Class Warfare (12 page)

 

Jamie looked at the bill; there would be enough—barely—left for bus fare home—not enough for a tip. He'd never be back here again, anyway. “There's no way we can take a cab,” he said. ‘There never was a way,” Isobel said. She felt like a character in a contemporary short story with a cryptic ending.

“Now you see it,” Jamie said, gathering up his cigarettes, the house matches, a pocketful of mints. “There it is, for you as for me: the Real World. The long grey column of the dispossessed, the permanently shabby, splayed out against that lurid CinemaScope horizon, staggering along, toting cherished luggage, icons, pots and pans.
Lares et penates.
And maybe someone with a sense of humour has done the soundtrack—I hope so—because it has to be the
War March of the Priests
, what else? Da-dum-dum-DUM, da-da-da-dum-dum-dum-de-daaa-da … It's what was playing when we strutted hand in hand, me in my new black suit, you in your new white gown, when we graduated from high school. We will return to these things, another time.”

“Well,” Isobel said, “what about that? What about it?” She thought:
I guess I got what I paid for.
“If you're lucky,” Jamie said, “at the end you don't have time to say goodbye. If you're lucky, you have to make a run for it; the bus is waiting, or the boat, the train, the flight you're booked on. You have to scramble to get aboard. There's only long enough for the briefest of salutes, which you can translate afterwards into the most wonderful of illusions, memories of what never happened, never could happen, snapshots of a love no camera could be so false as to record. So be it. Blake said,
Mental things are alone real.
I'm tempted to believe him.” He stood up, definitively. “We'd better make tracks out of this place,” he said.

Jamie paid the bill, humbly. Isobel's hair gleamed, the fake emeralds gleamed, as she waited. “Can you make it?” she asked, softly. Jamie heard himself muttering, heard his mind banging off walls like yodelling in a canyon.
Let this departure be steeped in simplicities. Let nothing exceptional break in.
Tomorrow, Isobel would see him off, would extend baffled arms for the requisite embrace, would wave reminiscently as the bus pulled out. In the kingdom of perfect love, there are no ostentatious displays. He'll have to remember to buy a book, preferably something witless and mundane, to occupy him on the way; he'll be sure to keep a flask or two close at hand, to ease the passage. Even so, up to the last ding-dong there could be second thoughts, third thoughts. His resolve may be less than invincible; he doesn't know. One word from Isobel, one instant's turning to see, in the irresistible light, what he's spent so long trying not to look at—that could do it. He'll have to be on guard. “You're looking pensive,” Isobel said as he approached her. “Uh-huh. Haven't I reason to look pensive?” She reached for his arm, formally. The restaurant door hissed as they went out.

In the parking lot, someone had painted a message.
Cars and Contents Left at Owner's Risk.
Isobel started to cry. “I can't help it,” she said. “I just can't stand it any more.”

They walked together to the bus depot, sometimes hand in hand, more often tactfully apart, speaking lightly of inconsequential things. The morning light was aquamarine, as the air rotted around them; the shop windows were heaped with treasures. Ambulances went hither and yon, on mysterious quests; pigeons screamed; neatly clothed persons entered places of business, to do business. Jamie and Isobel took turns carrying his baggage, one block at a time. They were careful to obey the traffic signals, to stay securely within the painted crosswalks, to avoid oncoming pedestrians whenever possible. It wasn't always possible.

At one corner, a sallow man with eager eyes and a sack of pamphlets accosted them. “Do you love Jesus?” he demanded. “Do you love the Lord Jesus Christ Our Saviour?” “No,” Jamie said, walking on. “That was close,” Isobel said. Jamie took the baggage out of her hand: it was only a single suitcase, loosely packed, but it weighted his arm uncomfortably. Isobel performed a small, inhibited jig. “Every day in every way,” she said, giggling inordinately, “I'm getting better and better. Whoop-de-doo!” Her words thudded down the sidewalk. “Seriously,” she said, “we have to keep these—situations—in perspective, don't we?” Jamie gave his attention to an unravelling shoelace, squatted, made rudimentary repairs. “Remember to feed the cat,” he said. “And the guppies, if any of them live long enough to eat. I left most of the dope in the breadbox; you can have it. The rent's paid up this month. There's a letter I forgot to mail, it's on the desk, you'll need a stamp for it. Anything else I've forgotten, give to the poor.”

A young woman in a black robe materialized in front of them, blocked their way.
“It
is all around,” she whispered. “You'll never get away.” Isobel groped for Jamie's free hand; he was using it to search his pockets for change. The young woman breathed, urgently, into their faces.
“It
is greedy for you.
It
is hungry. You'll know
It,
when you feel
Its
teeth in you. Hahahahahahaha.” Jamie dredged a few coins out of his stash. “Here,” he said to the apparition, “buy yourself a beer.” The quarter disappeared into the darkness of the robe. “You won't be able to bribe
It
,” the whisper continued, receding. “You won't be able to buy
It
a beer. Hahahahahaha.” Nearby, a delivery van backfired twice.

“I have a strong feeling I ought to make a speech,” Jamie said as the depot came into view. “People usually make speeches of some sort, in circumstances like these. I read a whole book of them once …” His stomach rumbled queasily, as always before a journey. “Don't tell me about it,” Isobel said. “And please, whatever you do, don't make another speech. You've been making speeches all the time I've known you. Let's just be quiet, okay?” Jamie felt momentarily wounded. “It's
my
party,” he said offendedly, “and I'll orate if I want to.” But he could think of nothing to make a speech about.

In the depot, he bought a magazine of bad news, a paperback copy of
Eat Your Way to Mental Health,
a chocolate bar, a pocket comb and, for Isobel, a plastic postcard with a three-dimensional portrait of St. Veronica, who wept when tilted. They went into the Instant Photograph booth and took four pictures of themselves in attitudes of feigned lightheartedness. Then, needing to collect his thoughts, Jamie had his shoes shined; it was a curious sensation, almost erotic, and his thoughts steadfastly resisted collection. Isobel drank a cup of machine-made onion soup. Travellers swirled and staggered around her, toting their chattels. “It's almost like an evacuation,” she said when Jamie returned. “That's what it is,” he said. His eyes wandered over to a sign above an imposing item of space-age technology:
Record your own voice,
the sign invited.
Thrill a loved one with a personal message.
What the hell, he thought, I can't pass up a chance like this.

It took him a while to decipher the complexities of the machine. “Testing, testing,” he mumbled; lights in several colours blinked approvingly. “Dear Isobel,” he began conventionally. “How are you? I am fine. It seems I get to make a speech after all, but you can turn it off any time you please, starting now. You couldn't do
that
before. Amazing stuff, electronics, don't you think?” He paused; this wasn't coming as easily as he'd hoped. “Um, my brains are a bit scrambled at the moment, you'll have to forgive me. It has something to do with leaving—with, you know, Lonesome Town and all that. Actually going there. I'm sure there's something I haven't said to you yet, something important that will change your life, like maybe ‘Thank you' or ‘You're lovely' or ‘I'll miss you.' Something gauche and sentimental like that. Why shouldn't I indulge myself in a minute or two of recorded tenderness? I'm confused about everything: what I did wrong, why I did it, why I can't think of anything in particular I did
right.
What piece of information was it everyone else in the world had, from the beginning, and I didn't have? Was I born blind, or did I just make myself crazy, somewhere along the trail? It doesn't matter, you can't talk to a recording. Hello, hello. I know you'll do splendid things without me. Our dreams, yours and mine, were never all that shit-hot anyway. The elemental passions went awry, got compounded. We thought we were free people, we sang and celebrated freedom, it was a point of honour with us. Then one day we weren't free any more. What can I leave you with?” Jamie didn't notice that the machine had stopped operating. “A few second-hand platitudes, a few shadows of thought. Isobel? Struggle against authoritarianism in all its guises. Keep the faith, if such there be. Have a good dinner at least once a day. Bathe after intercourse. Strongly resist the inroads of bourgeois formalism, in theory and praxis. I'm going to have to shut up now. Love, and do what you will.”

Isobel thumped his shoulder: “Your bus is ready.” Jamie gave her the recording, which had broken off in the middle of “shit-hot.” He picked up his suitcase, and they hurried to the loading platform; the bus for Lonesome Town looked decrepit, unroadworthy. “Well,” he said, “this is it.” People in the vicinity were hugging, shaking hands resignedly, crying, arguing. “Yes,” Isobel said, “I guess this must be it. Did you remember to take along a mickey?” “Two of them,” Jamie said, patting his jacket pocket. “That was prudent of you,” Isobel said. “I wish …” The bus driver kicked a tire impatiently: “You folks gonna stand there all day?” Jamie handed him the ticket, hauled himself up to the first step, and turned; Isobel blew him a kiss. “Goodbye,” she called. Her voice came within a decibel of squeaking.

“Yeah, goodbye,” Jamie said.

1. 40 MOTELS 40

2. LOTSA EATS!

3. SEE THE FABULOUS HAUNTED HOUSE

4. ROTARY KIWANIS LIONS ELKS MOOSE

5. ODD FELLOWS

6. DINE & DANCE IN THE SKY!

7. WORSHIP AT THE CHURCH OF YOUR CHOICE

8. HAS ANYBODY SEEN THIS CHILD?

9. TURN RIGHT FOR THE CHAMBER OF HORRORS

10. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now nearing the Lonesome Town terminal. Please remain seated until the bus has come to a full stop. Thank you. We hope you have enjoyed …”

The sign on the door proclaims
Vacancy;
the façade above is an extravagance of gargoyles, cast-iron pillars in a riot of modes, Gothic fenestration, vaguely Italianate mouldings. The brickwork has aged to a sepulchral grey-black. There's no welcoming marquee, no flashing neon to identify the place, but Jamie knows what it is: he's seen it in dreams, brooding, looming up out of a bleaker landscape even than this. He hesitates outside, weighing alternatives; there are few enough of them. After all, it's raining, and there
is
a room available inside (presumably), and …
But.
He has the uneasy feeling that the hotel has teeth, hidden somewhere in its darker reaches, and that if he enters, gives himself over to its dubious mercies, the building will swallow and digest him; he'll never come out again. Except, perhaps, as sewage. He peers through the glass door, which is almost opaque with soot and dust and scratched graffiti; in the lobby, elderly men doze in vinyl armchairs, a lone potted palm droops in a corner, an antique television set flickers blankly. One wall flaunts a lurid, intimidating mural, on black velvet, of what seems to be a storm at sea. Aircraft are falling out of the sky, into appalling waves. Jamie, cold and wet, makes an entirely arbitrary decision: he may as well risk the teeth.

The desk clerk puts down his copy of
Miscellaneous Sexual Practices
and surveys the new arrival sullenly, performing economic calculations. “You want a room.” It's a statement, almost a threat: you'd
better
want a room. “That's right,” Jamie says meekly; his coat drips loudly on the linoleum. Money crosses the counter in both directions. “Number Seven, up the stairs, to your left,” the clerk growls. “You go for girls or boys?”
Hmmm, this could be interesting, maybe
… “Whatever I can get,” Jamie admits. The clerk occupies himself, for an uncomfortably long time, with a cigar. “Well, good luck,” he says finally, waving Jamie away. Across the lobby, one of the old men sneezes explosively.

Good luck.
The corridor upstairs is long, tunnel-like, awkwardly lit by unshaded bulbs. There's a deserted TV lounge at one end, a greenish plaster-of-Paris sculpture (two barely post-pubescent nymphs striking faintly suggestive poses) at the other. Number Seven is roughly midway between; the door is open; a plump young woman is sitting on the bed, weeping. When she catches sight of Jamie, who's lurking at a discreet distance, she makes an effort—not altogether effective—to dry her eyes.

“Don't tell me, I know already,” she says. “I'm in the wrong room. Every room is the wrong room, in this place. And it was going to be such a lovely vacation, too. I saved up for months, did without things I wanted, never let a man lay a finger on me. All for
this.
Look at it. Just look. Isn't it … marvellous? Boy, they sure don't tell you what's what, in this town. You hear the stories, you believe every bloody word, no one ever tells you different, and it's all a load of horse manure, pardon my language. I hate Lonesome Town, I
hate
it.” Her voice is rapidly becoming operatic.

“Well, now,” Jamie says nervously, “maybe it's only the weather, or something. You know, everything always looks kind of … murky … in the rain. Life is quite a different kettle of fish, in the rain.” He puts his suitcase on the floor, and squats on it, looking philosophical.