Listening for Jupiter

by Pierre-Luc Landry

  “You OK?” he asks, worried.

  “Yeah,” Xavier mutters.

  He gets to his feet, massaging his shoulder and arm.

  “I thought it would work. Like in the movies.”

  “In the movies they use fake glass made of sugar.”

  Xavier starts to laugh, despite the pain.

  “It’s almost never like in the movies, in real life. That’s what I’m realizing lately. It doesn’t bother you, that we’re constantly being lied to?”

  Hollywood pulls a face.

  “I don’t know. I never really thought about it…”

  He gets up and plants a foot on one of the wall’s concrete slabs. It wobbles. He looks at Xavier, and they exchange a smile. Hollywood picks up the concrete slab and hurls it with all his might into the pharmacy door. It shatters, triggering a deafening alarm. Hollywood nudges the hole with his toe, brushing away the bits of glass still clinging to the doorframe. He goes first, ducking to avoid getting hurt. Xavier is right behind him.

  The lights came on inside the second the alarm went off. Hollywood and Xavier zip up and down the aisles. The noise tears through their eardrums and they walk with their hands over their ears to protect themselves from the blare. Hollywood spots the sleeping pills behind the counter. He stuffs a few boxes into his pockets while Xavier grabs the first painkiller he finds—anything to soothe his bruised shoulder.

  “Do we need anything else?” he yells.

  “Cold medicine. Always a good idea. I’ll take care of it.”

  Hollywood hops over the counter and heads to the cough syrup display.

  “I’ll grab the hard stuff!” yells Xavier.

  He quickly rummages through the drawers and shelves, looking for familiar names, drugs he’s pitched in what seems like another lifetime. He skips over some, since neither of them suffers from liver disease or chronic constipation. He cradles the boxes of OxyContin he finds in a drawer, then hesitates. He closes the drawer without taking anything.

  “I can’t handle all the noise. I’ll wait for you outside,” Hollywood tells him as he passes.

  Xavier turns, pulls the drawer open again, then kicks it shut. He grabs two boxes of an antidepressant that he self-prescribed when he came back from Bilbao. He meets Hollywood outside. They throw the loot into the shopping cart and hurry away, even though no one has appeared yet outside the vandalized store.

  Twenty minutes later they’re at the house. They put away their spoils, and Hollywood heats up a pizza in the oven.

  They have already established their routines. Xavier wipes down the porch table and sets two places. He opens a bottle of wine, letting the alcohol breathe, and lights a fire in the living room.

  “This time the house will be warm when we come back in.”

  Hollywood puts a record on the turntable and cranks up the speakers before coming out. They sit outside and watch the sun set while the pizza cooks in the oven. They listen in silence to an opera chosen at random from the collection. The Bloody Nun by Charles Gounod, a title Hollywood found funny.

  They eat quickly; the temperature has plummeted since the sun disappeared. They return to the living room without clearing the table. Hollywood chooses another record and they listen, their faces to the fire, as they empty a second, then a third bottle of wine.

  “One time I went four nights without sleeping,” says Xavier. “On the fifth night, my eyelids began twitching and I started to hallucinate. I called a friend and he brought me to the ER. I was nineteen, I think. I didn’t know anything about drugs back then; I’d just started university and I didn’t even know what a pharmaceutical rep was. The ER doctor prescribed me a strong sleeping pill that was supposed to knock me out cold within minutes. We went back to my apartment and I took it. We watched a movie on TV. It kept feeling like I was on the verge of sleep, but every time my head would fall onto my chest or back against the sofa, I’d wake up. I went to lie down in my bed. I left the living room to my friend, who’d promised to stay until the next morning. I wanted to make sure I’d wake up if I fell asleep. I wanted to sleep, not die. I tossed and turned in bed for at least an hour, then woke my friend who was sleeping on the sofa. We went back to the hospital. We waited at least two hours, even though no one was there. The same doctor was on duty. It must have been close to 6 a.m. when he finally saw me. He looked at me like I was bothering him and asked me what I was still doing there. I explained. He told me I was being dumb, that I should just take another pill, that I didn’t have to come back to the ER for that. Back in my friend’s car, I took two more pills; the doctor had put it into my head that it was OK to adjust the dosage myself. I blacked out, woke up forty-eight hours later. My friend was sleeping in the bed with me. He explained that he’d had to get me out of the car and drag me up to my third-floor apartment, that he’d taken off my clothes and put me to bed and kept watch for two days to make sure I was still breathing. He hadn’t let himself drift off for more than twenty minutes at a stretch. He was exhausted, but I felt great. Like nothing had happened, except for a mealy taste in my mouth, which disappeared the second I brushed my teeth. We went to my friend’s place. I drove his car, since he was too tired. He crawled into bed, and I left him. I went back to my house, studied for an exam, went on with my life since everything had gone back to normal. I started taking two pills at night before bed, and I’d nod off almost immediately. The following Friday, I still hadn’t heard from my friend. He hadn’t come to class all week. I thought it was from the two days he’d spent watching over me. I wanted to talk to him, but his phone had been disconnected. I went over to his place; his mother opened the door. They were emptying out his apartment. He’d died in his sleep. Overdosed on the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed me—he’d lifted some while I was out cold. He’d died instead of me, because I hadn’t been there to watch over him.”

  Hollywood doesn’t say anything. He pours the rest of the wine into Xavier’s glass.

  “I know a lot more about drugs today because of my job, and I know I’m not always careful, but I can’t help it: I can’t control the pull I feel when I see a bottle of pills. Like it’s been burned into me that swallowing a pill makes everything better. I know it’s dumb. And dangerous. It pisses me off when I see other people behaving that way. Like my colleague Antony, who thinks we’re helping out humanity by being drug reps. Shifting the responsibility like that, it’s crap. Today almost everyone is addicted to some drug or another, and there’s a pill for just about everything. Every year pharmaceutical companies are making bank. And I’m supporting the industry through my work. It’s disgusting, but I don’t know what else to do. I was planning to quit before New York came up. And then I find myself here, and I don’t know how…”

  Xavier stands up.

  “Well,” he says. “There’s a bottle of sleeping pills on the counter in the washroom. Just take one. I swear I won’t take more than one either.”

  He goes to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. Hollywood still hasn’t moved.

  “Goodnight,” Xavier calls out, closing the bedroom door.

  This time, Hollywood decides to sleep in the small bedroom. He pours a glass of water, undresses and throws back the sleeping pill Xavier said he should take. He crawls under the covers. He added a few logs to the fire on his way out of the living room and now the house is warm. He listens to the creaking of the walls and the silence all around him. Then he falls asleep.

  Xavier

  I “woke up” a month later in a hospital room with a view over Greenpoint, a Brooklyn neighbourhood on the other side of the East River. I’d missed my appointment with Gia, of course. And been fired by Pullman. I learned all of this from talking to the guy in the next bed and from the countless voicemails left by Pullman, Antony and the sick colleague I was supposed to replace.

  The whole thing was a huge pain.

  A doctor came to se
e me as soon as the nurse on duty realized I was awake. He wanted to keep me under observation for at least a week given that my mysterious “coma” was still undiagnosed. But since I was feeling great—mainly thanks to the lovely nurse who’d taken care to move my arms and legs every day so the muscles wouldn’t atrophy—and since I knew how much a hospital stay in the United States would run me, I arranged to be discharged the next day.

  I spent the whole day in rehab, walking on a treadmill under the watchful eye of a physiotherapist. I called Pullman, who hurled a stream of abuse at me over the phone until I told him I’d just woken up from a month-long coma. He changed his tune right away and asked if I was feeling better.

  “Cut the crap,” I told him. “Consider this my resignation ‘letter.’”

  He suggested I think on it before making such a big move. But since I’d already been fired and the papers had been sent to my apartment in Toronto, I told him not to worry or bother changing the information printed on the letter dismissing me, just to give me a small severance package so that I could pay the hospital bill and still come out OK. We agreed on two months’ salary, along with a formal promise on my end not to take legal action for unfair dismissal. He transferred me to the HR secretary, who recorded my consent in my file and wished me a good day.

  I called Antony. He’d been worried, of course.

  “I know,” I told him. “You left me at least twenty voicemails.”

  “So, when will you be back?”

  “Tomorrow, on Amtrak. Want to pick me up at Union Station?”

  “T’arrives à quelle heure?”

  “8 p.m.”

  “That means you won’t be here before noon the day after tomorrow, at best.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “The fucking snow, man.”

  I looked out of the window. There was snow, all right. The East River was frozen, not a single boat was out. I saw cars on the bridges, everything seemed normal for this time of year. Then I remembered: I’d been asleep for a month, so it was April now. Springtime. But New York was still sporting a white overcoat.

  “It snowed every day in March,” Antony told me. “This shit isn’t over yet.”

  He brought me up to speed. The snow removal crews in Calgary, Edmonton, Regina, Saskatoon and Winnipeg had been sent to back up those in Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal and Quebec City. Crews that weren’t busy clearing the snow that was constantly being dumped on Canada had crossed the border to lend a hand to struggling New England cities. It hadn’t warmed up; the temperature was holding steady below freezing, which kept the snow from melting and crippled certain activities. Among other things, the trains weren’t running on time since freight cars were stuck on poorly cleared stretches or covered in snowdrifts. On the coldest nights, engines just broke down. Meteorologists had told North America’s eastern residents to prepare for another few months of the endless winter. According to their calculations, it was very possible that summer vacations would be spent on snowy beaches. It was the same in Western Europe. Over a hundred thousand deaths had been recorded in France, with even more in Spain and Portugal. England’s toll wasn’t quite as devastating, but many there had fled to former colonies—Australia, India, the West Indies—to escape the bone-chilling cold and damp.

  “Fuck. I’m sick of it,” I said.

  “I know, man. Hang in there. Anyway, on n’a pas vraiment le choix. Unless you’re game to skip out and go live somewhere else. As for me, the lady won’t move, so I’m stuck here. At least I got to enjoy Aruba.”

  He told me about his trip. I wanted to die. Luckily, a nurse came by and reminded me that I wasn’t allowed to use my cellphone in the hospital, and that I was being irresponsible and whatnot. I hung up.

  I still had to reach Gia.

  The number you have dialled is not in service.

  I kicked the radiator. The guy in the next bed snickered. I looked daggers at him, but that only made him laugh harder.

  “When are you going to die?” I asked him in French, thinking he wouldn’t understand.

  “Soon, si tout va bien,” he replied.

  I froze, shocked.

  “Yes, I’m French and I’m going to die.”

  He began to tell me his story. I went over and sat in the little chair on his side of the room. A crank who’d become so obsessed with Hervé Guibert that he’d tried to emulate his writing, in vain, and then his life, with more success: he’d picked up AIDS voluntarily by having unprotected sex with loads of boys—some HIV positive, some not—and had refused treatment so he could die as young as possible in tribute to his idol who had lived before the miracle drug. Raph (that was his name) had collapsed on a Manhattan street while retracing Guibert’s route during one of his visits to the Caput mundi. After an emergency transfer to the hospital, he’d been diagnosed with Pneumocystis pneumonia. He had left the hospital, returning to wander the city streets and spend his nights infecting East Village barebackers. Since he refused medication, he didn’t have long to live. He’d been dragged to the hospital by his lover du jour, another crank who thought he was Truman Capote but who had enough common sense not to leave his friend to die like a stray cat in a dark alley. He spoke for a while, about an hour, spitting up blood every other sentence. He told me about a whole bunch of things I’d rather not remember. His monologue didn’t leave room for me to get a word in, which was good considering I wouldn’t have known what to say.

  I was discharged the next morning, as planned. I gathered my things and took a taxi to Penn Station. The train left on time, but we didn’t arrive in Toronto until 4 a.m. Antony had been waiting since midnight, not knowing what time the train would pull in.

  “Bro! Real happy to see you!”

  He hugged me. I was excited to see him, too. A familiar face. To my surprise—and to Antony’s, for that matter—I burst into tears in his arms. He started laughing.

  “No worries! Let it out, man.”

  Xavier

  Journal entry XL

  My days don’t belong to me. I haven’t slept since I got back and I don’t feel tired. I watch movies all night without getting into them. Even the ones I’m watching for the hundredth time, the ones that usually pick me up, have no effect. It’s cold out. It snows every other day. The nights are freezing. I drink beer and eat burgers. I wait for something to happen.

  I got out my notebook again, tried a few sketches. I can’t manage anything meaningful. I go round in circles. Even words go round in circles.

  Hollywood

  It happened again, except this time, I didn’t wake up in a hospital, but in an apartment I didn’t know. I was alone; I explored the one-bedroom, leaning on chairs and other pieces of furniture so that I wouldn’t fall. My legs were still shaky.

  It was hot and stuffy. The curtains had been drawn, probably to stop the sun from making the air—already damp and sticky from the heat—even warmer. There wasn’t much in the apartment, but enough to lead me to believe I was living there with Saké and Chokichi.

  By the look of things, the couch was being used as Saké’s bed, dressing room and headquarters. An old blue leather suitcase was bursting with extravagant wigs and sunglasses. The ground was littered with scarves, skirts, nylons, tank tops, dresses, makeup, bedsheets and a pillow. On the table I found a pocket mirror, a tube of bright red lipstick, a tissue with a big fat kiss on it, a dirty cup with a few sips of cold coffee still in it and an ashtray chock full of cigarette butts. A book was lying on the coffee table: J’aime et je cuisine le concombre, by Aglaé Blin. I went straight to the kitchen and looked into the fridge to confirm my suspicions: it was filled with virtually nothing but cucumbers, along with a tub of crème fraîche, green onions and a bundle of fresh mint. One of Saké’s whims, I thought to myself. Her latest obsession.

  I continued exploring. On the kitchen counter there was a coffee machine, a fan and a 1986 phone bo
ok for Madison, Alabama. I pulled back the curtains and looked outside. Was that Madison, Alabama, out there? Could be. I drew the curtains: the sun was brutal. The clock on the microwave said 7:00 p.m. I paused to think about the time, date and place before I went on inspecting the apartment. A pack of cigarettes was lying next to the stove. I brought one to my lips and lit one of the two burners. I moved the tip closer to the blue flame. It caught right away. I turned off the gas.

  I went back to my room. My things were there, so I rushed over to my bag and took out my iPod. It had been too long. I pressed the earbuds into my ears and sank into bed as the music started. I closed my eyes. Happiness overload. I couldn’t face the outside world and be looking at it at the same time. I had to make a choice.

  Chokichi woke me up. I took out my earbuds and sat up.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “8 p.m.”

  I’d barely slept an hour, and nothing had happened. Chokichi lay down on his back next to me. His arm against mine. I stayed still.

  “This time, you were in a coma for a little over a week. Saké came to Chicago. She knew where to find us. And she got this crazy idea that we should kidnap you from the hospital and bring you here. That’s why she rented the apartment in the first place, so the three of us could hide out here. I think she picked that up in a movie or something. I tried to convince her that it would never work—not in a million years—but she kept insisting, so we spent the night plotting and scheming, and then we tried our luck.”

  “You kidnapped me from the hospital?”

  Chokichi laughed, throwing his head back.

  “Ah! That girl, she’s really something else!”

  “Where is she now, come to think of it?”