Part 24 (1/2)

”Pimp!” George screamed, bouncing up and down like a rubber ball. ”What were you, pimp?”

The Chinese girl leaped up, shrieking, ”Tell us, you c.o.c.k-sucking fairy wh.o.r.e pimp, you a.s.s-kisser, you f.u.c.k!”

He said, ”I am an eye.”

”You t.u.r.d p.r.i.c.k,” the Executive Director said. ”You weakling. You puke. You suck-off. You s.n.a.t.c.h.”

He heard nothing now. And forgot the meaning of the words, and, finally, the words themselves.

Only, he sensed Mike watching him, watching and listening, hearing nothing; he did not know, he did not recall, he felt little, he felt bad, he wanted to leave.

The Vacuum in him grew. And he was actually a little glad.

It was late in the day.

”Look in here,” a woman said, ”where we keep the freaks.”

He felt frightened as she opened the door. The door fell aside and noise spilled out of the room, the size surprising him; but he saw many little children playing.

That evening he watched two older men feed the children milk and little foods, sitting in a separate small alcove near the kitchen. Rick, the cook, gave the two older men the children's food first while everyone waited in the dining room.

Smiling at him, a Chinese girl, carrying plates to the dining room, said, ”You like kids?”

”Yes/' he said.

”You can sit with the kids and eat there with them.”

”Oh,” he said.

”You can feed them later on like in a month or two.” She hesitated. ”When we're positive you won't hit them. We have a rule: the children can't never be hit for anything they do.”

”Okay,” he said. He felt warmed into life, watching the children eat; he seated himself, and one of the smaller children crept up on his lap. He began spooning food to the child. Both he and the child felt, he thought, equally warm. The Chinese girl smiled at him and then pa.s.sed on with the plates to the dining room.

For a long time he sat among the children, holding first one and then another. The two older men quarreled with the children and criticized each other's way of feeding. Bits and hunks and smudges of food covered the table and floor; startled, he realized that the children had been fed and were going off into their big playroom to watch cartoons on TV. Awkwardly, he bent down to clean up spilled food.

”No, that's not your job!” one of the elderly men said sharply. ”I'm supposed to do that.”

”Okay,” he agreed, rising, b.u.mping his head on the edge of the table. He held spilled food in his hand and he gazed at it, wonderingly.

”Go help clear the dining room!” the other older man said to him. He had a slight speech impediment.

One of the kitchen help, someone from the dishpan, said to him in pa.s.sing, ”You need permission to sit with the kids.”

He nodded, standing there, puzzled.

”That's for the old folk,” the dishpan person said. ”Babysitting.” He laughed. ”That can't do nothing else.” He continued by.

One child remained. She studied him, large-eyed, and said to him, ”What's your name?”

He answered nothing.

”I said, what's your name?”

Reaching cautiously, he touched a bit of beef on the table. It had cooled now. But, aware of the child beside him, he still felt warm; he touched her on the head, briefly.

”My name is Thelma,” the child said. ”Did you forget your name?” She patted him. ”If you forget your name, you can write it on your hand. Want me to show you how?” She patted him again.

”Won't it wash off?” he asked her. ”If you write it on your hand, the first time you do anything or take a bath it'll wash off.”

”Oh, I see.” She nodded. ”Well, you could write it on the wall, over your head. In your room where you sleep. Up high where it won't wash off. And then when you want to know your name better you can-”

”Thelma,” he murmured.

”No, that's my my name. You have to have a different name. And that's a girl's name.” name. You have to have a different name. And that's a girl's name.”

”Let's see,” he said, meditating.

”If I see you again I'll give you a name,” Thelma said. ”I'll make one up for you. 'Kay?”

”Don't you live here?” he said.

”Yes, but my mommy might leave. She's thinking about taking us, me and my brother, and leaving.”

He nodded. Some of the warmth left him.

All of a sudden, for no reason he could see, the child ran off.

I should work out my own name, anyhow, he decided; it's my responsibility. He examined his hand and wondered why he was doing that; there was nothing to see. Bruce, he thought; that's my name. But there ought to be better names than that, he thought. The warmth that remained gradually departed, as had the child.

He felt alone and strange and lost again. And not very happy.

One day Mike Westaway managed to get sent out to pick up a load of semirotten produce donated by a local supermarket to New-Path. However, after making sure no staff member had tailed him, he made a phone call and then met Donna Hawthorne at a McDonald's fast-food stand.

They sat together outside, with c.o.kes and hamburgers between them on the wooden table.

”Have we really been able to duke him?” Donna asked.

”Yes,” Westaway said. But he thought, The guy's so burned out. I wonder if it matters. I wonder if we accomplished anything. And yet it had to be like this.

”They're not paranoid about him.”

”No,” Mike Westaway said.

Donna said, ”Are you personally convinced they're growing the stuff?”

”Not me. It's not what I believe. It's them.” Those who pay us, he thought.

”What's the name mean?”

”Mors ontologica. Death of the spirit. The ident.i.ty. The essential nature.” Death of the spirit. The ident.i.ty. The essential nature.”