Christopher Sorrentino - Trance

It shall come to pass that Guy will return to Ninetieth Street to find Randi all packed up and ready to announce that she has unilaterally accepted an offer from a friend, an offer Guy long sat on, to move the operations of the ISSS to his spacious house in Portland, Oregon.

Yolanda barks at Tania to get inside the house and put the groceries away, then notices that neither Joan nor she carries any. Tania and Joan break up, and Yolanda flushes a deep red.

“Get inside anyway,” she says.

Tania flips her a quick finger but turns and goes in.

Yolanda draws Joan aside. “What brought you back so soon? Forget something?”

“I thought you might need me,” Joan says.

Guy consciously cedes control. It is part of the mechanism of his gratitude, that he should give up that which he most desires, other than his own life. He watches it all float away. Everything, drifting high into the blue, penetrating in the course of its lazy flight the cotton puff clouds that hang above. For which, too, he is so grateful.

They need to get across the country, Teko says. Guy feels — redundancy intended — drained, exhausted, spent. Not enough synonyms to sum up this feeling of toilworn fatigue. But grateful. And all he wants, really, is to help them get across the fucking country. A rare confluential moment, unanimity of opinion. Let him, if living is to be his compensation, undo everything he has done, restore things exactly to what they had been at the beginning of the summer. Let him, if he is to survive to see another day — or, OK, say at minimum another twenty, twenty-five years — return these people, these comrades, these trusted friends, to their fatherland (so to speak), to their familiar folkways, to their lares and penates.

But Randi will kill him if he spends another dime.

CORRECTION:Guy will emerge from the tavern to discover that his car is “missing,” though he will not report the apparent theft for a week.

After the car is discovered, wrecked and vandalized, near Seelyville, Pennsylvania, Guy and Randi are destined to realize $1,160 in insurance proceeds.

“Coincidentally,” Seelyville is only a few miles from the South Canaan farmhouse.

In the glove compartment police will find a sheet of paper seeming to detail a cross-country route.

Teko has a plan in mind. His hand is on Guy’s arm, fingertip-light, as he explains the revolution’s progress. The revolution already shows signs of going well in California. He sounds like an entrepreneur dealing in subversion, speaking of bombs going off the way he might of new franchises opening: happening all over the state. He has people in place, in key positions, doing advance work, opening up the territory. He’s been in touch with Susan Rorvik; she’s been laying the groundwork, establishing a “second team.” Teko is relaxed, enthused, happy at the prospect of returning to the West Coast. This was all it took. Just like Randi, Guy thinks. People just get hooked on the damn place. Is it the weather, the earthquakes, or the blood-drinking beach cults, or are they all basically the same thing? But he’s grateful. Grateful for: the warmth of the summer sun. Grateful for: unfettered access to a revolving charge account.

The $1,160 will turn out to be just enough money to cover the rental of a Ryder truck and the cost of separately transporting Teko, Yolanda, Joan, and Tania to the West Coast.

Once again Guy will squire Tania, to Las Vegas, where Guy will install Tania in a vacant room in his parents’ motel (Thinking: Touch of Evil. Thinking: Psycho) until Jeff Wolfritz arrives to transport her to the new safe house, the origin spot for the New SLA, in Sacramento.

Everybody’s happy! Skoal! Cheers! To health, prosperity, and long life, and let Guy’s generosity flow and flow.

At the outset of his journey, Guy is destined to order a hamburger at an A&W stand. Opening the burger to administer salt and pepper, he will discover a foreign object, a small, jagged piece of plastic amid the pickle relish and ketchup.

INTERLUDE 3

Dateline: Hillsborough

All the signs point to a breakthrough!

A breakthrough in the case!

Here is Thomas Polhaus¬ agent in charge, special agent¬ ah¬ in charge, San Francisco office. Of the FBI.

With no comment at the present time.

He has no comment.

He is playing it close to the vest.

Tight-lipped.

Whatever the feds have¬ they aren’t spilling it.

He is entering the Galton home. The Galton mansion.

Special Agent in Charge Thomas Polhaus¬ a veteran of many investigations, is entering stately Galton Mansion here in exclusive Hillsborough¬ with few words for the the members of the press assembled outside.

Tommy to his friends, his many friends.

Could it be that there’s been a breakthrough?

The Galton case has baffled law enforcement authorities for just about a year now.

There’s been speculation

some speculation. That the trail is growing cold.

The arrival here, today of Thomas Polhaus¬ in charge of the investigation from the beginning¬ raises speculation that there may have been a breakthrough.

The press is here¬ outside stately Galton Mansion in the exclusive enclave of Hillsborough¬ California.

It’s hard to imagine tragedy touching a town such as this. But it has.

The press has been here every day. The Galtons the gracious Galtons have been very accommodating of the needs of the press.

They understand as perhaps few others can that the press has a job to do. Just as they just as the FBI has its job.

The first family of journalism. Henry Galton is publisher of the San Francisco Examiner. Handsome¬ amiable fellow.

Under strain¬ though under visible strain visibly under strain. This ordeal. The ordeal of his daughter¬ kidnapped just a little under a year ago¬ by the radical the radical left-wing Symbionese Liberation Army.

And there is Thomas Polhaus¬ entering this well-appointed home. Under the eyes of the press.

Also visibly under strain. Though not as much not as much, of course, as the heartbroken parents of the young heiress, who now calls them pigs.

Just gotten engaged to be married when tragedy struck.

Full-faced¬ beautiful girl. Calls herself Tania and is photographed carrying a gun¬ a machine gun¬ wearing the baggy combat clothing of the left-wing revolutionary.

Could this mean a breakthrough?

The press has been waiting patiently.

Keeping a vigil. Doing their best not to disturb the family.

Eating doughnuts¬ over nine thousand doughnuts. About two dozen a day¬ I’d say. From the look from the looks of things. And drinking coffee. The Galtons have been kind enough to set up an urn the urn you see before me here. This silver urn has been kept filled with coffee. Day in and day out. Rain or shine. Inge and Maria have kept that urn filled with hot¬ fresh coffee for the members of the press keeping their grim vigil the grim yet hopeful vigil outside stately Galton Manor.

They are members of the staff here. Inge and Maria.

Both as hardworking and friendly a pair of of servants as you’d ever hope to meet.

Impossible to estimate how much coffee just how much coffee has been consumed by the press. Tens of thousands of cups. Or more. Also¬ neighbors concerned and sympathetic neighbors have donated food. Not so much lately but at first there was quite an outpouring of support from neighbors¬ all understandably sympathetic. And it came in the form of food. They supplied fried chicken and macaroni salads, all of which were devoured all of which were much appreciated by the members of the press. Though lately the press has sent out for sandwiches¬ now that the outpouring has subsided. Though you may be assured that the sympathy has not.