Before he took his final ride on the squeaky gurney, Simon had whispered a request that Polly claim his corpse. He told her his motives were partly sentimental but mostly self-indulgent. He didn’t want to be dropped into a tank of piranha by Regis Van Clay’s junior executives or mauled and minced by Regis Pharmaceuticals forensic scientists, looking for clues to his biochemical makeup.
Simon apologized for burdening his new wife with such a morbid assignment but there was no one else he could turn to; his wish was have his ashes scattered without ceremony in some peaceful place like Serene Harbor where he could watch the seasons change while he waited for Polly Moon to lie beside him.
Polly had other ideas, going back to her earlier fascination with things mystical. She seriously considered finding someone at the American Museum of Natural History who might know a thing or two about mummification or at least a renegade taxidermist interested in making a few non-taxable dollars. She wanted to preserve her husband for the time being, maybe forever, possibly until the highly unlikely hour when she fell in love with someone else.
She already had a loft large enough to accommodate him in a room of his own with ample space to allow for her to live and work comfortably. It was Simon’s lawyer, Marvin Klipstein, Esq., who untangled the legal knots involving past litigation with her larcenous producer, Albert Essman, and discovered that Polly Moon’s settlement gave her ownership of the building in Manhattan’s Soho district that once housed Essman’s spacious recording studio. That building converted into six rental units that brought in enormous monthly income. The building also had a back staircase wide enough for six burly pallbearers from Montibello to carry Simon’s casket up seven flights after it was lifted off Shen Wa’s newest truck.
“Pleasure to be of service,” Shen Wa said. “Though I must say, I did not disagree with your husband’s execution even if innocent man die. Nice boy, Simon, but too many side effects. You watch TV drug commercials? Half are for cure diseases nobody ever heard of last week but now scare the hell out of people. Next week, here come a whole new batch of sicknesses and more drugs to cure those, then recalls and more drugs and so on and so forth. Everybody busy taking pulse, swallowing tons of crap. Makes for a nice economy. Same with fashion. One year, big tits in, get implants, feel good. Next season, big tits out, implants dangerous, small tits in. Hooray! Whole new wardrobe. Long skirts, short skirts, loose pants, tight pants. Old image, new image. Very creative system.”
The day after Simon Apple’s arrival in New York, Polly went out to buy as many bags of ice as she needed to fill the tub where Simon rested pending further developments. When she returned to the loft she found Simon’s casket open. Her husband had managed to escape that confinement and find his way to a Lay-Z-Boy chair in the living room where he sat with his legs propped up as if he was ready to watch a ball game and down a few bottles of Bud.
The realization that Simon Apple was alive, albeit slightly comatose, came slowly but when it hit home, Polly Moon let out a scream. She also became aware that he was spinning a web. Silken strands originating from every orifice were slowly wrapping around him like tendrils of wisteria. Simon was packaging himself inside a cocoon. Her husband had warned Polly that he might suffer some unexpected complications from Bridgecataphan aka Hyberpoid, Ebolapril Irreversus aka Cemavoma and Neuroniflash aka Deckorpa, singly or in combination, considering his past history.
Know thyself had been one of Simon’s favorite expressions; he certainly knew himself well enough to accept that, after the life he’d lived, a simple death was too much to expect.
99
With Simon snug in his silky cave, Polly Moon went into business for herself.
Curiously, it was Lucille Van Clay who told her husband about the amazing woman downtown, an absolute rage, who could see beyond the most remote horizon and predict everything coming down the pike by a technique she called Medication Meditation. “She reads prescriptions as if they were Tarot Cards. I hear she’s wonderful. It’s virtually impossible to get an appointment to see her for months and months. Could you use your influence?”
Regis shrugged.
From inside his casing, Simon Apple began to sing, mimicking what he heard as the music of the spheres. He looked out at an endless expanse of heavenly bodies, bursting stars, whirling planets, flashing meteors, a universe of nothingness slashed by silver blades of ruthless comets.
He looked for signs of intelligent life or at least some cluster of aliens not unlike the folks back in Glenda. Sure enough, he found them. Simon watched the crowds go by—an unruly bunch of mobile appetites, some fretful, some doubtful, some oddly hopeful.
They played together, ate together, clung together, laughed together, wept together, photographed one another, carried anointed slips of paper to the local pharmacy.
Prescriptions promising to ease their pain.
~~~
The author would like to thank all sincere, dedicated researchers and medical professionals making their stand firmly on the side of life, with a special nod to the doctors and nurses affiliated with Mt. Sinai Hospital in New York City. Many very gifted and patient people helped enormously with this project. A bow to author and editor, Linda Stewart, for her huge contribution of time and talent. Kudos to iconic artist/cartoonist/writer, Gahan Wilson, who conjured our cover. Many thanks to Chet and Sue Gottfried for their many skills and encouragement. To Susan Lamb and Carole Potter for their assurance and support. And to the enduring memory of Nancy Connable for her insight, wisdom and sweetness of spirit over many years. A wall of Platinum Platters to the swinging rock band, Simon Apple (River to the Sea), Jeff Miller, Buzz Saylor, Dan Merill and every artist on the team, who generously agreed to share our hero’s name. And to so many others—you know who you are!
About the Author
Harvey Jacobs is an award-winning writer who, in addition to the novels and short story collections listed below, has written widely for television, the Earplay Project for radio drama, and helped create and name the Obie Awards for the Village Voice. He was publisher of the counterculture newspaper, East. His short fiction has appeared in a wide spectrum of magazines in the USA and abroad including Esquire, The Paris Review, Playboy, Fantasy & Science Fiction, New Worlds, and many anthologies. He received a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, a New York Arts Council CAPS award for drama, a Playboy Fiction Award, and a Writers Guild of America script award.
He lives and works in Sag Harbor, New York.
Other Books by Harvey Jacobs
Novels
Summer on a Mountain of Spices
The Juror
Beautiful Soup
American Goliath
Short Story Collections
The Egg of the Glak and Other Stories
My Rose and My Glove
For information about these titles
please contact:
CELADON PRESS
P.O. Box 2724, Sag Harbor, NY 11963
or
www.SideEffectsNovel.com
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About the Author
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