Naturally enough, my first thought was about Robert, and it was a somewhat grumpy thought. I had always assumed that actors, writers, artists, and other borderline psychotics were an odd lot-but Robert was in a league of his own, and he annoyed me far more than he should have. People don’t usually bother me very much, since they are, after all, only flesh and blood, and I know very well just how fragile and transitory that is. But there was something about Robert that cut through my customary indifference to the human species, and it went beyond his apish imitation of my unconscious behavior. Did I really pinch my nose like that when I was reading departmental memos?
And in any case, why should it bother me if I did, and Robert copied me? If all my tics and twitches made it to the little silver screen, wasn’t that a form of immortality-even better for me, anonymous immortality? But even that thought did not make me warm to him, and I wondered whether my dislike for the man was rooted in aesthetics. I had been taught to value originality in art, and when you came right down to it, Robert was trying to make an art out of mere imitation. Art History 102, spring semester at University of Miami, had taught me that this could not be done. Art was creating something new, not mimicking something already in existence. What Robert was trying to do so intently was, in fact, no more than craft. He did no more than copy my tics and twitches-even to the point of staring at my family portrait, a very personal part of my disguise, for his character research-
— which didn’t actually make any sense, because his character was single. So had it been pure nosiness? But then, why the intensity? No-it had to be something else.
Could it be that he truly felt a sad and absurd longing for a family of his own? Of course, that’s what he’d said-but it had not been terribly convincing. And yet, there was no other explanation, unless I was willing to believe that, with his pick of all the glamorous beauties in the world, he was staring with longing at Rita. With all due respect for Rita, I found that even harder to believe.
Not his character, not Rita, not the kids; so there was no possible reason for his fascination with the picture. There was nothing else to see in the picture, except for …
Somewhere, deep in the Intelligence Analysis Section of the Department of Human Studies, University of Dexter, a tiny little bell chimed softly, announcing that a new report had just drifted into the in-box, and I paused in midponder to look it over. Actually, the report stated, there was one more thing in the family portrait: Me. Dexter himself.
But, of course, there was no conceivable reason that Robert might stare at a picture of me. Certainly not; he was an ultramasculine leading man-except that he never got married, seemed to avoid beautiful women, had a perfect haircut and fabulous shoes, insisted on Robert-not-Bob, and always groomed himself very well-with Product! He has been seen, on more than one occasion, staring at Dexter with an expression of abstract longing, which caused the Passenger to issue a hesitant, uncertain, unspecified whisper of unease. The only man I knew who routinely dressed up as Carmen Miranda worshiped him. And on top of everything else Robert was, for God’s sake, an actor.
Dexter takes great pride in having a brain that usually works well, more or less. And so on those rare occasions when it works a little slower than I would ideally like it to, I have to pause and wonder if I should eat more fish. Because quite clearly, I had been staring at a long list of very plain hints and failing to see the obvious conclusion.
Robert was gay.
And somehow, probably because of his intense study of Dexter in all his charm and glory, Robert had developed an infatuation with his subject-moi.
Of course, it was completely reasonable. To know me is to love me, and I was very fond of me, too. A list of my finer qualities would easily occupy almost half the front side of a three-by-five card. Although the list does taper off rather dramatically after “good with a knife.” But such sterling traits would mean nothing to a shallow clot like Robert; he was all about surface appearances. And speaking of, I had been told on more than one occasion that I am not completely horrible to look upon, for those who like that sort of thing. It meant nothing to me, since the only purpose of good looks is to acquire sex, and I am largely uninterested. But it clearly meant something to Robert. Even with half of Hollywood to pick from, he had settled on Dexter.
He liked me. He really liked me.
Really, this was too much-and it confirmed my low opinion of Robert’s intelligence. Me? Really? Of course, it was flattering, but it was impossible. How was I supposed to work with him when I knew he was gazing longingly at me, mooning, and fighting back declarations of the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name?
Somehow I would have to. I had my orders, and Robert had his, and he would just have to moon on his own time-and at his own desk. I flipped the newspaper into the trash can, brushed some mostly imaginary filth off my blotter, and set the photograph back in its place. I leaned back again to think, trying to push Robert out of my thoughts, but it was difficult. Even without this absurd devotion to me, Robert was a strange and unsettling presence, and after a week in his company I was definitely feeling that I had been pushed off center. And to be fair, it wasn’t just Robert. The whole week had been strange, and I had not really had time to reflect on it until now, and as I relaxed and let my powerful brain roam where it would, I found myself thinking about Jackie.
She was a very odd person, too, judged by my limited experience, and from my even odder perspective-in a much nicer way than Robert, of course, but stilclass="underline" She seemed unhappy with being a celebrity, although from what I could see she was quite good at it. She mooned over the idea of Ordinary Life-and yet, she was risking her own Extraordinary one to keep herself from falling out of the limelight, exposing herself to an attack from a slavering beast merely to preserve her role on this still hypothetical TV show. It seemed needlessly complicated to me; why not relax and enjoy the ride? I certainly was.
But for me, it would all end, and soon. Did that make it different? Perhaps it all got cloying if it was permanent-“Death is the mother of beauty,” as someone once said. I had always taken that to mean something a little different, but I could see how it might apply here. It was quite likely that I enjoyed Jackie’s lifestyle because I knew very well that even the most thrilling roller coaster runs out of track sooner or later, and no one had offered me any kind of permanent exemption from this basic law of nature. My vacation in Valhalla would end soon, and I would be flung from Paradise back into the Pit where I belonged. Unfair and unwanted, but unavoidable. Of course, I could probably run off with Robert, but the idea was not quite as appealing. I would just have to accept that my beautiful interlude would come to an end.
Ah, well. Some very great poet whose name escapes me had put it best when he said, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” For the next few days I could still gather me rosebuds, and I might as well enjoy it. And because Computer Dexter is nothing if not thorough, a tiny wheel turned over with a muffled click and called up the end of the rosebud poem: a quaint reminder that today’s rosebud something something “tomorrow will be dying.” Ah, Death: a lovely sentiment, and it reminded me that I was collecting rosebuds in the first place because I was being paid to keep Jackie from dying at the hands of a dull and brutal psycho.