Escape from Rodeo Burger—Chapter 6

 The eye on top of the room blinked and it went dark, and the only light was that which filtered through the glass wall—the entirety of Kalgon City. It felt like midnight or so, but there was no indication that time was kept on Kalgon, outside of the alarm clocks that blared in the morning and woke me while I was in the other rooms. But those clocks had no numbers, dials, or hands to count the hours or seconds of the day. It was entirely possible that there was no time on Kalgon, or that time moved much differently than it did on Pseudo and Earth. 

Maybe they didn't count people in years or work by hours. Maybe there was no hurry at all. No giant second hand of life in perpetual motion, and no one living in its shadow. Maybe, outside of the fact that they ate humans—which is obviously contrary to my existence—they had their attributes. Like jackals have their attributes. Maybe they had no wars or senseless political bickering. Maybe they held common sense in esteem over virtue signaling and self-absorbed duplicity. Maybe they weren't narcissists. Maybe the worth of a person on Kalgon wasn't measured in popularity or wealth, but by goodness and altruism. 

I was expecting to wake up someplace else, but I didn't. I was expecting for Electric Avenue to blare on the timeless alarm clock at an undefined early hour for me to wake up and shuffle elsewhere. But it didn't. There was no alarm clock in her room. Esther was beside me in bed and I went back to sleep, contented as I had ever been in life. It is a strange thing, in that I had expected that I would have been fed into a meat grinder by now, but an entirely different adventure had unfolded for me, at least, thus far. One of popularity and sex—two things with which I was previously unaquainted.

I must have fallen back asleep because I woke up to Esther playing a violin on a balcony I didn't know to exist. There was a red tunic and a pair of sandals laid out for me, which I put on for lack of anything else. My red suit was gone. I felt a little like Julius Caesar, but far less pompous. 

There were dozens of pots with various flowers flowing out of them on the patio, which was aglow with a soft natural light. You could stare at the sun on Kalgon and not burn out your retinas, it seemed. You could lather yourself in Crisco and lay out all day and never get a sunburn. The sun was clear in color, but flecked with gold which you could only see if you stared long enough. It reminded me of the eyes of those aliens I had seen before Wildwood. It was like a giant omnipotent eyeball. There was a second sun, but it was far less magnificent and much smaller. 

Esther played something classical, but I don't know classical music well enough to say what it was. Only that it was soft and melodic. As I sat and listened, I could feel that I was soon absolved of my stress, fear, and shame, and free of the tohubohu of this hostile alien planet.  

"They have oxygen," she smiled, putting the violin down to her side for a brief moment. Her face crinkled in a lovely way when she smiled. There was a beautiful crease that appeared between her nose and lip. "And a beautiful sun, much like our own, only softer."

"Where did you get the violin?" 

"It was just sitting here. On the patio. It is a Stradivarius! There's only like 600 of these in the world—or the universe!"

"What happens next?" I wondered aloud. 

The sky bled pastel pink. Our room was a hundred stories up it seemed by the looks of the people on the ground who appeared like ants. I don't remember much about living in Chicago before moving to Kilgore, Texas, but I do remember standing on top of the Civic Opera Building with my father looking at people this way. Looking down at the Chicago River—filthy as it was. But nothing was filthy here. Everything is pristine from so high above. 

There was nothing above us besides for occasional ships that were little more than cylindrical chrome-colored vessels, floating on air. They looked like giant tubes of flying lipstick and they flew over and landed on the tops of other buildings or inside landing ports. But they made absolutely no noise and they moved gracefully and leisurely, like hot-air balloons. We couldn't see anyone to our side because there was a wall on each side of us. It was as though we were in the penthouse suite of a luxurious hotel. 

Esther played the vioilin until her fingers hurt so badly that she couldn't continue. Even then, she reluctantly sat down at a table with me and placed the instrument in her lap like one might a baby. I made us a drink and we sat there contented as we were. It was warm, but a gentle breeze cooled us in such dependable intervals that we didn't bother to move. As things go, it was pretty close to a captive paradise, ignonimous as I felt.

I wasn't sure if we were being recorded. If they were watching us in all those other buildings—thousands of them of various heights and girths in all their phallic simulacrum. They were all metallic-colored of various hues and there were simply too many to count, but I suppose that was human of me to want to count everything just as it was to measure time as though one could be frugal and save it. 

There was a refrigerator full of food and we made lunch. It was strange, in what it was. Everything was strange, as though intentionally replicated, but flawed in some small detail. The lettuce wasn't quite the right color of green. The pickles were too large. The olives too small. The crackers too crisp. The tomatoes too ripe—and blue. There were plenty of breads and olive oil. There were noodles. Syrup. Butter. Pancake batter. Italian dressing. Milk. But nothing was labeled and everything was in what seemed like glass jars, but which weren't glass at all. There was no brand name or logos. There were bananas and apples, as well. But the apples were too round and dense, and the bananas too skinny and too unblemished.  

"There's no meat," Esther mentioned. 

"We are the meat," I reminded her. 

"Oh—yeah," she grimaced. "I forgot. But why all of this? I mean, if they intend to slaughter and–eat us, well, this is a rather inefficient manner to do so, wouldn't you agree? They gave me a Stradivarius, Victor. How can you be sure?"

"Because I know."

"But—why would they give me a Stradivarius? It's a million-dollar violin. And this apartment—or room. Whatever you want to call it. I mean, look at this view. If we are just meant to be—burgers, Victor, why all the added luxuries? We don't afford such to cows or chickens."

"I don't know. I just know the inevitable outcome for us is not good."

"But how do you know, Victor? I was examined when we got here, but, you know, after that it was okay. I got a nice room with music and television and books. And now here. Maybe they just want to study our behavior or something. Maybe this is a sort of—you know—people zoo." 

"My father—Ulysses Von Gogh—was once kept here. He told me. He was once the face of Rodeo Burger as I was just a few weeks ago. He escaped to Pseudo. He told me the entire story when I was just a child. He came back to Pseudo without any emotions. Without the ability to feel anything at all. They took that from him. He had no memories of anything, but he kept a journal that he called "Escape from Rodeo Burger." I keep a journal as well for the same reason. In case they take everything from me."

"Have they already?"

"No. They have not."

"How do you know?"

"Because I remember everything since I got here. And I feel—intensely. I feel fear, sadness, but mostly love."

She smiled. 

"He read me that journal every night for years as I was going to bed. He spent twelve years on Kalgon—here in Kalgon City. He fathered tens of thousands of children. None that he ever met, besides for me. All of whom became rodeo burgers, besides for me. He knew his life was going to end, so he and my mom escaped. But not before they zapped him of everything. He didn't love my mom, I don't suppose. He just picked her at random because there was room for two and he thought she was capable of handling herself and helping out. I don't think she loved him, either. I mean, how could you love someone who doesn't have the ability to love you? Someone who has no emotions at all. 

"But one thing that has always made me wonder is what gave him the desire to escape? If he was absent every emotion, why would he even bother? They treated him like a God on this planet. He was given everything. He had sex with beautiful women. He had a luxurious penthouse, much like this one—it may have been this one. In fact, he had a pitching machine, I remember him saying, and he used to hit balls off the patio into Kalgon City because he loved baseball until they dried him up. He grew up a Babe Ruth fan and told me that he used to homer balls deep into the night. He had everything on Kalgon, so why leave it?"

Esther looked down at the violin, still in her lap. She set it upon the table.

"Maybe he had one last emotion left," she offered. "Hope."

"Maybe. But hope is more of a cognitive process, derived from a state of optimism which comes from happiness or joy. Without basic emotions, a person couldn't have hope. I've never seen my father optimistic, happy, or joyful."

"Maybe self-preservation then," Esther mentioned. "A most basic instinct. And that's odd—I've never seen my father anything but those things. He is the most foolishly optimistic man in the entire world. He's always going to win a game he doesn't play. It's never going to rain until it does. But even when it did, well, we needed it, he'd say. He's something like Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain. And my mother adores him. She's a beautiful woman, my mother. Maybe that is why he is so happy."

I smiled, holding her hand. Esther was beautiful. There wasn't a thing about her that wasn't. Her dark eyes twinkled when she smiled. Even the way she pronounced words was beautiful—the way her lips formed words. I knew that I loved her, or else, I might stay here. I wanted to escape to save her—not to save myself. Just as I wanted to save all those people who came to see the aliens at Monday's Farm, perhaps, because I couldn't save those pigs. 

There was no competition for her attention here. It was just she and I—and her Stradivarius. It was just us and this magnificent view. There was no stress in our life other than the fear of the unknown. In that, we were like terminal cancer patients until we got out of here and no sinister hand loomed above us. I tried the door, but it was locked. They would perhaps gas the room again and we would wake up somewhere else. It was just a matter of time.  

I didn't think much of death over the next few days and nights though it hung over us. I didn't think about how they could come in and kill us at any moment because I was too busy living the days as though they were my last. I didn't think about the cloud of gas that would soon likely billow out of the vent and knock us unconscious for them to move us somewhere else for their amusement—as Barbie Swoon said—it was all for their amusement. And nothing is as it seems. 

There was a gas fire ring on the patio, and blue rocks that glowed under the dancing of the teal-colored flames as Esther and I sat on the patio sofa and marveled at the lights, drinking red wine. She played the violin often and I could tell that it made her happy—and that without the violin she would not be happy. Perhaps, a piano might make her feel alright, but it would be a poor substitute. There is something admirable about that—yet equally tragic—to be so vulnerable and dependent upon something so precarious. 

We made love in practically every fashion one could. Maybe it was bore of desire or curiosity or to spend what we had left so not to die on the vine. There is no point in a gunfighter saving his last bullet. We made love on the patio. In the chair. On the sofa. We made love standing, bending her over the rail. Inside with the doors opened and a breeze blowing over our naked bodies. We made love with the doors closed when it rained, as the raindrops rhythmically tapped the glass wall like her small calloused fingertips tap the table when she is practicing the violin, yet not playing it—practicing the rhythm—which seems to course through her like an electrical shock. I couldn't get enough of her and I could simply remain there, contented forever, if our captors would be so gracious—or if they would somehow forget us. 

We dozed off to sleep and I heard music from outside through the open patio doors. They don't have insects on Kalgon so there is no need for screens, or closed doors, or windows when it is cool outside. The music was a rock-n-roll sort of sound—like Buddy Holly and the Crickets before the plane crash—but louder and more chaotic. Somewhat like that Electric Avenue song from the other rooms. Some sort of wild organ or piano and a man wailing, "Jump! Might as well jump. Yeah! Go ahead and jump! Jump!"

I didn't know that this was Adam Berklantis' favorite song. Adam Berklantis, who was once the ruthless ruler of the galaxy, beginning on Oregonia, but was no longer. He was a real creep and tried to time warp Earth to go back and play the role of Rick in Casablanca during World War II. That's all he wanted in life. He was born good, but the authorities turned him bad because Oregonians believe in a balanced society—as many bad as good and good as bad. He ended up killing himself out of guilt for all the bad things he'd done in his life when he rediscovered his good nature. My father told me that story. And he explained that Jump was an Earth song from a band named Van Halen—from an album called "1984." 

"1984" was also the name of a dystopian novel written by George Orwell on Earth and Pseudo, describing a bleak future society—one of indolence and authoritarian rule. I've always wondered if the world would turn out that way or if it would end up more like Huxley's Brave New World—the orgy porgy. 

I got out of bed without disturbing Esther and went to the patio to hear the electric guitar screeching through the air, albeit, faintly in the distance. Perhaps, someone was doing it to honor Berklantis. Or maybe it was true, as my father suggested, that they made it the national anthem to honor him. But it was dark and it had been dark for a while. If I were to guess a time, I'd say it was three or so in the morning. But I don't know how they measure time on Kalgon—or if they even do.

I sat on the patio for a few hours, writing in my journal, maybe like my father did once upon a time under similar conditions. Above us, those cylindrical machines floated gently and silently, making their way to their destinations. I thought about what my father told me. How he used to hit baseballs from his balcony deep into the night of Kalgon City. How he'd watch them float out into the distance. And I remember asking him if the balls would ever hit anyone or come crashing down on anyone below. 

"No," he replied. "The gravity on Kalgon is quite different that on Pseudo. A baseball struck with considerable force would shoot out into the sky, even ascend with great velocity and even a high-arching trajectory, but once it began its descent, it would float there and gently come down like a leaf falling from a tree."

I woke up Esther immediately. I told her to get dressed in the most inconspicuous clothes she could find. I wore a tan uniform they had left for me with chestnut-colored boots that looked like they were made for playing polo. There was also a tan jacket I threw on, though it was warm. Esther wore a white dress with white leggings and similar brown boots. 

"Pack a bag," I called, hoping that we were not being surveilled, or if so, poorly. 

"What? Where are we going, Victor?" she asked throwing things she thought useful into her bag. 

"I don't think you want to know."

"Well, can I take the Stradivarius?" 

"If you don't, I will," I answered. "Didn't you say that thing was worth a million bucks back home?"  

"It's priceless." 

"Well, being so, you can take it."

"Is that Nazi woman coming for us?"

"Who? Barbie? No. We can't wait for her. I'm not even sure we can trust her."

"But where are we going? And how?" she asked packing the violin carefully into her bag and putting it on her back.

"Overboard," I told her as we stood together on the patio. "We're going to jump."

"Jump?! We're going to jump?! Are you out of your mind, Victor? We got to be eighty stories up! No! No! No! No! No!"

"Listen to me!" I said grabbing her arms. "The gravity is different here. We will be okay. We will not fall like we would on Earth or Pseudo. We will just—well—sort of float down. It'll be okay. Trust me, Esther!" 

We stood on the ledge and I threw one of those round dense apples as high as I could in the air. We watched it gently fall down past us, leisurely on its way to the street below as though it were a snowflake. 

"See. Watch it go, Esther!"

"That's an apple, Victor! I'm not an apple."

"Nor am I, love."

I must confess that it was a horrible feeling standing on the ledge and looking down—even I doubted myself. The darkness, and the multitude of lights of the street machines and people hundreds of, if not a thousand, feet below. She clung to me and my legs wobbled nearly losing their nerve. My knees felt like soupy dumplings. And then, without explanation, perhaps it was a hallucination, but I saw the man who sang the song in the sky and he was singing the song to me. He did a fantastic toe touch in the sky. It was Diamond Dave of Van Halen from Earth. 

"Go ahead and jump! JUMP! Might as well jump!" 

So I jumped first and looked up as I fell. At first, fast, but then slow, and slower, and slower until it was as though I was floating like Alice down the rabbit hole. It was as though I was in one of those fantastic dreams when you can jump great distances over houses and trees. 

I didn't think Esther was going to jump, and she faded from view as the electric synthesizer of that song played in my ears. Then she appeared, like a dart, and we fell together through the night sky to the street below, gentle as leaves.