“Who is that?” Christopher demanded.
“He’s a brown belt in karate, is who he is,” said Liz.
“What’s his name?”
“Why does that matter?” Then Liz stepped back and seemed to notice Christopher’s new bodywalls for the first time. “What are all these—things—in your face?” she said. “Don’t you know what can happen, Chris?”
Christopher felt like he might cry. “Who is that guy, Liz?”
Liz fumed. “Look—I don’t mind you calling me from time to time, or an occasional email. But you and are I not together anymore, Chris. Do you understand?”
When she said those words—“not” and “together” and “anymore”—Christopher felt a weird, wide pang in the middle of his body. He immediately knew what that meant—he remembered the brochures on halving at Sammy’s—and he tried to stop it by wrapping his arms around himself in a frantic self-hug. “Are you alright?” Liz said. But Christopher didn’t answer; he broke away from her and bolted down the hall and out to the parking lot, where he looked around desperately for some rope or thick tape. The closest thing he could find was some bungee cords in the back of a pickup truck. He grabbed them and wrapped them around himself, and then he ran to his car and tried to drive to the hospital. On his way there, though, his piece-of-shit Echo stalled out at a light, and when he got out to check the engine one of the bungee cords caught on the door and snapped. Christopher felt a sudden shift in body heat and a breeze blowing between his eyes as his two sides slipped apart, each one taking part of the wall with it. His right half reached for his left half—“Wait!” the right half of Christopher called—but the left half of him hopped across the street, hailed a taxi, and disappeared.
When the right half of Christopher woke up the next morning, he reached over to touch the wall that had severed him and checked to see that he was still only a half. He was, and overnight his centerwall had thickened. He hopped over to his laptop and Googled “walling” and “division.” He found countless articles about the connections between the two, many of which appeared on a website called wallhelp.org. “Wallers need to watch for the following symptoms: scattered thoughts, inner turmoil, and headaches,” the website read, and then, farther down the page, “There’s currently no cure for wall-related divisions.”
Christopher lived as a half for a while, and thus, was of two minds. The left half of him went underground, and later surfaced living out of a van down by the Coast of If. The right half of him, meanwhile, remained in the apartment they’d shared and stayed on at the DOF. Christopher’s left half was content on his own—he had one-night and short-term connections, often with other walled halves and wild split personalities—but the right half of him was lonely and soon started looking to reconnect.
There were all sorts of ways to connect with people, or halves of people, at the time. At first, the right half of Christopher hoped to meet another half—a better half, even—on his own. When he didn’t, he signed up for an online service—halfaconnection.com—and was soon digitally matched with someone.
The first person the service connected with the right half of Christopher was an old woman, Mrs. Limit, who did not speak English—she spoke a strange language that Christopher couldn’t place and never learned (English Two, maybe, or Blixalese). Joined at the mind as they were, though, the right half of Christopher understood her suffering. Even with the wall dividing their thoughts, her mind shared memories of the first Bird War; her mourning for her husband, who died in Bird War II; her fleeing the village during the Great Nesting in Bird War IV. While the two halves’ thoughts mostly agreed, though, there were occasional thoughtflicts. Mrs. Limit was a vegetarian and she followed a strict diet; Christopher would regularly eat FatBurgers and entire bags of chips. Mrs. Limit was truly kind and good—always thinking of others—and Christopher found that fucking annoying sometimes. When his assistant Danielle’s husband was diagnosed with chronic forgetting, Mrs. Limit spent days discussing ways to help him: a fund drive, a benefit, a website. “Will you all shut up?” Christopher’s thoughts finally shouted over the wall. “We don’t even know this guy!”
Two years into the connection, though, poor Mrs. Limit died. Christopher was at the dentist machine’s office when it happened; her half-heart stopped right there in the waiting room, and the right half of Christopher felt her separate from him and fall to the floor. Then the doctor machine’s secretary-machine called Christopher in. “Oh,” said the secretary-machine, staring down at the left half of the old woman crumpled on the ground.
Next, the right half of Christopher joined briefly with a traffic controller named Lou. But after three days of the halves’ thoughts barking at each other over the wall in Christopher’s mind, Lou disconnected from the right half of Christopher and said, “Hey. Listen. Bud.”
“Yeah,” said the right half of Christopher.
“This isn’t—this just isn’t,” he said.
“No, I get it,” said the right half of Christopher.
“I mean—”
“Sure,” the right half of Christopher said. “I agree.”
The right half of Christopher rented half an apartment on St. Pause Street, was promoted to Editor, and sent lonesome, rambling emails to Liz: Are you even getting these? Please respond then! Do you know I have been thinking about sprucing up my kitchen. I want an island in the middle of it. Remember how we talked about having an island in our kitchen? I really like my new place. Not that you are asking. What about the kitchen that you have with your new family. Does it have an ISLAND? Do you not have time to read emails because you are so busy now with your new family? Do they know my name? Do they know that you were married to a man named Chris? I like it that you call me Chris. No one calls me that anymore. When Liz cut off communication in a curt, threatening email that winter, Christopher resolved to stop looking for connections, and to try and find contentment as half a person.
One night after a Nots show at The Gallows the following June, the right half of Christopher walked back to his junky Echo and he couldn’t get it started. He was leaning over the engine compartment, staring down into the mess of spirits and wires, when he heard a voice say, “You’re still driving this piece of shit?”
The right half of Christopher turned to see the left half of Christopher standing beside him. The left half’s hair was long, his centerwall was now spray-painted and his one arm was muscled. He looked tan, too, and the right half of Christopher noticed new wrinkles near his eyes. “It’s the battery, I think,” he said.
“Did you try jumping it?”
“I can’t find—any cables,” said the right half of Christopher.
“Hold on,” said the left half of Christopher, and he trotted over to his halfcycle and came back with a pair of jumper cables. He attached them and the right half of Christopher turned the key. The Echo lulled and then turned over. “Awesome,” said the right half of Christopher.
The left half removed the cables.
“Good show, hah?” said the right half.
“Fucking awesome show,” said the left half.
“The Nots are still a very skilled band.”
The left half chuckled. “Yes,” he said in a mock British accent, “by George I think they are.”
“Shut up,” said the right half of Christopher.
“Good to see you,” said the left half of Christopher, slapping the side of the vehicle. Then he walked off through the parking lot.
The right half of Christopher drove home that night thinking about his other half. It was good to see him, and he wished they’d had more time to talk. He thought of calling him the next day, but then realized he didn’t know the left half’s new number.
Lo and behold, though, the right half of Christopher saw his other half again a few weeks later while standing in line at Coffee or Else on Ginger Street. At first the right half didn’t recognize his other half—all he saw was a wall that looked somewhat familiar—but then the left half shifted and the
right half saw his half-face clearly. The right half of Christopher waited for his order—coffee with one sugar and half-and-half—and then went over to say hello. The left half looked up from the book he was reading, kicked out a chair, and said, “Have a seat.”
The right half of Christopher sat.
“How’s that car?” the left half asked.
“Awful,” said the right half of Christopher. “I need a transformer. Can’t get a transformer.”
“You can in Coolidge Heights,” said the left half.
“Yeah, on the black market,” said the right half of Christopher. “That’s illegal.”
The left half smiled. “So,” he said.
The right half of Christopher shook off the idea. “What are you reading?”
The left half held up his book and the hair on the back of the right half of Christopher’s neck stood up. “That’s antifiction,” he hissed.
“No shit,” said the left half, and then, “How about you—you working?”
“Yes.”
“Same job?” asked the left half.
“I’m an Editor now,” said the right half of Christopher.
“Writing propaganda.” The left half smiled. “A rat in the maze.”
“Not at all,” said the right half of Christopher. “I am a valuable commodity at one of Coolidge’s most important—” The left half’s half-smile took on a shit-eating quality that made the right half stop talking. “Anyway,” he said.
The left half checked his watch and stood up. “I gotta run,” he said. Then he squinted in the sunlight and looked up at the right half of Christopher. “You want to come with me?”
The right half of Christopher felt a rush of joy and fear. “Sure,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.
The left half led him out to his halfcycle and they drove away from the café, out past the Cages, and down to the left half’s trailer by the sea. Then the left half led the right half out to the beach and they sat down in the sand. “Nice, huh?” said the left half.
The right half of Christopher looked out at the water. There was something strange about the clouds—they appeared to have expressions. “Do you see that?” he said.
“See what?” said the left half of Christopher.
“Those clouds out there?”
“What about them?”
“They’re looking at us,” the right half said.
“They’re just clouds,” said the left half. “You’re too wound up. Just let the if free your mind.”
“Easier said than done,” said the right half.
“Shh,” said the left half, sidling up next to him. “Shut up.”
“What are you doing?” said the right half of Christopher.
“Stop talking, I said.”
The right half of Christopher went silent. His wall ached for its counterpart.
“Now move closer to me,” said the left half.
“We’re already sitting very close,” said the right half of Christopher.
“Closer,” said the left half, softly.
The right half of Christopher moved closer, and the left half moved closer, and suddenly the two walls between them were connected. They fit together now like two pieces of a puzzle. And it was breathtaking/breathgiving—immediately, both halves had more oxygen in their lungs, more blood in their veins, more thoughts in their mind. Christopher’s feet touched and his hands held each other, and he closed his eyes and lay back in the sand.
When the right half of Christopher woke up on the beach the next morning, the left half was nowhere to be found—neither on the shore nor in his trailer. The right half of Christopher found his shoe, called a cab and made his way back to his apartment.
Two nights later, though, the right half of Christopher was at home, reading a pamphlet, when he got a text from the left half. U busy? it said.
Wasn’t sure I’d hear from you, the right half of Christopher replied.
What r u doing right now
Nada, the right half of Christopher wrote.
Can I come over?
The left half appeared at the right half of Christopher’s apartment about a half an hour later. The right half of Christopher opened the door and pulled the left half into the living room, and the two halves pressed against each other hard.
Christopher’s halves stayed connected the entire night. They didn’t disconnect the next morning, either, or all the next day. They were still connected three days later, and two days after that. Soon they’d been reconnected for a full week.
Which isn’t to say that Christopher’s thoughts always got along. The wall in his mind remained, and the two halves bickered constantly. His right-thoughts were very organized, and spent all their time making mental to-do lists, but sometimes his left-thoughts just wouldn’t feel like going anywhere or doing anything. When a right-thought chided him for being late, the left-thought said, “I would just love it if you’d be quiet for ten seconds.”
“I’ve never known anyone so lazy,” said the right-thought.
“I’ve never known anyone so lazy,” mimicked the left-thought in a high-pitched voice.
“Guys,” said a thought standing near the center of Christopher’s mind.
“No, fuck him,” said the right-thought. “He’s always making fun of me and I’m sick of it.”
“Just lay off why don’t you,” said the left-thought. “Seriously,” he told the moderating thought, “if he doesn’t shut up about his fucking to-do list I’m going to kill myself.”
“Hold on a second,” said the moderating thought.
“If he doesn’t get on board and do something, I’m going to kill myself,” said the right-thought.
“Can we just agree on some things?” said the moderator.
“I’ll agree that he’s a fucking asshole,” said the left-thought.
“See? He’s completely disrespectful!” said the right-thought.
“Can we all just admit,” said the moderator, “that we’re lonely?”
Neither thought said anything for a second. Then a right-thought said, “That’s true.”
The moderator said, “And that we’ve always been lonely?”
Thoughts on both sides of the wall nodded.
“And scared?” said the moderator.
“Yes,” said another right-thought.
“Scared to lose anyone else,” said a left-thought.
“Kind of scared for what’s next,” said the first right-thought.
“And sad,” said another left-thought. “Aren’t we super sad?”
When the thought said that word—“sad”—Christopher felt something crumble. A brick fell from the wall in his mind, and then another, and then another, until big sections of brick started toppling away. The two sides of thoughts walked toward the broken wall, and one or two thoughts tentatively stepped over it, and before Christopher knew what was happening right-thoughts were hugging left-thoughts, and left-thoughts were weeping on the shoulders of right-thoughts, and hallelujah, for the first time in as long as he could remember, at least for a brief moment, Christopher felt whole.
We were driving through Geryk Falls when I saw the flash of success on the side of the road and I told my wife—I was still married at the time—to stop the car. “Why?” she said. “I just saw some success on the side of the road!” I hollered. Liz made a face. “Pull over!” I shouted.
She stopped the car and I got out and ran—limped—as fast as I could back to the spot where I’d seen the success. Sure enough, there it was: a shiny success half-buried in the leaves. I picked it up and brushed it off. I’ll admit that it was a bit outdated—made mostly of earning a lot of money, buying a big gaudy house, that sort of thing—but still, I thought it might be worth something.
“Oh Chris,” my wife said, stepping up behind me. “It’s ancient!”
“Even so,” I said.
“Look,” she said, “it’s covered with bugs.” And just as she said that, I noticed the tiny somethings crawling out
from a hole in the wet successful wood. “Ack,” I said, and flung the thing to the ground. Then I limped back to the car and we drove away. I never saw that success again—or any success for that matter. I continued to fail—to fail better, and better still. I failed as a writer, as a friend, as a husband, as an ex-husband, as a bookstore owner, as a bookstore employee, as a clord, as a writer, as a gutter installer, as a prayor, as an HVAC technician, as a landlord, as a waste disposal associate, as a moderate eater, as a moderate drinker, as an auto mechanic, as a coffee drinker, as a tea drinker, as a sitter, as a stander, as a breather. Eventually, I was one of the best failers in western Massachusetts. Then I began failing strongly at the state level, and eventually in national competitions. By the fall of 2013 I was ranked number one. I even appeared on the Flip Dapple show! “Let me give you a test,” said Dapple. “OK,” I said. “What is the capital of California?” I peed myself. “Wow,” said Dapple, and he stood up and clapped.
The following spring, though, I started hearing rumors about a woman in Vancouver named Laura DeNox who was failing in new ways that no one had ever seen before. I saw videos of her on YouTube—one of her failing to eat, another of her not even able to get up in the morning—and her name was all over Twitter: “She might seriously be the best failure in the history of trying,” tweeted @socoool. Someone named @buley responded “No way! Chris Boucher is the best failure since Rhonda O’Dial.” “Boucher’s a has-been,” @socoool responded.
I’ll be honest—I was scared of DeNox. Try as I might to avoid a fail-off with her, though, I could not. I trained with world-renowned failer Corduroy Oll for six months before the event. Corduroy had me failing around the clock: failing to tie my shoes, even, and to brush my teeth. Maybe you tuned into ESPN for the competition and saw how I looked when I arrived in Houston: fat, unshaven, wearing two different shoes. That was all Corduroy’s influence.
Like all fail-offs, the challenges were broken down into categories. For the Workplace challenge, they drove us to an office building filled with cameras and broadcast the results live. DeNox found a faux supply closet on set and managed to mistakenly lock herself inside it: a pretty good fuckup, all told. I countered, though, by sending an incredibly personal and embarrassing email to the whole office instead of to the one person I’d written it for, which resulted in immediate termination and the loss of a good friend.
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