If All Else Fails (8 page)

I HAVE SEEN THE
FUTURE AND I WONT GO.

(popular folksong
from 2074.)

(Crazy Horse, his
dying words, 1876.)

I can't help you
anymore, tell the people I cannot help anymore. (AS THE DIRECTOR, I HAVE DECIDED THAT THE ROLE OF
CRAZY HORSE MUST BE REWRITTEN. IN THE MOVIE VERSION, WE WILL HAVE HIM SAY "ONLY BY MY DEATH CAN I
HELP MY PEOPLE; ONE SMALL STEP FOR MAN; ONE GIANT LEAP AT THE BOX OFFICE." IN PLACE OF HAVING HIM
MURDERED BY CAVALRY OFFICERS WHO STABBED HIM IN THE BACK, WE ADD A CHASE SCENE WHERE HE ESCAPES
FROM PRISON,
RAPES AND MURDERS A
TWELVE-YEAR-OLD GIRL, AND IS FINALLY DRIVEN TO COMMIT SUICIDE OUT OF GUILT. THE PRODUCER AGREED
TO IT ONLY ON THE CONDITION THAT JOHN WAYNE PLAY THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD GIRL.)

I knew you'd see it
my way. I knew careful editing would make the meaning clear. It was wrong of you to want 2075. It
was wrong of you to assume that our art needed you, the spectator, in order to be. It was wrong.
The film can run, the tape can play without you. YOU CANNOT EXIST WITH­OUT IT. We insure your
existence. We married you when none would have you. We had you. We had you. We had
you.

When we start a
film, we put out the lights.

(From the Webster's
dictionary, printed 2074, SUICIDE —1: an unprogrammed act, usually committed without bene­fit of
monitoring devices. Usually a fatal act, a fatal taking of one's life, without being ordered to
do so, or recording the act for rebroadcast. 2: A sin of nontransmission at a mo­ment of the
highest entertainment value.)

This is an official
notification to all those suicide-prone people who insist on depriving their peers from
witnessing their death. In order to insure that the people are not de­prived of the entertainment
due them, we have devised a method of taking still pictures of your body and turning it into a
film for broadcast purposes. We take the still picture of your dead body, assemble the dead
pictures on a travel­ing matte, and, through recent innovations of the multiplane camera, bring
it to life as a film by artificial insemination. This is the meaning and aim for our films. This
is an official notification to suicide-prone monitor tamperers. The people must not be denied
their entertainment. Please confine your deaths to monitored periods. The people must not be
denied entertainment. Civilization must not aspire for 2075. It is
not on the program. Read this book. It is a suicide note. The
people must not be denied their entertainment.

(Please watch your
monitor. I am committing suicide. The people must not be denied their entertainment. Stay tuned.
The people must not be—)

You are now
watching a test pattern. The pleasing tone is designed for your listening enjoyment. Our test
pattern is designed to be symmetrically pleasing. Are you happy?

The truth about the
evils of happiness is on Channel Thir­teen. Please change your dial for this channel. Repeat.
Please change your dial for the truth about the evils of hap­piness.

The old man watched
the boy. The boy watched the deer. The deer was watched by all and the Great Being
above.

The old man
remembered when he was a young boy and his father showed him a motorcycle thing on a parking
lot.

The young boy
remembered his second Me with some regret, not looking forward to the coming of his first
wife.

Tuesday morning the
Monday morning traffic jam was three days old. The old man sat on the hood of a stalled car and
watched the boy. The boy watched the deer. The deer was watched by all and the Great Being
above.

The young boy
resisted when his son, at the insistence of his bitch of a white wife, had tried to put him in a
rest home for the elderly. Now he watched a deer beside the highway, and was watched in
turn.

The old man was on
the way to somewhere. He was going someplace, someplace important; he forgot just where. But he
knew he was going.

The deer had
relatives waiting for her, grass waiting for her, season being patient on her account. As much as
she wanted to please the boy by letting him look at her, she had to go. She apologized with a
shake of her head.

The old man watched
the deer going. He knew she had someplace to go, someplace important. He did not know where she
was going, but she knew why.

The old man was
going to be late. He could have walked. He was only going across the road. He was going across
the road to get to the other side. He was going to be late for his
own funeral. The old man was going someplace. He couldn't remember
where.

"Did you make him
wear the watch? If he's wearing the watch, he should—"

"He's an old man,
honey! His mind wanders," said Frank Strong Bull.

"Dr. Amber is
waiting! Does he think we can afford to pay for every appointment he misses?" snarled Sheila,
run­ning her fingers through the tangled ends of her hair. "Doesn't he ever get anywhere on
time?"

"He lives by Indian
time. Being late is just something you must expect from—" he began, trying to explain.

She cut him off.
"Indian this and Indian that! I'm so sick of your goddamn excuses I could vomit!" But—

"Let's just forget
it. We don't have time to argue about it. We have to be at the doctor's office in twenty minutes.
If we leave now, we can just beat the rush-hour traffic. I just hope your father's there when we
arrive."

"Don't worry. He'll
be there," said Frank, looking doubtful.

But the deer could
not leave. She went a little distance and then turned and came back. And the old man was moved
because he knew the deer had come back because the boy knew how to look at the deer.

And the boy was
happy because the deer chose to favor him. And he saw the deer for what she was. Great and golden
and quick in her beauty.

And the deer knew
that the boy thought her beautiful. For it was the purpose of the deer in this world on that
morning to be beautiful for a young boy to look at.

And the old man who
was going someplace was grateful to the deer and almost envious of the boy. But he was one with
the boy who was one with the deer and they were all
one with the Great Being above. So there was no envy, just the great longing of age
for youth.

"That son of a
bitch!" growled Frank Strong Bull. "The bastard cut me off." He yanked the gearshift out of
fourth and slammed it into third. The tach needle shot into the red and the Mustang backed off,
just missing the foreign car that had swerved in front of it.

"Oh Christ- We'll
be late," muttered Sheila, turning in the car seat to look out the back window. "Get into the
ex­press lane."

"Are you kidding?
With this traffic?"

His hands gripped
the wheel like a weapon. He lifted his right hand and slammed the gearshift. Gears ground, caught
hold, and the Mustang shot ahead. Yanking the wheel to the left, he cut in front of a truck,
which hit its brakes, missing the Mustang by inches. He buried the gas pedal and the car
responded. He pulled up level with the sports car that had cut him off. He honked and made an
obscene gesture as he passed. Sheila squealed with delight.

"Go! Go!" she
exclaimed.

The old man had
taken liberties in his life. He'd had things to remember and things he wanted to forget. Twice he
had married.

The first time. He
hated the first time. He'd been blinded by her looks and his hands had got the better of him. He
had not known his own heart and, not knowing, he had let his body decide. It was something he
would always regret.

That summer he was
an eagle. Free. Mating in the air. Never touching down. Never looking back. That summer. His
hands that touched her were wings. And he flew and the feathers covered the scars that grew where
their bodies had touched.

He was of the air
and she was of the earth. She muddied
his dreams. She had woman's body but lacked woman's spirit. A star is a stone to the
blind. She saw him through crippled eyes. She possessed. He shared. There was no life between
them. He saw the stars and counted them one by one into her hand; that gift that all lovers
share. She saw stones. And she turned away.

He was free because
he needed. She was a prisoner be­cause she wanted. One day she was gone. And he folded his wings
and the earth came rushing at him and he was an old man with a small son. And he lived in a cage
and was three years dead. And his son was a small hope that melted. He was his mother's son. He
could see that in his son's eyes. It was something the old man would always regret.

But the deer, the
young boy, these were things he would never regret.

Dr. Amber was
hostile. "Damn it! Now look—I can't sign the commitment papers if I've never seen
him."

Sheila tried to
smile pleasantly. "He'll show up. His hotel room is just across the street. Frank will find him.
Don't worry."

"I have other
patients! I can't be held up by some dodder­ing old man," snapped Dr. Amber.

"Just a few more
minutes," Sheila pleaded.

"You'll have to pay
for two visits. I can't run this place for free. Every minute I'm not working, I'm losing
money."

"We'll pay," said
Sheila grimly. "We'll pay."

The world was big
and the deer had to take her beauty through the world. She had been beautiful in one place for
one boy on one morning of this world. It was time to be someplace else. The deer turned and fled
into the woods, pushing her beauty before her into the world.

The young boy
jumped to his feet. His heart racing, his feet pounding, he ran after her with the abandon of
youth
that is caring. He chased beauty
through the world and disappeared from the old man's sight in the depths of the
forest.

And the old man
began dreaming that-

Frank Strong Bull's
hand closed on his shoulder and his son shook him, none too gently.

The old man looked
into the face of his son and did not like what he saw. He allowed himself to be led to the
doc­tor's office.

"Finally," said
Sheila. "Where the hell was he?"

Dr. Amber came into
the room with a phony smile. "Ah! The elusive one appears! And how are we today?"

"We are fine," said
the old man, bitterly. He pushed the outstretched stethoscope away from his chest.

"Feisty, isn't he?"
observed Dr. Amber.

"Let's just get
this over with," said Sheila. "It's been drawn out long enough as it is."

"Not sick," said
the old man. "You leave me alone." He made two fists and backed away from the doctor.

"How old is he?"
asked Dr. Amber, looking at the old man's wrinkled face and white hair.

"Past eighty, at
least," said his son. "The records aren't available and he can't remember himself."

"Over eighty, you
say. Well, that's reason enough then," said Dr. Amber. "Let me give him a cursory examination,
just a formality, and then I'll sign the papers."

The old man
unclenched his fists. He looked at his son. His eyes burned. He felt neither betrayed nor
wronged. He felt only sorrow. He allowed one tear, only one tear, to fall. It was for his son who
could not meet his eyes.

And for the first
time since his son had married her, his eyes fell upon his son's wife's eyes. She seemed to
shrivel under his gaze, but she met his gaze and he read the dark things in her eyes.

They were
insignificant, not truly a part of his life. He had seen the things of importance. He had watched
the boy. The boy had watched the deer. And the deer had been watched by all and the Great Being
above.

The old man backed
away from them until his back was against a wall. He put his hand to his chest and smiled. He was
dead before his body hit the floor.

"A massive
coronary," said Dr. Amber to the ambulance attendant. "I just signed the death
certificate."

"They the
relatives?" asked the attendant, jerking a thumb at the couple sitting silently in chairs by the
wall.

Dr. Amber
nodded.

The attendant
approached them.

"It's better this
way," said Sheila. "An old man like that, no reason to live, no—"

"Where you want I
should take the body?" asked the at­tendant.

"Vale's Funeral
Home," said Sheila.

Frank Strong Bull
stared straight ahead. He heard noth­ing. His eyes were empty of things, light and
dark.

"Where is it?"
asked the attendant.

"Where is what?"
asked Dr. Amber.

"The body? Where's
the body?"

"It's in the next
room. On the table," said Dr. Amber, coming around his desk. He took the attendant's arm and led
him away from the couple.

"I'll help you put
it on the stretcher."