looked up from his book and said, "We all are. We all are."
Chapter 13
To-Do List of the Fashionably Doomed
When you know the future is grim, there is no need for speed. Tommy decided to walk to the financial district. He shuffled along with the hang-dog look of the cosmically fucked.
He walked through Chinatown, spotted three of the Wongs buying lottery tickets at a liquor store, and headed up to the room to get his typewriter and clothes before they returned. His spirits lifted a little when he climbed down the narrow stairway for the last time, but Madame Natasha's words came back to dump on him again: "I don't see a woman in your near future."
It had been one of the reasons he had come to San Francisco — to find a girlfriend. Someone who would see him as an artist. Not like the girls back home, who saw him as a bookish freak. It was all part of the plan: live in the City, write stories, look at the bridge, ride cable cars, eat Rice-A-Roni, and have a girlfriend — someone he could tell his thoughts to, preferably after hours of godlike sex. He wasn't looking for perfection, just someone who made him feel secure enough to be insecure around. But not now. Now he was doomed.
He looked up at the skyline and realized that he had navigated wrong, arriving in the financial district, several blocks from the Pyramid. He zigzagged from block to block, avoiding eye contact with the men and women in business suits, who avoided eye contact in turn by checking their watches every few steps. Sure, he thought, they can check their watches. They have a future.
He arrived at the foot of the Pyramid a little breathless, his arms aching from carrying his belongings. He sat on a concrete bench at the edge of a fountain and watched people for a while.
They were all so determined. They had places to go, people to see. Their hair was perfect. They smelled good. They wore nice shoes. He looked at his own worn leather sneakers. Fucked.
Someone sat down next to him on the bench and he avoided looking up, thinking that it would just be another person who would make him feel inferior. He was staring at a spot on the concrete by his feet when a Boston terrier appeared on the spot and blew a jet stream of dog snot on his pant leg.
"Bummer, that's rude," the Emperor said. "Can't you see that our friend is sulking?"
Tommy looked up into the face of the Emperor. "Your Highness. Hello." The man had the wildest eyebrows Tommy had ever seen, as if two gray porcupines were perched on his brow.
The Emperor tipped his crown, a fedora made of panels cut from beer cans and laced together with yellow yarn. "Did you get the job?"
"Yes, they hired me that day. Thanks for the tip."
"It's honest work," the Emperor said. "There's a certain grace in that. Not like this tragedy."
"What tragedy?"
"These poor souls. These poor pathetic souls." The Emperor gestured toward the passersby.
"I don't understand," Tommy said.
"Their time has passed and they don't know what to do. They were told what they wanted and they believed it. They can only keep their dream alive by being with others like themselves who will mirror their illusions."
"They have really nice shoes," Tommy said.
"They have to look right or their peers will turn on them like starving dogs. They are the fallen gods. The new gods are producers, creators, doers. The new gods are the chinless techno-children who would rather eat white sugar and watch science-fiction films than worry about what shoes they wear. And these poor souls desperately push papers around hoping that a mystical message will appear to save them from the new, awkward, brilliant gods and their silicon-chip reality. Some of them will survive, of course, but most will fall. Uncreative thinking is done better by machines. Poor souls, you can almost hear them sweating."
Tommy looked at the well-dressed stream of business people, then at the Emperor's tattered overcoat, then at his own sneakers, then at the Emperor again. For some reason, he felt better than he had a few minutes before. "You really worry about these people, don't you?"
"It is my lot."
An attractive woman in a gray suit and heels approached the Emperor and handed him a five-dollar bill. She wore a silk camisole under her jacket and Tommy could make out the top of her lace bra when she bent over. He was mesmerized.
"Your Highness," she said, "there's a Chinese chicken salad on special at the Cafe Suisse today. I think Bummer and Lazarus would love it."
Lazarus wagged his tail. Bummer yapped at the mention of his name.
"Very thoughtful of you, my child. The men will enjoy it."
"Have a good day," she said, and walked away. Tommy watched her calves as she went.
Two men who were passing by, embroiled in an argument about prices and earnings, stopped their conversation and nodded to the Emperor.
"Go with God," the Emperor said. He turned back to Tommy. "Are you still looking for a domicile, or just a woman now?"
"I don't understand."
"You wear your loneliness like a badge."
Tommy felt as if his ego had just taken a right to the jaw. "Actually, I met a girl and I'm going to rent us a place this afternoon."
"My mistake," the Emperor said. "I misread you."
"No, you didn't. I'm fucked."
"Pardon?"
"A fortune-teller told me that there was no woman in my future."
"Madame Natasha?"
"How did you know?"
"You mustn't give too much credence to Madame Natasha's predictions. He's dying and it darkens his vision. The plague."
"I'm sorry," Tommy said. In fact, he felt relieved, then guilty for the reason behind it. He had no right to feel sorry for himself. The Emperor had nothing except his dogs, yet his sympathy was all directed toward his fellowman. I'm scum, Tommy thought. He said, "Your Highness, I have a little money now, if you need…"
The Emperor held up the bill the woman had given him. "We have all that we need, my son." He stood and tugged on the ropes that held Bummer and Lazarus. "And I should be off before the men revolt from hunger."
"Me, too, I guess." Tommy stood and made as if to shake hands, then bowed instead. "Thanks for the company."
The Emperor winked, spun on one heel, and started to lead his troops away, then stopped and turned back. "And, son, don't touch anything with an edge while you're in the building? Scissors, letter openers, anything."
"Why?" Tommy asked.
"It's the shape of the building, a pyramid. They'd rather people not know about it, but they have a full-time employee who just goes around dulling the letter openers."
"You're kidding."
"Safety first," the Emperor said.
"Thanks."
Tommy took a deep breath and steeled himself for his assault on the Pyramid. As he walked out of the sun and under the massive concrete buttresses, he could feel a chill through his flannel shirt, as if the concrete had stored the damp cold of the night fog and was radiating it like a refrigerator coil. He was shivering by the time he reached the information desk. A guard eyed him suspiciously.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for the Transamerica personnel department."
The guard made a face as if Tommy had been dipped in sewage. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes." Tommy waved Jody's papers under the guard's nose.
The guard picked up a phone and was punching numbers when a second guard came up behind him and took the receiver. "He's fine," the second guard said. "Send him up."
"But —"
"He's a friend of the Emperor."
The first guard hung up the phone and said, "Twenty-first floor, sir." He pointed to the elevators.