“Where did you go? William said you showed up at work so drunk you could hardly walk. At ten o'clock in the morning?”
Something is buzzing around my head. At first it sounds like some kind of air blowing, like a release valve, but I realize now it's a fly. At least a couple of flies. Shrill and loud, like someone has amplified the compression beating of their wings a millionfold.
“Junior,” I say, having to raise my voice to hear myself, “none of that is relevant right now. I need to warn you about something. You need to listen to me.”
“Thomas, what are you talking about? Where are you? It sounds like there are people everywhere. Are you calling me from a pay phone? Is that what this number is?”
“Gloria, listenâ”
“Why aren't you calling me from home? Where have you been all night?”
I jerk my head around, looking for these damned flies, and I see two middle-aged women in the massage chairs. They're looking right at me, their eyes narrow and angry, their mouths hanging open slightly. Their bodies oscillate slightly with the movement of the chairs.
“We got flies all over the fuckin' place,” I tell them. “We got flies comin' for us.”
The women look at each other and pretend like I'm not there.
“What?” Gloria asks me. “Flies, baby? What are you talking about?”
“Junior, listen to me. I went back home. This man followed me. Heâtheyâthey're desperate. They've been following me. They don't want to let me go.”
A long moment of silence passes between us, so long that I have to ask Gloria if she's still there.
“Yes,” she says. “I'm still here. Thomas, Iâ”
And then nothing, like she was cut off, like her voice is a recording and someone hit PAUSE.
“Get the fuck outta here, you flies.”
My head hurts. My mouth tastes like the leads on a nine-volt battery.
“Thomas,” she says, much more firmly now. “Go back home and I will meet you there in a few minutes.”
“I told you, I can't go back there. We've got three flies. Five flies.”
“Thomas, get hold of yourself and listen to me. Runciter fucked up.”
I don't hear the first few words of what she says next because my mind can't process that “Runciter” and “fuck” just came out of her mouth.
“â¦fell asleep or something. We need you to go back home, Thomas. Do it now.”
“Junior, Iâ”
“Where are you? The mall? We'll find you there. If you try to run we'll find you. Don't be stupid, Thomas.”
My heart is cold, like someone wrapped it in an ice pack. It hurts. The tips of my fingers burn, like I'm touching dry ice.
“If you don't go home right now,” she says, “your life will become much worse than you ever thought possible. If you thought you didn't like working for William, that's nothing compared to what your life will be like if you don't come back to us, Thomas. So go home now, or tell me where you are.”
“Gloria? They told you? I can't believe theyâ”
“Yes, they told me what you are, Thomas. At first I couldn't believe it. You? Of all people in the world,
you
are the center of everything? Of all the irony anyone could ever come up with,
that
has to top the list. I mean, honestly.”
My heart not only feels cold, it also feels very small, as if it has almost ceased to exist. It seems difficult to breathe. A long, steady chord on a cello slides underneath the surface of the silence.
This isn't happening.
“Junior, Iâ”
“It's no wonder our marriage has begun to feel like a sham lately,” she says. The sarcasm in her voice is sharp, surgical. “That's because it
is
a sham. All of our memories are fake, and whoever wrote our backstory obviously did a terrible job because I don't understand how you and I could have ever fallen in love in the first place.”
“Juniorâ”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Gloria, please. Don't do this. I'm sorry for everything that's happened. I'm so sorry. I love you. I don't have anywhere to go. Pleaseâ”
“Go home, Thomas. I'm not going to tell you again.”
I hang up the phone.
FORTY
I
want to kill Runciter.
I want to drive back to my house and take my 6-iron and beat him in the head with it until blood runs out of his ears.
They have ruined it for her. Ruined it!
And once I kill him I want to take Gloria and get out of town. I want to explain things to her, what their real motivation is, I want to win her heart back and start a new life with her somewhere else.
But I can't do any of those things.
If I kill Runciter, I will go to prison. The police are his friends, and at least two FBI agents have been following me. Maybe this simulated life already is prison, I don't know, but freedom within this world surely must be better than incarceration.
I could forego violence and simply take Gloria away, but if I try to approach her they will surely capture me. And anyway, I'm not sure she wants anything to do with me.
She said our marriage was a sham. That the memories of our relationship were fake, and not only that, they were badly written.
But they weren't. They can't be. We lived that life. We have too much history for it to have been written that way. Don't we?
Gloria said they were coming for me. I've got to get out of here. There are three malls in the city but only one of them is close to my house. She knows where I am.
I have to get out of town. Now.
I will come back for her. I will not give up on her. But for now I have to get away and figure out what to do.
Fortunately the phones aren't far from the entrance and it only takes a minute or so to reach the doors. A young mother pushing a stroller is about to enter the same door I'm exiting, and she smiles gratefully as I hold the door open for her.
The walk to my car is much longer. I feel like every person in the parking lot is watching me, although maybe I'm wrong, because about halfway to my car some guy in a Ford Expedition nearly runs me over as he backs out of his spot. I have to jump out of the way and yell at him as I walk by, but the jerk doesn't even acknowledge me.
As I near my car, I smell something cooking at the Cheesecake Factory and realize I'm hungry. Starving, really. I don't remember the last time I had something to eat. I don't mean that as a figure of speechâ¦I honestly cannot remember. Did I eat anything yesterday at all? Besides the mushroom?
In fact the last thing I can remember eating is the spaghetti Gloria made on Monday. Monday! Today is Wednesday.
I open the door to my car and get inside. I see that fish emblem on the car in front of me again. The fish is a symbol of Jesus Christ and his miracles of feeding the multitudes. Which I suppose is a rather ironic thing to have on your car when dining at the Cheesecake Factory, but for some reason the fish makes me think of something else, like the blue orb. It makes me realize the blue orb was a signal, a medium of communication that put me in touch with the real world. I don't know why it makes me think that, but it does.
And in this moment I realize I must go to California. The only person left in the world I can possibly trust is Sophia. I've never seen her in person, after all. I've only communicated with her electronically. This means they can't possibly know of her or where she lives. This is where I'll have to go. Together Sophia and I will figure out the truth.
I pull out of my parking spot and head toward the mall exit. Gloria and Sherri and Runciter would probably come from different locations, but most of those are to the west, so, I head east on 71st Street. This road is six lanes wide and bordered on both sides by shopping centers and chain restaurants. Even if someone is watching it would be difficult for them to find me on this road. Once I get to the highway I will find a roundabout way to drive around the city and then head back west, in the direction of California. At some point I'll need to stop, get something to eat and drink and find a place where I can get on the Internet, because I don't have Sophia's address. But my immediate concern is to get out of town without incident and head generally west. I can figure out the rest later.
Whoever wrote our backstory obviously did a terrible job.
I reach a freeway interchange and turn south, and three minutes later I turn west. From here, assuming I drive all the way to L.A., I have about a two-day drive. I know this because in college, before I met Gloria, I once drove to Burbank in order to be on “The Price Is Right.” Four of us made the trip, and believe it or not we managed to get into the studio audience (though none of us was called to the stage). I remember driving through Amarillo and stopping at The Big Texan, and there we
did
sit on stage as we tried to eat the 72 ounce steak in an hour. I couldn't get through half of it. When I finally gave up, I swore I would never eat red meat again for the rest of my life, and still there was enough left on the plate for two more people. My friend, Chip, threw up five miles outside of town.
Or at least that's what I remember. When you think about it, The Big Texan sounds like a contrived plot point, doesn't it? Like something out of a bad movie? Maybe the reason this simulation is populated with thin characters, maybe the reason it strains credibility, is because the architect of it is not a very good storyteller. Wouldn't he be the perfect Creator for Gnosticism, being so imperfect?
It's no wonder our marriage has begun to feel like a sham lately.
I circle around the city, closing in on the interstate that will take me west. I have been watching my rearview mirror so far and will pay close attention at the edge of the city, but so far I've seen no evidence of pursuit. I also remember what Runciter said when we left the police station, how the FBI would have never let me go without following me somehow, and I wonder if they're back there somewhere, Scruggs and Smith or one of their counterparts. As far as I can tell no one has followed me since I left my house, but I'm not exactly James Bond.
Of all people in the world,
you
are the center of everything?
A few minutes later I drive out of the city, seemingly unwatched. There are only a few cars on the road and none that seem to be related to me. After looking constantly into the rearview mirror for about fifteen miles, I pull over to the shoulder and wait to see if any vehicles behind me also stop, but none do. None that I see, at least. At the next intersection I exit the interstate and spend a few minutes idling on the access road shoulder, and still I don't notice anything that seems like surveillance. So I drive through the interchange, back onto the freeway, and this time I set the cruise control on eighty, fairly sure no one is following me.
But I don't understand. If it was so important for Runciter and Sherri and the rest to keep in contact with me, why on earth would they let me get away? It doesn't make any sense. You would think they would have used double and triple coverage, incredible redundancy, when the penalty for losing me was so high. It's so unlikely that I must again assume Runciter was lying. They must be able to keep track of me in some other way. It's the only explanation.
I don't understand how you and I could have ever fallen in love in the first place.
I know exactly how. Don't I?
I remember it. I remember it like it was yesterday.
Gloria's father and I had just finished playing “Sweet Home Alabama” together. He shook my hand and returned to the table. The band and I waited for the crowd to quiet enough that I could speak. Linda Knudson hugged her husband. Gloria watched them and then turned toward the stage, and even from here I could see her eyes were watery. This was the first time she'd ever seen her father play in front of a crowd, and I was so proud to have helped make it happen that I could have died happy at that moment. It didn't matter that I had come here tonight with an ulterior motive. Seeing her so happy meant it was a good thing, whatever happened next.
I leaned into the microphone and said, “I'd like to play one more song if I could.”
The crowd cheered again. Eric Knudson clapped loudly.
“As you guys might have guessed, I didn't just happen to pick up a banjo and start playing tonight.”
Everyone laughed at that.
“I want to thank The Scanners again for allowing me to join them onstage, but even more so for practicing with me over the past few months. I can't tell you how much it has meant to me.”
More cheers from the crowd. At that point I could have announced a terrorist attack and they would have clapped. These were pretty drunk people.
Then my eyes locked on Gloria's. The room had turned shimmery. I blinked away tears.
“I'm up here tonight because I'd like to sing to someone very special to me. So if you'll forgive me, this song is dedicated specifically to her.”
At the time I knew only the original version, and it wasn't a guitar-friendly song. Afterwards, I learned it was a popular choice among university a cappella groups, including one at our own school. Believe it or not I was invited to join them at a free concert the following spring. The song has been reimagined many times, including acoustical versions like the one I played. I changed some of the lyrics.
Looking from a window above
It's like a story of love
Can you hear me
Came back only yesterday
Who went further away
Want you near me
All I need is the love you gave
All I need for another day
And all I ever knew
Only you
My voice cracked a bit after the last line, and I was afraid I might not make it to the next verse. Gloria covered her mouth with her hands. I have never forgotten that look in her eyes.
Sometimes when I think of your name
When it's only a game and I need you
Listen to the words that you say