COULD IT BE JUST FRIENDSHIP, WITH SEX ATTACHED?
NO, I DON’T THINK SO. OR MAYBE IT IS. MAYBE THAT’S ALL LOVE REALLY IS — FRIENDSHIP PLUS SEX — AND WE GET CONFUSED THINKING THAT IT SHOULD BE MORE. AND BECAUSE WE WANT IT TO BE MORE, WE START BELIEVING THAT IT REALLY IS MORE. OH, I DON’T KNOW.
HARLIE didn’t answer for a long time. It was as if he was mulling over Auberson’s last words. The typer sat quietly, humming not so much with a sound as with a barely felt electric vibration. Abruptly, it clattered, I WILL QUOTE BACK TO YOU SOMETHING THAT YOU ONCE SAID TO ME: “HUMAN BEINGS PUT WALLS AROUND THEMSELVES. SHELLS, LAYERS, CALL THEM WHAT YOU WILL ——
THEY ARE DEFENSES AGAINST THE WORLD. THEY ARE PROTECTIVE MASKS — A CONSTANT UNCHANGING FACE WITH WHICH TO CONFRONT REALITY. IT PREVENTS OTHERS FROM SEEING ONE’S REAL EXPRESSION AND SHOWS THEM ONLY THE FIXED COUNTENANCE THAT YOU WANT THEM TO SEE. (SOMETIMES YOUR FLIPPANT HUMOR FUNCTIONS AS THAT KIND OF A MASK, HARLIE.) UNFORTUNATELY, THE PROBLEM WITH MASKS IS THAT SOMETIMES THEY FIT TOO WELL AND IT’S HARD TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE MASK AND THE FACE UNDERNEATH — SOMETIMES EVEN THE WEARER BECOMES CONFUSED.”
I DON’T REMEMBER SAYING THAT.
MARCH 3 OF THIS YEAR. DO YOU WANT TO REPHRASE OR RETRACT THE STATEMENT?
NO, IT’S CORRECT. I AGREE WITH IT.
MAY I OFFER A SUPERFICIAL AND TEMPORARY ANALYSIS OF THE SITUATION? asked the machine.
GO AHEAD. REMEMBER, WE SAID NO COP-OUTS.
ALL RIGHT. IT SEEMS TO ME THAT THE PROBLEM STEMS FROM YOUR INABILITY TO DROP YOUR OWN MASKS AROUND OTHER PEOPLE. YOU CAN DO IT WITH ME EASILY, OCCASIONALLY WITH DON HANDLEY — AND ONCE YOU DID IT WITH ANNIE. WHEN YOU DO DROP YOUR MASK, IT IS DONE ONLY WITH GREAT EFFORT AND BECAUSE OF GREAT EMOTIONAL INVOLVEMENT. CORRECT?
YES.
YOU PERCEIVE THAT LOVE — I.E. A LOVE RELATIONSHIP — SHOULD EXIST AS A CONSTANT AND CONTINUAL STATE OF MASKLESSNESS BETWEEN THE INDIVIDUALS INVOLVED. THAT IS, NEITHER ATTEMPTS TO HIDE ANYTHING FROM THE OTHER. STILL CORRECT?
YES.
THEN I WANT YOU TO CONSIDER THIS: IS IT POSSIBLE THAT EVEN IN A LOVE RELATIONSHIP, THE OCCASIONAL DONNING OF MASKS MIGHT BE NECESSARY — THAT ONE CANNOT CONTINUE TO EXIST AT SUCH AN EMOTIONAL PEAK WITHOUT AN OCCASIONAL RETREAT INTO A PROTECTIVE MENTAL GROTTO, FROM THE SAFETY OF WHICH ONE CAN CONSOLIDATE AND ASSIMILATE ONE’S EXPERIENCES BEFORE AGAIN VENTURING FORTH?
Auberson hesitated, then said, I’LL HAVE TO THINK ABOUT THAT FOR A WHILE. He was remembering his freshman psychology courses — and a phenomenon known as “plateaus,” i.e., the temporary leveling off of a curve before it continues rising.
WHY? asked HARLIE.
WELL, FOR ONE THING, I WANT TO SEE HOW IT APPLIES TO ME AND ANNIE. FOR ANOTHER, YOU’VE SUGGESTED THAT THE USE OF MASKS MAY BE A VALUE, RATHER THAN A HINDRANCE.
UH UH — YOU’RE THE ONE WHO SAID THAT MASKS HAVE VALUE: “IT’S THOSE TINY LITTLE EVERYDAY SELF-LIES THAT ENABLE THE AVERAGE PERSON TO SURVIVE THE DAILY BARRAGE OF DARTS AGAINST A FRAGILE EGO.”
IS THAT WRONG?
YES AND NO. IT DEPENDS ON THE CONTEXT. A MASK IS A KIND OF COP-OUT — IT IS A WAY TO AVOID THE CONFRONTATION BETWEEN PERSON AND PERSON. ALL COP-OUTS ARE WAYS OF AVOIDING CONFRONTATIONS. PERHAPS IT IS OKAY FOR THE ONES YOU WANT TO AVOID — BUT IF THAT IS SO, THEN ONE SHOULD TAKE CARE NOT TO LET IT BECOME SUCH A HABIT THAT YOU DO IT AUTOMATICALLY AT THE ONES THAT COUNT.
YOU MEAN LOVE?
I MEAN ALL CONFRONTATIONS. DON’T COP OUT AT THE ONES THAT COUNT.
Auberson was about to ask if that applied to the upcoming Board meeting as well, when his intercom buzzer went on. It was Sylvia: “I know you’re busy, Mr. Auberson, and I didn’t want to disturb you, but Don Handley is here.”
“All right.” He pushed himself away from the typer, not bothering to shut it off. Then he checked himself. He scooped up the sheets of printout and stuffed them deep into the large basket hanging from the back of the machine.
“What’re you doing?” asked Handley from the door. “Redecorating your garbage?”
“Er, no—” Auberson straightened a little too quickly. “I was rewriting a section of the HARLIE program.”
“Huh?” Handley was puzzled.
Auberson realized his mistake. HARLIE wasn’t supposed to be wired into this typer. Only the Master Beast, as it was called, was supposed to have that capability. “Uh, well, I was filing it for future reference in the central information pool. Later, when I need it, I can transfer it to HARLIE downstairs.”
“Oh,” said Handley. Auberson found himself wondering why he didn’t tell Don about HARLIE’s extra-curricular activities. Another cop-out, Aubie?
“Well, what can I do for you?” he asked.
Handley threw himself into a chair. “You can start by getting me a forty-eight-hour day — you and your goddamned GOD Machine!”
“I’ll put it on order.”
Handley didn’t reply at first; he was pulling a crumpled Highmaster pack out of his lab-coat pocket He waved it toward Auberson. “Want one?”
Auberson felt tempted, but shook his head. “My resolution — remember?”
“Oh, yeah — how long’s it been now?” Handley lit the marijuana stick and inhaled deeply.
“Four or five months.”
“Honest?” asked Don. “No lapses?”
Auberson shrugged. “A couple, around Christmas time but they don’t count. It was a party.” Abruptly, he remembered something. He slid his desk drawer open, pulled out the pack of Highmasters that had been there for the past few months. “Here — want them?”
He made as if to throw the pack, but Handley shook his head, “Uh uh — I don’t like Highmasters.”
“But that’s what you’re smoking now.”
“Yeah, but I paid for these. I can’t afford to waste them.”
“Huh?”
Handley shrugged. “They were all out of Golds.”
Auberson shook his head. HARLIE was right — human beings didn’t make sense. He dropped the Highmasters back into the drawer. It was just as well — he could use them as a constant test of his willpower.
He closed his desk and looked at the other. HARLlE’s question was still echoing in his mind.
Handley had thick dark hair, going to gray; a narrow face; skin like leather from too many weekends on his boat; soft regular features; and dark eyes — the corners of them were creased from smiling too much. He said, “It’s about the Board meeting — and your machine, of course.”
“Why does everybody insist on calling it my machine? It’s HARLIE’s.”
“Yeah, but HARLIE is yours, isn’t he?” Handley took another deep drag, held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could, then exhaled. “Besides, it’s a projection of future blame. They figure that by identifying you with the machine, when it finally does go down the tubes, you’ll be the only one to go with it.”
“That’s always nice to know,” remarked Auberson. “That your co-workers are one hundred percent behind you.”