God’s Addiction — Chapter 4
Fun with Tigger
The SUV pulled away from the curb with a modest squeal. “Know why you’re here, Jack?” George said with a hint of a frown and an almost undetectable sigh. I got the impression this was the beginning of a relationship with a target, me, and he was not enthused, but professional enough to take it in stride.
I winked at him. “I want to know why she’s here,” I said sotto voce. Turning my head toward Zooey, I did a raised-eyebrow flat-lipped wide-eyed shrug. She rolled eyes and turned to look out the dark window. Back to George, I saw him manipulate a switch on a console mounted on the back of the front seat. Immediately the windows darkened to opaqueness and a screen rose from a slot in the seat, obscuring our forward view as well.
“Sorry Jack,” George said. “No sightseeing today.”
“S’okay. How ‘bout a beer?”
George stroked his beard. “Flippancy is fine with me, Jack. But there will be others along the way who may take a more serious approach.”
“I know,” I said, nudging Zooey with an elbow. “Like her.”
“Do that again and you’ll regret it,” she growled.
I knew, of course, that stormy seas lay ahead — perhaps along the lines of Conspiracy Theory — yet I felt light inside, almost floating. I didn’t really care why I was being abducted, though missing dinner with Happy and Hushpuppy was a pisser. Compared to the angst and anguish in so many movies I’d seen, I figured I must be defective in the complaints department. “How long till we get there? I’m missing dinner.”
We made small talk for awhile, or rather I did while George put on a show of listening and Zooey pouted. Clearly they knew something about me, and had read statements of witnesses to what I’d done to Mack at the Salvadoran restaurant. But they didn’t appear to know about my perfect memory. At some point I’d picked up a torn and dirty L.A. map off the street. Now, I felt every turn of the SUV and easily traced our route in my mind. The driver was taking a circuitous journey to wherever we were bound, clearly attempting to confuse me as if I’d had a typical citizen’s notion of Los Angeles roads.
I resisted saying things like, “Hey, Silverado Park is just a couple blocks west. How about we stretch our legs?” I had to mentally kick myself — it would have been quite wonderful to take a brief walk in the sun. But despite my broken sense of danger, and my satisfaction in just being alive, some distant part of my brain cautioned that a touch of secrecy might be useful in the future.
The future! What a concept. I felt stuck in an eternal Now when everyone else was all worried about what might happen. Or might not. Why not live in the only time we actually have? The bouncing as we traversed pavement from streets to freeways. The faint tobacco odor coming from George — a smoker who, I sensed, thought it a weakness. A pleasant breezy odor from Zooey. I turned to her. With a less severe expression she would be beautiful. I smiled. She glared. This was my life now, and it was good.
Nothing good ever lasts Iris Dement had sung in Our Town, a song that almost made me long for a past to croon over. We eventually stopped and waited for what sounded like a very heavy metal door rolling upward. Then we pulled forward, stopped again, and George pushed a button to clear the windows. We were in what appeared to be a huge, dimly lit warehouse. Vehicles of various sorts surrounded us, including ones that would be useful to Special Ops in Afghanistan. Heavily armed personnel approached our SUV as George rolled down the window. “Home sweet home,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” George said. “I need to handcuff you now. Hands behind your back please.”
I paraphrased Henry Kissinger: “Accept everything about yourself. You are you. No apologies, no regrets.” To get my hands back to George, I had to twist toward Zooey. I made a kiss-kiss with my lips. She dug a thumb under my jaw in a way that operatives were undoubtedly trained to do in order to inflict maximum pain with minimum effort. It hurt like hell, but I managed a smile. I’m not sure if George knew what was going on. “I love you too,” I managed, turning back to get out of the car.
I had sensed true anger emanating from Zooey — far greater, I thought, than the provocation warranted. In the same instant I felt what I came to think of as leakage. People put up walls around painful experiences to protect their ego-selves from destructive memories. There is a negative energy of fear behind those walls, that can trickle out and poison lives and relationships. With Zooey, there was leakage from her mind to mine. I saw jumbled scenes of a horribly abusive childhood, felt the inexpressible dread that she could not explain from her conscious side of the wall. I saw that it had defined the arc of her life, and factored unknowingly in every choice she made.
***
In the faux warehouse, we went through heavy steel doors that swung remarkably smoothly on hidden bearings. Halls. Stairs. An elevator. More halls. We came to rest in a room with a large central table. The appointments were wood and steel and glass. An aura of precision and expense permeated the space. This was no typical warehouse office.
Five rather severe-looking men and women sat toward one end. Zooey, George, and I were guided to chairs at the other end. The guards stationed themselves at the door and at several positions in the room. There were no windows.
The closest fit for the man seated at the head chair was James Mason as Captain Nemo in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea — though he was not quite as hairy, and his expression somewhat less troubled. “Any idea where you are?” Nemo said to me after an extended pause, during which he had examined my face from a distance.
“Well, Captain, if I had to guess, I’d say on the shore side of Paseo Del Mar, somewhere in the Palos Verdes Estates Shoreline Preserve. Probably at the Chiswick Road end. What I can’t fathom is why anyone would allow a warehouse here.”
He continued to stare at me for a few moments while Zooey and George shared stunned looks back and forth. A small smile pulled the corners of the Captain’s mouth. “They told me you were exceptional,” he said. Then to one of the guards, “You can take the cuffs off, Jimmy.”
Zooey was out of her seat in a flash. “No. He does things with his hands. He’s dangerous.”
A look passed between Zooey and the Captain and I knew instantly that they were sleeping together. It was right out of Lie to Me. The Captain’s smile widened marginally. “I think,” he said to Zooey, “that we can handle him.” Then to Jimmy, “Please.”
Jimmy removed the handcuffs while Zooey shot darts of hostility first at me, then at the Captain, then back to me as she sat down. George was between us, but did not have the fear that Zooey displayed. His expression was now non-judgmental, perhaps even a bit bored.
The Captain rose from his chair and walked toward me. I caught the look he sent to Zooey — a challenge in the arena of their power and sex games, no doubt. “The report says you have lost your memory,” he said, squatting to be on my level. His eyes held more depth than most I’d encountered. “Who do you think you are?”
“A man is defined by his actions, not his memory.”
The Captain threw back his head and let out a deep loud laugh. His teeth were perfect. Capped? Or good genes. “Total Recall,” he said, recovering. “Quato!”
He rose. “And in your case, so true.” He stood behind me with hands on the chair back. “Your actions, according to the report, are rather unusual. As are you. Did anyone tell you we have been following you for several months?”
I almost asked why he would be interested in a minor drug dealer, but caught myself. In their view, I should know nothing of my past — there was no hint that they knew of Happy and me visiting Doc. I turned to look up. “No,” I said.
“Man of few words. I like that. Why do you think you’re here?”
Deciding to push my luck, I moved my chair back, and stood up. Guards readied, and Zooey reached for the weapon nestled against her back. I sat on the table facing Cap. “Best guess? You want me to help you improve your chess game.”
He had not flinched at my maneuver. “I doubt that’s possible. But we can look into it when there’s more time. No, Jack,” he said, using my name for the first time, “We want to understand what you did in that restaurant. It was no accident. You were part of an experiment…”
“The Bourne Identity,” I interrupted. “I knew it. I was a trained assassin. Something went wrong…”
“Hardly,” Cap said. “But you’re right about something going wrong.” He stepped closer to me, and Zooey and the guards fidgeted again. “Will you work with me?”
I nodded my head with a yes gesture but said, “No. I don’t believe I will.” Staring into his eyes, I saw his personal barricade. Behind it I sensed an Oedipus complex, a battle of wills with his father, and an early death of a beloved brother. “Your needs are beyond my help, sir.”
***
Life at the Hive, as I came to call it, was more prosaic than I had imagined it would be. The Captain, head of the unit, had no real interest in me — I was just one more ongoing secret project. Interviews, with George and Zooey and others present, were conducted primarily by Franklin. He reminded me of Franklin the Turtle — a kids’ cartoon character I’d encountered on YouTube, whose episodes I found enjoyable.
Like Franklin the Turtle, Franklin the Interviewer had a bit of a beak for a nose, and an almost greenish skin tone. Also, he didn’t smile a lot and when he did, it was genuine. His eyes were often sad, though they could sparkle too. Cartoon Franklin’s friend Bear was always happy (and hungry), a counterpoint to both Franklins’s moodiness and sensitivity.
Endless medical exams, tests and routines took up much of my time. In my room, I had a flat panel TV that could play movies and other programs — nothing live from outside, naturally. There was an exercise room, a pool, and a library. Of course, I went through books as “leaves before the gale.”
My constant companion, when out of my room, was Tigger. Like the A.A. Milne character, the live Tigger seemed to bounce, conveying the impression that he was bigger than his actual small frame. As with my other recent acquaintances, he made no objection to his new name.
Tigger was assigned to be my shadow, lest I get into trouble, I presumed. He was a perfect fit for the job: his buoyant optimism was tolerable for long stretches. We always ate in Cafeteria B. How many others there were, I didn’t know, and Tigger wouldn’t tell me. “You’re on a need-to-know basis,” he teased. Tigger was on a need-to-know basis himself, unable to supply information about my circumstances, program, or future. Nor was he curious about me personally.
One day we sat in Cafeteria B after having passed through the sumptuous meal line. Well-fed employees make for smooth sailing, apparently — every day there were oven-baked turkeys, prime rib roasts, whole broiled fish, complex green salads, baked potatoes and yams, and tempting desserts. We had been fifth and sixth in line, so most of the tables were empty.
“So Tigger, am I a prisoner here?” I said across the faux-marble-topped round table, setting down my salad and coffee. “Could I just walk out?”
True to type, Tigger bounded out of his chair and came around behind me. He put a hand over my mouth. “Shhh. We don’t want to give the inmates any ideas.” Then he sat in the chair next to me, his brown mane of hair flopping a lock across his forehead. “Of course you’re a prisoner here. We can’t afford to have your talents loose in the world.” He was staring at me with serious brown eyes.
“I thought you didn’t know anything about my situation.”
“Oh, right, need-to-know.” He smiled crookedly, like I’d imagine a pirate would. His voice was hushed, even though there was no one nearby. “I’ve been authorized to reveal certain information if you ask certain questions. The thing is, you’re more important than those damn aliens in Area 51. You’re Homo sapiens. We can work with you. The world” — hint of a wink — “is about to change. Thanks to you.” Then he got up and bounded back to his opposite chair. “Of course you can leave,” he finished.
It was a class act. The fool who wasn’t as he appeared. It was only logical that he knew far more than he let on, but these latest revelations were not it. “So where’s the door?” I said.
Tigger had a fit of laughter. “Ha ha! Come on, Jack. The door?” He motioned over a passing diner, who was probably a staff member. “Ryan! Hey Ryan! C’mere.” He stood, taking Ryan’s elbow and gesturing toward me. “Jack here wants to know where the door is!” Laughter. “Isn’t that hilarious? The door! Ha ha.” He let go of Ryan, who continued on toward another table. Then Tigger sat next to me again. “Do you know the story about the dragonfly nymphs?”
I shook my head and said, “Dragonflies are order Odonata, suborder Epiprocta. They can see almost 360 degrees and they breathe through the anus. The nymphs can spend up to four years underwater. Dragonflies can move and rotate their wings independently, like helicopter blades. In folklore, a dragonfly landing on you means you’ll hear good news from a distant friend. Dragonflies symbolize going beyond your own limitations. But these aren’t really stories.”
Tigger slapped a palm on the table. “By George, that’s impressive. And that last bit…well, here’s the story. As you said, the nymphs live underwater. So every once in a while, one of them goes up through the surface and never comes back. Molts into an adult. All the nymphs wonder what the hell is going on up there. So, one braggy nymph swaggers around. ‘I’m gonna come back and tell you guys what it’s like. I promise you that. You’ll see.’ When it’s his time, up he goes.”
I was visualizing the pond in my mind, the insect emerging from a mirror surface and seeing clearly for the first time the rocks, the grass, the clouds in the blue sky. Perhaps a horse in a distant field.
“Joey Dragonfly is flabbergasted,” Tigger continued. “The whole world is different. Air! He has wings! Trees! He zips around like a kid with a new skateboard, zooming and flying upside down. Then he remembers his promise. He lands on the water, but his foot pads keep him above it. Try as he might, there is no way to get past the water’s surface tension.” Tigger slapped a hand on the table. “Surface tension!” Then held hands out, palms raised. “Yeh?”
I frowned. “And that means…what?”
He shrugged with another open-handed gesture. “You can’t go back. Crossed the Rubicon. Passed the fail safe point. Some things are just one way. Ever hear of the event horizon?”
Of course I had, the point where objects are sucked into a black hole without possibility of return. Sometimes applied to milestones like marriage and childbirth. What became obvious was that I wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of Tigger. He would respond to questions with questions, and dance around the issue. I felt like Jim Carrey in The Truman Show, although the fact of my confinement was no secret. What the conversation did do was make me resolve to seek the answer in other ways. The method I chose, however, proved quite unfortunate.
***
I’d had medical exams up the wazoo, but nothing yet having to do with my special talent. That changed when Tigger escorted me into a spacious laboratory. I sat in a lounge chair while white-gowned personnel attached wired pads to parts of my body, including shaved spots on my head.
The ambiance was impressive: there looked to be at least two monitors for each pad; chart printers randomly spooled paper to the floor; lights were natural wavelengths instead of cold white LEDs; no windows, but wall-sized panels displayed true-color nature scenes, like giant Audubon calendars, behind the equipment. Multi-colored indicators flickered. From hidden speakers, Mozart’s Sonata in A Minor K.310 Allegro danced among beeps and tinks from the machines. The Mozart piece is one of my favorites, and I guessed my surveillance team had put that fact in their report, along with every other facet of my life.
Tigger was more Tigger than usual. No doubt some astute psychologist had analyzed my psych profile, concluding a friendly clown was what I needed, to feel comfortable. And it worked. When a wire was attached to a pad, he might hold it up, frowning, and shake his head saying something like, “No, no, this isn’t right.” When a technician started to attach an electrode to my penis, Tigger put both hands at his crotch and gasped. Then he examined the tech’s badge and said, “Doctor Fetz, is this reeeally necessary?” It was clear that everyone knew Tigger had a very specific role to play.
I watched with interest as a lab worker pushed an IV needle into my arm: first the depression in the skin, then the puncture with a tiny blood ring, and then the feeling as the silver shaft slid into my vein. In the periphery, Tigger writhed up and down, arms around himself, moaning, “Oh, why, who could have ordered this atrocity?” I had to laugh.
When I was properly wired up and appropriately covered with a sheet, Zooey entered the room, followed by George, Franklin, and two others whom I didn’t know. They sat on wheeled stools at a respectful distance, perhaps because I was not strapped down. Then one of the unknowns rolled closer. During our session, I dubbed her Frances, for Frances McDormand, not so much for her looks, though they were similar, but for the semblance of her speech and gestures to McDormand’s in Felonious Discontent.
“Hi,” Frances said, with a trace of shyness in her voice.
“Hello.”
“How are they treating you here?”
I considered getting into the whole prisoner thing. It had been only in recent days that I’d begun to feel that I ought to have some concerns about my situation. Since my rebirth, I’d been happy-go-lucky, seeing all circumstances of my life as adventures to be explored. Recently though, my empty-slate mind had filled enough to form an ego of sorts: I began to categorize experiences as good and bad. It was too soon to guess Frances’s role in my future though, so I just said, “Food’s decent. Tigger’s great.” Frances looked around questioningly, and Tigger bowed. “How about you?” I continued. “You get to go home at night?”
Frances’s expression remained neutral, but I felt a connection in my mind. She was sympathetic to my situation. Once again I wondered if my leakage-sensing was real. It certainly felt that way. Frances had suppressed memories somewhere deep…
“I’d like to ask you about the earliest things you remember,” Frances said. “Is that all right?”
I operated the chair controls to get a more upright position. “What if I say no?” Almost as if a subset of my mind was duplicating her mind — like an inner echo — I knew approximately what she was going to say before she said it. “What if I just leave and head home? I could use a nice walk in the sunshine. I’m not a prisoner here, am I?” It was a validation for me of my leakage thing that I knew how she’d handle my response.
On cue: “How about if I just start, and we’ll see where we’re at. Do you remember being struck and knocked to the sidewalk?”
“No.”
“But you remember being stabbed in the leg, correct?”
“Yes.”
“At that point, you had no memory of who you had been before the attack.” I nodded. “Did you feel unusual?”
I shifted in the chair. “Honey, I had no baseline. As far as I knew, I had just been born, fully clothed, with a hairy body and a bloody knife in my thigh.”
Tigger, having stood at mildly amused attention, slapped his own thigh with a laugh, then pretended to jump in pain. I detected a fierce look from Zooey to Tigger, after which he danced backward and sat in a chair, arms crossed and a pouting expression on his face.
An image formed in my mind of Frances as a young girl, experiencing her first menstrual bleeding, embarrassingly, in a movie theater. “Does the thought of bleeding bother you?” I asked, intending to shift the focus from me to her by probing her hidden memories.
She blinked and paused two seconds, not dignifying my question with an answer. I felt a seed of uncertainty from her — a sort of mental frown. “In the hospital,” she said, “your wound healed exceptionally quickly. Do you have any idea why that was?”
“I’m no doctor.”
Others in the room occasionally glanced at the lines tracing on the monitors, but Frances remained focused on me. “You remember the time in the restaurant with Ms. — “
“Happy,” I interrupted.
“Oh yes. Of course. You call her Happy.”
“You’re Frances,” I said. “And about Happy, when can I see her? I missed dinner when your associates, ah, shanghaied…kidnapped…ah…requested my presence.”
The response from her mind was of pity. There was a distinct implication that she felt I might never see Happy again. “Hopefully soon,” she said.
I smiled, warmly I hoped. “You’re an excellent liar.”
As we talked about me, some part of my perception slid inside her mind, sinking past experiences as if I was a kid in one of those amusement center rooms filled with colored balls. Oiled colored balls. Each sphere held a memory, much like the globes in Natalie Wood’s last film, Brainstorm. I slid past her teens, her adolescence, her childhood, down to a pre-verbal place.
From dim visual and auditory memories, I pieced together an obsession: she could not understand why her mother left her so often. The toddler had no framework in which to place mother’s job, husband, even lover. And then parental divorce, followed by a series of maternal liaisons led her, apparently an only child, through the mist of lonely school days. Later came her own broken relationships, flirtations with gayness, and alienation so fundamental that she hardly knew it was there. This network of influences, anchored in her infancy, colored the skeins of her life.
In some ineffable way I grasped hold of one of the deepest slippery orbs of remembrance and brought it to a semi-conscious level in her mind. “Here,” I said, interrupting whatever she had been saying. “This is why your life is so uncertain.”
Frances blinked rapidly, holding back tears. The metamorphic adult mind could hardly fathom the aboriginal emotions I had pulled upward. “I…” she said, her mouth remaining partially open. A channel had linked our minds, like that ephemeral slippery tunnel I’d had with Doc. I felt us about to join like Siamese twins. Lines jumped on monitors and paper rolled from printers.
With few interior distractions from my comparatively empty brain, little escaped my senses. I saw the slight nod and hand movement that Zooey made. In response, a technician turned a dial of one of the machines.
Instantly, waves of warm and cold traveled my body from feet to head and back. My heart pounded. Hair, it felt, was scrolling from my scalp like the paper tumbling from the machines. Everything was wax. When the fuck did we get ice cream? from The Ringer rang in my ears. Frances and I hugged each other, both of us crying uncontrollably. For a moment, we stood on a rock spire above the Grand Canyon. God was doing stand-up. We both shook with laughter.
Zooey rose from her stool, anger on her face. “Everybody out!” she ordered. “Everybody get the fuck out of here!”
