“Bob’s right,” Philipe said. “She’s in.”
“Besides,” James added, “it’s not as if women are breaking down our doors to hang with us. We’d better take what chances we get.”
“Let’s go introduce ourselves,” Philipe said. “If she hasn’t run away already.”
We walked, all ten of us, next door. I went first, and I hurried up the stairs before the rest of them and peeked into the girl’s bedroom where I’d left her. She was still sitting on the bed, unmoving.
“We’re all here,” I said. “Would you like to meet the others?”
Mary shrugged. Her fear seemed to have left, but in its place was a strangely detached apathy.
Philipe, as always, did the talking. He explained about Terrorism for the Common Man, about what we were, and he asked her if she would like to join us.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Would you rather be alone?”
She shrugged.
Philipe looked at her thoughtfully. “I’ve seen you somewhere before. I never forget a face. Where did you used to work?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “Why?”
“Harbor,” he said, pointing at her. “You used to work Harbor Boulevard.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I saw you there.”
“You did not.”
“You were a streetwalker. I saw you there.”
She seemed to deflate, as though air had been let out of her. She slumped down on the bed and nodded, her lower lip trembling slightly. “I only tried it for a while,” she said. “I… I thought it would… I thought someone would notice me.” Tears welled in her reddening eyes. “But no one ever did. No one saw me — ”
“I saw you,” Philipe said quietly. He sat down next to her. “I thought you might be one of us, and I started keeping tabs on you. Then you disappeared and I forgot all about you. What happened?”
A tear spilled out, coursing down her right cheek. She wiped it away. “I killed my first and only customer.” She began sobbing, great heaves racking her body, tears streaming from beneath the hands covering her face.
Philipe put an arm around her, drew her to him. “It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “It’s okay.”
The rest of us stood around uncomfortably.
“I stabbed him!”
“It’s okay,” he said. “We make no judgments here. We’ve all done something similar.”
She looked up, wiped her eyes.
“I killed my boss and his boss,” he said. “Slit their throats.”
“You don’t care what I’ve done?”
“We’ve all done the same.”
She sniffled. “Then… then you’ll take me?”
“You’re one of us,” Philipe said. “How could we not?”
Eight
We lived happily in our model homes, leaving each morning before they opened at ten, returning after they’d closed at five. It was like a commune, I guess. One for all and all for one.
We shared everything, even sex, but the sex was unaccompanied by either feeling or commitment. It was a purely physical act, like eating or defecating, invested with no meaning. I joined in more out of obligation than desire, but although it was physically pleasurable, it was not rewarding, and I always felt empty inside afterward.
We started off simply taking turns with Mary. If it had been a long time since we’d had sex, it had been just as long for her, and she was hungry for it. She made it clear very quickly that she was not interested in having a relationship with any of us, but that she would not object to nonbinding, no-strings-attached sex.
So Philipe would have her one night, me the next, John the next, and on down the line. Buster usually passed, saying he did not want to violate the memory of his late wife, but Junior jumped into the swing of things wholeheartedly, picking up sex manuals and toys and trying every act and position that he could possibly perform.
Then there were the combinations. I didn’t like these much, they made me uncomfortable, and I did not participate, but most of the others did. Even James and John, in my house, shared a bed together one night with Mary, and I heard the sounds of their sexual triad as I lay alone in the master bedroom trying to fall asleep.
I met Mary at the breakfast table the next morning. James and John were still slumbering, and I poured her a cup of the coffee I’d made and sat down at the dining room table next to her. We were silent for a few moments.
“I know you don’t approve,” she said finally.
“It’s not my place to approve or disapprove.”
“But you don’t. Admit it.”
“I just don’t understand why you… why you do it.”
“Maybe I like it.”
“Do you?”
She sipped her coffee. “Not really,” she admitted. “But I don’t dislike it either. It’s just kind of there. Everyone else seems to enjoy it, though.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel like, you know, like… a whore?”
She shrugged. “That’s what I am.”
“No, you’re not.” I put down my coffee. “You don’t need to have sex with us to get us to notice you, you know. We’d notice you anyway.”
“But this way you notice me more.” She smiled. “Besides, I don’t see you turning down any freebies.”
I said nothing. There was nothing to say. I suddenly felt depressed, and I decided to go for a walk. I pushed back my chair, touched her shoulder, and walked outside. Behind Bill and Don’s place, construction had started on the third phase of the subdivision, and the workers had already arrived and were starting up the cement mixer, climbing the frames of the houses.
I jogged around the circle, then let myself out through the gate and went running along Chapman until I came to a recently built gas station. I went in, picked up a Hostess fruit pie, and walked out. I stood there for a moment, staring out at the work traffic on the street. I didn’t feel like hanging out with the other terrorists today. I needed a break. We’d spent too much time together lately, almost all day every day since the trip, and I found myself wishing that things were back to the way they used to be, with us doing things together but still having places of our own that we could retreat to.
I missed having time to myself.
I would have time to myself today, I decided. I was going to take a vacation from being a Terrorist for the Common Man. I was going to be plain old Ignored me.
I jogged back to the model homes, ran up Philipe’s walk, let myself in. He and Paul were watching Good Morning America, eating Eggo waffles on the couch.
“Hey,” Philipe said. “What’s up?”
“I’m going to take off by myself today,” I said. “I want to be alone. I need some time to think.”
“Okay. We had nothing earth-shattering planned anyway. When’ll you be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“See you then.”
I went back to my house, grabbed my wallet and keys, and took off in the Buick.
I just drove. All day, I drove. When I needed gas I stopped and got some. When I was hungry I stopped at Burger King for lunch. But otherwise I kept moving. I went up Pacific Coast Highway all the way to Santa Monica, then cut inland and followed the foothills and mountains clear to Pomona. It felt good to be alone and on the road, and I cranked up the radio and rolled down the windows and sped down the highway, the breeze in my face, pretending I was not Ignored but normal and a part of the world through which I was driving and not just an invisible shadow at its fringes.