AHMM, May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Well, excuse me for asking."

  Up on the next corridor Colin shouted, “There!” I looked and couldn't see anything. Colin shrugged. “I'm sure it was.” We pushed our way down and such was the press of bodies I almost missed him. He was in the Apple shop looking at a MacBook, his phone in one hand. “Waiting for a call, Heinrich?” He glanced up and took in the fact that Colin had come in behind me.

  "Always in the Apple product we find the superior design quality."

  "And poseurs buying them, but then, I'm an old Luddite at heart. We know about the casino in Tungkru and the card counting, so you can call off your henchmen."

  "I know nothing of henchmen, only of an opportunity I extend to Anthony.” He said to Colin, “Yes, it's true. I arranged for this. Anthony phones me in Frankfurt and again he has no job and no money. I have learnt about the casinos here and so I apply this knowledge."

  I said, “In return for a percentage of the winnings, I presume?"

  "It is standard business practice."

  "You must have known the casino owners would go after him."

  "For this reason I chose carefully. I know a woman who plays there.” He shrugged. “Okay, so someone visits him and points a gun of some description. This is just a bluff. It is not cheating to card count, it is only a higher understanding of probability."

  "Right, and the fact that he's now got some psycho after him?"

  "Again you are misunderstanding. This is not the owner of the casino, only the son. He wishes to hire Anthony to damage a rival casino."

  "My God, and you think he'd agree? He's scared out of his wits as it is. Can you just phone the guy and call him off?” Heinrich gave me a heavy satirizing shrug and made the call, speaking in a mixture of English and German-accented Thai. “So are you happy? This is an opportunity he loses."

  "And so do you. But why do I think the casino's served its purpose already? You must have known how they'd react to a card counter. And how Anthony would take it. But that removes some of the competition, right? After all, your motivational gigs are all about being a calculator. If you become the World Champion Calculator, I'm guessing your fee goes up. And Anthony's good. Perhaps the problem wasn't he couldn't compete but that he was learning to."

  "You apparently forget I help pay for his plane ticket."

  "And by doing so gave him a sense of obligation. Whereas if you hadn't paid there was a danger someone else would. Colin says you all stick together."

  "Pish, pish. This is a state of mind on which you are speculating. It is utterly unproveable."

  "Maybe, but like I say, calculators stick together. They can draw their own conclusions."

  Colin said, “Not classy, Heinrich. Not classy at all."

  "I am not to debate class with an untermensch."

  At that point a woman in denim hot pants and a pink spaghetti-strap top came in and ticked her way over to Heinrich. He put a hand on her hip and called her liebchen. Mr. Wen had been right, she was beautiful, although in a completely different way from Atiya. As for the owner's son, I didn't see him again. He must have just got in his Fortuner and driven off. And as for Anthony, after everything, I never did see him at all. Atiya phoned to say she'd found him on the fifth floor and that was that. I later heard they'd arranged again to see the Emerald Buddha, and Colin had somehow managed to wangle his way along. Lieng took Oot off to look at the computer she wanted and Doi left Pantip to go and shop for clothes at a mall nearby. Heinrich and his liebchen left together with her cooing about couldn't he buy her an iPhone, ti-rak*?

  * darling

  On my own in the noise and bustle of Pantip, I felt oddly deflated for some reason. Everything had come together, and yet it felt like one of those divorce cases where no one wins.

  With nothing better to do I went down to the ground floor to see how the Calculator quarterfinals were going. Between bouts I got chatting with Malinee. I decided those pink specs weren't any kind of statement. She liked pink so she wore them to work. Why not? People don't have to be more complicated than they first seem. I liked that thought and I liked chatting with her, and so I asked for her phone number. But this time I didn't scribble it on myself or key it into my mobile. I just tapped the side of my head and said, “I'm a calculator, I'll remember.” And you know what? Two days later when I called her up, I still could.

  Copyright © 2011 Mithran Somasundrum

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: DEATH IN REHAB by B.K. Stevens

  * * * *

  Art by Hank Blaustein

  * * * *

  "I'm not so sure about this job,” he said. “It sounds dangerous. You'll be surrounded by addicts."

  "By addicts committed to overcoming their dependencies.” She started to pour herself a third cup of coffee, paused, and decided she didn't need it. “That's not dangerous. That's inspirational."

  "Maybe. But they're still addicts, and addicts do dangerous things. Did you read the local news this morning?” He found the right page and pointed to a headline. “ ‘Gambling Addict Embezzles Millions, Disappears'—probably in Vegas by now, the paper says. Or this story—'Small-Time Drug Dealer Killed Execution Style'—probably because he stole from his bosses, the paper says. Or this one—'Shooter Flies into Drunken Rage, Wounds Two'—the police haven't caught that one, either."

  She sighed. “In the first place, I don't think people who fly into drunken rages are necessarily alcoholics, and I'm sure not all alcoholics fly into drunken rages. In the second place, there won't be any alcoholics at the center—no drug addicts, either, much less any drug dealers. It's not that sort of rehab center. The temporary agency said no one there has substance abuse problems."

  "Really? What sorts of addictions do these people have?"

  "The agency didn't say.” She carried her dishes to the sink. “But I got the impression the addictions are fairly mild. Anyway, I probably won't have much contact with clients—I'll be tucked away in an office, typing and filing. I'll be perfectly safe, Sam. So, you're meeting with the Hartwells today? What sort of lawn ornament do they want?"

  "They're still arguing. She wants a birdbath; he wants a family crest. So I'll have to use my negotiating skills, steer them toward a compromise.” He put the newspaper down. “Not exactly what I had in mind when I went to art school, Leah."

  "I know.” She walked back to the table and put a hand on his shoulder. “And I'm sorry no one bought any of your sculptures at the gallery show last week. Well, next time for sure. Want me to take homework duty tonight, so you can focus on your design?"

  "That'd be nice. Last night, Sarah spent half an hour kvetching about her religious school assignment; I tried to explain it but didn't have much luck. And it does seem unreasonable to expect kids to do religious school homework every night."

  "It's the counting of the omer,” she said, looking through her purse. “Every night is part of the point. Now, I've got my keys, I've got my pencil—what am I forgetting?"

  "Your notebook.” He handed it to her. “As usual."

  * * * *

  Tuesday, April 26, 1:05 p.m.

  Lunchtime—my first chance to take notes. It's been a surprising morning. Some of my observations are bound to provide useful data for the book.

  When I arrived, I was struck by how beautiful this place is. It looks like a resort, not a rehab center: An immense lobby with a marble floor, a courtyard with a sparkling fountain, broad corridors, walls lined with cheerful watercolors, a stunning variety of vibrant flowering plants everywhere. The director ushered me into his elegantly furnished office and insisted I call him Fred.

  "We all use first names here,” he said. “Guests, staff, visitors, everybody. It helps guests feel special. And it reinforces the idea that everything that goes on at the center is confidential, that the life guests live here is separate from the lives they live outside."

  What happens in rehab stays in rehab, I thought, noting that he referred to the people who come here for treatment a
s “guests,” not “patients” or “clients.” “The name of the center reinforces that idea, too,” I said.

  He beamed. “Exactly. The Cocoon Center—a safe place for people to change and grow, to transform themselves into something beautiful. Our six-step program makes that possible."

  "A six-step program? Don't most rehab centers have twelve-step programs?"

  "We did some editing.” He shrugged. “Our guests like fast results. We dropped the Higher Power stuff; some guests find that a stretch. And listing people one has harmed, making amends—that damages self-esteem. Our program is more positive and forward-looking.” He handed me a slim pamphlet and a thick folder. “The pamphlet explains how it works. And skim through those files on the guests in your therapy group."

  "My therapy group?” I said, confused. “Secretaries participate in therapy groups?"

  "Oh, you're not here as a temporary secretary. Didn't the agency explain? You're here as a temporary therapist. You have a master's in communication, right?"

  A PhD, actually—but I've learned to leave that off my resumé, along with any references to my years as a professor. Most places don't like hiring secretaries who seem overqualified. “But I don't have much background in psychology,” I said. “And I've never worked as a therapist."

  "You'll do fine. It's all about helping people open up—your background's perfect.” His face grew somber. “And it's an emergency situation. I had to fire a therapist yesterday. I caught him smuggling contraband to a guest."

  "Drugs?” I said, apprehension growing. “Alcohol?"

  "Oh, no. Our guests have no interest in drugs. And they're all welcome to enjoy cocktails in the lobby at five and wine with dinner, so alcohol isn't an issue. Still, there are some things some guests shouldn't have. This particular guest is addicted to video games and had been on the wagon for two weeks—until his therapist slipped him a portable PlayStation. It's a heartbreaking setback."

  I hid a smile. An addiction to video games sounded harmless enough. But if it grew into an obsession that interfered with work or family—yes, I supposed it might require treatment. “It must be upsetting to have one of your own staff members break one of your rules."

  "It's a terrible betrayal of trust,” Fred agreed. “And trust is central to our work. We trust our guests, too. Unlike most centers, we don't search guests’ luggage when they arrive: We just have a friendly chat about what they should and shouldn't have, and they voluntarily surrender anything that seems problematic. But this incident left me no choice. Last night, for the first time in the center's history, I conducted a search of guests’ rooms. Not an intrusive one—just a quick look to see if anyone else had bribed that therapist to smuggle things in. I did have to confiscate some items; I'm sure some guests are upset. Give them a chance to talk about that during your session this morning."

  "This morning?” I looked at the folder in dismay. “I'm not sure I can be ready."

  He glanced at his watch. “You have nearly an hour. All the guests in your morning group have been at the center less than a week—one is arriving today, in fact. After one week, guests are reassigned to their permanent groups; we like to keep people with similar addictions together. But this morning you'll have a variety."

  "And this afternoon?” I asked, afraid I knew what the answer would be.

  "You'll have two other groups. I'll put those files together for you.” He stood and smiled. “I have complete confidence in you, Leah. I'll come back at ten and show you to the Caterpillar Room."

  Seizing the folder, I read frantically, trying to absorb as much information I could. Three minutes before ten, Fred returned to hurry me to a room that felt both spacious and cozy: walls painted a soothing light green, a dark green couch with two bright red throw pillows, pastel print armchairs, a mellow oak coffee table and matching end tables. At the back of the room I spotted a refrigerator, a microwave, and a bookcase stocked with paperbacks. All the comforts of home, I thought—if you come from a very nice home.

  "This room is reserved for our first-week guests,” Fred told me. “A place for both working and relaxing while they adjust to the center's routine. Your group members will be returning from their Independent Meditation Hour soon. As for our newest guest, he's still checking in—I'll bring him here in ten minutes or so. Enjoy your first session."

  Before I could ask a single question, he was gone. I'm not qualified, I thought. I'll say something wrong, and someone will go into hysterics or commit suicide.

  But I had no time to indulge in such fears. A slightly chubby, slowly balding man in his early forties started to walk into the room, saw me, and froze, eyes wide with confusion.

  No way to avoid it—I had to try to act professional. “Hello,” I said, holding out my hand. “I'm Leah."

  His eyes brightened, and he gave me a shy, warm smile. “What's a Hebrew name meaning ‘weary?’ “ he said.

  So this must be Felix. I remembered the description from his file: "Jeopardy!addict—obsessed with trivia, speaks only in the form of questions.” He'd been a Jeopardy! grand champion about a decade ago, winning enough to start a highly profitable online investment company that he ran from his mother's basement. Quite a success story—except that his glory days had left him incapable of interacting with others in normal ways. “It's nice to meet you, Felix,” I said. “Would you like to have a seat?"

  But he couldn't respond to questions, only to statements that let him reply with a question of his own. He smiled silently, walked to the refrigerator, took out a bright blue thermos labeled “Felix,” and chose a chair near the back of the room.

  The other group members arrived together: a honey-haired woman of twenty or so, striking in a white pencil skirt and a silky red top; a lean, muscular man of about fifty, wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless orange tank top; and a gaunt woman in her thirties, dressed in a shapeless black skirt and a gray sweater worn thin at the elbows. They all took thermoses from the refrigerator and found seats. The gaunt woman immediately reached into the oversized purse slung over her shoulder, pulled out an embroidery hoop, and hunched over it, stitching furiously. The others stared at me.

  I sat down and cleared my throat. “I'm delighted to be here,” I said, hoping I didn't sound as insincere as I felt. “I'm Leah, your new group leader—your temporary new group leader. I understand you had a rather upsetting experience yesterday—"

  "'Rather upsetting,’ hell,” the lean, muscular man cut in. “It was damn upsetting. Fred had no right to search our rooms. The brochure guaranteed our privacy would be strictly respected. I wouldn't have signed up here otherwise."

  "Yes, that's the only reason I came to the center,” the stylish young woman said, “because it promised our privacy would be guarded stringently."

  Quickly, I matched the guests with their profiles. The lean, muscular man was Brian—wealthy entrepreneur, overweight since childhood, lost over eighty pounds in just six months, now so obsessed with diet and exercise that his doctor feared he'd endanger his health if his body fat percentage sank any lower. And the young woman had to be Courtney, a chronic plagiarist on final probation with her college, facing expulsion unless rehab made her change her ways.

  "Damn it, Courtney,” Brian said, “don't just repeat what I said. You do stuff like that all the time. Don't you have any ideas of your own?"

  "I didn't simply reiterate your statement,” Courtney protested. “I used different words, in a different order. And I have plenty of thoughts that originate with me."

  "Is that so?” Brian said. “Then I guess it's just a coincidence that during yesterday's session, the so-called reflections you shared matched up almost word for word with what Martha had written in her Recovery Journal. I bet you'd gone into her room the night before, snuck a look at her journal—"

  "Sneaked a look,” the gaunt woman said. “No matter what anyone thinks, sneak is not an irregular verb—never has been, never will be. Get used to it."

  So this must be Martha, the com
pulsive proofreader. I'd try to draw her into the discussion in a more constructive way. “Martha, how did you feel about the search?"

  She looked up from her embroidery—a sampler, featuring cross-stitched words and an eagle soaring past a beautiful mountain. “I resented it,” she said. “Fred confiscated my Fowler's English Usage."

  "I can see why,” Brian said. “You shouldn't dwell on that stuff so much."

  "I don't dwell on it,” she shot back. “I just like to browse through it for an hour or so before bedtime. It helps me relax."

  I tried to remember more details from her file. “As I recall, you used to be a copy editor—is that right?"

  Savagely, she thrust her needle through the taut circle of linen. “I'm still a copy editor,” she said, “and a tutor. I do freelance work now."

  "She used to work for a publisher,” Brian put in, “but she was fired last year. She got on her co-workers’ nerves by correcting their grammar at staff meetings. I understand how they felt. It's not much fun when someone keeps pointing out your mistakes."

  "Yes, their reaction is comprehensible,” Courtney said. “Nobody enjoys having their grammar corrected."

  Martha glared at her. “Nobody enjoys having his or her grammar corrected. ‘Nobody’ is singular. Good God! Don't you know anything? And for your information, some people do enjoy being corrected. Some people are eager to learn, to improve themselves.” She let her needle rest a moment and fingered her bracelet—a clumsy, heavy-looking circlet composed of large red beads.

  So far, the session was not going well. Maybe I should ask Courtney a question, to try to force her into saying something that was truly her own. “How are you enjoying your first week at the center, Courtney? Do you feel you're making progress?"

  She looked around uncertainly, then shrugged. “It's all right. I mean, the massages are nice, the yoga's okay, and I like the hot tub. As for progress—who cares? I'm only here because my parents talked the dean into giving me another chance."

  "Misplaced limiting modifier,” Martha muttered, but nobody paid much attention.