Read Online Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said by Philip K. Dick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Philip K. Dick
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together.
Kneeling by her, he put his hand on her shoulder. This time she did not try to pull away. “I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it. “For pushing you.” I called your bluff, he said to himself, and it was not a bluff. Okay; you won. I give up. From now on it’s whatever you want. Name it. He thought, Just make it brief, for God’s sake. Let me out of this as quickly as you possibly can.
He had an intuition that it would not be soon.
5
Together, hand in hand, they strolled along the evening sidewalk, past the competing, flashing, winking, flooding pools of color created by the rotating, pulsating, jiggling, lit-up signs. This kind of neighborhood did not please him; he had seen it a million times, duplicated throughout the face of earth. It had been from such as this that he had fled, early in his life, to use his sixness as a method of getting out. And now he had come back.
He did not object to the people: he saw them as trapped here, the ordinaries, who through no fault of their own had to remain. They had not invented it; they did not like it; they endured it, as he had not had to. In fact, he felt guilty, seeing their grim faces, their turned-down mouths. Jagged, unhappy mouths.
“Yes,” Kathy said at last, “I think I really am falling in love with you. But it’s your fault; it’s your powerful magnetic field that you radiate. Did you know I can see it?”
“Gee,” he said mechanically.
“It’s dark velvet purple,” Kathy said, grasping his hand tightly with her surprisingly strong fingers. “Very intense. Can you see mine? My magnetic aura?”
“No,” he said.
“I’m surprised. I would have thought you could.” She seemed calm, now; the explosive screaming episode had left, trailing after it, relative stability. An almost pseudoepileptoid personality structure, he conjectured. That works up day after day to—
“My aura,” she broke into his thoughts, “is bright red. The color of passion.”
“I’m glad for you,” Jason said.
Halting, she turned to peer into his face. To decipher his expression. He hoped it was appropriately opaque. “Are you mad because I lost my temper?” she inquired.
“No,” he said.
“You
sound
mad. I think you are mad. Well, I guess only Jack understands. And Mickey.”
“Mickey Quinn,” he said reflexively.
“Isn’t he a remarkable person?” Kathy said.
“Very.” He could have told her a lot, but it was pointless. She did not really want to know; she believed she understood already.
What else do you believe, little girl? he wondered. For example, what do you believe you know about me? As little as you know about Mickey Quinn and Arlene Howe and all the rest of them who, for you, do not in reality exist? Think what I could tell you if, for a moment, you were able to listen. But you can’t listen. It would frighten you, what you might hear. And anyhow, you know everything already.
“How does it feel,” he asked, “to have slept with so many famous people?”
At that she stopped short. “Do you think I slept with them because they were famous? Do you think I’m a CF, a celebrity fucker? Is that your real opinion of me?”
Like flypaper, he thought. She enmeshed him by every word he said. He could not win.
“I think,” he said, “you’ve led an interesting life. You’re an interesting person.”
“And important,” Kathy added.
“Yes,” he said. “Important, too. In some ways the most important person I’ve ever encountered. It’s a thrilling experience.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes,” he said emphatically. And in a peculiar, assbackward way, it was true. No one, not even Heather, had ever tied him up so completely as this. He could not endure what he found himself going through, and he could not get away. It seemed to him as if he sat behind the tiller of his custom-made unique quibble, facing a red light, green light, amber light all at once; no rational response was possible. Her irrationality made
Kneeling by her, he put his hand on her shoulder. This time she did not try to pull away. “I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it. “For pushing you.” I called your bluff, he said to himself, and it was not a bluff. Okay; you won. I give up. From now on it’s whatever you want. Name it. He thought, Just make it brief, for God’s sake. Let me out of this as quickly as you possibly can.
He had an intuition that it would not be soon.
5
Together, hand in hand, they strolled along the evening sidewalk, past the competing, flashing, winking, flooding pools of color created by the rotating, pulsating, jiggling, lit-up signs. This kind of neighborhood did not please him; he had seen it a million times, duplicated throughout the face of earth. It had been from such as this that he had fled, early in his life, to use his sixness as a method of getting out. And now he had come back.
He did not object to the people: he saw them as trapped here, the ordinaries, who through no fault of their own had to remain. They had not invented it; they did not like it; they endured it, as he had not had to. In fact, he felt guilty, seeing their grim faces, their turned-down mouths. Jagged, unhappy mouths.
“Yes,” Kathy said at last, “I think I really am falling in love with you. But it’s your fault; it’s your powerful magnetic field that you radiate. Did you know I can see it?”
“Gee,” he said mechanically.
“It’s dark velvet purple,” Kathy said, grasping his hand tightly with her surprisingly strong fingers. “Very intense. Can you see mine? My magnetic aura?”
“No,” he said.
“I’m surprised. I would have thought you could.” She seemed calm, now; the explosive screaming episode had left, trailing after it, relative stability. An almost pseudoepileptoid personality structure, he conjectured. That works up day after day to—
“My aura,” she broke into his thoughts, “is bright red. The color of passion.”
“I’m glad for you,” Jason said.
Halting, she turned to peer into his face. To decipher his expression. He hoped it was appropriately opaque. “Are you mad because I lost my temper?” she inquired.
“No,” he said.
“You
sound
mad. I think you are mad. Well, I guess only Jack understands. And Mickey.”
“Mickey Quinn,” he said reflexively.
“Isn’t he a remarkable person?” Kathy said.
“Very.” He could have told her a lot, but it was pointless. She did not really want to know; she believed she understood already.
What else do you believe, little girl? he wondered. For example, what do you believe you know about me? As little as you know about Mickey Quinn and Arlene Howe and all the rest of them who, for you, do not in reality exist? Think what I could tell you if, for a moment, you were able to listen. But you can’t listen. It would frighten you, what you might hear. And anyhow, you know everything already.
“How does it feel,” he asked, “to have slept with so many famous people?”
At that she stopped short. “Do you think I slept with them because they were famous? Do you think I’m a CF, a celebrity fucker? Is that your real opinion of me?”
Like flypaper, he thought. She enmeshed him by every word he said. He could not win.
“I think,” he said, “you’ve led an interesting life. You’re an interesting person.”
“And important,” Kathy added.
“Yes,” he said. “Important, too. In some ways the most important person I’ve ever encountered. It’s a thrilling experience.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes,” he said emphatically. And in a peculiar, assbackward way, it was true. No one, not even Heather, had ever tied him up so completely as this. He could not endure what he found himself going through, and he could not get away. It seemed to him as if he sat behind the tiller of his custom-made unique quibble, facing a red light, green light, amber light all at once; no rational response was possible. Her irrationality made
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