Sharkman

by Steve Alten

  Pushing past the media circus on our front lawn, I entered my grandmother’s house to find Sun Jung and her friends watching the dunk on a local news show.

  “There he is, my favorite grandson . . . what happened to your hair? Never mind. You just in time to see yourself on TV. Wait, I can replay it on the DVR.”

  I watched the highlights, grinning from ear to ear.

  Sun Jung warmed my dinner while I signed assorted paraphernalia for her friends, only one of whom had ever been to our home, at least since I had moved in.

  My grandmother had a surprise. Awaiting me in my room was a brand-new queen-size bed—courtesy of a local furniture company. Sun Jung said they’d send a photographer to take a few pictures of me lying on my new mattress; “three minutes for a free bed, no big deal.”

  I thanked her and leaped onto the mattress. To lie down in a regular bed after spending nearly a year in a narrow hospital bed with rails was heaven. Closing my door, I popped in a Linkin Park CD, grabbed my laptop, and spent the next two hours propped up in comfort, surfing the Internet.

  I never heard the doorbell ring, so I was surprised when Li-ling entered my bedroom carrying a brown paper bag.

  “And there he is, Mr. Kwan-dumb Style.”

  “Li-ling? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m delivering an IV from Dr. Becker.” She tossed me the brown paper bag. “The reporters thought I was delivering Chinese food . . . racist assholes.”

  “What happened to Anya?”

  “Anya doesn’t want to deal with you anymore.”

  “Why? Li-ling, what did I do wrong?”

  “I can’t say. At least, she asked me not to tell you . . . but I can be bribed.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Who said anything about money?” She took out her iPhone. “Take off your shirt and flex.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s for my blog. You want to hook up with Anya or not?”

  Feeling ridiculous, I tugged off my T-shirt and flexed. “Start talking.”

  “Anya’s brother died back in India when she was thirteen.”

  “How?”

  “Anya and her older brother, Rudy, were traveling on a bus in New Delhi when three men started getting rough with her. Buses can be especially dangerous places in India for women, so Anya and her brother got off at the next stop. The men must have gotten off, too, only Anya didn’t see them until they were on top of her.”

  My heart pounded in my chest. “What happened?”

  “Rudy tried to stop them and was stabbed. Anya woke up in a hospital with a broken rib. Her brother was on life support in the next bed.”

  I recalled Anya’s anger-filled words: “I’ve been through this . . . I can’t do it again. I’m not going down that path with you. This time I get to be the selfish one.”

  “Her brother died, didn’t he?”

  Li-ling put the phone away. “It doesn’t mean you’re going to die. Use Becker’s IV and I’m sure it will help stabilize the mutation.”

  “It’s not stable?”

  “It’s fine. But if something comes up just call me and I’ll drive you down to the lab. Thanks for the pics, you really do look hot . . . you know, for a Korean dork.”

  22

  Help me welcome my first guest. Straight from Miami Beach . . . ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Kwan Wilson.”

  My pulse raced as I stepped out from behind the curtain of the Ed Sullivan Theater and into the bright lights. I glanced to my right and waved at Paul Shaffer, who was leading the band in a middle-aged, Jewish white man’s rendition of “Kwan-dunk Style.” Crossing the stage, I stepped onto the carpeted riser to shake hands with talk show legend David Letterman—the moment surreal.

  “Thanks for being here, young man. Now, yours is an amazing story. From what I understand, you were paralyzed in a car accident about a year ago.”

  “Yes. I was driving and text messaging, which I shouldn’t have been doing.”

  “Your mother was in the passenger seat and she was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Geez. So then what? You wake up in the hospital and you’re paralyzed from the waist down. And I read where you had some other serious injuries?”

  “Yes.”

  Dave reached across the desk to touch my arm. “This isn’t an interrogation, Kwan. Feel free to give us more than a one word response.”

  “Sorry.”

  The audience laughed.

  “So, you wake up, you’re in the hospital, tubes everywhere I imagine. You find out mom’s dead, you can’t walk . . . what goes through your mind?”

  “To be honest, I wanted to die.”

  “And so it’s left to your dad to console you. Your father is Admiral Doug Wilson, is that correct?”

  My back reflexively arched as the muscles along my spine tightened. “Yes.”

  “As someone who’s been on the battlefield, I’m guessing he probably has had to console a lot of folks. What did he say to you?”

  “First, he asked me what happened. Then he yelled at me for texting. Then he said it should have been me who died, but at least I’d suffer for the rest of my life.”

  “Ouch. Tough guy, the admiral.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he always like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So then what? You spent some time in rehab . . . how was that?”

  “It was hard. They have you in a large carpeted room with other patients and some have been going to rehab for twenty years, and you start to think . . . how am I going to do this? Because you never imagine that this can happen to you. It smells like urine and disinfectant, and bad sweat—stress sweat. There are trainers stretching and moving people around on mats, and you’re one of them. It’s like an out-of-body experience except your spine aches, like there’s a hot coal sitting on top of the place where your spinal cord’s been damaged, and the hurt’s always there, which is why a lot of people get addicted to their pain meds. But the therapists are real nice—most of them, anyway, and you just . . . you just do it.”

  “Did you ever think you were going to walk again?”

  “I did.”

  “After rehab, you moved to Miami Beach to live with your maternal grandmother—”

  “Delray Beach.”

  “Delray Beach. And how did granny take to caring full-time for the guy who killed her daughter?”

  What did he just say? My blood pressure jumped. My pulse pounded in my ears to the point of distraction.

  “Kwan . . . your grandmother?”

  “She’s been an angel to me.”

  “Checking my notes, I realize now why I got confused about you living in Miami. Miami’s actually the location of the lab where you received injections of stem cells from live sharks.”

  A veil passed over my vision, tinting the stage lights olive-green.

  “Hell of a thing, injecting yourself with shark stem cells. What kind of shark was it, by the way? Great white? Lemon?”

  “Vool.” I had meant to say bull, but my upper and lower gums were suddenly inundated with a row of half-inch, serrated triangular teeth.

  “Something in your mouth, Shark Boy?”

  My pulse grew louder, blotting out the audience’s laughter, until I realized it wasn’t my heart I heard beating . . . it was Dave’s! His right hand was resting on the desk that I was leaning on, the rhythm dancing across the wood finish.

  “Let’s talk hoops. We spoke with your old basketball coach—the one you played for before the accident. Coach Reinfeld told us back then you were built like a bean pole—that you could barely touch the rim. Are sharks good leapers? Is that why you can jump so high now?”

  I shrugged, afraid to open my mouth.

  “And what about your muscles . . .
my God. Are sharks that muscular? Hey Paul, how ’bout we inject some shark stem cells into your puny ass?”

  “Let’s do it, Dave. Hook me up with a pint of mako.”

  I could feel Dave’s pulse twitching in his neck; I could see the tantalizing movement of his jugular vein just above the collar of his white shirt. Fighting to maintain control, I gripped the chair until my fingers punctured the suede material.

  “Kwan, you seem like a nice guy . . . do you see yourself as a role model? Do you think other sharks will take up basketball because of your success?”

  Leaping across the desk, I grabbed the host by his lapel, hyperextended my jaws, and sunk my teeth into the side of his neck, blood exploding in my face . . .

  “Ahhh!”

  I sat up in bed, my heart racing, my body lathered in sweat. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand—no blood. I shoved an index finger around my gums—no shark teeth.

  Asshole. It was just a dream.

  The laptop had fallen between my legs. I wiggled my toes, just to make sure everything was still working down there, then reached for the computer and checked the time—1:57 a.m.

  Must have fallen asleep after Li-ling left.

  On my night table was the brown paper bag from the lab. I opened it, removing a plastic IV bag and a line connected to a capped butterfly needle. There were also several packages of alcohol wipes and a roll of white medical tape. What was missing was any indication of the drugs contained within the clear elixir. No list of ingredients or warnings. No instructions. Just a quart of liquid that would take all night to drain into my bloodstream.

  Rolling off the bed, I grabbed a coat hanger from my closet and used my floor lamp as an IV stand. Then I tore open an alcohol wipe and swabbed my forearm. I thought of calling my grandmother to stick me, but why wake her? The veins in my arm were popping out, rendering them a far easier target than the last time I had attempted this same maneuver.

  I was about to pierce my blood vessel with the needle when I recalled Jesse Gordon’s warning: “Do you know who funds Becker’s lab? It’s DARPA, as in the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. You seriously think the psychopaths at the DoD are gonna allow you to go on Letterman? You’re already flying way above the radar. My advice? Walk now before they make you run. Disappear before you disappear.”

  What to do?

  Dr. Becker had told me mutating cells preferred an acidic environment; that the IV she’d prepare for me would raise my pH. I thought for a minute, then left my room and entered the laundry room, turning on the lights to search the cabinet under the sink.

  During the summer, Sun Jung had purchased an aboveground swimming pool for the backyard so I could exercise in the water while she worked. She had taken it down when I had made the comment about offing myself.

  I found the pool test kit in a small blue plastic container. Returning to my room, I separated the IV line from the butterfly needle, allowing drips of the clear elixir to fill the pH side of the tester. Following the instructions, I added a phenol red tablet, capped the vial, and shook it.

  The small sample of elixir turned pinkish-red, the color approximating that of a 9.7 reading, the pH high on the alkaline side.

  Okay, Dr. Becker, I guess I’ll trust you . . . for now.

  I swabbed my forearm again with an alcohol pad and slid the needle inside a vein, anchoring the connection with a few strips of medical tape. Then I shut off the light and climbed in bed.

  Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling fan, I reached for my cell phone to text my agent.

  Annie, cancel Letterman. Let’s do Jon Stewart instead.

  23

  The next two days were a blur. While my coronation continued as “King of Seacrest High,” Annie set out to conquer the entertainment world, leveraging a bidding war between Showtime and NBC to land a million-dollar payday with OWN—Oprah Winfrey’s network. By Thursday night the deal was signed; by Friday morning two OWN trucks had arrived on campus, their camera crews setting up in the gymnasium to film my first official basketball game.

  The other networks were politely asked to leave.

  It was sick. Rock star sick. Students flocked to me like I was Michael Jackson returned from the dead. Girls I had never met before hugged and kissed me in the halls. Guys who had treated me like a diseased leper only a month earlier high-fived and knuckle-punched me and wished me good luck in the big game. Teachers waved and called out my name, and Mr. Hock greeted me like a long-lost son. The only hitch occurred when a producer interrupted his first period lecture on how Monsanto was earning billions as they systematically monopolized the agriculture industry and mutated our crops . . . a speech we had heard four weeks earlier.

  “Sir, do you have a different lesson we could film? Maybe one that won’t end up in a lawsuit?”

  Oprah’s producer, sound people, cameraman, and two assistants followed me everywhere, and everywhere there were students Bogarting the lens . . . all except for Anya, who cut first period, Jesse Gordon, who stayed away from my roving entourage, and Rachel Solomon, who refused to be interviewed.

  Dr. Lockhart got in his fifteen minutes of fame when Oprah showed up in his office to interview the principal, and word of her arrival sent the school into orbit. She stayed only long enough to film B roll of the two of us moving down empty corridors between periods, and then she left to “prep” for our one-on-one marathon session scheduled in her hotel suite on Tuesday.

  Me? I was already in orbit, swimming in glitter—Jay-Z cool. And as good as it was, this was only the appetizer. The main course was this afternoon’s game where I was going to “feast” on the visitors from Palm Beach Lakes High, and tonight . . . tonight was dessert—a wild party on the beach featuring some serious alone time with the lovely Ms. Tracy Shane.

  The sexy brunette “10” and I had eaten lunch together Thursday with a few of her fellow cheerleaders and some of my newfound friends from the team, and a million text messages later she was practically telling me what brand of condoms she preferred. I know what you’re thinking, but Tracy was far more than luscious lips, exotic eyes, and a Playmate body, she was actually a really sweet person with luscious lips, exotic eyes, and a Playmate body.

  I no longer thought about Anya, or anyone else for that matter. From the darkest depths, I had fought my way to the summit, transforming myself from the most exiled bag of flesh in high school to the most desired, and I was enjoying every intoxicating minute of my blossoming celebrity. And why not? God had blessed me with this miracle; to not partake of his bounty would be like spitting in his eye.

  I was Kwan Wilson—stud athlete. Ahead of me lay fame and fortune. I was “the man,” and when you’re the man everyone wants a piece of you, so you have to be a little bit selfish in order to survive. If you signed everything they wanted you to sign, you’d be signing for weeks. If you replied to every text, you’d burn down your battery. Interviews? Call my agent. Seventh period? Please . . . I gotta get ready to ball.

  Rachel Solomon? Now? Yo, tell the counselor I’ll call her later.

  * * *

  My home jersey, shorts, and warm-ups were folded in my locker. Coach Flaig had assigned me #42, my number back in San Diego.

  Seeing the white tank top brought the emo. Mom had been in the stands for every game since I had played Pee Wee Hoops back in second grade. Before each contest, she had made it a point to offer me one of her “pearls of wisdom.” Sometimes it was basketball related, but mostly it had to do with a life lesson.

  “Got the butterflies?”

  I turned to find Coach Flaig standing behind me, dressed in his game-day sports jacket and tie. Rusty had told me Coach wore the same tie until he lost. Seacrest High’s record was eleven and five, our school ranked fifty-seventh in the state. The visiting team, Palm Beach Lakes, was fifteen and one and ranked number seven. Coach was going with a red, black, and blue
striped silk tie—the colors of the South Korean flag.

  “Butterflies? Yeah, a little.”

  “There’s no pressure. We’re twenty-point underdogs. PBL has a senior shooting guard, Liam Naysmith, who’s being recruited by Duke. Lot of college recruiters in the stands today. If you can hold Naysmith under eighteen points and ten assists, you’d be making a statement.”

  “Goose eggs.”

  Coach smiled nervously. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s what Naysmith’s box score will look like. Goose eggs. Zeroes. Except for his turnovers.”

  “Sure, kid. Just do your best and have fun out there. Oh, I’m supposed to give you this.” He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folded piece of paper, handing it to me. “It’s from Mrs. Solomon. She said I was to make sure you read it or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “I don’t know. In eight years I’ve never had the balls to say no to the woman, and I’m sure as hell not starting today. You’ll read it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Just remember, it’s your first game back from a serious injury, so don’t try to be Superman out there. If I see you hobbling, I’m taking you out.”

  “Goose eggs.”

  He shook his head, muttering something as he walked away.

  I opened the stapled note. It was a page photocopied from a book titled The Monster Is Real by Yehuda Berg.

  An old Cherokee was teaching his young grandson one of life’s most important lessons. He told the young boy the following parable: “There is a fight going on inside each of us. It is a terrible fight between two wolves. One wolf is evil. He is anger, rage, envy, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, lies, false pride, and ego. The second wolf is good. He is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, empathy, truth, compassion, and faith.”

  The grandson thought about this for a moment. Then he asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win this fight?”

  The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”