Thursday, March 2, 2017

The Monogram Monograph: Part II

Karl Kessler panted, and staggered backwards. At once, he felt his heart seize up. To quote his doctor, his general practitioner, his “ticker” was “clean as a whistle,” as far as plaque and clotting and the like—but that didn't change the fact that was a heart was a muscle, and every muscle of his body was loaded with the nerves that were the couriers of a sick brain. They would constrict precisely when it would pain him the most; they would relax when he most needed their strength. The world reeled around him whenever he was scared, and it was like he was dying, even if physically he was fine.

“Good Lord, man, are you alright?” the man called Marvel said. “It's like you've seen a ghost.”

“Yes...I-I...” He pointed to the door. “Dr. Dran is my psychiatrist. I have an anxiety disorder. Please forgive me...”

“Do you want me to get Dr. Dran's help?”

“Well, you must understand that 'is' is a bad word to use to describe his being my practitioner...he's been dropped down to 'was' territory. I got a new recommendation.”

“Oh? Who's that, friend?”

Kessler was crumpled on the ground, and he suddenly felt silly. His heart clenched up again. “A man named Dr. Dexter...though I don't know why I'm telling you that.”

“Oh, I'm just a Hollywood screenwriter, pal. I'm always looking for inspiration.”

Kessler blinked. Out here in New York they were a long way from Hollywood.

But in the time it took to blink, bespectacled, mustachioed “Mr. Marvel” was gone.

Kessler couldn't help but ask himself the old chestnut of what had that all been about.2 At least his chest stopped hurting now that that man was gone. He was likely another of Dran's patients, one of the real crazy people. But then his chest seized up again, and he leaned against the flavorless wall. No one was beyond help—he had to believe that for others to believe it for himself. Even if there were people he wanted to condemn. Even if he was still hateful on good days.

“No one is perfect.” Another key tenet to making the right step forward.

He was walking now, and soon he was aboard the elevator. No operator, but he knew how to work one himself. He was glad to have some time alone.

Whereas Dran's office had been orange, the elevator was blue. The paint on the metal was old, from before the War, and the way it tinted the light made him tired. He felt more like water than fire, and water was deep and cold. And mercurial. The mind was like its waves, and down at the base there was no way of seeing what moved the waters. There was too much pressure, and finding out the source of Nazi plastic surgeons seemed impossible.

He was cold, so often, and it was like when he was a kid not so long ago, with Ma trying to make ends meet in the wheezing old farmhouse where running water was a Christmas gift; staring at phlegm, one of the classical humors, floating in the pot next to him as he coughed up flu. Got the polio vaccine, and some others too, but they couldn't get all of those shots, much less keep up on them regularly.

He ate better these days. Good deals on meat and vegetables post-rationing. But again—brain to nerves to muscles. “Psychosomatic” was the word. It only mattered that he hated being cold, because things were better now, they were, and it was never good to return to the past. Dran had taught him that, and now he was leaving Dran behind. He was flooded with guilt...

And then he was in the lobby again. People were back—the world was autumn, bright red and orange with the lights of their lives and their hopes which shown brighter than he could ever hope for. He clung to another old memory, Halloween, and went forward with that. He let the guilt slip down into the cold cracks.

He grinned. It was good to get out of the apartment now and again. There were residentials in this building, too, not just offices—for all these happy people knew, he was visiting a friend. Or a girlfriend, or even a boyfriend. It didn't matter. The living world was happy and happiness was blindness. He was a shadow in it but they wouldn't care where he stalked as long as he minded his own business.

Thinking about home, and Ma, made him think of another special-occasion pastime. When there was gasoline in the car and money in the bank they would go down and get street hot dogs. It was New York, they were far from alone in it, and as they stood in the hungry lines they would take in the city around them. Watching the teeming crowds around them, they would live vicariously, like vampires, until someday they'd get the chance to live here themselves. One day he did get that chance, even while she didn't, and he ate hot dogs from the city that should have been theirs, in memory of her.

There was no line, not at this point in the day. In fact it sort of looked like the vendor was thinking of going home. Kessler put a little speed in his pace to make sure he caught him before this happened, and paid the man extra for his trouble. Soon the tin foil's angular weight pressed sleek against his hand. That was part of it; that, and the heat of the heft. And it tasted good, too. Delicious, in fact.

He was leaning against a light-pole like a bum, feeling the buzz of electricity against his back. He glanced over. There was a phone booth, and he had a little extra change in his pocket. Next to this change was the card he'd gotten from Oliver Dran. He wondered if it was worth phoning the number on that card—not simply now, but at all. Dream-hypnotists. He should get some real help, he knew, and yet...

And yet Dran had probably already put in his recommendation. He was an efficient man even when it came to things that were to his displeasure. Dr. Dexter, whoever he was, could be waiting for a call even now.

Even if he was wasting his change he could make the call later. He could do it all later. He was sure of that.

The cold came back, and not because he was outdoors.

He had to keep moving. Yet another secret to this: momentum. These people around him, the beautiful autumn people, the living people, were always moving. The difference was that they took the strength that let them do that for granted. If he paused here—and he let himself sink in the tar—that was it. He loaded his coins in and spun the rotor.

4 PM. It was 4 PM...4 PM on a Sunday...did you really think...

“Dr. Dexter's office.”

“H-hello? M-my name is...Karl Kessler. I am—I was—a patient of Dr. Oliver Dran...”

“Ah, yes!” From only four syllables, Karl had thought that the voice on the other end was a woman's. But it was only a higher-pitched voice. Weirdly, it reminded him of his own. “I just got off the line with Oliver. He says he wants you to resume your treatment right away. He also told me you have the day off today. Tell me...can you come to my house at 6:30 tonight? I can provide you with transportation and a hot meal, and we can figure out how I can help.”

He wanted to go home. Fall was too bright for him now—the red and orange were burning his eyes and skull. But he drew up strength from the earth. The planet under him was strong and tangible and he could be like that too. “Let's do that, yes. I like that idea.”

“Splendid. My driver will pick you up on the steps of the public library near Oliver's office.”

And with that, the line clicked.

Karl's hand was shaking when he put the receiver back on the hook.

He jumped, when he heard someone knock at the phone booth door. They didn't knock loud, but it was loud enough. He stepped out and weakly apologized. Then he locked his neck in place, so his face was down at his ruddy, beaten shoes. He needed a shine but had no coins left. He would have savored a short taxi ride over the long walk ahead of him.

But he was moving, one step at a time.

<< Part I                                                                                                                                Part III >>
---

2. Mr. Marvel's name is certainly worthy of scrutiny. The word “marvel” was famous in the Middle Ages as a genre of story, usually told on holidays or at festivals, involving monsters, miraculous events, and exotic cultural practices. The idea of a marvel, or cultural novelty, was infused heavily into the language and literature of the Middle Ages, leading to the success of works like The Travels of Sir John Mandeville (1357), a supposed travelogue littered with descriptions of supernatural incidents and impossible creatures. The entire work serves as a reflection of the medieval conception of Asia at the time—a literal different world, completely alien from the familiar, and yet also containing certain valuable secrets (Mandeville finds the Kingdom of Prester John and the Fountain of Youth). Some, such as Professor Carroll of the Jeffries University, suggest Mandeville is a proto-nationalist work, desiring isolation from and yet exploitation of the East. Others put forth a psychological criticism, saying that Mandeville's Asia represents Europe's subconscious—its growing and ever-present fears, its cyclopses and wolf-men, hidden beyond the Ural Mountains. This separate monograph, “Uncanny, Marvelous Mandeville,” is written by my wife, Dr. Vivian MacCarron. [Expand later – Dr. Kruthers]

No comments:

Post a Comment