Tenth of December: Stories Page 5

  “Think, Jeff,” Abnesti said. “Think if you’d had the benefit of ED289/290 on your fateful night.”

  Tell the truth, I was getting kind of sick of him always talking about my fateful night.

  I’d been sorry about it right away and had gotten sorrier about it ever since, and was now so sorry about it that him rubbing it in my face did not make me one bit sorrier, it just made me think of him as being kind of a dick.

  “Can I go to bed now?” I said.

  “Not yet,” Abnesti said. “It is hours to go before you sleep.”

  Then he sent me into Small Workroom 3, where some dude I didn’t know was sitting.

  V

  “Rogan,” the dude said.

  “Jeff,” I said.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “Not much,” I said.

  We sat tensely for a long time, not talking.

  I kept waiting to feel myself all of a sudden wanting to jump Rogan’s bones.

  But no.

  Maybe ten minutes passed.

  We got some rough customers in here. I noted that Rogan had a tattoo of a rat on his neck, a rat that had just been knifed and was crying. But even through its tears it was knifing a smaller rat, who just looked surprised.

  Finally Abnesti came on the P.A.

  “That’s it, guys, thanks,” he said.

  “What the fuck was that about?” Rogan said.

  Good question, Rogan, I thought. Why had we been left just sitting there? In the same manner that Heather and Rachel had been left just sitting there? Then I had a hunch. To test my hunch, I did a sudden lurch into the Spiderhead. Which Abnesti always made a point of not keeping locked, to show how much he trusted and was unafraid of us.

  And guess who was in there?

  “Hey, Jeff,” Heather said.

  “Jeff, get out,” Abnesti said.

  “Heather, did Mr. Abnesti just now make you decide which of us, me or Rogan, to give some Darkenfloxx™ to?” I said.

  “Yes,” Heather said. She must have been on some VeriTalk™, because she spoke the truth in spite of Abnesti’s attempt at a withering silencing glance.

  “Did you recently fuck Rogan, Heather?” I said. “In addition to me? And also fall in love with him, as you did with me?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Heather, honestly,” Abnesti said. “Put a sock in it.”

  Heather looked around for a sock, VeriTalk™ making one quite literal.

  Back in my Domain, I did the math: Heather had fucked me three times. Heather had probably also fucked Rogan three times, since, in the name of design consistency, Abnesti would have given Rogan and me equal relative doses of Vivistif™.

  And yet, speaking of design consistency, there was still one shoe to drop, if I knew Abnesti, always a stickler in terms of data symmetry, which was: Wouldn’t Abnesti also need Rachel to decide who to Darkenfloxx™, i.e., me or Rogan?

  After a short break, my suspicions were confirmed: I found myself again sitting in Small Workroom 3 with Rogan!

  Again we sat not talking for a long time. Mostly he picked at the smaller rat and I tried to watch without him seeing.

  Then, like before, Abnesti came on the P.A. and said: “That’s it, guys, thanks.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Rachel’s in there with you.”

  “Jeff, if you don’t stop doing that, I swear,” Abnesti said.

  “And she just declined to Darkenfloxx™ either me or Rogan?” I said.

  “Hi, Jeff!” Rachel said. “Hi, Rogan!”

  “Rogan,” I said. “Did you by any chance fuck Rachel earlier today?”

  “Pretty much,” said Rogan.

  My mind was like reeling. Rachel had fucked me plus Rogan? Heather had fucked me plus Rogan? And everyone who had fucked anyone had fallen in love with that person, then out of it?

  What kind of crazy-ass Project Team was this?

  I mean, I had been on some crazy-ass Project Teams in my time, such as one where the drip had something in it that made hearing music exquisite, and hence when some Shostakovich was piped in actual bats seemed to circle my Domain, or the one where my legs became totally numb below the waist and yet I found I could still stand fifteen straight hours at a fake cash register, miraculously suddenly able to do extremely hard long-division problems in my mind.

  But of all of my crazy-ass Project Teams this was by far the most crazy-assed.

  I could not help but wonder what tomorrow would bring.

  VI

  Except today wasn’t even over.

  I was again called into Small Workroom 3. And was sitting there when this unfamiliar guy came in.

  “I’m Keith!” he said, rushing over to shake my hand.

  He was a tall Southern drink of water, all teeth and wavy hair.

  “Jeff,” I said.

  “Really nice meeting you!” he said.

  Then we sat there not talking. Whenever I looked over at Keith, he would gleam his teeth at me and shake his head all wry, as if to say, “Odd job of work, isn’t it?”

  “Keith,” I said. “Do you by any chance know two chicks named Rachel and Heather?”

  “I sure as heck do,” Keith said. And suddenly his teeth had a leering quality to them.

  “Did you by any chance have sex with both Rachel and Heather earlier today, three times each?” I said.

  “What are you, man, a dang psychic?” Keith said. “You’re blowing my mind, I it mit it!”

  “Jeff, you’re totally doinking with our experimental design integrity,” Abnesti said.

  “So either Rachel or Heather is sitting in the Spiderhead right now,” I said. “Trying to decide.”

  “Decide what?” Keith said.

  “Which of us to Darkenfloxx™,” I said.

  “Eek,” said Keith. And now his teeth looked scared.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “She won’t do it.”

  “Who won’t?” Keith said.

  “Whoever’s in there,” I said.

  “That’s it, guys, thanks,” Abnesti said.

  Then, after a short break, Keith and I were once again brought into Small Workroom 3, where once again we waited as either Rachel or Heather declined to Darkenfloxx™ either one of us.

  Back in my Domain, I constructed a who-had-fucked-whom chart, which went like this:

  Abnesti came in.

  “Despite all your shenanigans,” he said, “Rogan and Keith had exactly the same reaction as you did. And as Rachel and Heather did. None of you, at the critical moment, could decide whom to Darkenfloxx™. Which is super. What does that mean? Why is it super? It means that ED289/290 is the real deal. It can make love, it can take love away. I’m almost inclined to start the naming process.”

  “Those girls did it nine times each today?” I said.

  “Peace4All,” he said. “LuvInclyned. You seem pissy. Are you pissy?”

  “Well, I feel a little jerked around,” I said.

  “Do you feel jerked around because you still have feelings of love for one of the girls?” he said. “That would need to be noted. Anger? Possessiveness? Residual sexual longing?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You honestly don’t feel miffed that a girl for whom you felt love was then funked by two other guys, and, not only that, she then felt exactly the same quality/quantity of love for those guys as she had felt for you, or, in the case of Rachel, was about to feel for you, at the time that she funked Rogan? I think it was Rogan. She may have funked Keith first. Then you, penultimately. I’m vague on the order of operations. I could look it up. But think deeply on this.”

  I thought deeply on it.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Well, it’s a lot to sort through,” he said. “Luckily it’s night. Our day is done. Anything else you want to talk about? Anything else you’re feeling?”

  “My penis is sore,” I said.

  “Well, no surprise there,” he said. “Think how those girls must feel. I’ll send Verl
aine in with some cream.”

  Soon Verlaine came in with some cream.

  “Hi, Verlaine,” I said.

  “Hi, Jeff,” he said. “You want to put this on yourself or want me to do it?”

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Cool,” he said.

  And I could tell he meant it.

  “Looks painful,” he said.

  “It really is,” I said.

  “Must have felt pretty good at the time, though?” he said.

  His words seemed to be saying he was envious, but I could see in his eyes, as they looked at my penis, that he wasn’t envious at all.

  Then I slept the sleep of the dead.

  As they say.

  VII

  Next morning I was still asleep when Abnesti came on the P.A.

  “Do you remember yesterday?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “When I asked which gal you’d like to see on the Darkenfloxx™?” he said. “And you said neither?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, that was good enough for me,” he said. “But apparently not good enough for the Protocol Committee. Not good enough for the Three Horsemen of Anality. Come in here. Let’s get started—we’re going to need to do a kind of Confirmation Trial. Oh, this is going to stink.”

  I entered the Spiderhead.

  Sitting in Small Workroom 2 was Heather.

  “So this time,” Abnesti said, “per the Protocol Committee, instead of me asking you which girl to give the Darkenfloxx™ to, which the ProtComm felt was too subjective, we’re going to give this girl the Darkenfloxx™ no matter what you say. Then see what you say. Like yesterday, we’re going to put you on a drip of—Verlaine? Verlaine? Where are you? Are you there? What is it again? Do you have the project order?”

  “Verbaluce™, VeriTalk™, ChatEase™,” Verlaine said over the P.A.

  “Right,” Abnesti said. “And did you refresh his MobiPak™? Are his quantities good?”

  “I did it,” Verlaine said. “I did it while he was sleeping. Plus I already told you I already did it.”

  “What about her?” Abnesti said. “Did you refresh her MobiPak™? Are her quantities good?”

  “You stood right there and watched me, Ray,” Verlaine said.

  “Jeff, sorry,” Abnesti said to me. “We’re having a little tension in here today. Not an easy day ahead.”

  “I don’t want you to Darkenfloxx™ Heather,” I said.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Is that because you love her?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want you to Darkenfloxx™ anybody.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “That is so sweet. Then again: Is this Confirmation Trial about what you want? Not so much. What it’s about is us recording what you say as you observe Heather getting Darkenfloxxed™. For five minutes. Five-minute trial. Here we go. Drip on?”

  I did not say “Acknowledge.”

  “You should feel flattered,” Abnesti said. “Did we choose Rogan? Keith? No. We deemed your level of speaking more commensurate with our data needs.”

  I did not say “Acknowledge.”

  “Why so protective of Heather?” Abnesti said. “One would almost think you loved her.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Do you even know her story?” he said. “You don’t. You legally can’t. Does it involve whiskey, gangs, infanticide? I can’t say. Can I imply, somewhat peripherally, that her past, violent and sordid, did not exactly include a dog named Lassie and a lot of family talks about the Bible while Grammy sat doing macramé, adjusting her posture because the quaint fireplace was so sizzling? Can I suggest that, if you knew what I know about Heather’s past, making Heather briefly sad, nauseous, and/or horrified might not seem like the worst idea in the world? No, I can’t.”

  “All right, all right,” I said.

  “You know me,” he said. “How many kids do I have?”

  “Five,” I said.

  “What are their names?” he said.

  “Mick, Todd, Karen, Lisa, Phoebe,” I said.

  “Am I a monster?” he said. “Do I remember birthdays around here? When a certain individual got athlete’s foot on his groin on a Sunday, did a certain other individual drive over to Rexall and pick up the cream, paying for it with his own personal money?”

  That was a nice thing he’d done, but it seemed kind of unprofessional to bring it up now.

  “Jeff,” Abnesti said. “What do you want me to say here? Do you want me to say that your Fridays are at risk? I can easily say that.”

  Which was cheap. My Fridays meant a lot to me, and he knew that. Fridays I got to Skype Mom.

  “How long do we give you?” Abnesti said.

  “Five minutes,” I said.

  “How about we make it ten?” Abnesti said.

  Mom always looked heartsick when our time was up. It had almost killed her when they arrested me. The trial had almost killed her. She’d spent her savings to get me out of real jail and in here. When I was a kid, she’d had long brown hair, past her waist. During the trial she cut it. Then it went gray. Now it was just a white poof about the size of a cap.

  “Drip on?” Abnesti said.

  “Acknowledge,” I said.

  “Okay to pep up your language centers?” he said.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Heather, hello?” he said.

  “Good morning!” Heather said.

  “Drip on?” he said.

  “Acknowledge,” Heather said.

  Abnesti used his remote.

  The Darkenfloxx™ started flowing. Soon Heather was softly crying. Then was up and pacing. Then jaggedly crying. A little hysterical, even.

  “I don’t like this,” she said, in a quaking voice.

  Then she threw up in the trash can.

  “Speak, Jeff,” Abnesti said to me. “Speak a lot, speak in detail. Let’s make something useful of this, shall we?”

  Everything in my drip felt Grade A. Suddenly I was waxing poetic. I was waxing poetic re what Heather was doing, and waxing poetic re my feelings about what Heather was doing. Basically, what I was feeling was: Every human is born of man and woman. Every human, at birth, is, or at least has the potential to be, beloved of his/her mother/father. Thus every human is worthy of love. As I watched Heather suffer, a great tenderness suffused my body, a tenderness hard to distinguish from a sort of vast existential nausea; to wit, why are such beautiful beloved vessels made slaves to so much pain? Heather presented as a bundle of pain receptors. Heather’s mind was fluid, and could be ruined (by pain, by sadness). Why? Why was she made this way? Why so fragile?

  Poor child, I was thinking, poor girl. Who loved you? Who loves you?

  “Hang in there, Jeff,” Abnesti said. “Verlaine! What do you think? Any vestige of romantic love in Jeff’s Verbal Commentary?”

  “I’d say no,” Verlaine said over the P.A. “That’s all just pretty much basic human feeling right there.”

  “Excellent,” Abnesti said. “Time remaining?”

  “Two minutes,” Verlaine said.

  I found what happened next very hard to watch. Under the influence of the Verbaluce™, the VeriTalk™, and the ChatEase™, I also found it impossible not to narrate.

  In each Workroom was a couch, a desk, and a chair, all, by design, impossible to disassemble. Heather now began disassembling her impossible-to-disassemble chair. Her face was a mask of rage. She drove her head into the wall. Like a wrathful prodigy, Heather, beloved of someone, managed, in her great sadness-fueled rage, to disassemble the chair while continuing to drive her head into the wall.

  “Jesus,” Verlaine said.

  “Verlaine, buck up,” Abnesti said. “Jeff, stop crying. Contrary to what you might think, there’s not much data in crying. Use your words. Don’t make this in vain.”

  I used my words. I spoke volumes, was precise. I described and redescribed what I was feeling as I watched Heather do what she now began doing, intently, al
most beautifully, to her face/head with one of the chair legs.

  In his defense, Abnesti was not in such great shape himself: breathing hard, cheeks candy red, as he tapped the screen of his iMac nonstop with a pen, something he did when stressed.

  “Time,” he finally said, and cut the Darkenfloxx™ off with his remote. “Fuck. Get in there, Verlaine. Hustle it.”

  Verlaine hustled into Small Workroom 2.

  “Talk to me, Sammy,” Abnesti said.

  Verlaine felt for Heather’s pulse, then raised his hands, palms up, so that he looked like Jesus, except shocked instead of beatific, and also he had his glasses up on top of his head.

  “Are you kidding me?” Abnesti said.

  “What now?” Verlaine said. “What do I—”

  “Are you fricking kidding me?” Abnesti said.

  Abnesti burst out of his chair, shoved me out of the way, and flew through the door into Small Workroom 2.

  VIII

  I returned to my Domain.

  At three, Verlaine came on the P.A.

  “Jeff,” he said. “Please return to the Spiderhead.”

  I returned to the Spiderhead.

  “We’re sorry you had to see that, Jeff,” Abnesti said.

  “That was unexpected,” Verlaine said.

  “Unexpected plus unfortunate,” Abnesti said. “And sorry I shoved you.”

  “Is she dead?” I said.

  “Well, she’s not the best,” Verlaine said.

  “Look, Jeff, these things happen,” Abnesti said. “This is science. In science we explore the unknown. It was unknown what five minutes on Darkenfloxx™ would do to Heather. Now we know. The other thing we know, per Verlaine’s assessment of your commentary, is that you really, for sure, do not harbor any residual romantic feelings for Heather. That’s a big deal, Jeff. A beacon of hope at a sad time for all. Even as Heather was, so to speak, going down to the sea in her ship, you remained totally unwavering in terms of continuing to not romantically love her. My guess is, ProtComm’s going to be like: ‘Wow, Utica’s really leading the pack in terms of providing mind-blowing new data on ED289/290.’ ”

  It was quiet in the Spiderhead.

  “Verlaine, go out,” Abnesti said. “Go do your bit. Make things ready.”