Eric stood. “I don’t see why not.” He headed out the door. I followed. The wind-up bird performed back flips without an audience.
Dr. Bishop had set up an office for Eric in an abandoned storage room in a forgotten building on the north end of the North Quad. The room shared the same design scheme as my office: barren, off-white walls, one smoke alarm (presumably tested and in working order), and metal furniture. Pure utility. On the single metal desk sat a computer. Eric sat in front of that computer. He invited me to pull an office chair up next to him. I did. He focused his gaze on the computer screen, flicked his mouse thither and yon, and brought up a series of jerky video images of foyers. Nothing moved in any of them. Eric said, “These are some of the homes that we’re monitoring. Obviously, I don’t need to watch right now. And, obviously, this isn’t all of them. Dr. Bishop has 47 volunteers in this experiment. Forty-eight, including you and your dog, if he comes home. I scan through them and look for action. It’s pretty boring, so I listen to music. You want some music?”
I shrugged. I assumed a blue-collar guy like Eric would blast classic rock or pop country. I didn’t particularly care to hear either. But, after all, this was his office.
Eric pushed the “play” button on the CD player next to him. First, an accordion blasted out of the speakers, then drums, then rhythm guitars. The music was norteño all the way. I looked closer at Eric. He still had all the northern European features I’d noticed in him initially. His hair still mixed that dirty blond and gray. I’d even learned his last name when he typed it into his computer to log in. Jurgenson. Eric Jurgenson. You didn’t get much whiter than that.
Eric raised his voice so I could hear him over the norteño. “I edit everything out but the action. I store the little videos in files for Dr. Bishop.”
“Do you have the one of my dog leaving?”
Eric flicked the mouse and opened a file named after me. “It’s right here.”
“How big is it?” I asked. “Can you email it to me?”
“No, but I can burn it onto a CD.” Eric pulled the plastic cover off a stack of CD-Rs and grabbed a blank. “It’ll only take a second.”
I watched Eric slide the mouse around and work the CD burner on his computer. As I did this, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Dr. Bishop’s said, “You should volunteer to work with Eric and Dr. Bishop on this.” Was Dr. Bishop in the room? Was she speaking of herself in the third person? I looked around the barren little office. Dr. Bishop was not there.
I asked Eric, “Did you hear something?”
“It’s this computer,” he said. “It gets hot in here, so I installed a couple of extra fans inside to keep the hard drive cool.”
It wasn’t the fans I was hearing. It wasn’t the norteño. It was that same voice once again saying, “You should volunteer to work with Eric and Dr. Bishop on this.” I couldn’t imagine why I should. I hardly felt like leaving home at all these days. I hardly felt like doing anything.
The voice said, “You could ride your bike up to the hospital. It’d give you a chance to ride your bike more.” Which was a good point. I loved that bike, and I was hardly riding it. I figured I should listen to this creepy little voice. I asked Eric if he and Dr. Bishop could use any help.
“Sure, man,” he said. “I’ll talk to Doc about it and get back with you.”
I spent the next day in front of the computer in my office. I watched a pair of stockinged legs and clunky shoes walk in the front door of my apartment; slender fingers slide the clunky shoes off the stockinged feet; a rough-edited chop; four minutes of Clint Dempsey sitting in the foyer, wagging his tail; my cheap brown loafers stepping into the foyer; Clint Dempsey twisting and jumping and licking; my slacks and jacket as I squat into the frame to pet Clint Dempsey; my slacks as I stand; the stockinged feet sliding back into leather oxfords with flames sewn into the toes; my hand attaching the leash to Clint Dempsey’s collar; all three of us leaving; a rough-edit chop; all three return; another rough chop; my bike tires rolling out the door with my shoes and slacks alongside; a final rough-edit chop; stockinged legs and oxfords walking out the front door; and my lonely brown loafers walking in the door and stopping there.
I went further than that, even. I duplicated the five-minute file so that it would repeat perpetually for the length of a seventy-minute CD. I watched that CD four consecutive times.
When I was done, I addressed a postcard to both my wife and Clint Dempsey. To the left of the address, I wrote, “I love you. Please come home.”
Neither dog nor wife answered.
11
I sat in my wooden office chair, feet propped on the window ledge, staring blankly in the direction of the sunny March day outside. A slight breeze blew through my slacks, tickling the hairs on my legs. The first fragrances of spring floated around: an impending evening rain mixed with hints of flowering shrubs. I wondered how much a Greyhound ticket to Fresno would cost and if I would make my situation better or worse by showing up in Fresno on a Greyhound. I even thought about renting a car despite the fact that I hadn’t driven a car in years. I still knew how to drive, more or less.
A pebble pinged the upper pane of my window. It snapped me out of my thoughts, but I didn’t move. Another pebble missed the upper pane, flew in through the open lower half of the window, and skittered across my desk. I stood and looked outside. Dr. Benengeli stood on the walkway, three and a half stories below me. She waved for me to come down and meet her.
I locked the office door behind me, turned left and counted eight steps, reached the half-stairway and walked down, strolled thirteen more paces, took a right through the interns’ lounge, took another right to the stairs, trotted down four levels, and counted twelve paces out the door. Of course, I didn’t need to count my steps anymore. I knew my way through the maze of the Williams Building. I knew it so well that I could’ve drawn that treasure map that I coveted when I first started at the hospital. But such is the nature of maps: by the time you can draw them, you don’t need them anymore.
I met Dr. Benengeli under the Doric columns at the entranceway to the Williams Building. She smiled and said, “You need a break.”
“I do,” I said. “How did you know?”
“It’s beautiful out. Spring is in the air. Everyone needs a break.”
She strolled down the pathway and into the dual diagnosis dorm. I followed. I didn’t ask her where she was taking me. She answered just as if I’d asked. “I’m doing an arts and crafts group this afternoon. Finger-painting. I thought you might want to join in.”
“You thought I might want to finger-paint?”
“Yes.”
I scratched my head. “Is there something about me that indicates that I want to return to kindergarten?”
Dr. Benengeli stopped abruptly in the lobby of the dual diagnosis dorm. I stopped, too. I looked over her head at a water cooler. The hairs on the back of my neck felt light. I glanced down. Dr. Benengeli held my glance. She said, “Everyone wants to go back to kindergarten.”
I waited for her to elaborate. She started walking again. Little kindergarten memories flashed through my mind: climbing monkey bars, rolling wooden trucks around the classroom linoleum, walking the balance beam and getting a candy bar because I didn’t fall, the PE teacher leading us all in a round of jumping jacks, a woman playing an acoustic guitar and everyone singing along with no notion or care about being off-key. Coloring. Fair enough. That was exactly the kind of day I’d like to have again. I followed Dr. Benengeli through the double glass front doors.
As we cut across the springtime hospital grounds, I thought about Dr. Benengeli throwing pebbles against my window just when I needed to get out of my office, as well as the videotape and Frank Walters and Dr. Bishop. I said, “What are your thoughts on Dr. Bishop’s research? You know, with the dogs and all.”
“Why? Is she trying to get you to fund it?”
“She hasn’t said anything about that. I did participate in the study for a whil
e.”
“Oh, that’s right. I heard about that. And your wife stole your dog.” Dr. Benengeli tried to cast a sympathetic glance in my direction, but the suppressed smile betrayed her.
“You guys gossip way too much.”
Dr. Benengeli touched my forearm with the palm of her hand. She grazed it so gently that I barely felt her touch. I slowed down. She said, “Are you taking care of yourself?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m just curious about Dr. Bishop’s research.”
“You know, you can talk to me about the divorce if you want. Not in a formal capacity, of course, but just as friends.”
“Thanks.” I did appreciate Dr. Benengeli’s offer to take a busman’s holiday with me, I just didn’t feel like doing it at that moment. “But why would I want to talk divorce when I could talk about telepathic dogs?”
“You mean Dr. Bishop’s research, of course. You know it’s not really telepathy. She calls it the collective unconscious.”
“You don’t call it that?”
“Well, what she calls the collective unconscious and what Jung used those words to describe are two different things.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. Between you and me, it’s all a crock. I mean, even if she’s right, it’s all a crock. The last thing we need to be investigating is a new form of communication.” She swept her hand in front of her. Two other doctors cut across the narrow street between red brick buildings. Both doctors spoke on cellular phones, presumably not to one another. “Look at how much we talk, talk, talk these days. Emailing and texting and cell phones and landlines and blogs and on and on and on. And nothing gets said. We aren’t exchanging anything deep or meaningful. We aren’t even communicating in the genuine sense of the word. We’re just chatting. Or maybe chattering. I don’t know. I just think if you really want to help people communicate, you find a way to sit them down together, face-to-face. That’s what I think we need.”
“Hmmm,” I said, because I wasn’t sure how else to react. On the one hand, I agreed that we’d all be better off with more face-to-face communication. On the other hand, Dr. Benengeli was losing me. I didn’t understand what Dr. Bishop meant by the collective unconscious; I didn’t understand what it had to do with dogs or Eric’s version of metaphysics. I still needed to understand what Walters wanted with it all. But Dr. Benengeli’s mind was clearly drifting in other directions on this sunny afternoon, so I let the subject drop. Dr. Benengeli led me to the south quad.
Eight fiberglass and aluminum picnic tables had been grouped together in the yard in front of the dual diagnosis dorm. Two or three patients sat at each one. Assorted jars of finger paint were arranged in the middle of each picnic table. Psych techs distributed white sheets of 11” × 17” paper, one sheet per patient. I scanned the picnic tables for a place to sit. At the table nearest me sat The Professor and Lola Diaz. I tried to think of a smooth way to sit at any table except that one. Dr. Benengeli touched my elbow and said, “You can sit right here.” She directed me to the seat next to The Professor. That settled that.
I took a seat. The Professor nodded. “You picked the right class to sit in on,” he said. “Dr. Benengeli has the reputation of being the top Art professor here at Winfield.”
Lola shot me a conspiratorial smile. I returned the sentiment. The Professor said, “Have you two met?” He motioned a hand toward Lola. “She’s one of our shining stars in the Art Department. She recently finished a mural over in McCabe Hall. I would suggest that you stop by and view the painting. However, as you know, McCabe is not a co-ed dorm.”
“It is now, Professor,” Lola said.
He rubbed the edge of his bow tie. He straightened his vest. “It is?” he said. “When did they change that?”
“Last year,” Lola said, without missing a beat. “Only girls are living there now, but boys are allowed in during visiting hours.” Lola turned to address me. “You could stop by between three and four this afternoon and take a look.”
I wasn’t sure if this was a real invitation and I wanted no part of a subterfuge. I played their game. I said, “I have class at three today. Maybe sometime next week.”
The conspiratorial grin spread across Lola’s face.
Dr. Benengeli started the session. She said, “Today, we’re working on sharing. Not only are we sharing our paints, we’re sharing our thoughts, our feelings, and our artwork. I’m going to be coming around and joining each of your tables. I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say and seeing what you produce. Are there any questions?” Dr. Benengeli glanced around the group. No one said anything. She clapped her hands once. “Great. Let’s get started.”
The Professor reached first for the jar of red paint in front of him. I waited for Lola to choose her color. Eric swept in next to Lola. He swung his brown work boots over the faded turquoise fiberglass seat of the picnic table, sat down, unzipped his blue Dickies jacket, took it off, folded it, and set it on the bench seat between him and Lola. He said, “Finger-painting. All right! You guys mind if I join you?”
“Not at all, Eric,” The Professor said.
I looked at The Professor’s eyes and tried to follow the line of their stare. Had The Professor read Eric’s name off the embroidered nametag sewn into his Roads and Grounds shirt? Did The Professor remember Eric from the Winfield University days, or did they know each other from wandering around hospital grounds? Did all three of my tablemates have a history that stretched back to the Winfield era? Was everyone else in on it? In on what?
Lola took the jar of black paint. Eric raised his hand. A psych tech came by and handed Eric a sheet of white paper. He said, “Don’t you ever work, Jurgenson?”
Eric grabbed the jar of yellow paint. “I’m working right now,” he said. “I’m working on my finger-painting.”
The psych tech raised an eyebrow, shook his head, wandered off. Eric smeared yellow paint haphazardly across his white paper. I took the jar of green paint. I was never much of an artist and didn’t really have any vision for this day’s finger-painting. Since I had green, I painted some grass. Or, to be more specific, I painted the bottom third of my paper green and imagined it to represent grass.
Eric said, “So, Professor, how are classes going this semester?”
“Wonderfully.”
“Good group of kids?”
“There’s always a good group of kids. But, yes, this year we have some exceptional students. In fact, you’re sitting next to one of them.”
Eric looked at Lola. Lola had dipped her clean fingers into both The Professor’s red paint and Eric’s yellow paint. She mixed the two together to create orange. She spread the orange paint into little circles that would surely add up to something soon. Eric said, “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Eric.”
She barely looked up. She said, “Lola.”
The Professor said, “Lola is the student who painted the mural in McCabe Hall.”
“Really?” Eric said.
“Really,” I said.
Eric looked me in the eyes. He said, “Really?” again, but with more conviction this time.
“Really,” Lola said, without looking up.
“It is hard to believe,” The Professor said.
I tried Lola’s trick of blending paint. I dipped my fingers into the yellow and black paints and mixed them together to make a tree trunk. Or, to be more specific, I made a brownish vertical line that stretched up from the green bottom third of my sheet.
Eric crinkled his brow. Long eyebrow hairs jutted up in the sunlight. He said to Lola, “Were you at Winfield in the early ’90s?”
Lola nodded.
The Professor said, “The early ’90s? What year do you think this is, Eric?”
“Touché,” Eric said.
I went back to painting. In my mind, all four of us at the table returned to kindergarten. I imagined us all as kids, but in that restricted imagination way. It was like when someone whom I’ve only known as an
adult tells me a story about himself as a kid, and I think of the kid in the story but he’s mostly just the shrunken down version of the adult in front of me. Eric returned to a time before the sun and smokes had cured and wrinkled his skin. His face became flush with baby fat. His hair was trapped in a gray-blond bowl cut that hung down to his shoulders. He sat with one leg underneath his butt, little kid work boot pressing up against little kid blue Dickies slacks. His shiny teeth bit his bottom lip and something about the way he smeared the paint around gave me the sense that recess was just around the corner. Good times ahead. The Professor regressed to kindergarten size in my mind’s eye, too. He kept his bow tie and sweater vest and blazer, but they became new. Glistening polyester from the kid’s department. His hair had been slicked back, except for the one strand that dangled over his forehead no matter how many times his mom licked her palm and pressed that wayward strand against his scalp. The kindergarten version of The Professor became so fragile in my mind, like a kid with brittle bone disease or hemophilia; the little boy who I want to invite into the game of tag the rest of us are playing, but I know that if he falls or gets cut, it’s curtains. So we paint and he stares so intently, so seriously at his paper and the colors he can’t seem to blend into anything that makes sense to the rest of us. Lola was the easiest to imagine back in kindergarten, because I’d known her then. We’d run in different circles thirty-plus years ago, but the image of her flashed from some long-ignored neurons. Her chocolate brown bangs. The rest of her curly hair pinned back with butterfly barrettes. The dimples on her round cheeks. The sundress with the white lace collar that her mom sewed for her. Those tiny, delicate brown fingers that I just wanted to wrap up in my hands….
I couldn’t call up the kindergarten version of myself. The harder I tried, the more I stayed a mid-30s grant writer. A guy whose wife just left him. And took the dog. Someone with nothing to go home to except the dust of nameless tenants trapped in the paint and carpet fibers of a generic Southern California box apartment.
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