by Eric Shapiro
“Your soul seems pretty old.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in that bullshit.”
“You never know.”
“We could know pretty soon.”
Her arms wrap around me. This hug is beyond measurement. It contains corridors and balconies and secret passageways. I could very easily get lost in it. But I have to make myself step away. Paula says to me, “Sorry I got you caught up in all that shit.”
“Please. That’s crazy. I’m glad that you’re here and not out there on the freeway.”
Paula nods. “Speaking of which …”
“Yeah.” I jiggle the keys in my hand. “Thanks for the car. See you later.”
“See you.”
I kiss Paula on the cheek.
As I open the door to the garage, Mr. Perkins calls out to me: “Hey Sean, we’re taking a survey. What do you think we should call this little beauty?”
I turn toward the living room and lock eyes with the old man. “How ’bout Selma?” I suggest.
Mr. Perkins folds his lips downward and nods. “Not bad, not bad.”
I step into the garage and check out the Perkins’ silver Dodge Shadow. Its hood gives me a respectful nod. I stop moving again. “Hey Mr. Perkins,” I call out, “do you have a nickname for your car?”
Mr. Perkins lets out a hearty laugh. “No, we never gave her one. Any ideas?”
“I don’t know,” I say, picturing silver bullets. “She looks kind of like a Wolf if you ask me.”
23
If men and women were to exist in a few hundred years, and if they were to take pen to paper and write of legendary things, I expect that they would write about me and The Wolf. I expect that they would write about me and The Wolf as we blazed across my state, bonding faster than we drove, breaking every speed barrier known to man.
Leave it to Mr. Perkins—a man who’s inclined to videotape his child’s birth on the world’s last day—to have a full tank of gas in his car. The fuel intoxicates The Wolf’s awesome mind, and her tires hover just above the ground. As the sun loses its brutal edge, it plays gently off of the trees at our sides, making them twinkle and glow. The near-perfect alignment of the trees keeps my faith intact. As The Wolf glides past them, I imagine that my eyes are guitar picks and the trees are an infinite arrangement of strings. (This fancy will have to do because the radio gets no reception out here.)
Before long, we clear the trees and are in the midst of hills. Their emerald grass blades sing glittery notes. My mouth hangs open, inhaling the scenery. And my brain reclines comfortably within my skull. I feel that my thoughts are safe from panic. I’m a little ragged, a little exhausted, but my essence flows like water from a pitcher. I’m no longer dry inside; I’m good and moist. Zero percent humidity. For that force we call God is in these hills, just as It was in those trees, just as It lines the machinery within The Wolf. Everything swells with Its soothing might. I always knew It was there, but I’ve never seen or felt It up till now.
The infant Perkins (whom I prefer to call “Selma” in my mind) had some mug on her. Her eyes weren’t dim or shallow; they were bright and deep. Some grueling mission she selected. Though I can’t quite be sure why she’s here, I know it has something to do with her parents. Accompanying them through their hardest hours, giving them a taste of happiness. And though it may sound egotistical, I suspect that her mission has a little something to do with me. Because it’s not just The Wolf and me out here. Baby Selma is in our hearts. The road I’m now on began with one Selma and shall end with another.
Still, in the cellar of my mind, I feel a little dread. No, that’s incorrect. I feel no dread; I just logically understand that dread is possible. This could very well be a mania state designed by my unconscious to counter my previous depressed/anxious state. Well, if that’s the case, so be it. I just hope to go out on a high.
“You’re gonna die, Sean,” I tell myself, well aware of how hokey it sounds, yet equally aware that the statement is no less true for being hokey.
The fact that we will all die is so obvious, so known, so recorded, such a given, that it was almost boring six weeks ago. We spoke of our impending demises with resolved indifference. Shrugged our shoulders and said, “Yeah, I’d like to own a boat someday … or open a restaurant someday … or call that girl back someday … or adopt a kid someday … or learn the piano someday … assuming that I don’t die before then.”
Maybe the Almighty got sick of that mindset. Perhaps It wanted to shake us all up a bit by giving the concept of death a nice, aggressive polish, then presenting it anew so we would all jump and stir. It’s very stimulating, the knowledge that we’ll die. If we think about it enough, it makes us more assertive, pushes us to get more done, makes us value our time more. Or at least some of us. Others, when forced to consider dying, consider it all the way to the point of action: They take their own lives. So thinking about death either pushes you more toward death or more toward life. I’m lucky to be experiencing the latter push. In many ways, I’ve just begun feeling alive.
Happy Birthday to me and Baby Selma! Which begs the question: If her mission was to enliven her parents and show me the tunnels, then what is my mission? I used to think my mission was to draw and paint, but I could never let myself fully believe that. Too pretentious and obvious. Don’t get me wrong: People have always enjoyed my work. But there has to be more to life than just stimulating people. One must go beyond stimulation and truly participate.
Have I participated? When Baby Selma was born, I was merely a witness. When Paula took vengeance, I was merely a driver cum idea man. When my Circle mates confessed this morning, I barely listened. When Uncle Joey gave me free food and drink, I thanked him by losing my temper. When I left the house, I avoided my siblings. I’ve always put myself first, and in so doing, I’ve been completely closed off to any possible mission that I may have.
Even my goal of fucking Selma is unreasonably self-serving. Why do I even think of it as fucking? Why have I never come around to the idea of making love? Am I incapable of sharing?
My tunnel to the beyond is closing. Its light grows dim.
Shit! Don’t do this to yourself. You were doing so well. Come on, picture the tunnels. All different colors. Fuck, no colors; only gray and brown. Even the grass looks gray and brown. I’m an asshole. I need to smoke. My pipe, lighter, and weed are riding shotgun. I blanket them with my hand. Then I realize what was in Baby Selma’s eyes. Not just light and depth, but judgment. She was deconstructing me in her mind. Part of her probably wondered why I hadn’t helped with her birth. Within her tiny head were oceans of wisdom, fresh from the other realm. And within those oceans was the knowledge that I’m not whole.
Maybe I haven’t been born yet. Maybe I’ve just entered the birth canal.
I grab my pipe, light, and bag with my right hand and roll down my window with my left. The items clink as they hit the pavement. Grow the fuck up already, Sean. Reality is headed my way, so I best not keep hiding from it.
The thought camps out in my every cell: Reality is headed my way.
Reality and a large tan Buick.
24
Whatever they injected me with, it was some serious shit. My brain is out for a swim. The room is small, so small that it’s in the running to be a closet. Steel walls, steel floor, steel ceiling, steel table, all of it shined to a fever pitch: silver reflecting silver reflecting silver. The man before me has a tense face. I bet that if I were to peel his skin off, his skeleton would be made of more steel. He smiles and his teeth shine. Are they white or silver behind that shine?
“Don’t worry Sean …”
“Don’t worry Sean …”
Everything he says has an echo. Only it’s not an echo, because the second version is always as crisp as the first. I grab onto my knees—my bare knees. I’m naked. My ass is kissing the steel chair beneath me, penis hanging like a deflated balloon.
“We’re not your enemies …”
“We’r
e not your enemies …”
Enemies? Christ! Who said anything about enemies? I don’t trust this man. Getting up and leaving seems necessary, but there’s no door in here.
“We’re here to help …”
“We’re here to help …”
Maybe there’s a secret passageway. I always wanted to go through one of those. Is there a lever or a switch or—?
“You’re sick … your mind isn’t well …”
“You’re sick … your mind isn’t well …”
His voice isn’t right. I bet his vocal cords are made of steel, too. Curled silver wires. He must need oil to clear his throat.
“We’re licensed doctors …”
“We’re licensed doctors …”
Who’s “we,” anyway? There’s only one of him. Repeating voice, yes, but only one regardless. My tongue wiggles; I’d like to speak. It briefly sticks to the roof of my mouth, then flicks the rears of my upper teeth. I say, “Who’s ‘we’?”
The steel man pauses. His eyes become tinted glass. He replies, “Me and the man in the corner.”
“Me and the man in the corner.”
The corner.
I turn around. Since the room is round (or ovoid?), there is no corner, but seated on the floor, leaning against the wall, is a second man. This one has deep red skin and no hair. His suit—gray, clean, efficient—matches that of the steel man across from me. His eyes are as red as his skin, but their moistness gives them away. He smiles: red gums, dark pink teeth. Teeth shining like the walls, floor, ceiling, and table. Back to the table. The steel man now has a notepad. White paper, no lines on it. Silver steel pen, serrated tip. Slashing the paper. Notes. He’s writing down things about me.
I should be afraid, but the chemicals have driven a wedge between myself and my experiences. I say, “Are you gonna ask me questions?”
“Is that okay with you?”
“Is that okay with you?”
“Depends on the questions.”
“Okay …”
“Okay …”
(My heart is erupting.)
“We’ll start off easily …”
“… easily, easily …”
Then the man is standing. I like his shoes. Hard and tight. The laces seem looped through his very feet.
Before I know it, he’s not echoing, or whatever it was. He’s still got a wiry voice, though: “Do you know why you’re here?”
I nod. No bones in my neck. “You were in the Buick. You took me from my Wolf.”
The man’s laughter sends my eardrums through a shredder. “That doesn’t really settle the question of why, now does it, Sean?”
The chemicals dissipate. Everything surges toward me. Thickness and clarity. Too much clarity. I can’t blink. My peripheral vision splits wide open. I could dip my fingertips in my pupils.
The steel man’s question answers itself. Or rather, the pale glow of my face answers it. I can see my face on the opposite wall. It’s flattened, ready to crack. The steel man is seated again.
“You’re here because this is a psychiatric facility …” He gives the last two words condescending emphasis. He may as well be saying kindergarten.
“Your mother and father brought you in here because you were having some intense delusions. But we’ve given you something to make you slow down.”
That’s funny, ’cuz I’m moving real fast. Thoughts whiz forward with so much momentum that they don’t have time to stop and reveal themselves.
“You thought the world was ending, Sean.”
“You thought the world was ending, Sean.”
“You stole a gun from your father and left your house.”
“Stole a gun, left your house.”
“You stole a car from a man and were driving north.”
“Car, man, north.”
“You, you, you.”
“You, you, you.”
I’m on my feet. My naked body looks crooked on the opposite wall. The steel man looks at my penis and his lower jaw drops slightly. I manage to catch a thought and catapult it from my throat: “Bullshit. I can explain.”
The red man now licks my back.
I can’t turn around. What if he bites me?
“You’ve already explained.”
“Already.”
“You’ve told us about Selma.”
“Selma.”
“And Paula.”
“Paula.”
“Lisa.”
“Lisa.”
“Gina.”
“Gina.”
My eyelids are droopy. Behind them are crackles of tenderness. The red man has lumps on his tongue. Diagonal slashes of saliva begin to drip down my back.
The steel man is in my face, close enough to lick me himself. His breath smells like a handful of fresh gears and screws. He says, “We have your whole story, Sean. And we’d like to patiently explain that it’s not possible.”
“Possible.”
“Patient.”
“Possible.”
Blood charges through my head, but I’m still listening. He goes on:
“It’s what we call an unintended structural pattern. When a schizophrenic involuntarily applies form to his or her hallucinations.”
The red man stops licking, merely breathes.
Steel man sits down, says, “All the women you say you met had names ending with the letter a. That’s not possible.”
My lips move, producing nothing. My saliva ducts pop, keel over, die.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“Would you like to sit down?”
I sit. The red man is already in the chair. His lap is warm.
“We gave you the drugs so you would understand.”
“We gave you the drugs so you would understand.”
“Do you?”
“Do you?”
“Understand?”
They probably stripped me of my clothes so I wouldn’t use them to choke myself. The least they could’ve given me was a paper gown. Maybe if I rub my wrists hard against the steel tabletop, they’ll chafe and eventually open.
“I know it’s a lot to handle.”
“A lot to handle.”
“But we can help you.”
“You you.”
I need my mother. Everything is slanted. There’s no way out of this wilderness. The red man’s thighs are stirring. Soon he’ll be excited.
The steel man’s eyes are magnetic; he uses them to attract my own eyes. We stare into each other. He asks me if I think he makes sense.
“Do you think?”
“Do you think?”
Ever since I was a little kid, I always worried my brain would go. My teachers called me creative, but I knew something malicious was at work. Some fiendish demon was slowly chewing through my skull. Thank God I never made it to Selma’s. How could I explain this to her?
One red hand curls around me, strokes my pounding chest.
Atop the smooth red thumb lies Baby Selma. A miniature version of Baby Selma, sucking on her own microscopic fingers. She looks up at me and says, “Sean, my mommy’s name doesn’t end with a.”
I look at the steel man and say, “Mrs. Perkins.”
He frowns. Bolts bend inside of him.
Baby Selma goes on, “Her name was Janice.”
“Her name was Janice,” I repeat.
The steel man rises from his chair.
Then I come around on the grass and feel two chubby palms slapping my cheeks. A man and a woman, both very roundish, stand above me. The man wears a stained fedora. I sit up fast, fast enough to scare them. They run a few steps away, then slowly approach me again. Their breath is forced, wheezy.
“You’re okay,” the man says, unsure whether to cap that off with a question mark.
I answer him regardless: “I’m okay.”
I look to my right. The Wolf stands nobly on the freeway. Her left headlight has been bashed to pieces, but otherwise she’s looking strong. The Buick’s left headlight has the s
ame injury.
“We were driving the wrong way,” the woman explains, sounding disappointed in herself.
“This guy was after us,” says the man.
“From the circus,” the woman goes.
My whole body creaks as I climb to my feet. “Is there anything wrong with me?” I ask the man, fearing that I have a steering column lodged in my neck.
“I think you’re fine.”
The woman nods rapidly.
The man continues, “After the accident, you ran out of your car and screamed something about wolves. Then you fainted, I guess.”
“‘The Wolf can’t be gone,’ it was,” the woman helpfully quotes.
I look from the woman to the man and then back again.
“Well, she’s not,” I smile.
Black dots float before me.
“Look, we’re so sorry,” says the woman.
“Yeah,” adds the man. “Gosh, to think that we almost ended up taking a life with only two hours till the end.”
“Two hours,” I say, not to them as much as to myself, not to mention The Wolf. My eyes trace dark pavement as I approach my vehicle. The door stands courteously open.
Before I get in, I take one last look at the heavy woman.
“Excuse me,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“Me? Susan.”
“Susan? … Is that short for Susanna or something?”
She takes a step backward as she shakes her head.
“Good,” I grin.
Then I take a seat and go.
25
I knew little about Brian before Selma fucked him. He was just a face around campus. Dark blonde hair, round jaw, admittedly cute. Vague, average, nothing special. Everybody seemed to like him. But when he became my enemy, I became an expert on the topic of Brian.
Transfer student from Illinois (fucking out-of-state punk). In his third year (stupid young little baby). Dated this Italian girl named Connie for a long time (can’t find fault with that). Pledged some fraternities but backed out because he thought it was bullshit (I wish he had stayed aboard; would’ve been one more reason to hate him). Had the Die Hard trilogy on video in his dorm room (fucking shallow prick). Always ate salad in the dining hall (pussy). Wore a silver ring on his thumb (pretentious scum).