Harsh Oases Page 7

Irrationally, I suddenly wished that I could have been born during a simpler time. I knew that life was supposed to be so much better nowadays, with all these shots to protect us from Bad Beliefs. But on the other hand, it was these same shots that had made the Bad Beliefs assume these potent and visible forms. Until they were expelled en masse from the human mind, Bad Beliefs had been strictly internal, invisible, a private matter. They had spread invisibly too, unlike this assault today on my house. But once they had been banished from their ancient lodgings in the human skull—banished, not exterminated, for that seemed impossible—they were free to roam at will.

  And today I seemed to be the sole object of their attention.

  I was feeling like one of those besieged humans in an old zombie movie when from behind me came a scuffling noise and a human grunting that made me jump almost out of my skin.

  I whirled around, heart pounding like a lawnmower piston.

  Coming out of the fireplace was—Santa Claus.

  “Santa,” I said. “Santa, I haven’t thought of you since I was four years old.”

  Santa brushed the soot off his outfit. “I’m surprised you held on to me that long, son. Old Santa’s a Bad Belief nowadays. Santa Is Real is something you just can’t say anymore.”

  “Santa? A Bad Belief?”

  “Sure. They say I cause too much heartbreak when it’s revealed I’m imaginary. But I ask you, do I look imaginary to you?”

  “Oh, no, Santa. I still remember when I sat on your lap at the mall .…”

  Santa advanced on me. I let him put his arm around my shoulder. He smelled like plum pudding.

  “Well then, you’ll trust old Santa when he says that you should go outside and meet all your new friends. They’ll help you get on with your life, Jimmy. You’ve been stagnating.”

  Was it true, what Santa was saying? I knew I didn’t particularly like my job, or have any lovers or friends or interests or passions. But “stagnating” was an awfully harsh word .…

  “Gee, Santa, I don’t know—”

  Suddenly, the sirens I had heard grew louder, and Santa said, “You don’t want DOM to get you, Jimmy. Haven’t you heard what they do to people who skip their shots? They implant a permanent antimeme pump in you. It’s set for such a high dose of drugs that you’ll have trouble holding on to a It’s Time To Tie Your Shoe meme. You’ll end up a ward of the state, living in a meme-free rest home. No, your only hope now is to flee to the ghetto, where DOM has no power.”

  The sirens sounded about a block away, and I knew I didn’t have any more time to hesitate. I had to make up my mind, and fast. Should I wait for DOM and take my medicine, or throw my lot in with the Bad Beliefs?

  Images of the sanctimonious doctor and the priggish nurse floated up before me. Then I looked straight into Santa’s twinkly blue eyes.

  It was no contest.

  I don’t even remember opening the door and fleeing my house. But somehow I was standing out on the lawn, surrounded by the Bad Beliefs.

  “Quick, let’s go!” I yelled to no one in particular. “DOM will be here any minute!”

  Santa came up alongside me. “No they won’t, Jimmy. Nobody’s even called them yet”

  “But the sirens—”

  Santa ho-ho-hoed. “That was just Paranoia Is The Real Story, Jimmy.”

  A skinny dude with the nervous look of a speed-freak stepped forward. He pursed his lips and out came a perfect siren noise.

  “You—you tricked me!”

  “It was for your own good, Jimmy, believe me,” said Santa just before he vanished.

  “Santa, come back!”

  Another of the Bad Beliefs grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around. I found myself facing a big burly male figure wearing the head of a German Shepherd.

  “It’s A Dog Eat Dog World out there, kid. Ain’t no one gonna help you but yourself. If I was you, I’d get my ass on the road. You’re not gonna be safe until you get outta DOM’s reach.”

  Dog Eat Dog was right. There was only one place for me to go, and that was the ghetto.

  I jogged toward my car, the Bad Beliefs capering after me, whooping and hollering with delight. Their shapes were enticing and glamorous, and I had to fight to keep my focus.

  My hand shot out to the handle of the driver’s door, but one of the Bad Beliefs beat me to it.

  “I’ll fuckin’ take the wheel,” slurred Dmnk Driving Is Safe. His shirt was covered with vomit stains, and a haze of alcohol fumes hovered around his head.

  “Oh, no—” I began, but other Bad Beliefs interrupted me.

  “Don’t worry,” said You Can Trust Me, a beautiful young girl. “We always let him drive.”

  “There’s never been an accident we couldn’t walk away from,” said You’ll Never Die, a precocious ten-year-old.

  “You don’t want to hurt his feelings,” said You’ll Lose All Your Friends, a weenie of a teenager.

  “Well, if you all think it’s okay .…”

  “We do, we do!” they shouted, and hustled me into the back seat.

  Drunk Driving slammed the car into reverse and peeled out, clipping my lamppost and dragging it halfway down the block before unhooking it when he climbed the curb and ran over an ornamental calf-high cast-iron fence.

  “Does he know how to get there?” I asked with some trepidation.

  Improbably, there seemed to be dozens of Bad Beliefs crammed into the car with me. What’s more, they seemed to be continually changing, new ones replacing the old. Right now a bluff, hearty salesman type of Bad Belief was sitting beside me.

  “Know where he’s going?” demanded Bluster Will Clinch The Sale. “He drew the map! Don’t you worry, Jimmy. We’ll get you to safety all right.”

  “We might have to make a few stops first, though,” said Short Attention Spans Are Postmodern.

  “Stops? For what?”

  “I need some more booze, for one thing!” said Drunk Driving, turning completely around. The car veered into the oncoming traffic, forcing several vehicles off the road, and I closed my eyes. Now I heard sirens again.

  “Is that Paranoia?”

  “No,” said Indecision Is Charming. “I mean, yes.”

  Bluster had vanished. In his place was a scary-looking black man with a goatee.

  “Fuck tha po-leece!” he said.

  Having regained our own lane, Drunk Driving floored the accelerator and I was pressed back into the seat.

  All the Bad Beliefs were cheering and screaming with glee. We took a curve, and I was pressed into the seemingly solid flesh of a girl beside me, who had replaced Fuck Tha Police. I looked at her, and was shocked to see the form of my thirteen-year-old sister, who was really now thirty-five and living a thousand miles from here.

  My sister giggled and said, “Oh, Jimmy, let’s make out.” She began to unbutton her shirt.

  I scuttled away until the door handle was digging into my back. “Who—who are you?”

  “I’m Incest Is Harmless. Let’s screw.”

  Incest had her shirt off, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her juvenile breasts. I have no idea what I would have done if I hadn’t been interrupted. But luckily for me, at that moment Drunk Driving jumped another curb and slammed on the brakes. Even so, he still crunched into the side of a parked car.

  In a daze, I asked, “Where are we? Are we at the ghetto?”

  “Are you fuckin’ blind?” said Don’t Tolerate Fools. “Its a packy. We need booze.”

  All the Bad Beliefs tumbled out, hustling me with them, and we blew into the package store like a hurricane of malevolent spirits.

  Drunk Driving began to grab bottles off the shelves, stuffing them in his pockets and down his pants. The rest of the Bad Beliefs did likewise. The startled owner came out from behind the counter, while the cashier picked up the phone and punched out 911.

  “What the hell is going on here—?” demanded the owner.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere materialized a new Bad Belief. He resembled a Hell’s An
gel, all fat-overlaid muscles, greasy leather and tattoos. And he was carrying a sawed-off shotgun.

  The owner froze and all the color drained from his face.

  “Property is theft,” sneered Property Is Theft.

  Then he pumped both barrels into the refrigerator case, spraying glass and liquor everywhere.

  The owner dived back behind the counter and the cashier hit the floor. Property Is Theft laughed. “You’re damn lucky Life Is Worthless was busy fuckin’ over Africa!”

  We were back outside. I heard sirens again. This time it was really the cops, three cruisers in fact.

  Fuck Tha Police materialized, along with a dozen other Uzi-toting black men.

  “I brung tha boyz from tha hood,” he said. “We’ll cover while you make a break for it.”

  We piled in the car. I found myself lying on the floor in back. Then we were screeching away, the sound of automatic weapons fire competing with our smoking tires.

  I dared to get up off the floor. Somebody stuck a quart bottle in my hand, and I unscrewed the top and drank, heedless of what was in it.

  When I was done spluttering, I asked quietly, “Can we go straight to the ghetto now?”

  “Sure,” said Promise Them Anything, who looked just like a famous politician.

  We picked up the freeway heading toward the city. Weaving from lane to lane, Drunk Driving passed the other cars as if they were motionless. He didn’t let up on the horn, and the blaring noise assumed the sound of the Last Trump. I closed my eyes when the speedometer cracked one hundred. A familiar figure began tossing empties out the window.

  Someone Else Will Pick Up My Litter. I remembered when he had seemed like a big problem, and a hysterical laugh that was more like a sob escaped my lips.

  “Take this exit!” a new, fanatical voice shouted.

  Deceleration crumpled me into the upholstery. I opened my eyes and saw a new figure next to me. Half his face was bearded, half cleanshaven. Half a turban and half a cowboy hat sat on his head, half a string tie and half a set of prayer beads hung around his neck. Something about him immediately convinced me that he was one of the most dangerous Bad Beliefs.

  “We must stop to smite the infidels!” said the mullah-preacher.

  “You’re, you’re—” I began.

  “God Is On Our Side!” he screamed.

  “Right,” I sighed.

  Not far from the foot of the exit ramp was a gas station. We pulled in and filled several of the empties with gasoline, then corked them with some of the windshield-cleaning rags. Then we went looking for churches.

  Luckily it was a weekday, and most churches these days remained empty anyway, tainted with Bad Belief connotations. We torched a synagogue, a mosque, a storefront mission and an RC church—God Is On Our Side was strictly nondenominational—leaving plumes of smoke and leaping flames and screaming sirens in our wake.

  As we screeched down the city streets, taking turns seemingly at random, I wondered if I would ever live to see the safety of the ghetto. Had I been right to trust Santa, what seemed like an eternity ago? Was this escapade really going to lead to my personal growth? Would the Bad Beliefs lead me through hell and out the other side, or just leave me stranded mid-inferno?

  In any case, it could not be said that I was continuing to stagnate.

  We took one final spine-snapping curve and the walls of the ghetto loomed up. The street terminated in a massive gate. And in front of the gate was a six-story-high dragon.

  All the Bad Beliefs shrieked in terror, and Drunk Driving stood on the brakes.

  “Who—what—is that?”

  One of the Bad Beliefs said in a whisper, “That’s Failure Is Inevitable.”

  The dragon leered and breathed forth a jet of steam. Each of Failure’s scales was big as a manhole cover.

  A small voice piped up. “We can do it. Just try.”

  It was Hope Springs Eternal, looking just like Tinkerbelle.

  Drunk Driving took a stiff belt from his pint. “Who the fuck wants to live forever anyhow?”

  He peeled out.

  We made it within fifty yards of the gate. Then Failure raised a paw big as a tugboat and slammed our car.

  We tumbled over and over before we came to a stop, upside down on our roof. The Bad Beliefs had cushioned me from serious harm, and we spilled out the windows, rumpled and bruised.

  Failure had lowered its head to our level and glared at us with gemstone eyes the size of cathedral windows. It opened its mouth, revealing fangs and a split tongue. Its breath smelled swampy.

  Winged Hope was hovering right by me.

  “Never fear, don’t worry, there’s always a way, just give it one more shot, don’t hold back, pick yourself up off the ground—”

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. I grabbed the sprite, crushing her wings, and threw her into Failure’s mouth, which instinctively clamped shut.

  There was a brilliant flash of light, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

  When I opened them, Failure was gone. Hope Springs Eternal and Failure Is Inevitable had cancelled each other out of existence.

  The remaining Bad Beliefs let out a lusty cheer. Lifting me to their shoulders, they dashed for the gate, which was swinging open.

  Then we were inside, and I was standing. The gates closed behind me.

  The Bad Beliefs all shook my hand and dispersed, home at last. I found myself alone, except for two women.

  One of them seemed human enough. She was gazing shyly at the ground, so I couldn’t really see her face, but she seemed rather pretty, like the nurse at the DOM clinic.

  The other figure was definitely a Bad Belief. She looked kind of like a combination of Guinevere, Venus and Mae West. Alluring as she was, I knew at once that she was even more dangerous than God Is On Our Side.

  “And you are—?” I said.

  The Bad Belief smiled. “I’m Romantic Love Solves Everything. And this is your bride.”

  And you know what?

  I believed her.

  As a Boomer whose formative years occurred during a Captain Kangaroo era of enforced “innocence” over the airwaves, I still during moment of retrogressive forgetfulness retain the capacity to be shocked at hearing, say, Homer Simpson utter the words “pissed off” or “ass” and not get bleeped. Never mind the degenerate filth sent over the cable stations! Shocking! (I don’t actually subscribe to a cable service, but I am sure I would be absolutely appalled by a steady stream of curse words that every five-year-old today knows, and the lovely bare bottoms of actresses.)

  Yes, the past is a different country.

  But what if the past were to experience immigration from its future?

  LEAKAGE

  I was in the kitchen, fixing supper. the TV was on in the other room, but I wasn’t really paying attention to it. You know how that is. But then I heard the unmistakeable voice of Lucille Ball saying, in a tone of mixed hysteria and anger, “Ricky, I want an abortion.”

  Putting down the potato peeler very carefully, I went into the other room.

  There on the set was the familiar Ricardo living room, in perfect, immutable, timeless black and white. The sofa, the fireplace, the mantlepiece, the doors to the bedroom, kitchen and hall, the Populuxe ’Fifties décor .… It was all as I had seen it a hundred times—a thousand times—before, since that very first episode glimpsed on the verge of being sent late to bed, when I was a kid. Everything about the set stamped it as the original, no re-creation. Of that I was sure.

  And Lucy and Ricky were—well, Lucy and Ricky. These were no second-rate imposters, no off-Broadway mimics or Saturday Night Live comedians. They were the original two actors, forever youthful in their celluloid stasis.

  Everything, in short, was as it should have been.

  Except for the script.

  Now Lucy was crying in that famous way of hers, only it wasn’t funny. She was blubbering something about having cheated on Ricky, to get back at him for not letting her perform her stripper’s act at th
e club. The baby she was carrying—Little Ricky, of course—wasn’t his, and she wanted it destroyed.

  Big Ricky did not react well to this news. He began to pace around the couch, letting loose with a flood of that inimitable goofy Cuban invective.

  “Puta! Bitch! I wish I had died fighting Castro than ever live to see esta dia!”

  Now Ricky took out several vials of crack and a pipe and began to smoke his brains out, while Lucy downed shot after shot out of a Chivas bottle.

  My wife had entered the room.

  “How’s supper coming?’’

  I couldn’t speak. All I could do was gesture dumbly at the television.

  Quickly grasping the improbable scene, my wife sat down beside me, transfixed.

  The next fifteen minutes of the show were excruciating, like all the worst arguments you ever had with your spouse rolled up into one ugly package. Lucy and Ricky got drunker and more stoned and abused each other horribly. It was only words at first, but then Ricky began to cuff Lucy around.

  “Tell me, who is the maricon who did this to you! Tell me so I can keel him!”

  Lucy held out as long as she could. But after a particularly savage blow, she blurted out, “Fred! It was Fred Mertz!”

  Of course, Fred and Ethel chose that exact moment to barge in unannounced.

  Some things about Hollywood plotting were inevitable.

  Dropping Lucy to the couch, Ricky jumped up and, drawing a stubby pistol from his waistband, shot Fred dead, spraying a screaming Ethel in blood and gore.

  Then the credits rolled up, jaunty theme music and all.

  My wife and I sat stunned for a moment. Then she spoke.

  “That was sick. Sick, sick, sick! Who would ever show such a thing?”

  “Good question. But what I want to know is how. How could they possibly have made a new episode, with all the actors old or dead?”

  “Well, find out which channel we’re watching first. Then we’ll call them.”

  I looked at the red digits on the cable box, then consulted the cable guide.

  It was the Zeiterion Channel. They specialized in the broadcasting of old sitcoms. Their spokesman was a loveable greying actor from one of the very same old shows which they featured.