As I touched my loved one's bronze features, a gigantic dead fish was slapped on my shoulder, probably a good-size Alaskan halibut. Someone must be playing a practical joke on me, I thought, and I was about to turn and tell Mangrove or Tinkle or whoever it was to cut it out, that they were going to destroy my seersucker jacket with a dead fish, but then the fish turned out to be alive and it bit my right shoulder in half.
Unable to scream—the pain was too great—I turned to face this halibut and I looked into two faraway little holes, gills of some sort, and then another, somewhat larger hole opened and I saw yellow, crushed-together dog fangs and was hit with a vicious breeze that carried the smells of garlic and decomposed animals. I closed my eyes and waited to die, to join Ava in some kind of bronzed heaven. I was obviously being attacked by a fish-dog that wanted to drag me to the underworld. It must be that dog from Hades, I thought. Cerberus. But no one knows he's part fish.
“You like Ava's sculpture?” asked a voice, and since I was sightless, eyes shut, I sensed that the voice was coming from the vicinity of the dog-fish and I couldn't recall Cerberus having the powers of speech, and adding to my confusion, I was sure it was a voice I had heard once before.
I didn't say anything and then the halidog let go of my shoulder and said, “I think it's a wonderful piece. I'm so pleased to have it.”
As these words were spoken, I was smitten by a furnace blast of more garlic and dead animals, which caused me to open my eyes, and at that precise moment a few brain cells must have just been born to compensate for the ones I had been killing all night, and with this slight upgrade of brainpower and sobriety, I realized I was being addressed by Dr. Hibben and not some creature from Hades. He must have slapped his gigantic hand on my right shoulder in friendliness and then given me a playful, affectionate squeeze, but not knowing his own prodigious strength had crushed my shoulder joint like it was a marshmallow. I don't know what he was doing running an artist colony. He should have been working in a gravel pit as some kind of human marvel.
Loosened from his grip, though it was now certain I would never pitch in the major leagues or even brush my hair again, I was able to say, “Yes, it's a wonderful sculpture.” Then several thousand more brain cells were born, very good of them to multiply like that, and I continued, “I love it. I've never seen anything more beautiful.”
“She gave it to me a few weeks ago. I saw it in her studio and I praised it, you know, and then she gave it to me. I tried to say no, but she absolutely insisted. Very generous of her.”
Without being rude, I was trying to retract my neck so as not to inhale Dr. Hibben's fiery breath, which he was shooting down at me from his considerable altitude. I imagine that my posture must have been rather odd—my right arm was dead, and my neck probably looked like something that could hang in the window of a Chinese restaurant.
Cocktail parties, I find, are always minefields of bad breath. If I ever get popular on some sort of social circuit and have to go to a lot of cocktail parties, I might use snorkeling equipment. This way people won't have to smell my breath, which I worry can be quite punishing, and I won't have to smell theirs.
But not having a snorkel or some other filtering device to contend with Dr. Hibben's breath, I looked to Ava's head for courage. “I really do love this sculpture,” I said, which was a more than honest sentiment.
“So do I,” said Dr. Hibben, who had exchanged his seersucker jacket for a harmless, ill-fitting green blazer, which could have upholstered a good-size couch, with enough left over for a nice set of drapes. “And this bust is one-of-a-kind; she literally broke the plaster mold after making only one copy. Dropped it, she said.”
“You're very lucky to have it.” I pushed my neck back another notch, which would have alarmed a chiropractor but might have impressed a yoga teacher.
“Yes, I think so, too,” said Dr. Hibben, smiling.
“Can I buy it from you?” I asked with a sudden inspiration.
“No, no,” he said, and laughed good-naturedly. “I couldn't sell a gift. Also, I adore it and so does my wife, though I'm sure Ava will be flattered to hear that you like her work so much. Maybe there's another piece you can buy. I think it's wonderful, you know, if you can all support each other.”
“I hope to visit her studio and see her work,” I said, and then I thought that better than buying that bust of her head, I would hold her real head in my hands and kiss it. Kiss all of it. Kiss her nose. Kiss her nose a thousand times! I tried to look past Dr. Hibben's considerable frame to see if Ava was at the party, but she didn't seem to be there. If she were, I would have spotted her immediately. Just about everyone else was present, though. We were in what must have been Dr. Hibben's living room. There was a couch and some chairs, and two walls were impressively adorned with loaded bookshelves.
But mostly there were people. All my mad fellow colonists. The place was a riot of conversation, and jazz breathed out of unseen speakers. Tinkle and Mangrove were in a corner, drinking. I longed to join them, both for the company and a fresh drink, but there was no easy way to leave Dr. Hibben, though the forces of the party were bound to separate us; the laws of cocktail parties dictated as much. How long this would take, though, was the unknown, disturbing factor. So in the meantime, I had to be brave and keep going. To distract myself, I threw a question at him, referring to Ava's head: “Is a sculpture of yourself a self-sculpture?”
“I don't know,” he said, and for some reason he closed in on me. I had no more room to back up, neck-wise or body-wise. I was up against the fireplace, trapped. He continued, “No one has asked me that before. Self-sculpture. You're very good with these kinds of questions.”
As he finished his speech, a fresh blast of hot garlic burnt my eyelashes down to their tiny follicle roots. I tried to console myself with the thought that garlic is very good for the immune system, perhaps even when inhaled as secondhand smoke.
The tide of the cocktail party then washed up tiny Charles Murrin onto our little blistered island of two. I blinked at him with unprotected eyes.
“We're talking about Ava's bust,” said Dr. Hibben, addressing Murrin.
“I hope she doesn't mind,” said Murrin mischievously, though none too brilliantly.
Dr. Hibben laughed and I looked from one man to the next, giving myself quite the workout—Murrin just about surpassed Dr. Hibben's belt. Looking at the two of them was like traveling from Miami Beach to the Bay of Fundy and then back again. That is, there was a lot of north-south head-wagging going on.
The party then had another tidal spasm and Dr. Hibben's wife was presented to me. She was a suitable mate. Tall enough to play Olympic volleyball—for the men—and shoulders broad enough upon which to hang several suits at Barneys. If you want numbers, she was about eight feet in men's height, six-four in women's, and she was wearing some kind of coarse brown dress, which in a previous life might have been a tent in the Spanish-American War. It nicely matched her brown eyes, brown hair, brown skin, and brown tongue, which I saw when she said very sweetly, “So nice to meet you, Alan.”
She then offered me her right hand and I offered my right hand, which she proceeded to crush, though not as violently as Dr. Hibben had crushed it earlier that day or as violently as he had crushed my shoulder, but, regardless, it was a good crushing. She could have ripped off the back leg of an elephant with her grip. She and Dr. Hibben must have practiced on each other. Then she politely gave my hand back to me, and I looked forward to its career as a jelly product.
The gods of cocktail parties, sensing that I couldn't take much more, released me from my torture, as I was somehow shifted away from Dr. and Mrs. Hibben and Murrin and was now facing the corner where Mangrove and Tinkle were sucking on wineglasses. I willed myself in their direction. Conveniently, they were located right next to one of those rolling bars. For some reason in my blackout, I had not acquired a drink. I must have seen Ava's head and gone right toward it—her appeal stronger than liquor, which was a good sign.<
br />
Halfway to Mangrove and Tinkle, through the thick crowd, I was stopped by Kenneth. “I saw you cornered by Hibben,” he said. “My heart went out to you, but there was nothing I could do.”
“I think I'm still alive,” I said. “But I'm not sure.”
“You appear to be breathing.”
“Not happily. I'm sorry if this sounds rude, but I think Dr. Hibben ate a clove of garlic before the party. I think my nose may have had a setback in its healing process.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. You did well in the pool today, icing it.”
“I'll try to hold on to that memory; maybe that will remind my body of its earlier gains.”
“Good thinking.” Kenneth smiled handsomely at me, his nose straight and regal. Then he said, “I enjoyed our talk today.”
“Me, too,” I said, which was the truth, and then, lying, I said, “I have to get a drink; I'll be right back.” It was the second part that was a lie. But it's the kind of lie that is spoken so often at cocktail parties that Kenneth simply nodded his head with approval and moved on to someone else, not at all expecting me to return.
I made it to Tinkle and Mangrove, poured myself a glass of wine, ate it, looked at the two of them, and Mangrove said, “Let's get out of here and smoke some pot.”
“You have pot?” asked Tinkle.
“Medical marijuana for my depression,” said Mangrove. “Do you guys want to?”
“Isn't it dangerous to smoke pot here?” I said in a whisper, like a real milquetoast. For some reason smoking marijuana at the Rose Colony seemed terribly illicit. Also, I hadn't smoked pot since college, and back then it never worked well with a bellyful of booze.
“We're not supposed to, of course,” said Mangrove. “But we weren't supposed to smoke those cigars either. At least not in the Mansion.”
“I'd like some pot,” said Tinkle, and I didn't appreciate him acting so bravely. In our little family of three, Mangrove was our leader, an older-brother figure, and I didn't want him approving of Tinkle more than me; I was an only child without brothers, but this was my natural, fraternally competitive response. I felt the need to vie against Tinkle for Mangrove's affection.
“I'd like some, too,” I then said, with false bravery, and so we quit the party to go smoke pot, which was sure to mingle quite disastrously, I thought, with all the wine and whiskey I had consumed. But if it was truly medical marijuana, I reasoned, then there could also be benefits for my numerous and growing list of wounded organs—liver, brain, nose, bruised torso, and the most recent members of the infirmary, my right shoulder and hand.
CHAPTER 30
Serotonin SpringsParadise Lost in SpaceWe all join the navyThe escape pod is activatedWe take the waters
“I'm so glad I came to Serotonin Springs,” I said, “and met you fellows.”
“What did you say?” asked Tinkle. He looked at me as if he were peering up from the bottom of a deep well. The marijuana had sent him very far inside himself. He was lying on his bed; I was at the desk chair again; and Mangrove was in the easy chair, hunched over, preparing another bowl of his medical marijuana in his small ceramic pipe. We had smoked several already. I was planning on attending Woodstock and had made a mental note to finally read the poetry of Allen Ginsberg.
“I'm so glad I came to Serotonin Springs,” I repeated.
“Saratoga Springs!” said Tinkle.
“That's what I said.”
“No, you said Serotonin Springs.”
“You did say Serotonin Springs,” said Mangrove sagely.
I traveled back in time, replayed my speech, and realized that they were correct. I had said Serotonin Springs! How curious!
“You're right,” I said to my two friends. In that moment, I loved them both very much. The marijuana had me feeling as beneficent as the Dalai Lama. “I guess it was all that talk earlier of serotonin. … But what if this place is loaded with serotonin? That would be incredible. Then people could really come here and get cured and not just pretend to be cured.”
I was referring to Saratoga's history as a spa, which it was as well known for as its racetrack. In fact, it occurred to me in a stoned instant of great vision, as I sat there in Tinkle's room, that the wealthy people, the ones who had abandoned Sharon Springs for Saratoga Springs at the end of the nineteenth century, probably needed diversion while soaking in the baths and taking the waters and so had built themselves a racetrack. The two had gone hand in hand, I realized. Water and then horses. You can lead a horse to water, I said to myself, and maybe you can't make it drink, but you can make it run! The history of Saratoga was summed up in the phrase you can lead a horse to water! The town tourist bureau could use it as its slogan! It combined the track and the spa! Maybe the town would pay me for this sentence! I wanted to share my marijuana-induced bit of marketing genius and insight into the history of Saratoga with my friends, but before I could do so, Mangrove said:
“You know, they'd make millions if those fountains in town were coughing up liquid antidepressants.”
“If you drank it,” said Tinkle, “you could take off that patch and use both your eyes again.”
Suddenly a new fantastic idea replaced my thoughts about a good touristic slogan for Saratoga. I could hardly keep up with myself. It was like the northern lights were going off in my head.
I said, with great cannabis-sparked enthusiasm, “Yes, Reginald, you could heal yourself. You see, we three are like space travelers searching for serotonin. We're searching because we're so depressed and crazed, each in our own way, sort of like superheroes, but instead of superpowers we have superafflictions. And because we're so depressed and screwed up, we landed in the wrong spot. We thought Saratoga Springs was Serotonin Springs. We read it wrong on our galactic map, and now we're stuck here. Our ship broke…. I don't know if this really happened, but it could be a science fiction movie. A science fiction movie that's also a comedy, since it's about reading a map wrong and being depressed…. I was going to write this screenplay about homosexuals taking over Nantucket after I finish my novel, but this serotonin movie could be the next thing I write. You guys could help me if you like. Screenplays often have numerous writers.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Tinkle.
“I'm talking about a screenplay about the three of us as space travelers searching for serotonin.”
“That's not a bad idea,” said Tinkle, sitting up. “In Dune they're searching for spice. What would you call the movie?”
“I think just Serotonin Springs.”
“No, that's no good,” said Mangrove.
“Lost in Space,” offered Tinkle.
“That fits, but it's been used,” said Mangrove.
“You're right,” said Tinkle. “I can't believe I forgot…. But I never realized what a great title that is until just now.”
“Lost in Space is very beautiful as a title,” I said. “I guess anything with the word lost is always pretty good…. We could call it Paradise Lost in Space, which would be a funny mixture of two mediums, or just Lost.”
“The word space is also beautiful,” said Tinkle. “Space. Space. Space. Hear how beautiful it is? I can hear Kirk's voice saying, ‘Space, the final frontier,’ at the beginning of Star Trek, and that sounds really beautiful to me right now…. But I wish I could watch an episode of Lost in Space. I haven't seen it in years. It's weird. I have mental munchies for a TV show.”
“I think you should call the movie The Lost Depressives,” said Mangrove.
“I like that, too,” said Tinkle.
“It's very strong,” I said. “But what about The Three Lost Depressives?”
“No,” said Mangrove. “Just The Lost Depressives.”
“You're right,” I said. “It's unusual for a science fiction movie, but I think it's okay.”
Pleased with our work on the title, Mangrove lit a match and took a luxurious hit from his pipe and passed it around. We then washed down our lungfuls of smoke with some more of Tinkle's
whiskey. I was quite pleased that I seemed to be maintaining consciousness. I also wasn't vomiting, which had happened to me a few times in college when I mixed booze and marijuana, once notably destroying a white dinner jacket I had worn to parties all junior year as a fetishistic nod to my hero and fellow Princetonian Fitzgerald.
Mangrove excused himself and went to the bathroom. He returned almost immediately. I said to them both, “Have you guys ever noticed that when someone else goes to the bathroom, it seems to take no time at all?”
“I've noticed that,” said Tinkle.
“Me, too,” said Mangrove. “Though I'm surprised you experienced that just now. Time is usually different on marijuana. It elongates. One minute would normally feel like ten minutes.”
“Maybe the bathroom thing trumps the effects of marijuana,” I said.
“Possibly,” said Mangrove. “Anyway, I was thinking we should go to a spring in town and see if it has serotonin. It might actually have lithium. That would be good.”
“I have a car,” I said. “I can drive us in. I saw a mineral fountain near the library today.”
“Let's go,” said Tinkle. He was in a good mood now. Full of life.
“My car will be like an escape pod, since our main spaceship broke down,” I said.
“Yes, let's get in the escape pod,” said Mangrove.
“Reginald, you should be our commander, since you're like our leader,” I said.
“I'm your leader?”
“I think so. There's something tragic and heroic about you, which is good for leading.”
“Yes, you're our leader,” said Tinkle.
“We're kind of like a space navy,” I said. “And you, Alan, can be our science officer. You're Science Officer Alan Tinkle, played by Alan Tinkle.”
“All right,” said Tinkle.
“I'll be the sergeant, since I fly the escape pod. I don't know if they have sergeants in the navy, but maybe they have them in space navies.”
Wake Up, Sir!: A Novel Page 25