by Thom Jones
A faded, light-green Mercedes with a broken rear spring came bouncing too fast across the beach and skidded, sliding sideways as it stopped near the carousel. An elderly European man wearing a white coat over a dirty tropical suit stepped out of the car and stretched. He had a head of unkempt, wiry white hair in the style of Albert Einstein. He brushed it back with his hand and opened the back door of the car. A magnificent boxer dog hopped out and followed the old man over to Ad Magic and the boy.
“Are you a doctor?”
“I am a doctor, yes. You were in a car accident, jah?”
“I was, but it’s nothing. I called about the horse. I wondered if you could do something about the horse. What is wrong with that animal?”
The doctor looked out at the sea, lifting his hands to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. “Probably he has been drinking saltwater in desperation. He will die, very soon.”
Ad Magic said, “I will give you five hundred American dollars if you can save the horse.”
The doctor said, “I can send him to seventh heaven with one shot. Haff him dragged away. Fifty dollars for the whole shebang.”
“Look, I don’t want to wrangle. If you can save the horse, I will pay you a thousand dollars.”
The doctor opened the trunk of the Mercedes and removed a piece of rope. He sent the boy down to the edge of the water and had him lead the horse up onto the dry sand while he backed the car another fifty feet down the beach, where the sand became too loose and he had to stop. Then he got out of the car and removed his medical bag from the back, setting it on the hood. He quickly looked the horse over. “Malnutrition, dehydration, fever.” He opened the horse’s lips. “Ah! He has infected tooth. This is very bad.…”
“What about all the sores? Why does he have so many sores?”
“Quick,” the doctor said. “In my trunk I have glucose und water. We haff to getting in fluids.”
Ad Magic carried two pint-size bottles of glucose and sterile-water solution over to the horse and then stood holding them as the doctor ran drip lines into large veins in the horse’s neck. Ad Magic watched the bottles slowly begin to drain as the doctor put on a pair of rubber gloves and began to scrub the sores on the horse’s body with a stiff brush and a kind of iodine solution, making a rough, sandpaper sound.
“Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Animals don’t experience pain in the same fashion humans,” the doctor said, with some irritation. “Pain for humans is memories, anticipation, imagination—”
“I don’t care about that. What you’re doing has got to hurt.”
The doctor came around from behind the horse. “How much does he weigh? Unless the liver is bad, I will give him morphine. I am not Superman. I haff not got X-ray vision. Maybe the liver is bad. Parasites. Who knows?” The doctor dug in his bag and removed a large hypodermic syringe. He filled it with morphine and injected it into the horse’s shoulder. Then he took the same syringe and filled it with antibiotics and injected these into the horse. After this, he picked up the brush and again began working on the large, putrescent sores on the horse’s skin. Ad Magic’s arms began to hurt from holding the bottles of liquid.
The doctor looked at him. “You are an American? Jah? Who was scratched your face und black eye?”
“Huh? Oh, that,” Ad Magic said. “I forgot that. Last night, I gave some money to this street person. A woman with eleven kids. I gave her some money as they were laying down a cloth to sleep on the street—”
“Yes?”
“Well, after I gave her the money—these men had seen me pass it to her, and they took it away from her. Slapped her around. I hit one of them, knocked him down, but there were so many of them. I just couldn’t fight them all. They tried to steal my watch. I got drunk—or I was drunk. I can’t remember exactly.” Ad Magic leaned over and looked at his face in the side mirror of the Mercedes. He did have an incredible black eye. No wonder the tour party found him peculiar.
The doctor took the glucose bottles from Ad Magic and propped them on the inside of the rear door, rolling up the window until they were upright and secure. “In my bag is green bottle. Take two und lie down in the back seat.” As Ad Magic rummaged in the bag, the doctor came up alongside him and grabbed his wrist. He examined the little stainless-steel bracelet.
“Epilepsy,” the doctor said. “Mmm.” He presented Ad Magic with a little flask of gin. “Swallow this und lie down,” he said. “Horse will take time.”
It was dark when Ad Magic came to. The boxer dog was standing over him, sniffing his face. Ad Magic rolled over and abruptly jerked himself upright. A number of oily torches had been lit, and there were fires in metal barrels as well as driftwood fires burning all up and down the shore, which was now teeming with activity. There were hundreds of people roaming the beach, and a brisk breeze blowing off the water offered a variety of smells: the smell of sewage was replaced by the pleasant aroma of gardenia, followed by the odor of bitter orange, of vanilla, of cooked curry, of charcoal, of diesel, and then again of sewage or saltwater, or of the ancient leather seats of the Mercedes. The boxer, openmouthed, panted in Ad Magic’s face, and from her mouth there was no odor at all.
Ad Magic pulled himself out of the car and took in the scene. The sights and smells and noises were uncommonly rich. There were roving bands of musicians, dancers, acrobats, food vendors, boys selling hashish. There were holy people, fakirs, snake charmers, more boys with trained monkeys. Ad Magic’s own monkey boy watched him leaning against the Mercedes, his eyes roving back and forth between the Rolex and the doctor.
“I can’t believe how wonderful I feel,” Ad Magic said. “What was that pill you gave me?”
“Just a little something,” the doctor said, crouching in the sand as he looked through his black doctor’s bag. Lined up by the horse’s feet there were a dozen empty glucose bottles and an enormous black tooth—a molar—in addition to several lesser teeth, long yellow ones.
“Abscess tooth. Very bad,” the doctor said. “Pus all over everything when I pull it. Horse falling down, goes into shock. I’m having to give him epinephrine. All better now. Then sand in the sores. Clean them all over twice times.”
“Is the horse going to be okay?”
“He is looking much better, don’t you think? Almost frisky, don’t you think?”
“Yes, much better. Much, much better.”
“Maybe he will live. It’s touch and go.”
The boxer dog presented Ad Magic with a piece of driftwood and began a game of tug-of-war. Soon the two were running around the beach and down to the sea. As the small breakers washed over Ad Magic’s feet, he noticed human excrement in the water and quickly backed away. He looked out at the sea and took in the sight of fishing dhows, backlit by the moon and glowing with tiny amber lights of their own. The boats were making their way—where? The dog tugged at his pant leg, ragging him, and soon she and Ad Magic were roughhousing—chasing each other, rolling in the sand, wrestling. Then Ad Magic was on his feet, jogging down the beach with the dog beside him. Faster and faster they ran until he was running as fast as he could for the sheer joy of it; he had never felt so good—he ran without getting tired, and it seemed that he never would get tired. Wait a minute. He was a smoker. Or was he? He was running effortlessly, like a trained runner, until at last he did begin to tire a little and sweat. So he and the dog plunged into the sea; he disregarded the filth of it and began to swim out into the surf, and the dog swam with him until they were very far out in the warm water. Then they let the waves carry them back in. Ad Magic walked easily in the sand back to the car and the horse, and when he got to the horse he embraced it and rubbed his face against its neck. “Oh, God, thank you,” he said.
“You are okay now?” the doctor said.
“Yes,” Ad Magic said. “I think so.”
“What is ‘ad magic’? You were saying, ‘ad magic.’ What is that?”
“Oh, that. I am an ad writer, and sometimes I feel magic. I tap int
o a kind of magic. It’s hard to explain.”
Ad Magic reached into his pocket and peeled off ten hundred-dollar bills. The roll was so tight that only the outer bills were wet. He handed the money to the doctor. He felt for his cigarettes and found them ruined. His tin of Powell’s Headache Tablets was also contaminated with seawater. Ad Magic studied the container for a moment. He said, “Listen to this—ad magic. ‘It was a hot day in tough California traffic when a Los Angeles red light made time stand still and gave me a headache like there was no tomorrow. I took two of Powell’s Headache Tablets and just like that—beep, beep, toot toot—I was ready to roll again.’ Fifty words. That’s my magic. It’s not that good right now. I’m just getting a little. Just a little is getting through—”
“I see, advertising writer.”
“How’s this? ‘Second-class passage in a Third World railroad car, hotter than the Black Hole of Calcutta, gave me a first-class headache. I traded my Swiss Army knife for a couple of Powell’s Headache Tablets. Home or halfway around the globe, Powell’s is my first choice for headache relief.’ It’s not that hot, but that’s how they come, from out of nowhere.”
“H’okay; you are a hausfrau shopping at Christmas und very busy und a bik hurry—Powell’s Tablets. Fifty words.”
“ ‘The day, Christmas Eve; fifteen minutes to midnight; the place, Fox Valley Shopping Center, Aurora, Illinois; the headache, a procrastination special—on a scale of ten, ten. The solution: Powell’s Tablets. The happy ending, gaily wrapped presents under a festive tree, a jolly ho-ho, and a merry Christmas to all.’ ”
“Ad magic. Making money for this?”
“Yes. Making money. I think so. Will the horse live? You see, if the horse lives, then I have my magic. That is God’s promise to me. I can do even better for Powell’s Tablets. I can do much better, and if the horse lives I will have my magic. How old is the horse?”
“At first I am thinking he is older. Maybe he is twenty years—”
“How long can this horse live? Given the best care?”
“With good care, a long life. Thirty-five years.”
Ad Magic peeled five hundred-dollar bills off his roll. “I want you to send this horse on a vacation. I want him to have the best food. If he wants other horses to play with, get them for him. I want this horse to have a grassy field. Do horses like music? I heard that once. Get a radio that plays music. I want the horse to have good accommodations. I want you to be the doctor for this horse and get the best people to take care of this horse. What were those pills you gave me? I feel fantastic! Is there some way we can ship this horse back to the States? I’ll look into it. Can you drive me to the Taj? This is so crazy—I don’t even know my name, but I’ve got a room key. Tell the boy to watch the horse until I get back. Do you have a business card? Here’s what we’ll do. I’ve got it. I’ve got it now. You stay with the horse. I’ll take your car. I’ve been here before. I know Bombay. I’ll take the car back. I don’t want you to leave the horse. I don’t want anything to happen to this horse. When I get home, you send me a picture of the horse. Stand next to the horse with a copy of the International Herald Tribune. When I see that the horse is okay, that his health is flourishing, and I see that the date on the paper is current, I will send you six hundred dollars every month. Will that be enough? Like if this horse needs an air-conditioned stall, I want him to have it. Whatever—TV, rock videos, a pool, anything his little horsy heart desires.”
“It can be done.”
“Excellent. Look, where did you get this great dog? Will you sell me this dog?”
“For no money,” the doctor said.
“C’mon, doctor, I love this dog.”
“Anyhow, you cannot take her to America.”
“Okay,” Ad Magic said. “It was just a thought. You’re looking at me funny. I know what you’re thinking. You don’t trust me with the car. Send the boy to flag a cab. I’ve got to get back to the States. You know those harnesses Seeing Eye dogs wear? I could wear sunglasses and take the dog back. A white cane. Just let me borrow the dog for a while.”
“Mr. Man. She is my best friend. I’m not selling. Not borrowing.”
“Okay, okay then. But take care of the horse. I’ll send the money. It’s a generous amount.” Ad Magic reached into his pocket and withdrew his wad of cash, peeling off a few more bills. “See that this kid gets taken care of, okay? Send him to school. C’mon, doctor, don’t look at me like that—it’s only advertising money. I don’t have to work for it. Now I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures say, as with a voice of thunder, Come! And I saw and behold, a white horse, and its rider had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.”
When a black-and-yellow Ambassador taxi honked from Marine Drive, Ad Magic gave the horse a final embrace. “Heigh-o, Silver, and adios amigos,” he said as he hopped into the cab, brandishing a handful of cash, telling the driver to step on it.
Ad Magic gave the driver a hundred dollars for an eighty-cent cab ride and rushed through the lobby of the Taj Inter-Continental, up to his grand suite in the old part of the hotel. He showered, and after toweling himself off he saw his wallet and passport on the bureau. He cautiously opened the wallet, assiduously avoiding his driver’s license. The wallet was heavy with credit cards and cash. In it he saw a picture of an attractive blond woman and two children. At that moment he knew his name, knew his wife of fifteen years, knew his children, and knew himself. He threw the wallet down, and began scribbling on a yellow legal pad. There was so much to get down and his mind was racing out of control. The magic was getting through. He was developing advertising concepts, enough for a year. He phoned the desk and had a porter send up a bottle of scotch and a plate of rice curry.
The scotch calmed him some and by dawn he had most of it written down. He dialed the switchboard and placed a call to his wife in Los Angeles.
Cold Snap
SON OF A BITCH, there’s a cold snap and I do this number where I leave all the faucets running because my house, and most houses out here on the West Coast, aren’t “real”—they don’t have windows that go up and down, or basements (which protect the pipes in a way that a crawl space can’t), or sidewalks out in the front with a nice pair of towering oak trees or a couple of elms, which a real house will have, one of those good old Midwest houses. Out here the windows go side to side. You get no basement. No sidewalk and no real trees, just evergreens, and when it gets cold and snows, nobody knows what to do. An inch of snow and they cancel school and the community is paralyzed. “Help me, I’m helpless!” Well, it’s cold for a change and I guess that’s not so bad, because all the fleas and mosquitoes will freeze, and also because any change is something, and maybe it will help snap me out of this bleak post-Africa depression—oh, baby, I’m so depressed—but I wake up at three in the morning and think, Oh, no, a pipe is gonna bust, so I run the water and let the faucets drip and I go outside and turn on the outdoor faucets, which are the most vulnerable. Sure enough, they were caking up, and I got to them just in the nick of time, which was good, since in my condition there was no way I could possibly cope with a broken water pipe. I just got back from Africa, where I was playing doctor to the natives, got hammered with a nasty case of malaria, and lost thirty pounds, but it was a manic episode I had that caused Global Aid to send me home. It was my worst attack to date, and on lithium I get such a bad case of psoriasis that I look like alligator man. You can take Tegretol for mania but it once wiped out my white count and almost killed me, so what I like to do when I get all revved up is skin-pop some morphine, which I had with me by the gallon over there and which will keep you calm—and, unlike booze, it’s something I can keep under control. Although I must confess I lost my medical license in the States for substance abuse and ended up with Global Aid when the dust settled over that one. God’s will, really. Fate. Karma. Whatever. Anyhow, hypomania is a good thing in Africa, a real motivator
, and you can do anything you want over there as long as you keep your feet on the ground and don’t parade naked on the president’s lawn in Nairobi and get expelled (which I did and which will get you expelled; okay, I lied, you can’t do anything—so sue me). On lithium, while you don’t crash so bad, you never get high, either, and all you can do is sit around sucking on Primus beer bottles, bitching about how hot it is when there’s so much work to do.
While I’m outside checking my faucets, I look my Oldsmobile over and wonder was it last year I changed the antifreeze? Back in bed, it strikes me that it’s been three years, so I go out and run the engine and sit in the car with my teeth chattering—it’s thirteen below, geez! And pretty soon the warm air is defrosting the car and I drive over to the hardware section at Safeway and get one of those antifreeze testers with the little balls in it. At four in the morning I’m sitting in my kitchen trying to get it out of the plastic jacket, and it comes out in two parts, with the bulb upside down. No doubt some know-nothing Central American put it in upside down for twenty cents an hour in some slave factory. I know he’s got problems—fact is, I’ve been there and could elucidate his problems—but how about me and my damn antifreeze? I mean, too bad about you, buddy, how about me? And I’m trying to jury-rig it when I realize there is a high potential for breaking the glass and cutting my thumb, and just as that voice that is me, that is always talking to me, my ego, I guess, tells me, “Be careful, Richard, so you don’t cut your thumb”—at that instant, I slice my thumb down to the bone. So the next thing you know I’m driving to the hospital with a towel on my thumb thinking, A minute ago everything was just fine, and now I’m driving myself to the emergency room!