Jonathan Lethem - The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

“While you and she pull the strings, you mean.”

“Every party includes random factors, determined by the hosts. But the outcomes are unknown—”

“Ah. But is your outcome unknown?”

“I don’t see why not—”

“Then let’s take that tramp Candy and find one of your little sardine rooms, yes?”

Arman caught his host’s nervous glance back over his shoulder.

“What?” said Arman. “Can’t be separated from your ‘real world’ buddy? This isn’t summer camp. Come on.” He prodded gently at his host’s elbow.

“I might just—”

“It’s a party ,” Arman said menacingly. “Don’t be all impossibly coupled. It’s too early for that. I know you, I know what you’re capable of—”

“Yes, and I know what you’re capable of, Arman.” Sighing, his host reached into his pocket and brought out a little pearl-handled revolver.

“What,” Arman scoffed. “The coward’s way out? Am I disinvited?”

“No, no. I would never do that. A guest at my party stays as long as he likes. Spends the night, ideally. You know that. You’re not disinvited. But you are dosed with MDMA and on the other side of the party—”

— and when his host pulled the trigger, Arman found himself to be exactly that. He was several rooms away, wedged behind a conversation between Pearl O’Hennies and Omidan Rosengreen, and burdened with an irritatingly benign and rosy worldview.

“Feh,” he muttered, and grabbed Pearl O’Hennies from behind. He twisted her around and planted his tongue in her mouth, then pulled away, wiping his lips, and stalked off angrily into the crowd.

“Seems you have an admirer,” said Omidan.

“Goodness,” said Pearl, still astonished, her mouth wide.

“Or was that that drink thing?”

“Something — not just a drink, I’m not sure—”

“Well he certainly had quite an effect on you, one way or another. People are behaving strangely at this affair, but I suppose some of us haven’t ‘gotten out’ in quite a while.”

“You, uh, get called up very much?” asked Pearl in a small voice. She struggled to flatten out her perceptual processing. It seemed to her that as a program she ought to be able to prevail over this influence. Then she noticed that Omidan was talking, answering a question which presumably she, Pearl, had asked, though she couldn’t now recall what it was.

“Oh, Omidan,” she interrupted, “don’t you feel sorry for them, resorting to this, wanting to spend time with us? ”

Omidan, eyebrows arching, said, “That’s an interesting way to look at it,” then paused, and looked at Pearl intently. “What are you on?”

“I don’t know,” said Pearl. She pursed her lips, wideeyed, then began giggling. “Maybe I should kiss you,” she said. “You can tell me what you think.”

A figure materialized in the corner behind them:

Wendy Airhole. She blinked at them in astonishment for a moment, then scowled.

“Where did you come from?” asked Omidan.

“I was exiled to the margin,” said Wendy sourly.

“For what reason?”

“Why is anyone ever exiled to the margin? For threatening the center.”

“You should adopt the outlook that a party, by definition, has no center,” said Omidan. “We certainly don’t feel on the margin ourselves here. Something quite extraordinary has just befallen Pearl.”

“You’re the second person to lecture me about my attitude here tonight,” said Wendy philosophically. “What happened to Pearl?”

“Arman Danzig kissed her, not at all in a friendly way. Now she’s tripping or something, she’s got processing trouble.”

“For instance,” said Pearl, giggling, “you just turned into Dizzy Duck, I think, or is it Douglas? With the hat? This is just getting stronger and stronger.”

“It’s Douglas Duck, with the hat,” said Omidan, “and I see it too. Wendy just blinked away, as fast as she came, and now here’s Douglas Duck, with feathers and a bright orange beak.”

“It’s still me,” said Douglas Duck in Wendy’s voice, angrily.

“This is new,” said Omidan, not hearing. “There wasn’t anyone fictional here before. There isn’t any way that either one of them could have— slept with Douglas Duck, is there?”

“I don’t know. I wish I could think — look how pretty that duck’s hat is, Omidan. Can I touch your hat, duck?”

“It’s me,” said Wendy again, louder. “I’m just in a Douglas Duck body.”

“Oh, how nice. I never saw a real cartoon before. Can I touch you?”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be touched,” said Omidan. “She probably needs to get used to her new body.”

“We’re all real cartoons, here,” said Douglas Duck, annoyed. “In a manner of speaking.”

“But not with such — bright, glowing colors,” said Pearl.

“Am I the only one?” Douglas Duck hopped up, trying to see over their heads into the crowd.

“No,” said Omidan. “Look, there’s an Arnold Schwarzenegger. I wonder if everybody will change eventually? There’s a Bumpy the Cat, talking to the alien monster from that movie, whatsitcalled. And Alfau the Alligator! Oh, I love that show. I wonder who got to be Alfau the Alligator—”

“This is the last straw,” said Douglas Duck. “Their respect for us is nil.”

“It would seem so,” said Omidan.

“They love us,” said Pearl. “They want us to be happy.”

“I thought they wanted us to pair off,” groused Douglas Duck.

“Do you have genitals?” asked Omidan politely.

Douglas’s white gloved hands pulled at the elastic waistband of his pants. “Sort of.”

Notable Johnson and someone who’d changed into Deconstructor Dawg came up to them. “Hello, Pearl,” said Notable. “Have you seen Caitlice?”

“Notable! Uh, no, not for a while, but—”

“I’m having trouble spotting her,” he fretted. “She must have taken on one of these characterizations.”

“Yes, it makes it hard,” said Omidan.

“You look unhappy,” said Pearl. She threw her arms around Notable’s neck and thrust her lips against his. “Mmmph.”

Deconstructor Dawg introduced himself to Douglas Duck. “O.K. Tinkers,” he said.

“Hello, O.K.,” said Douglas. “It’s me, Wendy.”

“Wendy! I heard about your plan, to get between them—”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

By the time Notable Johnson located Caitlice Frisman, who was hidden in the body of a Philip Guston selfportrait complete with one eye, one booted foot, facial stubble, and an enormous, gnarled cigar, he himself was incarnated as the health-food vampire, Count Granola.

They reclined together in near-total darkness on a large couch in a small side room.

“Oh, Cait,” said the Count. “I was afraid I wouldn’t find you, when everybody was suddenly creeping off—”

“Nonsense,” she said, tousling his slick hair with her clubby, clownlike fingers, “f promised we’d be together. It’s just that — you know how I feel about parties.”

“Yes,” he said, a little sadly.

“When Darth Gatsby gave Fran Krapp all his drinks—”

“Cait,” he interrupted, “you and I could never have stayed together. I mean, for real, out there.”

“Of course not, silly,” she said. “That’s why this is so nice. Such a treat.”

In another side room, on a mattress on the floor, Douglas Duck and Albert Einstein lay on either side of Candy Bale, each idly caressing her body as she lay unconscious. Candy was one of a handful of guests whose form had remained constant throughout the party. Douglas Duck had taken off his hat and pants, and Albert Einstein wore only a shirt, and was smoking a cigarette in a holder.