by S. G. Browne
There’s also a good chance his bouquet of daisies will jump out of his hand and start dancing to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. So I put my head in my hands and stare at the ground, then take several deep breaths and hope no one comes up to talk to me. Right now, I just want to be left alone.
I don’t know how long I stay like this. It seems like a few days but I’m guessing it’s more like a few minutes, since the sun continues to inch its way above the Upper East Side. Plus, when I look up, the guy with the daisies is still sitting across from me, and I doubt he’d still be there after three days.
A woman comes jogging along the pedestrian path toward us and the man stands up, a nervous smile playing at his lips. From the expression on his face, it’s obvious he came here to surprise her. And it occurs to me that this is one of the scenarios I fantasized about when I imagined running into Sophie, only she wouldn’t be jogging. And I would have brought lilies. But otherwise it’s pretty close. So I watch out of curiosity to see what happens, hoping my hallucination has a happy ending.
“Hi Sara,” the man says, raising his right hand in greeting, his left hand wrapped around the bouquet of daisies, which he holds out to her like a peace offering.
Sara doesn’t look thrilled to see him, which isn’t a good sign, for me or for him. Instead, she keeps running as she reaches into her waist belt and pulls something out with her right hand. For a moment it’s concealed by her fingers; then I see that she’s holding a small pink canister. As she runs past him, she raises her right hand and sprays the man in the face.
The man drops the daisies and starts screaming and clawing at his eyes, stumbling and nearly running into a garbage can before he staggers away through the Greywacke Arch toward the Turtle Pond as the woman continues her morning jog and disappears from view.
So much for happy endings.
I look back at the daisies scattered on the ground, the sun still waiting to peek over the high-rent homes and offices lining Fifth Avenue, and I can’t help but think that my hallucination does not bode well for a reconciliation with Sophie.
“That looked like it hurt,” a woman says as she walks past me.
Her red mane of hair cascades over her red turtleneck and her red leather jacket, which match her red leather pants. A red scarf and a red cable-knit beanie finish off the ensemble. She walks over and stands with her hands on her hips, looking toward the Greywacke Arch. “Did that look like it hurt?”
I stare at her, standing there like a giant red exclamation point, and like with everything else that’s happened to me since I woke up this morning, I wonder whether or not she’s real. Considering that the rest of my subconscious is making an appearance this morning, I’m guessing not.
After a moment, I realize my hallucination is waiting for an answer.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” I say. “He doesn’t really exist anyway.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she says, then walks over and sits down on the bench next to me. Her lips are so red it’s like they’re made of candy apples.
“You’re not real, are you?” I ask. “You’re just my imagination fucking with me.”
She shrugs. “I guess that’s all up to interpretation.”
I’m still pretty sure she’s a hallucination, but I figure if I have to hallucinate, at least I picked an attractive figment of my imagination.
We sit in silence a few moments as she taps her foot to some silent beat and the sun finally peeks up over Fifth Avenue, the rays shooting out of the clouds like an homage to God. Then my hallucination stands up and walks over to the bouquet of scattered daisies, picks them up, and comes back and sits down next to me.
“I don’t know why he brought her daisies.” She gives them a light sniff and makes a face as if she just smelled someone’s dirty feet. “He should have brought roses.”
“I don’t think roses would have made a difference,” I say, thinking about the confrontation that was an imaginary representation of my inadequacies as a boyfriend.
“Probably not.” She tosses the daisies aside with an unceremonious flick of her wrist. “He should have brought her lilies, instead.”
And now I know the redhead is just a product of my own subconscious. Otherwise, how would she know Sophie’s favorite flower?
“But enough about his mistakes,” she says. “What we need to focus on is you.”
“Why?” I ask, though I realize she’s really just me talking to myself.
“Because you’ve lost your way and I want to help you get back on the path you were meant to take,” she says. “Back to the person you were born to be.”
It’s as if I’ve hallucinated up my own imaginary therapist.
“I didn’t realize there were multiple versions of me,” I say, playing the role of the patient.
“More like versions that are better and worse,” she says. “And I want to help you reach your full potential.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “But I have to warn you, reaching my potential has always been an issue with me.”
“We’ll work on it,” she says and stands up. “But first we need to get you to the hospital.”
I stand up and walk along beside my hallucination.
“So are you my subconscious?” I ask. “A manifestation of my guilt? Or are you just a chemical reaction in my brain brought on by Isaac’s superpowers?”
“Why don’t you think of me as your fairy godmother?”
“You mean like in Cinderella?” I ask.
“More like in Sleeping Beauty.”
This is one of our poker-night discussions all over again.
“I hope that doesn’t mean I’m going to get raped by a king,” I say, and wonder what this conversation looks like from the outside.
“I’m not going to put you to sleep for a hundred years,” she says. “I’m here to help you get back on your path.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, staying on my path has never exactly been my strong suit.”
“That’s because you lack discipline,” she says.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
We walk out of Central Park and onto Fifth Avenue, where a couple of police cars come racing down the street, sirens wailing.
“The trick to staying on your path is believing in it,” my fairy godmother says. “It’s one thing to seek out your path but it’s another thing to make it your own.”
The neurons in my brain fire, bringing up the memory from Curry in a Hurry and the guy who claimed he was Karma.
Man creates his own destiny. The path you seek is your own.
“We’re talking about my destiny?” I say.
“Sure,” she says. “Why not?”
I stand in front of the Met watching the traffic drive past on Fifth Avenue and think about my destiny. I think about Sophie and the wrinkled fortune in my wallet. I think about Dr. Lullaby and all the people he helped. I think about the love I had and the friends I’ve lost and the confrontation with Isaac that brought me to this moment.
Man creates his own destiny. The path you seek is your own.
“Okay,” I say to the hallucinatory manifestation of my subconscious. “So what’s my destiny?”
Two and a Half Months Later
I’m sitting on a table in an examination room—not in a doctor’s office on the Upper West Side with framed diplomas and family photographs and a window overlooking Riverside Park, but in a health clinic in Long Island City with framed cartoons and posters of reproductive organs and no windows.
“How are you feeling today?” the phlebotomist asks as she draws a sample of my blood into an evacuated tube.
The phlebotomist is female. Mid-thirties. Dark brown hair. She’s wearing just enough makeup to highlight her features. Her breath smells like onions.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Any problems sleeping?” she asks.
“Every now and then.”
“How often?”
“Couple times a week.”
“How’s your appetite?”
“Good,” I say.
She looks down at her list of questions.
“Any nausea?” she asks.
No.
“Seizures?”
No.
“Rashes?”
No.
“Any cognitive issues?” she asks. “Problems with memory?”
I shake my head.
“Have you been hallucinating?”
“No,” I tell her. “No hallucinations.”
That’s not exactly the truth. I’m pretty sure I saw a squirrel follow me onto the subway a few days ago but other than that, my last hallucination was nearly a month ago.
Once she finishes drawing my blood, the phlebotomist hands me a sterile plastic specimen container.
“Remember to put your name and date on it,” she says. “And try to catch the urine midstream.”
I just nod and walk into the bathroom.
After I leave my urine sample, I head to the waiting room and check out with the receptionist, who gives me a smile along with several prescription drug vouchers.
The receptionist is female. Early twenties. Bleached-blond hair. She’s wearing too much eye shadow. Her breath smells like Red Bull.
“Thank you, Mr. Prescott,” she says. “We’ll see you in two weeks.”
° ° °
For the past two and a half months I’ve been going to the health clinic in Long Island City for bimonthly appointments. The blood and urine tests are to check for any signs of bipolar disorder and to test my liver and kidney functions to make sure there’s nothing going on physiologically that may have contributed to my hallucinations.
While I know Isaac’s superpower is responsible, the medical community is a little more pragmatic in their diagnosis. But at least Sophie’s been supportive about everything.
“How was your appointment?” Sophie asks and gives me a kiss before she takes off her work apron.
We’re in the employee break room at Westerly, where Sophie just ended an afternoon shift on her day off covering for a sick coworker. Normally she still works nights, which means we get to spend most days together from morning breath to late-night snack.
“It was good,” I say. “Everything looks normal.”
“Yay!” She gives me a big hug. “How much longer do they think you’ll have to keep taking your medications?”
“Another month or so. They want to continue to monitor my blood and urine, just in case.”
Megan pops into the break room to grab her jacket.
“Hey Lloyd,” she says. “How’s the drug biz?”
“You say that like he’s a cocaine dealer,” Sophie says.
“If he was, he’d be making more than all of us combined,” Megan says. “You’re not holding out on us, are you, Lloyd?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just as financially challenged as you.”
“Too bad. Catch you lovebirds later,” Megan says, then exits, stage left.
“So what’s going on in the world of Westerly?” I ask Sophie.
“We got in a big shipment of fresh organic spinach and asparagus,” she says, putting her apron into her backpack. “Oh, and rhubarb. I’m thinking of making a pie.”
“Sounds yummy.”
I’m not a big fan of rhubarb pie, but considering it’s the closest to a doughnut I’m probably going to get, I’ll take it.
“I’m meeting Leslie for dinner in Koreatown and then we’re thinking of catching a movie,” Sophie says. “Do you want me to bring you something to eat?”
“I’ll grab something on my way home.”
“Okay.” She gives me another kiss. “I love you, Lollipop.”
“I love you, too,” I say, then watch her go.
Once she’s gone, I put on my own apron and walk out into the store, past the hormone- and antibiotic-free meat and poultry; past the organic produce; past the nutritional supplements; past the all-natural, environmentally friendly and cruelty-free body-care products; past the self-service nut grinders and the bulk containers, until I reach the front of the store, where Tony, the Monday-night shift manager, is waiting
“Evenin’ Lloyd,” he says. “Ready for another awesome night?”
“Absolutely,” I say, then take my place behind the counter.
For the past month I’ve been a full-time cashier at Westerly, working nights and weekends six days a week. Sophie got me the interview with her boss and vouched for me. Another two months and I’m past my probationary period and eligible for benefits, including health insurance. That’s a big deal, considering that I’ve been depending on my prescription-drug vouchers.
The afternoon after I was admitted into Mount Sinai Hospital to get treated for my hallucinations, Sophie showed up. She was still my emergency contact, so she came as soon as she could and stayed with me most of the night while I shared my hospital bed with the Seven Dwarfs and watched purple monkeys swing from the ceiling.
At least they didn’t fling any poo at me.
The next day Sophie helped to sign me up at the Long Island City health clinic for their treatment program. While she wasn’t happy with the idea of me putting more drugs into my system, I didn’t have any other options to combat the aftereffects of Isaac’s superpowers. Since I needed to stay with someone who could keep an eye on me, Sophie let me stay at her place and sleep on her couch.
After a week of treatment with antipsychotics, my hallucinations started to tail off. After another week of heart-to-heart talks and a lot of apologizing and truth telling, Sophie invited me back into her bed. Vegan wasn’t thrilled with my return at first, but after I started sneaking him bacon from Flowers Cafe, he warmed up to me.
So for the second time, Sophie came to my rescue and saved me from an existence that would have been far less enjoyable without her in it. I understand how fortunate I am to have her back in my life, and this time I’m determined to not screw it up.
“Welcome to Westerly,” I say with a smile to a fiftyish woman with gray hair who steps up and places a bottle of probiotics and spirulina powder on the counter. “Did you find everything you were looking for?”
Except for the occasional odd squirrel following me onto the subway or phantom crows diving at me from trees and rooftops, my reality has more or less returned to normal. That’s due in large part to Zeprocol, the antipsychotic medication I’ve been taking.
While it’s good to be able to have a conversation with Sophie and not think she’s a talking water buffalo or to walk down the street without encountering a herd of Eddie Murphys, controlling the hallucinations that Isaac inflicted on me doesn’t come without a price. Like any antipsychotic drug, Zeprocol has a litany of side effects, including restlessness, fatigue, dizziness, irritability, constipation, increased appetite, weight gain, runny nose, trouble swallowing, apathy or lack of emotion, impaired judgment or motor skills, seizures, diabetes, and liquid discharge from your nipples.
Fortunately the only side effects I’ve experienced so far have been restlessness, some fatigue and irritability, and an increased appetite, which has led to the expected weight gain. Sophie says it’s not a big deal, that there’s more of me to love, but I don’t like having a muffin top.
I’ve also experienced some mild depression, which isn’t all that surprising when you think about it, so I’ve been prescribed Norvox, which can cause constipation, heartburn, diarrhea, sleeplessness, and an inability to get an erection.
I’m thinking I need to switch to another antidepressant.
But all in all, things are good. True, I never grew up thinking I would be a cashier in an organic health food store, and it’s not the Yankees or Playboy or National Geographic, but it beats sitting in a cubicle all day. Plus I get to work with my girlfriend and fulfill my destiny. How many people get to say that?
“Welcome to Westerly,” I say to a twenty-something guy with dreadlocks who is supporting his low-carb, gluten-free lifestyle. “Did you find everything you were looki
ng for?”
After work, I take the Q train down to Union Square to pay my respects to Randy. It’s not something I even think about anymore, just something I do. Every day, one way or another, I find myself at the George Washington statue. Sometimes it’s just a quick visit. Sometimes I park myself at the foot of the statue with a latte for a half hour or so and tell Randy what’s going on with me. Sometimes I watch the people playing chess and I consider sitting down to play against one of them, but I never do.
Eventually I say good night to Randy and walk along Fourteenth Street to First Avenue, where I stand at the corner in front of Papaya Dog, trying to convince myself this is a bad idea and that I should double back and walk down Second Avenue, instead. Or walk down one more block and go home through Alphabet City. But I was never good at listening to my common sense.
As I walk down First Avenue, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window at Subway and stop to take a look. Even though my hair has begun to reclaim some of its natural color and the wrinkles and bags around my eyes have cleared up, sometimes I still catch myself looking in the mirror and wondering who the stranger is wearing my skin and my face. At moments like this, when I see my faint image looking back at me, I feel like I’m just a ghost of the person I used to be.
Or maybe that’s just the Zeprocol, which in addition to drooling, slurred speech, trembling, clumsiness, unsteadiness, and difficulty with swallowing and breathing, can cause blurred or impaired vision along with a mask-like face.
I stare at my unfamiliar reflection a few moments longer, then continue along First Avenue.
Another side effect of most antipsychotics is insomnia, which is a bigger problem for me than it is for your average person, since insomnia causes my inner Dr. Lullaby to want to come out and play. And that’s something Sophie and I have agreed isn’t a good idea.