Mazatlán—wherever that is, I said with a shout. I want to go to Puerto Vallarta, you liar!
The woman put down her cigarette, stood, one hand on her desk drawer.
You got a problem, mister?
I imagined there was a gun in that drawer. Could she hear the crows calling in my head?
Forgive me, madam, I said, as politely as possible—the cawing still sounding—but I resisted now. Resisted.
It is only my deep disappointment, I said, meanwhile concentrating on making my voice higher, friendlier. Of course it is not your fault, madam.
And I fled the shop.
The N Judah was nearly empty. I sat under the bright fixtures and saw but a few passing lights and my own reflection in the window, the look of which horrified me: hollow-eyed, slack-cheeked—the face of someone who could harm an aging travel agent?
By ones and twos, the other passengers disembarked, until I was alone with my face in the window. Never had the patient seemed so far away. Was her good halo banished so quickly, within a mere slip of time, between nine o’clock and nine fifteen? I stepped down at the Ocean Beach terminus; the doors closed behind me; the streetcar rattled off.
40.
With the patient gone for the holidays, there was no recourse but to resume those of my activities one might designate as “normal.” I would go to the office, traveling to and fro at regular hours. I would keep myself among crowds. I would wear my gray suit and overcoat, put on the narrow-brimmed hat with the feather in the band that I had bought after Thanksgiving. So attired, perhaps my Furies would not recognize me; would see an average man walking on a public street.
Yet immediately I faced an obstacle. To arrive at the office at regular hours meant encountering the security guard, that blot upon the refuge that was my lobby. I was not ready to withstand his scrutiny; not yet able to face the menace I felt emanating from his pretty countenance. I therefore delayed my departure for the office, hoping to time my arrival with the comings and goings of the lunchtime throng, and thereby evade the gaze of Mr. Handsome (as I had taken to calling him in my mind). His face haunted me all during my ride on the streetcar, as I again tried to ascertain what it was particularly that gave him such an air of threat. Perhaps it was the perfect, too-square jaw, like that of a plastic action figure—it made him seem not quite real, a G.I. Joe, a fantasy of male power. Or the eyes, which were fixed and penetrating. Or the mouth, perhaps, almost a girl’s carved lips, absurdly full and curved for a man of his stature.
I waited outside the lobby doors, in an area where the guard could not see me unless he turned and craned his neck, and I peered through the glass to see if a crowd had assembled. I was fortunate. Many were waiting for the elevators, and then two cars arrived at once, creating a perfect traffic jam of people trying to get off jostling those trying to get on. I entered, pushed past the security guard in the midst of this confusion, and was the third person inside a waiting elevator car. The car began to fill around me.
Then the guard reached his hand inside.
Step out, please, sir, he said.
It was an order. Yet I answered:
But you know me!
I do not, sir, he said. Please step out.
He held the elevator door open. The eyes of all the other passengers fell upon me.
I stepped out.
Again the guard indicated the sign-in book.
But you know me! I repeated, once more showing him my name on the roster.
He scrutinized me as before, his lovely lips set in a firm line, only his eyes going back and forth, dark orbs like those of the cherubs. As time ticked on, I began to fear for my safety, for it came to me: He can see through me! He can hear the noise in my head! He knows the dark acts of which I may be capable!
I saw his brow narrow, just a hair’s width. Meanwhile his gaze remained set upon me. It was impossible to know what he was about to do. I saw that was the source of his power: His beauty mesmerized; one could not read his face; would a smile or a knife be the next thing one saw?
Go on, sir, he said at last, but noncommittally, as if to