He takes me by the collar and marches me out to the front door, through Photos to Bring Back Memories of a Lifetime and the Gallery of Astounding Communications. All along the way the Trustees talk in low tones about senility. We pass Mr. Jorgsen, who salutes me and starts singing the “Marseillaise.” Beneath the Flags of All Nations Mr. Spencer calls me a criminal and shoves me roughly out into the cold, and will not even allow me to fetch my coat. I walk down the umpteen stairs, my knees burning like hot coals. My ankles hurt and my piles hurt and the wind from the lake is stinging my cataracts. From the revolving door Mr. Spencer shouts that he hopes God will forgive me, and the Trustees applaud him.
In the plain blue day is my city, the city where I lived, the city that, in my own fashion, I loved. I remember when it was made entirely of wood, and men sold goods from carts, and this museum was a floodplain where we all picnicked.
I dodder shivering out along the cold cold pier, surrounded by staring Navy boys. The air smells of their hair tonic, and golden dead fish are bobbing in huge numbers against the chicken wire. I think of how lovely it all could have been had anything gone right, and then I think: Oh heavens, why prolong it, I’ve no income now.
I step off the pier, followed by nine or ten of the Navy boys, who want to save me, and do, and will not stop saving me although I beg and beg and beg. They deposit me on the frozen sand and cover me with their coats, and walk around patting each other on the back and shouting with triumph.
One has a radio and they begin to dance.
BOUNTY
Tonight at last the nation votes. In defiance of top management Father Oswald’s set up his shortwave in the Rec Center. He says no matter how the vote turns out we’ve got to buck up. He says no matter what happens we’ve been blessed. Though it’s true, he admits, that our burdens are considerable crosses to bear, we still get three squares a day, not to mention a nice chunk of change to take home and mull over in the privacy and security of a bunkhouse for which we pay zippo rent.
We try to go through our regular Counseling agenda. We talk about ways in which we feel neglected or trampled underfoot. We pair off and exchange neckrubs while praising one another for being so unique. Then Father leads us in cheerful songs from musicals. But nobody can concentrate. Finally he gives in and turns on the news: Poll riots in Cleveland and three Flaweds lynched outside Topeka. The early returns are discouraging. The Western vote will decide it. Out there genetic purity is highly valued and Flaweds are generally considered subhuman trash, so things look bleak.
Father gathers us around him in a circle and encourages us to visualize losing so that when we actually do it won’t hurt so much. Then he chucks each of us on the temple and says he’s proud of our restraint.
By midnight it’s clear we’ve lost. In spite of our Preemptive Visualization we’re devastated. Beatrice Connally falls on the floor weeping. She’s forty-two and sees the vote as a death knell for her baby hopes. Her wig goes askew and we can all see her huge scalp veins.
Father climbs up on a folding chair and gives us his The World Has Changed But Not Christ speech. He reminds us that what tortures us is desire. He suggests we take what comes and avail ourselves of the beauties present even in our reduced circumstances. Instead of having children, he says, plant and savor flowers. Instead of owning property, say a kind word to a neighbor with poor self-esteem.
“Bear in mind,” he says, “that in time you meek shall inherit the earth.”
“How can you possibly believe that line at a time like this?” Beatrice says from the floor, as several of her cronies hustle to get her wig back on.
“It is at times like these,” he says, “that I believe most firmly.”
“Easy for you to say,” Beatrice says. “You’re Normal.”
“He’s not normal,” someone says. “He’s a priest.”
“No need for personal invective,” Father says. “Although certainly I understand your frustrations.”
Allan Burns makes a farting noise with his mouth from the back of the room. Allan’s a cynical rebel with benign polyps all over his torso. He’s nobody’s favorite. Even sans polyps he’d be a pariah.
“In the best interests of all,” Father says, seeming to enjoy ignoring Allan, “I suggest we go about our business as usual, observing the regular and sanctioned coping rituals.”
The rest of us agree.
So he goes into the safe for our vials and we all toot up.
Later that night in the Castle 4 courtyard Bill Tiney’s screaming at a group of Clients for letting his son die of cholera. Little Scotty Tiney’s lying motionless on a wooden cart near the goat-udder bagpipist. He’s not really dead, he’s Performing. Makeup’s done a super job of making him look decayed. The Clients titter and check their Events Schedules and a few who are really in the spirit of the thing start laying coins on Scotty’s chest. I’m slated for Ribald Highwayman. When the Tineys are through I’m supposed to bound in and rob the women of the fake jewelry they received at Admission, while comically ogling their cleavages.
Just then Connie comes up the trail with Mr. Corbett. I duck into a fake shrub. Connie’s my sister. Corbett’s a gigantic bachelor who made his fortune in antiseptic swabs.
“Say your husband’s a burly peasant who’ll kick my butt if I screw you,” he says.
“My husband’s a burly peasant who’ll kick your butt if you screw me,” Connie says.
“Wonderful,” Mr. Corbett says. “Now fall down and let me catch up.”
Connie pretends to trip. Corbett stands over her in his king’s robe with his hands on his hips.
“You peasant girls,” he says. “You peasant girls are all robust but naïve as to the ways of the world.”
Lying there Connie scratches the side of her nose.
“Say my harsh words frighten you,” Mr. Corbett says.
“Sire, your harsh words frighten me,” Connie says.
“I like that,” Mr. Corbett says. “I like that sire bit.”
In violation of all specs I clip him in the neck with a rock. He just stands there looking stupid so I clip him again.
“I don’t go for this,” he says loudly.
So I clip him again.
“I’m not the kind of man who pays good money to be insulted,” he says.
I clip him again and he makes a perturbed sound with his wet lips and stomps off. Connie gets up and looking out into the woods asks who’s the smart-ass. She’s mad because of the possible negative impact on her Performance Evaluation. But who cares. I’m still her brother. If she insists on having sex with rich guys for pay she can at least do it where I don’t have to watch.
“I know it’s you, Cole,” she says. “If you love me, mind your own business.”
Then she tromps back up the trail, cussing a blue streak and pleading with Corbett to come back and feel free to kick dirt on her. Meanwhile I’ve missed my cue by a mile. The courtyard’s empty and the Clients are inside the castle making pigs of themselves while watching a troupe of Thespians bait an animatronic bear. I suspect my ass is in a sling. My experience has been that when the rich pay for Highwayman they expect damn Highwayman.
I go out to the retaining wall and climb into the guard station. Down in the tent town the dispossessed are having a hoedown. It’s basically some floodlights mounted on gutted cars and pointed at a place where the dirt’s been raked. For music they’ve got a fiddler and five or six earnest teens playing spoons. Some of the dispossessed kids are floating paper boats in our offal stream. It may be offal but in the moonlight it looks poignant enough.
After a while a few of the kids get bold and come skulking up to the wall. I search the guard station, then fling down some contingency dinner rolls. The kids squeal and fill their pockets and stand there yelling thanks and begging for more on the basis of how many infants they have at home.