Numb

by Sean Ferrell

  I sat in my room over the remains of a meal and stared at the window. The sounds of Times Square reached me, even on the tenth floor, and without looking I knew it was a carnival. The theater across the street was showing a revival of a play I’d never heard of and the audience members lined up outside, whatever the weather, clucking to one another about the opportunity to pay to see it.

  Word came from Michael occasionally, work leads here, packets of research there. Mal was right, I did get work. Hiko’s sculpture of me made the cover of the Village Voice, which raised interest. There were some advertising companies thinking of using me, and an early-morning talk show. Michael promised a “grand opening” of some sort.

  I was considered for the cover of Details. Michael called to get me prepared for the photo shoot. I kept steering the conversation to Mal, awkward attempts really, his name blurted out in the middle of Michael’s detailing time, place, and money. I couldn’t help it: even though things had ended so strangely, I still felt that I owed him for both getting me out of Caesar’s cage and helping me get to New York. Even if Michael had shown interest, I couldn’t have gotten word to Mal. He wasn’t at the St. Mark’s anymore, and Redbach’s bar had been shut down, finally succumbing to the roaches and who knows what else the Board of Health form nailed to the door didn’t elaborate on. Michael took my interruptions in stride, always with a smile in his voice, but made no promises. Noticing an intake of breath after a sentence, about to reintroduce Mal into the conversation, I stopped when Michael stumbled over some information.

  “We found it. That is, you know, we’ve located the company that used those cards.”

  “What cards?” It wasn’t that I didn’t know what card; it was that for a heartbeat I couldn’t stand knowing that I knew. A swallow of air traveled the wrong direction in my chest and my head spun.

  “The card you found in your suit pocket. You know. That card with the blood on it.”

  I tried to say something, to ask a question perhaps, any question; I failed.

  The smile on the phone line faltered. “I’m afraid they didn’t have any missing suits. They don’t think it’s theirs. They admit it’s their card, but have no idea how it got into your pocket. They’ll look through their inventory, make sure it’s not missing, but they seemed pretty certain. I’m sorry. Really. Very, very sorry. It seemed like a good lead.”

  Michael and I listened to each other breathe over the phone. I don’t know what he thought, but I felt genuine comfort in being on the line with him. His normal bravado, his confidence, his ability to remedy the ugliness of a situation with his own effortless effort had fallen away and in that moment I heard his compassion and understanding of my disappointment. He felt bad for me, and for that I was grateful.

  Michael said, “We’ll keep looking, of course. It was only the first, not final, attempt.”

  “I know. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Over several days I watched the windows of the buildings across the street and wondered what Michael had done with the card. I worried that he might have given it to the company that denied involvement; I regretted that I’d given it up. Aware of my obsession, I turned my thoughts to my confusion over Hiko and her invitation for me to move in with her, which I’d been ignoring for a week already. I visited her studio and bedroom most days, and during the spans where her work kept her too busy for the distraction that I must be I wondered why she had invited me to live with her. I worried what I might do to her. Her life was clean, simple. Around my room sat pile after pile of promotional gifts, magazines, shirts, towels, all of which would disappear as soon as I left for more than ten minutes. Women in gray smocks, speaking little English but always smiling, would descend. Perhaps they came from invisible cracks in the walls to clean up after me. I’d become accustomed to not having to touch my surroundings. Objects moved without any action on my part. I consumed dry towels at a pace normally reserved for tissues. How would I live if I lived with her? What would I have? I also didn’t know if we should be together. I didn’t know if I was good for her.

  Nothing was mine. There were things around me—a toothbrush, a jacket, clothes, other objects that would someday be “garbage”—that people would say belonged to me, but in reality they belonged only to some future scavenger lurking in an as yet unmade municipal dump.

  Day and night lost their meaning. The lobby, designed to be cut off from the streets, glowed under low-hanging glass spheres. Forty-seventh to the north, 46th to the south, at the west side of Times Square. On the street rumbled chaos. Not in the hotel. Inside hunkered little children inside a womb. No noise, little light. The unnerving electric lights hummed with the same low intensity twenty-four hours a day. Men and women in blue suits hovered behind the counter. Requests were filled before I returned to my room—extra towels, clean glasses, ice—and I’d just asked for them five minutes before. Was the brief wait for the elevator really long enough to take care of this? Did they have a clairvoyant staff? There was only one reason why things could be this way: I was the center of the universe.

  Every morning the bathroom looked like a tiled paradise: white, chrome, reflective, cold, dry. I left it damp, foggy, littered with wet towels. Like paradise after the dinosaurs came. Wrappers from the glasses, toothbrush, shampoo, and soap in the garbage or on the floor. Used washcloths on the counter. Toothpaste like bird droppings around the sink edge.

  The happy consumption continued as I went to Hiko and she felt me for the sculptures or in bed. She felt me for hours and we would talk. Weather, traffic, the strains of waking up. Sometimes she brought up the possibility of my moving in and I again and again deflected the discussion.

  Once, as she was cleaning sculpting knives in a green bucket beside her sink, she said, “Why is it that every time I ask you to move in, you make a joke?”

  “Do I?” I said. I knew I did. It even annoyed me that I did it. It bothered me more and more.

  “Yes.” She ran the water over the stained metal. I could see dents and worn spots on the wooden handles. She had held on to these tools for years.

  “Are those knives old?” I asked. “Were they the ones you started with?”

  “There you go again.” She knocked a spatula against the side of the sink. A dull clang rang out. “You never talk about it.”

  The water kept running and as it trickled down the drain I stood up and walked over to her. I didn’t know what I might say. I touched her shoulder and looked down at the sink. Off her hand, along the aluminum blade of the spatula, and down the drain with the swirling water, ran a thin stream of blood.

  “Hiko, you’re bleeding.” She had a small cut on her thumb, just where the blade had been when she hit it against the sink. I took hold of her hand and washed it with the soap she used to clean her tools.

  “These tools are sharper than they look,” I said. As I cleaned out her thumb my neck got hot and my face turned red. I had nothing but guilt in me, because when she hurt herself I felt relief that I wouldn’t have to talk about moving in.

  I returned to the hotel that evening and sat by the window. As usual, I fell asleep in the chair. I fell asleep quickly and early. Exhaustion draped me. I woke shortly after noon the next day. I called for breakfast and then went to Hiko.

  This continued for weeks. I wouldn’t allow myself to think the word lonely. Around Hiko I didn’t have to worry about thinking it.

  One month to the day that my beer commercial hit the air, Michael called to say that Dave’s people wanted me to fill in for Regis, who was filling in for someone else. Regis had just gotten another game-show deal and was on a jet to LA. Dave’s producer had told Michael in a breathy voice while on his in-office treadmill that Dave was “just dying” to have me on his show.

  “This is it,” Michael said. He’d been right: my commercial was a hit. It showed me nail-gunning empty cans of beer to my legs while “Stuck on You” played. A ticker-tape warning scrolled across the bottom of the screen: Trained
professional. Do not try at home.

  The greenroom at the Ed Sullivan Theater was freezing. They asked that I wear shorts and a tank top, to show off my scars, but when my teeth started to chatter Michael ended up telling them I needed a suit.

  “I just need pants,” I said.

  “No,” Michael said. “You look like an ass in a tank top. You need a suit. Trust me.” To my surprise they brought me a nice-looking gray wool suit from wardrobe.

  When the production assistant handed it to me, she said, “Of course, we’ll need this back.”

  As I pulled the suit on over the shorts, a monitor on the wall showed images of the stage being prepared for the show. A dark-haired man in a black jean jacket and sneakers sat opposite me reading a worn copy of Helter Skelter. His large glasses had thick black frames that made him look fragile. He grinned at me and said, “Hi, I’m Johnny.” He’d had a show on MTV that I could have been a part of, stupid stunts and near-death experiments.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “I’m a big fan.”

  “Thanks,” I said. After a moment I said, “Of what?” I thought back to some of the stupid things he’d done on his show. I wondered if he had as many scars as I did.

  Johnny showed a smile nearly more gums than teeth. His laugh made him likable. He never told me what I’d done to make him a fan.

  Not counting the commercial, shot in an hour in an out-of-the-way soundstage with a cameraman, an advertising exec, and me with a nail gun, this was my first time on television. It reminded me of the circus. Trying to judge which people are in charge by watching how they behave during the taping of a show is like trying to decide what you want to eat based on your favorite number. I had production assistants on either side of me, both talking at the same time. Their voices made me wish I could put nails in their hands. The blond guy with the headset said something about looking directly into the cameras, and the woman who brought me the suit pointed at two chairs set up center stage.

  “How are we going to be interviewed all the way over there?” I said.

  “Because if you look right at the camera it looks like amateur hour, so try to look at Dave instead,” said the headset guy.

  “You aren’t,” said the woman. She held a clipboard between her knees while adjusting the ponytail at the back of her head. Her blond hair had dark roots.

  “What do you mean?”

  Johnny stood behind me and said, “Didn’t they tell you? We’re having a little contest.”

  Mr. Headset waved to two production assistants as if directing traffic. They came to either side of me and each took an elbow. As Mr. Headset walked away he shouted, “Just pretend you’re having a private conversation with Dave.”

  I was led onstage by the assistants, Johnny still behind me. When the taping began Dave introduced me as “that sideshow freak everyone is talking about,” and Paul laughed. I wasn’t sure how to respond so I just stood and smiled, waited for further instructions, and tried to ignore the hundreds of people watching me. Finally Johnny and I were asked to sit on the two chairs pointed out to me earlier. In the end, only I actually sat. Johnny had trouble staying down. Around fifty 2-inch nails stuck up through the bottom of each chair. We were going to see who could stay seated longer, Johnny or me. I won. Johnny clowned and the audience screamed. Dave offered him a new chair.

  “No, Dave, I think I can do it,” Johnny said. He took off his jacket so it wouldn’t get damaged. “Man,” he said to me, “you are for real, aren’t you.”

  I held a magazine, a Rolling Stone with Johnny on the cover, chest sprayed with a target and pelted with paint pellets. The magazine prop had been handed to me by a pretty, blond, large-breasted assistant producer with a warning to not “get any freakin’ blood” on it.

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to sit?” she had asked. “When you sit down, open this up and pretend to read it.” She had walked away without waiting for an answer. I felt like a mannequin.

  Johnny jumped off his chair again. He laughed hard, his glasses nearly falling off his nose. “Man, this is…” I could tell he censored himself. “It’s very painful, Dave.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dave sat behind his desk, hand on the coffee mug stagehands kept filled for him. Steam floated off his drink. He looked as if he were watching the evening news. “Hey there, buddy,” he said to me. “How are you doing?” Other than introducing me, he hadn’t said two words to me. I felt like I had to do something to make everyone there realize I wasn’t an idiot.

  I glanced over the magazine, gave a comic look, and said, “Oh, I’m fine.”

  Slowly, I sank onto the nails. They weren’t close enough together and had pierced my skin. They pushed into my ass like needles into a cushion.

  Dave said, “Well, ladies and gentlemen, don’t let anyone tell you that we don’t provide highbrow entertainment. We’ll be back in a moment. Thanks, guys.”

  “No problem, Dave.” Johnny stood rubbing his butt through his jeans. The band kicked in with “Stuck on You,” and the lights came up. Stagehands ran over and one grabbed Johnny’s chair. The other started toward me but stopped. The assistant producer returned and without looking at me said, “Get up, your segment’s over.” When I remained seated, she said, “Why won’t this guy get up?”

  “I’m stuck,” I said. Johnny laughed so hard he nearly fell down.

  A couple stagehands pulled me off the seat. They lifted me straight up. “I think he’s ruined the suit,” said the producer after I stood. The audience applauded politely and there were some laughs and gasps when I turned around and they saw the damage to the suit. Threads hung from the seat of the pants, dangling down the back of my legs. Skin was visible through the tears and blood trickled to my knees.

  “Get off the stage,” the producer hissed. “We’re coming back on.”

  The lights went down on the stage and the audience giggled at the threads hanging from my legs when the taping started up again. Dave ad-libbed over my exit. “Ladies and gentlemen, some guests just love to stick around. I’m sorry, that was awful. Paul, what the hell is wrong with me?”

  Paul pulled his mike toward him and said, “I’m sure I don’t know.” The audience laughed.

  I returned to the greenroom to find Michael arguing with the assistant producer. “But he didn’t even want to do the stunt, and if he hadn’t been told to wear shorts and a tank top he wouldn’t have had to borrow the suit in the first place.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  The assistant producer wouldn’t look at me, and Michael appeared embarrassed when he said, “They want you to pay for the suit.”

  I had been used like a toy, and they wanted me to pay them for it. “Tell her to send me a bill.” Michael started to protest, and then I looked at him in a way I didn’t know I could. I felt pressure build between my teeth, and the muscles at the sides of my jaw burned. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  Michael nodded. I took off the jacket and realized that if I was paying for it I might as well keep it.

  Johnny stood in the doorway, smiling to himself. “That suit looks like it was made for you.”

  I walked out and down the hall, grabbed Mr. Headset’s arm, and asked for the nearest exit. I went the direction he pointed. I thought of what Mal might have done if it had been him instead of me, and, convinced he wouldn’t have been in the studio to begin with, I reprimanded myself. I’d found the lion’s cage all over again, a spectacle at my expense.

  Moments of self-recrimination are blinding. I walked, steady, certain, and without thinking. When it became too dark to see I looked up and realized I was lost somewhere behind the main stage. I heard Dave on the other side going through the night’s top ten list. Occasionally there was laughter or applause. I tripped over a cord, unsure of where to go, and, as I stumbled, I pulled on a backdrop panel that slid down behind me like a wall. Unable to go back the way I had come, I worked my way through cables and around a large box. Just as I realized that the large box had windo
ws like a building and that I was about to step on the Brooklyn Bridge the audience roared. I looked up to see the back of Dave’s head. Beyond him were lights and beyond that I could only sense the people in the audience.

  I’d worked through to the edge of the diorama behind Dave. I stood in a spotlight, complete darkness just past the ring of light. A heavy panel created a blind that hid me from view until I stepped around it. When I realized it was too late for me to creep away, I made the best of it.

  “Quite a view you’ve got here, Dave.”

  Dave grinned at me and said, “Yeah, except I’ve got nosy neighbors.”

  The same assistant producer who wanted me to pay for the suit escorted me and Michael to the exit. She wouldn’t look at me but chattered nonstop, as if we were friends. She pretended not to notice the two large security men behind us.

  “So, this should air tonight, with a little editing.” She shook my hand without looking at me and said to Michael, “We’ll send you the bill.” At least they didn’t ask me to pay for the damage to one of the bridge’s stone support columns, nor had they noticed the small guitar-twang tones of miniature cables snapping underfoot.

  Security opened the side exit doors and we stepped out onto 53rd Street. The sun had just gone behind a cloud but the heat rippling off the street hit us both. Michael took a moment to straighten his tie and put on a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses. “I guess we hail a cab?” I said.

  Michael looked up and down the street. “Let’s walk over to Broadway.”

  By the time we got back to the hotel the holes in the back of my pants were starting to widen and Michael talked me into getting up to my room as fast as possible and then sending my pants to the hotel tailor.