Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

by Philip K. Dick

The owner and two waiters hustled over, still clutching menus; Jason saw and marked details, oddly; it seemed as if everything, at her screams, had frozen over. Become fixed. Customers raising forks, lowering spoons, chewing . . . everything stopped and there remained only the terrible, ugly noise. And she was saying words. Crude words, as if read off some back fence. Short, destructive words that tore at everyone in the restaurant, including himself. Especially himself. The owner, his mustache twitching, nodded to the two waiters, and they lifted Kathy bodily from her chair; they raised her by her shoulders, held her, then, at the owner’s curt nod, dragged her from the booth, across the restaurant and out onto the street. He paid the bill, hurried after them. At the entrance, however, the owner stopped him. Holding out his hand. “Three hundred dollars,” the owner said. “For what?” he demanded. “For dragging her outside?” The owner said, “For not calling the pols.” Grimly, he paid.