The Bumblebee Flies Anyway (4 page)

What the hell. Barney pressed the button marked
YES
. There were three buttons that could be pressed in response
to the questions:
YES
,
NO
, and one containing a question mark. The Machine, of course, was programmed to ask questions requiring either an affirmative or negative reply. The question mark was for use only when the inquiry wasn’t clear. Then there would be a pause, a humming sound as if the Machine were actually thinking things over, and the question would come back phrased differently. This always gave Barney the shivers, and he’d tell himself that there probably was someone sitting at a keyboard in another part of the Complex typing the questions. The Handyman assured him that this was not the case. The apparatus, he said, was sophisticated enough to carry out its own reprogramming and to modify its approach to the answer it sought. He could also go on at length about the operation of the Machine—the thousands of doodads that meshed together in precise and marvelous sequences—but it was all too complicated for Barney to understand or bother about. All he knew was that each evening at seven he came to this small windowless room, little larger than a closet, and faced the Machine. Next question.

Barney anticipated what the next question would be, or at least its essence. After all these nights he had learned the sequence, and although the wording was slightly changed, the substance of the questions remained the same.

Barney pushed the
NO
, button.

Which was another way of asking the pain question again. Or was it? The Handyman was cute about pain, though. He never used the word. He preferred a word like
discomfort
or its many variations.
This may make you uncomfortable for a bit.
Or:
You may feel a twinge from this.
Or:
This may be distressing for a moment or two.
But never
pain.
He let the Machine use the word, but Barney had never heard it on his lips.

NO
, Barney answered again.

This question and its variations always touched off a reaction in Barney, depending on what kind of mood he was in. Sometimes it amused him. What would happen if he answered
YES
? Yes, my routine was altered because I only went to the john twice today instead of three times. Could the Machine handle that kind of answer? Billy the Kidney claimed it could. Billy said Barney was lucky because his responses were those of a normal person in good condition. “Take the pain question,” Billy had said. “Answer
YES
to the pain question and the merry-go-round starts. What kind of pain, and a long list to choose from. The location. How often. How long. The intensity, by degrees. Wow.”

Barney was tempted to fool with the answer, to push
YES
to see what would happen. It would also break the monotony. But the Handyman had warned him at the outset against that kind of stuff. The Handyman had said that anything but the truth would foul up the project. And foul up Barney’s place in it.

“But why use a machine when anybody could ask these questions?” Barney had asked.

“It saves staff time,” the Handyman explained, “and it gives us complete access to the information by storing it. I can summon anyone’s history and receive it in a matter of moments. Actually, this particular unit is a diagnostic tool—it is capable of coming up with evaluations of the data it receives from patients.”

“But why me?” Barney had asked. “All I do is answer: no pain, nothing abnormal, no change in routine.”

“It’s a requirement we must fulfill. As long as you are receiving drugs, you must be monitored. Knowing the reaction to the drugs—and even
no
reaction is a reaction of sorts—is vital. It is why you’re here, Barney.”

He thought of the moment on the fence today when he had seen the car hurtling down the hill. Hell, he’d been
inside
the car, and it hadn’t been a dream or a nightmare, it had been happening at that moment. The car, the steering wheel, the wet pavement, the slanting street and the girl stepping off the curb. That wasn’t normal, was it, to have a thing like that happen in broad daylight? Yet he knew that there was no way he could tell the Machine what had happened in a series of
YES
and
NO
questions. The Machine handled only objective data, the Handyman had said. Subjective matter like dreams were covered in personal interviews. Barney had told the Handyman about the dream of the car—it had occurred three or four times in the past few weeks—but the Handyman had only shrugged and made a note in Barney’s case history. If it keeps recurring and if it bothers you, we’ll get someone in to discuss it,
he had said. Barney knew who that someone would be: a psychiatrist. He wasn’t in love with the idea of talking to a psychiatrist.

Barney pressed the
NO
button and watched the word appear on the screen.

The Machine hummed its tuneless song again and then fell silent and blank. A short session this time. He felt disappointed. This always happened when the questions ended, as if somehow he had failed a test.

Suddenly he was tired. He left the room and passed through the silent corridor, past all the doorways—doors closed, red lights glowing above the doors—of poor Billy the Kidney and pathetic Allie Roon and Mazzo with the telephone that he didn’t want but Billy the Kidney did.

Barney took a chance as he swung Mazzo’s door open slowly and quietly. The patients weren’t supposed to be disturbed after the staff turned the red light on. A small lamp burned on a table near Mazzo’s bed. Mazzo was an indistinct form under the blanket. Letting his eyes get accustomed to the dimness of the room, Barney waited, not breathing, not moving, listening for footsteps in the corridor. He heard the hum of the machine Mazzo was connected to, the ping of his heartbeats being monitored. He could not see the telephone: It was lost in the shadows.

“Mazzo,” Barney called softly. “I meant what I said. If there’s anything I can do, let me know. I can get around this place and you can’t.”

No response. Or had there been a slight movement in
the bed, a small stirring, and had he seen a flash of perspiration on Mazzo’s forehead as he moved?

Barney waited a moment, then withdrew, closing the door gently.

The corridor was empty, the red lights glowing. Silence, except for the hum of a motor somewhere in the walls. Odorless and colorless, the walls a drab gray, the ceiling a dull white. He felt lonesome, suddenly.

What am I doing in this place, anyway? Barney asked himself.

But he knew what he was doing in this place, after all, Barney thought as he viewed himself in the mirror. Each night before taking the capsule and slipping into the bed, Barney inspected himself in the mirror, as if to confirm his presence here in the Complex, to reassure himself that the figure in the mirror was actually Barney Snow. It was easy to lose your identity in an institution, in a place where everything was planned and scheduled and arranged ahead of time. The merchandise, which he had received three times since his arrival, often left him woozy and vague, although there had never been any pain involved. Of course, the merchandise was the reason he was here. And also the fact that he was the balancing factor, the stabilizer, the norm by which to measure the abnormal. On his arrival he had been told by the Handyman that he would also serve another function here, the subject of later tests that would be designed specifically for him. Spare me the details, Barney had said. Medical terms scared the hell out of him.

Barney squinted at his reflection in the mirror. He wished he were good-looking like Mazzo. He thought of all the worlds he would have conquered, all the girls he would have impressed. He knew that it took more than good
looks to be successful at anything, but the good looks at least got you up to bat. Barney had seldom gotten up to bat. He was not tall, about five six, and slightly bowlegged. Hair cut short to keep it out of his eyes. Adolescent acne spotting his cheeks like small wounds healing. Good eyes, though. He didn’t need glasses. Snappy brown eyes.

Barney heard the squeal of Billy the Kidney’s wheelchair and turned to find him rolling into the room.

“You’re going to catch hell cruising around this time of night,” Barney warned. Actually he was glad to see Billy, glad to see anybody in the evening, when everybody went under wraps early and Barney had nothing to look forward to but television, in which he couldn’t summon interest, and then the annihilation brought about by his nightly capsule.

“What are they gonna do? Kick me out?” Billy said. “I couldn’t sleep, even with a pill.”

Barney sat on the bed. “What’s eating you, Billy? Like today, outside. You were in a lousy mood.…”

“Maybe it was the junkyard,” Billy said, rolling the wheelchair back and forth, back and forth.

“What about the junkyard?”

“It reminded me of all the cars I stole.…”

Barney had to suppress a laugh. Of everyone he had ever known, Billy was the least likely car thief. Small and shriveled in the wheelchair, his face innocent and young, Billy reminded Barney of an altar boy. “You stole cars?” Barney said, trying to hide his astonishment.

“Sure, for a whole year,” Billy said, pride in his voice.

“How many cars did you steal?”

“Twenty-four. I counted them, kept track of them. On a board in my room, a bulletin board I made out of a cardboard box. That time I lived outside Philly for two years
with the same family. I marked off the steals on the board. But nobody knew what I was doing. I’d steal a car and mark it up. Had codes for the names. Like a Monte Carlo was the Phillies. And a Malibu was the Yankees. I named the cars for baseball teams. Everybody thought I was a big baseball fan, keeping those names up on the board.”

“So tell me. What did you do with the cars you stole? Sell them to the Syndicate?” Barney still wasn’t taking it all seriously, figured Billy was telling tales to pass the time.

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything with them. That’s why I never got caught or got into trouble. I’d just steal them and take a ride. Go someplace for an hour, maybe, get away from that place I was living. I’d drive around and then bring the car back near where I took it, because it’d be a long walk back if I left it out in the boondocks.”

“How did you learn to steal cars?” Barney asked, curious now because he was becoming convinced Billy was telling the truth. Billy was too innocent to be a liar.

“I learned from a friend of mine. He served time in tough places. He knew all about stealing cars, punching out, the switch, everything. And other stuff. Like always take cars in the movie parking lot or at a restaurant where you know the people are going to be busy for a while. Never outside stores in a shopping mall where the owner could come out any minute.” The wheelchair continued to rock back and forth.

“You never got caught?”

“Never. That’s because I didn’t really steal the cars. I borrowed them.”

“That was a big risk, just for a joyride.”

Billy leaned his head against the back of the wheelchair and closed his eyes. His pallor was terrible in the lamplight, yellow and deadly. “Jeez, it was nice, driving along.
I’d open all the windows and let the breeze blow in. I’d turn the radio up loud. Once I took a car that had CB stuff, and I turned the knobs and dials and heard all these voices out there calling to each other. It was beautiful.”

Barney didn’t say anything. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a car, and sent his mind back for the memory but encountered only that nightmare car slanting down the street. At the same time he thought of the MG in the junkyard, shining and spanking new in the middle of all those ruined cars and trucks.

“Remember this afternoon how I said I saw that car, how it looked like new?” Barney said, raising his voice a little because Billy’s eyes were still closed and he wasn’t moving and Barney wondered whether he was dead, whether he had died quick, just like that, the way the Handyman said it could happen. Then Billy’s eyes fluttered open and Barney breathed a sigh of relief.

“I remember,” Billy said. “Know how long you were on top of that fence? Like you were frozen, a statue? Hell, I started counting after a while, and I counted to one hundred and twenty-five. Which is a hell of a long time if you take a breath between each number.”

“I want to see that car again,” Barney said.

“Why? What’s that car got to do with you?”

“I don’t know,” Barney replied, his hands tracing patterns on the sheet. He didn’t want to tell Billy about the nightmare of the car, wondering whether the nightmare would be set off again if he saw the MG once more from the fence. “I don’t know, but I’ve got to see it again.”

“We’ll go out tomorrow, Barney, if neither one of us gets a treatment. I’ll act as a lookout.”

“Great, Billy, great,” Barney said.

And then Billy seemed to be overcome by a huge weariness
that made his body droop. As if suddenly his bones and muscles had turned to wax and the wax was melting. Billy’s head fell forward on his chest and he rested it there a moment. Then he whispered: “Think … I’d … better … get … to … bed.”

Barney pushed him back to his room, the wheelchair whispering through the dim corridor, the door to Billy’s room swiveling open noiselessly. Barney helped Billy to get into the bed. Billy’s breath was coming hard again, and when his eyes fluttered open, the flashing was in them.

Barney patted Billy’s shoulder.

“See you tomorrow,” he said softly.

“May—be …” Billy said.