Random Acts Part 20

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah."

Tom takes off his wet jacket and hangs it up on a hook by the door.

"Where were you really?"

"I can't believe I have to explain this all over again."

"What?"

"I've told you at least three times, and here I am having to tell you again."

"What are you talking about?"

"I was in an alternate universe."

"What did you do, go to Mexico? You should have told me, I would have gone with you."

I laugh. "I was in an alternate universe. A different plane of reality. Another world." I roll my eyes. "Whatever you want to call it, I was there."

Tom is silent for a moment, waiting for the punch line. "Felix sold you some LSD or something?"

"No."

"What are you talking about, then?"

"It's not important." I pull my emergency money out of my pocket and hand it to him. "Here. This should take care of my share of the rent for a couple months."

"What? You going someplace?"

"Yeah. I'm leaving again. I might not be back."

"Where are you going?"

"I've got a ranch house somewhere, and uh . . . a girl."

"Oh! Aha!" He grins. "Now the truth comes out. You're shaking up with someone. She isn't married, is she?"

"Ah . . . no. She's not."

His grin falters. "This means I'll have to get another roommate."

"Yeah, if I'm not back by the time that money runs out."

He looks down at the money in his hands. Now his expression is somewhat sad. Tom puts it in his pocket and slaps me on the shoulder.

"Join me for a drink."

"Sounds good."

As we head to the kitchen, he says, "Tell me about this girl."

"She could be Heather's sister," I tell him. "She looks almost exactly like her."

"No!" Tom looks intrigued. "Where did you meet her?"

"San Francisco."

"Really?" He pulls out margarita mix and salt, sets them down, then pulls ice out of the freezer. I grab a bottle of tequila and two gla.s.ses. For a moment the whole apartment is filled with the sound of ice being ground up in a blender.

I salt the rims of the gla.s.ses; Tom pours the drinks. "I went over and saw Pris today," I tell him.

"How's she doing?"

"She's still hurting. She misses you."

"I know." Tom shrugs. "I'm not in love with her. What can I do?"

"I understand."

"Tell me more about your girl. What's her name?"

"Judy," I tell him, saying the first name that comes to mind. "Judy Jones."

"Judy Jones?" He smiles --- he likes the name. "What does she do?"

"She's a waitress."

"A waitress. You went and picked up on a waitress, eh? You meet her while she was working?"

I nod, not really interested in continuing this fiction. I had intended on trying to talk him into seeing Pris again, but there's no point. The universe is against me being with Pris, and also against Pris being with Tom. It's not like there's a choice --- it's simply not to be. It's like trying to put two similar poles of two magnets together.

You might get them to touch with force, but the universe is going to push them apart when you let go.

I lick the salt and drink my drink, savoring the tart and the sting. Tom has pulled himself up and is sitting on the kitchen counter.

I lean against the refrigerator, saying nothing. Finally Tom says, "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"You leaving your job at the University?"

"Yes."

"Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No." I shake my head.

He looks puzzled. "What have you gotten yourself involved in?"

"I don't really know."

"Why are you leaving?"

"I've found a better place."

"A better place than Berkeley?" This is hard for him to believe. To Tom, Berkeley is heaven on Earth. "You've got to tell me what's going on. What was this about an alternate reality?"

"Do you really want to know?"

He nods.

I step into the corner of the kitchen, through the dimensional gap and emerge into the living room. I hear Tom give off a startled shout, and he drops his gla.s.s. He's still staring at the corner where I'd disappeared, broken gla.s.s at his feet, when I walk in from the entrance on the other side. He swings around, staring at me with an open mouth.

"How did you do that?"

I get him a gla.s.s, pour him another margarita, and we go into the living room. By the time I finish explaining things, it's past 3 AM. I think I've put him into some sort of shock. He just sits on the couch with a dazed expression on his face, like a lost kid. I'm sleepy and my eyes are drooping, and my voice is hoa.r.s.e from talking so much.

The rain, which has come and gone, is back again and pattering against the windows with the randomness of the wind. We listen to it for a while, then Tom grunts and gets to his feet. "Well. You've succeeded in blowing my mind, that's for sure." He yawns and stretches. "What time are you leaving tomorrow?"

"I don't know. I may leave in my sleep. If not, I'll say good-bye before I go."

He nods. "Just in case you don't, it's been a blast knowing you."

We shake hands. "You're a f.u.c.king weirdo, you know that?"

"Thanks a lot."

"My friend who walks through walls. s.h.i.t." He trudges down the hall toward his bedroom, still talking. "People are going to think I've been talking to Don Juan. Eating peyote with Indians. Jesus Christ . . ." His voice fades and I hear his door shut.

I listen to the rain a moment, then shut off the light and walk through the dark to my room. On my bed, sleep just moments away, I listen to the rain and hear it suddenly stop. In the sudden, unnatural silence I feel my bed turn and gently rock, as if the building was adrift in a giant flood. I feel my spine make a slow, uncomfortable S-movement and I know I'm on my way.

12. QUALITY OF LIFE.

The surf is rough today. It rolls in with great, sweeping violence, mist spraying off the white tops and filling the air with a shimmering haze. The sound is a continuous cycle of ripping, booming and hissing.

Behind me, off the sand, one of the horses make a huffing little whinny.

The brown one is h.o.a.rding a thick tuft of gra.s.s, edging the black one away. Heather scolds the brown one (which is mine) so that her's can get its fair share. I smile, lying back in the sand and closing my eyes. The ripping, booming and hissing fills my mind. From somewhere to my left a sea gull calls out, its echoing voice ebbing and flowing with the ocean.

Heather joins me in the sand, pulling a half-empty bottle of champagne out of the picnic basket and popping the cork. I can hear her pouring another gla.s.s. I open my eyes a bit, peeking, seeing the wind blowing her hair across her bare, brown shoulders. I close my eyes again, relaxing, feigning sleep.

She settles down next to me, takes one of my arms in hers, and does the same.

Here, America has emerged into a new renaissance. Here, art and culture are held high in esteem. Science and knowledge is widespread, and we have no enemies. Gasoline is only 28 a gallon. My ranch house is just up the hill, and this beach --- for a mile in each direction --- belongs to me.

Here, I am some sort of guru. I teach the ways of a pseudo-scientific mix of quantum physics and eastern religion. I've been reading up on my teachings, and it makes some sense. I'm going to have to work on it a bit, though. Next week I'm being flown to Washington D.C. to advise the President, and after that I'm attending the opening of a new monastery in Quebec. Sounds interesting.

For now, however, I'm on my honeymoon. It's a beautiful day on a beautiful beach, and I'm lying here, half drunk, very happy, with my wife sticking her sweet little tongue in my ear. I may not have attained a state of nirvana, but at least I've found peace.

end