[Would writing "literature" constitute doing phenomenology? Would it be evidence of careful description of a what of what-is? Would writing of this sort be a legitimate object that another could experience in the same way, or close to the same way? A kind of truth as foundation for or variation of experience? Such is this proposed "immaterial artifact" from last year's archive. A test case.]
CHAPTER ONE, Exit PF
Aside from Percy Ignatius Weasley, who after all is a fictional character, it is inconceivable that just twenty-eight years ago anyone's real parents could have named their son Percival Franklyn and then gone off and died. But happen it did, and therein lies one reason for this someone's disappearance. Who wouldn't want to with a name like Percy? But that is perhaps too simplistic an explanation, and in fact it is not true.
Percival was not Percy nor was he Frank or Franklyn. From an early age, under his uncle's tutelage and with his blessings, Percival Franklyn Donner, the son of Johannes Christian and Winefred Rachel King Donner, was PF. PF Donner. Nothing else. Although this was not his given name, all forms and applications, except birth certificate, were completed with first name PF, surname Donner.
There was a small problem with the department of motor vehicles when PF turned sixteen when they threatened to put his full given name on his driver's license, but that and subsequent documents soon conformed to the only name PF answered to, engineered via a quick trip to the UK and a little paper called a deed poll. Joe King, the only father PF knew, readily approved and apologized for not having taken care of this detail earlier, but he said to PF, "Lad, it really was your decision, and now it's time to make it official." His uncle had left a door open for PF should he decide sometime in his life to choose Percy over PF.
A jaunt back to the old country did them good. PF became official, although the person by that name now had an infection both caused and cured by international travel, and Joe found again that the only international travel he wanted was the trip back to his adopted country. The mother country was nothing he missed.
***
The windy two-lane highway from Williams to Clear Lake in the late afternoon, mid-week, is a lonely road. On his way home PF's car died suddenly and it rolled slowly onto a dirt turnout on a sharp curve.
"What the?"
He looked at the dashboard for a sign, and then he turned the key and tried to start the motor. Nothing. He got out of the car and walked around looking at it, then jumped back in. He found the hood latch and popped it open. He got out and stared at the motor. There was nothing obvious he could see, perhaps because there was nothing recognizable, just a beautifully machined and symmetrically-shaped metal sculpture that could have been something other than a motor to the untrained eye. He left the hood open and went back and sat in the car, turned the key again to try to start it. Nothing wrong with the starter; the engine just did not catch the spark and ease quickly into its usual quiet rhythm. PF finally saw the gas gauge was resting past empty at the bottom of the reserve tank indicator. He hadn't noticed any warning light. Was the gas gauge even alive? As a matter of fact, was this gauge for measuring something or there to balance some Bavarian design imperative? Hadn't they said they had fixed everything and took the car for a test drive this morning when it was serviced? He turned the lights on and off and turned the key to different positions. The headlights came one, but the instrument panel was lifeless. PF got out of the car again and shut the hood. He went round to the gas tank and stared at it. He got back into the car and opened the gas-cap access panel. He put two fingers in, stretching them way down. He was quite nonchalant about it, maybe hoping for a sign, some fumes perhaps, to confirm what he now thought one problem was. Not the first semi-rational move today, and like some others yet to come, when he removed his fingers, the lip of the mouth of the fill hole caught the knuckle of his middle finger and tore a centimeter of skin right off the top.
"Yeow!"
He grabbed his finger and pressed it to his chest. Blood was going everywhere. And it hurt like the dickens. PF danced around about three turns like a Sufi dervish and came to a stop. PF looked up to the sky as if there were someone there to talk with about this stupidity. Silently he stood there for a moment, and then dropped his head as if in a sullen funk. He guessed that stupid questions didn't deserve answers. He walked back to the driver's side of the car. Wasn't there a first aid tin under the seat somewhere, or on the floor in the back seat? These new European cars are supposed to come with everything, aren't they? But there was nothing obvious in easy reach.
PF leaned onto the steering wheel with his bad hand and reached for the keys. He got out, went round to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Traces of blood now seemed to map his movements--on the seat, the keys, now the trunk. He found the first-aid pillow, as it turned out, unzipped it, and fumbled for cotton pads to hold against his finger to stop the bleeding.
"Unbelievable."
PF found three pads and some gauze wrapping. He managed to unwrap the pads and bind his finger. It looked like something out of a cartoon when a character bangs his finger with a hammer and it swells to three times normal size. Only in this case, the gauze and cotton pads accounted for the bulk. Blood was slowly being absorbed by the pads, and after having closed the trunk, PF sat on the driver's seat, this time facing outwards, his legs on the ground. He grabbed a bottle of Calistoga and poured some mineral water over his good hand and the un-bandaged areas of his wounded one and let the bloody, bubbly mixture drip to the ground. He had nothing to dry his hands with and so he just sat there letting his hands air dry, thinking what was next--less really about what to do than what would happen, not so much in passive surrender as not yet ready to take control and remedy the predicament.
He reached for his cell phone and searched the display for a signal.
"Of course."
He tossed the phone onto the passenger-side seat. It bounced and fell on the floor out of view.
"Great."
All this while no cars passed going to or coming from the lake and where he was headed, Glenhaven, a small but exclusive subdivision of second homes. It was getting late in the day. It would be dark soon.
"That's the way it's going to be."
PF decided to lock up and start walking. He grabbed his Brooks Brothers sports jacket and his briefcase, gently pushed the car door shut. He clicked the door lock button on the key fob. The car failed to answer with a short beep, and PF was off in the opposite direction the car was headed, toward Williams. He gave little thought to Glenhaven and his uncle's house where he and his girlfriend were caretaking for the winter. Although civilization was not closer in this direction than towards home, something just seemed to take hold and directed him that way.
After about a mile, it was noticeably darker, especially in the tree-shaded sections of the country road that everyone called a highway. The January winter in this part of California was not harsh, but it did get dark early. The two-lane road was narrow with not much of a shoulder, and PF thought that at any time a car could come round the bend and smack him.
That vague something grabbed him again, and he turned to return to his car to wait--it would be safer, he told himself--or he would flag the first car he saw going in either direction and hitch a lift to the nearest gas station.
A CalTrans maintenance vehicle, something like a dump truck with other equipment attached to it, came along shortly, and PF thought it was going to hit him. It was big and orange and took up most of the road and shoulder on PF's side. PF scrambled off the pavement and partially up an embankment. The behemoth presented no real danger. It was proceeding slowly and came to a stop a few yards beyond where PF found himself slipping down the embankment, the eroded rocks and gravel quickly becoming like spilled ball bearings. Before falling down, PF caught his slide and trotted up to the passenger side of the vehicle and heard out the open window, "Gave you a bit of a scare. I wouldn't hit you."
PF stood on his toes and called to the driver. "Can you give me a lift?"
"Not s'posed to, but hop in. Next stop's the maintenance yard about a mile this side of Winters."
"That'll do," PF replied absently.
As he mounted the beast and grabbed the opening door he asked, "A gas station between here and there?"
"Not exactly. Couple of 'em this side of town, though. What's the matter? Broke down?"
"No, I think just out of gas."
"Was it parked under some oaks on that turnout a ways back?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Dark green. Mercedes?"
"Blue. BMW."
"Diesel?"
"No. Regular. It's got the economy engine. I don't know much about cars."
"I don't know much about foreign ones. You got triple A or something?"
"No. Insurance, but no roadside service except you. No cell signal around here."
"Want me to radio ahead? Four Corners Gas monitors patrol and road crews. Maybe they can send someone out."
"No, that sounds a bit, um, complicated. But I will need a ride back, I suppose. I'm sure I can hitch a ride from town, right?"
"Sure. Lots of people coming and going in Winters. But I'm not sure they are coming up here. Friday afternoons and evenings usually a sure bet. Lots a people goin' to the lake for the weekend."
"Well, the best way to look at this is it's an adventure."
"Looks like you had some adventure, with your hand."
"Cut it on the car. Gas tank actually. Nothing much, but it bled a lot. I think it'll be okay."
"You live around here?"
"Yep. At the lake. Glenhaven. My girlfriend and I are taking care of my uncle's summer home."
"Sounds nice. What do you do all the time? Pretty quiet up there this time of year."
"I've just asked myself the same question recently. Oh, I have chores and there are people coming and going. Workmen. Gardener and so forth. I make sure they do what my uncle wants done. But actually the work is all finished now, as of yesterday."
"Sounds like a big place."
"It is. But it is quiet most of the time. It'll be even more quiet now there's no more work on the house. After winter."
His words trailed off. PF was getting a little uncomfortable with the grilling. He decided to not be so informative. He didn't know this guy. Maybe he was just in that kind of job, one where you don't get to talk to people a lot. The miles passed.
"Got a job?"
"No. Don't really need one right now."
"So, you're not from around here."
"Not really."
Fortunately, Winters was just up ahead.
"Here's the yard. I gotta pull in."
He stopped the truck at the yard gate.
"Four Corners is just down that way, couple a hundred yards. See that stoplight in the middle of the intersection there. That's it. On your left. Can't miss it."
"Thanks for picking me up. I really appreciate it. Oh, do you think my car is safe up there?"
"No one around. Nobody'll notice it. Come tomorrow, though . . . "
"Thanks."
The driver began to say something like, "What's your . . . ?" But before he could get an answer, PF had hopped off the truck, threw the door shut and was walking away. He was off in the direction of Four Corners. At that, the CalTrans truck pulled into the yard and the driver didn't look back.
***
As PF walked towards the gas station, he looked around and didn't see anyone or any cars. On the right just before the gas station, there was a bus stop. Light lime green January grass was announcing a Northern California spring. And there were papers and some empty beer bottles under the bus stop bench. Black graffiti symbols were painted on the wooden posts holding up the metal shed roof, and the back side had rust brown boards, most of them missing. You could see through the bus stop to the grassy field and eucalyptus trees in the distance.
What happened next is a little hard to explain.
PF thought first that it might have been that his purpose at his uncle's house was concocted. Gus, the Italian gardener, always took care of everything when Joe was not there. PF was there to be in the house, to just enjoy it. He had nothing else on his agenda. Society in the city had become routine but not especially boring. He did not miss it much and apparently it did not miss him.
PF mentally backed up and saw the bus stop and the two lane road between him and it and the field and trees in the background as a black and white photo in his mind. He stood there studying the framed image and wondering if the photo could be mounted on a large white wall in a gallery, or in a large estate house in the wine country. He experimented with different sizes for the photo. He imagined an apartment in an architectural magazine showing a minimalist living room with a life-sized photo of the bus stop. Then he saw it as a miniature framed object on a powder room wall at the Pacific Union Club atop Nob Hill. Then he just pictured a glossy print in his hands as he stared, as if examining the details.
A bus honked and broke this reverie. The driver slowed and signaled PF if he was waiting for the bus. PF waved him off, and the bus accelerated towards the traffic light some hundred yards ahead. PF continued on his way to the gas station and wondered where the bus was going. Would it turn left, right, or head straight on. He never saw as he dropped his gaze to the road and carefully placed each footstep in the bull's eye of imaginary stepping-stone sized targets on the ground. The asphalt and dust and gravel captured his attention like some mandala, and he just slowly proceeded, lost in thought and the smell of new grass and a feint one of eucalyptus.
Some things happen and we know why. Other things happen for no reason. Still others happen and it is in retrospect we think we understand by piecing together as much of what came before as possible. Which of these obtains in what PF did next is unclear, but it is probably of the genus things-just-happen.
The Four Corners Gas Station was at the junction of 12 and 29. It was old, built of wood with one island and three pumps. It was painted green with gold trim on the outside, with white and cobwebs above the underside of the drive-through area. Two large eucalyptus trees shed bark, branches, leaves, and seeds all over the building and paved areas. One farm truck was filling up with regular as PF looked out from inside the station where you pay and can get a candy bar or bottle of cold pop from an ancient cooler that stood like a horizontal sentinel, not vertical like newer vending machines. Was it like a red coffin? A man who should have retired from everything sat behind the counter near the cash register reading a newspaper. He looked up and asked PF, "Can I help you?"
"Where does that bus go that just went by here?"
"This time of day, it is going back to the city. San Francisco by way of Oakland. In the mornings it comes from there and dead ends in Redding, I think."
"That the only bus that comes through?"
"No, once a day there's a bus to Sacramento. I don't know where it comes from, probably up I-5, Red Bluff, but it never stops. Supposed to, but there is no one these days from here who gets on or off. So they usually just cruise on through. Bus stop is back a ways on the side of that road there, Highway 29. Should be coming by here in about ten minutes. If you want it, you'll have to flag."
PF said thanks, turned, and left. He walked out to the corner of the intersection and looked in each direction. It was getting dark. He saw no headlights or tail lights either direction. He felt alone and at peace. He looked at his finger. The blood now was a rusty brown on the bandage. The bleeding had stopped. He turned and walked back to the bus stop. He dusted off the bench with an old newspaper that had been left at the top of the trash heap in the oil barrel that sufficed as trash can. He sat down, placed his blazer on the bench next to him, and looked straight ahead.
The Sacramento bus pulled up beside the stop and the driver opened the door.
"You waiting for me?"
"Sort of. You go to Sacramento?"
"Yep, Interstate 5 then up 80."
"Okay."
"You gonna get in?"
PF did and asked how much was it to Sacramento. The driver told him as he pulled away. PF paid the exact fare and walked to the middle of the bus and sat down next to a window on the left side. He looked at the Four Corners Gas Station as the bus pulled away and turned down the country road on its way to a real highway. PF would never see his coat again.
***
Joe King's place was about three acres fenced on three sides and the house was set back from the road. It was about fifty feet from the lake's edge and built on wooden stilts. It was a comfortable home and Joe used it only occasionally now. He was not making weekend trips as much now from his home in the Berkeley hills to Lake County and his private refuge. And summers? Well, it was pretty hot at the lake. Age was catching up with him and he didn't have the energy he once had for the trek and all the work he liked to do on his little parcel of paradise. He had hired Gus 6 years ago to help out, and Gus pretty much did it all with his grandson, Tony, in the summer and on infrequent winter weekends. The fruit trees and 66 grape vines got the best of care, and Gus ate well during the harvest and drank well the next. Joe didn't mind. Gus had become more than a gardener, in fact a trusted property man anger.
Joe suggested Connie and PF spend some time at the lake and enjoy what would eventually become PF's property. Get to know it, he said. Not like a visitor but as a kind of proprietor. Learn what needs to be done.
"Take the winter. I will join you in spring. What do you have better to do except hang around and go to cocktail parties and lunch with the sons and daughters of the old money? You can be the caretaker. There's some work I've arranged and you can look after that for me."
Connie sat in the straight backed chair looking out towards the driveway. Not her usual place. It was darker than dark outside at eight in the evening. And she had not heard from PF. She expected him at four or five at the latest. She had tried his cell but no one answered. Where could he be? He is hours late. She phoned Joe.
"Have you heard from PF?"
"No, he's with you, right?"
"Well, he was supposed to be here hours ago. He went somewhere to have the car worked on and pick up some things. I haven't heard from him."
"Maybe he stopped for dinner or a movie. Would that be possible?"
The conversation went on for a few minutes like this, but in the end, neither had a clue. But Joe said, "He's a big boy. Can't be far away." To Connie Joe seemed unhelpful and unconcerned.
"Open a bottle of wine from the cellar. Pick one several years old. They are the best. He will be along. Maybe he had more car trouble and his cell died. Could happen."
By noon on Thursday, after having called Joe again first thing in the morning, Connie decided PF was missing. She called the sheriff. Two officers came to the house, and she gave them a report. Their visit began with, "Do you have any idea where he might be?" To which she answered, "Would I have called you if I did?" It ended with, "We'll keep in touch." Connie was left unsatisfied. So she got on the phone and started calling all her friends and a few of PF's. No one had heard from him and couldn't think of where he might be.
By Thursday evening, Connie was talked out. She walked into Glenhaven settlement and went into Gracie's, a bar and restaurant. She found herself in a crowd and decided to lose herself there in company, drink a little too much, and have dinner. She returned home about ten and the phone was ringing. She missed picking up the receiver in time and cursed herself. It was probably PF, she thought.
He usually used that phone because cell reception at the lake was spotty. She decided to call his number again.
A voice answered.
"Who is this?"
"Who is this?"
"God damn you PF."
"No, this is the Lake County Sheriff's office. I am deputy Hill. Who is this?"
"Oh, deputy. This is Connie, Connie Smart. I reported my boyfriend missing to one of your officers this morning. No, last evening."
"Yes, I know. We have been trying to reach you. The phone number you gave us has been busy all afternoon. We have your boyfriend's car and we are towing it to Upper Lake Garage. We'd like to ask you some more questions."
"Do you know where PF is?"
"Not yet. That is what we wanted to talk with you about. Have you heard from him?"
"No. Is there something wrong?"
"We don't know. Can we come by and talk with you?"
The patrol car showed up in the driveway about 11. A rather round deputy got out and Connie was waiting in the open doorway. He introduced himself as Deputy Banks. Could he come in?
"Could I have a glass of water?"
"Sure. Sit down. I will get it."
Deputy Banks seemed a bit nervous. Connie likewise grew in apprehension. She brought the deputy his glass of water and sat down.
"Well, we found the car. Kerry Hill told you that, I think. The car is now at our impound yard in Upper Lake. We found it on Highway 29 about ten miles from Glenhaven. It appears it ran out of gas."
"Wait, wait. How did you people get PF's cell phone?"
"It was in the car. When we were examining the car for signs of why it was left on the road, the cell rang, we thought we should answer it. It was on the floor of the front seat."
"Yes."
"Well, we looked at where the car had been left and we found some things we can't quite figure out. For one, the car was unlocked. Does your boyfriend usually leave his car unlocked?"
"No, he takes pretty good care of that car. It is expensive and he kind of babies it, you know. He locks it whenever he leaves it. But why would he leave it on the road?"
"As I said, it was probably out of gas. But we can't tell just yet. We haven't found the keys. We assume your boyfriend, Mr. Donner, still has them. You still don't know where he is?"
"No, I have called all his friends and his uncle. No one knows. And this is totally unlike him. It has been over twenty-four hours."
"You don't sound too concerned."
"I am concerned. I am damn concerned. Why are you attacking me?"
"We found some things we can't quite explain yet. We are checking them out."
"Like what?" she asked more seriously.
"The gas cap was hanging from the gas tank with the access panel open. Funny place to fill up with gas. Maybe someone left it open from just filling up. We don't know. But there was some blood on it, not much. In the car and on the trunk also. Could be something or could be nothing. We don't know yet."
"Blood? What do you mean it could be nothing?"
"Well, we found some bandage wrappers on the ground near the car. It could be he was injured somehow and got a lift to the hospital to get help."
"Did you check the area hospitals?"
"Yes."
Officer Banks seemed to be waiting for Connie to fill the empty spaces with information of her own.
"Well?"
"Nothing. No one has seen anyone by the name of PF Donner or the description you gave us earlier today. By the way, do you have a picture of him here?"
"No, we don't really live here."
And so the conversation went. Officer Banks said he got off duty at six in the morning, and tomorrow Officer Hill would be on the case, so to speak. They would call as soon as they had more information. Officer Banks asked Connie if she would do the same. She promised she would.
It was late and Connie was feeling weary from the ordeal and her one-too-many at Gracie's. She threw herself on her bed and closed her eyes. As she did so, she realized she wanted to look for PF herself, but she didn't know where to start. And she was stuck in a place where she knew no one, and a house with decor she would not have chosen. And she had no car! She began thinking of _Gone with the Wind_, but arrested that idea as the comparison was too insensitive to think of further.
***
The downtown bus terminal in Sacramento has never been seemly, just seedy. All manner of humankind. The large-plastic-bag lady in the corner counting something she had drawn from her Levis, picking one piece at a time from her left hand and keeping it in her right as she carefully chose the next item. Probably change. The tall thin man with the shopping cart in the middle of the waiting area staring up at the ceiling and turning slowly around. He had a knit cap on and a black down jacket with mud stains on it. The line of people at door seven, ten or so people deep. They seemed to know what they were waiting for, although there was no bus outside in the loading bay. PF was out of place. Briefcase, Italian shoes. He knew it but no one else seemed to notice. All benches were full. And more people were standing around. Buses were coming and going. There was one ticket window open, and the clock above it said a little before eleven.
"Where are these people going at this time of night?"
PF exited onto L Street and walked to the corner of 7th. He looked around. But the streets and sidewalks were deserted. Traffic was not heavy but the air was, and it was dark. He looked back towards the bus station entry.
On the corner there was a convenience store. Sodas, sandwiches, newspapers. Perhaps, PF thought, they would have some band aids. His bandaged middle finger was sure to have stopped bleeding at this point. He could change the dressing for something less noticeable. He was in luck. He bought a box of band aids and a package of Corn Nuts and package of cupcakes. He walked outside again and changed his bandage while standing on the corner. There was a trash container across the street next to a bench. He crossed, threw away the old bandage, applied the new one, and concluded he would live. He sat on the bench and started with the cupcakes.
He thought he should call Connie. He was sure he would be missed by this time, and he looked for his coat and his cell phone. He recalled finally that the last time he had seen the phone was in the car. He remembered not getting a signal. Would it have been different had he gotten one, been rescued so to speak and proceeded home? Yes, it would have been different.
In fact, he felt different now, very different. Not only was he in downtown Sacramento in the middle of the night but also he was somewhere where no one knew where he was. He was alone in a new place of strangers not like him. The thought exhilarated him. And the black greasy cupcake with the plastic filling tasted good and sinful. PF sensed he was devilish doing something he had never done before and that it was in some way forbidden, or at least against implicit and explicit promises he had accepted between himself and those he was in daily if not weekly contact. It was rather easy to have broken away for this lark. And it felt as if he shouldn't be doing it, but he liked the feeling.
PF finished the cupcakes but was now thirsty. He crossed the street again and bought an iced tea and began drinking it as soon as he was out on the corner again. He looked back towards the bus terminal. There was a sandwich board on the sidewalk. He walked back and looked at both sides. Each message was the same. Gamblers special, Reno, Biggest Little City in the World and back, one night two days of fun and fortune. Free drinks from midnight till 6 AM each day. Roll of quarters and meal coupon included, discounts in the lounge and showroom of the El Dorado. PF noticed that the last departure each day was at eleven fifteen.
"And how did they calculate the two days?"
He looked through the class of one of the swinging entry doors and saw the line still at gate 7. Reno is not that far away, and he could be back home by tomorrow.
"I have come this far."
Having bought a ticket at the last minute, PF boarded the bus with what appeared to be older people and a few Asians. Each seemed to be traveling alone. No one looked like a high stakes gambler. And no one talked. The bus was about half full, and soon they were on highway 80 headed east. In a few hours they would be awakened by the bright lights of downtown Reno. Meanwhile, lights in the bus went out and passengers dozed off.
About Donner Summit PF woke up. He felt a shortness of breath. And he began reflecting again. This time he began thinking of the metaphors and coincidences. Donner summit. He was on top of something quite unlike the self that he knew. Gambling. He was also a low stakes gambler. What he was doing had few to no risks except irritating Connie. His car? It would be towed maybe. He could call and have it fixed and ready for his return. Money protected one from inconveniences. Did he have money to gamble? He had lots of plastic and some cash. He could play for a few hours and his bank account or credit balance would not feel it. The thrill of taking time off or time out?
Well, the thrill of that did not seem to figure into his feelings right now. He was tired and dozed off again as the bus pulled in and out of Truckee. PF knew there was a train that went to Reno and it stopped in Truckee. He wondered why he had not taken the train, and then thought again of where he started and how spontaneous his unpremeditated action to get on the bus was yesterday. He heard a distant train whistle and thought for a moment about the last moments his parents had, gone in a blink when the locomotive slammed into their car. His thoughts trailed off as the bus descended into Reno.
The bus pulled into the terminal of the Biggest Little City in the World and everyone slowly awoke and got off. PF felt refreshed and without thinking about it threw his leather briefcase over his shoulder and sauntered toward the bright lights. He didn't know where his sports coat was and he didn't care. If what had happened so far had been fate--his out-of-gas car--and serendipity--getting on a bus in Winters. Then the atmosphere or mood propelled him forward and through the glass door of the El Dorado Hotel and Casino. After he got in the door, he looked at the promotional packet he had been given when he bought his ticket in Sacramento. Nothing from the El Dorado Hotel and Casino. Something though from the Eldorado Sports Club. Without that invitation to start gambling at the Casino, PF headed where everyone else does sometime or later, the bar. The bar looked interesting with a live band and a few people standing, lined up for drinks.
Strangers all. Where is home for these people? Where is mine? Where is my jacket? This latter caught his attention now for a few minutes, but he could not remember where he had seen it last.
PF saw two empty stools. On the left was a man in a cowboy business suit complete with hat. On the right an experienced patron with cocktail dress with and somewhat shrunken posture. PF felt the risk of the cowboy's company less, if he had to talk with either of them.
"Martini on the rocks," he ordered quietly to the bar tender.
"Comin' right up."
PF sat there and focused on the great and surprising variety of stimuli at hand late at night in the casino. The music was something between muzak and 70's polyester. The ringing of machines receiving plastic money and paying out dribs and drabs of quarters was all around with an occasional clanging, presumably the signal of a jackpot. But even though PF looked in the direction of these jackpots, he could never spot them. And the bar was stocked with what seemed like hundreds of bottles of booze, a number he had never seen or heard of before. The clientele was a mix, but mostly white, over 50, and not well dressed except for the cowboy and the cocktail dress to his right. In the mirror behind the bar, PF caught sight of the cowboy looking at him. He turned slightly to his left and acknowledged the cowboy who also turned.
"You from around here?"
PF immediately thought he was in a western movie.
"No, not really. Just here for a night or two."
That was the end of it. The cold gin had begun to course through PF's veins. He had not eaten since lunch. And in spite of the lights and glitter and bells and commotion, he felt weary. He finished his drink and looked for the hotel desk. He found it and quickly checked in. The room was a bit gaudy with golds and reds, but the bed mattered most. He flopped onto it and began to fall asleep. After about a half hour, he realized he was not going to fall asleep actually. He just lay there half in and half out of sleep, a supremely pleasurable and relaxed state, his mind blank, vacuous stare upwards toward a mirror where he saw an image he didn't recognize as himself.
