Now that I had all summer to write my novel, I was once again debating whether I wanted to use the epiphany machine in my fiction, or whether to use my personal experience at all. The answer, I knew, was no; I wanted to write from empathy rather than narcissism; I wanted to explore the world of other people, even—contrary to Ismail’s argument—people very different from me. Maybe I could look again at the testimonials and take out all references to the epiphany machine, to make the stories more universal, and then combine them into a great symphonic novel.
I felt a kind of creative intelligence growing within me, and felt certain that as soon as I started typing, I would never stop. For that reason, though, I decided I should probably do the dishes right then, just to get them out of the way. This made me resent Rebecca for giving me a task that would distract me from writing my novel, though, of course, it was a very reasonable task, a very reasonable request, and the fact that I resented it probably meant that I was a misogynist, and I was probably a misogynist due to unresolved anger over my mother’s abandonment, although blaming my mother for my misogyny was obviously misogynistic.
Around four o’clock, I did the dishes, and at four-thirty I started writing. At a quarter to five I started thinking about Rebecca’s imminent return home and wondered whether she had stopped off to get some new lingerie. I was still wondering at six, at seven, at eight. After that, I found a Gristedes and bought a microwavable “Asian Chicken” meal. Rebecca came home around midnight, very drunk, with one girl and three guys in her internship program. I joined them in the living room, and one of the guys, a Norwegian, asked me whether it was true that Nancy Reagan had gotten an epiphany tattoo and whether the tattoo had had some impact on her husband’s nuclear-weapons policy. Then I went to bed and tried to sleep.
This set the tone for the summer. Days and weeks like this.
• • •
One afternoon, unable as usual to think of anything to write, I took an aimless walk and ended up somewhere in SoHo. I heard my name spoken in a European accent. It took me a minute to place the voice and the face, but then both revealed themselves to me.
“Vladimir Harrican, right?” I said. “I’m surprised you remember my name.”
“It’s an unusual name,” he said. “And I met you in an unusual place. Though I haven’t seen you there recently.”
“Adam and I had a falling-out.”
“Yes, I was sorry to hear that. Have you given any more thought to my offer?”
“The offer of helping you convince Adam to agree to mass-produce the machine?”
“That is the one,” he said.
Given how badly my writing was going, the thought of a job in which I would participate in making something, rather than being the sole person in charge of not making anything, seemed more appealing than it had in the past. But this particular job made even less sense.
“I don’t have any influence with Adam anymore,” I said. “If I ever did.”
“Nonsense. Now he misses you. In your absence, you have more influence than ever.”
I thought about this, thought about trying to talk to Adam again, being associated with the epiphany machine, being thought of as a sellout who went corporate before he had even really tried to become a writer.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m just not interested.”
Vladimir did what looked like an imitation of the Adam Shrug, though maybe it was just a shrug. “Okay. So what have you been up to?”
Somehow I was not prepared for this question. “Oh, I’ve been, um, working on a novel.”
“Ah! Good. Keep writing if that’s what you want to do. I once wanted to be a writer myself. Just make sure you get enough aerobic exercise. The best research suggests that creative work is impossible without it.”
“During the school year, I run all the time in Riverside Park.” This was not a total lie. I often tried to get in the habit of running and would run two or three or even four times in a week before stopping and letting months go by before exercising again.
“Do more. My grandfather used to tell me—in Russian, of course—that you can always do more than you think you can.”
The mention of his grandfather made it impossible for me not to ask the questions I had on my mind.
“Why are you so obsessed with the epiphany machine? Is it because of your father?”
His face changed, but only for a second. “My family’s experience has given me an understanding of Adam’s talent for reading people, yes. He made my father see himself as the factory drone he was. I think we’d all be better off if everyone saw themselves for who they were. Including you, Venter. Have a good day.”
Somewhat dazed from this conversation, I wandered down Houston and wondered again whether Harrican was Steven Merdula. In the days that followed, I replaced not-writing while sitting in my apartment with not-writing while walking around SoHo, in the vague—and, even to me, inexplicable—hope that I would run into Harrican again. I didn’t, but one day I did run into two other people I knew: Leah and Ismail, whom I hadn’t seen all summer.
“I’ve had an epiphany about my epiphany,” Ismail said. “I was using my tattoo, WANTS TO BLOW THINGS UP, as a wall against my acting ambition. So now I’m going to blow up that wall.”
This was a little melodramatic, but I was happy to hear him say it.
“We’re in the early stages of thinking about a new play,” Leah said. “We’re hoping to just record lots of our conversations over several years, and let characters develop who will blend in with our ‘real’ selves.”
“I’m also going to immerse myself in my Muslim heritage,” Ismail said. “I’ve been thinking that an artist has to work from within a solid tradition of wisdom.”
“In the meantime,” Leah said, “we’re planning a reverse-gender adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing set during the Florida recount. The strange ways of the ballot and the strange ways of the heart will be metaphors for each other. I’ll be playing Benedick, he’ll be playing Beatrice.”
“I was thinking we can litter the stage with chads,” Ismail said. “We can leave a ballot on each seat.”
Ismail jotted that down in a notebook, and then started talking about plans to do a production of The Merchant of Venice set at Camp David, with Ismail playing Shylock and Leah playing Portia.
“That will be subversive because I’ll be playing a Jew,” he said.
Ismail liked the word “subversive,” as did everybody else I knew who liked art.
“Ismail is also working on a play he won’t tell me about. He gets up in the middle of the night and types away.”
“It’s not ready for you to see it yet,” Ismail said.
They were bursting with so many ideas that I was starting to feel jealous, not to mention acutely aware that I was spending the summer failing to write a novel for no reason other than that my girlfriend had told me I was talented.
“It’s hard to imagine the two of you being so happy if Ismail hadn’t gotten that tattoo,” I said.
I had intended this all but consciously as a random shitty remark that would make me feel better for the few seconds before it made me feel worse, but Ismail appeared to take it earnestly, and smiled broadly.
“You’re totally right, Venter,” he said. “If you hadn’t pushed me to get a tattoo that day, I would be a miserable Palo Alto pre-med. This amazing collaboration that I have with Leah would never have happened. We don’t thank you enough.”
“To Venter!” Leah said. “Hey, where’s Rebecca?”
“I have no idea. We’re kind of on the rocks.”
“Nobody cares. Let’s give her a call.”
• • •
Within a couple of hours, the four of us were drinking in the apartment that I was by now more or less platonically sharing with Rebecca. Rebecca arrived already drunk, and we all got drunker, and also high on
some marijuana Ismail and Leah had gotten from Adam, as the night went on.
“How are the diplomats?” Leah asked Rebecca, drawing out the word “diplomats” until Ismail and I laughed.
“I’m having the most fun I’ve ever had. This is what I’m meant to be doing.”
“Maybe you can write a novel about the UN.”
“I don’t want to write a novel. I want to be the U.S. ambassador to the UN one day.”
“You won’t have any real freedom. You’ll have to do whatever the president tells you to do.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad to me.”
I could see in Leah’s face the decision to change her whole attitude about something. “You know what? This is great. I’m so happy you’ve found something you like.”
“We’ve all found something we like,” Rebecca said. “Hey, listen, I’ve got a fun idea. Let’s all fuck, right here in the living room.”
“Genius,” Leah said. “Should you strip first, or should I?”
“I’m serious. You and I obviously want each other to be happy, and what’s a better way for each of us to make sure the other is happy than to fuck? And don’t get me started on Venter and Ismail. They’ve obviously wanted to do each other for, like, their entire lives.”
“Rebecca, come on,” I said.
“You don’t actually want to fuck me,” Leah said.
“How do you know? How do I know? Maybe I’m joking, maybe I think I’m joking and I’ll realize years from now that I was serious, or maybe I think I’m serious now and I’ll realize years from now that this was just a stupid stunt that ruined a bunch of relationships I cared about. Let’s stop thinking and fuck.”
“Rebecca, let’s get you to bed,” I said.
“Don’t pretend you don’t want to suck Ismail’s dick.”
“Rebecca Hart, truth-teller!” Leah said. “You’re scared of everything in the world, so you’re pulling this shit to make yourself look brave.”
“I’m pulling this shit so we can stop having endless boring conversations about art and just lick each other’s pussies like we obviously want to.”
“Let’s go, Leah,” Ismail said.
“See? The boys don’t want to talk because they know they should be stuffing their mouths with each other’s dicks instead.”
“Enough,” Ismail said.
“Have fun tonight, Venter,” Leah said. Rebecca proceeded to describe what the four of us should do to each other until Leah and Ismail shut the door behind them.
“Are you happy?” I asked.
“I’m happy that you’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.”
The next morning she apologized, and the next night we slept in the same bed, though we did not touch each other. The morning after that, she received the following email from Ismail:
Dear Rebecca,
I feel like I have to tell you that you are the embodiment of everything that is wrong with America. Nothing is important to you except chasing any experience that strikes you as momentarily “interesting” or “fun.” You don’t produce anything yourself, but do whatever you can to make Leah feel bad for being “just” an actress rather than a writer as well, which totally ignores who she wants to be as a person. You also show no respect for my love for Leah, and try to poison her against me by questioning my sexuality. I don’t even think you’re actually attracted to her; maybe you just want to make her feel uncertain about herself, or maybe you want to absorb some fraction of her massive talent and drive, or maybe you’re just bored and will do absolutely anything to entertain yourself, regardless of the consequences, or maybe all three. Like so many Americans, you worship sex but don’t understand it. You think you’re a “free spirit,” but you have no control over either your fears or your impulses. You’re a horrible person and you deserve the misery that you’re condemned to.
Rebecca showed this to me in tears as she was getting ready to leave and said that Ismail was absolutely right. I told her what I thought was true: that Ismail’s email was offensive and totally inaccurate, and that he had said what he said only because he was angry. When she got home, she boiled water for tea and announced that Ismail had no idea what he was talking about and that she never wanted to talk to him again.
That night we had sex that made it obvious that we no longer belonged together. It was so obvious that we were broken up that she didn’t bother to break up with me while we were living together, which would have posed logistical complications. We both knew that it was over, totally over, and so we could spend the rest of the summer laughing with each other and kind of enjoying each other’s shortcomings instead of regarding them as punishments from God.
The first week we were back at school we avoided each other; we ran into each other the following Monday in line for the Taco Bell in our dorm’s food court, so there was no way to avoid having lunch and agreeing we were broken up. It might have been the perfect breakup had the world not popped in.
From Further Adventures of the Epiphany Machine(s),
by Steven Merdula (2018), Chapter 2
Ziad wanted to become a pilot since he was five years old. He didn’t care whether he would be a civilian or a military pilot. He was crazy about airplanes. The only books he ever borrowed from the library were about airplanes. I stopped him from being a pilot. I only have one son and I was afraid that he would crash.
—SAMIR JARRAH, father of 9/11 hijacker Ziad Jarrah, quoted in The Wall Street Journal, September 18, 2001
Even with the benefit of hindsight, Jarrah hardly seems a likely candidate for becoming an Islamic extremist.
—The 9/11 Commission Report
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. The buildings would look small if he ever looked down, which he never, ever would.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. The tightest of spaces, suspended in the greatest expanse.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. But for now he is in Beirut, eye to eye with the bullets that mark the ground floors of the buildings he wants to fly above.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. But for now he is in Beirut, and there is a Palestinian refugee camp a few blocks from his house, where, he has heard it said, the Jews force his brothers and sisters to live like pigs.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. But for now he is in Beirut, and there is only so much longer that he can pretend that his bedroom is a cockpit at the top of the world.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. But for now he is in Beirut, and there is a library that has many books about airplanes. A book is not a cockpit, but maybe it is a way to get to one.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. Ziad’s family is not religious. They do not believe there is any world other than this one, and so the top of the world is the top of the world.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. His father tells him he cannot be a pilot, for it is too dangerous. He is his father’s only son, and he must choose a profession that will not get him killed.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. Another boy might defy his father, become a pilot despite what his father says. Ziad does not.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. He attends a Christian private school. A few years ago many of the boys in that school would have thought any Muslim worthy of death. Now religion hardly seems to matter. What lies beneath the sky is confusing.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. The Christians do make jokes about Muslims, but Ziad’s father tells him not to mind, for jokes are not important.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. His father moves to the country, but Ziad stays in Beirut. There are many good things now in Beirut. Alcohol, women, nightclubs.
A boy wants to take
a cockpit to the top of the world. There are moments on the dance floor when it feels as though Ziad has done just this.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. And look what he is doing instead: taking language courses in a small town in Germany, learning the German words for “sky” and “airplane.”
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. Instead, elderly Germans yell things at him he does not understand but does understand. Here, his skin is dark.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. Ziad does not spend much time in his room. He goes to the beach, looks at the sun over the water and the sand, and wishes for something to wrap himself up in, to hold him tight. He drinks a lot of beer.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. He talks to a girl, a dentistry student named Aysel. They talk more.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. His cock is in Aysel’s pit.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. No dirty pun can diminish them or what they have. They are high, they are high, nothing could feel better or be better, this is what the songs are talking about when they talk about being “above the clouds.” Why would he be a pilot when he has this?
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. She helps him learn German. They pore over their textbooks until late at night. They laugh and laugh.
A boy wants to take a cockpit to the top of the world. Now that he knows the language, he can figure out the jokes. The jokes that the Germans can no longer make about Jews, they now make about Turks. He is not a Turk but they do not know or care, since to them he looks like a Turk. Aysel is a Turk and he hears what they say about her. He would like to knock out their teeth, but Aysel is being taught to remove teeth only in particular ways and under particular circumstances. She tells him that what they say does not matter. They drink beer, they go home, they smoke pot, they have sex.
The Epiphany Machine Page 23