theMystery.doc

by Matt McIntosh

  “What do you do?” he asked. “I notice you’re home during the day.”

  “Apparently,” I said, sipping my coffee, “I’m a writer.”

  “Really!” He seemed genuinely enthused. “And what do you write? Fiction?”

  “That’s a good question,” I said. “I think probably fiction. I hear I wrote a book called In Complete Accord. Ever heard of it?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. To tell you the truth I’m not even sure I wrote the thing. In fact I’m almost positive I didn’t.”

  Back into the drain went the snake. The machine whirred as it fed the pipe.

  “What do you mean by that?” the man said.

  “I mean something bizarre is going on. I don’t remember being myself. I don’t remember being here. I don’t remember anything. Someone’s playing a big trick on me.”

  He stopped the machine and looked over at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. Something’s not right.”

  “I used to work at a mental hospital,” he said. “First as an orderly. And then as a counselor. There were a lot of people there who thought things weren’t right. I’ll ask you what I always asked them first. How do you feel right now, right this moment?”

  I thought about it. There was a terrible tightness in my chest. My throat hurt. My head still hurt. Everything hurt. But oddly enough I found the strangest sensation was that I couldn’t breathe well. I kept yawning, and I had been yawning for quite some time. But it was a kind of yawning that was never able to fully express itself. So when I would start, I would start yawning and go up toward the high point of the yawn where you reach the zenith and feel satisfied and sigh and then go back down, but right before that zenith I would falter, the yawn wouldn’t quite get there and I’d stop and be left with this heaviness in my chest and an uncomfortable feeling because I knew I’d start to yawn again in a few moments, to try again to get it out but that it wouldn’t come out this time either, and the process would go on and on like this. I had been doing this since shortly after Gladys had left and I had gone into my office—the office, I should say—and sat down at my chair and stared at the blank page.

  “I keep yawning,” I said, as another yawn started. “But I can’t get… all the way……… up. See?”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed that. I thought it was a tick.”

  “As far as I know, I’ve only been doing it for about an hour. I also feel like I could cry at any moment.”

  “Cry?” he said. “What are you thinking about when you start to feel like you’re going to cry?”

  “What do I think about…” I started to think. And a tear came out of my eye. I stopped it with my hand. Another one came. And another. “I have no memory,” I said. I started to yawn. “I don’t know how I got here. It seems I have a wife but I don’t recognize her. I wear a ring on my finger but I don’t know who put it there. My neighbor says she knows me but I swear I’ve never seen her before. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I wrote a book called In Complete Accord and I don’t know what it’s about. And I have supposedly been working for eleven years on a follow-up, but I don’t know how that could be. I don’t know who I am, where I came from. I don’t remember being a child. I don’t remember my family, my school, my adolescence, growing up. I look like I’m in my thirties someplace but I don’t remember ever being alive before this morning. Great, here comes another one.” I rode the yawn up… up… up, but it—“Fuck!”—took me down again too soon. “I have memories that come in and out. For instance I think someone who looks just like you came here once and told me the same things you’re telling me but I don’t know if it really happened, or if what’s happening now is happening now, or what. I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m the kind of person who would normally start weeping in front of the drain man or if this is odd behavior for me.” I wiped my eyes, then started sobbing. It was a yawn that stopped it, and when the yawn passed—this time thankfully after going all the way to the top—I sighed and said, “I also found some weed upstairs before you got here and it’s probably making me even loopier.”

  We left the snake and went upstairs to smoke some weed.

  Charles—King Charles—he sat in the captain’s chair—he had a beard, had a sturdy bearing, a royal bearing—he spoke with confidence—he was a drain declogger—he sat across from me—I sat on the couch—he wore coveralls and on the chest was a picture of a cartoon snake with an eye patch—King Charles—the company he worked for was called The Drain Charmers—the cartoon snake with the eye patch was swirling up a pipe—“Charles?” I said—at the top of the pipe was a golden orb—“Am I cracking up?”

  “Maybe. Why don’t you ask your wife?”

  “I don’t think she’s my wife.”

  “You could ask.”

  “But if whoever hired her to pretend to be my wife finds out I’m onto them they’ll erase me and the only thing I know is that I don’t know what’s going on. And I’d rather at least know that than give them another chance to try again to make me believe whatever it is they’re trying to get me to believe—and by the way I don’t know what that is.”

  “Yes, I’d say you’re cracking up.”

  “God, I really hope so.” I took a toke and passed the joint to Charles. “Did you have people like me at the mental hospital?”

  “We had all sorts. There seemed to be a common motif in a lot of psychoses. You know you hear the word schizophrenic and people use that term interchangeably with multiple personality disorder. They think schizophrenics have different sides of their personalities, like Dr. Jekyll and—”

  “Hyde?”

  “Yes, exactly. But that’s not schizophrenia at all. There is a constellation of beliefs experienced by schizophrenics, generally—at least from what I saw. For one thing they were usually consumed with the idea that the world was coming to an end. Do you have that?” he asked.

  “Well, not that the world is coming to an end, Charles, but that it already has! I mean what else would you call waking up without any memory whatsoever!”

  “Do you ever obsess about the number four?”

  “Maybe so! I can’t remember! Maybe so!”

  “When they were in an episode it usually started in a very beautiful way. They would see meaning in everything. Everything that crossed the plane of their senses was always filled with deep and rich meaning. And it was peaceful and beautiful, and they felt empowered, and they felt as if they finally understood what it was all about. They felt that they knew a unity of all things, a sense that all things in the universe were one—sure, you hear that all the time—in self-help books and on bumper stickers and so forth—but they really felt it, they understood it, and to them it really was. They felt a kinship to God, and then that kinship would develop into something more like sonship—or daughtership if it was a girl. And then from there they’d go on to feel that they were the spirits of God himself, trapped in a human body, which was in actuality a prison of matter. And once they reached this point, which was the high point, the realization that they were spirits trapped in matter and that there was no way out—and not just matter but they were also being held against their will in a literal prison—the majority having been committed against their will—when what they wanted most of all was to go out and tell the world what they had learned—and so when they realized they were trapped, and that there was no escape, not just from the hospital but from their very bodies!—well, it always went downhill from there. The heavenly visions would turn to nightmares, the angels would turn to devils and witches, the pretty bright lights would turn to torrents of blood and… you get the picture. The problem is our society. We have no place for the schizophrenic. In the native cultures these were the holy men, the shamans, they were protected and revered, and you’d bring your l
ittle papoose to him for a blessing or a prophecy, and the society would make sure he was fed and clothed because he sure as hell couldn’t take care of himself. But now we leave them to fend for themselves. To be preyed on by villains and wolves and drugs and alcohol, until they eventually do something that either gets them shot by the cops or put in a psych ward, and then they’re fed drugs and monitored for a time and then sent back out to fend for themselves again.”

  “I should talk to Vel.”

  “Who’s Vel?”

  “The lady from next door who went nuts. Supposedly she chased me with her hose. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “I’m sorry you’re going through what you’re going through,” Charles said. “I’d like to help you. I think you should start by talking about it to your wife.”

  “Not wife, the wo—”

  “Right, the woman who claims to be your wife.”

  “I can’t trust her,” I said, beginning to yawn again. “She’s too… too… (Damn!)… too damn pretty. Way too pretty for me. You can never trust them. At least in the movies. And yes, I know that sounds crazy.”

  “Is this her?”

  He had picked up a photograph of this woman and a man who looked like me standing in some sort of park. The photo was taken pretty close up. The girl was beautiful and had a beautiful smile, her brown hair straight and shoulder-length. The man looked like I would have probably looked a few years earlier. He smiled a lippy smile, his head tilted somewhat toward her, obviously uncomfortable before the camera. Behind them, in the distance, there was a green minivan parked sideways. Weird that the minivan would be there, I had thought when I’d first seen it. Was it a clue? Or just a bad photographer who’d set up the shot without noticing that somebody’s car was in view. Then I wondered what kind of car did she drive… I thought about it… She’d drive an old car… A safe car… A Mercedes, maybe. Or a Volvo.

  “That’s her. At least I think it is. Except she had blond hair this morning. At least I think she did. I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

  “You’re not wearing glasses now.”

  “I’m not? But I can see you fi— Oh, yeah. I put in contact lenses.”

  “I think you should probably stop smoking marijuana until you get this all figured out. Pot will only make things more surreal.”

  “You’re probably right, Charles. But to be honest, I think it’s helping me calm down. What time is it?”

  “Almost noon.”

  “I hope you get the Kingdom on Earth you’re looking for,” I said. “You seem like a very smart man. I also hope you don’t work for whoever is responsible for all of this. I notice the logo on your breast is a serpent winding up a pipe. That’s an alchemical symbol if I’m not mistaken. The orb symbolizes enlightenment. The pipe symbolizes the Tree of Life, or time. And the serpent symbolizes the undying hero. It’s all about traveling from the lower regions to the upper. From darkness and ignorance into light and life.”

  “That’s very true,” said Charles. “And I can see why you would interpret it that way. However, I know for a fact that it was designed by my boss’s nephew, and that all he did was copy the logo from one he saw in a video game. You are right in what you see, and that you are seeing it. But there is no conspiracy against you—at least as far as I and The Drain Charmers go. Although—and this may just be the marijuana speaking—but it does occur to me that there could be a metaphysical conspiracy, that is a conspiracy at a higher level of existence. And it also occurs to me that if there was such a conspiracy I and The Drain Charmers could be involved —including my boss’s nephew even though we don’t know we’re in on it. Because in a metaphysical conspiracy the pieces would be moved around without their knowledge, wouldn’t they? By a—what shall we call it?—an unseen hand?”

  “Why, yes, Charles, I believe they would.”

  Charles leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard with a grubby hand.

  “If you’ve been working on this book for as long as you say—”

  “Eleven years, apparently.”

  “Well, eleven years working on the same book, it strikes me as very unusual.”

  “I’ll say! That’s the first thing I thought when I heard, myself!”

  “I mean, you’re a professional writer. You say yourself you don’t go out, you don’t have distractions, you don’t teach or work for a living. So it seems you have as much time as you need to dedicate yourself to your work.”

  “Yes, and apparently I told Gladys I spend every waking hour doing it.”

  “So if it takes a writer on average a year to write a book, and that’s a writer who has a, well, has a life—no offense…”

  “None taken.”

  “…then simple mathematics would say that the amount of time you’ve been spending on this book—these eleven years—would equal something more in the order of say twenty or twenty-five years any other writer would spend on a book. Maybe even more if you think you are writing three times as much as an average writer would write—because you’re not taking vacations, you’re not using your time to give lectures, interviews, or go on book tours, etcetera. And so if you think that maybe you’ve actually spent the equivalent of thirty-three years on the project…” He stroked his beard. “Well, that’s a bit troubling.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “It makes me wonder if possibly you’re not writing a book at all, but doing something very different.”

  This was an intriguing idea. I leaned forward. “Something like what, Chuck?”

  “Well…” He looked at me, his large forehead wrinkling up underneath his majestic shock of white hair. “It makes me wonder if maybe you haven’t…”

  “Haven’t?”

  “Discovered something.”

  “Discovered something. That means un-covered.”

  “And maybe that discovery has something to do with the predicament you find yourself in.”

  He passed me the joint.

  “Have you looked at what you’re working on?” he asked, his voice slow, unsure.

  I breathed in. “There’s nothing on that computer, Chuck.” I held it for a moment, then breathed out: “Phooooooo… I searched the whole goddamn machine.”

  “Nothing?”

  “It’s empty,” I said with a sigh. “There’s nothing on it but a single blank page entitled themystery.doc. Zero lines, zero words. Zero characters. Zero zero zero.” I started to yawn. “Oh, great, here we go again…”

  “I should go down and finish chopping those roots,” Charles said.

  (lydia sept 5 2006 st joes hospital.mp3)

  M: Did you ask if he’s sleeping?

  No, I asked if I could come in.

  Oh, sure.

  I want to clean. And then go home. Is that OK?

  Ask him, he’s the patient.

  Patient: Sure.

  Is that your dad?

  Yeah.

  Oh, are you leaving today?

  Uh, no, I think I’ll be

  here…

  Maybe ’til tomorrow.

  OK, then I’m gonna do your room then. You didn’t just come in, did you?

  Yesterday evening.

  OK, then we’ll do your room. That’s all right, right?

  Yes.

  OK……So you’re one of these laptop people that do your work at home?

  Right.

  Yeah, you’re one of these people that my husband and I are complaining about. All you guys—it should be illegal—you guys keep losing your laptops and all our information’s going: POOF!

  [laughs]

  Yeah!

  I don’t have any government secrets on mine yet.

  But do you know what I’m saying?

  I know what you’re sayi
ng. But don’t blame the laptop, blame the people.

  Well, they should be charged with something because this is ridiculous, they put so many people—thousands of people at risk.

  Yeah, I saw they got another one lost the other day, right?

  Yeah!

  I don’t know…

  Gotta make sure—

  They definitely shouldn’t be taking these things home with them, should they.

  No they shouldn’t be—I mean, the computer age is fine, but you know what I say? I think it kinda sucks, myself.

  [laughs] I don’t like cell phones.

  So what do you do? What’s your line of work?

  I’m a writer.

  You’re a writer? What do you write?

  Books.

  About what?

  Well, I published a book about Federal Way a little while ago…

  Yeah? What’s your name?

  Matthew McIntosh? Probably never heard of me?

  No.

  That’s all right.

  And it got published? About Federal Way?

  Yeah!

  Did you make a million dollars?

  Half a million.

  Really?

  No, not even close. But—

  Cool. What are you writing about now?

  What am I writing about now? I’m writing about America.

  You should write about the destruction of the Northwest! And how the Northwest is all about trees, and you know what, we’re seeing all these trees being cut down at an alarming rate.

  Keep talking.

  Well, what—whatever happened to the passion? Western Washington is about wetlands, and about rains, and about—the Northwest is about our trees. And we’re losing it all. And these stupid developers who think they can still keep moving these wetlands—it’s crazy because one of these days Mother Earth is going to bite us in the butt!

  Shut it down, yeah.

  And all these housing developments that are, popping up over the wetlands, they’re gonna be in trouble. It’s sad.