Ambient 06 - Going, Going, Gone

heard Eulie again. »Home,« or »Chlo.« I was projectile vomiting when she said whatever it was she said, and couldn’t be sure.
     
    »Walter?« Eulie asked as she gave me the maraca treatment. My brain wobbled like a plate of Jell-O; looking up I saw Eulie’s face, and beyond them both two big green Coke bottles taller than the Empire State building. No doubt I looked like a turkey in a rainstorm. She wiped my mouth with something that felt like terrycloth and looked like bubble gum. »Done?«
    »I think I maybe –« I heard myself sputter and then gave up. Someone else was there, an older woman with brown hair. With dozens of hands she gave Eulie something.
    »Walter,« she said. »Hold.« A paper punch going in, right where my arm met the shoulder, as if she were giving me a vaccine. When I blinked again, I was no longer hallucinating; was in fact dead sober as a park ranger. »Clarified?«
    »What?« I asked, shaking my head, unable to imagine that I’d come off the trip so soon. »What’d you give me? Antihistamines?« The woman and Eulie helped me get to my feet. Then, my brothers, I realized that even though I should have been staring deep into my own imaginings, I wasn’t. We stood in the midst of a circular plaza, maybe a hundred feet across and surrounded by low metal carports, real Levittown specials; atop the ones that were facing me was that big yellow circle with the dots I saw when I first opened up. The Coke bottles were buildings, all right; there were twelve others just in my line of sight even taller, their tops swallowed in deep grey felt. The other buildings were in colours other than green – blue and purple and red and yellow. Some had tubes running along their sides, looking like the piping on Marines’ pants. Running horizontally between most of the buildings were other tubes, in other hues and I wondered if those helped the things stand up. All the buildings looked as if they were made out of the same kind of plastic used in telephones. Hundreds of little bugs flitted around the tall boys. »Where are we, Eulie?«
    »New York,« she said.
    »No. Where are we? Where are we now?«
    »New York,« she said, looking down at the ground. Chlo lay there, not moving. She’d lost the muumuu I’d bought her, earlier that day, and wore only what remained of her jumpsuit. A sharp metal shard emerged red from her elbow, and the rest of the arm was missing; as was a good deal of her midsection. Her blonde ropes lay all around her head, and I thought of those clocks they used to make in the fifties, the ones that were supposed to resemble suns. Eulie knelt down, and stroked her face; with her thumb and forefinger, pulled her eyelids shut. »My New York. Come on, Walter. Come with me.«
    »Chlojo?«
    »Retired,« Eulie said. »Come on, Walter.«
    Streets sloped downward all around the plaza, on hills steep as San Francisco’s. In the sky, clouds of lighter colours kept showing pictures. »She’s dead?«
    Eulie wiped her eyes with her hand. »As risked. Come on, Walter.«
    The woman with brown hair and a couple of large guys in black were wrapping Chlo’s body in clear plastic; once she was enshrouded, it turned opaque. They lifted her up and carried her across the plaza, towards one of the carports. I started trying to walk, but while we were in transit I’d gone all gimpy; it felt like I was trying to stroll across gravy.
    »Where’re we going?«
    »Required checkover and superior notification,« Eulie said. »Necessaried to reduce potential harm.«
    »To?«
    »You.«
    When we reached the edge of the plaza she lifted her arm and a lemon whizzed to a stop. The rind peeled away from the top, the sound of birds chirping floated out and Eulie helped me climb in. Between the front seat and the back seat was a heavy black barrier with a tiny slot. The windows were tinted a deep Rayban-green.
    »Dryco,« Eulie said. One second we were parked, the next we were shooting off at a fast clip.
    »We’re making tracks where?« I started to ask. No sooner did I open my trap than somebody else started outyapping me; a recording, I gathered. Couldn’t see the speakers, couldn’t tell if the speaker was male or female, grownup or kid. When I tried to make out the lingo I felt like a missionary among the heathen chinee.
    »Interavesting per sliptimper transgratisfy allayvoo –«
    »Not the old klaatu barada again,« I said, turning up my speaker to be heard over the foofaraw. »What happened to Chlojo