Read Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said for Free Online

shuffle and then sign your contract with NBC or CBS. They’re tough, experienced businessmen. Especially the A and R people. Artists and Repertoire. They decide who to sign. I’m talking about records now. That’s where you have to start to be on a national level; of course you can work club dates all over everywhere until—”
    “Here’s your quibble driver’s license,” Kathy said. She carefully passed him a small black card. “Now I’ll get started on your military service-status chit. That’s a little harder because of the full-face and profile photos, but I can handle that over there.” She pointed at a white screen, in front of which stood a tripod with camera, a flash gun mounted at its side.
    “You have all the equipment,” Jason said as he fixed himself rigidly against the white screen; so many photos had been taken of him during his long career that he always knew exactly where to stand and what expression to reveal.
    But apparently he had done something wrong this time. Kathy, a severe expression on her face, surveying him.
    “You’re all lit up,” she said, half to herself. “You’re glowing in some sort of phony way.”
    “Publicity stills,” Jason said. “Eight-by-ten glossy—”
    “These aren’t. These are to keep you out of a forced-labor camp for the rest of your life. Don’t smile.”
    He didn’t.
    “Good,” Kathy said. She ripped the photos from the camera, carried them cautiously to her workbench, waving them to dry them. “These damn 3-D animateds they want on the military service papers—that camera cost me a thousand dollars and I need it only for this and nothing else…but I have to have it.” She eyed him. “It’s going to cost you.”
    “Yes,” he said, stonily. He felt aware of that already.
    For a time Kathy puttered, and then, turning abruptly toward him, she said, “Who are you
really
? You’re used to posing; I saw you, I saw you freeze with that glad smile in place and those lit-up eyes.”
    “I told you. I’m Jason Taverner. The TV personality guest host. I’m on every Tuesday night.”
    “No,” Kathy said; she shook her head. “But it’s none of my business—sorry—I shouldn’t have asked.” But she continued to eye him, as if with exasperation. “You’re doing it all wrong. You really are a celebrity—it was reflexive, the way you posed for your picture. But you’re not a celebrity. There’s no one named Jason Taverner who matters, who is anything. So what are you, then? A man who has his picture taken all the time that no one’s ever seen or heard of.”
    Jason said, “I’m going about it the way any celebrity who no one has ever heard of would go about it.”
    For a moment she stared at him and then she laughed. “I see. Well, that’s cool; that’s really cool. I’ll have to remember that.” She turned her attention back to the documents she was forging. “In this business,” she said, absorbed in what she was doing, “I don’t want to get to know people I’m making cards for. But”—she glanced up—“I’d sort of like to know you. You’re strange. I’ve seen a lot of types— hundreds, maybe—but none like you. Do you know what I think?”
    “You think I’m insane,” Jason said.
    “Yes.” Kathy nodded. “Clinically, legally, whatever. You’re psychotic; you have a split personality. Mr. No One and Mr. Everyone. How have you survived up until now?”
    He said nothing. It could not be explained.
    “Okay,” Kathy said. One by one, expertly and efficiently, she forged the necessary documents.
    Eddy, the hotel clerk, lurked in the background, smoking a fake Havana cigar; he had nothing to say or do, but for some obscure reason he hung around. I wish he’d fuck off, Jason thought to himself. I’d like to talk to her more…
    “Come with me,” Kathy said, suddenly; she slid from her work stool and beckoned him toward a wooden door at the right of her bench. “I want your signature five times, each a little