by Gene Brewer
Prot studied the information. “I’ll try to squeeze it in.”
“No—you don’t understand. He wants to see you now. At 9:15 this morning.”
“Your sense of humour still needs work gino. I’ve already performed this stunt for you. Even if I did it again you’d never believe it. You’d think it was some kind of trick.”
“No I wouldn’t! This would be the proof we need that you’re really who you say you are!”
“How many times do I have to prove it?”
“Just this once.”
“Sorry. No can do.”
“Why the hell not?”
“I told you already. Besides, what if Robert shows up while I’m gone?”
“But Dr. Ehrhart is waiting!”
“Has he nothing else to do?”
“He has plenty to do!”
“So do I!”
“So you refuse to cooperate.”
“I’m here, ain’t I?”
Even though I knew he couldn’t zip off to Germany or anywhere else, I had rarely been angrier in a session with a patient of mine. “Prot,” I screeched, “why don’t you just admit it? You can’t do it, can you?”
“Of course I can.”
“You’re not from K-PAX, are you? You’re a fake and a phony! Everyone knows it!”
“Surely not everyone.”
“It’s because of the fruit, isn’t it?”
“Nope. We’re not a petty, vindictive species like some others I could name.”
“A lot of people are going to be disappointed.”
“Won’t be the last time.”
I stared at him for a while to emphasize my displeasure. “Dr. Ehrhart claims that other ‘K-PAXians’ are popping up around the world.”
“Could be. Or maybe they’re lunatics.”
Grabbing a yellow pad, I said, rather petulantly, I’m sure, “All right, damn it, tell me more about your phony boyhood.”
“You never get enough, do you, doc?”
“I may make an exception in your case.”
“No you won’t. You’re bound and determined to pry every little secret from everyone here.”
“That’s what psychiatrists are for.”
“That so? I thought they were for making piles of money to ‘feed their families,’ like every other sapiens in this godforsaken place” (he meant the Earth).
Recalling that Robert’s family had been exceptionally poor, I asked him, “You don’t like the capitalist system very much, do you, prot?”
“Frankly, my dear, it sucks.”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s worked pretty well throughout our history.”
“Then why do you have so many problems?”
“Look. If there were no trading or bartering, no legal tender, everyone would have to grow his own food, make his own clothes, produce his own transportation, and all the rest. A terrible waste of time and energy, wouldn’t you say?”
“At last I understand what’s wrong with you—you’re all nuts!”
“No need for insults, prot, or whoever you are.”
“Merely an observation, my thin-skinned friend. None of you seems to have the ability to see a bigger picture, to figure out the consequences of your actions, or even to look at a problem rationally. You’re a bunch of wild-eyed schizophrenics!”
“What problem?” I calmly asked him.
“And on top of that, you can’t follow a conversation. Look. You’ve given me the pros of the money system. Have you given any thought to the cons?”
“I suppose you’re talking about the way some people abuse it.”
“That’s a start.”
“Well, I suppose it must seem unfair to the disadvantaged.”
“Keep going....”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Do you ever listen to the evening news? Read a newspaper?”
“Sometimes.”
“What’s the result of all that brainwashing?”
“Brainwashing?”
He tapped his fingers together and looked up at the ceiling.
“What’s the result of all the focus on the ‘economy,’ on ‘jobs,’ on ‘growth,’ on—”
“But everyone benefits when—”
“Really, gene? Do all your beings benefit? Do the elephants and tigers benefit? Does your PLANET benefit?”
“You’re repeating yourself. That’s exactly what you said on TV two years ago.”
“And you didn’t hear it then, either!”
“But everyone is already aware of the environment. We all know about global warming. Scientists in every country are studying the problem——”
Prot guffawed. “When are you humans going to stop ‘studying’ your problems and start doing something about them?”
“We are doing something about this one! We’re trying to reduce greenhouse gases to 1990 levels, for example.”
“Har har har—you people kill me! It’s 1990 levels that are causing the problem!”
“You don’t understand. We have to balance one benefit against another. We have to compro—”
“Compromising on your environment is like removing half a tumor.”
“It’s not that simple, prot. Jobs are at stake. Lives are at stake.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re trapped in a quagmire of money and you can’t seem to find a way out of it. In the meantime, your PLANET is dying. And the really nutty thing about it is that you hardly even notice. Catastrophe is right around the corner, and when you get there you’ll all wring your hands and pretend you didn’t see it coming.”
“And how much time do you figure we have left, exactly?”
“Twenty-three years,” he said matter-of-factly.
“You mean our species has only twenty-three years left on Earth?”
“Did I say that, doc? I mean that if the necessary changes aren’t made by that time, certain events will be set in motion and then there will be no stopping the slide.”
“And how did you arrive at that figure?”
“I didn’t. It was worked out by another K-PAXian.”
“Based on what?”
“She used the data from my report. It’s simple. You can do it yourself. All you need is a primitive computer….”
“If it’s so simple, why didn’t you work it out?”
“Same reason you didn’t—I don’t give a damn what happens to your murderous, self-centered species. What saddens me is that you’re taking all the other beings with you.”
“I give a damn!”
“Then why haven’t you worked it out?”
“Look, prot, maybe you’re right,” I said to mollify him. “But it’s time to get on with our session, okay?”
“Sure,” he shrugged. “Why not? It’s not my problem, anyway.”
“Because you’ll be leaving us soon.”
“Righto.”
“Back to K-PAX, where there are no problems.”
“Exactly.”
“Tell me more about your boyhood there. Were you poor?”
“No one is ‘poor’ on K-PAX! Or rich, either. It’s a meaningless concept.”
“Tell me what your early childhood was like.”
He stared at the empty fruit bowl. Finally he said, “Okay—how early is early?”
“Oh, up to the age of six, say.”
“Your years, of course.”
“Or the K-PAXian equivalent.”
“To tell you everything would take me about six years, wouldn’t it? You got that much time, gino?”
“Dammit, prot, just give me the highlights.”
“The whole thing was a highlight. Wasn’t yours?”
I sighed. “All right. Let’s say you’re five. In Earth terms, of course. It’s your fifth birthday today. Is there a party for you? A birthday cake?”
“None of the above.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t have cake
s on K-PAX. Or parties. Or birthdays.”
“No birthdays?”
“Our annual cycles vary a bit depending on—well, I don’t suppose you want to go into the ASTRONOMICAL details.”
“Not just now.”
“I didn’t think so. In any case, nobody cares when someone was born or how old he is. It’s completely irrelevant.”
“What about friends? Are they irrelevant, too?”
“You need to re-read your own books. Everyone on K-PAX is a ‘friend.’ We don’t have ‘enemies.’ We just don’t need them, as you seem to.”
“Naturally. Pets?”
“Certainly not.”
“Toys? Games?”
“Not the kind you mean.”
“What kind is that?”
“We don’t have ‘monopoly’ to teach us the value of making money. Or toy soldiers to teach us the importance of the military. Or dolls to teach us the joys of parenthood. None of that crap.” He thought a moment. “Besides, all of life is a game. On K-PAX life is fun. Right from the start.”
“Nary a problem, is that right?”
“Only little ones, but even those are fun.”
“What sorts of little fun problems did you have to deal with?”
“Oh, you know—scrapes and bruises, an occasional stomach ache, that sort of thing.”
“Those don’t sound like much fun to me.”
“It’s a part of life, don’tcha know.”
“Ever get into a fight with one of your ‘friends’?”
“No one fights on K-PAX.”
“So how do you get the scrapes and bruises? Does someone punish you for behaving badly?”
“No one behaves badly. What’s the point? And if we did, there would be no punishment.”
“But someone gave you the bruises, didn’t they?”
“Didn’t you ever fall out of a tree, my human friend?”
“Once or twice. You never had an abusive uncle, anything like that?”
“Where do you get this ‘uncle’ shit? I told you—I don’t know from ‘uncle’!”
“All right. Anyone else bother you when you were a small boy? A passerby, perhaps?”
“Of course not!”
“Okay—what sorts of things did you do when you were little?”
“I watched the korms [birds], ran with the aps [small, elephant-like creatures]. I learned the names of the fruits and grains, studied the stars, traveled around, spent some time in the libraries, ate, slept—you know: I did whatever needed to be done and, after that, whatever I felt like doing.”
“Did you have a bicycle? Roller skates?”
“Nah. Who needs those things?”
“You just walked wherever you wanted to go?”
“It’s a good way to get around, and you see more than you do going by light.”
“What about that? I mean, when did you first experience light travel?”
“Right away. Of course I rode along with someone else until I figured out how to do it.”
“When you were five?”
“Long before that.”
“Who did you ride with?”
“Whoever was around.”
“Of course. And who were you staying with when you were five years old?”
He slapped his forehead. “No one ‘stays’ with anyone on K-PAX. We like to move around.”
“Why is that?”
“K-PAX is a big place. There’s a lot to see.” (Unlike tiny Guelph, Montana.)
“Did anyone you knew die when you were six?”
That shot flew over his head, apparently. “Probably an ancient fart or two. Hardly anyone ever dies on K-PAX.”
“So you’ve told me. All right, prot. Our time is up for today. You can go now. I’ll see you on Friday.”
He jumped up and jogged to the door. “Don’t take any wooden nickels!” he shouted on his way out.
I assumed he was putting me on again.
George must have thought the “light-travel” experiment had been a great joke. When I returned to my inner office I found a fax from him with a picture of a very old horse, ribs showing, head hanging down. An arrow identified the bony critter as “prot.” I thought about calling him to explain the situation, but just then Giselle showed up. She seemed in much better spirits than she had for some time. When I mentioned this obvious change, she exclaimed that if prot found Rob and took him to K-PAX, she would definitely get to go along, too!
“He told you that?”
“Yep!”
“My godson going, too?”
“Yep!”
“Then I guess you’d better help him find Rob, right?”
The smile vanished. “How can I do that?”
I asked her to start by filling in any missing details she might have about Rob’s background, things she might have learned in her two years of sitting at the breakfast table with him, watching movies, making plans over a glass of wine, and all the other occasions which contribute to a happy and intimate relationship. Unfortunately, she didn’t know much more about him than I did. They rarely discussed his childhood—it was painful for him (and for her as well)—or his previous marriage (for the same reasons). However, she did tell me a couple of surprising things about his likes and dislikes. For example, although he was interested in most scientific subjects, including field biology, the focus of his academic studies, he actually disliked astronomy. He wouldn’t even watch reruns of the old Star Trek series or the myriad spin-offs. Another peculiar characteristic was his abhorrence of bathtubs. He took showers exclusively, and wouldn’t even enter the bathroom when she was in the tub.
I thought: Did something happen while little Robin was taking a bath? “Anything else you can think of?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Any religious beliefs?”
“Rob isn’t an atheist, but he’s not very religious, either. More of an agnostic, I suppose.”
“Did he ever tell you about his toy soldiers, discuss the war in Vietnam, anything like that?”
“He has toy soldiers?”
“When he was a boy he did.”
“So did my brothers and everybody else I know.”
“Did he ever rail about being poor when he was growing up, or profess any negative feelings about the free-enterprise system? Or what it might be doing to the environment?”
“He’s a biologist, Dr. B. Of course he talks about the degradation of the environment. But he has never showed any communist leanings, anything like that, if that’s what you mean.”
“Does he think the Earth is going to hell in a handbag?”
“No more than anyone else. Why? Did prot tell you Rob had radical ideas on all these things?”
“Not exactly. I’m still trying to get a handle on Rob’s problems. Do me a favor, Giselle. Will you think about this some more, and when we meet again could you give me a report on anything unusual that might come to mind about Rob’s behavior the past couple of years? And make me a complete list of his likes and dislikes, particularly any strong ones. Will you do that?”
She blinked those big, doelike eyes. “Sure, if you think it will help.”
I chose not to divulge my misgivings about that.
As I was passing through the lounge I encountered Frankie sitting in her customary place on the wide windowsill staring at the lawn. I asked her why she didn’t get her coat on and go outside for a walk. She replied, characteristically, “It’s shitty out there.”
“Frankie, it’s a beautiful day!”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she scowled. “Or so they say. I wouldn’t know—I’ve never encountered it.”
“Don’t you think the sunshine is beautiful? The green grass, especially in late November? The leaves blowing in the wind?”
“What’s so beautiful about death and decay?” She stared at my left cheek. “That’s the ugliest mole I’ve ever seen.”
“Isn’t there anything you think is beautiful?”
“K-PAX sounds pretty damn good.”
“Nothing good about the Earth? How about the mountains? The seashore? Music? You like opera?”
“Can’t stand it.”
“Why?”
“They’re all just fucking glorified soaps. Make me want to puke,” she added before waddling off and nearly running into Alice, who was in her “giant” phase, clomping through the lounge with enormous, loud steps. She shrugged Frankie off as if she were a mosquito.
It was times like these that I wished I had gone into some other line of work. Frankie always left me depressed. She holds all of us responsible for the death of her mother, who was given the wrong medication when she was in a hospital for some minor ailment. It was a famous case back then, and I remember reading about it myself. But accidents happen, even to the best of us, and Frankie might have come to realize that, had her father not killed himself a year later, followed by an older sister. (Ironically, the nurse responsible for the mix-up married Frankie’s lawyer and became a wealthy and well-respected woman.) Though Frankie herself shows no tendency toward suicide, she remains hopelessly embittered toward everyone and everything. Of all the patients here she seemed the least likely to get any help from prot—he had a difficult time with human relations himself.
I heard a commotion behind me. “Dr. Brewer! Dr. Brewer!”
Wondering what crisis was breaking this time, I turned to find Milton running toward me. “Uncle Miltie” wasn’t wearing his usual funny hat, nor was his shirttail sticking out through his fly. In fact he looked like a different person altogether. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe this was the “real” Milton.
“Dr. Brewer!” he panted as he slid to a stop in front of me. “Let me out! Prot says I’m cured!”
“Well, Milton, I’d prefer you let the rest of us be the judge of that.”
“No—you don’t understand. I am cured.”
“I know you believe that, and maybe it’s true. Would you like to schedule an appointment so we can talk about it?”
“No need!”
“Really? Convince me. What makes you think you’re well enough to leave us?”
“Prot says so.”
I studied him for a minute. Gone were any obvious signs of psychosis. He was steady, clear-eyed, not going for laughs. This was a man who had lost his entire family in the holocaust. Not through some stupid mistake, as in Frankie’s case, but as a result of one of the blackest periods in human history. Yet all the profound sadness underlying his jokes and clowning was no longer clouding his eyes. “Tell me—what happened to you today?”