"EVERYTHING INSIDE IS MADE OF STONE"
by Alan Catlin


     The Doctor opened one eye and checked the room for bars.
This must be  the  morning  after,  he thought.  The morning
after what was one of those mysteries that was better solved
later, slowly.

     He always felt better, no matter how  comprehensive  the
hangover, when there were no bars on the windows following a
de-bauch.   He'd  had  a  roommate  in  college who lived in
mortal terror of waking up  that way again.  Once was enough
for anyone in this lifetime.

     The Doctor liked to eliminate the most  serious  options
first,  sort  of  a  perverse game of Truth and Consequences
with months, even years, riding  on the outcome of the game.
Now that the telltale sound of snoring from the  other  side
of  the  unfamil-iar  bed  had  revealed  the  presence of a
reposing alien, a serious attempt at memory was soon to be a
necessity.

     The  Doctor  hated   morning   amenities  with  a  total
stranger.   These  encounters  often  lead  to   undesirable
touchy,  feely  encoun-ters that could only lead to unwanted
physical exercise first thing in the morning.  This could be
avoided, sometimes,  by  a  discrete  exit,  but  the Doctor
disliked the idea  of  himself  on  tiptoes,  searching  for
discarded  items  of  clothing.  Invariably, the woman would
awake and a complicated,  often loud misunder-standing would
ensue.  Better to remain inert and cultivate  the  hangover.
Ah, Morpheus, Blessed God of Sleep, don't fail me now!

     The  Doctor  drifted  off  into  an  uncomfortable, half
waking, half sleeping dream.  He  was in a outdoor club that
was as dark and self contained as any coffee house he  could
remember.   Smoke of many dreams hung about the black turtle
necks of the audience watching the dimly lighted stage.  The
tables were of rough hewn  wood and black spray painted fish
netting hung from where the ceiling should have  been  above
the  stage,  where  a  single  high  stool  stood  behind  a
microphone  all  surrounded by an expanse of black ice.  The
Doctor felt himself at the  back of the room peering through
the haze, smoking something incredible harsh that gave off a
greenish, yellow glow when he inhaled, a glow like the  eyes
of  the  singer  with  a guitar and harmonica hung about his
neck.  The Doctor felt a thirst  like no other he could ever
recall and tried  vainly  to  attract  the  attention  of  a
waitress,  carrying  a tray balanced on her left hand by her
fingertips only, a tray  laden  with cold beer and beverages
he was being denied.  She wore  a  white-t-shirt  that  said
LOVER  BOY,  in  red  letters  TRY IT BUT YOU' D BETTER MEAN
BUSINESS.  The singer  sat  on  the stage, looked myopically
into the haze with those strange haunted eyes singing:


"Go away from my window
leave at your own chosen speed 
I'm not the one you want, babe,
I'm not the one you need.
You say you're looking for someone
Who's never weak and always strong,
Someone who will protect you
and come each time you call
Someone who will die for you and more
Well, it ain't me babe, it' ain't me your
looking for babe.

	
     The Doctor looked deep into the singers eyes and a  pain
hammered  into  his head, right between his eyes, waking him
with a start.
	
     The alien stirred  beside  him,  rolled over and putting
her arm across his chest and mumbling  something  like:"You,
okay, Doc?"
	
     As he expected she was naked and unfamiliar.  Faking the
name  was always a problem so the Doctor always fell back on
one  of  his  safer  generalities.   Straining  to  remember
anything as  far  back  as  last  night  was  like recalling
ancient history, requiring more skill  or  energy  than  the
Doctor currently possessed.

" Someone who will close his for you
pick you up each time you fall—
-well, it ain't me babe, it ain't me
your looking for babe---"
	
"I'm okay, I guess, as good as I an be under the circum-stances."
"Uh uh."
"What are we calling ourselves today? And don't tell me it's Babe. "
"Babe."
"I was afraid of that."
"Don't you remember last night?"
"Vaguely."
"Just vaguely?"
"Besides the usual grunting and groaning, a vagueness, vacuity. The rest is
nothing."
"You're a real card, Doc."
"I've been told that. Many times. If I had a dollar for every time I'dve
been called, Ace, I could buy an underdeveloped Latin American country and
retire to the joys of running a dicta-torship."
"Don't talk, Doc. Kiss your Baby Blue."
	
     God,  the  Baby  Blue line!  The Doctor thought that one
had  been  retired  forever.And  it  wasn't  even  original.
Paraphrasing Bobby Dylan in  his  arty,  folk stage way back
into the early stages of his career when he wrote real songs
about convincing subjects.  You could even forgive  him  the
nonsense  songs  as  the whimsy of genius.  No wonder he was
having this awful  dream.   Bob  Dylan  songs never go away,
they just come back to haunt  you  in  nightmares.   It  was
going to be one of those mornings.
	
     Philosophically,  the  Doctor went along with the Babe's
in-creasingly insistent embraces.  It  was  the thing of the
moment, an act of necessity.  Besides, it was  best  not  to
discourage  them  when they were randy.  You never knew when
the opportunity might arise  again.  Finding out particulars
could always wait.  Besides how important was it anyway?  It
wasn't like they were married or officially engaged, or even
friends.
	
     Later, the morning amenities taken care  of,  formalized
as  it  were,  The  Doctor  lay  back in the unfamiliar bed,
smoking the roach  from  last  nights  nightcap.  Babe slept
with her arm across his chest and  head  resting  on  his
shoulder.   He  almost  felt domestic and at peace.  Closing
his eyes, The  Doctor  was  back  in  The  Ultima Thule Cafe
staring into Bobby's eyes again and feeling the pain  spread
all the way inside.

----Melt back into the night, babe
Everything inside is made of stone
There's nothing in here moving and
anyway I'm not alone------

     But  he  was  alone,  more  alone than he could begin to
imagine.  So alone he  could  feel  everyone inside the room
leaving and he alone was rooted to his chair.  The lights on
the stage were down and  there  was  nothing  but  the  room
walled  in  black  ice,  a  faint  knocking  from  somewhere
outside,a  voice saying 'Let me in, Let me in, but there was
no way in and no way out in the dark.

Alan Catlin