Chapter One

i.

The rain forest fades completely, replaced by sunless, barren terrain, sparsely covered with weeds. In the distance, surrounded by a misty purplish halo, is a jagged mound, the City of Dieledon. Nearby, serving a poorly paved asphalt highway, is a gasoline island peopled with ancient pumps that stand like guards from outer space. This sight is examined by Philip and Marie, seated on a stoop before a metal screen door. Due to a sudden chill in the mid-morning air, they shiver as they stare and, just as they appear to be entering a state of catalepsy, a car enters the station. It halts before them and honks.

"Heyowbowsumgas!"

The screen door slowly opens and out walks Harry, the station manager, a man more old than middle-aged, undersized, his potbelly contracting as he steps over the fatigued couple whose faces light with the hope of a ride.

"Okay, mister. Hold your horses." With the serene indifference of a man who has seen millions come and go, Harry rests his arm on the car's roof and looks inside it, asking, "What'll it be?"

"Fillitupwithe regular."

Harry snaps his fingers and approaches the back of the car.

"Wait. You need a key."

Keys land clinking on the pavement beside him.

The pump meter spins madly. Harry, whistling a tune, gives the bug-smeared windshield a spray. As he wipes, he announces. "Nice car. Old as it looks?"

John, its driver and proud owner, smiles. "You'll never believe me but it's been driving for fifteen years." He is standing tall, solid, self-assured and unkempt, shaking the stiffness from his legs by the car. He gives its hood an affectionate rub.

"They're timeless machines. Great body, too. How's the motor?" he asks, standing in front of, and looking up at John while busily wiping his hands with a rag.

"It purrs. Want to buy it? Parting will be such sweet sorrow, but I'm flying home, see? in my own plane."

"You're a pilot?"

"I got the license to prove it. It's one of my favorite hobbies. See, I'm a loner, longing for that feeling of complete independence, with no strings attached, cut loose from the world; so I love flying. Like my instructor says, it's like driving in three dimensions. Think about it."

Harry glances sideways as he cleans the headlights, thinking: What? Then he glances at his stoop to see if Philip and Marie still seated there. They are there. He feels surrounded by people.

The rushed state in which John entered the station was promptly calmed by Harry's flattering recognition of his car. He leisurely unfolds and examines a map. "Is this the road to Dieledon?"

"Certainly is. Open the hood. First visit?"

"Second, if you count my flight over the place yesterday." He reaches into the car. "I'd call this my first visit by land. I drove these thousand miles to check out a plane one of my instructor's former students is selling. It's stored at the Font Aspic Airport, and since the city's so near, I figured, why not visit the place where all those wild Vargas/Souiel films were made. Ever see one?" He shakes his head. "Shtrange. I have all of them -- even the latest -- on videotape."

"So, besides being a pilot, you're also Captain Video," says Harry with recognition. He shakes his head. "I hear so much fuss about those guys, so I see 'em, but I don't like 'em."

"I don't like them, either," John explains, "just I think they're freaks."

"Oh, you like collecting freaks." As it happens, he has raised a topic about which Harry has an interesting theory. "There's all that talk how they revolutionized movies. I know why they talk like that. To justify the child pornography. Like that new one, Friends. I saw it. Why do you guess it grossed some thirty million pestos in two weeks? Because of that intellectual bull about a floating stage line and whatever else it's getting an award for? Forget about it. It's because of those two kids. Did you see what they do to each other?" He examines the oil on the dipstick with a look of disgust. "In one scene they make love on an embalming table to the point where their blood flows down the side drains. That's kind'a sick. I only saw the film because of that girl, Diane Heyday. She's so young and petite. I'll be surprised is she doesn't go far."

"She's not so young anymore," says John, who enjoys hating to disillusion the old man. "You know how old that film is? It happens to be made five years ago."

"Too bad. She's probably all burned out by now. You know whatever happened to her?"

"I don't know about the rest of them, but Kevin Vargas is busy cashing in on his childhood by releasing those films. He's probably in Dieledon right now for the Pyramid Awards."

"Say," says a suspicious Harry, "You know a lot about them. You sure maybe you don't like 'em a little?" He has a stupid, open-eyed expression on his face as he lowers his head forward, tilting it up to the side.

Although Philip and Marie have not been following the conversation, they cannot help but notice the defensive tone in the tall man's voice as he says, "Like them? I hate 'em. I think that Vargas should be shot for the things he did in those films. Nobody should get away with acting so psychotic toward another person, even if it is only in the movies. I'm mainly here to buy a plane, so I restored this baby --" His hand grips a hump around the car headlight "--and now I'm taking it to Dieledon to sell. All it needs is a good simonize job. It doesn't matter about the year, a simonized Benz has gotta fetch a high price in a show-off city like that. With the money from the car I'll put a hefty downpayment on the plane and then, whoosh." He follows Harry around, continuing to ramble in a friendly, innocent manner. "And I intend to track down a few relatives who I haven't seen in years. Pay my respects, get filled in on the family gossip, get them to take me sightseeing. I've heard so much about Dieledon. It's about time I saw it first hand, don't you think?"

Sure," says Harry, amazed by the conversation spree. With a rag, he unscrews the hot cylinder cap and pours oil into the motor. "See for yourself, that's what I always say. You'll find it's just like any other place." He stops, suddenly remembering. "So you're heading for Dieledon, eh?" He lowers his voice. "How 'bout taking on two passengers? Those poor folks sitting there want to visit as much as you and, well, they need a ride."

"I suppose...," he glances at the couple. Marie, the more attentive one, hesitantly waves back. He finds her reasonably cute. "... I could."

"You're a real Samaritan" -- pat on the back. He calls out and points his thumb at the car. "Come on. You got a ride."

Marie rises on cue to express thanks to the men, shaking their hands and bowing her head slightly, saying, "How do you do? My name is Marie. This is my husband, Philip," not, at any instant making eye contact with either of them.

Philip acknowledges no one and hops into the back seat of the car as John observes them with mounting perplexity. Marie gathers their knapsacks and follows. As John pays the bill, he asks, "Where do I drop them off?"

With a new-found tone of freedom, Harry replies, "Hey listen, buddy, like I don't care, so long as it's away from here." He is glad to see all the living beings of the immediate vicinity in one car preparing to drive away from him.

John glares suspiciously at Harry, then at the two strangers seated in the back of his timeless Benz. They are staring into space again. Taking a closer look, he is struck by their petite but defined features and pale olive complexions. They have tight mouths, tight necks and rigid, penetrating eyes. Their stillness is broken, unnervingly, by quick jerking, betraying their anxiousness and tension. He notices, as a matter of course, that the girl is wearing snug blue jeans binding her pudgy legs, and this soothes him. He would feel more at ease if only she would glance his way.

Questions run through his mind as he boards the car. The door slams. The motor comes to life with a roar. From a stationary position by the silver rear hubcap, we see the car tear out of the station. Its bumper sticker reads, "I'd rather be flying." Through its windows, three heads bob side to side, as they shrink into the distant skyline.

Harry looks to his revolving oval Sunoco sign with a sigh of relief and returns to his office, closing the screen door behind him.

ii.

As roads converge and traffic worsens, John dreams of the plane he plans to buy, recalling the ease with which it flew him over the city. As he does, he reviews the informative and unforgettable tour that went with the flight.

It was 5 A.M.. The dawn mist had not yet risen to make hazy the clear sky. John had already flown around the Font Aspic Airfield and was pleased by the plane's maneuverability. After a successful landing whereby he and the plane's owner, or rather, part owner, were concluding the basic test flight, the other owner -- a skeleton thin figure dressed like a hoodlum in a long black rain coat with a grey hat pulled over his brow -- appeared on the runway, waving his hands. To add to his already startling spectral appearance, were black goggles, lined with tan fur, wrapped around his head, which made him appear to have two empty holes for eyes. He asked with unnecessary agitation, "Have you ever seen Dieledon from the sky. It looks like a toy."

John pleasantly replied that he had never seen it, period, adding, though, that he would like to.

The thin man grabbed at Joel, exclaiming, "Before we sell it, let's give this guy a ride he won't ever forget."

The two of them squashed into the front, as John, increasingly skeptical but curious to see how the plane was treated by its owners, got in the back of the sputtering, two passenger pipercub.

As they gathered the speed to become airborne, John learned, "Our new plane is like a boat. We'll never get to do this again."

Within minutes John saw for himself the jagged land of Dieledon, encircled by liquid, the distance from the nearest shore varying from two to several thousand miles, with wires and bridges strung across the lesser distances, connecting the City to the suburban mainland. Presently in his car with its two strange passengers, crawling blindly over one of those bridges, John cannot, for the life of him, connect the two perspectives to discern where he is now in relation to what he saw from the plane. As the light changes from green to red again, he fondly prefers his memory, musing on the height and shape variations of the towering rooftops -- how, whether precociously pointed, slanted or flat like plateaus, they all stuck, wedged or rammed into the indented, thick atmosphere.

Helicopters were landing on chosen flattops. He remembered thinking, that's the way to travel. Some rooftops were respectable gardens. Most of the smaller buildings were covered in velvety black tar, and, with that observation came the startling awareness that the plane had lost altitude.

Joel was no longer piloting as he pointed out places of interest.

"That complex of buildings is Maxwell House University, an excellent college with an exceptional poli-sci department, so I'm told.

"What about the film department?" asked his friend, deliberately flying lower.

"Eh," Joel replied, tightening his mouth, slanting his hand right and left. He continued. "Coming up due south is the elegant Clairol Hotel where you might wish to stay if you can get a room."

"I have a suite there, myself, overlooking the park," bragged his reckless friend, thereupon becoming tour guide.

"That's the expansive patch of green directly below us. Notice how suitable it is for accelerating at low altitudes."

John, leaning against his bubble window, could see the nearby shadow of the plane as it pulled at trees and disturbed the run of early morning joggers.

Joel added calmly, with one eye on the altitude dials, "Yes. This misplaced reference to nature flourishing amidst what must surely be the greatest rock sculpture ever made by man, is Affe Park, a pastoral but criminally hazardous refuge. Despite the efforts of our notoriously enthusiastic police force, most tourists are correctly aware about wandering in there after dark. In fact, some parts are best not visited, ever. And certainly," he added as an immediate warning, "If we were to crash there we'd never be heard from again."

Deliberately ignoring him, his co-owner pointed at the Clairol, directly ahead. "Hey, that's my bedroom. What a view! You can't miss it. It's on the corner, five windows from the roof; and a beautiful lady is there, waiting for me to join her. Forgive me for being so eager about it. It's where we began our honeymoon -- a royal suite, great for receiving guests. I know it's early -- she's probably asleep -- but wouldn't it be nice to pop in and say hello? I can barely restrain myself."

John watched blankly, jaw hanging. The plane neared the enlarging window, only to make a last second swerve up and over the grand incline of the green copper roof.

"-- and over there is the Beledon Theatre, showcase of the nation," continued the man, laughing as they loomed high above the shrunken island. John was gagging on his tongue.

Joel said, grabbing the wheel, "And now, better let me take it from here before we get into some real trouble with air traffic control."

Joel flew the plane back to its hangar in the Font Aspic Airfield without further participation, verbal or otherwise, from his co-owner.

John still wanted the plane but he wanted nothing to do with its other owner, preferring to deal directly with Joel who kindly offered another test flight at another date, should such be deemed necessary by John once his head cleared.

iii.

The ground is teeming with cars and people, shapes of both varying slightly but endlessly. There are countless Benzes, but only one old beige sedan contains John, Philip and Marie. They are trapped in midtown traffic.

For diversion, John has taken to talking with his two passengers. His voice is calm as he drives.

"Things seemed so damn unstable in this world that I figured there's only one thing to have faith in and that's land. I slaved and saved and bought three acres of beautiful virgin ground up north. I mean way up, where it's dark six months of the year."

As he speaks, his foot alternates between gas and brake pedal with stomping ferocity.

Marie is politely attempting to concentrate on John's words now that he has broken his silence. She figures it is the least she can do in return for his kindness.

Philip looks out the window, doing his utmost best to ignore them both.

All are bouncing back and forth.

"Such beautiful wilderness! It was there I figured on designing a private haven, building the house of my dreams with my own two hands. It was to be my great escape, my own piece of the world where I could hunt, commune and commiserate with nature." Musing over the shattered dream, he adds, "Then the government moved in with their eminent domain crap and declared the whole territory a national park. They reimbursed me, sure, but in ten years, I'd rather have the land. I take the good with the bad."

"That's good," says Marie with great expression.

"I find other outlets."

"That's good, too." She feels pleased at adding something to the conversation.

"Lately I've taken up flying. I don't know if you heard me talking before but I'm purchasing a plane at an airfield near here."

"Wow. Are you a millionaire?"

"I make do with my earnings. Flying is one of my hobbies."

"You have other hobbies?"

"Sure." John modestly lists them. "I study classical piano and computer programming, and I collect films on videotape. I have quite a library. Over a thousand tapes."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an upholster."

This is congruous to her. "Are you here on business?" She is pleased at being so ready with questions, thereby preventing another moment's silence.

"My first order of business will be to sell this car, but I'm also here for pleasure, know what I mean?" He winks into the rear-view mirror. Marie looks down to avoid eye contact and notices a glossy, cheerfully colored pornographic magazine lying under the front seat. She wonders whether this is healthy or a sign their driver is dangerous.

As for John, he has become comfortable with his passengers. He feels assured they are both in the back not to murder him from behind, but rather because they want to be together. He thinks, why they're just kids. He wonders what they know of sex and remembers that Marie introduced the far-off lad beside her as her husband. A second glance at Philip's boyish profile makes John wonder all the more. Marie's husband has an angular, variously balanced face, taut-skinned and large-mouthed which, under proper lighting, might strike some as attractive.

John balances Marie's questions with a few of his own.

"Where're you from?"

"Us? We're from the country. New Latax. It's a little town about ninety miles from here. We hitchhiked all the way."

"You come here for the welfare?" He takes it back. "Just a joke."

"No, no." She vaguely explains. "We didn't take a train or bus 'cause we didn't want to inconvenience them with our big bills."

He does not believe his ears. "What are you telling me, that I picked up a couple of eccentric millionaires? I wish I had such a problem with big bills."

"No, you don't understand. We... ." Her voice trails off as John interrupts.

"Seriously, what brings you to Dieledon?"

"It's a big city. This'll be the place where a talented boy like Philip gets discovered."

Philip suddenly turns his head from the window and says, without thinking, "I hear you can get anything you want here. Did you here that too?" He squints and tries to shake off the awkwardness of the remark.

"For sure. That's what brings me here," grins John.

"Maybe make a lot of interesting friends, too." Philip appears thoughtful, stops talking and turns to again scan through the side window.

"Oh, I'll say. Interesting, the way I like 'em." John grins and nods. His eyes bulge. He honks and accelerates as a car tries to cut him off. His eyes catch Marie's through the rear-view mirror. "So you two are married, eh?" The more he looks, the younger they seem.

"Yes, we are," she says, smiling coyly, blinking and glancing down at her hands, avoiding sight of the magazine while ignoring the sweet and sour, lived-in odor of the car.

John thinks he would not mind her thighs wrapped around his face as he suavely says, "I'm a bachelor, myself -- not that I mind it." As is his habit, here he changes the subject. "Say, where do you kids want to get dropped off?"

These words are the first that actually make it to Philip's brain. He excitedly responds, "Right here!"

"Whoa, we almost missed it!" says John as he stomps on the brake. The car is hit in the rear. He leaps out and finds a gaunt body embracing the domed back windshield. A bicycle with a bent front wheel lies on the ground nearby, rear wheel clicking.

Together, Marie and Philip swirl around to see why it is suddenly dark in the car. They catch a good glimpse of a bearded face flattened against the glass as John's voice emits an abrasive, "God damn it!"

Sensing his anger, Marie reaches over and clicks open the curbside back door, pushing Philip out of the car.

Not much further away from this tableau is the giant old Beledon Theatre. Its marquee reads, "Renovation near completion. Coming soon, The Dieledon Experience." Its lobby is being re-carpeted by men working under a deadline. Through golden doors and down the wide main aisle is the stage, lit by harsh naked bulbs on poles. There are dance rehearsals in progress while, at a corner of the stage, a few people are occupied peeling the protective covering off giant sheets of tinted acrylic. There is a sandy white pyramid about ten feet tall set back center-stage upon a highly polished, pseudo-onyx floor. Weaving in and out of the activity is a vibrant ambitious looking girl, breathlessly asking if anyone needs a tap dancer. Underlying each confrontation is an insistence that implies she has her goals laid out before her.

After she is repeatedly ignored and rejected, a haggard young assistant director, Henry asks if she can dance.

"Can I dance?!" She crashes across the floor.

iv.

One of the men standing in the wings tackling a piece of acrylic, and almost losing the battle, is Kevin Vargas. He shows a sincere momentary interest in the dancer which leads him to distraction. Her machine-gun clatter triggers reminders, like so many tightening pieces of string around his fingers, of the many other things he has on his mind, such as: how did I get here? what am I doing here? and, isn't it time for lunch?

He walks onto the stage, rudely clapping and announcing, "Lunchtime! Everyone back in an hour." He says this several times as he walks covers the area, interrupting everyone, but it is noon, so the many employees scatter, some simply to eat from bags in the wings.

Kevin and the several assistant directors, set designers and principal performers leave together through the stage exit toward the sidewalk cafe that is the fewest paces from their theatre, where work will continue over lunch.

Although a member of this elite group, Kevin remains within himself. He adjusts his straw Panama hat in order to conceal the sky, tightens and straightens his maroon tie, and tucks in his off-white silk shirt which has been doubling at night as a pajama top for the past few days. As he unrolls his sleeves and pulls on his dark, double-breasted jacket, he concludes his effort to appear less disheveled for the cafe's sake. However, he notices that part of his shirt is still out. As he tucks it in, his eyes fall to his cotton pants which, because they are of such fine weave, flap impressively. The thought of his expensive clothing and distinctive appearance give him quick relief from the dreary weather, but he is distracted when he finds himself kicking at some pigeons. He makes a tisk-tisk sound and says, "Crystal. Why don't they fly."

Although Joel, who Kevin calls by his nickname, Crystal, is about four people away speaking with someone else, he turns to Kevin and says, "Kevin, in this world the pigeons refuse to fly." This is an inside joke between the two friends.

The other Beledon people are busy observing the ongoing argument between John and the cyclist, which ensued from the collision.

Interest lags after a few seconds and the group of seven streams into the cafe through a revolving door to comments on how well the show is coming along. "Sarro should be please," Henry concludes to Kevin.

When they are seated inside at tables lining the windows along the sidewalk, the central conversation dwells on the promising new career of the tap dancer whose clacking could still be heard as they were leaving the theatre. Like so many others, she, too, has only that day arrived in the city. She smiles strongly, nods earnestly and blinks her large eyes in an effort to communicate an infectious vivacity as she allows Henry to give her advice. This interests Kevin not at all, so he looks imploringly at Crystal who quietly excuses himself as the two of them move into the main dining room.

Henry informs those remaining at the table that the two men must have something private to talk over. Everyone looks briefly curious; Henry, suspicious.

While they wait at the desk for the maitre 'd, Crystal asks Kevin, "Didn't you like that girl?"

"Not very much. She had a big hollow smile. And did you see the way she talked? I've seen that type of verbal fellatio before. She hypnotizes you with her mouth and brainwashes you into furthering her ends."

Crystal decides not to pursue the potentially unpleasant conversation. "I like this room better, anyway." He gestures up at the many low-wattage incandescent lights enclosed in shiny fixtures high in the walls, sparkling doubly because they are mounted on little rectangular mirrors. There are hundreds of these fixtures and they give the room a soft, intimate, nineteenth century glow. The room is walnut panelled and, without such features, would resemble a large cafeteria. It is crowded and thick with an indecipherable hum which is charged with excitement because nearly all its patrons are highly career minded.

Kevin agrees with Crystal. "This is a fantastic, oppressive room. Thanks for coming with me.

When seated, Crystal is obliged to order a salad delight since the waiter went through the trouble of describing it in seductively explicit detail. It is basically a chef's salad with tongue added.

Kevin follows his recent practice of ordering the first unfamiliar thing he finds on the menu, despite Crystal's rapid head shaking.

With the disappearance of waiter and menus, Crystal stills his head; its thin blonde hair settles automatically into place. He listens thoughtfully, then comments on the din. "Can you imagine a speaker that can reproduce the intense reverberation of sound that surrounds us?"

Kevin can, so pleasant dining conversation nearly ensues. "Yes. Naturally, only the select few may own it, but I believe in the state of the art... ."

The water glasses, immediately emptied, are suddenly refilled by a scurrying moosish fellow. This elderly water-boy spills a drop on the tablecloth and interrupts Kevin to apologize.

"Excuse me, Ma'am."

He rushes off.

Brief silence follows as the event fades. As the smirks wear off their faces, Kevin wonders if he has time to get his hair cut. He is frail and effeminate but instinctively is outraged at being mistaken for a woman. He shrugs it off and tries for pleasant conversation, himself.

"I like what you're wearing, Crystal." He thereby acknowledges Crystal's light loose jacket, collarless thermal underwear shirt and black corduroy jeans.

"Thanks. It's only the second day."

"Yeah, but it's the first time I had a good look at you. You look fine."

"I'd change but our all our stuff is at the Clairol. We ought to walk over there one of these days. Lynn must be wondering what happened to you."

"I'm sure, but not today. We have to get that set ready and we'll keep concentrating only if we stay at the theatre."

"We take out time to sell the plane," reminds Crystal.

"Well, let's hope that guy buys it because we can't let it interfere anymore. I think I probably sold him with my trick flying."

Crystal permits the remark to pass without comment. "Besides, the show's coming along fine."

"Yes." Kevin concurs. "We have a good group working on it; but I'm concerned about the set for the Pyramid Awards. I want that stage to look good when I make my acceptance speech.

"What are you planning to say, since you already have the luxury of knowing that you won?"

"I intend to thank all the little people, and to be very humble about it.

Silence follows. Kevin is about to open discussion on his favorite topic, the musical number he has devised for The Dieledon Experience, when the waiter nervously reappears.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but the cook has informed me that the last plate of braised tripe was served only moments ago. Would you care to choose from our many other appetizing entrees?

He opens the tall menu and holds it in front of Kevin. Crystal nods at Kevin as though fortune has smiled his way. Kevin's shoulders go limp. He looks up at the waiter with mournful eyes as though his day is ruined without this arbitrarily selected dish. He scans the menu with blind eyes as though sunbathing his face with a reflector.

From a few tables away, Marie turns toward Kevin and says, "Excuse me, sir. I couldn't help overhearing. I insist you accept this order of braised tripe with my compliments." Her face pleads with him to take it.

Kevin spots Philip seated facing Marie on one of those tight sofas that line the wall and seat so many. The soft lighting flatters Philip's appearance.

Kevin gallantly replies, "My dear lady, I could not deprive you of the entire dish. I insist we share. Come, dine with us, both of you."

Chairs and tables are rearranged. Introductions are made. When Philip says, "Hi," Kevin feels he might at last rest in peace. Kevin and Marie sit next to each other facing Philip. Crystal sits to the side for a good profile view of them. He knows Kevin well enough to see comedy in events resulting from Kevin's fascinations. Kevin thinks excitedly that he cannot look at Philip without suffering an emotional breakdown and he is so happy about this. He devotes his external attentions to Marie and the tripe.

"How is it?" he asks in an uncharacteristically conversational tone.

Marie shrugs. "I don't know. I never had it before."

"Nor I. What could it be?"

Marie puts a piece of food into her mouth, chews and then removes it. She pulls at it to demonstrate its elasticity. "I can't imagine."

Crystal grins. "I know what it is." He cheerfully lifts a nickel silver pourer to a high altitude. Globs of lumpy dressing land splat on his salad.

Philip is repulsed, so he twists his delicate features, scrunching his nose. Marie pats his hand saying, "It really isn't so bad." She looks down queasily at her plate.

Kevin attempts to speak to Philip, perhaps to say something in the order of consoling. Instead, he orders a glass of wine from an observant waiter.

Crystal is familiar with Kevin's desire to indulge in novelists' speculations while admiring a thing of beauty. He helps Kevin by directing those speculations onto a more tangible path. "Don't you think Philip here would look great in Sarro's office?

Kevin blinks and pretends to consider seriously the pros and cons of the suggestion as if that were possible in his state of mind. He nods, hesitantly and then, with conviction. "Yes, I think yes. He is just the type."

Marie also blinks as she places her fork on the table. "And who might this Sarro be?" asks she with a knowing smile, thinking Kevin is one of those weird guys attracted to men like her lovely Philip; but then, perhaps he has good connections. Her hands are folded on the table.

Kevin replies indirectly with carefully chosen words. "He is both teacher and patron of the arts, as well as an artist of the highest magnitude, for he can make the bad good, the good bad, the mediocre, perhaps, great." His index finger dances with the words. It lands on the table for punctuation. "Anyway," he concludes, "he certainly has been right a lot,lately." As he suddenly finishes, his eyes rest on Philip.

Crystal smiles at the description, but Philip, still disturbed by the tripe, looks especially confused by the suddenness and meaning of Kevin's brief discourse. His mouth opens.

Kevin finds this so arousing that, not only does he forget what he just said, but he becomes self-conscious, wondering if his own face appears too obviously spellbound. He prays Philip not find it an unattractive picture. He wishes for a mirror and is mocked by the little reflectors high on the walls. He scratches the back of his neck, despite the lack of an itch.

He concentrates on being refined by delicately reaching for the pencil-thin neck of his wine glass, cautiously bringing it to his lips for a sip. Satisfied, he returns it to its place in slow motion and prepares to embark upon an equally refined eating experience when he suddenly realizes what Marie was able to do with the food. He picks a specimen off his plate and brings it to his eye for closer examination. He pulls and can indeed stretch the tripe.

Marie and Philip curiously examine him.

Crystal says, "Kevin, please. It's a cow's stomach lining. Why don't you stop playing with it and either put in your mouth or on your plate."

Kevin sighs. "Well Marie, it was good of you to share but I'm sorry. I never eat things that stretch."

"Mozzerella cheese."

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Crystal. What I really mean is that I never eat rubber bands. Some other time, perhaps." Kevin has grown tired of his convoluted behavior. He decides to abandon it for the earlier topic. "Yes, that Sarro is indeed an interesting man. I should also add that he's our boss. He's the president of the Beledon Theatre where Crystal and I are currently employed."

Unfortunately for Marie and Philip, they had begun to feel sympathetically convoluted themselves because, although they are not sure, they sense Kevin is a man of importance. Marie's eyes light at the concrete evidence supplied by the word, "theatre." She is about to put in a hastily concocted speech about Philip, but a calmer Kevin chooses to put a question to Philip at this time in an effort to make conversation. It is neither deep, nor intended to be personal. "Say, I'm..., I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

"Philip," says Crystal.

"Yes, Philip. Philip, you don't do any bike riding in the city, or do you?" Not conscious of the rigid stillness at the table, he concludes his innocent question with sound advice. "It's economical, anti-pollutant, and I admire those who do but, if you ride around here I hope you take precautions. Why right outside this cafe there was a bike accident. The poor guy ran into the back of a car, which had thoughtlessly stopped short for some stupid reason. They were having a bitter argument." His head shakes regretfully as he thoughtfully chews his lower lip.

Philip frowns and moans, "I feel so bad."

Kevin is disturbed that his attempt at pleasant dining conversation should have so negative an effect. He puts his hand over his mouth and decides that Philip must be extremely sensitive. "These things happen," he says, reassuringly. "I know arguments are a terrible thing but once in a while, unavoidably, of course, they are a great way to, um . . .." He scorns Philip's sensitivity by referring rather to arguments than accidents.

Marie has suffered in disbelief at the conversation's latest direction, especially when she was about to plug Philip. She twists her napkin and reluctantly deals with the confusion at hand. "Philip, I understand how you feel. Excuse us, Kevin, Crystal." She lightly touches their shoulders. "We have a terrible confession to make. That poor man was giving us a ride. When the accident occurred we got scared. We jumped out of his car and ran in here." Her stare focuses out beyond Crystal and Philip as she tightens her neck. "Eek! Here he comes now. Hide, Philip." Her napkin flies in the air.

As Crystal realizes, "You were in the car," Marie scrambles under the table with just enough flourish to attract John's attention. He is standing by the entrance desk. His index finger rings an imaginary doorbell. He soundlessly exclaims, "Ah!" and strides to the table where he pulls up a chair. "May I?" he asks, about to sit down.

Kevin and Crystal shrug and magnanimously say, "Sure." They squint at one another, realizing that they recognize him from somewhere.

Another place is set for John. He orders a turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato on rye without bothering to consider exotic alternatives. "Whew!" he sighs, settled. "There I was, hungry as a horse with this eating establishment staring me right in the face, so I decided to see if it was worth all the fuss you made. Thought maybe I'd even join you kids for a bite, and here I am. I found a parking spot right around the corner. I see you've made yourselves comfortable." He glares at Marie and glances quizzically at Kevin and Crystal who nod cordially back and again squint at one another, thinking, a parking spot? John continues. "Hadn't figured you'd be meeting someone."

"Oh sir, we're truly sorry," says Marie as she reseats herself on the chair, repentant with a clownish frown on her face. Philip has his head on the table.

John entered intending to give these kids what would have been a substantial piece of his mind but, though frustrating, he decides against it for the moment, thinking, they're too inherently irresponsible for me to get through to them with words. I'll only lose my temper and make a fool of myself. He says aloud, "I know. You panicked. It happens." His head tilts as he stares at the tablecloth. With a blink he becomes animated. "Well, nothing like a good argument to make me a hungry man. Like I was saying, someone was just pulling out so I got a great spot and here I am to keep you company as you eat." He again glances, not closely, at the foreign faces and repeats the words, "Hadn't figured, though, that you'd be meeting someone." He looks expectantly and uncomfortably at Marie who takes the hint.

"Forgive us. This is Kevin and his friend, I'm sorry. What was your name again? Crystal? Is that it? What an unusual name."

Crystal agrees with a nod.

With mounting excitement, John says, "Wait a minute. Crystal? Kevin? I feel like I just walked in on a live talk show. It's Kevin Vargas, and his notoriously good friend, Crystal. Shoowee! This is something for me."

Marie is taken aback. "You know these people?"

John nods rapidly and points at the men next to him, too excited to make a further connection. "Marie, you've never seen a film by Vargas and Souiel? Where you been keepin' yourself? They play all over out west. He's a famous film maker."

Philip lifts his head from the table. Marie is about to burst with something to say.

"Yes, in the past I've been involved with film," Kevin says simply.

Marie says, "You don't say. Philip is interested in film. Do you suppose you could do anything for him? He's very talented."

Kevin answers by rote, "I recommend that you groom him, enroll him in an acting workshop for evenings and, in the day, maybe Sarro's office is not a bad idea. Many producers and important people walk through there and Sarro himself couldn't help but take notice. Stick him in there and wait a little while because I know by the way he looks that . . .."

John is still nodding as his sandwich arrives. Kevin could go on all day but John feels the responsibility to interrupt "You don't know who you're asking. You first better see their films. They're shtrange." He turns to Kevin. "I always wanted to tell you, you guys are shtrange." He justifies his words to Marie. "In his latest film, him and this girl, all they do is murder each other. He really gets into it, too."

Kevin figures he had best leave before this guy realizes who is selling the plane and decides not to buy it for moral reasons. "If you'll excuse us, we'll be going now." He puts his napkin on the table.

Crystal examines John with pity mixed with contempt. To him this lunch has gone from interesting to predictable.

John takes a big bite out of his sandwich and asks, "Where's Souiel, huh?"

Crystal knew this was next.

Kevin feels torment which he exaggerates by bringing his knuckles to his forehead. "Yeah, well. Souiel is away, right now." He urgently implores, "Come on, Crystal. Find the waiter."

Crystal looks in all directions as if suddenly placed in a museum.

"Oh, that's a shame." He chews a full mouth of food as he speaks. "Give him my regards, won't you?"

"Waiter!"

The waiter is bellowed to the table. Kevin stands by him, saying, "I just want to get out of here. I have a room at the Clairol. Could you bill us there? It's Room 2547."

"Sir, you'll have to speak to the manager."

John bends his arm at the wrist and mimics, "I just want to get out of here," as the room number registers in his memory.

"I'm Kevin Vargas. Let me speak to Arnold."

"All right, Kevin. Go speak with the manager. I'm sure he can work it out." The two of them walk off into the distance.

Crystal stays to bid farewell. He stares at John and says, "Sorry you feel the way you do." John does not return the stare, so Crystal does not formally introduce himself as part owner of the plane, thinking that matters need not coincide. He says, "See you around," and to Marie and Philip, adds, "Nice meeting you two."

Marie asks helplessly, "You're staying at the Clairol?"

"I'll be there in a day or two. Look me up." He pulls out a pad and pen from inside his jacket. "This is my room number, and here's a number to call. The Beledon is hiring pages over the next couple of days so, if you're interested . . .." He looks at Philip and hands Marie a slip of paper torn from the pad.

Marie accepts it with restrained thanks. She looks yearningly at Kevin standing at the far corner of the room with the waiter. The waiter must have asked about the meal because she hears Kevin loudly lament, "How was I supposed to know it was stomach lining? Tripe? I thought it was a fish."

As Crystal walks away, Philip raises his hand in a vague gesture of farewell. John grabs his remaining sandwich half as if it is a paperback book, and munches on it with satisfaction. The silence at the table intensifies. It is broken when he stridently confides, "Those guys are so screwed up. Did you see them looking at your husband? Fagots. I'm glad they're gone. They got so much money from those sick films. I'm an upholsterer. Will I ever get that from my work? Sure, it only gets worse for me. People aren't upholstering like they used to. These days the frame of the furniture lasts as long as the fabric." His head shakes him out of his muse. "So, I'm warning you." He points with command. "Watch out for them. They're not like real people. They'll only lead you into trouble."

More silence follows. John broods over his sandwich as he idly pulls off the crust. "I work long hard hours to upkeep that car, long hard years to even consider buying a used plane. They make that in a month. Well, good for them 'cause at least I know how to enjoy my life." He prods himself, startled to find the waiter posing over his shoulder.

"Dessert menus?"

Marie exasperatedly looks at John who stifles a burp. To gesticulate negation he shakes his head and raises his hand. She says, "Check please."

"I'll have a toothpick," adds John in a lordly manner.

Marie nonchalantly pulls from a pouch inside her blouse a hundred pesto bill. John notices this with a jolt and says, "So you weren't kidding about the bills. How 'bout treating me to lunch, kids? It's the least you could do, eh? I'd say I deserved it."

She nods and thinks, good. I'm paying so I don't have to be polite anymore. She asks with a deadpan face, "Gee. What are you going to do about that bike accident?"

"Oh nothing. That asshole's all right. It happens to him all the time. I should claim damages since I was hit in the rear."

The waiter returns with the check and delicately informs Philip and Marie, "The two gentlemen have taken care of you." He offers the check to John. Marie raises her eyes to the ceiling as she picks the check off the waiter's hand. She returns it to him with the hundred pesto bill which he greets with surprise, almost disgustedly asking, "Cash?"

Marie bobs her head. "Yes," she says, trying to appear as if she hates being bothered by petty transactions.

Philip has been looking at the ceiling all this while. He suddenly notices the inventive lighting.

v.

Half an hour passes much to their apprehension, exasperation and fright. Philip and Marie seem to be separating at the seams, emitting little high-pitched moans and sighs. Philip shakes his head and says, "I knew it. I knew it." John nervously picks at his teeth and stares at the table cloth, thinking, they're the sick fagots and I have to put up with this shit.

The waiter at last reappears, this time not posing. "I'm very sorry. The cashier has informed me that we can not accept this bill." He is holding it near John who notices that it does look odd.

"Why? Is it no good?" asks Philip, with dread.

The waiter will not commit himself. "I've simply been instructed by the cashier and also the manager not to accept it. If you wish, I'll call the manager and something can be worked out with him." He returns the money to Marie.

John hastily recommends, "Uh, listen buddy, uh. Forget the manager." He hands the waiter a healthy looking ten and leaves the cafe with haste, first glancing at the two companions with whom he has been cursed as if they are worse than total strangers.

As he reaches the sidewalk and turns the corner, all he can think of is the warm security and safety supplied within the confines of the mechanical friend he expects to find waiting, but his car is gone from this overly convenient tow-away. It is as if after delusive expectations had firmly taken root, he has been denied return access to the womb. His shock is matched by his intense steaming anger.

Philip and Marie's thankful nods meet quizzical glances from all directions, and especially from the cashier, as they walk slowly from the cafe. As they pass through the exit they start running franticly, continuing for several blocks till they come to Affe Park where they find refuge. They slow and plod upon a scenic trail. Philip is impressed at the contrast to the city offered by the massive park; his eyes open extra to take it all in. Suddenly he is gripped by a strange sensation. "Marie, I fell I'm being watched."

Having Kevin on her mind, she ignores the statement and says, "He was always so flustered I could barely get in a word about you. Oh well," she shrugs. "He's staying at the Clairol? We'll just stay there, too." She winks at Philip. "Now, if we only knew where it was."

Philip looks around self-consciously and reminds her, "But Marie, what about our money? It must be counterfeit. You saw what happened at the cafe."

Marie pulls out their wad of assorted bills and pages through them saying, "It's not counterfeit; just old."

He whispers urgently, "Marie, put that away! We're surrounded by peering eyes." His head remains rigid but his own eyes whirl back and forth.

She affectionately looks at him as though he were nuts. She waves his whisperings away as if they were gnats. In disbelief she says, "Ah," persisting to look through the bills, stealthily keeping them close to her chest. They are all of large denominations with extraordinary characteristics. She compares them to the bill the waiter rejected and decides, "We gave him a really old one." She skims through the roll and finally finds a bill under sixty years old. "We'll use this one to start. Come on!"

"Alright, alright. Just put them away and let's get out of here."

Joining hands, they gather speed and determination, Philip tagging slightly behind looking around all the while. Marie accosts the first person they meet. "Excuse me, could you tell us: where is the Clairol Hotel?"

The person looks distantly at her as if in a vacuous trance, and slowly points to an awesome building looming over the park in the near distance.

They check in using the relatively new bill as partial payment. It is accepted at the registration desk without comment. Once safely in their room Marie tells Philip, "See, I told you. That bill worked fine here and I'll bet the older ones will too. Money doesn't have to pass through a sieve when it flows so rapidly. Let's see what happens while shopping. We have to clean you up with a haircut and a facial, and we both need suitable clothes. We'll use the newest bills first and see how far back we can go without questions. Here. Put 'em in order."

Philip stares sadly at the money as Marie spreads it on the bed. "I'd like to burn it," he says with regret.

"But we're not going to burn it," she says, shuffling through the papers. "We're going to use it to make you a star. "Look at this. Where the others have been minted with letters, this has a number. And this one is another shade of green." She refers to the money as a whole. "We could never have spent this in New Latax. Everyone knows us. It's too suspicious to all of a sudden have so much cash. Somebody would have talked and we'd have heard from the Internal Revenue Service in no time. You think I'm overly cautious but I know; just to buy a bus ticket would have attracted attention. We'd have been spotted leaving. They probably wouldn't have taken the bills anyway. With this money we must secure the future. Better we use it here in Dieledon where no one knows us."

Her conversation has become a soliloquy for Philip no longer listens. He is seduced by internal, nonsensical beckonings that send him far away.

Chapter Two

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storm cloud -- dizozza