Philip Dick: Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

He lay alone in the room. No one else. A bureau with a cracked vanity mirror, ugly old light fixtures jutting from the grease-saturated walls. And from somewhere nearby the blare of a TV set:

He was not in a hospital.

And Heather was not with him; he experienced her absence, the total emptiness of everything, because of her.

God, he thought. What’s happened?

The pain in his chest had vanished, along with so much else. Shakily, he pushed back the soiled wool blanket, sat up, rubbed his forehead reflexively, gathered together his vitality.

This is a hotel room, he realized. A lousy, bug-infested cheap wino hotel. No curtains, no bathroom. Like he had lived in years ago, at the start of his career. Back when he had been unknown and had no money. The dark days he always shut out of his memory as best he could.

Money. He groped at his clothes, discovered that he no longer wore the hospital gown but had back, in wrinkled condition, his hand-tailored silk suit. And, in the inner coat pocket, the wad of high-denomination bills, the money he had intended to take to Vegas.

At least he had that.

Swiftly, he looked around for a phone. No, of course not. But there’d be one in the lobby. But whom to call? Heather? Al Bliss, his agent? Mory Mann, the producer of his TV show? His attorney, Bill Wolfer? Or all of them, as soon as possible, perhaps.

Unsteadily, he managed to get to his feet; he stood swaying, cursing for reasons he did not understand. An animal instinct held him; he readied himself, his strong six body, to fight. But he could not discern the antagonist, and that frightened him. For the first time in as long as he could remember he felt panic.

Has a lot of time passed? he asked himself. He could not tell; he had no sense of it either way. Daytime. Quibbles zooming and bleating in the skies outside the dirty glass of his window. He looked at his watch; it read ten-thirty. So what? It could be a thousand years off, for all he knew. His watch couldn’t help him.

But the phone would. He made his way out into the dust saturated corridor, found the stairs, descended step by step, holding on to the rail until at last he stood in the depressing, empty lobby with its ratty old overstuffed chairs.

Fortunately he had change. He dropped a one-dollar gold piece into the slot, dialed Al Bliss’s number.

“Bliss Talent Agency,” Al’s voice came presently.

“Listen,” Jason said. “I don’t know where I am. In the name of Christ come and get me; get me out of here; get me someplace else. You understand, Al? Do you?”

Silence from the phone. And then in a distant, detached voice Al Bliss said, “Who am I talking to?”

He snarled his answer.

“I don’t know you, Mr. Jason Taverner,” Al Bliss said, again in his most neutral, uninvolved voice. “Are you sure you have the right number? Who did you want to talk to?”

“To you, Al. Al Bliss, my agent. What happened in the hospital? How’d I get out of there into here? Don’t you know?” His panic ebbed as he forced control on himself; he made his words come out reasonably. “Can you get hold of Heather for me?”

“Miss Hart?” Al said, and chuckled. And did not answer.

“You,” Jason said savagely, “are through as my agent. Period. No matter what the situation is. You are out.”

In his ear Al Bliss chuckled again and then, with a click, the line became dead. Al Bliss had hung up.

I’ll kill the son of a bitch, Jason said to himself. I’ll tear that fat balding little bastard into inch-square pieces.

What was he trying to do to me? I don’t understand. What all of a sudden does he have against me? What the hell did I do to him, for chrissakes? He’s been my friend and agent nineteen years. And nothing like this has ever happened before.

I’ll try Bill Wolfer, he decided. He’s always in his office or on call; I’ll be able to get hold of him and find out what this is all about. He dropped a second gold dollar into the phone’s slot and, from memory, once more dialed.

“Wolfer and Blame, Attorneys-at-law,” a female receptionist’s voice sounded in his ear.

“Let me talk to Bill,” Jason said. “This is Jason Taverner. You know who I am.”

The receptionist said, “Mr. Wolfer is in court today. Would you care to speak to Mr. Blame instead, or shall I have Mr. Wolfer call you back when he returns to the office later on this afternoon?”

“Do you know who I am?” Jason said. “Do you know who Jason Taverner is? Do you watch TV?” His voice almost got away from him at that point; he heard it break and rise. With great effort he regained control over it, but he could not stop his hands from shaking; his whole body, in fact, shook.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Taverner,” the receptionist said. “I really can’t talk for Mr. Wolfer or—”

“Do you watch TV?” he said.

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t heard of me? The Jason Taverner Show , at nine on Tuesday nights?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Taverner. You really must talk directly to Mr. Wolfer. Give me the number of the phone you’re calling from and I’ll see to it that he calls you back sometime today.”

He hung up.

I’m insane, he thought. Or she’s insane. She and Al Bliss, that son of a bitch. God. He moved shakily away from the phone, seated himself in one of the faded overstuffed chairs. It felt good to sit; he shut his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply. And pondered.

I have five thousand dollars in government high-denomination bills, he told himself. So I’m not completely helpless. And that thing is gone from my chest, including its feeding tubes. They must have been able to get at them surgically in the hospital. So at least I’m alive; I can rejoice over that. Has there been a time lapse? he asked himself. Where’s a newspaper?

He found an L.A. Times on a nearby couch, read the date. October 12, 1988. No time lapse. This was the day after his show and the day Marilyn had sent him, dying, to the hospital.

An idea came to him. He searched through the sections of newspaper until he found the entertainment column. Currently he was appearing nightly at the Persian Room of the Hollywood Hilton—had been in fact for three weeks, but of course less Tuesdays because of his show.

The ad for him which the hotel people had been running during the past three weeks did not seem to be on the page anywhere. He thought groggily, maybe it’s been moved to another page. He thereupon combed that section of the paper thoroughly. Ad after ad for entertainers but no mention of him. And his face had been on the entertainment page of some newspaper or another for ten years. Without an ellipsis.

I’ll make one more try, he decided. I’ll try Mory Mann.

Fishing out his wallet, he searched for the slip on which he had written Mory’s number.

His wallet was very thin.

All his identification cards were gone. Cards that made it possible for him to stay alive. Cards that got him through pol and nat barricades without being shot or thrown into a forcedlabor camp.

I can’t live two hours without my ID, he said to himself. I don’t even dare walk out of the lobby of this rundown hotel and onto the public sidewalk. They’ll assume I’m a student or teacher escaped from one of the campuses. I’ll spend the rest of my life as a slave doing heavy manual labor. I am what they call an unperson .

So my first job, he thought, is to stay alive. The hell with Jason Taverner as a public entertainer; I can worry about that later.

He could feel within his brain the powerful six-determined constituents moving already into focus. I am not like other men, he told himself. I will get out of this, whatever it is. Somehow.

For example, he realized, with all this money I have on me I can get myself down to Watts and buy phony ID cards. A whole walletful of them. There must be a hundred little operators scratching away at that, from what I’ve heard. But I never thought I’d be using one of them. Not Jason Taverner.