Authors: Philip K. Dick
Spring flowers, he thought as he reached the elevator. Little ones; they probably grow close to the ground and a lot of people step on them. Do they grow wild? Or in special commercial vats or in huge enclosed farms? I wonder what the country is like. The fields and like that, the strange smells. And, he wondered, where do you find that? Where do you go and how do you get there and stay there? What kind of trip is that, and what kind of ticket does it take? And who do you buy the ticket from?
And, he thought, I would like to take someone with me when I go there, maybe Donna. But how do you ask that, ask a chick that, when you don’t even know how to get next to her? When you’ve been scheming on her and achieving nothing—not even step one. We should hurry, he thought, because later on all the spring flowers like they told me about will be dead.
On his way over to Bob Arctor’s house, where a bunch of heads could usually be found for a mellow turned-on time, Charles Freck worked out a gag to put ol’ Barris on, to pay him back for the spleen jive at the Fiddler’s Three restaurant that day. In his head, as he skillfully avoided the radar traps that the police kept everywhere (the police radar vans checking out drivers usually took the disguise of old raunchy VW vans, painted dull brown, driven by bearded freaks; when he saw such vans he slowed), he ran a preview fantasy number of his put-on:
FRECK:
(Casually)
I bought a methedrine plant today.
BARRIS:
(With a snotty expression on his face)
Methedrine is a benny, like speed; it’s crank, it’s crystal, it’s amphetamine, it’s made synthetically in a lab. So it isn’t organic, like pot. There’s no such thing as a methedrine plant like there is a pot plant.
FRECK:
(Springing the punch line on him)
I mean I inherited forty thousand from an uncle and purchased a plant hidden in this dude’s garage where he makes methedrine. I
mean, he’s got a factory there where he manufactures meth. Plant in the sense of—
He couldn’t get it phrased exactly right as he drove, because part of his mind stayed on the vehicles around him and the lights; but he knew when he got to Bob’s house he’d lay it on Barris super good. And, especially if a bunch of people were there, Barris would rise to the bait and be visible to everyone flat-out as a clear and evident asshole. And that would super pay him back, because Barris worse than anybody else couldn’t stand to be made fun of.
When he pulled up he found Barris outdoors working on Bob Arctor’s car. The hood was up, and both Barris and Arctor stood together with a pile of car tools.
“Hey, man,” Freck said, slamming his door and sauntering casually over. “Barris,” he said right off in a cool way, putting his hand on Barris’s shoulder to attract his attention.
“Later,” Barris growled. He had his repair clothes on; grease and like that covered the already dirty fabric.
Freck said, “I bought a methedrine plant today.”
With an impatient scowl, Barris said, “How big?”
“What do you mean?”
“How big a plant?”
“Well,” Freck said, wondering how to go on.
“How much’d you pay for it?” Arctor said, also greasy from the car repair. They had the carb off, Freck saw, air filter, hoses, and all.
Freck said, “About ten bucks.”
“Jim could have gotten it for you cheaper,” Arctor said, resuming his labors. “Couldn’t you, Jim?”
“They’re practically giving meth plants away,” Barris said.
“This is a whole fucking garage!” Freck protested. “A factory! It turns out a million tabs a day—the pill-rolling machinery and everything.
Everything!”
“All that cost ten dollars?” Barris said, grinning widely.
“Where’s it located?” Arctor said.
“Not around here,” Freck said uneasily. “Hey, fuck it, you guys.”
Pausing in his work—Barris did a lot of pausing in his work, whether anyone was talking to him or not—Barris said, “You know, Freck, if you drop or shoot too much meth you start talking like Donald Duck.”
“So?” Freck said.
“Then nobody can understand you,” Barris said.
Arctor said, “What’d you say, Barris? I couldn’t understand you.”
His face dancing with merriment, Barris made his voice sound like Donald Duck’s. Freck and Arctor grinned and enjoyed it. Barris went on and on, gesturing finally at the carburetor.
“What about the carburetor?” Arctor said, not smiling now.
Barris, in his regular voice, but still grinning widely, said, “You’ve got a bent choke shaft. The whole carb should be rebuilt. Otherwise the choke’s going to shut on you while you’re driving along the freeway and then you’ll find your motor is flooded and dead and some asshole will rear-end you. And possibly in addition that raw gas washing down the cylinder walls—if it goes on long enough—will wash the lubrication away, so your cylinders will be scored and permanently damaged. And then you’ll need them rebored.”
“Why is the choke rod bent?” Arctor asked.
Shrugging, Barris resumed taking apart the carb, he did not answer. He left that up to Arctor and to Charles Freck, who knew nothing about engines, especially complex repairs like this.
Coming out of the house, Luckman, wearing a snazzy shirt and tight high-style Levi jeans, carrying a book and wearing shades, said, “I phoned and they’re checking to see what a rebuilt carb will set you back for this car. They’ll phone in a while, so I left the front door open.”
Barris said, “You could put a four-barrel on instead of this two, while you’re at it. But you’d have to put on a new manifold. We could pick up a used one for not very much.”
“It would idle too high,” Luckman said, “with like a Rochester four-barrel—is that what you mean? And it wouldn’t shift properly. It wouldn’t upshift.”
“The idling jets could be replaced with smaller jets,” Barris said, “that would compensate. And with a tach he could watch his rpms, so it didn’t over-rev. He’d know by the tach when it wasn’t upshifting. Usually just backing off on the gas pedal causes it to upshift if the automatic linkage to the transmission doesn’t do it. I know where we can get a tach, too. In fact, I have one.”
“Yeah,” Luckman said, “well, if he tromped down heavy on the step-down passing gear to get a lot of torque suddenly in an emergency on the freeway, it’d downshift and rev up so high it’d blow the head gasket or worse, a lot worse. Blow up the whole engine.”
Barris, patiently, said, “He’d see the tach needle jump and he’d back right off.”
“While passing?” Luckman said. “Halfway past a fucking big semi? Shit, he’d have to keep barreling on, high revs or not; he’d have to blow up the engine rather than back off, because if he backed off he’d never get around what he was trying to pass.”
“Momentum,” Barris said. “In a car this heavy, momentum would carry him on by even if he backed off.”
“What about uphill?” Luckman said. “Momentum doesn’t carry you very far uphill when you’re passing.”
To Arctor, Barris said, “What does this car …”He bent to see what make it was. “This …” His lips moved. “Olds.”
“It weighs about a thousand pounds,” Arctor said. Charles Freck saw him wink toward Luckman.
“You’re right, then,” Barris agreed. “There wouldn’t be much inertia mass at that light weight. Or would there?” He
groped for a pen and something to write on. “A thousand pounds traveling at eighty miles an hour builds up force equal to—”
“That’s a thousand pounds,” Arctor put in, “with the passengers in it and with a full tank of gas and a big carton of bricks in the trunk.”
“How many passengers?” Luckman said, deadpan.
“Twelve.”
“Is that six in back,” Luckman said, “and six in—”
“No,” Arctor said, “that’s eleven in back and the driver sitting alone in front. So, you see, so there will be more weight on the rear wheels for more traction. So it won’t fishtail.”
Barris glanced alertly up. “This car fishtails?”
“Unless you get eleven people riding in the back,” Arctor said.
“Be better, then, to lead the trunk with sacks of sand,” Barris said. “Three two-hundred-pound sacks of sand. Then the passengers could be distributed more evenly and they would be more comfortable.”
“What about one six-hundred-pound box of gold in the trunk?” Luckman asked him. “Instead of three two-hundred—”
“Will you lay off?” Barris said. “I’m trying to calculate the inertial force of this car traveling at eighty miles an hour.”
“It won’t go eighty,” Arctor said. “It’s got a dead cylinder. I meant to tell you. It threw a rod last night, on my way home from the 7-11.”
“Then why are we pulling the carb?” Barris demanded. “We have to pull the whole head for that. In fact, much more. In fact, you may have a cracked block. Well, that’s why it won’t start.”
“Won’t your car start?” Freck asked Bob Arctor.
“It won’t start,” Luckman said, “because we pulled the carb off.”
Puzzled, Barris said, “Why’d we pull the carb? I forget.”
“To get all the springs and little dinky parts replaced,” Arctor said. “So it won’t fuck up again and nearly kill us. The Union station mechanic advised us to.”
“If you bastards wouldn’t rappity-rap on,” Barris said, “like a lot of speed freaks, I could complete my computations and tell you how this particular car with its weight would handle with a four-barrel Rochester carb, modified naturally with smaller idling jets.” He was genuinely sore now. “So SHUT UP!”
Luckman opened the book he was carrying. He puffed up, then, to much larger than usual; his great chest swelled, and so did his biceps. “Barris, I’m going to read to you.” He began to read from the book, in a particularly fluent way. “ ‘He to whom it is given to see Christ
more real
than any other reality …’ “
“What?” Barris said.
Luckman continued reading. “ ‘… than any other reality in the World, Christ everywhere present and everywhere growing more great, Christ the final determination and plasmatic Principle of the Universe—’ “
“What is that?” Arctor said.
“Chardin. Teilhard de Chardin.”
“Jeez, Luckman,” Arctor said.
“ ‘… that man indeed lives in a zone where no multiplicity can distress him and which is nevertheless the most active workshop of universal fulfilment.’ “ Luckman shut the book.
With a high degree of apprehension, Charles Freck moved in between Barris and Luckman. “Cool it, you guys.”
“Get out of the way, Freck,” Luckman said, bringing back his right arm, low, for a vast sweeping haymaker at Barris. “Come on, Barris, I’m going to coldcock you into tomorrow, for talking to your betters like that.”
With a bleat of wild, appealing terror, Barris dropped his
felt pen and pad of paper and scuttled off erratically toward the open front door of the house, yelling back as he ran, “I hear the phone about the rebuilt carb.”
They watched him go.
“I was just kidding him,” Luckman said, rubbing his lower lip.
“What if he gets his gun and silencer?” Freck said, his nervousness off the scale entirely. He moved by degrees in the direction of his own parked car, to drop swiftly behind it if Barris reappeared firing.
“Come on,” Arctor said to Luckman; they fell back together into their car work, while Freck loitered apprehensively by his own vehicle, wondering why he had decided to bop over here today. It had no mellow quality today, here, none at all, as it usually did. He had sensed the bad vibes under the kidding right from the start. What’s the motherfuck wrong? he wondered, and got back somberly into his own car, to start it up.
Are things going to get heavy and bad here too, he wondered, like they did at Jerry Fabin’s house during the last few weeks with him? It used to be mellow here, he thought, everybody kicking back and turning on, grooving to acid rock, especially the Stones. Donna sitting here in her leather jacket and boots, filling caps, Luckman rolling joints and telling about the seminar he planned to give at UCLA in dope-smoking and joint-rolling, and how someday he’d suddenly roll the perfect joint and it would be placed under glass and helium back at Constitution Hall, as part of American history with those other items of similar importance. When I look back, he thought, even to when Jim Barris and I were sitting at the Fiddler’s, the other day … it was better even then. Jerry began it, he thought; that’s what’s coming down here, that there which carried off Jerry. How can days and happenings and moments so good become so quickly ugly, and for no reason, for no real reason? Just—change. With nothing causing it.
“I’m splitting,” he said to Luckman and Arctor, who were watching him rev up.
“No, stay, hey, man,” Luckman said with a warm smile. “We need you. You’re a brother.”
“Naw, I’m cutting out.”
From the house Barris appeared cautiously. He carried a hammer. “It was a wrong number,” he shouted, advancing with great caution, halting and peering like a crab-thing in a drive-in movie.
“What’s the hammer for?” Luckman said.
Arctor said, “To fix the engine.”
“Thought I would bring it with me,” Barris explained as he returned gingerly to the Olds, “since I was indoors and noticed it.”
“The most dangerous kind of person,” Arctor said, “is one who is afraid of his own shadow.” That was the last Freck heard as he drove away; he pondered over what Arctor meant, if he meant him, Charles Freck. He felt shame. But shit, he thought, why stick around when it’s such a super bummer? Where’s the chicken in that? Don’t never participate in no bad scenes, he reminded himself; that was his motto in life. So he drove away now, without looking back. Let them snuff each other, he thought. Who needs them? But he felt bad, really bad, to leave them and to have witnessed the darkening change, and he wondered again why, and what it signified, but then it occurred to him that maybe things would go the other way again and get better, and that cheered him. In fact, it caused him to roll a short fantasy number in his head as he drove along avoiding invisible police cars:
THERE THEY ALL SAT AS BEFORE
.
Even people who were either dead or burned out, like Jerry Fabin. They all sat here and there in a sort of clear white light, which wasn’t daylight but better light than that,
a kind of sea which lay beneath them and above them as well.