Twenty-eight
"Becky, run!"
Rick's cry came out a strangled croak. It was enough
to spur Becky into motion. She ran screaming, and when Mort started after
her, Rick rolled to his feet and went in the other direction.
Mort yelled after him. Adrenalin propelled him to
the far side of the building. He skidded across the floor at an
intersection and ducked into a men's room marked STAFF.
Lights came on in the chrome and black-tiled room.
Rick took a rear booth and sat down to catch his breath, wrapping his
bleeding hand with a roll of toilet paper.
Now what? His heart beat too furiously to think
straight. They had somehow brought Mort back from the dead only to have
his own unreal life threatened. Becky had made him not look at Mort's
body. She had convinced him that Mort's fatal injury wasn't real,
no more real than white dogs and blue flowers. Still, nothing made any
sense. How was he expected to pretend that his pain and the blood
soaking his shirt had never happened?
Rick peeled his hand away from the sticky mess and
looked down. The knife had taken out a little slice of skin. Unless he
bled to death, it wouldn't kill him. He jammed his eyes closed, fearing
mindless panic far more than physical injury. Marla and Mort had both
betrayed him. Becky, too, in her own way. Meek and mild Becky. The girl
had a mind like a steel trap. He wasn't her equal. He wasn't anyone's
equal. For all he knew for certain, she could be responsible for the
nightmare, just as Marla had accused.
Footsteps shuffled on the on the hard tile. Rick
moaned in frustration, remembering that he had left a trail of blood for
everyone to follow.
"Mort?"
Rick threw open the door to his stall.
The janitor stuffed his hands in his jeans pocket and
leaned against the sink. "How are you doing, kid?"
Rick looked in amazement into pale gray eyes. He
rose to his feet. "How does it look like I'm doing? Will you let us out
of here now?"
"Do you think I can? How can you reject Becky's
theory after everything she's shown you?"
Rick opened his bloody hand. "What about this?"
"Do you want to discuss the metaphysics of reality?
Here? In the men's room?"
"I want out," Rick said.
"It wouldn't help," the janitor said bluntly. "You
would take your problems with you. It's best to deal with them here and
now."
"If Becky's right, then there's more going on than
just helping with our problems. You're only making things worse."
"It's too soon to explain. The most I can offer is
to lend what moral support and encouragement I can. Remember what I said
earlier?"
"About what?"
"About your attitude toward yourself."
"What has that got to do with anything?"
"It wasn't your self-confidence that got you into
this mess," the janitor said with a bark of laughter. "It's going to take
an unrealistic appraisal of yourself to get you out. Kid, I got more
confidence in you than you do. Think about it."
Rick sat back down. His wound had stopped hurting.
As long as he stanched the flow of blood with his hand and didn't breathe
too deeply. Mort had bruised his ribs with the toe of his boot.
The janitor's tone of voice softened. "You think
your circumstance unjust, the way you and your friends seem to be
locked in this building and abandoned. If it's a virtual reality
experience as Becky has shown to be the case, it's too harsh."
"So tell me that it isn't."
"Everything that bites for real comes from inside."
The janitor put his fist against his chest. "From the heart. Anger,
envy, frustration, their consequence has to be dealt with in any reality."
"You're only making it worse for us!"
The janitor raised an eyebrow in surprise. "And
you're not up to the challenge?" He shook his head. "Use your
imagination, Rick. Without the human imagination, we'd be a handful of
naked apes on an African savanna. Population control would take the form
of the jaws of a jackal, and the greatest human achievement would be a
stomach full of wild berries at day's end, and you'd still have to worry
about surviving the night. Take my word for it, kid, you have everything
you need to deal with this situation."
Rick stared at the floor in growing dejection. "How
much longer is it going to last?"
"Like the roller coaster ride at age eight?" The man
gave him a knowing smile. "Remember that? You jammed your eyes shut and
tried to count off the seconds until it was over."
"It worked," Rick said defiantly.
"For an eight-year-old. Later, you regretted being
such a coward. You never had the chance to see how high you had gone."
The janitor drew closer and squatted before him. "A
problem is something inflicted upon you. A challenge is a problem you
deal with of your own free will. Turn your back on a problem and you
lose. Wrestle with a challenge and you always come out ahead. Even if
you fail, you're stronger and more knowledgeable just for trying."
The janitor held out his two hands. "Life is putty
in your hands. Shape it to whatever you want it to be. Fear is the one
pitfall every human being has to deal with, but no power in the world can
help you, or hurt you, as much as your own attitude toward life and your
image of yourself."
"Unless I get myself shot along the way," Rick said
bitterly.
The janitor stood and leaned against the sink. "You
were dead for the ten billion years the universe took to get you here.
Stars exploded and galaxies collided just to assemble this little mud ball
called Earth and put you on it. Living or dying, it all works in your
favor."
Rick looked up hopefully. "You said things would
turn out okay."
"They will."
Mort suddenly rushed into the room. "Let's get a
move on it, Kaiser. Marla wants you and Becky locked away in the
basement. Indulge the lady. She's a few cards shy of a full deck. And
by the way, don't ever rush a knife like that again. Makes more sense to
poke your eyeballs with a sewing needle."
Rick looked up and down the gleaming
chrome-and-black-tiled men's room.
The janitor had vanished into thin air.
