Philip Dick: Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

“But you have instincts,” she said. She was moving out of the little house, shutting the door after her. “Good instincts which will save you, if they have not already. You must depend on them, and also, my good young friend, on letting someone else show you how to get about in this cruel old world of ours which, alas, you understand so very little. So dreadfully very little.”

“God in heaven,” he said, looking up at her. Her peculiar choice of words, for a moment, frightened him.

She smiled. “What do you think? What do you feel? Tell me now, what your instincts say to you about how to live. How you should begin your life, really for the first time.”

To himself he thought, They tell me to kill myself. But he did not say it aloud; he said nothing.

The door closed. Lydia had gone. He remained where he was, glad to be alone again; glad she was gone. But a moment later the door once more opened. “Mr. Miller,” she said. “I notice that the superb old car of yours is in tatters. What happened to it?”

Al said, “They took it out on the car.”

“That was my impression,” she said, “upon seeing it with broken glass and the fabric ripped.” She re-entered and seated herself at the desk, facing him. “What I will do for you,” she said, “is buy that from you. I know from what I heard in the past, mostly from you, what you expected to get from it. About two thousand dollars. Did you not?”

He nodded.

“Then I will buy it for that.” She laid out a checkbook, and, with a fountain pen, began carefully to write out a check.

“Okay,” he said.

She smiled as she wrote.

“Aren’t you surprised I’m taking it?” he said. It had surprised him, his reaction. His acceptance. “I need the two thousand dollars,” he said. It was as simple as that. With two thousand dollars he could get away. Otherwise, he could not. Probably the two thousand dollars would save his life and his wife’s life.

As soon as Lydia had left, he locked up the lot and drove to the bank on which the check was drawn. The bank cashed it without making any trouble for him; he had the money converted into traveler’s checks, and then he drove quickly back to his apartment.

When he entered he found Julie in the bedroom, packing her clothes in one of their suitcases.

He said, “I have enough money for us to get out of here and make it somewhere else.”

“Do you,” she said, continuing her packing.

Seating himself on the bed beside the suitcase, he laid out the books of traveler’s checks.

After a long time, Julie said, “Where do you intend to take us?”

“We’ll get started,” he said, “and then decide along the way.”

“Right now?” She watched as he got the other suitcase and began to pack his own things.

“We’ll get on the bus as soon as we’re packed,” he said.

To that, she said nothing. She resumed her packing. They both worked together, side by side, until they had gotten as much as was practical to take.

Julie said, “While you were gone, there was another call.” She showed him the pad. “I wrote it down. The man said for you to call him back as soon as you could.”

The number, he saw, was Harman’s home phone.

“He talked very strangely,” Julie said. “I couldn’t make half of it out. At first I thought he had the wrong number; he acted as if he were speaking to a company.”

“An organization,” Al said.

“Yes, he kept saying ‘you people.’ ”

Al said, “We’re ready.”

Picking up her suitcase, she started toward the door. “I hate to leave all this stuff here.” She halted to touch an ashtray on the coffee table. “It won’t be here when we get back; we’ll never see any of these things again.”

“Sometimes you have to do that,” Al said.

Still lingering, she said, “I like the Bay Area.”

“I know,” he said.

“You did something really dreadful,” she said, “didn’t you? I knew it when I first got home today. Does it have to do with Jim Fergesson’s death? I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe you tried to get his money. I don’t know.” She shook her head. “You’ll never say. I guess things like that happen all the time. I never liked him. He really had no right to the money anyhow. I say what I said before: I wanted him to die. He treated you very badly.” She eyed him.

Picking up his own suitcase, he moved to the door, guiding his wife along ahead of him, out into the hall.

Rather than taking their own car, they went by taxi to the Greyhound bus station. He bought tickets for Sparks, Nevada. An hour later, after waiting in the station, they were on their way by air-conditioned double-decker bus, traveling on Highway 40, through the great flat Sacramento Valley.

It was early evening and the air had cooled. The other passengers dozed or read or looked out. Julie looked out, now and then saying something about the fields and farm houses which they passed.

When they reached Sacramento it was still light. The bus stopped long enough for the passengers to eat dinner, and then once more they were in motion. Now it was dark. The bus began to climb the winding, older highway that led from Sacramento into the Sierras. Most of the other traffic was large trucks. Gazing out, Al saw roadside diners and closed-up fruit stands and gas stations. The fields were behind them now.

“This part is sort of depressing,” Julie said. “I’m glad we can’t really see it. But I wish we could see the Sierras.”

“These are the Sierras,” he said. “It’s like this all the way. Advertising signs and bars.”

“What’s it like on the other side?”

“We’ll find out,” he said.

“Anyhow,” Julie said, “the air smells nice.”

At Sparks, Nevada, he bought tickets to Salt Lake City. They spent a few hours wandering around Sparks; it was close to Reno and very modern and well cared for. And then they were on their way across the Nevada desert. It was three-thirty in the morning.

Both of them slept. There was nothing beyond the bus, no lights, no life. The bus roared along without stopping.

When Al awoke the sun had come up; he saw all around them the rocky lands, hills of broken rock, scrubby gray plants, and, here and there along the road, discarded human debris. The time was eight-fifteen. According to the schedule they were almost to the Utah border.

At Wendover the bus stopped so that they could get breakfast. This was the last stop in Nevada, the last gambling machines. The town lay along the highway, spread out with space between each house and shop, sandy soil on which nothing grew. To exercise their legs, he and Julie walked the length of the town and then back to a café for hotcakes and bacon.

“We could be almost anywhere in California,” Julie said, looking around the café. “The same booths, the same cash register. Jukebox.” The café seemed to have been newly built; everything was freshly painted and stylish. “The only thing different,” she said, “is the newspaper. And the funny-looking dirt outside.”

Several other passengers were eating in the cafe, too, so they had no fear of being left.

“Are we going to stay in Salt Lake City?” Julie asked.

“Maybe,” he said. It seemed to him as good a place to relocate themselves as any. At least, from what he had heard of it.

“It’s sort of exciting,” Julie said, “an adventure like this . . . not knowing where we’re going, just moving on, not stopping. Cutting ourselves off from our past. Our families.” She smiled at him. Her face was wan from lack of sleep, and her clothes were rumpled. His were the same. And he needed a shave.

Suddenly he had a premonition. Salt Lake City was too big a town. They would have a representative there.