- XII -

* * * * *
         The drink goes down as smoothly as the other ones have so far, etching a slow burning path down his throat before setting as a comfortably fiery lump in his stomach. In a few minutes it'll spread out to the rest of his body, reducing tension, relaxing stress. That's the whole point of it, really, the whole point of drinking. If you drink just to get yourself drunk that's foolish, because how can you enjoy being relaxed and yet entirely aware of the world around you if your world consists of gripping the dispassionately cold edges of a toilet and watching your face caught in mirror reflection, vomit falling up at you, chunks with all their charms. Carl's been there, cut himself on the edge of the drunken razor and had that one drink too many, reliving every meal he's ever had in the last twenty four hours. Not tonight though. He's not sure how many drinks he's had so far, but it's not about how many, it's far you can go before you float away into an alcohol drenched oblivion. Before you wake up in your bed with a black hole in your memory and find people telling you about things you can't remember doing. Not that having selective memory loss wouldn't be good sometimes, Carl can think of several blocks of times that he'd be better off relegating to some resting place for retired memories.
         He's still sitting at the table where he was talking to Tristian before. No one else has bothered to come and sit with him, but Carl can deal with that because he doesn't plan on sticking around the table for that much longer. What he had said to Tristian before was true, this wasn't a party where you could just be idle and observe. Hopefully some of that got through to the guy, but Carl can see that Tristian definitely has the deck stacked against him. He could see it when people passed by when the two of them were talking, there was surprise in their eyes, as if they couldn't understand how Carl could sit there and talk to Tristian, fear that Tristian might notice them, a distant sketchy dance from his line of sight, as if with a glance he could send them all far away. Carl isn't sure what they were afraid of, Tristian thus far as struck Carl as a decent person, a fairly meek fellow with a hidden core of iron that he'd never admit to in a million year. He's seen it before, the ones who deny their courage and their determination, even if they do it silently, through gesture and inaction, are the ones who fight on when there's little point, who hang on the longest because giving up is something they deep down inside can't fathom.
         Wow. That's a fairly deep insight into the mind of another human. Carl isn't sure where it came from and so blames it on the alcohol. But it's distracting him, he's not here to sit around and make a game at thinking deep thoughts, like it's some sort of character building exercise. He's here at a party and so far he's liking what he's seeing. Getting up from his seat, he takes another look around at a world that was once sharply divided but is now settling into a comfortable juxtaposition of shadows and darker shades. There's light coming from somewhere, there has to be for shadows, but he's not sure where it is. People are starting to slip into wild abandon, the dancers are moving with frantic and almost desperate energy, all of them seeming to think that they're still going for very different reasons. In the end, it's all the same. You dance to keep the world at bay, to immerse yourself in textures that you can't touch or feel or see with normal senses, to take a swan dive into a fabric that's concealing and revelatory, that clutches and swamps your efforts to move even as you find more freedom of movement than ever. Dancers seem to move sideways while time moves forward. That's why Carl can never bring himself to dance, it's part of a long process of letting go that he can't manage to let himself become entrenched in, and at the same time dancing hides the world away, gives it a smiley faced mask to present to you in those odd solemn moments when you ever bother to turn around and see who's staring over your shoulder. Carl wants to confront the world in all its ugly grim beauty and feel that he can turn it to his advantage, that you can stare into the uncompromising glare of the world and not flinch.
         ". . . sweetness, sweetness I was only joking when I said I'd mash every tooth in your head, but now I know how Joan of Arc felt . . ."
         Dark thoughts. Carl gives himself a grim smile to match, though anyone watching might think it was just a grin marveling at the world itself. People are probably watching, every motion of every person is being watched by someone. That's the other whole point of this party, to find someone who looks likely, to flare up into friends for a brief few hours, to let alcohol and hormones stoke the fires before they burn out and it's just some dim flickering memory. A girl and a guy pass him by, walking very closely, arms linked around each other as if by some happy accident. As they draw past the girl brushes against Carl and he doesn't think that it's an accident. Neither is the fleeting smile she gives him. There's a hope for everything tonight. He knows that.
         Slowly, as if executing a ballet turn in the ocean of dreams he turns to head for the bar. Another drink will kick him more into action, one more to fortify his will and then some. A wall of people greets him there, people hitting their stride and coming back for more. A pit stop at the longest race track ever known, where there's only one edge and you keep trying to find the other side. Carl figures he'll wait a second before continuing and so he takes another look out at the dance floor. He glimpses a mass that seems to be churning away from the rest of the dancers, kinetics given life of their own.
         Tristian's there, a blurred comet of motion. Carl has never been much for watching dancers unless they were more of the female persuasion and three steps on the right side of attractive, but he can't take his eyes off Tristian. At first glance he doesn't seem to be moving with the beat, he just seems to be off doing his own strange jerking dance, some poor slob who can't find the rhythm if it dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt and slapped him rudely in the head. But then on second glance, and Carl congratulates himself on noticing something that most people probably weren't paying attention to, he finds that Tristian is moving in perfect telepathic time to the beat, finding hidden holes and spaces in the music and utilizing them, bending them to his will while keeping them pure and uncluttered. There's no wasted motion in his dancing, it's daringly simple, there's no hesitation, each motion flows right into the next one, water washing up against a blissfully sandy shore. Carl watches Tristian execute a wicked turn, his arms windmilling but somehow not striking anyone. In that second Carl realizes just how dangerous Tristian might possibly be. If he could dance like that, what the hell must he fight like?
         His face is the most interesting and Carl wishes he could somehow perfectly capture that face on film and study it, blow it up in a million difference ways and interpret the nuances. The set of his brow, the curve of his eyebrows, the eyes themselves. Tristian is seeing things that none of them have ever seen, the images that have been reflected in his pupils, suns and stars and the glittering arc of a timeless universe curling around and above you while you stand there immobile, unable to move for fear of disturbing the grandeur of it all. It's all there. Still, for all his austere beauty, Tristian is apart from the group, orbiting in a detached aimless way, the gravity of the others is just not enough to reel him back in. An eternity of degeneration would not be enough. Caught between the rushing beat of the music and the slashed open ambience of the air, Carl realizes that a lifetime isn't enough to see everything in the smallest division of eternity.
         Now, the other three folks with him, a guy and two girls are good, and they blend together well. The two girls are intriguing enough, but the contrast between them is striking. The one girl is dancing freely, almost joining hands with the other guy, sometimes trying to link everyone in a circle, her rhythms loose and reckless but slipping into place just the same. The other girl dances with lockstep precision, her face colored in deep concentration, as if she's trying to say something, shout a statement out against the dark backdrop, hoping that someone might be listening. Carl wonders where that thought came from. Where all these thoughts are coming from.
         Ripping himself from watching the dancers is almost a physical thing, like Velcro coming undone. Little hooks in his face, keeping him taut. He notes that the bar is mostly clear now and there's even a seat there. It's warm when he plants himself into it, but then about the only cold them around here now is the beer. The temperature is climbing, reaching its plateau, it has to do that before it can burst and splatter them all with quenching relief. People are leaning against walls now, absentmindedly fanning themselves, skin supple with sweat, eyes flickering with fatigue they could never admit. Party till you drop. That's the spirit. Other couples are turning the heat way up, finding room wherever they can to indulge in desires that lay under the surfaces of their brains, beating feebly against the skull, crying to escape. The rigid chains that keep those inhibitions tied down are gone now, whipping wildly and freely in the beer soaked night, people going to each other, to strangers, without shame, without remorse, without any hint or promise of the next day. Carl has always thought such couplings at a party are little better than drive by shootings, you just happen to be in the same place when it happens, there aren't any other factors. He, for one, likes to make sure the odds tip in his favor. If there's randomness, then it's because he allowed it, planned it, tricked and trapped it, winding it up and setting it on its merry way with clockwork mindlessness and if that turns out to defeat the purpose of it all, then the hell with that. Carl can't see the point of view of chaos for the sake of making life interesting. But that's people for you. Dangle a goal in front of them like some demented carrot and they'll go all to pieces running it down. Running themselves down.
         The bar is surprisingly empty, as if they were all papers scattered by a brisk wind. He could have sworn there were more people standing there a second ago but where they all could have gone, he has no idea. In an instant, he wryly remembers Will's story of everyone being teleported out of the restaurant. Funny if something like that happened tonight. He wonders vaguely how it would feel to be confronted bluntly by a reality like that. Part of him would look forward to it. No matter. Finding a seat, he discovers that it's reassuringly warm. There's really no one else here, just the bartender and a small pretty girl who is talking to him in an animated fashion. The bartender breaks the conversation briefly to get Carl his drink, and then sits back down. Carl notices that the bartender is adding little to the talk, mostly leaning against the bar and listening, his expression caught somewhere between wistful and bored. Carl thinks he sees the man's eyes flicker out to the dance floor.
         ". . . really you should take a break and get out there, Sam, really. I mean, I'd take over for you, hell, just about anybody here would, everyone wants a shot at it. It's not, you know, it's not fair to you to just sit here all night and not enjoy yourself . . ." so the girl says.
         Sam doesn't even bother shrugging, just shakes his head barely. All about minimalism, he is. "I don't think I'd enjoy myself much more out there," and he gives a limp wave of his arm to indicate the rest of the world. "At least here I'm of some use."
         The girl gives a planned exaggerated sigh, and out of the corner of her eye she's glancing at Carl, probably to see if he's listening. Carl is just perched on his chair, elbows on the bar, his drink placed right square in the center of his line of vision, as if he's about to give it a stern lecture. But Carl's staring at the wall. He can see the girl and the bartender talking, his peripheral vision, a distorted fish view of the world, their faces warped and curled, given liquid smoothness. It's all part of the plan.
         Making a small noise, the girl continues, his attention returning back to Sam. Whether Sam finds this a good thing or not, Carl isn't able to determine. "Oh come on now, what the hell is wrong with you tonight? You're not normally like this, you're letting something bothering you. I know you are."
         "You do, do you?" and there's a glimpse of a Sam that Carl probably won't meet tonight, a flash of light from behind tightly drawn opaque curtains. Carl takes a sip of his drink, feeling it seep into his brain, giving the world a gauzy sameness while enhancing everything. Time becomes a river of sap, oozing through their lives, their pores. Nobody can see it but him. Or something.
         "Sure I do. I know you well enough to know that you're letting something get to you." She leans forward, pointing a squinting finger at him. "I can see right through you."
         "So I've nothing to hide from you, I take it," Sam replies to her. There's a gentle hesitant playfulness in his voice, like he can't be bothered to throw himself fully into the game but can't keep away either. Carl knows that feeling. It's an old friend for him. "Why don't you just come right out and tell me my feelings, then? It'll sure save me the trouble of puzzling through them. That just takes too much effort."
         "Oh now, don't get snippy with me, I'm just trying to help. You'll thank me for this little talk one day."
         "I wouldn't hold your breath."
         "See? See, you're getting snippy with me again. When I'm trying to help you. I'll bet there's not another person here who would-"
         "Annoy me like this?"
         "Be nice, Sam. I meant to say not another person who would be this patient with you. You're not making this easy."
         "Making what easy? You started trying to drag stuff out of me, I'm just working the bar, like I wanted to do. I said I wanted to do it, but no, that's not good enough for you. You're always looking for deeper reasons behind everything, you know that? Sometimes when someone says something that's just what they mean." There's a mild edge in Sam's voice but nothing too disquieting. Carl finishes the last of his drink and slides the glass gently back and forth in front of him, reveling a bit in the groaning gnashing whine of glass on wood, watching the residue droplets go bouncing fore and back on the bottom of the glass. If he were in the mood he could probably spin some sort of metaphor out of it, but there's little point without a receptive audience.
         The music wails and roars for a second, disrupting his careful eavesdropping. No matter, he was going to enter the conversation in a few minutes anyway, now that he had convinced the two of them that he wasn't listening at all. They'd say anything around him, they've probably forgotten that he was even there. Perception and reception. Not even related concepts but they might as well be.
         ". . . you were just like me, you were one big bruise, in the game of life we were playing to lose . . ."
         ". . . might as well learn to let her go you know," the girl says abruptly, her speech cutting back in through the sound. Tuning back into his favorite station. She's got a nice voice, girlish without sounding like some Valley refugee, intelligent and modulated without becoming someone's high school math teacher. He could listen to the tone for hours, just letting it take him into her world, borne on the backs of phonetics.
         "It's not about that at all, you don't know what the hell you're talking about." The edge is back again, growing thinner with each passing second.
         "Oh, it's not is it?" She's not convinced at all.
         "It's not. I swear."
         "Okay. Fine. Then go out there and dance a bit and enjoy yourself, mingle and all that, and I'll hold down the fort here."
         "Ah, now, I don't think . . . I told you I enjoy it here . . ."
         "A couple minutes won't kill you and it'd be fun for me too."
         "I can mingle just fine here, you know. I'm really just fine here. Really." A rushing stumble of words, throwing a handful of darts at the wall in the dark and then turning them back on again to see if you hit anything.
         "Why'd you come here, Sam, if it still hurts so much?" she says suddenly, her voice sheathed in felt, no longer a sharp driving tack, probing at the tender places. Somewhere deep inside she probably feels she is hurting him and has some bit of guilt about it. Carl can't be sure though, he doesn't know her well enough.
         "It doesn't." Said too roughly, too quickly. Carl isn't even fooled by it and he doesn't know Sam that well either. Everyone here might as well be a stranger but it's better that way, you can start from a blank slate, you're not working with any sort of preconceptions, you can approach it all like it's something fresh and new, and not just the hundredth party you've been too. Forget all the others and every time will be the first time.
         "Come on, Sam, talk to me. Please?"
         "There's nothing to talk about."
         "I know you two were great together but, you know, relationships end, it happens. It wasn't your fault, Sam."
         "Then who's fault was it? Who's?" the words are fired out, erupting from his lips. Carl can almost imagine him leaning over the bar, bearing down on the poor girl, cowing her down with his will and his anger. It's an appealing image, if only for the drama, of course. But instead Sam just stands back, his shoulders slumped, whatever energy that had once driven him having fled long ago. Only good to dispense alcohol for everyone else. That's all. Someone has to do it.
         "She didn't love you, Sam." Her voice is gentle but unbending. This one won't back down. "That's not something you can do anything about. You know that."
         If Sam had been leaning forward, at this point in the conversation he would have sat back heavily, sighing forlornly as the realization hit him that he had been wrong all this time, that he had been mad at the wrong thing, that he had been placing himself in an endless cage of his own devising when instead he could have been getting on with his life. But Sam knows this already, he's known it all since the beginning of the end, he can see the rut as surely as if he was flying over the trenches himself but he doesn't do a damn thing about it. Because he doesn't care.
         "Dammit," Carl hears him whisper. Something passes in front of one of the lights and the bar is caught under the shadows. In the darkness everything seems muffled, quiet. Sam and the girl might still be talking but they're far away, the twin roars of the music and the crowds taking their words away. Sam mutters something else about love and the girl replies with something neutrally appeasing. It makes no difference. A second later, the shadow of Sam detaches itself from the bar and passes swiftly through the crowd, vanishing and blending.
         ". . . I was shaking like a leaf, I couldn't understand the conversation, yeah! so I ran to the street, looking for information . . ."
         Carl looks up suddenly as if he has just noticed something utterly important. Swiveling on his seat to face the girl, who is mildly staring at him, one eye on him and one eye on nothing in particular, he says to her, "He okay?"
         She blinks as if not sure what he means and then understanding dawns. Waving a hand in comical dismissal, she replies, "Him? Oh yeah, he just went to use the bathroom for a moment. He figured he'd get there while it was still quiet, you know?" She looks around, seeming to notice something for the first time as well. "Geez, there's no one even around here."
         "All out dancing," Carl comments, as a way of breaking the ice. They're both sitting here at the bar, already it's something they have in common. "They come in spurts, waves." He holds up his own glass as mute witness. "I figured I'd come in between the refueling runs. Timed it perfectly, if I may say so myself." And gives her the old cocky smile, the confident one.
         She smiles back, even giggles a little. It's a nice laugh, bubbling without sounding artificial. She turns to face him fully, there's only one empty stool between them. Hair frames her face, gently riding back along her shoulders. In the shadowed light, it's impossible to tell even what color it might be. It doesn't matter, really.
         "Really?" she asks him, throwing an arch eyebrow his way. "You must have been watching for a while then. You know, to get that crack timing down."
         "Ah, you know, I try my best." His voice is cool, level, for the first time since this party started he's feeling fairly good about himself. They're both warming to each other, maybe he's got something here, maybe for once a little effort might just pay off. Carl has certain hopes, and he tries to keep them realistic but in an environment like this you feel that everything is possible, that every chance has a shot, all possibilities in this sweat drenched, thudding, hormonally charged mess of a party.
         One of her eyes narrow at him, a minor squint. She points a finger at him, shaking it slightly. He eyes it without staring at it, looking at her directly. Right in the face. People appreciate eye contact. "I think . . . I think I saw you sitting over there before. Were you talking to . . ." she glances at the dance floor, a movement so blurred and sudden that he almost misses it, so smooth is the motion, ". . . you know, that weird guy?"
         Ah. So his conversation hadn't gone unnoticed. "If by that weird guy you mean Tristian . . ."
         ". . . that's his name . . ." she interrupts, giving a silent snap of her fingers.
         ". . . then yeah, that's who I was talking to. But he's really not all that weird."
         "Oh, that's not what I heard," she says, a final definitive statement, as if by hearing it she had declared it the final word on the subject. She leans forward a bit, like someone might be able to eavesdrop on this conversation, like someone might care to hear. "I've heard all sorts of strange things about him."
         "Really?" Carl asks, leaning forward as well, in fact leaning so far forward that he winds up on the previously empty stool between them. It puts his face uncommonly close to hers, but she doesn't flinch. He likes that. They're getting along fine. "So have I. Maybe we've heard the same ones?"
         "Maybe," she teases. "What have you heard?"
         "Oh . . ." Carl pauses to add that essential element of drama and to make it seem like he's searching a vast memory for just the right story. He's not, but it's about perception, all about presentation. "Something about people leaving a restaurant rather quickly, that one always seems to stick in my head."
         Her eyes widen in recognition of the tale. Another piece of the common puzzle. "Were you there?" she asks, her voice rising a bit. "Or did you just here about it?"
         "Right the second time," Carl tells her, sliding his glass along the bar just to give his hands something to do. "Probably would have been a kick to have been there though. Something different at least."
         "Yeah, sure, just what I was thinking," she responds, rolling her eyes. It's a friendly motion though, the smile hasn't left her face. Then her face becomes briefly serious, an out of place expression at this party. There's no room for that kind of stuff here. "I heard that one too, though. Do you think it's true."
         "Well . . ." and he pauses again, letting her hang on the word, waiting for him to finish, "I don't want to tell you what to believe but after talking to Tristian for a few minutes . . . there's absolutely no goddamned doubt in my mind." His stare is even, he's not playing around here, he's dead serious. He knows she can sense that, she's into it. It's the right combinations in the right portions.
         The girl gives a sudden shiver, as if all the dancers gyrating a couple feet away have created a cold draft. "Ugh, I don't know, the stuff like that just creeps me out. All that weird stuff, ghosts, space aliens." She smiles again and leans her elbow on the bar, resting her head against it, looking up at him. It's a cute position. "I don't know about you, but give me a safe nutty set of relationship problems any day. That I can deal with, no problem."
         "Like our liquor serving friend?" Carl notes, motioning at the empty space where Sam had been standing. In gesturing he brushes against her arm but doesn't bother offering any sort of apology for the implied breach of space. She asks for none either but makes no outward note of it either. He's not sure how to take that.
         "Sam?" and she sighs, glancing up at the ceiling as if asking for support from God. "Don't even get me started. That's just a sad, sad affair."
         "I couldn't help but overhear part of your conversation before," Carl admits, changing tactics a bit. "He's sounds like he's really in a bad way."
         "Oh, doing a bit of eavesdropping, were we?" she asks, but there's no sting in her words. Already kidding with him, another good sign. Carl's going places, he's two steps away from having it all sewn up, just by hitting the right buttons, making the right motion.
         "A bit hard not to, here," Carl responds, equally playful, indicating the expanse of bar before them. "Not exactly the best play for private and personal conversation, is it now?"
         "Point," she concedes, grinning at him impishly. Then, sighing again, she shakes her head. "Sam's just, I don't know, he does it to himself, really."
         "Can't let go of a past love?" Carl states wisely. Give the impression that you know exactly what she's talking about. Perhaps you do. Perhaps you've been there. Being honest with yourself was never one of your high priority. It's all a matter of perspective, people keep saying. But what perspective. If you turn the memory and stand it sideways, does it change the meaning. A book read upside down still has the same words, just viewed differently. Facts can't change but they can be altered, blended.
         "Something like that . . . but . . ." and there's a note of frustration in her voice, "it's just that . . . God, he so does this to himself. Instead of trying to get his mind off the entire sordid thing, he comes to these parties when he knows that she's going to be here and he stands around trying to avoid her all night. Makes himself absolutely miserable." She makes a face at that. "Makes me want to smack him right in the face, tell him to straighten and face reality, you know?" She shakes her again, making a disgusted noise. "Wouldn't do any good though, I know it wouldn't."
         "Why is he taking it so hard?" Carl finds himself asking, more as a reason to keep the conversation going then any sort of random curiosity. He'll probably never see Sam again after this night and will stop thinking about him long before that, but everything has to be a means to an end.
         "Oh, I guess you would have had to see them together," and there's this plain smile of memory coloring her face. "They were a really cute couple, not in that sickening way, but just, really cute. The kind that you see walking down the street and it makes you happy because they look so happy. It was just really nice." In the darkness behind her, it's almost as if you can see blurred images of those times flickering behind her, testament and witness. But it's just the dancers, random specks of jewelry catching the light, refracting it, pulsing in time to music that's just a distant thundering crash. Numbed sound.
         "But it wasn't going to last," she continues, looking down a bit, perhaps looking at Carl. There's no one else around, that's just what it feels like. Revolving around a dark floor, where you can't see the motion but you can feel it just the same. Driving blindfolded, just navigating by senses alone. Because you're confident. Because there's only one path this can all go down. Inevitable. Right down the bumpy hill. "It never does. She didn't love him, oh I mean she really liked him but that's not the same thing at all, right?"
         "So they broke up?" Is there even a point in asking that question? Carl thinks so, just for the record. Just to be thorough.
         "I mean, she really didn't have any choice. You stay in a relationship for too long when you don't love him and you either convince yourself that you do or you just plod along, not saying a word for fearing of screwing everything up. You're not really happy either way but you don't want to risk, you know, losing what you think is the only person you'll ever have." She crosses her arms over her chest, sitting up straight in the chair, stiffly. "That's how I always saw it at least. And, really, she was really easy on him, she brought him down easy. She tried her best and I could tell that it really hurt her as well, she was hurting. Maybe she still is, because she was happy and you, I guess everyone hates trading the devil they know for the devil they don't know."
         "So true," Carl murmurs. "So true."
         "But she's at least considered other guys, Sam . . ." she shrugs, casting her glance around, looking for him. The fragmented darkness offers her nothing in aid. "He just, all the feeling went out of him, it's like," and she waves her hands around vaguely, trying to shape new words out of the thin cloth of the air, "he just doesn't want to try anymore."
         "He'll get over it eventually," Carl says kindly, injecting sincere emotion into his voice. He wishes he could catch his face in a mirror, it's probably the epitome of controlled concentration. He's proud of himself tonight, nothing has gone wrong, when there's so much that can fall to pieces, each step fraught with real and imagined peril. It's all what you make of it. Caught in his little bubble of a world within the party, a microcosm of all their lives, he can see that. You craft what you will. You will what you craft. Rearranged sentences barely ever make sense the second time around.
         "I hope so," she says a little glumly. Carl hopes he can fix that. She straights again and looks around, squinting up in the direction of the stairs. It's like they're staring out into a mob, the normal divided in two by the dancers, each side hoping to get word from the other. Pockets of calm, pockets of stability. There aren't any in the changing world. And the unchanging world can't exist, there has to always be a state of flux. It's all physics, it's all science. We can prove it. Sure we can.
         He leans even closer and touches her gently on the arm. "Think we should go look for him?"
         She glances sideways at him, her expression maddeningly unreadable, and replies, "I'm not sure . . . oh hey!"
         Carl jumps back into his seat, thinking that Sam has come back. Instead it's another guy that he doesn't recognize, a guy who comes forward and bends down and kisses her straight on the lips, for a length of time that just barely skirts the bounds of social good taste.
         "Good to see you again, I thought you had abandoned poor me over here," the girl says to the newcomer happily, turning and stretching to greet him. Carl backs away a bit. The guy is saying something but Carl can't hear, he's not bothering to listen.
         "I'm going to go look for Sam," he mutters, not even caring who hears him, if they even notice his departure. Probably not, they're just about all over each other already, flaring passions, the room's too small to contain them all, Carl feels constricted, constrained, flailing in mime like fashion. Voices follow him like maddening ghosts, dancing just out of reach, taunting him just in case he might think he was strong enough to disperse them. Gibbering silently, they fling words.
         "Hey, honey, who was that guy?"
         "Oh, just someone I was talking to. I didn't even get his name. Don't worry, he's not competition. There's no one like you."
         "Heh, I almost think you mean that."
         "Well then you're just going to have to let me convince you . . ."
         The rest becomes jumbled, garbled, lost to the background, crossing with the other million voices vying for attention, struggling and screaming for him to focus on them. But he's not listening, Carl's off somewhere else, paddling somewhere to forget.
         ". . . and I remember more than I can tell . . ."
         a mournful voice sings from some land across the ocean.
         Damn!
         Damn damn damn.