The Subject Steve: A Novel

by Sam Lipsyte

  He went back to the corner and turned the crank.

  I woke up next to the dead fire, my cuffs cut away. There was a note in one of my shoes: "Welcome to the World of Self-Born Men. P.S. Given your condition, you are relieved of kitchen duty for the rest of the week."

  I stumbled out of the hut, fell a few times running down the hill trail, ripped my shins on roots and stones. My bones were making soft, sifting noises. I had to blow blood from my nose to breathe.

  Old Gold stood at the gate. He'd gotten his knife out, and by his expression appeared to be already picturing some triumphal display of my pancreas.

  "Come to keep me company?" he said.

  "I'm walking through this gate, Gold."

  "My job will be to stop you."

  "Fair enough," I said. "But there's something you should keep in mind. I have nothing to lose. I'm a fucking terminal. Doesn't that resonate with you?"

  "Folks who really got nothing to lose, they just go ahead and do the stuff they want to do, Steve. They sure as shit don't make speeches about it."

  "All right," I said. "What if I forget about the gate? What if I go through the trees?"

  "Trees is fine," said Old Gold. "My thing is here at the gate."

  "Bless you for your thing," I said.

  I cut back around the dining hall, hacked through some poison sumac to the road. Now I'd have rashes in my wounds. Well, sure, why not? What kind of hellishness stinted on rashes? I stood out past the gate, looked back towards the compound, the blunted cone of Mount Redemption rising up behind it. I'd never found out if it was the cure or the disease that would cure me of my disease. Fat chance I ever would. I watched Old Gold punch the gate post for a while. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight.

  He saw me, waved.

  Pangburn Falls was a ghost of itself, a dead old barge town. I walked the main drag, boulevard of broken riverine hope, decrepit colonials, clapboard rot. Ancient porches slid down to junkyard lawns. Bent bicycles, rusted barbells, bladeless fans. All my father's owner's manual agon ended in this place. Here rested the gadget dead. I heard a whinny, a snort. Down the street a palomino drank from an inflatable kiddie pool.

  There was a gas station up ahead, warm window neon, a lit sign spinning in the mist. They were advertising something called half-serve at the pumps. Some men stood near a tow rig with hot coffee and crullers.

  "Hey, look," said one in coveralls. "It's a bust-out."

  I readied for flight. I wondered if I had it in me for sustained fleeing. There was a shopping mall on the other side of the river. Parking lot, pink stucco, brick. What would I do if I got there? Hide behind a rack of sport coats? Beg the grill cooks for a fry boy hat?

  One of the men by the tow rig made a hard fart.

  "Dragon tail," he said, darted into the repair bay.

  "How's the freak life, freak?" said a kid with long hair and T-shirt that read: I Skull-Fucked Your Dead Mother Today, What'd You Do?

  Must share a mail-order club with Parish, I thought.

  "I'm tired of the freak life, tell you the truth," I said.

  I tried to coo it country.

  "Where you from?" said the man in coveralls.

  "South of here."

  "South you mean the city?"

  "Yeah."

  "I got a daughter there."

  "Doubt I know her."

  "What, you think I'm some kind of moron?"

  "No."

  "I'm just letting you know that I sympathize."

  "Sympathize?"

  "Fish out of water," he said.

  "Fish a-floppin'," said the kid with the T-shirt. "Ready for the blade de filet."

  "Blade de what?" said the first man. "Don't mind Donald. He's stifled. My name's Steve."

  "They call me that, too," I said.

  Steve led me back through the repair bay.

  "Take a load off. I'll get some coffee. Cream?"

  "Thanks."

  I fell asleep in the chair. Later someone was shaking me awake. Steve handed me a mug of coffee, leaned back on a gunmetal desk littered with invoice slips. I checked the cup for advertising slogans. Ancient reflex, I guess. Steve's Auto Repair , it said, Fixin' Since Nixon .

  Rookies.

  "We got one of you guys a few years ago," said Steve. "Looked like hell. Told us some crazy shit about how he'd failed to be a good mother, something like that. What's that about? It sounded somehow faggot-related. Like from the urban gay subculture."

  "I'm not sure what it's about," I said.

  "I'm not a homophobic, you know."

  "I didn't know that," I said.

  "Got a brother in the bi-lifestyle."

  "Look," I said. "I'm not sure what it's all about. All I know is I've got to get back to the city."

  "Reminds me of before. When old Heinrich had the prison camp. Better than a real prison, far as business around here went. Too bad he got all artsy fartsy. Though it looks like he's still getting his licks in. Boy, are you a sight. You know, my pops was on the march to Bataan."

  "Can I use your phone?" I said.

  "You know about Bataan?"

  "I saw a movie."

  "The movie captured about one percent of the horror, my friend."

  "I got the idea, though."

  "And about three percent of the idea."

  "I'm sorry about Bataan. Tell your father I'm sorry about it."

  "I will. That's kind of you. Guess I'll go over to the cemetery this afternoon and inform him of your concern. Want to come, asshole? Phone's right there."

  I called Fiona.

  "Daddy, where are you?"

  "I'm in hell, baby," I said.

  "Is there a bus?" said Fiona.

  "Is there a bus?" I asked Steve.

  "Of course there's a bus," he said.

  Fiona put fifty-three dollars' worth of motor oil she would never need on her mother's credit card. Steve counted out the cash.

  "If you'd been more knowledgeable about Jap atrocities," he said, "I just might have given you the dough for the ticket straight up. But you see my predicament."

  The bus didn't leave for a few hours. I hitched a ride with Donald to the hospital.

  "I'm going that way, anyway," he said. "You might want to get some stitches or something. Or a body cast."

  "I like your T-shirt," I said.

  "It's meant to be provocative," he said. "I'm not really such a bad guy. I'm just stifled."

  Local needlepoint adorned the walls of the Pangburn Falls Medical Clinic like cheery exhortations to liver failure. Everything stank of Lysol and meaningless neighborly death. An enormous woman in stretch pants approached me with a wooden clipboard and a pencil with a fluffy feather on it.

  "Name, insurance company, complaint," she said.

  Then she looked up from her clipboard.

  "Oh my fucking word," she said.

  The needlepoint sampler on the far wall read "God's on Duty." I studied it for days, maybe more than days, that pale stitchwork, those fleeces of cloudbank at the corners. When I felt up to moving my eyes a bit I commenced analysis of the fiberboard panels in the ceiling-like snowflakes, no two chemical flecks were alike-and the tulips going to dead rot on the windowsill.

  My head was halo'd, stilled with welds. The rest of me was set in traction, some kind of high-tech mold.

  A woman walked into my room, laid her hand on my mold.

  "A man's home is his cast," she said.

  I said nothing.

  "Don't say anything," said the woman. "My name is Dr. Cornwallis. You've been severely injured. You're lucky the shock got you here. Now did you understand that the first thing I said to you was a pun? Do you like puns?"

  My eyes went tulipward.

  "Don't shake your head," said Dr. Cornwallis. "Nobody really likes puns. Even the good ones grate. There's a theory that chronic punning is a neurological disorder. Blink if you find that hypothesis remotely intriguing. Blink if you wish me to speak in less mannered style."

  I was mute for
another month.

  * * *

  Then I said something, a word.

  The night nurse said the word was Steve. She said this the next night. Steve was her dead son's name, and she wanted to know if he'd given me any kind of message to deliver before Jesus released me on my own recognizance, as he sometimes did, when someone dies but still has a job to do, like deliver a message.

  "Steve said to say he loves you," I said.

  "That's it?"

  "He's sorry he didn't listen to you more. About drugs and stuff. You know, how you shouldn't do them until you fall in love."

  I felt suddenly groggy.

  "I feel suddenly groggy," I said.

  "How did he look?" said the night nurse.

  "Who?" I said.

  "My boy."

  "The light was too bright. All I saw was this bright light."

  I noticed now I was out of the mold, could use my hands. I used them to shape the idea of light.

  "How did he sound?" said the night nurse.

  "Like heavenly-like."

  "What else?"

  "Wings," I said.

  "Wings?"

  "Wings," I said.

  The night nurse wiped my halo with a fold of gauze.

  "Golly," she said. "Your holes look infected."

  She pushed the gauze through a flap in the wall.

  "What do you mean?" I said.

  She stood, rolled my tray away.

  "What if I need to reach my tray?" I said.

  "What if?" said the night nurse. She used her hands to make the shape of if, or maybe it was what.

  I waited for the day nurse.

  Dr. Cornwallis poked her head into my room.

  "I'm just poking my head in," she said.

  "Okay," I said.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "Not so hot," I said.

  "I wouldn't think so," said Dr. Cornwallis. "I'd be hard pressed to believe you if you told me you were feeling hot. That's what I told Sally. I told Sally you've been traumatized, and as a result you've experienced severe trauma. I'm talking about the wings incident. May I extend an apology on your behalf?"

  "Extend," I said.

  "Excellent," said Dr. Cornwallis. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "My tray."

  "I'll get someone to come push it closer," said Dr. Cornwallis.

  "Can't you do it?"

  "I wish I could."

  "Maybe God could do it," I said. "He's on duty."

  "That's a joke, right?" said Dr. Cornwallis.

  "Yes," I said.

  "No, I just wanted to make sure it wasn't a pun."

  * * *

  The day nurse was Donald, the stifled guy from the gas station. He walked in, winked, rolled my tray back to my bed. He had his hair up in pigtails, a pentagram pinned to his scrubs.

  "Don't worry about the dead kid thing," said Donald. "Sally's all hung up on her dead kid."

  "How'd he die?" I said.

  "Kid-type thing. Chased a ball into the street. Me, I have children, they aren't getting any balls, that's for sure. No balls, no horseshoes, none of that shit."

  "Do you remember me?" I said.

  "Sure. From the Shell. You looked even worse then."

  "How do I look now?"

  "Like you chased a ball into the street."

  "Can I see? Can you bring me a mirror?"

  "I'd advise against it," said Donald. "Maybe down the road."

  I pointed up at the pentagram.

  "Satan?" I said.

  "Donald," said Donald.

  Dr. Cornwallis poked her head into my room.

  "Just thought I'd poke my head in," she said.

  "Poke away," I said.

  "We need to talk."

  "Let's talk," I said.

  "It's about your finances, or lack thereof. Your coverage has expired."

  "I've reached the maximum amount of maximum expenditure."

  "That's what I've been given to understand by Ms. Kincaid."

  "My old pen pal."

  "You're going to have to leave, I'm afraid."

  "You can't do that," I said.

  "We do it all the time."

  "What about your hypocritical oath?"

  "Now that's a pun."

  "Sorry," I said.

  "I've fulfilled my oath. I've treated you for your injuries. I can't help it if you have a preexisting condition."

  "Preexisting?" I said.

  The doctor pulled a shiny book from her doctor pocket.

  PREXIS:THE RACE AGAINST PERSONAL EXTINCTION

  by Leon Goldfarb, M.D., and Vaughn Blackstone, D.D.S.

  "Blackstone's a dentist?" I said.

  "I know the cover looks a little gaudy," said Dr. Cornwallis, "but it's quite a good book. It was given to me by a man who works at the alternative healing outreach program here at the hospital. We're trying to widen the scope of our treatment. Maybe there's a place for you there. Wen said there might be a place for you there."

  "Wen?"

  "Wendell Tarr is his name."

  "The Wanderer Wendell," I said.

  "Oh, he pretty much stays around here. Anyway, the alternative program is really your only alternative, given your lack of coverage. We make exceptions in the alternative program with regard to coverage, whereas in the traditional-"

  "Okay," I said.

  "Wonderful," said Dr. Cornwallis. "Now get out of bed. Let's see if you can walk."

  I could walk. Waddle, rather. I could bend a bit, swivel, squat. It hurt. Not like it hurt in the hut, but it hurt. I figured I'd shake out the pain for a minute, make a dash for it, the door.

  I made a dash for the door. Dr. Cornwallis had to call Donald in from the hall. He picked me up, toweled me off where I'd pissed my gown.

  "Thanks," I said.

  "It's what I do," said Donald.

  The next morning I had a visitor. He stood near the window for a while, sniffed the dead flowers, glanced up, glided over. There was something of the sea in him. A man who swam with dolphins, maybe, manatees. I could see us underwater near a reef. We weren't talking. We were squeaking. We were genius mammals of the sea. Then the gentleman started talking.

  "Call me Wen," he said.

  "The Wanderer Wendell," I said.

  "Call me Wen," said the Wanderer.

  "Wen," I said.

  "You need to get well," he said. "In all ways. I'd like to escort you now to the Alternative Outreach Wing. But it's really inreach, really. I want to say that up front. Any questions?"

  "Yes," I said. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

  "Aren't you?"

  "No, I mean they talk about you. Please note."

  "You liked that," said Wen.

  "Yeah."

  "Mythology. Schoolyard stuff. Remember the kid who stuck his hand out the bus window?"

  "Got lopped off."

  "Did it?" said Wen.

  He held up his hand at a squid-like tilt.

  "It's right here," he said. "The motion it's making means come with me."

  I followed him down some dingy corridors. We passed more needlepoint, doors ajar to sun-soaked rooms.

  "Right up here," said Wen. He slapped his palm on a button on the wall. The button was palm-sized. A pair of glass doors parted.

  "By the way, we don't use painkillers in this wing."

  "What do you use?"

  "For what?"

  Wen took me to a room like my room in the other wing, but no needlepoint.

  He said to get some rest. We'd begin that afternoon.

  "Begin what?"

  "That's your decision," said Wen.

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Well, you're dying. Maybe we should deal with that first."

  "I'm not dying," I said.

  "Au contraire, amigo," said Wen.

  He flipped the PREXIS book onto my bed. The chrome type on his copy had a slightly different tint, a blurb emblazoned across the top-" 'Read it before your line dies out!'-Dr.
Lauren Lovinger."

  "Peruse at your leisure," said Wen.

  I got into bed and started to leaf through the preface.

  Not surprisingly, it was only after the results of the most routine of checkups for the most routine of men were faxed to us with some peculiar queries, that the hunt for PREXIS really began. . . . The subject had an admittedly rough time adjusting to the truth of his condition . . . countless blind alleys and false starts later the race was on! . . . Maybe I wasn't a circus caliber juggler, but I was good enough to dream. . . . Like the proverbial horse of proverb, you can lead a man to the laboratory, but you can't make him fully confront the implications of the data. . . . Nobody, of course, with our current technological capabilities, can really know what death feels like. . . .

  I drifted off hearing Heinrich's voice.

  "Falanga," it said. "Oh, dear Christ, sing it, Falanga!"

  Lem Burke was at the window when I woke. He was squeezing whiteheads through his chin fuzz, putting the pus up to sunlight, making odd snorts I took for empirical glee.

  "Breakthrough?" I said.

  Lem flicked his pore goo at the window pane.

  "Morning."

  "Never thought I'd see you again," I said.

  "How much did you think about it?"

  "Are you here with your mother?"

  "Figured she'd give Wendell a whirl," he said. "She's a guru addict, I guess."

  "We all need love," I said.

  "Bullshit," said Lem. "We all need bullshit."

  I did have pity for the kid. Born in a bubble of babble, shuttled from one freak retreat to the next. So knowing, but what did he know? Estelle once claimed to have home-schooled him. I think that meant she gave him a couple of coloring books, left him alone to talk to himself.

  "I'm supposed to take you to group."

  Lem led me down to an airy dayroom. People in pajamas sat in slat-backed chairs. Wen was there, wearing a sweater with tiny felt animals sewn on it.

  "My name is Wen," he said, "and I'm feeling what I'm feeling today."

  I took a seat, looked around at all this pain, puff-eyed, in flame-retardant cotton.

  There's an air hockey table in the dayroom, and when I'm not too busy feeling what I'm feeling, I'm taking Lem in three-out-of-fives for the day-old doughnuts Nurse Donald sneaks us from the cafeteria. Cudahy and I used to play on a table just like this one in his father's basement, until the Thornfield boys took a clawhammer to it. The world is full of sore losers. Some go on to win with great bitterness, too. Me, I've just always loved the sound of these babies warming up, all that air hockey air jetting up through holes.