Bugs Read online

  Trashi said: ‘Boyd, watch your mouth.’

  Pseudo-Burroughs coughed. ‘Jonah, I never knew you was ever a gal. Was you agenting then?’

  Jonah, who had gone back to listlessness, nodded. ‘I worked for Mark Windsor then. Everybody want the special?’

  Fred was unable to find the special on the menu; as he searched, he heard Jonah tell the waiter to bring eight specials.

  ‘Eight special, yes, Missa Bramble.’

  When the waiter bowed and departed, Jonah sighed. ‘Missa Bramble. I never know if his English is really that bad or if he’s trying some kind of insult. Fred, it’s really great to see you. What brings you to New York? Stopping by on your way somewhere, or can you stay a while?’

  Susan got her furious look, but said nothing. The waiter brought bowls of very clear soup. Fred dipped his ceramic spoon into it and came up with what looked like a human ear.

  ‘Well, Jonah, I thought you asked me to come over.’

  ‘I did? What would I do that for?’

  ‘“British novels are hot,” you said. You promised some kind of “big breakthrough”.’

  ‘I was mistaken,’ Jonah said calmly. He smiled and shook his head, mightily amused at his own little error. ‘And you came all this way on my say-so.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to talk to editors. Stir up interest in Doodlebug.’

  ‘I once met Larry McMurtry,’ said Pseudo-Burroughs, to no one. ‘He was a real nice fella.’

  Jonah sighed, scratched the site of a former breast, and started on his soup. After a moment, he said: ‘Well, we’ll have to see what we can do.’

  A giant brown cockroach, the size and colour of a small cigar, was crawling up the wall. It took its time, knowing it was in safe territory. Fred hoped Susan would not see it.

  She did see it, but she was not terrified. She was long past terror. A kind of numbness had taken over. By now, this hideous creature was about what she expected of the city.

  When they got back to Allan’s flat, they had a fight about it. It began with Susan’s suggesting they go home.

  ‘Jonah lied to you or something. There’s nothing for us here. There isn’t even a public loo in the entire city. Or any place to sit down without paying money. Everyone wants to rob us or kill us.’

  ‘Tomorrow we’re going to this concert,’ he said. ‘Allan’s left us tickets. We’ll get in touch with the culture of this place, then you’ll see.’

  The concert, at least, was a qualified ‘success. They took a taxi up some major street, lined with huge glowing buildings. This was the condition to which all American cities aspired, he knew – glowing pyramids of wealth and power. The glow that somehow rubs off on anyone riding in a taxi. This time the ride was smooth; darkness hid all misery. The driver, who apparently spoke no English, was like a discreet chauffeur.

  ‘Do you know,’ Fred said, ‘when CBS fired an executive, they gave him four million dollars cash, plus four hundred thousand a year for life, and a suite of offices to use if he should ever feel like doing anything again? The offices could be in one of these buildings, I imagine.’

  ‘Obscene,’ she said.

  ‘But fascinating. That’s what New York is all about. No matter how miserable people are here, they’re near the high-stakes table in the big casino. They just might get a piece of the action.’

  ‘Pathetic.’ Her one-word replies somehow sized up everything he was saying and disposed of it.

  ‘I know, I know, but don’t you kind of feel it yourself? We might make it big in the Big Apple. Like the song says, if we can make it here …’

  She yawned, not even bothering with the one word.

  The concert was something called ‘Inner Spaces IV’. It combined Ruritanian flutes, synthesizers, dinner-gongs from the Raj days of India, an Andean nose-harp with wool strings, turkey bones, a bull-roarer, wind chimes, and recordings of wood-pigeons. Fred thought it sounded like the music in lifts. Susan liked it, because it helped her unwind.

  ‘They really need soothing music in their heads,’ she said. ‘They need something. This town –’

  ‘Just give it a few more days. We can try all the things the New Yorkers do: the Metropolitan Museum, Bloomingdale’s, the subway – hey, we could take the A train!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. The song says it goes to Harlem, remember?’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  The taxi-driver muttered something in an alien language.

  ‘Give it a chance,’ Fred said. ‘We’ll go to Bloomingdale’s.’

  Chapter Six

  Pratt had opened his office door again, and invited people in. It was there he said to Fred: ‘I’ve been thinking about feet.’

  ‘Feet.’

  ‘Feet or foot. Think of all the ways we use that word. The foot of the table, foot of the page, footnotes. Foothills. One foot in the grave. Put your best foot forward.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got a quote here from something: “The longest journey begins with a single two-step.”’ Pratt paused. ‘Foot and mouth. The game’s afoot. Footsteps in the sands of time.’

  ‘Fear in a handful of dust,’ Fred contributed.

  ‘That’s not a foot. Try to concentrate.’ Pratt looked annoyed. ‘Think of foot soldiers. Think of marching, walking, running, jumping, skipping, dancing. Climbing mountains, wading in oceans. They have pierced my hands and feet, they have numbered all my bones.’

  ‘Pierced?’

  ‘Another quote from somewhere, maybe the Bible. One step at a time. People use their feet when they go stepping out. Or skip out on their bills. The Lord makes mine enemy the footstool of my feet. And Robinson Crusoe, finding that footprint in the sands of time. Maybe that’s it!’

  ‘What?’

  But Pratt swivelled round to his terminal and began typing rapidly with his long gecko fingers. He ignored Fred and seemed to forget his existence.

  After a few moments, Fred crept back to his own desk. He opened a book, but did not focus on its pages. His thoughts sailed from Pratt’s word-games to word-play in general, to Freud and Joyce, to Bloomsday and beyond.

  The visit to Bloomingdale’s was cut short by a bomb scare. Fred and Susan had hardly entered those dark halls with their expensive gleams when they were herded out of the door again. They stood outside for a moment, watching the rest of the herd emerge. There was a great deal of loud protest; these were not people who were used to being pushed about. These were men and women in silk suits and gold chains, dowagers in trousers and neck-scarves, rich young people with their hair carefully mussed and their sleeves pushed up, even a small clamouring group of Arabs (no doubt the bomb target) who swept into their limousine and sped away.

  ‘How about a subway ride, then?’ Fred suggested, by way of rescuing the day.

  It seemed a mistake from the moment they descended the urine-smelling stairs to behold a mad woman screaming and cursing in front of the token-booth.

  ‘You fuck, you fuck, you fuck! Sit there in your bulletproof booth – I wish they’d drop the fuckin’ bomb right on you – you hear me?’

  The middle-aged man or woman in the booth went on counting coins carefully. The screaming lunatic paused while Fred bought two tokens, then renewed the attack: ‘I wish they’d drop it right on your …’

  Fred and Susan descended to a platform that was long and very dark. All the people waited in one small pool of light, huddled together against the unknown.

  When the train came, it was covered with spray-painted graffiti – the exterior, the doors, the walls and ceilings, the windows inside and out, the signs and maps, the seats and floors. These were not love-notes, dirty words or gang announcements. These were alien inhuman markings, the work of the insect heads from Aldebaran. For the first time, Fred and Susan realized there was a great inhuman force at large in this city.

  When the passengers were trapped aboard, a legless man made his way through the car, forcing money from them by the sheer power of his ugly scowl.
/>   Above them, a sign advertised something called a Cockroach Motel. Another sign, in Spanish, depicted thousands of cockroaches bred from one fertile pair.

  ‘No wonder nobody rides the subway unless they have to,’ said Susan.

  ‘Right. No more subway. Tomorrow we take the bus to the Metropolitan Museum.’

  ‘Just tell me what I am doing in this fucking place,’ she said.

  Waiting for the bus, a short distance from the Metropolitan Museum, they were mugged. A tall black man quietly took hold of Susan’s elbow and pressed a knife against her throat. He kept his thumb over the blade so the gesture looked like a caress. Another man held Fred’s elbow and said: ‘Just move real easy and natural and pass me your billfold.’ When he had done so, the man said: ‘OK. Now, real natural, open the lady’s purse and pass me her billfold.’

  A bus rolled up. When the bus-driver saw that a robbery was in progress, he hurriedly closed the door and drove off.

  Susan commented on this later that night, as she packed.

  ‘I’m doing just what that bus-driver had the sense to do – clearing out. There are no humans left in this town, only insects. The humans left long ago.’

  ‘I know, I know. All the same, you can’t just walk out on me.

  ‘I can and do,’ she said. ‘This city is a cesspit. No wonder the cockroaches feel at home. You can stay here in the cockroach motel as long as you like. Check in and don’t bother checking out.’

  ‘But give it a chance –’

  ‘I gave it a chance. I let you convince me we’d see Gene Kelly dancing in the streets or something.’

  ‘That’s Paris,’ he murmured.

  ‘All right, then, Robert De Niro and Liza Minnelli riding on a milk-float in the wee small hours. Woody Allen and what’s-her-name, strolling in the mist. So I gave it my chance. I bloody gave it my chance.’ She threatened him with a sponge-bag. ‘Filth! Noise! Insanity! Violence! Hate! Heat! Fear! Disease! Crime! I bloody gave it my chance.’

  ‘But I –’

  Someone pounded on a wall.

  ‘Now it’s all yours. You take Manhattan. You go to all the cockroach parties. You wallow in the filth. Not me.’

  ‘I have to stay till Monday. Jonah’s fixed this lunch with an editor.’

  ‘For you. No reason for me to hang about. I’m off.’

  Even then, he had not despaired. Was this not America? New York, New York? Anything could happen. Doodlebug could become a film, a television mini-series, an audio cassette, a video cassette, a cartoon, an arcade game, comics, sets of plastic toys. All he had to do was fight the insect heads of Aldebaran … and … hang … on …

  Still hanging on in Minneapolis, he opened his jammed letter-box. A heap of mail to carry into his brown room and dump on the rickety card-table.

  But when he sorted through it he found no real mail at all. There was a sample of blueberry mouthwash and an offer of apartment liability insurance (‘Joe McGee had no idea his doorbell was dangerous, until it gave a visitor a fatal heart attack. The court awarded damages of THIRTY MILLION DOLLARS, and Joe was wiped out. The unknown can happen to anyone. Ask yourself if the risk is really worth taking …’). There was a letter from his Congressman, printed in blue. There were two envelopes marked URGENT, which turned out to be circulars from local hardware stores. He examined everything before chucking it, even:

  We salute you, Manfred E. Jones, YOU MAY

  ALREADY HAVE WON FIVE MILLION DOLLARS!

  Dear Manfred E. Jones,

  Americans are holding their breath for this one. Yes, FIVE MILLION DOLLARS has already been reserved for you!!!

  On the special order entry form are your LUCKY PRIZE NUMBERS. Detach the gold balloon sticker saying YES, I WANT TO WIN FIVE MILLION DOLLARS, affix it to your order entry form, and send it to me – Truman Buckstone. You don’t have to begin a subscription to the Cassette Encyclopedia of World Ethics to win. Your FIVE MILLION DOLLARS is waiting. Manfred E. Jones of Mpls, MN, replying to this letter could be the luckiest thing you ever did!

  But you must beat the deadline! Hurry! Don’t let the FIVE MILLION DOLLARS go to an alternative winner!!

  A fake cheque was enclosed. There was always something for nothing. Why was it, sitting here in his brown bedsitter with its noisy fridge, he found it hard to believe in winning?

  As if in reply, there was a knock at his door. A delivery man held out a pad. ‘Here’s your TV, bud. Sign here.’

  ‘I didn’t order a TV.’

  ‘Someone sure did. You Jones, apartment 8? All paid. Sign here.’

  Fred decided to hold it for the real owner. It was a Korean brand. He turned it on for the news.

  ‘We were talking about Doodygate, Jan, and how CIA cooks tried to poison the Shah of Ruritania. How did that happen? Wasn’t the Shah supposed to be on our side?’

  ‘That’s right, Bob. They were going to blame the assassination on extremists, in the hopes that this would allow moderates to come to power in Ruritania by holding democratic elections. Of course, as we all know, the reverse happened. While the moderates were still preparing their television campaign ads and slugging it out in the primaries, Ayatollah Fafnir seized power.’

  ‘What about this CIA plot?’

  ‘Well, Bob, the plot went wrong. Frendso Gately was given the money to buy poison, but he turned up in Zurich, opening a series of numbered accounts. He now claims that he was there only for health reasons, that he needed treatment for Ibsen’s Syndrome. Ibsen’s Syndrome is a rare allergic reaction to one’s own hair follicles. But we’ve already heard otherwise from Ms Pasadena Lipgloss, who went with him to Zurich. She says he had meetings there with several representatives of the French Anti-Deodorant League.

  ‘In any case, several groups knew that Gately often carried suitcases full of money, she testified. And it may be that the Ismail group were after this money, and only snatched Doody by mistake.’

  Another channel told him that: ‘A police spokesperson said the assailant may be the same man who shot up other Little Dorrit restaurants in Cleveland, Canton and Columbus. This is Adriana Kaseburger, YBC News, Cincinnati, Ohio.’

  Fred turned off the inane faces. It was time to drag out his portable typewriter. He set it up on the rickety card-table and rolled in a sheet of paper, and typed ‘THE ROBOT’.

  No, he needed to clean the typewriter. He removed the paper, brushed and polished the typeface, changed the ribbon and sat down again. A new piece of paper. ‘THE ROBOT.’

  No, what he needed was stamps. At the post office, the queue was long. Fred had plenty of time to study the WANTED posters for Earl Jay Beepette, Floyd Earl Brown, Earl Francis Stickner, Eugene Earl Austin, Earl Henry Smith, Foster Earl Sumps, Francis Earl White, Earl Leonard Brown, Earl Floyd Porde, Clyde Earl Gates, Earl Eugene Grent, Jay Earl Hicks, Earl Howard Jones, Jordman Earl Doddle, Leonard Earl Ray, Earl Jordman Forrest, Lloyd Earl Grey, Earl Dean Mitty, Jupper Earl Gonet, Earl Lloyd Perrier, Dean Earl Toadwink, Frankly Earl Rayette and Earl Clyde Wilson.

  Back to ‘THE ROBOT’. After sitting hunched over it for several minutes, he felt tired. No point in getting stressed out over this; you have to relax and go with the flow. Or so Californians say. But what do they ever write?

  He went over to the bed and lay down. The robot, the robot. He had been possessed for days by the image of a robot encased in ice. Now he saw it trundled out on a game show. Contestants who answered questions correctly (‘Name a state’, ‘Ten words beginning with B’) were given a turn with the ice-pick or the blowtorch … they have pierced my hands and feet, they have numbered all my digits …

  Chapter Seven

  On Tuesday, Fred arrived for work to find that his cubicle was gone. In fact all the cubicles and offices in the immediate area had been dismantled; their components were stacked against walls along a corridor he had never seen before. There were rows of desk- and table-tops, a heap of wall phones, stacked chairs, carts carrying terminals. There were smaller collections of bookshelv
es, files, extra chairs, and framed photos of children. Fred spotted the name-plate MELVILLE PRATT in a deck of name-plates. He saw his own desk drawer standing in a row of similar drawers. It was immediately recognizable by the books sticking up in plain sight: The Dumb Child’s Computer Dictionary and Talk Good Software. He wanted to cover them up, but too many people were passing.

  He went downstairs to the project lab. The robot was currently a jumble of electronic components, a lot of wires and a console. Jerry Boz was fiddling with an oscilloscope.

  ‘We need some input,’ he said. ‘Can you type in some garbage for us?’

  ‘Garbage?’

  ‘I want to see what kind of input makes M flip out. Just type anything.’

  Fred sat down and typed:

  ROBOT DREAMS OF WORLD CONQUEST: Today I found a robot in a cavern of ice and thawed it with an electric blanket. The robot wakened and sat up. Gunpowder ran out the heels of its boots. It introduced itself as Robot M, and explained its plan for conquering the world. ‘The human race is deficient and defective and debilitated and degenerate,’ it said. ‘Time for a new start. Melville was a Pratt. I am a tin god, which is a pretty fine thing to find yourself capable of being. Since the entire human species is too busy watching television game shows, or listening to simplified music, or reading comicbook magazines, I shall inherit the earth merely by being ready to do something useful.’

  As he paused for thought, the screen added:

  TIME FOR A NEW START … TIN GOD … CAPABLE OF BEING … CAPABLE OF INHERITING … CAPABLE OF CONQUERING …. CAPABLE OF WATCHING … CAPABLE OF LISTENING … CAPABLE OF DOING …

  Startled, Fred jumped back from the keyboard.

  ‘It’s talking back!’

  ‘Naw, not really.’ Jerry scratched at his fringe of woolly red hair. ‘See, it’s just like a reflex action, just a response to your input. Not real talk.’

  ‘But look at it!’