In the Deadlands (5 page)

If I read his essay correctly, “logomimesis” means language imitating itself. He then takes eight pages to explore “With a Finger in My I” as an example. I haven't counted the words, but it looks to me that he used more words to analyze the story than I used telling it.

Koelb writes, “Like many works in the field of fantasy and science fiction, this story pursues the implications of a linguistic structure, usually some common expression from ordinary language, when that structure is assumed to govern the structure of the fictional world….

“Gerrold's story, like all logomimetic fiction, makes the structure of its fictional reality conform to patterns provided by everyday language. Instead of attempting to make the work of literature ‘hold the mirror up to nature' and imitate in a convincing way the world as it is, the logomimetic artist chooses to imitate structures that are already purely verbal….”

After a bit more, Koelb goes on to explore a Thomas Mann novel,
The Transposed Heads.
He concludes, “The lethetic fiction must gain our assent without gaining our belief. To that end, logomimesis offers a particularly effective strategy.”

I mention this here because a) it's unnerving to be put under the same microscope with Thomas Mann—other authors examined in the same book include Aristophanes, Aristotle, Bruno Bettelheim, Harold Bloom, Giovanni Boccaccio, Bertolt Brecht, Jorge Louis Borges, Italo Calvino, Lewis Carroll, Arthur C. Clarke, Samuel Coleridge Taylor, Gustav Flaubert, Sigmund Freud, Goethe, Nicolai Gogol, Martin Heidegger, Heracles, Samuel Johnson, Franz Kafka, Thomas More, Plato, Edgar Allan Poe, Alexander Pope, Alexander Pushkin, Francois Rabelais, Rainer Maria Rilke, Philip Roth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Friedrich Schiller, William Shakespeare, Charles Sheffield, Socrates, Sophocles, Gertrude Stein, J.R.R. Tolkien, John Varley, Oscar Wilde, and William Wordsworth—and b) because it is unlikely that I will ever again find my name listed in the same index with so many other distinguished voices in literature. It is flattering.

I appreciate the depth of Professor Koelb's analysis. It's clear that he has given much more thought to literary structure than I have—I just write the stuff.

And that's the point.

There's a story about W.C. Fields. He began his career as a juggler—a very good juggler, with some unique tricks that he invented himself. When he appeared at the Palladium in London, the reviewer for
The London Times
praised the skill and precision of his juggling.

That evening, Fields tried to observe his own skill and precision. That's when he started dropping things. Finally, he had to stop watching what he was doing and just concentrate on juggling.

Thank you, Professor Koelb, it's an interesting mirror you're holding up, but over here I'm just juggling. Mostly words—not knives, torches, or bowling balls.

All of Them Were Empty—

I heard a fragment of a song. It gave me an image and a line. Another song gave me a mood. A dream gave me an aching feeling. It all swirled together and rolled out of the typewriter one hot summer evening.

In those days, the night was always a separate world, a time of lovers and vampires. The city was deserted and the dark light made glimmering shadows. It poured out the doorways of empty buildings.

You entered through the back door and found yourself in a long red room where people stared into other people's faces, looking for something they'd never known. The music was loud and hollow, hammering away to hide the desperation and anxiety and the unwillingness to be alone. The liquor flowed like blood. People either clung to each other, or wandered alone, searching for someone to cling to.

After midnight, time turned sour and bright. The anthems grew strident. The vampires looked like lizards now, their tongues flickering nervously as they searched for partners to take back to their shaded coffins. With dawn came death and day people.

I didn't stay in that world long. Only long enough to taste and be tasted in turn. I brought this story out with me.

In a city of night and neon. She had puppy-soft eyes and an old army coat. I had a sweatshirt and Levis and an acid-laced joint. We watched the colors smear.

We sheared our eyes on the slashing lights and let them bleed into the streets. The lights. Glowworm letters and gray crumbling walls.

My blood was copper; hers was gold. I was strong and red; she was soft and malleable.

She had sucking eyes. They could eat you up, or they could tease. Black whirlpool pupils, large and moist.

I moved like stone down the hollow deathwalk, the tall night above, the close city around. The unreal-colored neon flashed us messages of EAT, DRINK and JESUS SAVES. She moved with me like a wraith, a shadow of a girl suspended in air, attached to my jacket, following ghostlike and effortless. “Deet?” she said, and her voice was like that first big hit—painful, elusive, and narcotic.

“Deet?” she asked again. “Let's go home, huh?”

A shake of my head. “Not yet, Wooze; not yet.” Wooze, short for Woozle.

“But I'm tired, Deet. It's my period and I don't feel good.”

“Then go.”

“I don't want to go alone.”

“Then don't go.”

“Deet...” she said plaintively. I looked at her; she was using
that
tone of voice again. She shut.

“Nobody asked you to come,” I said.

“I don't like to be by myself. I want to stay with you.”

“Okay, then stay. But if you're going to talk about going home, I'm gonna ditch you.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Want to find out?”

She didn't answer, instead pulled her coat tighter about her, shoved skinny hands into skinny pockets and cringed against the city. Cars like giant panthers prowled the night streets, rolling silent-rumbly through dark-lit intersections and wet gutter bottoms. Eyes glowing, they
spotlit their prey in white-lined crosswalks and rushed eagerly toward them, only to be cheated when the lone figures vanished into the safety of the soft black buildings.

Doors like hungry mouths pulled at us. She half-ran, half-walked to keep up with me. “Deet? Where we going anyway?”

“To a place.”

“You said that before, Deet. Which place? We going to Cannie's?”

I shook my head. “Not Cannie's. I don't like his stuff.”

“You used to.”

“Not any more. Got something new.”

“A new place?”

“A new place, yeah.” Hands in my pockets, tight-wrapped around a narrow roll of bills. Yeah, a new place. And new stuff.

And new people.

Got to get away from the old stuff. Clot your mind. Too many pills, your eyes turn to glass, shatter with the morning. Your stomach turns to liquid, bleeds away in the night.

Two ways to go. Up or down. Down, back into the bright-lit land of the straights—or up, into the pastel razorblade world of H. H for heavy stuff, for hard stuff.

Uh-uh, not me. Not H. H is for hooked. Seen the cold turkey once too often. Not H.

But still, two ways to go. Up or down.

Tried them all, speed, mesc, acid. Acid's okay and mesc is a people trip. But speed is the deathman. Speed kills, comes after you with the crystal knife shining.

Still, you got to make the choice, Deet; can't stand still—up or down?

—or why not
out?

Why not a whole new direction? Hang a sudden left and leave them all. A whole new kick. Who said it had to be
this
or
that?
Why does it have to be either? Yeah, I had it. I had it now. I knew the way.

To hell with up or down. What's wrong with right and left and north and east and yesterday and Tuesday and Charlie and purple and?

I knew the way. All I had to do was find it. I didn't have the address though. All I had was a description of where it was, and I still had to go looking for it.

Woozle was woozy. She kept wiping her nose on her sleeve. It was red; so were her eyes. “You crying again?”

“Uh-uh, Deet. I wouldn't do that. Uh-uh. I got a cold, that's all. I told you, it's my period.”

“That gives you a cold?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.” She shrugged her baggy green coat around her shoulders. “Deet, I'm awfully tired. Could we sit down a minute?”

“We're almost there.”

“Where? We aren't anywhere....”

“We're almost there. Don't worry about it.”

She sat down anyway. All right; I stopped and waited. The streets shone in the dark. Like water. Dark puddles from the rain lapped at the curbs. I lit the last joint, inhaled deep, deep, deep, sharp pain, and deeper, deep hit. Acid-laced hit. Yeah.

I wanted to hallucinate. Another hit. I could feel it coming.

I offered Woozle the joint. She shook her head. “Uh-uh. Not any more, Deet. I'm afraid I'll go on a bad trip.”

I already was. I took another. Yeah, that was it.

A car came floating down the street, cleaving water to either side of its bow, cleaving an inky wake. I was glad we were on this side of the street. I didn't want to swim the canal tonight. I wondered where the horses were.

Did they still put running lights on them? I wondered. On what, I asked, but I couldn't remember.

The joint disappeared back into a baggie, flame pinched out first, then into the underwear. Nestled tight, a nice place to keep things.

The door was where I had left it. Knocked.

No answer. Knocked it again.

An eye, red like the cherry on a cop car, peeked out. “Yeah?”

“Deet. My name's Deet.”

“Yeah? So what?”

“Told to come by.”

“By who?” the eye demanded, floating behind a black wall.

“You did. Somebody did. Said something about a new kick or something.”

“What'd you say your name was?”

“Deet.”

The eye swiveled around to look at the Woozle. “What's that?”

“She's with me.”

“She okay?”

“I said, she's with me.”

“Who sent you?”

“I don't know his name. Their names.”

“Who's they?”

“A guy—no, two guys. And a girl. Strange girl. Pale eyes.”

“Tamra?”

“That could be it. Yeah, that's it. That's who it was. Tamra.”

“Uh-uh—no Tamra. We got no Tamra.” The eye started to close.

“Hey!”

It opened again.

“Hey, man—what is this? You guys told me to come by here—”

“Where'd we tell you?”

“Here!”

“No, where were we when we told you?”

“Cannie's.”

“‘Where's that?”

I told him.

“Wait.” The eye closed.

We waited.

Night waited. The street lights seeped and sucked at the dark. It sucked back. Somewhere a thing splashed through the waves.

The eye opened. “All right.”

We went in. It was red lit, like the churchman's Hell. A naked red bulb sat on top of the room, not bright enough to light, dim enough to be painful. Everything was a red blur.

Woozle took one look and groaned. She covered her eyes and grabbed at my jacket with an unsteady hand. She hung onto me all the while, following with one hand over her eyes. Well, she'd asked to come; it wasn't my fault.

The guy—yeah, it was a guy—had hair of barbed-wire brillo, a dark scraggly bush. Eyes like a prowl car. Heavy. He was wearing only shapeless underwear and a paint-stained blanket-poncho. It didn't cover much.

“This way,” he said.

We pad-padded down a long corridor. The place was one of those narrow apartments that shows only a door to the street and stretches forever inland. Narrow rooms, narrow rooms, one after the other, open and empty. Some mattresses, an old box, a blanket, the remains of a shirt, scraps of paper, floors and walls. Nothing more. And everything red lit.

We went all the way to the back. One or two of the doors were closed, with sounds seeping out around the edges—once the sound of surf. But the ones I could see into were empty. A record player tinkered with sounds and darkness.

The last room was like all the rest. Except something smelled funny. Like dusty orange. Two or three mattresses lay dirty on the floor. Four people in the room: two guys, two girls. They all had tombstone eyes. I didn't like the looks, but I'd heard about the new kick and I wanted to try it.

“This's Deet,” grunted the brillo-head.

Casual glances, nothing more.

“That's Woozle,” I said, nodding at the Wooze. She was still covering her eyes.

“Sit.” One of the girls shrugged. I sat. Woozle, putting one hand behind her, lowered herself. The mattresses had no soft; they were flat and dusty-slimy.

The two guys were off to one side, sitting-leaning up against the wall and looking at each other. Okay, none of my business. It was the girls who held my attention. They had pale eyes, pink in the red-lit room.

“Who are you?” one asked.

“Deet. I'm Deet. He just told you—” I pointed at brillo-hair, but he wasn't there anymore.

“Uh-uh,” she shook her head. “
Who
are you?”

Shrug. “I'm me. That's all.”

“Okay. Who's she?”

“She's Woozle. She goes where I go.”

“Everywhere?”

“Just about.”

“You like that?” Her voice was like an empty room. It echoed.

“Yeah, it's okay, I guess.”

“You don't like it?”

“I don't know.” I shrugged again. “I'm used to it.”

“You want to change it?”

“Why should I?”

“Yes. Why
should
you?”

I wasn't sure what she was talking about any more. I shrugged. “Why do you want to know?”

This time, she shrugged. “Need to know. That's all.”

Woozle tugged at my arm then. I ignored it.