explain.
âUrban exploration: investigating the city, creative trespass, going where Iâm not supposed to, getting into abandoned structures, factories, closed-down hospitals, derelict power stations. You know?â
âSo you spend all your workdays dealing in representations of places, and you spend your free time exploring actual places.â
âDoes that sound weird?â
âNot to me. What do you think I was doing the other night when I found Utopiates? Walking, looking at the city, taking pictures.â
âA woman after my own heart,â Zak said, and immediately felt like a fool. At least he hadnât used the word âsoulmate.â
Without being asked, the bartender delivered two bags of ice, suitable for the care and treatment of black eyes. Zak remembered why he liked this place so much.
âYeah,â he continued, âon my days off, I get in the car, go to some disused flour mill or iron foundry or whatever, and you know, just poke around.â
âYou have a car? You donât look like a car owner.â
âHow do car owners look? Itâs just a company car, a big brown station wagon, good for hauling stock and not much else.â
âBut still,â said Marilyn, âit creates possibilities.â
Zak took a moment to consider what these might be.
âYou got any tattoos, Zak?â Marilyn asked.
âNo.â
âEver thought about it?â
âNot really,â said Zak. âI wouldnât know what to get. Itâs a big commitment. Not that Iâm afraid of commitment.â
âHow about a tattooed map?â Marilyn suggested.
âEven bigger problem. Of where?â he said. âAtlantis? Pangæa? The Batcave? And I definitely never thought of having one on my back.â
They suckled on their drinks.
âWe got beaten up,â said Marilyn, âjust because of something we saw.â
âI donât think the guy even knew that you saw it until you told him. In any case, I reckon you got beaten up because you hit him with your backpack.â
âIt seemed like the right thing to do,â she said. âSo I guess weâre not going to call the cops, are we?â
âNo,â Zak agreed. âCalling the cops would involve telling them what I saw, and according to the guy who beat me up, I didnât see anything.â
âBut doesnât that kind of make you want to tell everybody everything?â
âNot really,â said Zak. âAnd I still donât know what I saw.â
âNot quite true,â said Marilyn. âWe know what you saw, we just donât know what it means.â
âNow youâre starting to sound like me.â
âAnd where do you think that poor woman is now?â
They both knew it was an impossible question to answer, but Zak suspected it wasnât quite a rhetorical one. He felt she was testing him, seeing how his imagination worked.
âOh, Iâm sure sheâs living a life of quiet contentment somewhere in the countryside,â he said dryly.
âOr maybe sheâs lying dead in a ditch,â said Marilyn. âEither way it would be good to know.â
âWould it?â
âYes. Donât you feel some responsibility?â
âNot really,â Zak admitted.
âSome basic human concern?â
âWell yes, okay, maybe a little of that.â
âThen donât you feel we ought to do something?â
âLike what?â
âMaybe track down this guy and his Cadillac, see where he lives and who he is. Find out what he did with that woman.â
âAre you serious?â
âWell, do you have a better idea?â
Zak had several, and none of them involved tracking down a Cadillac and its violent driver, to who knows where, in order to find a tattooed homeless woman who might not want to be found. He didnât see how this could lead to anything other than another beating.