Harsh Oases (9 page)

Besides the antimeme components specific to a patient’s unique illness, each tailored shot contained a general-purpose booster that protected you from a wide range of memes. Mine had run out. That was why all the Bad Beliefs were now camped on my doorstep.

They seemed to be able to sense when a person was vulnerable, and tended to congregate around a victim’s house. Generally, what with every responsible citizen being well and frequently inoculated, you didn’t see many Bad Beliefs in the good neighborhoods. Oh, sure, you might spot Don’t Mow the Lawn or Thumbsucking Is Cute hanging around, but that was about as bad as it got out in the ’burbs where I lived. In the quarantined inner-city ghettos though, where people disdained DOM and their shots—man, that was another story. You tried to avoid those places if you could. The streets were full of Bad Beliefs of every conceivable variety, and there was no telling what you could pick up.

Now, though, I was the source of contagion.

Why, oh why, hadn’t I just gone in for my shot …?

With a start, I realized that I was falling prey to Crying Over Spilt Milk Will Help. That meme had been one of the first to arrive, and was surely still out there now. Or was it? Maybe they had all gone .…

I crossed my living room carpet and timidly pulled back the corner of one thick drape, hoping that somehow all the Bad Beliefs would have just vanished.

But of course they hadn’t.

In fact, there were more of them—many more—than the last time I had dared to look.

They were all shapes and sizes and degrees of solidity. They were big as an elephant or small as a mouse. They were human-shaped, animal-shaped or shapes in between. You could see right through some, but others looked as substantial as your reflection.

The Bad Beliefs were insouciantly draped over my shrubs and steps. They sat atop my car and on my lawn. They walked up and down or squatted stolid as Indian chiefs. A group of four were playing poker, and some others were performing a kind of frenzied cannibal dance. A clatter from the roof indicated they were up there too.

The ones nearest the window spotted me, and shouts went up.

“Hey, Jimmy, come out and play!” “We won’t bite!” “We just want to be friends!”

I dropped the curtain as if it were aflame, and faded back into the room.

They knew my name. I hadn’t realized they would know my name. All my previous bouts with bad memes had been low-grade infections, nipped in the bud. But I guessed when things went this far, the memes apparently got more powerful, more tangible and active.

How active I could not at that moment have guessed.

I wished for the prophylactic glasses and headphones that the nurse had worn. They might have helped me to escape. But such devices were permitted only to medical personnel. It was felt that such mechanical contrivances were subject to failure, and could cause a person to neglect their shots .…

My neighbors must be going nuts right now. My deliberate inattention to my own mental welfare had succeeded in lowering their property values immensely. Even yesterday, things hadn’t been this bad. It was only a matter of time before one or more of my fellow homeowners called the DOM and a truck was dispatched to get me. In fact, I thought I could hear the distant wail of sirens even now.

Irrationally, I suddenly wished that I could have been born during a simpler time. I knew that life was supposed to be so much better nowadays, with all these shots to protect us from Bad Beliefs. But on the other hand, it was these same shots that had made the Bad Beliefs assume these potent and visible forms. Until they were expelled en masse from the human mind, Bad Beliefs had been strictly internal, invisible, a private matter. They had spread invisibly too, unlike this assault today on my house. But once they had been banished from their ancient lodgings in the human skull—banished, not exterminated, for that seemed impossible—they were free to roam at will.

And today I seemed to be the sole object of their attention.

I was feeling like one of those besieged humans in an old zombie movie when from behind me came a scuffling noise and a human grunting that made me jump almost out of my skin.

I whirled around, heart pounding like a lawnmower piston.

Coming out of the fireplace was—Santa Claus.

“Santa,” I said. “Santa, I haven’t thought of you since I was four years old.”

Santa brushed the soot off his outfit. “I’m surprised you held on to me that long, son. Old Santa’s a Bad Belief nowadays. Santa Is Real is something you just can’t say anymore.”

“Santa? A Bad Belief?”

“Sure. They say I cause too much heartbreak when it’s revealed I’m imaginary. But I ask you, do I look imaginary to you?”

“Oh, no, Santa. I still remember when I sat on your lap at the mall .…”

Santa advanced on me. I let him put his arm around my shoulder. He smelled like plum pudding.

“Well then, you’ll trust old Santa when he says that you should go outside and meet all your new friends. They’ll help you get on with your life, Jimmy. You’ve been stagnating.”

Was it true, what Santa was saying? I knew I didn’t particularly like my job, or have any lovers or friends or interests or passions. But “stagnating” was an awfully harsh word .…

“Gee, Santa, I don’t know—”

Suddenly, the sirens I had heard grew louder, and Santa said, “You don’t want DOM to get you, Jimmy. Haven’t you heard what they do to people who skip their shots? They implant a permanent antimeme pump in you. It’s set for such a high dose of drugs that you’ll have trouble holding on to a It’s Time To Tie Your Shoe meme. You’ll end up a ward of the state, living in a meme-free rest home. No, your only hope now is to flee to the ghetto, where DOM has no power.”

The sirens sounded about a block away, and I knew I didn’t have any more time to hesitate. I had to make up my mind, and fast. Should I wait for DOM and take my medicine, or throw my lot in with the Bad Beliefs?

Images of the sanctimonious doctor and the priggish nurse floated up before me. Then I looked straight into Santa’s twinkly blue eyes.

It was no contest.

I don’t even remember opening the door and fleeing my house. But somehow I was standing out on the lawn, surrounded by the Bad Beliefs.

“Quick, let’s go!” I yelled to no one in particular. “DOM will be here any minute!”

Santa came up alongside me. “No they won’t, Jimmy. Nobody’s even called them yet”

“But the sirens—”

Santa ho-ho-hoed. “That was just Paranoia Is The Real Story, Jimmy.”

A skinny dude with the nervous look of a speed-freak stepped forward. He pursed his lips and out came a perfect siren noise.

“You—you tricked me!”

“It was for your own good, Jimmy, believe me,” said Santa just before he vanished.

“Santa, come back!”

Another of the Bad Beliefs grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around. I found myself facing a big burly male figure wearing the head of a German Shepherd.

“It’s A Dog Eat Dog World out there, kid. Ain’t no one gonna help you but yourself. If I was you, I’d get my ass on the road. You’re not gonna be safe until you get outta DOM’s reach.”

Dog Eat Dog was right. There was only one place for me to go, and that was the ghetto.

I jogged toward my car, the Bad Beliefs capering after me, whooping and hollering with delight. Their shapes were enticing and glamorous, and I had to fight to keep my focus.

My hand shot out to the handle of the driver’s door, but one of the Bad Beliefs beat me to it.

“I’ll fuckin’ take the wheel,” slurred Dmnk Driving Is Safe. His shirt was covered with vomit stains, and a haze of alcohol fumes hovered around his head.

“Oh, no—” I began, but other Bad Beliefs interrupted me.

“Don’t worry,” said You Can Trust Me, a beautiful young girl. “We always let him drive.”

“There’s never been an accident we couldn’t walk away from,” said You’ll Never Die, a precocious ten-year-old.

“You don’t want to hurt his feelings,” said You’ll Lose All Your Friends, a weenie of a teenager.

“Well, if you all think it’s okay .…”

“We do, we do!” they shouted, and hustled me into the back seat.

Drunk Driving slammed the car into reverse and peeled out, clipping my lamppost and dragging it halfway down the block before unhooking it when he climbed the curb and ran over an ornamental calf-high cast-iron fence.

“Does he know how to get there?” I asked with some trepidation.

Improbably, there seemed to be dozens of Bad Beliefs crammed into the car with me. What’s more, they seemed to be continually changing, new ones replacing the old. Right now a bluff, hearty salesman type of Bad Belief was sitting beside me.

“Know where he’s going?” demanded Bluster Will Clinch The Sale. “He drew the map! Don’t you worry, Jimmy. We’ll get you to safety all right.”

“We might have to make a few stops first, though,” said Short Attention Spans Are Postmodern.

“Stops? For what?”

“I need some more booze, for one thing!” said Drunk Driving, turning completely around. The car veered into the oncoming traffic, forcing several vehicles off the road, and I closed my eyes. Now I heard sirens again.

“Is that Paranoia?”

“No,” said Indecision Is Charming. “I mean, yes.”

Bluster had vanished. In his place was a scary-looking black man with a goatee.

“Fuck tha po-leece!” he said.

Having regained our own lane, Drunk Driving floored the accelerator and I was pressed back into the seat.

All the Bad Beliefs were cheering and screaming with glee. We took a curve, and I was pressed into the seemingly solid flesh of a girl beside me, who had replaced Fuck Tha Police. I looked at her, and was shocked to see the form of my thirteen-year-old sister, who was really now thirty-five and living a thousand miles from here.

My sister giggled and said, “Oh, Jimmy, let’s make out.” She began to unbutton her shirt.

I scuttled away until the door handle was digging into my back. “Who—who are you?”

“I’m Incest Is Harmless. Let’s screw.”

Incest had her shirt off, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her juvenile breasts. I have no idea what I would have done if I hadn’t been interrupted. But luckily for me, at that moment Drunk Driving jumped another curb and slammed on the brakes. Even so, he still crunched into the side of a parked car.

In a daze, I asked, “Where are we? Are we at the ghetto?”

“Are you fuckin’ blind?” said Don’t Tolerate Fools. “Its a packy. We need booze.”

All the Bad Beliefs tumbled out, hustling me with them, and we blew into the package store like a hurricane of malevolent spirits.

Drunk Driving began to grab bottles off the shelves, stuffing them in his pockets and down his pants. The rest of the Bad Beliefs did likewise. The startled owner came out from behind the counter, while the cashier picked up the phone and punched out 911.

“What the hell is going on here—?” demanded the owner.

Suddenly, out of nowhere materialized a new Bad Belief. He resembled a Hell’s Angel, all fat-overlaid muscles, greasy leather and tattoos. And he was carrying a sawed-off shotgun.

The owner froze and all the color drained from his face.

“Property is theft,” sneered Property Is Theft.

Then he pumped both barrels into the refrigerator case, spraying glass and liquor everywhere.

The owner dived back behind the counter and the cashier hit the floor. Property Is Theft laughed. “You’re damn lucky Life Is Worthless was busy fuckin’ over Africa!”

We were back outside. I heard sirens again. This time it was really the cops, three cruisers in fact.

Fuck Tha Police materialized, along with a dozen other Uzi-toting black men.

“I brung tha boyz from tha hood,” he said. “We’ll cover while you make a break for it.”

We piled in the car. I found myself lying on the floor in back. Then we were screeching away, the sound of automatic weapons fire competing with our smoking tires.

I dared to get up off the floor. Somebody stuck a quart bottle in my hand, and I unscrewed the top and drank, heedless of what was in it.

When I was done spluttering, I asked quietly, “Can we go straight to the ghetto now?”

“Sure,” said Promise Them Anything, who looked just like a famous politician.

We picked up the freeway heading toward the city. Weaving from lane to lane, Drunk Driving passed the other cars as if they were motionless. He didn’t let up on the horn, and the blaring noise assumed the sound of the Last Trump. I closed my eyes when the speedometer cracked one hundred. A familiar figure began tossing empties out the window.

Someone Else Will Pick Up My Litter. I remembered when he had seemed like a big problem, and a hysterical laugh that was more like a sob escaped my lips.

“Take this exit!” a new, fanatical voice shouted.

Deceleration crumpled me into the upholstery. I opened my eyes and saw a new figure next to me. Half his face was bearded, half cleanshaven. Half a turban and half a cowboy hat sat on his head, half a string tie and half a set of prayer beads hung around his neck. Something about him immediately convinced me that he was one of the most dangerous Bad Beliefs.