7 Steps to Midnight (2 page)

Time, he thought. Was that what he’d murmured, waking up?
Why?
Chronology, that’s why. Everything separated by time. Him and his bed. Him and the answer to his project. Him and his car.

“For
get
it,” he growled.
I refuse to bring it home with me
….
R
₂
(x,y,z)
, his brain tried to slip in. He cut it off.
Drop
it, he ordered himself. Wetting the end of his right index finger, he rubbed it over his eyelids, the momentary coolness providing him with the illusion of wakefulness.

He looked at the intersection sign as he sped by it. He should have hung a right and headed for Las Vegas. If he was going to stay up day and night, he might as well enjoy it.

“
Sure
,” he muttered. He wouldn’t go to Vegas, that was obvious. He’d go home and take a shower as he always did. Get in his pajamas and clamber into bed. Look to his left, suspense and mystery paperbacks; to his right, science, fiction, fantasy and horror—and wonder which one he would gulp down as a sleeping pill this time.

***

He had almost passed the man without noticing him. Then his head turned quickly and an impression flashed by him. Old in age and clothes, a baseball cap on the man’s head.

By now the car had sped past him; the man’s figure was receding quickly.

“Oh…
shit
,” Chris muttered. He exhaled loudly, fluttering his cheeks. An old guy stuck out in the desert at this time of night. His foot lifted from the gas pedal and the car began to slow.

Or should I?
he wondered. He visualized the old man gabbing at him, driving him insane. He visualized the old man reaching for his groin, a toothless grin on his face. He visualized the old man pulling out a hatchet and burying it in his skull.

The vision faded in a recollection of how the old man had lifted his head, hopefully, as though to say,
Ah, rescue from this dreadful spot
.

Chris groaned and pressed on the brake. All right, all right, he thought. He pulled over to the shoulder, slowed down enough to make a U-turn and twisted the steering wheel to his left. Can’t just leave the poor old guy alone out here, he thought.

If only, it would occur to him later, he had never thought that.

Chris made another U-turn and pulled up by the old man. Reaching across the other seat, he unlocked the door. The old man opened it, picked up a canvas bag and got inside. “You’ll never forget this,” he said.

Chris felt a momentary tremor at the words, then shucked it off. The old man looked benign enough.
Hell, it could be Howard Hughes
, he thought.
Hughes didn’t really die. And now he’s going to give me ninety million dollars for my trouble.

Repressing a smile, Chris pulled back onto the highway and accelerated as the old man put his canvas bag on the floor. “Been here long?” he asked.

“Hours,” the old man answered. “No one wanted to pick me up.”

I don’t blame them
, Chris thought. “Well, that’s the way things are today,” he said.

Now the old galoot will open up his bag
, he thought,
remove a carving knife and reduce me to giblets
. The vision half alarmed and half amused him as the old man responded, “Yeah, nobody trusts anybody these days.”

They’ll find my remains about a month from now
, Chris’s vision continued,
and Scotty Tensdale’s Pontiac in Massachusetts
. He frowned away the notion. Maybe he should start reading Barbara Cartland.

“Veering,” said the old man. “Albert Veering.”

“Hi.” Chris nodded. “Chris Barton.” He wondered where the old man was going. Not that it mattered. He could only take him
as far as the entrance to Oasis Village. Then Albert would be on his own again.

“Nice car,” the old man said.

Chris thought about explaining that it wasn’t his but decided he was too tired for the explanation; Veering might have a brain like F. Crain. He settled for “Thanks.”

“What brings you out this time of night?” asked Veering. “Or should I say, this time of morning?”

Say anything you want
, Chris thought. “Coming home from work,” he said.

“You must be on the night shift,” Veering said, “or on the graveyard shift. Except if you were on the graveyard shift, you’d still be working.”

As I dreaded
, Chris thought;
a blabbermouth
. He pressed down on the gas pedal.
Let’s get this over fast
, he thought. “I just worked late,” he said.

“At the plant down the highway?” the old man asked.

“Yeah.”

“Passed it hours ago,” said Veering. “Looks hush-hush.”

Chris chuckled at the phrase. “I guess,” he said. Obviously, the old man didn’t have anything in his canvas bag but dirty underwear and a half-empty bottle of Muscatel.

“All those high fences and gate guards,” Veering said. “You in secret government work?”

Chris didn’t answer. He couldn’t very well believe that this old coot in the baseball cap was a foreign agent. Still, there was the policy. “Nothing secret,” he said. “Statistics. Pretty dull.”

“How come you have to work so late then?” Veering prodded.

Chris glanced at him. The old man’s question grated on him.
None of your fucking business
, he thought.

He repressed the irritation. Hell, the old guy had been stuck out here for hours. He just wanted a little company, that was all.

“Just bad luck,” he said.

“Statistics,” Veering said. “A lot of details.”

“Yeah.”

“You a cost analyst?” the old man asked.

“Something like that.”

“Defense program?”

Chris had had enough. “Where you off to?” He changed the subject.

“Off to nowhere,” Veering said. “Just wandering.”

“Sounds good.”

“You wandering too?” the old man asked.

Chris glanced at him. What the hell did
that
mean? Maybe the old man
was
a little off.

“Modern man,” Veering said.

Oh, Christ, Chris thought. A baseball-capped philosopher.
This has really been my night.

“Have any personal life?” the old man asked.

Chris felt like saying
What the hell is that to you, you old fart?
But he didn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings. He was just being garrulous, that’s all. “I work a lot,” he said.

“Well, there’s the shame.” The old man nodded. “There’s the pity.”

“Hmm,” Chris said.
I sound like F. Crain now.
The thought amused him.

“Modern man, so totally absorbed by the mass of details in his existence that he has no time for a personal life.”

Jesus Christ, I picked up PBS Al
, Chris thought. He didn’t have Muscatel in his bag, he had
The Story of Philosophy
by Will Durant. He’d almost prefer a hatchet. Maybe if he didn’t respond, the old man would let it go.

The old man didn’t.

“Is your life meaningful?” he asked. “Do you have time for anything of consequence?”

Jesus, I am tired
, Chris thought.
Why the hell did I pick him up?

“That’s the problem, you see,” Veering said. “How to differentiate.”

What the fuck is he talking about now? Chris wondered.

“
Reality
,” the old man said. “How do you differentiate reality?”

From what? Chris thought. He sighed, politely quiet. Oh, well, he’d be at the Village soon. Then he could dump Baruch Spinoza and go to bed.

“Is your life real or unreal?” the old man continued.

Chris didn’t try to hide his sigh this time. “Real, I assume.”

“You
assume
,” the old man responded quickly.

Jesus God, he’s going to start a seminar, Chris thought.
Give me a break.

“You
assume
your life is real but how do you
know
it is?”

Oh, God, a shower, a read and a sleep, Chris thought. Maybe he should dump the old guy now, tell him he had to take a left turn into the desert. “I
don’t
know,” he muttered, unable to disguise the edge of irritation he felt.

“There’s a crying shame,” the old man said.

Give me a break!
howled Chris’s mind.

“An intelligent young man like you not knowing what’s real and what isn’t?” Veering pressed.

“I s’pose,” Chris said. How far to the Village? Couldn’t be more than nine, ten miles.

“Do you believe your life is organized?” the old man asked.

“Organized?” Chris glanced at him impatiently.

“Everything in place. All the details settled. No surprises.”

Relax, Chris told himself. Let him blather. “Well, sure, I know what to expect each day,” he said. A little sleep, a lot of work and no solution to the project, his mind completed.

Veering wouldn’t give it up. “But do you know what
is
and what
isn’t
in your life?” he asked.

You’re getting on my nerves, you old bastard
, Chris thought.
I pick you up out of the goodness of my heart because you look decrepit and alone in the darkness on a desert highway. And what do you do? Attack me with your Mickey Mouse philosophy.

“Well?” demanded Veering.

Be patient, Chris ordered himself. He’s old. Let him think he’s talking sense. “Well,” he said, “to the extent that anyone knows what is or isn’t real in their lives—”

“Ah!” the old man interrupted.

Chris waited. Nothing happened. That’s
it
? he thought. Just
ah
? Not the greatest windup of a philosophical debate he’d ever run across. But what the hell.

“Tell you what,” said Veering.

Chris barely managed to control a groan.

“I wager you,” the old man said.

Chris looked at him, then back at the highway. “You do,” he said.

“I do,” said Veering. “I present you with a wager.”

To wit? Chris’s mind inquired. He felt a gush of pleasure as he saw the distant lights of Oasis Village.

“I wager the security of your existence against your assumption that you know what’s real and what’s unreal in your life.”

Come again?
Chris thought.
You what?

“Are you game?” asked Veering. “Do you accept the wager?”

Chris almost asked, What
wager? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you old fool
, then decided to let it go. He’d be home in fifteen minutes. “Sure,” he said.

“Don’t say it casually,” the old man cautioned. “Think about it.”

Oh
, God,
why did I pick him up?
Chris thought. “Okay,” he said.
Never pick up hitchhikers;
he formed a permanent rule for himself.

“You believe, then, that you know what’s real in your life and what’s unreal. Correct?”

Chris yawned. “Yeah, right.”

“And I maintain that you do not,” said Veering. He’s beginning to sound like a mid-Victorian attorney, Chris thought. “And I repeat—are you willing to gamble the security of your existence on this wager?”

“
Sure
,” Chris muttered. Up ahead, he saw the gateway to Oasis Village. Thank the good Lord, he thought.

“You’re
positive
,” the old man said. “You’re not—”

“I’m going to have to let you off here,” Chris broke in. “I live here.”

“
Do you so wager?
” Veering insisted.

“
Okay. Okay.
” Chris started steering toward the shoulder.

“Done and done,” the old man said. “You can let me off right here.”

Bet your ass I will
, Chris thought. He steered onto the highway shoulder, braking.

“Thank you for the ride and interesting discussion,” Veering said, picking up his canvas bag.

“You’re welcome,” Chris replied offhandedly.
Go
, he thought.

Veering opened the door, stepped out onto the shoulder, then leaned back in. In the dimness of the overhead light, Chris saw him smiling.

“
À bientôt
,” the old man said.

He closed the door and started walking, the canvas bag thrown over his shoulder. Chris pulled back onto the highway and drove past him.
À bientôt?
he thought. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He’d never see the old coot again.

As he was driving through the gateway to Oasis Village, it came to him—the definition of
veering
.

To change direction.

He would remember that more than once in the days to come.

When he turned the corner onto Oasis Drive East, he saw his blue Mustang.

It was parked in front of his garage. Exactly as he always parked it when he was home.

His mind jumped automatically toward explanation. He’d been so distracted by his work, he’d left it at home. The illogic of that was immediately apparent. How had he gotten to work then? No one else had picked him up. There was no shuttle service between Oasis Village and Palladian.

Which left what? The practical joke again. And who at the plant knew him well enough to perpetrate a joke on him? In a word, nobody.

He pulled the Pontiac into the driveway, parking it beside his car. Was it his car? His mind still sought an answer. These houses were similar in appearance. He must have driven onto the wrong street and approached a house that looked like his but wasn’t. With a car parked in front of it that looked like his but wasn’t. Farfetched but possible.

The notion was short-lived. Lasting long enough for him to leave the Pontiac, walk around it and look at the Mustang. He always left it unlocked at night. Neighbors told him he shouldn’t, there were occasional car thefts in the area. He never paid attention.

Opening the door on the driver’s side of the Mustang, he looked inside. The cassette and change box was there across the drive-shaft hump. His cassettes: Mahler, Vaughan Williams, Copland, the
Smithsonian History of Jazz
in three cassettes. Any concept
of coincidence was gone. It was his Mustang. And it had been stolen. Taken from the plant and parked in front of his house.