BABY
Baby was lonely. He had food, comfortable living quarters, sex whenever he desired, and freedom to move.
The food wasn't bad: steak and beer and lobster and wine.
His living quarters looked out on a horseshoe bay, where jungle reached down to a palm-lined beach. Clear, tide less water endlessly lapped, maintaining a temperature of seventy-two degrees.
At night the moon rose in a perfectly clear sky, throwing the lush vegetation into sharp relief. By day, clouds graced each sunset with colors that unbalanced his heart and, in the morning, a fine vaporous mist left tiny, cool droplets on his arms and legs.
During the middle of the day, when it was always hot and uncomfortably dry, Baby retreated to an air-conditioned, windowless room in the basement. Here the walls were lined with fish tanks lit by recessed lighting, and water trickled down a rock garden in the centre. He sat for hours, listening to music, reading, napping, and sometimes watching movies.
Some days, in the middle of the afternoon, he would go out for a drive along the coast, savoring the distant shimmer of the sea through the dense clusters of palm trees that lined the road. Returning, he would take a shower and, conjuring up a fantasy in the beating water, step out and engage the object of his lust, without fear or remorse.
But not as frequently now. The loneliness was starting to frighten him. The smiles and dirty-talk, the supple, tanned bodies conforming to his every whim, even the gentle post-coital embraces, were becoming loathsome. He was gripped with a malaise that manifested itself in long periods of brooding and sharp outbursts of temper, during which he would smash things. Tidy by nature, the fragments would automatically be cleaned up.
Attempts at conversation with those he encountered were invariably circular. Say he asked someone how they were feeling. The nature of his mood dictated the answer. If in a hurry, the answer would be 'just fine'. In a more leisurely frame, 'not too bad, but my arthritis is bothering me, and I haven't slept well lately. You're looking very well, yourself!' This last spoken in a congratulatory tone, to which he might reply: 'Yes, thank you, I'm feeling very well. I'm so sorry about your arthritis.' Then, if he wanted to hear more about the arthritis, the conversation might proceed with further details. If not, it would end in whatever fashion he chose.
Even deep conversations that involved the heart or mind were conducted in the same 'talking-to-myself' fashion. 'I love you' produced as many responses as he could imagine the heart capable of, and 'two and two makes four' could undergo as many mathematical and philosophical permutations as he knew existed.
At first it was rather a lot of fun. Each day Baby would people his life with agreeable companions, and do things that pleased him. He was not stupid, so he did not try to create perfection all the time. Sometimes he had misfortune visited on his companions so that he could feel sad, and quite often he would endure a temporary illness so that he could be nursed and pampered. He did not have homicidal tendencies, so he did not indulge that extreme.
Gradually, however, life and its responses became merely repetitive, as his imagination reached its limits. This was when the frustration of his existence began to sink in.
One day, over breakfast with his beautifully shaped companion of the night before sitting naked across the table, he felt an uncontrollable irritation.
"Why don't you go fuck yourself!", he snapped.
This she did using every aid that he could imagine. Initially this was invigorating, but as he tired of the game so the exhibition waned. At last they found themselves locked in a glazed stare. This was too much for Baby, who started to throw things from the breakfast table at her. First a grapefruit, then a glass of juice. She leapt from the table and cowered in the folds of the curtain, juice dripping from her naked thighs.
"Why don't you say something, goddamn you!", he raged.
As he did so he conjured up an aggressive response, which resulted in her throwing things back at him. The whole business might have struck him as a surreal game, but the sugar-bowl was real enough as it caught him, painfully, on the shoulder.
"Ouch!"
Now it was his turn to cower. Desiring sympathy, Baby found himself enfolded tenderly in her arms. The honeyed fragrance of her skin, and the soft blond hairs on her forearms, made his heart ache in a way he could not comprehend.
"Why can't you communicate with me?", he begged the heavenly creature.
But because he did not know the answer there was none, only the bright, hazel eyes gazing emptily back at him. It was then that he knew horror. He was quite alone, with no apparent hope of rescue.
Baby's full realization that his companions were, in a larger sense, purely a figment of his imagination led him to playful experimentation.
During sexual acts he changed genders and added deleted partners to create variety. This was not without problems. In the abandon of lust, for example, he occasionally lost his train of thought. This had a sort of overload effect, which produced a freezing of the action accompanied by an uncomfortable sensation, not unlike that of an electrical short-circuit. This manifested itself in a painful ache in the testicles.
He made people disappear, by saying the word or one synonymous. He made them jump through hoops of fire, though never get burned. He made them fly over the bay with arms outstretched. And though he was unable, on occasion, to prevent adding a little drama by having them lose control, he never let them crash into the water. He let them rest when they were tired, for Baby was basically a kind person.
One evening, in the company of several young men and women, he found himself sitting on the beach before a blazing fire of driftwood. Small fish, speared on sticks, were thrust toward the flames from out of the circle of darkness. Baby, his arms around his knees, hunched lower. The sand clinging to the backs of his thighs, the cool evening breeze across his forehead, and the steady crackle of the fire, induced in him a melancholic reverie. He began to hum 'Auld Lang Syne'. Alone at first. And then, as his feelings grew more acute, including his companions. Inexpressibly moved by the deep emotion wrought by this display he began to sing the words. A harmonious, communal sound filled the night about them. Until, that is, he forgot the words. In the pause that followed Baby felt the full fear of his loneliness; his companions were but vague shadows flickering at the edge of the fire. He began to sob uncontrollably.
Baby cried for a long time that night, unable to summon up the comfort he so desperately needed. His imagination was all played out. At last he fell asleep by the dying embers of the fire, his body on its side in the fetal position, grains of sand clinging to his moist cheeks.
Next morning when he awoke the sun was already burning through the mist. The remains of the fire lay blackened beside him. He made no effort to erase them, as he would normally have done. So be it, he thought with a sense of futility and despair, let it all go, it makes no difference. He returned to the house and, still tousled and gritty from the beach, sat down to contemplate his existence.
He could not change the environment through the use of his imagination, except for small maintenance chores. He had made several drives, but the coast seemed endless. He was stuck and he knew it.
In the days that followed Baby chose to live alone. He could no longer bear the sound of laughter, now that he knew its source. Silence filled the house as he stalked from room to room pondering his fate. He was adrift in this strange place where all his material and carnal wants were supplied. He feared madness, and felt it most when he pondered his origins. He could not remember how he got here, and the implications suggested more than a simple loss of memory.
By what agency was the gas tank in the car always full when he went to use it? The needle sank lower as he drove, but it never struck empty. It was not a case of his having to imagine its replenishment. Somebody, or something, beyond his realm apparently effected this. And in such a way as to appear to attempt to duplicate the logic by which he operated. An exercise which failed in its completeness and gave away the existence of an unseen hand. But there were no grimy fingerprints to reveal its identity.
Paranoia alternated with bouts of heavy drinking. Bottles lay gathering dust on the kitchen floor, and the smell of stale vomit lingered in the air. Peering in a mirror Baby surveyed his decline. The matted hair, the sallow skin and the glazed eyes shocked him. He would go mad he was sure, if he did not do something. The car. That was the answer. He would drive and keep driving until he got somewhere, or died in the attempt. But first he would clean up, have a good meal, and get a decent night's rest.
He made some effort to clean up the mess: opening the windows to air out the house, and kicking the empty bottles into a corner. But he did not summon his imagination to restore the earlier, pristine environment. That would have been too painful and, anyway, he was leaving.
As he sat down to dinner, shaved, combed and washed, he felt a wave of self-pity, and decided to indulge himself one last time. Where was the harm? He might as well comfort himself with the pleasures he knew, even if they were basically empty. His recent abstinence should aid in adding a little freshness to this last entertainment. But no fireworks. Just two or three comfortable friends; a laid-back evening with good food and mellow conversation; perhaps not even any sex; see them to the door; and wake up alone and refreshed next day, with no reminders of the past.
There were two men and a woman. All three dressed casually in open-necked pastel shirts, light, cotton slacks, and sandals. One of the men had a red beard that glinted in the candlelight; the other, a balding head that shone. Both were in their early forties and slightly overweight, though otherwise healthy. The woman, a few years younger, had a figure so comely in its creamy curves that it made Baby jealous. She carried most of the conversation, her face animated with throaty laughter from time to time, the soft voluptuousness of her cheeks imperceptibly flushed from the wine. The men were attentive to her, feeding the conversation with eager, but respectful, remarks and enquiries. Her speech, with the occasional exception of a nod or brief question, was directed to Baby, who said little by way of response. It concerned matters that she indicated, by a certain aloofness towards them, were beyond the comprehension of her companions, but not Baby whom she addressed as an old and trusted friend, an equal. Baby was flattered.
So skilful was Baby's manipulation of this scene that he momentarily forgot his authorship. A wave of longing overcame him.
"God, this is a wonderful evening! Won't you stay the night?"
There was, of course, no response. Baby realized his mistake in an instant, but it was too late. His companions, now speechless, sat blankly beside and across from him. In a swift rage he leapt up from the table, spilling wine and knocking his chair over. Running to a waist-high, ornate, japanned cabinet nearby, he grabbed from its interior a heavy revolver. The shots were deafening in the confined space, and the air was immediately filled with the acrid smell of the discharges. The first round took the woman full in the chest and thrust her backwards off her chair into a twisted heap on the floor. Her two companions remained seated at the table, as the second blew off the top of the bald man's head. Blood spattered the wall and an armchair nearby. In a bizarre moment the bald man's chair teetered backwards with the blast and then balanced for a moment, before falling with a thud back to its upright position at the table, the partly decapitated head landing with a crash amidst the cutlery. Baby willed red beard to run for the door and, obeying a sudden urgent knot in his stomach, pumped three shots into his back, driving him into the wall down which he slid in a red wash.
His fury spent, he surveyed the carnage dispassionately. A tiny burp from the bloodied remains of the bald man reminded him of the hot revolver in his hand, but he did not shoot again.
Revulsion began to set in as he saw how much blood he had spilled. A large pool of it spread out from underneath the overturned body of the woman, which he now approached unwillingly, yet drawn by some hidden remorse. The finality of the exit puncture in the back of the faded, yellow shirt made his gut contract with nausea. He sat down for a minute, letting the gun fall to the floor. Maybe he could have imagined it all away, but he chose not to, or was unable to. Or was it the burden of guilt that made him feel human again after so much madness, even if it seemed unbearable to him at that moment? Better to live with this crime than the insupportable loneliness of the fruits of his imagination.
It was starting to mist. In the glare of the headlights the night air had acquired a faintly purple hue. Baby switched on the wipers, but didn't bother to close the windows. The moist draught caught his left forearm where it rested on the door and, traveling up his sleeve, which billowed and flapped noisily, fanned across his chest. He had been driving for several hours; soon it would be dawn.
He had left the house in a rush, not as he had planned, but the slaughter had made him desperate. He no longer cared about such things as supplies and clothing. Of course the gas tank was full, he thought bitterly. Secretly he hoped that for once it would run out. He cursed his apparent fate and, in a final act of revenge, the car parked at a safe distance in the driveway, threw gasoline on the garage stairs and tossed a match onto them. The flames shot up the stairwell, adding to the draught that swept into the living-room and towards the buckled and broken bodies in the dining area. He drove away from the house and sat watching for a few minutes as the blaze spread through the rooms, exiting the windows here and there to lick at the roof in the moonlit night.
At the entrance to the road he turned left instinctively, shut off the air-conditioning, and opened the windows. He wanted to feel the cool night air and hear its rush as he swept along. He wanted no more reminders of his artificial existence. He wanted to sweat a little and live with it.
The car was heavy and powerful, a hardtop coupe. The radio, which had hitherto played whatever he fancied, was now only a jumble of static. Baby took this as a sign that the automatic controls of his environment were no longer in effect. He was scared of what would replace them and afraid to try a simple experiment to test his assumption. Maybe later his curiosity would assert itself. Christ what a fucked up mess! There was no explaining it and no going back.
He made a decision to drive until the gas ran out, or he reached somewhere. But what or where was 'somewhere'? And would the gas indeed run out? He did not know what he would do if neither of these things happened, and he hoped that daylight would bring a resolution. He had no immediate fear of death, but supposed vaguely that this might occur, might even prove to be welcome. Still, except for the exhaustion of severe stress, his body felt alright and his mind mercifully numb.
The fine mist had turned to rain that grew heavier as he drove on. He rolled up the windows and found that the ventilation fan had inexplicably ceased to function. He glanced nervously at the gas indicator, but it hovered just below half-full where it had been for the last hour and a half. So, some controls were still in effect. Did this mean simply a reduction, or a selection? Was his previous environment wearing off, or was he still being manipulated? It grew stuffy in the car and he cracked open the windows, even though some rain spattered through. Sweat trickled down his sides, and the seat of his pants stuck to the leather upholstery.
There had been no change in the scenery at the edge of the road as it flickered by: green vegetation, half glimpses of palm trees and fluttering insects. The road, with only small occasional grade changes, gently undulated, enabling Baby to hold a fairly steady sixty miles-an-hour. Now that the rain had increased, he noticed the odd frog hopping across the road through the splashing droplets that danced before him. Slowing, he increased the wiper speed. It grew uncomfortably hot and the visibility shrank to a few yards. He stopped the car in the middle of the road. The rain, driven in sheets by a wind that had sprung up, drummed and slapped on the metal. He left the motor and lights on and, opening the door, put his left leg out. It was instantly and refreshingly soaked. Quickly he got out and, not bothering to close the door, stood in the gusting downpour.
With relief he felt the rain trickling down between his thighs and onto his genitals. He opened his mouth and drank from the rivulets that ran down his cheeks, mixing with the salt of his sweat. The rain beat at his body in waves. It felt cathartic, and tears washed from his eyes in the deluge. Kneeling on the blacktop and bowing his head, he clasped his arms about him and sobbed uncontrollably.
Eventually the storm began to ease, and Baby wearily got to his feet and back into the car, which was now pretty wet on the driver's side. Resting his hand on the passenger seat as he sat back, his clothes squelching against the sodden upholstery, he felt something furry that drew away. He recoiled in surprise, glancing down. Two cat's eyes, glowing in the dash light, stared up at him from the far side of the passenger seat, where a crouching huddle of fur shrank in the darkness. They stared at each other for a few moments and, though wary of cats, he welcomed its company. Making no effort to touch it, he closed the door, slipped into gear, and drove forward into the slackening rain.
Though very tired, he felt spiritually strengthened and strangely optimistic. More so because of the appearance of the cat. Hunger provoked him into conjuring up a ham sandwich, but nothing appeared. He tried again with no success and, rather than dampening his ardor, this failure encouraged a firm conviction that his situation was changing. In his elation he wanted to stroke the cat, but his wariness persisted, so that he contented himself with singing, in a rather flat but muscular tone, 'Auld Lang Syne, all the words of which he could now recall. He took this as an auspicious omen.