I stopped on the edge of the road across from the Sunlite Apartments and turned off the ignition. I sat for a moment, listening to the near silence that now contained only the sharp ticking of the rain on the car’s hood and the occasional rattle of sand and pebbles as a gust of wind blew by. Then I opened the door and stepped out into the wet world.
And there he was. My dog, Digitaria. My entire self—blood, spirit, bone—felt flooded with relief.
The dog was sitting on his haunches, on what remained of the sidewalk outside the entrance to the Sunlite Apartments. Previously, I hadn’t paid much attention to the entrance of the building, but now I did notice that the front door of the building was gone. That made it possible to see inside, but because it was growing dark, from where I stood on the street, I couldn’t pick out any specific structures that might remain. Perhaps some part of the internal staircase was still standing, perhaps some of the apartments were intact, though surely long since claimed by mold and rot. It was impossible for me to know if the dog had tried to get inside, but whatever explorations he might have made were over now and he was simply sitting in the rain, looking at the building and occasionally tilting his head from side to side.
As I walked up beside him, he acknowledged me by moving closer and then leaning against my leg, the way he did at home. I picked up his leash, and wrapped it firmly around my hand. He turned his head and stared at me with those dark, glittering eyes.
I tugged on the leash but he didn’t seem to want to move. He turned back to face the building and then, suddenly, let out a loud yip—a high-pitched, disturbing sound that was something like the noise he’d made when I had come home late, but more urgent. The sound seemed to linger in the night air until the wind swept it away.
After a few more moments of staring intently at the gaping hole where the front door of the building had once been, the dog finally let me lead him back across the street to the car. He jumped in and moved over to the passenger seat. Once I slid into the driver’s side, the dog managed to maneuver his body so that he was lying flat across the seat with his head in my lap. Soon, we were driving back across the bridge and Digitaria was fast asleep. A few times as I was driving, he continued to make that yipping sound, and though it was much softer now, coming from somewhere deep in his sleep, it still made me wonder just what it was that he might be dreaming about.
~XI~
“A pedophile?” I said to Jack. “That’s what they think you are? And they actually think they have some kind of evidence for this?”
“You don’t need evidence nowadays,” Jack said. “You just make accusations. And then you repeat them on some listener’s blog and before you know it—wham. Tried and convicted. Oh, yes—and did I tell you I might also be a drug dealer, a rapist and possibly the Antichrist? The Pope himself might issue an encyclical denouncing me because I promulgate degenerate theories about the sex life of the saints.”
“Well, you did have on that medium who claimed to be able to channel Joan of Arc and apparently she and one of her soldiers did not have a totally chaste relationship.”
Jack let out a long sigh. “Great,” he said. “That was one of the shows you tuned into.”
It was a warm Sunday night. In just a few days, the weather had shaken off its late spring chill and turned almost sultry. Jack and I were sitting at a table outside a restaurant on Seventh Avenue South, in the Village and he was telling me about his trip to Los Angeles, which clearly had not gone very well.
“But you told me they’ve been carrying your show for years. They know you. Why would they believe things like that?”
“Because there’s money involved. Blue Star Communications seems to have limitless amounts of it and they’re telling my bosses that they want to buy the company but won’t honor the contracts of anyone who’s morally unfit.”
“The Blue Awareness has an issue about morals? Maybe they can just hook you up to a Blue Box and cure you of your degenerate tendencies.”
Jack frowned at me. “Yeah, well. They didn’t offer me that remedy. All they’re going to do is buy out the rest of my contract, which just had a couple of months to run on it anyway, so they make out like bandits and I’m screwed.”
“But you’re going to sign on with World Air, right?” That’s what Jack had told me when he’d called me to arrange getting together tonight. Ostensibly, we were meeting so I could return his car to him, but I had also assumed that we were going to have a celebratory drink to toast the World Air deal. Now the situation seemed a lot less worthy of a celebration.
“I don’t have a choice,” Jack replied. “I have to say, though, I’m not as thrilled with what they’re offering as I thought I’d be. I mean, I thought they’d offer more. The deal on the table is two hours, from midnight to two A.M., five nights a week, on what they call their alternative talk channel. The problem is that my listeners aren’t exactly the kind of people who subscribe to satellite radio. There’s a big difference between what comes to you free, over the air, and something you have to not only pay an annual fee for but also have to go out and buy some special equipment to even get involved in listening. Would you do that?” he challenged me.
I thought about it for a minute. “I might,” I said.
“Yeah, you might. But then, you’re a radio freak.”
“Am I?”
Finally, Jack laughed. “You don’t know that? Boy, have you got your uncle’s disease. Same as I do. Everybody else is watching TV or surfing the web, but people like you and me . . . I don’t know. There’s something about turning on that little box and hearing voices come out of the air. It’s kind of tied up with nighttime, right? And for a lot of people, with working. People driving trucks and cabs, guys working night shifts . . .”
“Bartenders,” I added.
“Exactly. Night people. Strange, angry, weird, bored, curious, sure they’re being duped by the higher-ups who really control the levers of power . . .”
Now he had me laughing. “Well, we are, aren’t we?”
“Of course. Probably since the beginning of time. What’s scary, though, is people like Raymond Gilmartin having that kind of power. What is he but a rich guy who’s running a cult empire based on a bunch of science fiction books? Just my luck, they decided to diversify into media. And then picked me as a target.”
“Maybe you should be flattered,” I suggested. “They apparently think you have some influence.”
“I doubt it, really,” Jack replied. “I don’t think Raymond Gilmartin and his Blue Awareness disciples can distinguish between who’s just an irritation and who’s a real enemy. To them, everyone who isn’t with them is an enemy.”
Now he was sounding gloomy again; his few moments of lightheartedness had quickly fled. It was surprising to me to experience this side of him. Up until now, I had thought of Jack as a kind of unrepentant optimist. But even for him, apparently, there were a limited number of bright sides of life he could find a way to look on.
We parted around nine o’clock. He went to collect his car, which I had parked a block or so away, and I headed for the subway. When I got home, Digitaria, as usual, was waiting by the door. He was used to getting a walk at night, so I obliged him, putting on his leash and leading him downstairs.
Except for the one furtive truck lurking in an alley with its running lights on, the neighborhood was deserted, almost silent. I led the dog down to the end of the block, meaning to cross the street and walk him along the chain-link fence that bordered the marshy shore of the bay.
Just as I stepped off the curb, a van came careening down the block. I heard the sound off to my right and pulled the dog, who was a few steps ahead of me, back to the safety of the sidewalk. Holding tight to his leash, I moved back a couple of feet and waited for what I assumed was some kind of crazy drunken driver to pass by.