The Concrete Veldt

ATTENTION!-4

“And you’re sure of it,” said Alexa, lying on her side, staring at the wall. “You’re sure it hadn’t been there before?”

I stared at the trailer’s water-damaged ceiling and the spider scurrying along one of its yellow-brown wrinkles, feeling as though I might nod off, bordering on dream. “I’m sure of it. It looked new, for one. Like it had just been painted. And it was clean.”

I rolled to face her and her dirty brown hair tickled my nose. “Like it had been wiped down; like someone had cared enough—was comfortable enough—to make an impression.” I rubbed my hand back and forth on her thigh; and she allowed it. “Like it had come from somewhere else. A different reality, a place completely outside the Flashback. A clean, well-lit place.”

She shocked me by putting her hand over mine. “A clean, well-lit place ...” She pulled the sheets up and yawed around to face me, looked me in the eyes. “Do you mind if I ask you something? Something personal?”

I shook my head, afraid that she was going to ask me what I did before—before Time got scrambled, like a sausage and egg breakfast—which wasn’t much.

“What’s your name?”

I must have blinked, remembering what she’d said about “transactional intimacy” and “professional boundaries,” and not getting too comfortable with one another. “Preston,” I said—tentatively, hesitantly, and swallowed. “Preston Stokes.”

“Preston Stokes,” she repeated, and seemed to think about it. “No—no, that’s not you. It’s too ... Preston’s a soldier’s name—or a wealthy industrialist’s. You’re more of a ...”

I raised an eyebrow, like Mr. Spock. I thought it might make her laugh.

“Lucas. I’m going to call you Lucas.” She kissed me suddenly. “And you can call me Lana; which may or may not be my real name.” She kissed me again—just a peck, but it may as well have been the world. “Lucas and Lana.”

“Lucas and Lana,” I repeated—and smiled. “There it is.”

And we chuckled—not very merrily, not for very long—until she diverted her eyes and the silence resumed.

At last, she said: “We’d never fit in, you know.” She swallowed moistly, viscously, thickly. “In their clean, well-lit place. In their chapel full of rules and edicts. Not anymore. Not since we’ve become ... who we’ve become.”

I couldn’t help but to notice that she was looking at the clock; and followed her gaze. We were over-time.

I got up and put on my trousers—peered between the curtains at Clinton, who was outside smoking a cigarette (he’d finished early and was waiting for me). “Yeah—well. I doubt it’s even legitimate. They’re probably, like, f*****g cannibals—or something.” I yanked on my T-shirt. “Ain’t no one thriving in this.”

She laughed at that as I turned to go. “No, I don’t suppose.” She sat up and gave me the Look—even while letting the sheets fall. “See you next time? Lucas?”

I paused in the compartment’s doorway—remembering the pact, remembering what it was we were going to do. “If I’ve anything to trade—of course.” I looked her straight in the eye. “But then—no one’s thriving in this. Lana.”

And I left—quickly, abruptly—having said something I’d always wanted to say (even though it was a complete and total distortion). Because, in actual fact, there really was someone who was thriving—the Girl on the Dinosaur. The Girl in the Custom Saddle.

If, that is, she even existed. If I hadn’t just made her up out of whole cloth.

If I hadn’t gone stark-raving mad—like the world, like Time itself.

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