Looking down at the river shimmering in the bright sun, Jonathan Whalen leaned against the steel balustrade at the end of the street. The skyline of New York that he remembered did not seem altered by the recent skyscrapers. Far across the river, jets took off from La Guardia, leaving behind them thin lines of exhaust. On the near side, a helicopter lifted into the sky, hovered over the water, then veered off, casting its shadow on the river. Another helicopter descended and touched down, quivering to a stop on the landing pad.
Whalen walked toward the heliport, where a freshly painted copter sat on a platform. A large sign proclaimed: EXECUTIVE HELIWAYS, INC. SEE MANHATTAN FROM THE AIR. LOW-RATE EXCURSIONS. Whalen went into the ticket office, and the clerk looked him up and down.
âIâd like to see Manhattan,â said Whalen.
âWhy donât you take a subway?â said the clerk, focusing on Whalenâs old shirt, worn pants, and scuffed boots.
âManhattan canât be seen from the subway.â
âHow about the bus?â
âToo slow. How about the sight-seeing flight?â
The clerk leaned across the counter. âLook, this is Executive Heliways, not freeload ways. Understand?â
âI do,â said Whalen. He held out several crisp bills, the exact amount listed on the wall board as the price for the half-hour flight. âWill this do?â
Shuffling uneasily, the clerk stared at the money. âIâll check with the pilot,â he mumbled as he disappeared into the back room, and a moment later he returned, accompanied by a man in a gray uniform.
âThis is the fella who wants to take the ride,â said the clerk.
The pilot glanced at Whalen. âLook, sonââ
âIâm not your son,â said Whalen, and he pushed the money toward the clerk.
The pilot hesitated. âIâm going to have to sort of frisk you before takeoff.â
âYou frisk everyone who flies with you?â
âWellâat my discretion.â
âThen use it,â said Whalen.
âItâs easier if you put your hands up,â said the pilot, approaching him slowly, and as Whalen complied, the man rapidly patted his shirt and pants. âTake off your boots,â he directed. Again Whalen obeyed, then put them back on after the inspection. Reassured, the pilot snapped, âLetâs board,â and the two of them marched toward the landing platform.
Inside the helicopter the pilot turned to Whalen. âWeâll fly all over the place,â he said; âover the Harlem black, the Gramercy Park white, and the Chinatown yellow; over the Bowery poor and the Park Avenue rich; the East Side, the West Side, midtown, downtown.â He pulled the throttle. The machine coughed, vibrated, and arched off the ground.
âA helicopter makes me feel free,â said Whalen as he glanced at the tourists watching them through binoculars from the roof of the Empire State Building. âStill, each time I fly in one, I feel like a toy, guided by remote control by someone on the ground.â
They passed over the town houses of Greenwich Village. âNow Iâll show you where all the big money is,â said the pilot, spinning the helicopter toward the Stock Exchange.
âCould you slow down over that building for a second?â asked Whalen. He pointed to an archaic skyscraper on Wall Street. âMy fatherâs office was on the top floor there. When I visited him as a kid, I used to stand there and look down at the other buildings. But itâs a strange feeling to be above it, looking down.â
The pilot glanced quizzically at Whalen but said nothing as he guided the helicopter around the building and, flying over Battery Park, went all the way to the Statue of Liberty. There, trailing the wake of an oil tanker, he turned again toward Manhattan. âOkay, son,â he announced, âweâre going back home now.â
At the heliport a police car stood next to the landing pad, and as Whalen stepped out of the machine a policeman moved toward him. The Heliways clerk stood nearby.
âPut your hands up!â ordered the policeman. Whalen obeyed. The policeman frisked him, found Whalenâs wallet, and counted the money in it. âLook at this,â he muttered. âThis guyâs carrying over two grand.â He turned back to Whalen. âWhereâd the money come from?â
âA bank,â Whalen answered. âOne we just flew over.â
The policeman stared at him. âWhat are you talking about?â
âI got this money from my bank,â answered Whalen.
âFor what?â
âFor killingââ
The policeman stiffened. âKilling what?â
âTime,â said Whalen.
The policeman was not amused. âWhere do you live?â he asked.
âNowhere yet. Iâve just arrived.â
âWhere from?â
âAbroad.â
âGot any identification?â
âOnly money. Isnât that enough? Thereâs no law that says I have to carry identification.â
âTell me more about the law and youâll sleep in jail tonight. Where is your family?â
âDead.â
The policeman nodded in disbelief. âYou get one more chance,â he threatened. âWhereâd you get this money?â
Whalen shrugged. âFrom my bank, the National Midland, Wall Street branch.â He waited. âIf you donât believe me, call the bankâs president, Mr. George Burleigh. Tell him Iâm back in town, and he will tell you where my money came from. My name is Jonathan James Whalen.â
The officer went to the office to make the call. When he returned, he handed Whalen the wallet. âIâm sorry about this, Mr. Whalen.â He laughed uneasily. âYou know, there are a lot of. . .â He stammered. âA lot of suspicious characters around.â He paused. âCan I give you a lift somewhere?â
âI have no place to go to right now,â said Whalen, and he turned and walked into the heliport office, where the pilot was lounging in a metal chair and drinking a cup of coffee. âHow many helicopters, would you guess, flew over New York at the same time we did?â Whalen asked him.
âFive or so,â answered the pilot.
âAnd how many people did they carry?â
âMaybe fifteen.â
âFifteen people looking down at twelve million,â said Whalen. âThatâs quite a ratio.â
The pilot leaned forward. âPardon my asking, but what do you do for a living? There must be a secretââ
âThere is,â answered Whalen. âMoney is the secret. The bank we flew over keeps it in trust for me until I reach a certain age.â
âNo kidding,â said the pilot. âAnd whenâs that?â
âTomorrow,â answered Whalen.
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It was evening. Whalen walked through the bustling streets of the East Side, and wherever he looked he saw young men and women, sitting or standing in sidewalk cafés and bars; leaning against their motorcycles, scooters, or cars; talking, laughing, embracing. They all seemed to be at ease with themselves and each other. Eventually he would have to make his way in their midst; he would meet some of them, judge and be judged by them, befriend them and be befriended in return.
He knew he must make a decision. Would he place himself among such people as their equal, and by doing so, remain slightly ashamed of everything about himself that would set him apart? Or would he enter their ranks as one whose position was of a different longitude and latitude from theirsâas a person who was his own event?
A girl walked toward him, her skirt swaying, revealing the shape of her long, tanned legs. Aroused, looking at her, he became aware of the space that his desire had opened between her and him, a space that a simple act of his will could not span. Had she noticed him, smiled at him, he would have found the courage to follow her, even to arrange a meeting. But she did not return his look. Still, he thought, perhaps he should follow her. But he didnât.
He walked into a restaurant. Mirrors reflecting the light from a crystal chandelier shot glittering prisms into even the darkest corners of the crowded room. Alone, he thought of Karen.
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Iâve bought the smallest tape recorder available. It looks exactly like a match box, and it can record anything from a one-minute memo to a four-hour conversation. It operates on its own rechargeable battery, is activated by voice or hand, and contains an invisible condenser microphone that self-adjusts for voice distances even in a large conference room. I keep it in my pocket.
One day I might even want to leave it behind in Karenâs apartment, and then claiming I left it by accident, pick it up the following day.
An American friend of mine once shared his apartment with his Argentinean girl friend for four months without letting her know that he was fluent in Spanish. By means of a miniature tape recorder that he concealed in his pocket when they were together or hid in the apartment when he went out, he would record her conversations, whether on the phone or face to face with her Spanish-speaking friends, many of whom did not speak English. In these conversations, his girl friend often talked about how much she loved him and what an unusually good and considerate man he was. But once in a while, on the phone with an intimate girl friend in Buenos Aires, she would candidly describe his lovemaking and bedside manners and speculate about his sexual preoccupations, fantasies, and fetishes, some of which she found peculiar and not to her taste. After listening to many tapes of conversations recorded in his absence, he became convinced that she was in love with him and felt reassured that there was no other man in her life. Nevertheless, unable to erase from his memory some of the poignant remarks she made about him, he began to feel embarrassment when making love to her and eventually became not only self-conscious but impotent. One night while caressing her, to end his misery he whispered to her in perfect Spanish how sorry he was that he had deceived her, and then he proceeded to tell her about the tape recorder. Shocked, the girl began to cry, and the next day told him that she felt betrayed. She said she could never forget that she had been spied on for monthsâand this by him, the only man she had ever loved and trusted. Soon after that, refusing to have anything more to do with him, she left for Buenos Aires.
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âLook, man, Iâm just trying to be friendly, thatâs all. Just now, I was standing behind you in line at the bank, right? And I saw you writing âfive thousand dollarsâânot on a regular check or a bank form, but on a square little piece of paperâplain paper, nothing on it, right? Then you just signed this paper âJ. J. Whalenââwasnât that your name? Whalen?âand you gave it to the cashier and he took that shitty scrap from you like it was pure gold. Then he comes back, all smiles, and just like that counts you out five grand all in that crispy cash! Now, man, I tell you, I been around banks, but I never saw a number like that: you sure got yourself some sonofabitch cash contact in that bank! Five grand for a shitty paper with âJ. J. Whalenâ on it! Who are you, an underground numbers-game king?
âBut listen, Whalen, let me clue you in on a truth about these sonofabitch bank tellers so they wonât try to hit you with it one day. You know what the motherfuckers got going on the side, donât you? Some of themâlike that fat black bitch who just gave you a come-on lookâthey take down the name and address of every old lady and widower, every faggy loner or rich bastard who comes in with a fat account. Then they sell the creepâs name to certain guys who want to know where those kind of rich numbers live. Some of these guys pay up to a hundred bills for one good name and address!
âAnd believe me, Whalen, these guys are good at making their information pay off nicely. One day, all dressed up as insurance men, theyâll go see a sickly old lady, and theyâll pull her by her ears until she gives them all that cash she keeps hidden at home, and all those gold crosses and old diamond rings. And there is no way for her or anyone else to know why these guys went after her.
âAnd dâyou know about those dudes who have a nice thing going for them in the âsoul-savingâ business? Dâyou know that if you want to split forever from that chick of yours whoâs got too sticky for your long hot finger, all you do is call a certain number, and they can save you a big hassle? You call that number and you tell the dude who answers that youâve got a soul to be saved and heâll tell you where and when you should deliver the cunt. Then you tell your chick that you and her are goinâ to look for a new place for the two of you. The minute you show up at that place and close the door, four motherfucking dudes will come inâand theyâre big, really big guys. Theyâll push you away like theyâre really mad, and theyâll start playinâ with your broad, kissinâ, nipple pickinâ, jerkinâ off, and so on until you begin to fight them, just to show the chick you are all for her. The dudes will pick you up and take you out of there, but before you split theyâll lay an honest-to-God hundred or so bucks on you for deliverinâ that soul to them.
âAfter you split, the dudes will be pretty rough on your chick, particularly if sheâs tightassed about spreading wide for guys she wasnât properly introduced to, or if she doesnât dig sucking big mamas she didnât go to Sunday school with. Believe me, Whalen, sheâll be roughed up like a soul in hell, front and back, top and bottom, until she learns how much true love is worth in this apple pie of a city. After that, a nice big dude will pick her up in his Caddy. If the cunt is nice, and if she walks the streets like her new daddy tells her and brings him all the stash that true love can make, heâll take good care of her. Got it?
âListen, Whalen, what Iâm telling you, man, is thatâwith your sonofabitch contact in this bank and mine with these dudesâyou and I can score big.
âNow wait a minute. Whatâs that gismo you keep on playing with in your pocket? Is that a cassette, man? Are you working for the cops, Whalen? I ainât saying anything moreâand words ainât no proof, you creep. Man, Iâm splittinâ right now.â
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A recent nationwide poll claims that one-fourth of this countryâs adults believe that the position of the stars influences their lives. These people regularly read and consult daily astrology columns in newspapers, and they find purpose and meaning in the interpretation of their astrological sign. This is what the Astro Bio-Rhythm computer in the lobby of the American Museum of Natural History printed out for me after I fed a dollar into it, along with the exact moment of my birth.
Your fixed sign is Saturn. Saturn indicates feelings of separation and estrangement. You see humor where others donât. Having to leave familiar surroundings may well be a part of your destiny. Saturn also makes you hard on yourself. You are impulsive and have difficulty sticking to things. You must acquire patience and stability. You must protect your mental, physical, and financial resources. You have great gifts: do not squander them.
So much for the computer version of my fate.
And here is what I know: I canât decide whether self-awareness is a source of energy or of impotence. My real self is antisocialâa lunatic chained in a basement, grunting and pounding on the floor while the rest of my family, the respectable ones, sit upstairs ignoring the tumult. I donât know what to do about my lunaticâdestroy him, keep him locked in the cellar, or set him free.
Since I left home I have been a vagrant, an outcast, living always in the present. Often I have regretted I was not brought up in the Catholic faith. I have yearned to confess, to have my broken inner autonomy cemented by means of union with that two-thousand-year-old institution of moral authority. But I have also realized that, however mystical, no church and no sacrament can protect me against the ultimate threat to my vital existence: losing the sense of my own being. Now, back at home, therefore, I must confront my past. Karen told me that she envied other people their pasts; she did not say she envied me mine.
If focused on closely, any moment of my lifeâeven the one that has just endedâtelescopes all that I need to know about myself, contains all my chances for the present and my prospects for the future. My past is the only firmament worth knowing, and I am its sole star. It is as haunting and mysterious as the sky overhead, and as impossible to discard.
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On the crossroads outside Bangkok, during my playful moments I used to wait for the villagers to drive their carts home from the market.
The drivers, who smoked opium all day, trusted their donkeys to find the way home, so by the time the carts reached the place where I waited, the men were asleep. As each cart approached, I would leap out of my car and patiently turn the donkey around without waking his driver; then I would watch the donkey trot away with the cart. One day I turned twenty carts around. Was I an instrument of each driverâs fate, or were these drivers instruments of mine?
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Some opium smokers rely only on raw opium; some mix it with dross; some, like me, have enjoyed both. Opium is unlike certain other drugs or narcotics in that one does not need to keep on increasing its strength or dosage in order to enjoy it. Whether with dross or without, opium gave me a sense of wisdom and balance, a spiritual tranquillity I had not known before I began to smoke and have not experienced since Iâve been disintoxicated.
Although smoking opium provides you with a sense that things are safe and predictable, the stuff itself seems crazy; it wonât light up near the sea, it loses strength in the snow, it drips when the air is humid, and its potency changes from day to day. Opium does other weird things. In a man, it slows his sex drive but speeds up his heartbeat. In a woman, it slows her blood but speeds up her lovemaking. With time no longer your jailer, each pipe frees you: you inhabit a space where waterfalls turn into ice, ice turns into stone, stone turns into sound, sound turns into color, color becomes white, and white becomes water.
Maybe because opium is so unpredictableâonly one pipe in ten produc...