Apex Hides the Hurt

by Colson Whitehead

  He closed his eyes. If he had one complaint about shuttle buses, it would concern seat arrangement. On this model, the seats lined the walls. So everyone faced one another. Like a goddamned Jacuzzi. The Help Tourists prattled and buzzed around him. “Lot of single ladies at this thing.” “I hear they’re splitting the stock next week and that’s the real reason for the BBQ today.” “It’s the cutest little wood-frame house.” “That’s the guy who was in the paper today.” The eager vulgarity of cheer. He kicked his feet out into the aisle. Was it really that bad? No, he had to admit. It wasn’t that bad at all. New Prospera–ness stirred and agitated them in a fundamental way. In that deep-down place where true names reside. He was relieved that his client interviews would be over in a few hours. Time to wrap this up.

  They arrived, the shuttle buses giant white beetles nudging each other in the parking lot. The former barbed-wire factory was a modest three-story building, covered in flaking paint that had either been stripped and peeled naturally over time, or had been recently applied at great cost. Fashionable design elements hung out in the strangest places these days. The gigantic letters spelling out the name of the previous owner had fallen off or been removed, but rusted ghost outlines remained. Shadows that persisted.

  Warning: The Name Remains the Same, But Contents May Have Changed Over Time. A warning sticker equally at home on people as much as things, he thought. There were plenty of people walking around wearing their old names, even though their old natures had been gutted. Happened all the time. Smiled less easily or too much. Tended to dwell on the darker side of life, whereas before. Kinda dead behind the eyes. Presently walked with a limp.

  Not seconds off the shuttle bus, he was stopped by Jurgen, who popped up and tapped him on the shoulder. Lucky was waiting for him upstairs.

  . . . . . . . .

  He felt ill and not up to tasks. Not so bad that he felt compelled to visit the doctor, but sick enough that each new activity—getting out of bed, going to work, grunting hello to an acquaintance—had to be prefaced by a few seconds of deliberation as to whether or not he was equipped. His limp was quite pronounced. By now he was certain of his foot’s not-so-secret agenda, as it darted toward immovable objects, lunging after collision. He was sweating a lot.

  At dinner with Bridget the night before the Identity Awards, he was not himself. His cupboard of conversation set pieces was bare. Few jokes about world events occurred to him, and the ones that did occur to him were not up to his usual sterling quality. He couldn’t bring himself to mention that he felt fundamentally—off. In bed that night, Bridget wanted to try a new sexual position, one she had read three articles about that very week. It was this last article that sent her over the edge; everyone was talking about it, it seemed. So they tried. And he was not delicate as he moved to re-create what she described from the diagrams, and he ground his injured toe into the mattress. No, he had to agree, as they settled to neutral sides of the bed, it did not sound like such a thing would hurt so horribly, but it did.

  He had a lot of weird dreams that night. When Bridget roused him the next morning, he told her that he wasn’t going into work, fuck it. She wanted to know if they were still going to the awards ceremony. She’d been looking forward to it all week, plus her new dress. He told her that he just needed a little rest; he was sure he’d feel better by that evening. “Do I have a fever?” he asked hopefully. She tested his forehead with her palm and tendered her regrets. She left him in her apartment, and he did not permit himself to wish that he’d asked her to take the day off to take care of him. After all, he was not a child.

  He took the subway home around noon, steadying himself with the handrail and resting every few steps as he descended into the underground. It had been difficult to leave Bridget’s bed. Bridget had incredible sheets. What name would he give to this particular brand of sheets, he wondered—and was at a loss. It was then that he knew he was really sick. He couldn’t think of a single name, not even a misfire, nothing. So he fled Bridget’s apartment as fast as he could. Which was not very fast at all.

  He dozed for a bit when he got home, or at least he lay on the couch and rose after a while, and the time that had elapsed did not correspond to the number of thoughts he remembered having, which meant he must have slept even if he could not remember doing so. His clothes were damp. He wondered what would happen if he did not show up that night. Nothing terrible. Tipple would make an excellent speech—self-serving, generous, and humble all at once. A three-flavor-super-chocolate-vanilla-strawberry-cone of a speech. “Excellence is simply what we do.” Tipple sold his success much more efficiently than he ever did. How to get excited about, take pride in something that came so naturally? It was like being honored for breathing. He called into work to assure Tipple that he would make it to the ceremony and limped into the bathroom. Something was definitely wrong with his foot.

  Underneath the Apex, the grim narrative continued apace. He peeled off the bandage to moist sounds and released a putrid stench. Twin to the awfulness of the smell was what his eyes told him. The toe was grossly swollen, the skin tight as sausage casing. Every familiar furrow and line in the poor little guy had been filled in by the festering goings-on beneath. A germ convention was under way, or other celebration held by the microscopic and teeming. It was funny, he observed morbidly—the Apex no longer matched his skin. The toe had turned a strange, rotten-apple pulp of red and gray, and there was no community on Earth that might be served by the Apex that corresponded to that color. First thing next morning he was going to the doctor, he decided, and covered up the whole mess with an adhesive bandage. Apex, natch.

  . . . . . . . .

  He followed the blue lines on the wall as instructed. From the lobby they snaked along the corridors, a rerouted rainbow. The red line directed you to IT, the green to HR, and blue to BT. Big Trouble? Tsk-tsking, Jurgen explained that it stood for Brain Trust, Lucky’s affectionate term for the exuberant creatives who made Aberdeen Aberdeen. “See you at the barbecue,” Jurgen warned him in farewell. Jurgen didn’t ask his opinion of the article, and he did not express his opinion of the article. It was understood that they were just doing their jobs. Complaining would have been like one pawn begrudging another pawn for only moving one square at a time.

  The hallways were gloomy, stingily half lit in the standard manner of businesses on the weekends. According to the theory that if you were working on Saturday, you knew your way around. The blue lines bled around corners, crossed other colored lines, then broke out on their own after bridging a conference space or lounge. Farewell, great burning machines, with your vats of molten ore. So long, monstrous cauldrons and percussive steam. The transplant was a success, he thought. The old guts had been scraped out without damaging the remaining shell. He limped past the standard molded plastic of young companies starting out in the world, power strips and cubicle walls, free soda machines and foosball tables. All the Brio you can drink. Aberdeen was merely the latest alien organism to latch on with tiny teeth and grit down hard. He saw the black settlers, he saw pale generations of Winthrops, and now the mouse jockeys as a succession of parasites burrowing under the skin of this land. Transforming it. He followed the blue lines. Furtive and solemn. Downright monkish.

  Lucky welcomed him into his office. His eyes adjusted to the daylight. This was the best sanctum yet, nicer than Albie’s Gothic fun house, certainly roomier than Regina’s car, nosing down nostalgic avenues. Each member of the city council had taken him where they felt at ease, but the sheer abundance of ergonomic furniture in Lucky’s office made it difficult to make the case for a more comfortable confrontation. A glimpse of the miraculous chairs and couches made his lumbar region vibrate with pleasure, as they appeared capable of cupping any cuppable part of his body. Three walls were mostly glass, introducing him to treetops. On the fourth wall, Lucky displayed an exhibit of factory novelties: rusted tools of inscrutable purpose, wedges of riveted metal. And of course examples of Winthrop wire, short strin
gs of the stuff artfully arranged beneath a longer string of the stuff that spelled out ABERDEEN. Prickly to the touch, the man’s name, what with the barbs and all.

  A trophy wall. Scalps. He steeled himself for Lucky’s pitch.

  “Hello, friend. Are you ready for some barbecue?” Lucky patted his chest enthusiastically. “‘Cause I myself am starving.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Glad to hear it! Just called you up here for a quick hello. You getting along all right? Anything you need?”

  “I’ve been getting along fine,” he said.

  “That’s great.” Lucky nodded to himself and looked around the office. He clapped his hands together loudly. “Let’s head on down then!”

  “That’s it?”

  Lucky looked insulted. “You’re a professional,” he protested. “I trust you to do what’s right. Why else would we bring you down here?” Lucky walked over to the closet, ducked his head in, and withdrew a long silver briefcase. He motioned him over. “Check this puppy out,” Lucky said.

  Instead of nuclear triggers, bearer bonds, or the key to the executive washroom, the briefcase contained barbecuing implements. They gleamed and sparkled in their cozy foam berths, tongs short and long, sauce brushes, spatulas, ornate skewers with odd symbols engraved along them. “They gave me this for my birthday last year. They all pitched in.” His eyes misted briefly. He lifted a two-tined fork and considered its weight in his hand, giving the impression that a samurai sword could not have been more magnificent. “Stuff like this makes it all worthwhile,” he croaked. “The love you feel sometimes. Sometimes it’s almost equal to the love you put out there.”

  Before this unsettling moment could unfold into true awfulness, it was interrupted by a loud cheer from outside. He imagined tails pinned on donkeys, or battered piñatas.

  “We should get going,” Lucky said, pulling an apron over his Indian Vest. “Gotta hit that grill.” He shut the briefcase and they started downstairs.

  He felt disappointed somehow. No complaints about Albie’s antiquated worldview, no tortured descriptions of his eleventh-hour betrayal by Regina. No impassioned soliloquy on the spectacular rightness of New Prospera. And in the magic treasure chest? Only barbecue tongs and, he discovered later, the special recipe for an astounding vinegar-based sauce, which was folded in a special anti-humidity nook in the briefcase. The man had no reason to believe that the hired consultant would do other than what was expected of him. After all, as Roger had pointed out, Lucky had worked with his identity firm for years. So why waste the breath?

  A young redhead race-walked around the corner, flushed and intent. Lucky’s face beamed out from her T-shirt. Out of charity, he assumed that the shirt was a promo item from the book tour, and not part of the mandatory uniform of Aberdeen employees. As in the town library, Lucky’s motto was cut off, asserting that DREAMING IS A CINCH WHEN YOU—before folds of fabric covered it up.

  Lucky raised a hand. “Almost showtime!” It was unclear whether he was talking to the girl or to his own face.

  She squealed naturally. “I’ll be there in a minute!”

  Lucky looked at him and grinned. “I love these kids!” he exclaimed. Then his features pinched together. “And hey, I’m sorry about that interview,” he murmured, laying a hand on his shoulder. “It’s great to have employees who really believe in the product, but sometimes they get carried away. I take all responsibility, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  They were about to hit the outside when Lucky paused, his palm level on the emergency exit. He could hear Help Tourists, Aberdeen employees, and who knew who else making noise out there. He winced at the notion of participating in a mandatory group activity, and hoped that eating would not be contingent on such a thing.

  “Can I ask your professional opinion about something?” Lucky asked him, serious for the first time.

  “Shoot,” he said. He should have known he wouldn’t get off easy. They all had the same lot number stenciled on the back of their necks, his clients, they were the same make and model. All of them so anxious to be heard, desperate to be soothed. He braced himself.

  “Do you think Charred and Feathered would be a good name for a chicken joint? Like a nationwide chain, big sign: Charred and Feathered. Mascot and everything.” He looked strangely energized. “Came to me in the shower this morning. Been bugging me ever since.”

  . . . . . . . .

  Outside the hotel entrance, Bridget tapped her foot on the pavement. He was late. He coughed, apologized, and they made their way up to the banquet room on the second floor. She took his arm and he imagined energy flowing through that contact, as he siphoned off her health and prospects. And the nominee for Best Parasite is . . .

  He relished the feeling of déjà vu when he saw the doors. The last couple of years, this room had meant good tidings. Opened half an inch, the doors loosed a welcome symphony of chatter. Chatter—cocktail of conversations, disconnected mutterings, and non sequiturs of dingy social interaction—chatter was healthy, chatter was life, and a tonic for him in his state, fortifying him for a spell. He staggered forward eagerly and almost tripped.

  Bridget grabbed his arm. “You okay?” she asked, sizing him up.

  “Favorite night of the year,” he grunted.

  Her palm was on his forehead. “Now you have a fever.”

  Had he seen her worried before? He couldn’t remember, it was all fuzzy. He pulled her hand away from his face and squeezed it. “I’m great,” he said, and they were quickly inside the room. Swallowed up. He greeted, was greeted. He introduced Bridget to people who didn’t bother to remember her name, because they knew him and knew this would not last.

  Eyes dipped to read name tags on breasts. Over and over again, bodies disappeared and people were reduced to white name tags levitating in the air before they became people again. This was a natural law in action. People kept pumping his hand and slapping him on the back and he had to fight back a scowl and struggle to keep himself upright. He imagined termites in his wooden leg. He left a trail of sawdust wherever he went. But no one could see it. He was grateful when it was time to be seated, and everyone scrambled after the tented rows of cardboard table assignments. The calligraphy was quite splendid. Everything in its right place.

  Theirs was a small industry and they did not need a large room to congratulate themselves. Even if you had never heard of them, you could figure out the character of each firm by looking at its table. If you had a seating assignment, you were a flimsy metonym for your larger concern. Moniker Inc. pimped all things shimmering and diaphanous and hip. The old joke was that they wrote off their haircuts as business expenses, but he had been surprised a couple of months ago when he’d heard tell of the in-house stylist, and the mandatory biweekly adjustments. Morgan, Franklin, and Stern, the blue bloods, were dressed in conservative three-piece suits that functioned as space suits—bespoke tailoring keeping them safe from the hostile vacuum of a changing world. They were legendary for their political consulting, as the things they came up with occasionally won higher office. Morgan and the other dead boys were up for Best ReImagining, for saving TelKing following the indictment of their entire board for accounting fraud of new, almost supernatural proportion. (Rechristened UnyCom, the company was a Dow darling again.) New Partnership, over there in the corner, served the burgeoning multicultural and eco-conscious market, and the folks at their table appeared to have been beamed in from some politically correct future Earth. If only their ideas were not as 100 percent recycled as their clients’ products.

  Panting at this point. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. A jagged thing readjusted itself in his gut. The others in the room applauded as if their lives depended on it. He imagined that all of them had their true names written on their name tags. That would be something. That would be honest, he whispered to himself. LIAR. BED WETTER. These two sitting at Mandala’s table, the British firm making so much noise recently. If everyone could see everyo
ne else’s true name, we could cut out all this subterfuge and camouflage. The deception that was their stock in trade, and the whole world’s favorite warm teat. ROMANTIC. FAILURE. EMPTY. He coughed and shuddered and pulled his lapels tight. It wouldn’t have to stop with this room—what if everyone everywhere wore their true names for everyone to see. Of course it began at birth—by giving their children names, parents did their offspring the favor of teaching them how to lie with their very first breath. Because what we go by is rarely what makes us go. GRIFTER. SINNER. DOOMED.

  Mandala won for Best Slogan, for “We Put the Meta in Your Morphosis,” which had really helped that new health-club chain get a leg up. The losing nominees marshaled their fake smiles and waited until no one’s eyes were upon them. A pale young man walked to the podium and made a joke. Everybody laughed. Witty repartee and anecjokes for everyone. He noticed that Bart Grafton was trying to look down Bridget’s shirt. She giggled at something Bart said. He didn’t care—it allowed him space for his thoughts. CRIMINAL. WHORE. The man at the podium was named VICTIM, and surely after he received his award his life would resume its natural course of misadventure. Bart Grafton leaned over and advised, “Hang on to this one—she’s good first-wife material.”

  PEDERAST announced the nominees for Best Name—Medical. All the really cool stuff these days was in pharmaceuticals, that’s what they kept saying around the office, especially the younger guys, when given a girdle or denture account and cursing their lot. He never cared what kind of account he got. It was all the same. He looked down at himself and saw that he’d sweated through his shirt. Wring it out and watch his fluid self fall to the floor. Bridget saw him loosen his tie and said, “It’s all in your head, baby.”

  He heard them call his name as he slipped out of the room.

  FUGITIVE.

  . . . . . . . .

  The last hour of the barbecue, he kept hearing the words “half-price margaritas” in the breeze, as if it were the mating call of a local bird. He’d never seen the official itinerary for the evening so he didn’t know about the final activity of the day until the shuttle buses deposited them outside the Border Café. It was a Mexican joint that belonged to that robust tradition of lone ethnic restaurants in the middle of nowhere, beloved by the natives in direct proportion to the lack of competition. The chips were greasy and delicious, and the promised margaritas of a firm, sandpaper variety that smoothed the bristled edges of the brain. Scrape, scrape, shuttle bus, shuttle bus.