The Devil's Game Read online

  Shouldn’t be. He’s a Taurus (that’s right on, a big horny bull) but I’m a Scorpio and … Got to be something extra, like maybe if there is reincarnation, he and I used to be …

  “It’s to my advantage not to remind you, perhaps, Gayle,” Julia says, “but your time is running on.” How can her voice be that cool? She still holds Byron’s arm in both hands. Wonder if she’s laid him yet? (Those bedrooms sure got good soundproofing.) Watch out for those two.

  “Yeah,” Matt says, “you’re having your period.” He guffaws.

  My heart stumbles and goes sick. Oh, Christ, what if I do have my period while the contest’s going on? I get such cramps … I shouldn’t have it, but it’s always been irregular and … Oh, Jesus, sweet Jesus, I pray to you, don’t let it happen. I really do think the Jesus people are onto something, I really do, Jesus.

  Anselmo, he’s sat down; he watches us out of his mask. Can’t the devil even grin while we suffer?

  I’m too dizzy to stand; I sit down too. “Gimme a cigarette, please,” I say. Larry forgets his own advice and obliges. A couple of drags steady me a little. (Matt, my friend, the rate you smoke at, you’re in trouble today.)

  “Okay,” I tell them. “Okay. My games’s quite simple. You see the kind of chair I’m in.” It’s a period (that word again) piece (again) like most everything else in this haunted house: mahogany, arms, straight scroll-work back, seat cover embroidered with Georgette Heyer bouquets. “You may’ve noticed, I’ve ordered more brought in. We’ve got one for each of you. Okay, lets put them in a circle, here in the middle of the rug.”

  Larry calls the rug deep-sea blue. It’s thick and soft. I kick off my shoes, real unobtrusive like, and feel it under my stocking feet. Larry’s wearing zori.

  The chairs don’t quite touch. He sits across from me. Good, I’ll be able to look at him and he (oh, I hope) at me. On my right are Orestes and Ellis, on my left Julia, Byron and Matt. I’m glad Orestes sits by me, so he can know I’m not a racist.

  “Now find a comfortable position.” My voice sounds high and weak in my ears. “I mean, more or less upright, like me, but comfortable. You dig? I want to be fair.” (“Don’t mention shoes,” Larry said. “Feet will swell during the day.”) “Okay.” I throw it at them. “This is the game. To sit perfectly still. You can breathe, of course, and I guess it’s not your fault if you get a nervous tic or something. But anybody who makes any real, uh, uh, voluntary movement is out.”

  “What?” Ellis exclaims. “This is ridiculous!”

  Orestes, beside me, rolls forth that grand deep chuckle he’s got.

  “You should be used to sitting, Nordberg,” I crow. I am! Matt rises. “Well, lemme go take a leak,” he says.

  “The game starts in thirty seconds,” I answer.

  Christ, what a look! It scares me out of my gourd. I get faint again and barely hear him protesting to Anselmo.

  “The game ees good,” Anselmo says. “You better seet.”

  (I checked with him yesterday, after Larry and I’d worked the idea out. He must’ve checked with old Haverner, because he came back after a while and said okay.)

  Larry laughs. “Tough shit.”

  “We, we … begin … when I …” I tug at a fold of my dress that’s gotten between my buttocks. “When I stop, stop, stop talking.” I settle myself, I hope, I pray, arms on chair arms. “Begin!”

  Everybody’s in place. Now comes the long wait.

  “If you break first,” Larry told me, “you won’t lose. You’re the leader, and you can elect a break. You can tell them to start right over. But it’s best if you don’t. I really can’t see all of them sitting motionless for, mm, eight till six or thereabouts … twenty-two solid hours.”

  Can I see myself doing it? Here’s where we learn.

  Too bad, what horrible luck, he had to get sick yesterday. If he’d been well, his head perfectly clear, we could have thought of a better gimmick.

  (He almost wondered aloud if he’d been poisoned, then zipped his lips and wouldn’t say more. Doesn’t he trust me either? But Larry, big cheerful royally screwing again-and-again Larry, I’m honest, honest I am.)

  I hear somebody breathing hard. Who? I can’t turn my head to see. Larry’s in my field of view, and—more or less— Matt on his right, Ellis Nordberg on his left. Larry’s not looking at me, however. His eyes are turned past me, over me.

  “Relax,” he said. “That’ll be the important thing. If you get tense, you’ll fight yourself, you’ll wear yourself out. Pretty soon then, positive feedback sets in and you get the shakes.”

  So relax, damn it. But why doesn’t he look at me? If I saw him getting a hard on under those white duck pants, I’d sure not call him on it.

  I won’t call anybody on eye movement. Let my own switch around. Yes, there’s Orestes, half visible. I know you, handsome Orestes; San Francisco and Berkeley are full of you.

  Or are they? My revolutionary friends used to talk a good job of overthrowing the establishment. But even the Panthers … What have you done actually, Orestes? I hear you were busted after the fascists got back to power in Santa Ana. I’ve seen your missing teeth, the whip marks on your back. They must’ve had reason to hate you that much.

  Well, naturally they hate everybody who threatens their privileges. Bourgeoisie yields capitalism yields imperialism.

  … Are big estate owners bourgeoisie? Oh … not that I’m a Communist or anything like that. I’m just an ordinary person who’d like to know why we can’t all love one another.

  How I tried to explain to Daddy and Mom, Christmas before last!

  I didn’t want to go back. Gayle Thayer—Dennis Thayer’s woman—who had been Gail Robertson—what had she to do with Gail Matlock and Chillicothe, Ohio? It’s not only not my scene anymore, it’s a bad scene, and I bleed for my parents who’ll never get out…. Yes, I can, I’ll bleed for Ruth, too.

  (In bed, before our final fuck, me cuddled into the curve and muscles of Larry’s left arm, his right hand between my thighs, the sweet sweaty hairiness of him, I cried while I told it like it was.

  (My father the druggist, not poor, not rich, lukewarm Christian, lukewarm Republican … he and Mom, besides his bowling team and her bridge club, that kind of thing, what’d they care about except my sister? Ruth, she’s two years older, beautiful, yeah, I got to admit she’s beautiful, and bright and pleasing, oh, Daddy worshiped her, nothing was ever too good for Ruth. Me, I was the plain one, the dull one, never had any dates, Ruth went to college but me, why, I was talked into … well Daddy had this friend who needed a file clerk and I … right out of high school …

  (“You mean your parents were cruel to you?” he asked. And I had to admit, after we talked awhile, no, they meant well, they just didn’t see my potential. Mother was always nagging me: “You only sit there … all you do is sit … hour after hour, like a bump on a log! You might as well get a job in an office, where at least you’ll get paid for sitting … my land!”

  (Sure, I was too passive, I accepted being the ugly duckling; it was easier than trying to compete or strike out on my own. Marriage would bring me everything good…. Poor Tim! We met at a church social and he was as desperate as I was.

  (It might’ve helped if I’d gotten pregnant. When the doctor found out that stuff with my Fallopian tubes, though, I felt mainly relieved that I wouldn’t have to keep trying to remember my pills and failing. Someday I’d get the repair operation, but right now we couldn’t afford it, and since then it isn’t just the population explosion and all. I wonder if I really do want the work of raising a baby. I wonder if I’d be a fit mother even by my own sloppy standards.

  (I sighed to Larry, “When you come right down to it, there’s only one thing I’m really good at, and that’s sitting on my ass.” And then, oh, then, the big doll, he grabbed me to him and laughed aloud: “Uh-uh. You’re wrong. One more thing, at least. You’re damn good at lying on your back!” And off we went, till stars exploded in me.

 
(But here, now, alone in my head, I remember how I tried to pick up some money in porno movies, and couldn’t stand some of the things they wanted me to do; oh, sure, there’s no such thing as sinful sex, but raw eggs always did make me gag, and that—thinking about the hoods and crazies I’d meet— killed off any idea about whoring, so haven’t I had my failures here, too?)

  Ellis crosses eyes with me. I know you, Ellis Nordberg, you are the enemy and you despise me, but you were always chasing the dollar, always uptight; you never learned how to relax. Today I’ll show you. How suddenly happy it feels to hate! It shouldn’t, but—

  Anselmo passes by. I barely keep myself from jerking where I sit. He scares me. Not as bad as old Haverner does, but bad enough. Are the rooms bugged? Did old Haverner sit listening or, worse, play back tapes of Larry and me? Music to jack off by. No, I suppose he’s too old; he’s not even that human any longer. Brr!

  Anselmo takes a cigarette, paces back and forth, disappears from my line of sight. Probably he’s bored. Or does he listen with his boss? I’ve got to warn Larry.

  Why? Does it matter? I’ve made the all-of-us-together scene. But that was good; that was with people you could groove on.

  Love. I did try to explain to Mom and Daddy. (Not about the orgy bit or anything like that, of course. What a drag it was, always having to remind myself not to speak honest.) “Why’d I come here, clear across the continent, for Christmas, leaving my husband [and he was, he was, we worked out such a beautiful wedding service with the Universal Life minister] if you didn’t write and ask me to? Loving is giving.”

  Why did Daddy have to go mean right that minute and say, “Tim Robertson was mighty happy when you let him stop giving.” I guess it was those drinks he’d had. But Jesus, how unfair! Mom told him so, too, and we had a real fine night before Christmas, didn’t we, them yelling back and forth. Why shouldn’t Tim pay me alimony till I remarried? What was I supposed to do, starve?

  My neck hurts. I’ve got to relax. What time is it? Why didn’t I bring a clock in where I could see it? Me with no wristwatch, too poor even for a cheap Timex, and everybody else’s out of my view.

  I shouldn’t had a joint before we began here. Then I could’ve relaxed. Or some acid, yes, acid’s better yet; I could’ve spent this time exploring inner space. No, I guess that wouldn’t have been wise. Under these conditions here, it might be a real bad trip. Anyhow, no telling what shit they put in acid these days. Why won’t the establishment legalize drugs and inspect them? They do it with liquor, don’t they? Well, I guess Haverner could’ve gotten me the pure stuff if I’d asked. Too late now.

  Larry’s finally moved his eyes. They meet mine. He winks. I declare that was a blink and doesn’t count. Imagine, Larry, you were right across the Bay when I was getting suckered by Dennis Thayer!

  No, let’s be fair. Dennis is what he is. Poor Tim Robertson, he is what he is. We all are what we are. Yoga, Jesus, drugs, everything transcendental, aren’t they because we try, want, need, scream to escape from that?

  Some won’t try. Tim’ll always be a gawky bookkeeper in Chillicothe, Ohio. He’ll marry again, and she’ll be a good housekeeper like I wasn’t, a good enough cook like I wasn’t, maybe even a good lay like (let’s face it) I wasn’t either, then. He’ll imagine he’s happy.

  Why, the poor fool may feel sorry for me, who used his alimony to go live in San Francisco among a lot of dirty hippies!

  “The hippies are dead,” I tried to explain to him that strained afternoon during my Christmas visit. “They died the day the establishment press discovered the word. There really weren’t any of them left by the time I got out there. I mostly just heard about the activism, even, from people who’d been in it. [How I envied them!] Nothing’s been happening, really, till just lately, and we’ve got to protest against the nukes and all that, don’t we?” That satisfies a little bit, but something is still missing, and what might it be, and how to search for it?

  What’s the time?

  I’ve got an itch between my shoulderblades. I could rub against the chairback. I could ask Larry to scratch it, and let his fingers search around till they found the right spot. No. The rest must be itching too. They must be getting neckaches too.

  Really? I don’t think Ellis Nordberg has itches. No, his computer has glitches. Funny, I’ll tell Larry tonight and we’ll laugh. Someone’ll quit before night! Has the sun moved since we sat down?

  I guess I won’t beat you out after all, Byron Shaddock. You’re too fanatic a gameplayer. Nor Orestes. If he could be flogged and clubbed for his revolution, he can sit still for it. (Suppose—he does seem to have nervous-muscular trouble— suppose he couldn’t help himself; his foot kicked or something. Wouldn’t it be too awful if Larry flunked? Well, I could do the same as he did, declare that the game ended just before he failed it. That’d be a giveaway, but how much secrecy can we hope for when Haverner doesn’t even allow us privacy?

  Matt’s eyes are red, though, and rolling. I see his chest rise and fall, he’s breathing noisy, I do believe—thr-r-rill!—we can force him out. I’ll concentrate my ESP on you, Matthew Flagler. You’re going to quit, you’re going to quit, you’re going to quit, you’re going to quitquitquit, quitquitquitquitquit….

  The chair edge is digging into my legs. They tingle. I think my right foot’s going to sleep. Both arms are numb. That’s because of cut-off circulation, isn’t it? How long do I dare let my arms and legs get less blood than they ought to? Bad enough, all the chemicals in the food.

  I have to get my mind off the fear track. I’ll move my eyes around. This is my game. I can give myself any relief I want. Julia’s long slim calf … Wonder how she is in bed? Not that I’m a lez—-those experiments didn’t count, kind of fun but not like the real thing—still, here I sit and can’t help thinking. … I guess Larry’s got me excited. It was a while, quite a while, since the last man before him.

  The wild San Francisco scene, ha!

  Well, it sure as hell beats Chillicothe. But if they think, back there, I’m getting banged by four different studs every night in my artistic pad, I’ve got news for them.

  Larry complimented me. He said I really knew what I was doing with him. And San Francisco did teach me a lot, once I got up the nerve to go there, once I got up the far bigger nerve to let people get acquainted with me in the little bars and the huge espresso houses. (Oh, God, I was scared, the first couple of times! Even afterward, when they’d been so sweet, VD…. Well, they know me now at the clinic, and who am I hurting? Maybe I am helping build penicillin-resistant strains of bugs, but I support everything that’ll help the ecology, and anyway I’ve only got this one life, Jesus, don’t I? Unless the Eastern mystics … reincarnation….)

  I want a smoke. Grass for choice, no, tobacco, damn it, tobacco, my mouth’s gone itchy and dry.

  Why haven’t I told Orestes I play the guitar? Not as good as him, but I’m not bad either. Him and Larry and me, we’re the real people here, we three should be in love with each other, not that they’d be gay about it, of course. I guess we could include Julia too, though she holds back so much except for sucking up to that Byron parasite. I don’t mind if Orestes is a Communist. I’ve heard that one reason the Afghans rebelled against the Communists was that they didn’t want women to get equal rights.

  (“Oh, I s’pose I’d call myself a libertarian, if I must have a label,” Larry said. “Dunno how you’d ever get rid of the state—seems as if next thing you know, you’d be under the boot of your friendly neighborhood warlord—but, sure I’d like to get rid of it, or at least trim it down a lot. That’s how come I cast my presidential vote for Nixon, in ’68.” Nixon! I damn near jumped out of bed and ran down the hall screaming, but then he started stroking my breasts and admitted he’d been mistaken and laughed, “Since then, I don’t vote. It only encourages them.”)

  Quit, Matt. Quit. Quit. You’re getting sleepy. You’ve got a headache. You have to piss. If you do it on the floor, you lose, and if you don’t
do it, your bladder will explode and you’ll die. Quit. Quit. Quit.

  Same to you, Ellis. And you, Byron.

  I’m hungry. Has it really been that long? Impossible. Somebody would’ve had to move by lunchtime.

  Or would they? They were chosen for endurance, I guess, but was I? What is old Haverner trying to make happen here?

  Dennis would never have lasted this long. (Five hours, six, eight? No, the direction of sunlight, as far as I can tell through the blinds—I can’t tell.) He never could, never can sit still five minutes running.

  Beautiful Dennis Thayer. Young (three years younger than me, and how that made him the more exciting!), slim, sharp-featured, shoulder-length wavy red-brown hair and silky beard, cloak and lace-trimmed blouse and ivory cigarette holder, his book learning, his genuine sensitivity to music, and so virile (how well I know) he never worried about getting taken for a (**fairy**) gay. Dennis, Dennis, Dennis.

  Brave Is the Cry. A novel by Janos Ferenczi. How we talked about it (or rather, I’ve seen afterward, how he did) in the corners of parties, alone later in a coffeeshop or on a park bench, finally (when he’d gotten rid of his roommate for a weekend) in that dusty, grimy, sinkful-of-dirty-dishes, hair-gummed-into-the-ring-in-the-bathtub pad (though who am I to sneer at such things?) where first he made me!