Ulin’s fortune derived from cutting edge aerospace research and development. Most of the residents of Blue Heron were engineers and top of the line idea people. They lived here because it was in their contracts to live here, Langely being some kind of proto control freak. Every morning more than half the population of Blue Heron jumped in their cars and drove to the research facility ten miles inland. So on weekdays it was me, the spouses (a la some kind of 1950s template) and various service people.
I resumed walking, the empty leash dangling from my fist, imagining Jeepers plodding along beside me, sniffing at the wet sand, as he had done yesterday. Up ahead someone came out of the dune grass and angled toward me. I kept walking. The individual got closer and I recognized Jillian Bravos, a young woman from the clinic. She was a nurse’s aid or something, what they call you when you take blood samples or hand patients cups to pee or masturbate into. We’d slept together a couple of times, and it pushed back the loneliness, but somehow our liaisons had felt otherwise inauthentic. To me, anyway. Part of it was I had honed the fine art of wall construction, and Jillian didn’t know the secret password. Neither did I, for that matter. And I didn’t want to know it, either.
“Ellis!” She waved and caught up to me.
“Hi, Jill.”
She looked at the leash then scanned around the empty beach. “Taking Jeepers for a walk?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of our last walk.”
“Oh, don’t say that.”
Jillian was a sweet girl. Her yellow hair was cut short and her cheeks got red in the cold. She had a sturdy frame, ample breasts, a frequent smile. She wasn’t my type, which is probably why I picked her. There had been other girls, all of them Blue Heron locals and none of them my type. It was pretty messed up, but there you go.
“Did you ever see that TV show The Prisoner ? I asked Jill.
She shook her head. “I don’t watch much TV. Mostly just Miami Vice .”
“ The Prisoner was about this guy who was a secret agent or something, and he winds up captured by the bad guys, and he has to live in this village where everybody works for the bad guys, only it’s unclear. You know? It’s all kind of mixed up and goofy, so you don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. Plus nobody has a name.”
“No names?” She smiled uncertainly
“Yeah. Everybody has a number instead. The secret agent guy was Number Six.”
“It sounds weird. Are you sure you’re not making it up?”
“It was a BBC show,” I said.
“Well no wonder!”
I nodded, looking past her down the shingle where the land curved away. “What would happen,” I asked, “if I kept walking along this beach for a long time?”
“I guess you’d get tired.”
“What I mean is, would I be allowed to?”
“What’s to stop you?”
“I don’t know. Giant white balloons and guys in golf carts, maybe.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Want to walk with me to the clinic? I’m on my way there now. Don’t you have an appointment? I think I saw you had an appointment.”
I jingled the leash, remembering how Jeepers used to like it when I scratched him behind his ears. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I forgot about that appointment. My dog isn’t up for a really long walk, anyway. Lucky I bumped into you.”
Jillian picked up my hand and looked into my eyes, which made me uncomfortable. “What’s wrong, Ellis?”
“Nothing. Shall we go?”
Holding hands, we walked to the clinic.
And so they took my eyes. My corneas, to be exact. In later years they discovered the corneas regenerated more perfectly when they took the entire eye. But these were the early days.
When I came to I was in my own familiar bed in my own cottage, and someone was puttering. I reached up and touched the thick gauze. Already the tingling of my re-gens had begun. My mouth was dry and sticky with the post-op crud.
“I’m thirsty,” I said.
The puttering stopped (I
I resumed walking, the empty leash dangling from my fist, imagining Jeepers plodding along beside me, sniffing at the wet sand, as he had done yesterday. Up ahead someone came out of the dune grass and angled toward me. I kept walking. The individual got closer and I recognized Jillian Bravos, a young woman from the clinic. She was a nurse’s aid or something, what they call you when you take blood samples or hand patients cups to pee or masturbate into. We’d slept together a couple of times, and it pushed back the loneliness, but somehow our liaisons had felt otherwise inauthentic. To me, anyway. Part of it was I had honed the fine art of wall construction, and Jillian didn’t know the secret password. Neither did I, for that matter. And I didn’t want to know it, either.
“Ellis!” She waved and caught up to me.
“Hi, Jill.”
She looked at the leash then scanned around the empty beach. “Taking Jeepers for a walk?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of our last walk.”
“Oh, don’t say that.”
Jillian was a sweet girl. Her yellow hair was cut short and her cheeks got red in the cold. She had a sturdy frame, ample breasts, a frequent smile. She wasn’t my type, which is probably why I picked her. There had been other girls, all of them Blue Heron locals and none of them my type. It was pretty messed up, but there you go.
“Did you ever see that TV show The Prisoner ? I asked Jill.
She shook her head. “I don’t watch much TV. Mostly just Miami Vice .”
“ The Prisoner was about this guy who was a secret agent or something, and he winds up captured by the bad guys, and he has to live in this village where everybody works for the bad guys, only it’s unclear. You know? It’s all kind of mixed up and goofy, so you don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. Plus nobody has a name.”
“No names?” She smiled uncertainly
“Yeah. Everybody has a number instead. The secret agent guy was Number Six.”
“It sounds weird. Are you sure you’re not making it up?”
“It was a BBC show,” I said.
“Well no wonder!”
I nodded, looking past her down the shingle where the land curved away. “What would happen,” I asked, “if I kept walking along this beach for a long time?”
“I guess you’d get tired.”
“What I mean is, would I be allowed to?”
“What’s to stop you?”
“I don’t know. Giant white balloons and guys in golf carts, maybe.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Want to walk with me to the clinic? I’m on my way there now. Don’t you have an appointment? I think I saw you had an appointment.”
I jingled the leash, remembering how Jeepers used to like it when I scratched him behind his ears. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess I forgot about that appointment. My dog isn’t up for a really long walk, anyway. Lucky I bumped into you.”
Jillian picked up my hand and looked into my eyes, which made me uncomfortable. “What’s wrong, Ellis?”
“Nothing. Shall we go?”
Holding hands, we walked to the clinic.
And so they took my eyes. My corneas, to be exact. In later years they discovered the corneas regenerated more perfectly when they took the entire eye. But these were the early days.
When I came to I was in my own familiar bed in my own cottage, and someone was puttering. I reached up and touched the thick gauze. Already the tingling of my re-gens had begun. My mouth was dry and sticky with the post-op crud.
“I’m thirsty,” I said.
The puttering stopped (I
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