Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller)

by Harmon Cooper

  ‘What can he do to me?’ Boy asks.

  ‘He’s not real,’ Penelope says. ‘You said it yourself.’

  ‘But I see him!’ Boy yells, a bad move, because Glass Wings has now locked his cat eyes onto Boy. His body swells itself onto his little pick legs. It balloons larger and his wings slice into the ceiling and floor. The ground trembles, subwoofers in a hollow trunk. The monster’s tongue slides out of his lips as he pistons towards Boy.

  Fire escape fire escape fire escape fire escape – Boy’s damned Hegira. He’s at the window now with his backpack over his shoulder. When did I pack my bag? He struggles with the latch until the window pries open. The New York is air tinged with humanity. Jump and you die, slip and you die, look down and you die, stay here and you die.

  Don’t look down. Climb down. Step after step past the couple fucking, the woman with her eyes shut. Damn if Boy isn’t sliding down the fire escape as Glass Wings roars overhead, shaking the entire building. Damn if reality isn’t jellyfishing past him, tingling his appendages to the point where they feel as if they may detach themselves out of sheer terror.

  Glass showers, falling chandeliers. Bull in a China shop. Boy’s hands are sweaty, and he’s second guessing his decisions. He’s outside the third floor now. Never stop when you’re being chased. Down down down. Too fast is too slow. Clink, clink, clink – the sound of the rungs signal freedom.

  People flash into his mind and he knows he’s dying. It really is like this. Girl and her marks of distinction. Too much there. Mom and her sadness like a black cloud. The women, the friends, the hours in front of his canvases scratching his head, scraping the surface, trying to say something through tone. A pigeon lands near him and he wants to scream out at it. This is it!

  And it isn’t. Boy waits for the impact and it doesn’t come. By sheer luck he makes it to the street, dropping down next to a bum. Startles him. The bum looks up and all Boy can do is laugh, point at the sky as if it were falling.

  Tears are like acid bullets raining from his face. They drip down to his hands and onto his pants. The bum huddles away because Boy very well may be crazier than he is.

  Boy exits the alley. Looks up. Nothing. No Glass Wings hanging out the window like he expected. No creature flailing his wings as he meteors down to catch him. He’s suddenly cold. Teeth chattering. His feet are bricks, his arms wet ropes.

  Miraculously, there’s a spare shirt in his bag so he slips it on. Have I been shirtless this whole time? He runs his hand on his lower back and feels fresh wounds.

  ‘Penelope?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Penelope?’

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Boy turns to the street. Not many places he can go now. His hand goes in his pocket for Oggie’s business card.

  Chapter 10: New York, New Studio

  Boy’s Age: 24

  ‘Thanks for picking me up,’ Boy says to Oggie. They are in the back of a black Lincoln Town Car driving down Flatbush Avenue. Boy’s still jittery, even after a cup of coffee and a breakfast taco from a nearby bodega.

  ‘Now, are you going to tell me what happened?’ Oggie asks.

  ‘It depends on who you ask.’

  ‘And why are you covered in glitter? That is glitter, right?’

  Boy clears his throat. ‘Flecks of glass.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘And your face?’

  ‘Yeah, you don’t want to know.’

  ‘I kind of do…’ Oggie checks his cell phone. ‘You haven’t signed a contract with me yet, remember? It’s in my best interest to make sure you’re sane.’

  ‘I’m sane.’ Boy looks down at the tiny shards of glass on his shirt. Hard to say those words after being attacked by a glass-winged monster.

  ‘I want to be clear: I don’t want any rock star weirdo shit.’ Oggie laughs. ‘Look at me, I’m telling an artist who spends weeks of his life cutting out paper flowers. Who am I kidding? Just try and keep it under control. I guess that’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘This shouldn’t happen again.’

  ‘Were you hallucinating or something? What’s with all the scratch marks?’

  The question strikes Boy as ironic and he laughs. Outside slow traffic morning cold. People move in Brooklyn like ghosts. Anonymity en masse.

  ‘I was hallucinating.’ Boy sees an opportunity and takes it. ‘My friend gave me some mushrooms. They were a lot stronger than I had anticipated they would be.’

  ‘And you called me because?’

  ‘I got locked out of my house. Actually, my girlfriend kicked me out because I was hallucinating.’

  ‘And the glass?’ Oggie asks. The sunglasses he’s wearing make it hard for Boy to tell if he’s buying it or not.

  ‘The glass. I tried to stay at my friend’s house – the friend who gave me the mushrooms – and he was shattering glass everywhere.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it felt good.’

  ‘You know, David-Mayo conceived his latest work after a three month long trip through the jungles of Peru taking ayahuasca. He wants to use 3-D printers with preconfigured options to print out individual works of art. Basically, a person at the gallery would be able to print their very own David-Mayo piece arranged in a fashion of their choosing. Which brings up questions of who is the artist and what does it mean to create.’

  ‘That could be really interesting.’

  Oggie wince-smiles. ‘But he’s an established artist. He can do things like go to the jungles of Peru and get high. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t want to worry about you. I also don’t want you calling me to pick you up after you’ve been tripping and shattering glass all night. Your job is to produce quality things. The less I’m involved the better.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’m not a babysitter, and I’m not really a friend, yet at least. I’m offering you stability. How you use it is your prerogative. Just don’t let this slip out of your grasp after a night of hallucinatory realizations. Anyway, there it is,’ Oggie says.

  The car pulls up to the curb on Avenue J and E. 37th Street.

  ₪₪₪

  The new studio is in a strangely shaped building with a single upstairs bedroom. Inside, the floors are wooden and polished. Two sunroofs above the studio give the room a neoteric sheen.

  ‘One reason this building was chosen was because of its north facing windows,’ Oggie explains, as they walk inside. ‘You don’t really get any direct sunlight, especially on the studio wall over here. The north facing windows keep the sun from beaming across whatever it is you’re working on. If it gets too hot in here, that black switch over there covers the two sunroofs. Follow me.’

  Oggie leads Boy over to the painting wall. Bits of splattered paint dapple the edges. He wonders who has painted here. He’s been meaning to ask who else has used this studio. Maybe it was only David-Mayo, maybe others.

  ‘This is too much,’ Boy whispers, not quite believing his luck. He feels unworthy. Someone else deserves this, not him, not someone like him.

  ‘The tools of the trade make everything easier. In that closet, you’ll find a wide variety of lights. The studio is pretty well covered with natural light, but if you want to see how whatever you’re working on will look in a gallery, I recommend the tri-phosphor or multi-phosphor lamp. They’re great for large pieces.’

  A feeling of inadequacy. Sure, Boy is familiar with lighting and even had a cheap studio lamp set-up back in Austin, but nothing compared to this. The space and the potentiality of the space mesh together in an intimidating way. He only hopes he can harness it.

  Oggie points at two ventilators over the painting wall. ‘The switches are by the door. Everything’s labeled, of course. Oh, and there’s two more ventilators near the draining board. There’s also a pair of extractor fans in that closet, just in case you need something like that. There are also portable heaters in there for winter. Since there are high ceilings in here, make su
re you use the ceiling fan if you got the heat on.

  ‘Over here is the sink and draining board. If you press this button here, it switches the way the water flows into the pipe so you can wash your excess paints and not worry about them going down the drain. Every now and then, check inside the cabinet to see if the vat of excess paint is full. There are five gallon drums in the storage closet over there. As you fill them up, call the phone number for paint disposal I have listed in the kitchen. The guy will come and get them so you don’t have to worry about it.’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’

  ‘Here.’ Oggie opens a closet with a white circle painted on the door. ‘This is the supplies closet. I’ve filled it for now. You’ll be on your own later.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Boy is greeted by more paints than he’s ever seen. Unopened boxes of paints sit on top of a dresser which he assumes is filled with various oils and brushes. On the floor, cans of primer rest next to varnish and sealants.

  ‘The point is to have everything at your disposal. If you need anything special, let me know.’

  ‘I need access to a blow torch and scrap metal and stained glass. Eventually.’

  ‘Sculpting something?’ Oggie smiles, leading Boy into the kitchen.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  A contract rests on a sleek metal table guarded by two egg-shaped chairs. ‘Look this over. There shouldn’t be anything on it that we haven’t already discussed. I get two pieces a year for the first three years and one piece after that. I’m not – which, of course, is covered in the contract – talking about media pieces or anything like that.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Sign it, get it to me next time and don’t do anything crazy. Oh, you should prepare for your next show.’ Oggie extends his hand.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘In six weeks at a gallery in the East Village called Residue.’

  ₪₪₪

  On the bed upstairs.

  Boy has signed the contract, would sign a pact with the devil if it meant he could be the version of himself he hopes to become. And the studio. Dreaming in real life is a rare occurrence. He’s afraid to look at his phone. Eventually Maeve will find the apartment a wreck. Glass Wings was to blame; Boy would never trash a place like that.

  Girl. Maybe he should call her now and congratulate her newborn addition to the family, Lucy. Maybe she’d changed the name by now, but why would she do that?

  ‘Penelope, are you here?’ Boy asks aloud.

  No answer. He wishes someone would hold him. Misses Salome all of the sudden. She did that when they first got together, she’d spoon him and he’d never felt closer to anyone. Call Salome, ask her about her writing.

  What would he say? I’m in New York and big things are happening. Last night I was attacked by a hallucination – real or otherwise – but now my life has been completely changed. I’m lying on the soft bed above my own studio, with everything I could possibly need, in a city I’ve always wanted to live in. No struggle. All I have to do is create. My only problem is Glass Wings.

  ‘You cheated on her,’ he says, reminding himself aloud. Plus she tried to kill you multiple times.

  What Penelope told him at Maeve’s apartment comes to him. The more he ignores the things he sees, the less power they have, but look at the extent they will go to get his attention. Glass Wings like a grounded bat dragging itself across the floor. Lucy fucking the life out of him. Why these two though? What about Ghost and Philly Ghost? Why haven’t they visited?

  Shake to forget. Shake to forget.

  The bed is unbelievably soft. Pillow top mattress, queen-sized, and raised from the floor on a box spring. Pinching himself wouldn’t make this any less real, Boy has already tried that. Twists of fate can be twisted but sometimes they fork into the right direction.

  Call your sister.

  He finds his phone and studies the number. The longer they don’t speak, the longer it feels as if they’ve never spoken at all.

  ₪₪₪

  Call your sister on the subway.

  Loud things these subway cars. They clink together and people stream in on their phones, cursing at their children, rocking out to some obscure band. Cauliflowering pandemonium in a relatively calm environment. The smell varies: pungent at times, stale at others, perfumed, oiled, someone’s cigarette breath. Let’s all ride together and try to pretend we aren’t stuck in a metal box barreling forward beneath the weight of a massive city.

  First rule of the subway: Don’t ride the subway car with a single homeless man on it – he has done something foul. Second rule: Follow the first rule. Third rule: eavesdrop on every conversation you can. Fourth rule: tip the buskers. Fifth rule: call your sister, but not on the subway.

  Boy breaks rule five and dials. He’s on his way to the Windsor store, looking for a particular stenciling brush. The subway is almost quiet, even with the couple arguing about the best way to get to Chinatown and the sparkling mariachis running onto the cab to sing a song (Boy has a Mexico flashback and swallows it down with a shudder).

  With all the nerve he can muster, he presses the call button. The phone rings twice.

  ‘Hello?’

  Girl recognizes his voice.

  A hefty black woman sits down next to him and settles into her girth. ‘Congratulations,’ Boy says, trying to gain control over a conversation that has yet to start. ‘On your new baby,’ he adds awkwardly. His temples throb. The people around him in the train suddenly seem distant, vaporous.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Silence wedges between them. Char-load!

  ‘Where a-a-are you?’ He feels apprehensive, flushed, ready to hang up the phone. The woman next to him pulls her cell phone from the valley of her cleavage. The device is covered in glued-on crystals arranged to form the Chanel logo. He stares at the stupid crystals like they are the bridge between life and death.

  ‘Same place,’ Girl finally says. Boy remembers calling her outside Spider House in Austin while he was hallucinating with Friend. It seems so long ago; he was stupid then. Halfie – he was so stupid then, too.

  ‘You’re in New York, right?’ Her voice seems calm, certain. He wonders how shaky his must sound.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Here.’

  The subway train slows to a stop. Faces outside the dirty train windows blur into existence.

  ‘Working?’ she asks.

  ‘Not anymore.’

  A hissing sound as the brakes compress. Glass Wings is waiting at the back of the crowd. Impossible!

  Boy looks away. Don’t feed the delusion. Don’t don’t don’t!

  ‘What about you?’ he asks, closing his eyes.

  ‘I’m an esthetician.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I shape people’s eyebrows, clean the skin on their face – you know, facials – that sort of thing.’

  ‘And how’s… Lucy?’

  ‘She’s here right now. Do you want to say something to her? It’s your uncle, Little Angel, yes, it is.’ Girl says this in the sweetest voice possible and it breaks his heart. He’s an uncle. What responsibility does that entail? Maybe none, but it sure feels like it should.

  ‘And Clint? How’s he?’

  ‘Good. He’s got a job managing construction sites.’

  So his sister is normal now. Boy realizes he’s become the odd man out in more ways than one. Why don’t you tell your sister about your ghosts? Maeve’s voice comes to him and he tries to stuff it back down.

  ‘Are you listening?’ Girl asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, watching a leathery old man shuffle onto the subway car with a wireless headset and a sleeveless jean vest. The black lady coughs something antifreeze green into a napkin and stands. She forgets her phone and Boy points at it. She stuffs it back into her bra.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m distracted,’ he says.

  ‘I asked about your art. How’s it going?’

  ‘Things have taken an interesting twist, if that’s what you’re askin
g.’

  ‘What’s that noise?’ Girl asks.

  ‘Subway.’

  ‘No, it’s a clipping noise. Do you have someone on the other line?’

  ‘I guess I do,’ he says, looking down at his phone. No, not now.

  ‘Well, go ahead and take it.’

  ‘No it’s fine, this is important.’

  ‘I have to feed Lucy. It’s a pain to do while I’m on the phone. Call me back later. Promise?’

  ‘Promise,’ Boy says.

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Serious.’

  ‘We have a lot to catch up on,’ she says, feebly.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m—’

  ‘I am too, so call me back.’

  ₪₪₪

  ‘What the hell happened here?’ Maeve asks, as soon as he switches to the other line.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Play dumb and think of an answer.

  ‘The place. Shattering all the glass? What the fuck is wrong with you?’

  ‘I didn’t do that,’ Boy says. What to say? What to say? His mind scours the airwaves for an adequate answer. He feels light-headed, ready to crawl down onto the tracks and wait for the next train to come.

  ‘Okay, but seriously, what happened here? The place is destroyed. I let you stay here for free and this is how you repay me? Is this some sort of revenge for the fact we broke up? Just be honest with me goddammit!’

  ‘I didn’t do it, I swear.’ He lowers his voice as the train continues forward in a jerky manner.

  ‘Oh, so I’m supposed to believe a burglar broke everything in the house? This same burglar – for some reason – didn’t steal anything or touch any of your art supplies. This is what I’m supposed to believe, right?’

  ‘It’s not what it looks like, Maeve. Please…’

  ‘Actually, I’m looking at your canvas right now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Boy hears a ripping sound.