Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller)

by Harmon Cooper

  The waiter approaches them, ‘Eat again?’

  Friend ignores him and turns towards the door. They pass the boot shop, pass the hookers, pass the roadside vendors, pass the begging children, pass the man with the zonkey.

  ‘When we get to the line,’ Friend says, ‘you go like ten people ahead of me, just in case one of us gets stopped. It’s better if we’re apart. We can meet back at my car.’

  ‘All right, we got nothing to worry about though, right?’

  ‘See you on the other side. Remember, you don’t know me.’

  ₪₪₪

  Boy gets into a line with a sign over it that says: Nada que declarar. Cars are lined up not far from him. Men in military uniforms walk between the cars shouldering large weapons. Black bulletproof vests add weight to their chests. The whites of their eyes peak out like pearls from the shadows cast by their hats. Camo pants tucked into black shoes round out the image of seriousness.

  Boy is nervous despite the fact he has no reason to be nervous. He wants to turn and look at Friend but decides against it. A palpable fear grows with each person that passes through the line to the other side. The Land of the Free is so close; the solemnity of the border crossing makes him second guess being a rightful member. He can only imagine what Friend must be going through. Boy is the next to enter the building.

  ‘Passport?’ Border Patrol says. He has a large gun at his side and another man is standing next to him with a gun across his chest. Obama is smiling from the wall behind the men, an American flag affixed to his lapel.

  ‘Passport?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Boy says.

  Border Patrol flips through Boy’s passport. ‘Purpose for your visit to Mexico?’

  ‘Sightseeing, um, tourism.’

  ‘Did you purchase anything?’

  ‘F-f-food.’

  ‘Food tourism?’

  ‘No. I mean yeah, my friend told me about a good restaurant so I visited there.’

  ‘Where’s your friend?’

  ‘America, Austin, Texas.’

  How was the food?

  ‘It was okay. The chalupa was better than the burrito.’

  ‘What else did you eat?’

  ‘Frog legs.’

  ‘And you didn’t buy anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you came to Mexico just to eat at a restaurant by yourself?’

  ‘Yes. Wait, w-w-what?’

  ‘Sir, please step this way.’ Border Patrol holds onto Boy’s passport and points him around a table. The officer standing behind him presses a button and the lock on the door clicks. Obama continues smiling at Boy as he shuffles past. Border Patrol follows behind him.

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’ Boy is trying his hardest to stay calm.

  ‘Did you? You tell me.’

  A man in a pair of khakis and a blue Homeland Security shirt stands at the end of the hallway. He opens the door. Attached to his belt is a black handgun. Boy is led into a room and told to sit in front of a table. Outside the door, the two men speak for a moment. Homeland Security enters the room.

  ‘W-what’s happening, officers?’

  Tension sits heavy in the air like smog. He’s not as nervous as he should be. Maybe it’s the Xanax.

  ‘Put your hands on the table and bend forward.’ Homeland Security frisks him.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Purpose of your visit to Mexico?’ Homeland Security asks.

  ‘Tourism.’

  ‘To a restaurant?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Y-y-yes, sir.’

  ‘And you didn’t buy anything else.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ Boy says. The Xanax is making him feel lightheaded.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I gave all my money to the waiter at the restaurant.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Actually, I… um… left my passport there and I was shopping and I realized my passport was gone so I went back there and I had to buy my passport back from him.’

  Boy can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth nor the fact that they are actually true. Homeland Security nods at him.

  ‘How much did he charge you?’

  ‘Eighty dollars.’

  Homeland Security starts laughing, ‘He could have charged you twice that!’

  ‘Well, I didn’t have any more money on me.’

  ‘You didn’t bring an ATM card?’

  ‘No. I read on the internet not to.’

  Homeland Security clears his throat. ‘Well, you were flagged because the other officer felt like your reasoning for visiting was suspicious. Next time, you should probably tell him that you spent most your money buying your passport back.’

  ‘Does this happen a lot or something?’

  ‘It happens more than you’d think. A tourist pays his restaurant bill and sometimes pulls his passport out with his wallet. He leaves his passport and the waiter holds it hostage. You got lucky. Most people end up forking over a pretty good sum of money. Two to six hundred dollars. It’s a hassle to get your passport back in any country.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘All right, well here’s your passport, follow me.’

  Boy is led back through the hallway and onto familiar soil. As they walk, Homeland Security talks about lights in the hallway and how he wishes they were brighter. They arrive at a backdoor with a finger scanner. Homeland Security presses his finger down and the door pops open.

  Outside over here America.

  ‘Thanks,’ Boy says, shocked that he’s been released but afraid to show his surprise.

  ‘Keep safe,’ Homeland Security says, shutting the door.

  Boy walks to Friend’s car. He has the notion to kiss the gravel of the parking lot, to pump his fists in the air. Never felt freer. He sees Friend sitting in his car with a frantic look on his face.

  ‘They stopped you?’ Friend asks.

  Boy explains what happened.

  ‘Damn, so we were actually lucky that you got your passport stolen.’

  ‘Yeah, real lucky.’

  ‘That shady-ass waiter really was your savior.’

  ‘You called it.’

  Friend backs his car out of the parking spot. He points to the glove box and Boy retrieves a half-finished joint. They would live to be caught another day.

  Chapter 6: Sri, Sri, Sri

  Boy’s Age: 23

  Boy squeezes the pink teddy bear. Eyes swell stomach squeaks, softer than he’d imagined. The medical experiment isn’t going so well.

  He looks down from the wilting bear to the vein on his arm. Median cubital vein. The words come to him and materialize into the toy store. Where did they come from? The woman drawing his blood hasn’t been doing such a good job. Purple lumps like purple hills like purple spider bites like purple proof: proof of the things we will do to obtain—

  —Something green. Boy sees something green in the corner of his eye. Friend’s shirt. They both have headphones in and they’re both listening to the same song, at the same time, in the same toy store called Toy Joy on the same day, in the same hot Texas city, on the same substance.

  On the same substance.

  ~Do you feel helpless? Press one for often, two for occasionally, three for rarely, and four for never. Have you been experiencing anger towards others? Press one for often, two for occasionally, three for rarely, and four for never~

  The automated voice belongs to a British lady. Sometimes Boy imagines the Queen reading the script – anything to make the grueling call to record his progress better. Ask me how I feel, Your Highness.

  Twice a week Boy goes to the Lancaster Clinic to have blood drawn, twice a day he takes the experimental medicine, three times a week he calls the hotline, and once every two weeks, Boy gets a paycheck for two hundred and fifty dollars. He was laid off a month ago, and the unemployment checks haven’t come in yet.

  ‘It’s not the placebo,’ Friend told him two week
s ago, after trying the experimental medicine. ‘Man, that shit made me feel crazy last night. For real.’

  ‘Did you mix it with something?’ Boy asked.

  ‘Nope, just smoked a bowl.’

  ‘That’s mixing it.’

  ‘If a medicine doesn’t work with weed, it doesn’t work with me.’

  ‘So you think it’s the real deal?’

  ‘I know it’s the real deal.’

  Sri Sri Sri Sri Sri Sri Sri Sri.

  Back at the toy store.

  How many Sris are there above the Indian guru’s head in the picture behind the cash register? Boy can’t seem to keep the words straight. He tries to focus, but a glimmering halo of light obscures the print. Sai Baba…

  ‘What’s Sri mean?’ he asks frog-eyed Register Girl.

  ‘It’s pronounced…um…shree…’

  Austin-hip girl from Brooklyn (or tries to be) has star tattoos where her crow’s feet will be a couple of years from now. Aging hipster, failing youth. One side of her head is shaved and the rest is folded over the other ear. You must stand out here or become a sheep.

  ‘What’s Sri mean?’ Boy asks again. Did five minutes just pass?

  ‘Sri,’ she says.

  ‘Sri,’ he repeats. The words seem to appear before his mouth opens.

  ‘Sri means 10,000 blessings or something,’ Friend says. ‘Y’all are high.’

  ‘I’m not high,’ Register Girl says, blushing. Boy doesn’t comment.

  ~Do you feel happy? Press one for often, two for occasionally, three for rarely, and four for never. Do you feel anxious? Press one for often, two for occasionally, three for rarely, and four for never. Do you feel confused? Press one for often, two for occasionally, three for rarely~

  ‘What are you guys doing?’ Register Girl asks.

  ‘We’re shopping,’ Friend says, always in control.

  Friend is a bottomless pit when it comes to intoxicants – Boy envies him for this unique ability. They agreed to trip together on their way back from Mexico. It’s Boy’s first time and there’s nobody else he’d rather hallucinate with. He plans to tell Friend about his problem – later though – not in the toy store. Too many plastic eyes watching. Besides, who wants to admit they see ghosts?

  Friend drops a key chain with a troll attached onto the checkout counter. He sees a yellow eraser and takes that too. Acid impulse buy.

  ‘Who’s it for?’ Boy asks.

  ‘Yeah, who’s it for?’ Register Girl echoes.

  ‘Damn y’all,’ Friend says, pulling out his wallet. All this takes place while Boy and Friend are jointly listening to a playlist containing these songs in this order:

  Junior Marvin--I Was Appointed

  Asha Bhosle--Jaiye Aap Kahan Jayenge

  The Album Leaf--For Jonathan

  Bexar Bexar--Learningtoloveherlazyeye

  Mountains--Choral

  Popol Vuh--In den Gärten Pharaos

  Burial--Etched Headplate

  Tetsu Inoue--Karmic Light

  This Will Destroy You--Quiet

  The Gentleman Losers--The Echoing Green

  The experimental medicine. Boy hates the lady at the Lancaster Clinic. Jill Marini, her nametag reads. Just call me Jill she says, the first time they meet. She’s a strange creature with a thin smile and near translucent skin. How do people look so dead inside? She tells him to sit down on the examination table when he visits the clinic, always asks the same questions.

  How are you feeling?

  Fine. Boy the Human Guinea Pig doesn’t know why he lies to her but he does.

  She makes a note on her clipboard. Have you been taking your medicine once in the morning and once in the evening?

  Yes.

  Always with food?

  Yes.

  She scribbles some more.

  Do you have anything to report to me?

  Every time she asks him this, Boy finds himself torn between saying: Yes, this medicine is horrible and it’s making me moody and the lady who takes my blood keeps botching the poke and I know it’s not your fault and yes, I know I signed a waver saying I agreed to this study, but this study is evil – this, or – are you really a person? You see, I have this problem where I see ghosts (or whatever they are), or maybe I’m just hallucinating, but it’s a relevant question for me to be asking.

  Instead Boy always says the same thing: Nope, nothing to report.

  ‘Three Sris?’ Friend asks. He nods to the picture behind the register.

  ‘Yes, three,’ Register Girl says.

  ‘That’s too many blessings.’

  ‘Sri means blessing?’ Boy asks.

  ‘Yes.’ Friend and Register Girl say together.

  For some reason, Boy can hear their voices over the music in his headphones. Maybe he’s imagining hearing their voices; maybe he’s better at lip reading than he thinks.

  ‘I think four Sris are too many,’ Register Girl says.

  ‘But not three?’ Friend asks.

  ‘Three Sris seem like a good number. Not too many, not too few.’

  ‘That’s like 30,000 blessings. Each Sri means 10,000 blessings…’

  ‘Whatever,’ she says.

  ‘Do you think they have like half-Sris or something?’ Friend is rubbing the yellow eraser like it’s a life or death situation. We all have our ways to control it.

  ‘I don’t know, I’m not Indian,’ Register Girl says.

  ‘Me neither.’

  The wind chimes hanging above the door sound. Boy turns to find Jill Marini aka the Nurse From Hell walking into the toy store. He whips back around. The color drains from his face and soaks his t-shirt. He sees Jill’s reflection in the rearview mirror behind the cash register. He hears her voice, that familiar southern drawl, blabbering into her cell phone. His hand squeezes Friend’s arm.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s her! It’s her!’ Boy whisper-screams.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jill!’

  ‘Who?’ Register Girl asks.

  ‘Jill!’ Boy mouths to her.

  ‘Do I… know a Jill?’ Friend asks.

  ‘Clinic lady! Nurse-checks-me-in-lady, it’s her!’

  ‘Just chill…’

  ‘Hi—’

  Boy spins around before she can say his name. ‘Hi, w-w-what are you doing here?’ he asks. Nervousness tingles his senses that aren’t already tingling from the hit of acid he’s ingested.

  ‘I’m buying a present for my nephew,’ Jill says, with her phone pressed against her ear. ‘His birthday is tomorrow.’

  ‘How are y-y-you feeling?’ Boy asks, shoving his hand into his pocket. He tries to turn his iPod off, but his hand is too shaky.

  ‘Let me call you back,’ Jill says into the phone.

  Those soulless eyes. Boy can’t look, damn he can’t look. Friend is staring at both of them weighing how he can get a grip on the situation before it takes a turn for the worse.

  ‘Do,’ he pauses, wagging his finger at Jill. ‘Do you have a-a-anything to report to me?’

  He bursts out laughing. A heartbeat later – Friend is dragging Boy outside the toy store.

  ‘Chill, man!’

  ‘Do you have anything to report to me?’ His whole body is shaking now, as if he’s had a sudden drop in blood sugar. ‘She always asks me that. It’s part of her script or something!’

  ‘You’ve got to chill! Follow me and keep quiet. Can you do that? Damn I hate first-timers, buggins…’

  ‘I can try,’ Boy says, still giggling.

  The two make their way to Spider House so Friend can buy a slice of carrot cake. The city of Austin suddenly feels saturated and humid, like the inside of Hut’s Hamburgers.

  ‘You waiting out here?’ Friend asks.

  Boy’s eyes twitch left and right. He watches a hipster couple latch their bikes to a sticker-covered bike rack. He can hardly hear Friend over the music and visual distractions. Advertisements on the large bulletin board flutter like flowers. Pyrole Red
Light, Cobalt Silicate Blue, Terre Verte.

  An idea comes to him – an installation piece, a piece half the size of a billboard, covered in hand-cut flowers made from found materials. It would look like the bulletin board except larger, colorful, ragtag, homegrown, telling and forgotten. The things we discard. The things we forget.

  ‘Well?’ Friend asks. Boy is suddenly frightened by the crowd on the back patio of the restaurant. Glasses clinking, silverware scraping, people murmuring. He’s pretty sure that he hears Jill’s voice. Frozen doesn’t begin to describe how rigid he is.

  ‘She’s here, man, I know it!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jill? Clinic lady from the toy store.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Friend says, adjusting his sunglasses. ‘I would have spotted her by now.’ The way he says this gives Boy the impression he has x-ray vision or something.

  ‘I can’t move from this spot!’ Boy whisper-screams.

  ‘All right, all right, don’t move then. I’ll go inside; you just wait here. Sit there.’ Friend points at a small bench.

  ‘Okay,’ Boy says, trying to get control of himself.

  ‘It’ll just take a minute. Don’t wander off. Seriously. Stay put.’

  Boy nods and looks down at the words carved into the bench. He thinks of his sister, Girl, and the words she has cut into her skin. He remembers accidently walking in on her while she was changing. The chiseled words covered the parts of his sister’s body that were usually hidden by clothing. A few were fresh; a few were scabbed over; a few were already scars.

  What are you doing? Girl screamed.

  What the hell happened? Boy asked, only eighteen years old at the time.

  Get out! Get out!

  What’s going on in there? Mom called from the living room.

  Don’t you say anything! Girl hissed. I’m warning you.

  Her lush black hair, her big Chihuahua eyes, her skin two shades darker than his. She pulled the blanket up to her chest. Don’t, she said, her expression changing from anger to fear. Please, don’t…

  M-m-mom, you’d better come see this, Boy called out.

  His sister never forgave him for that, and he could never quite explain why he told on her in the first place. He wasn’t trying to betray her; he really didn’t know what else to do.