Side Effects

by Harvey Jacobs

  Simon sensed that, along with the universe, he was a favorite topic of scientific conversation. It was hard enough thinking about Rowena and Robert J. fucking upstairs. He had to accept the fact that the boy with his head in a water cooler probably reminded the NASA contingent of an alien sent to spy on their doings.

  At least the conventioneers laughed once in a while, even if they were laughing at him. They got into hot arguments about orbital velocity and windows of opportunity while other guests lay sucking up sun, waiting out the endless hours. After four perfect days and three glorious nights in paradise, Simon would have welcomed a vacation in the void, somewhere out past Jupiter.

  Robert J. and Rowena did their best to cheer him up when they took time off from screwing but Simon slid deeper into the sludge of depression. He saw himself as a burden to the lovers, and nothing but a few cheap yuks to the star gazers, no more than a third-rate eclipse casting shadows over the planet.

  At dawn, on his fifth day in Florida, Simon wrote a long, sincere farewell note on fancy Sonesta Beach Hotel stationery with a deckle edge. He left the note on top of his pillow, quit his room, headed downstairs, sprinted through the lobby then ran past the pool area to the hotel’s strip of private beach. He squatted on a dune looking out toward the salty ocean world where things with claws, pincers, tentacles, fins, tails and spiked teeth held dominion.

  It made total sense that he belonged out there, drifting with debris, seaweed and jellyfish. He could listen to the latest whale songs, ride manta rays, feel the pull of the moon. If he drowned, he would leave his bleached, empty shell to his parents, a splendid wedding gift by any standard. Rowena could keep it in her curio cabinet or Robert J. could put it on display at Quikpix for a conversation piece.

  Simon took a few deep, bubbly breaths, unscrewed the glass helmet, unbuckled his air tanks, disconnected his sound system, stripped off his clothes and took a slow walk toward the breakers. He waited for a wave he liked and dove in, swimming toward Atlantis, wondering if his gills could handle seawater.

  They could.

  Simon Apple was jolted to a new level of consciousness. He did flips and turns, popped up and down like a dolphin, paddled through assorted tropical fish glittering like costume jewelry, then let himself sink like a stone. He sat counting oysters and clams, floated up like a cork, touched his hands to his toes then swam through random shafts of rainbow-colored light, frisky as a sardine, exuberant in his proper element.

  Simon lay on his back thinking about food. It might be that he’d learn to digest plankton, sea worms, strange plants, whatever was digestible, or he could simply starve to death. It didn’t seem a pressing problem but it was something to consider. He dredged up ancient tales about long-lost keepsakes found in the belly of a captured flounder or mangled inside a Great White; it was entirely possible that bits and pieces of Simon Apple would turn up at the Edible Aquarium fish market back in Glenda.

  Those thoughts dissipated when Simon saw a school of creatures swimming above him, skimming the water’s surface. They moved like dolphins but had neither fins nor tails. Simon detected a distinct resemblance to people but wondered why ordinary humans would be so far from land. He juggled the possibility that he was in the presence of mermaids, mermen or, more likely, some unknown species.

  Not knowing what those life forms might consider food, Simon carefully rose closer to the surface. He found himself looking into Asian faces. At least a hundred men, women and children were kicking splashing or floating, some clinging to rubber tires and wooden crates. Unless the currents of time and distance were very different in his watery world, he was pretty sure he hadn’t covered enough distance from Sonesta Beach to reach the Orient. Whoever they were, the whole school of swimmers passed over him in a few minutes. He chose not to be too curious but it did seem as if they followed the tide toward shore.

  When they were gone, Simon allowed his head to breach and scan the surrounding ocean like a periscope. He saw nothing but whitecaps and foam except for a red dot bobbing like a buoy. Simon swam toward it despite his inclination to remain uninvolved.

  The dot grew larger. He suspected it was a small boat but on closer inspection it turned out to be a rubber raft, half submerged. Closer yet, he saw that a boy of five or six hung from its side screaming incomprehensible words at a high-flying gull. When Simon popped up beside him, the kid let out a piercing yowl; he wasn’t expecting company. “Take it easy,” Simon said softly. “Just calm down.”

  The raft was sinking fast; the boy would soon be quiet enough. Simon tried to tell himself that if he were a squid or an octopus, which he practically was, one more drowned kid would hardly be worth a squirt of ink. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said. “Don’t you know better?”

  Simon knew it was an idiotic remark but he also knew that if he pulled that howler back to land there was a good chance he might be spotted by Robert J. and his ersatz mother who were probably out looking for him along with half the Coast Guard. “Easy does it,” Simon said. “You know what I think? I think you are one lucky Chinese communist.”

  It took nearly an hour to shepherd the boy to land. Simon had planned to dump him in the surf and let him crawl to the beach but a huge wave tumbled them both onto warm, white sand. The child was coughing and still screaming. Simon was panting, exhausted, oxygen deprived, his head whirling, but he could see a cluster of men in black suits, some holding guns, running toward them.

  At least one of the approaching faces was familiar. More than familiar. It was the number one man himself, President Richard Millhouse Nixon; Simon couldn’t mistake those squinty eyes and that ski jump nose.

  “Fucking Cubans,” he heard the President say, “Cocksucking freeloaders.”

  The man nearest him said. “My educated guess is the child appears to be Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese or Thai, sir. And instinct tells me that the gasping young man is a circumcised Caucasian. Look at his organ.”

  “You’re right,” Nixon said. “Headline: dick declares dick more yid than yang. Unbelievable how they push their noses in everyplace. Kissinger will love this story.”

  The black suits arranged themselves in a protective circle around the President as a small army came rushing over the dunes: cops, state troopers, reporters, photographers, a TV crew and then Robert J. yelling, “Thank God!” Rowena was behind him carrying Simon’s life support system, muttering about miracles. Simon rolled onto his belly to hide his privates as flash bulbs blasted. The boy he’d rescued jumped on top of him and held on tight.

  “What were you up to this time?” Robert J. said while Rowena pulled off the child, sat Simon up and got him back on life support.

  “Nothing,” Simon said between bubbles. “I went in for a swim. I saw this kid so I brought him in.”

  “Illegals,” a hefty cop said. “We rounded up most of them. The others won’t get far, I promise you that, Mr. President.” Almost on cue, an Asian woman dashed from behind a clump of beach plums. Her dress was in shreds, soaking wet, her long hair a black scribble. “Shen Wa!” she blurted, “Shen Wa!”

  One of the President’s men tackled her flat. The slobbering boy pushed past a cameraman and ran to her, speaking a sing-song language that sounded to Simon like it came through his nostrils.

  “The way we read it,” the tallest of the black suits said, “a ship jettisoned a whole cargo of illegals when a lookout sighted one of our Coast Guard helicopters. They appeared to be headed for Miami or Lauderdale.”

  “Isn’t it usually freeloading Cubans?” President Nixon said.

  “Absolutely, sir,” the beefy cop said. “Nine times out of ten, Cubans. But sometimes . . .”

  “Spicks or chinks, what’s the difference?” Nixon said.

  “Mr. President, the press,” an aide said.

  The President turned toward a television camera, composing himself, molding his Playdo face into a paternal smile. “Today we have still more proof that untold numbers of the oppressed are ready to risk the
ir lives and the lives of their children to come to our land of opportunity. I just wish Fidel or Mao were here to see this. They might learn something about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And that young American who risked his life to save a helpless boy, who is he?”

  “He’s my son, Simon Apple, sir,” Robert J. said. “We’re guests at the hotel.”

  “May I inquire as to why there’s a water bottle covering his head?” Nixon said.

  “It’s a complicated story,” Robert J. said. “It takes some explaining.”

  “Explain,” one of the men in black suits said. “The President is waiting.”

  “Yes, I would like to know about our proud hero,” Nixon said, making V signs at the camera with the middle fingers of both hands.

  “Well, we think it has to do with Viloxidril,” Rowena Apple said, adjusting Simon’s filter. Agent Brian Beem of the Secret Service slapped her hand away from the device and examined it for any sign of explosives.

  “What exactly is Viloxidril?” the President said. “It sounds vaguely familiar.”

  “Simon’s condition might be a side effect from the medication he takes to counteract a reaction to Hercumite, You know, Nonacripthae.” Robert J. said. “Viloxidril. It’s a wonderful drug developed by Regis Pharmaceuticals.”

  “There’s the connection. Regis Van Clay,” the President said. “Standup man. Friend of the party. Mmmmm.”

  “The problem is, our boy experienced side effects. Ictopera Aqueous Resperacion. He grew gills.”

  “The bad comes with the good,” Nixon said. “Isn’t that the way of things?”

  On the television news that night, Simon saw President Nixon holding Shen Wa on one arm while he patted Simon’s bottle with the other. Mrs. Nixon stood smiling at Shen Wa’s mother. The President answered questions about granting asylum to the intruders, explaining that the matter was under investigation by the proper authorities. “We cannot throw open the floodgates of massive immigration,” Nixon said, “but there’s always room for a few droplets to slip between the cracks.” Then, massaging Simon’s bottle, the President spoke about the importance of funding medical research to cure “even the most obscure afflictions plaguing some of our finest citizens. One victim is one too many!” He turned to Simon. “Stay on your meds,” Nixon said. “Don’t forget those little magical little pills, son.”

  An hour after the telecast, Simon got a call from his biological mother.

  “Congratulations, Simon,” Francine said after identifying herself, “considering what happened today I’m sure you have a guardian angel watching over you. I’m calling because I want you to know that tonight you were Bar Mitzvahed in Jerusalem. I hired a surrogate to stand in for you. There’s a sect that does what they call a truncated service for the children of mixed marriages. So think of yourself as at least half a man.”

  “You should have asked me first,” Simon said.

  “Are you turning your back on your heritage?”

  “It’s not that. I don’t know if they’re allowed to Bar Mitzvah a fish, and the guardian angel you mentioned might be a porpoise. I’m not sure what I am.”

  “Nonsense,” Francine said. “Stop that kind of talk. People far worse off than you lead long, productive lives. Besides, God is generous about who gets into heaven.”

  “I didn’t know you were into God and religion,” Simon said.

  “What has God got to do with religion?” Francine said. “There’s God and there’s religion. Listen, Simon, don’t think for a second that your father and his new sex kitten won’t try to make a hundred percent goy out of you. It’s a power thing. Trust me, those people get more Catholic with age. After fifty, they go shopping for halos. But it’s the mother who decides what you are and I’m still your mother. And you’re much too immature to know your own mind about such things. By the way, happy birthday. I can’t believe my boy is thirteen. A regular teenager. Mazeltov.”

  “My birthday was three months ago,” Simon said.

  “Tonight I mailed you a card with a twenty dollar bill inside,” Francine said. “Buy something you really want. And give my regards to your new friend, the President.”

  Back in Glenda, Simon spent the twenty at Schneir’s Department Store where the Apples were listed. He bought Robert J. and Rowena a matched set of silver-plated salt and pepper shakers shaped like frogs.

  28

  The Regis Pharmaceuticals Research & Development Center in Bogota, New Jersey, was invisible from the highway that led to Manhattan. The company banner, a black R on a field of red, white and blue stripes, flew at the top of a tower that held microwave transmitters and satellite dishes. The tower was flanked by administrative buildings, laboratories, a tidy zoo where birds and beasts (monkeys, pigs, cows, horses, snakes, cats, dogs) were kept for use in tests.

  Near the zoo, a Quonset hut held hundreds of cages filled with mice and gerbils carrying various strains of disease ranging from the exotic to the mundane. There were greenhouses filled with plants and trees gathered from every continent. Recently, a small, rotunda had been added to house assorted life forms from the world’s oceans, rivers, lakes and ponds. Fanning out from the rotunda were tanks of different sizes, a power station, a disposal unit where waste was incinerated, a cafeteria, gym and daycare center for employees, a concrete field crowded with parked trucks, cars, and a loading dock that linked to a network of train tracks.

  A chain link fence surrounded the facility. Security cameras were mounted on tall lampposts. Armed guards manned a booth overlooking the single access road. That impressive anatomy was interlaced with a complex pattern of multicolored pipes threaded like blood vessels nourishing the corporate heart: a pyramid of glass and steel where Regis Van Clay ruled from an office at its pointed pinnacle.

  Regis’s suite was pristine—white walls bare of artwork, a white carpet, white chairs, white file cabinets, a white amoeba-shaped desk holding a bouquet of white pens and pencils and a white telephone. Small white boxes jutting from the ceiling blew sterilizing puffs of lemon-scented mist at two-minute intervals. A bank of white-rimmed TV screens built into a trim white metal cabinet displayed the latest news from Wall Street and real-time quotes from the stock and commodities exchanges in New York, Chicago, Toronto, Paris, London, Tokyo, Singapore and Melbourne; Regis called those flashing numbers “the world’s cardiogram.” Watching the numerals stream, even in times of severe financial gyration, was more tranquilizing to him than staring at the affirming flow of waves from the deck of his Hampton mansion.

  Those video screens were the only color in the room except for Regis’s rosy skin, porcelain green eyes, bluish lips and a purple vein that ran from his forehead to his right temple, his trademark double-breasted navy blazer with its monogrammed gold buttons, a celadon satin tie, gray slacks and a platinum Rolex with many dials. The blatant exceptions to the sedate orchestration of subtle hues were Regis’s track shoes ornamented with zigzag lightning bolts and orange racing stripes. Regis sat with his feet on the desk moving them like metronomes. The clash of styles made visitors squirm.

  When his secretary announced that Agent Brian Beem of the Secret Service had arrived for his scheduled appointment, Regis buzzed him in. While his visitor crossed the spotless carpet, Regis took a beat, swung his legs off the desk, stood to shake Beem’s hand, gestured toward a chair and dropped back into his own seat. He liked Beem’s look—a Gary Cooper sort, alert, clean-cut and polite, a mannequin direct from Bloomingdale’s.

  Regis knew there was plenty going on behind Beem’s cool smile; this was the President’s emissary, disarming but armed to the teeth.

  “Shall we cut to the chase?” Regis said.

  “The President sends his best regards and regrets. He really wanted to invite you to the White House but . . .”

  “I understand his plate is full what with the Vietnam thing and that Watergate nonsense. And the Russians, always the Russians.”

  “He wanted you to know he was deeply moved by the
plight of the boy, Simon Apple, the one with the gill problem. He wants the nation to know that despite larger issues he finds time to concern himself with the suffering of a single fallen sparrow.”

  Regis put his feet on the desk. Agent Beem didn’t flinch. “It’s arguable,” Regis said, “as to which sparrow fell harder, Simon Apple or Regis Van Clay. Assure President Nixon that he and I both empathize and sympathize with the Apple child’s predicament. You know we’ve agreed to list Ictopera Aqueous Resperacion as a possible side effect of Viloxidril aka Symmavane .”

  “I understand the FDA ordered the warning.”

  “We would have taken the step without the FDA,” Regis said.

  “And everyone agrees it was a highly responsible decision,” Beem said, “but that can’t be the end of the story. In the excitement of the moment on that Florida beach, the President promised America a winning effort to cure young Apple. What I’m getting at is that it would be most propitious for him to declare that Apple’s condition has been reversed.” Beem smiled. “It’s strange that we can send men to walk on the moon and engender less media interest than we get from one oddball side effect.”

  “We’re not even sure that we’re dealing with a side effect,” Regis said. “But I want you to assure the boss that our best minds are lasered in on isolating the cause and manipulating a quick cure for whatever it is that compromised Apple’s health and well-being. If Viloxidril proves to be the culprit, we’ll be the first to admit it. If there’s a cure, we’ll be first to find it. But the President should also be made aware that Simon Apple is a peculiar individual with an exasperating physiology. His body reacts in violent and unexpected ways to the most innocent medications. Frankly, Agent Beem, I have bad dreams about that one. He’s been a pain in the ass to my company, a real danger. He’s already cost us mega millions of dollars and great chunks of credibility.”