Benner smirked at Conrad unpleasantly.
“I’m already in more trouble than you’d ever believe, dipshit. I’m Conrad Bunger. Why don’t you get out of here? I didn’t invite you.”
“You’re just a middle-aged guy trying to get your hands on some sophomore girls,” snapped Benner.
“It’s sickening.”
A fresh wave of dope hit Conrad’s brain about then. He looked at the angry face in front of him. What were they arguing about? About who he was? Fuck it.
“Hang ten,” Conrad said and stomped off to the kitchen for another beer.
Platter and Ace were in there talking to Mary Toledo and Sissy Taylor. Conrad threw his arm around Sissy, who gave one of her goony guffaws.
“Can you teach me physics, Mr. Bulber?”
“I’m not Mr. Bulber,” said Conrad, hoping to convince someone. “I’m Conrad Bunger.”
“Wasn’t that too much this summer?” exclaimed Mary, not believing him. “I always knew Conrad was weird, but when I saw him waving that light-sword on TV ...”
“And shrinking,” put in Sissy. “I never got to meet him last year. What was he like? Did you know him, Mr. Bulber?”
“Call me Charlie,” sighed Conrad, opening a beer. “Yes, I knew Bunger. He was a very poor student.”
“All he cared about was getting drunk and talking about the secret of life,” said Ace, smiling wickedly.
“Basically he was a stupid pig.”
“Maybe they chose a defective one to send down,” suggested Ace. “Or maybe they had to like lobotomize him to bring him down to human level. I felt that way this summer, working at the paper mill ...”
Conrad got a pint of whiskey out of Bulber’s cupboard and took it out on the back steps. This party wasn’t fun; he wasn’t a member of the group anymore. He’d never really fit in here again. Where was Audrey?
Stoned and drinking on the steps there, staring out into the woods with the noise of the party washing out, Conrad felt very lonely. Time passed. He felt himself fading and reeled back into the kitchen. “Hey, Weston, let’s get some more dope. Where’s Chuckie?”
The party ground on into the wee hours, and Conrad got more and more fucked-up. After a while it wasn’t like he was running his body anymore; it was, rather, like he waswatching himself do things .
Terrible things.
Finally he passed out, and then it was daytime.
“A nightmare of madness and evil,” groaned Conrad. “How can I do this to myself, how can I pretend there’s anything positive about alcohol and drugs? And those poor girls ... why did I have to act like that?”
“If you think I’m going to feel sorry for you, you’re crazy. That’s just part of the payoff for you, the big guilt-and-apology session. You acted like a real pig last night, and I’d rather not have to hear about it today.” Ace was grinding black pepper into a big glass of beer with tomato juice. “You want one of these, Conrad?”
“I do, but I don’t. What time is it?”
“A little after noon. You know Izzy wants to come over and have a yard sale this afternoon? He wants to sell all Mr. Bulber’s clothes and books and dishes.”
“He can get fucked. I did enough for you guys last night.” Conrad looked around the ruined bachelor quarters. Vomit on the rugs, some of the chairs broken, cans and bottles everywhere ... “Do you think everyone knows I’m Conrad Bunger now? The cops are looking for me, you know, and so are the flame-people. I’ve got half a mind to just get in the XKE and—”
“You gave the keys to Chuckie,” said Ace. “Don’t you remember? You told him to go sell it and use the money for dope.”
“He can’t sell it without me there to sign the papers over.”
“You already signed the papers. He made you do it before he’d give you the rest of his ounce. You wanted to impress Sissy Taylor how—”
“All right, all right. I remember. Do you still do cross-country running, Ace?”
“Sure.”
“Take me on a nice run down through the woods.”
“Two. Just enough to air my head out.”
Conrad put on an old pair of Mr. Bulber’s sneakers. They locked up the house and walked down to the dormitory so Ace could get his special shoes. He’d been on the cross-country team his first three years, though now he just ran for fun.
It was another sunny day, with big bright leaves beginning to drop. The path through the Crum was smooth and sandy; Ace set a nice, easy pace; and before long, Conrad started feeling good again.
Although the Bulber-body’s joints ached a bit, it seemed to have stronger legs than the Bunger-model had. The stupid Bulber-face had put everyone off last night, but at least Audrey still liked him. Good thing she hadn’t been here. Aaauugh. Here he was, with who knew how much time left, wasting his energy on a stupid-ass party to impress some sophomore girls. He’d probably screwed up his cover, too. He was going to have to leave before Bulber came back from his trip—why not just leave right now?
They sloped up out of the woods and onto a dirt road that led among factories and warehouses. Since it was Saturday, no one was about; the junked machinery and the great brick-and-metal buildings seemed like relics of an unknown civilization. The road looped back into the Crum—water and leaves. Running like this, Conrad could, oddly enough, forget his body entirely. At some point the pain always grew so great that the brain simply put the body on automatic. The run ended with a final charge up a steep path up to Crum Ledge and Mr. Bulber’s house. There was a telegram sticking out of the mailbox. Audrey?
Conrad tore it open; it took a minute to grasp what it said.
M. MARK HZA234444898
US CONSULATE DGW22891
PARIS
FRANCE SEPTEMBER 16, 1966
CHARLES VENN BULBER LOST IN AVALANCHE ON MONT BLANC STOP BODY UNRETRIEVABLE STOP
ADVISE DISPOSITION OF EFFECTS STOP
Just then Chuckie and Izzy pulled up in Chuckie’s car. “Hey, Conrad,” yelled Izzy. “Ready for da yard sale?”
“Where’s my XKE, Chuckie?”
“I ... sold it. Turned out the guy wouldn’t pay six thou after all. I could only get three-five. But we’ve been into Philly, and I got your kilo. It’s in this shopping bag with your change. You get eighteen hundred back.”
“No,” said Conrad waving his hand weakly. “Wait.” He couldn’t catch his breath. If Bulber was never coming back at all, and all the mail was going through this address ... then there was no reason that Conrad couldn’t just move into the Bulber rolepermanently here and ...
“Unlock da door, Conrad,” yelled Tuskman, tugging at the knob as if to tear it off. “I been puttin’ up signs and I wanta get all the furniture out before—”
“Goddamn you,” husked Conrad, as loud as he could manage. “Shut the fuck up! And don’t call me Conrad anymore. I’m Charles Bulber, you hear me; I’m Professor Charles Bulber, and I want you off my goddamn fucking property!”
“Dat’s no way for a professah to talk,” chided Izzy.
“Cool it,” said Ace, who’d just finished reading the telegram for himself. “Conrad just got some weird news.”
After a while, Chuckie and Izzy left, and Ace helped Conrad into the house. He fixed them a couple of beer-with-tomato-juices while Conrad rolled a jay. Ace had thought to get the shopping bag from Chuckie. Soon Conrad’s spirits rose.
“Actually—it’s a gift from God, Ace. With Bulber dead, I could move in here for good—hell, I could pick up enough physics by next year—and then I could marry Audrey, and have kids with her, and be safe from the cops and saucers forever. But I had to fuck it up before I even started. Last night I told about ten people I wasn’t really Bulber; I was trying to impress those girls and ...”
“Don’t worry, Conrad, I covered for you.”