Drug of Choice

The world began to race for him, to pick up speed and momentum, until it was rushing like a train out of control, an airplane crashing to earth, whining and whistling in the wind, with the ground rushing up.

And then his head exploded, and he saw white pure light for several blinding instants.

And then nothing.

PART II: Eden

“If an urn lacks the characteristics of an urn, how can we call it an urn?”

Saying of Confucius

10. A FEELING OF POWER

He opened his eyes. It was dark. Through the open window, he could see the moon, hazy through the smog. He coughed and looked around him. He was lying on a couch, alone in the room. He sat up slowly. Someone had put a blanket over him; it fell away and he felt the cool night air.

He stood, expecting to feel shaky. But he was calm; in fact, he felt good. He had a sensation of being fully awake, alert and calm.

A very peculiar feeling: there was a kind of intensity to it that was almost disturbing. He looked around the room once more. It was unfamiliar in the night, a strange and bizarre room.

He caught himself.

He was back in his own apartment.

“That’s funny,” he said.

His own apartment. He went from the living room to the bedroom, still not quite believing. The bedroom was empty, the bed neatly made. Which could only mean…

He looked down at the coffee table in the living room. The newspaper was there: Tuesday, October 10.

But he had taken Janice to dinner on the eighth. The night of the eighth. And that meant—

He rubbed his eyes. Two days? Was it possible? Had he really been here two days?

He wandered around the apartment, unable to understand. In the kitchen, there was an empty coffee cup, with a cigarette stubbed out in the saucer. There were traces of lipstick on the cigarette.

Beside the saucer was a photograph, torn out from the newspaper. It showed Sharon Wilder sitting on a suitcase, miniskirt high to show long smooth legs. She was smiling, sitting very straight, breasts thrown forward to the photographers. The caption read: “Sharon Wilder To Resort.” Resort to what? he wondered, squinting to read the fine print in the darkness. It said that Sharon Wilder, Hollywood starlet, was leaving for the new resort of San Cristobal.

By the front door he found the rest of his mail, unopened. Included in the stack was a telegram, which he tore open. It was from the Aero Travel Agency:

WHERE ARE YOU? AIRLINES AND HOTEL CANCELLED RESERVATIONS BECAUSE OF FAILURE TO PAY DEPOSIT. CALL IMMEDIATELY.

RON

“Hell,” he said, staring at the telegram. That was annoying. What was he going to do now?

Drive. Perhaps he would drive south. It would be good, to make the trip by car…

The telephone rang. He looked at his watch, wondering at the time, but his watch was stopped.

“Hell.”

He picked up the phone.

“Dr. Clark.”

“Roger?” A female voice. “This is Sharon.”

“Sharon? I thought you were gone.”

“No, silly. I was about to leave, but the flight was canceled. Mechanical difficulties. I won’t leave until tomorrow morning.”

“Oh. What time is it?”

“One fifteen. Did I wake you?”

“No.”

“Good. Are you all right, Roger?”

“Yes.”

“You sound a little groggy.”

“I’m fine,” he said. He didn’t feel groggy. He didn’t feel the least bit groggy. He felt clear-headed and fine, very fine.

“Roger?”

“Yes.”

“There was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“About the trip.”

She paused. He waited. “I’m alone,” she said. “As it turns out”

“Oh.”

“And I have two tickets. They were given to me.”

“Oh.”

“And it seems a shame to waste one.

“Yes, it does.”

There was a moment of silence. “Roger, are you all right?”

“What time?” he said.

“Nine-fifteen.”

“All right,” he said.

“Check in an hour before flight.”

“An hour before.”

“And pack light clothes.”

“Fine,” he said.

“You’re a love,” she said. “Good night.” He heard a smacking sound as she kissed the phone, and he hung up, feeling a strange sense of power.

11. OLIVE OR TWIST?

He had to knock on the door for several minutes before anyone answered. And then it was Jerry, pulling the bathrobe around his waist, looking tired and cross.

“Jerry, I have to talk to you.”

Jerry Barnes blinked in the light of the hallway. “Rog? Is that you?”

“Yes,” Clark said. “Listen, I have to talk to you, it’s important.”

“Rog…” Jerry fumbled with the robe, pulling back one sleeve to look at his watch. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I know,” Clark said, walking into the apartment “I’ll barely have time to pack.”

“Pack?” Jerry was scratching his head, looking at him. “Pack what?”

Clark went into the living room, sat down, and turned on a light. Jerry winced.

“Jerry,” he said, “you’re a stockbroker, and I need—”

“I’m a stockbroker,” Jerry said, “from nine to five. Less, if I can help it. At three in the morning I’m—”

“Jerry,” called a sleepy voice from the bedroom. “Is something wrong?”