I yank off my shoes and socks and hop my way across the not-quite-scorching sand to the surf.
The water rushes around my BARE FEET, cooling them.
GULLS fly overhead.
“Eric!”
Dan, dressed in board shorts, stands thirty yards away. Behind him, the volcanic mountains and palms create an idyllic backdrop. He jogs up to me, laughs, and gives me a hug.
“You made it!”
I push him back.
“I—”
“Come here.” He tries to take off my shirt, but I push him away, hard, and he falls onto the wet sand.
“I quit my job,” I say. “All I have is my fucking job.”
“You don't need a job.” He reaches out his hand.
Conflicted, I help him up. “You can’t fix this.”
“Okay.”
He puts his arm around my shoulder. We walk down the beach like longtime friends.
“I'm making all this up so I can escape.”
“Escape what?”
“The only friend I have just—”
Adam still struggles with a pack mule in front of the bungalow, with the two models, Ben and Garrett, cheering him on. I have a twinge of social anxiety. The BP employees I know best, Hunter and Tara, aren’t here, yet Adam, in all his intimidating glory, plays here with his shirt off.
“Do you really believe that it's just you dreaming up this place?”
This reality must have borders. Something will give the game away. If they want me to go to the bungalow, I’ll walk out into the surf.
I navigate some jagged rocks, but mostly it’s all soft sand and dark green seaweed. Narrow fish, the size of my pinkie finger, swim in the clear water. A good ways out, the sea floor drops off. Bouncing up with each wave, I look back at the now distant shoreline. I’m on vacation and forgot how I got here. Maybe I have amnesia.
There, on the beach, is the surreal doorway back to my apartment. I’m not on vacation. I’m in the catalog.
My jeans weigh me down. I take in some water, cough, and thankfully touch bottom.
I trudge my way back toward the shore, my jeans growing more and more uncomfortable, chafing my inner thighs.
I cough again to get out some salt water still in my throat. When you see tropical water, you don’t think about how salty it tastes. Dan asks if I’m okay. He pats me on the back. I tell him I’m fine.
I peel off my pants. To my embarrassment, my boxers are transparent.
“Do you have trunks I could wear?”
“You can wear mine.” He unties his shorts.
“That’s okay,” I say quickly before he strips. “What’s down the shoreline?”
He shrugs. “We can investigate. Someone mentioned something about a small fishing village close by. We could all go together.”
I shake my head. I don’t want to venture too far from the doorway back to my apartment.
The bungalow was the perfect location for a photo shoot, but could I be happy here? Inside the catalog was an impossible fantasyland that I longed to visit. Now that I’m here, I’m apprehensive. Beautiful people are usually elitist assholes. Who’s to say that my dream won’t turn into a nightmare?
And then there are the logistics. Is there food here? Is there a place to go to the bathroom? Won’t lounging in some vacation reality become boring after a while? At some point, it has to end.
While I fret about everything, many of the people introduce themselves like the first day at college. I’m distracted but do my best to remember their names. They seem down to earth, despite their beauty and charm. I suspect Fiona recognizes me from the store, but I act as if we’re meeting for the first time. Everyone tries to make a good first impression, like my opinion of them matters. Any moment, I expect to be whisked back to reality, but here persists.
I help Adam pull the pack mule, while Ben and Garrett cheer us on. The animal is truly stubborn, and after a while, I’m too weak from laughing to pull any longer.
I take off my shirt and sun myself with Joe and Fiona. It seems Fiona’s fair skin doesn’t burn here.
My mind gets hazy from the heat, and my body relaxes. I notice more muscle on my frame. My body hair on my chest and abs is gone. Somehow I’ve adopted the sleek, clean, muscular look of nearly everyone here. I prefer a little more body hair on men (Garrett is the only one with chest hair), but it’s hard to complain about such striking physiques.
If people looked at the catalog, would they see me sunning myself with the others? Maybe Joe and Fiona and all the rest are as real as me, escaping from their pain into this perfect place. Maybe this is the real word, and my old life is the nightmare that has finally ended. I’m here now. Tara would say, “Now is the only thing that matters.” Buddhists know their shit.
The sun is setting. Adam, Ben, and Garrett have a beer, and Fiona is the only one that has a cocktail. Everyone else doesn’t drink, and no one expects me to drink either as we all hang out on the deck. My stomach feels empty, but I’m not hungry. They talk about pleasant things of no real consequence. They try to include me, and I say brief answers, and they continue on as if I’ve made a valuable contribution. There’s no pressure. I don’t necessarily feel the belonging I’ve longed for, but I don’t feel out of place either. When I arrived, I wanted to test this place, find the flaw, but now I don’t want to risk anything that would cause it to end.
I’m never going back. This is my new home. It will take some getting used to, but eventually I’ll belong here.
I stand next to Keith and Dawn as they kiss on the upper-level deck, and I look out over the railing onto the beach and surf and the brilliant, golden sinking sun. It’s romantic. I glance at the couple, trying not to be too obvious. Even though they remind me of JuanCarlos and Tara and the envy I felt when I saw them together, with Dawn and Keith, it’s different. It’s like they’re kissing for my benefit.
I’m not sure why I didn’t remember this before, but I already know Keith and Dawn, and not just from the catalog. Keith, a struggling artist, lives in a loft in Brooklyn. He has hustled in the past but is done with that part of his life, though he doesn’t regret the experience. Dawn is majoring in art administration. She’s originally from Norway and grew up on a farm collective with five other families and plans on going back to run an art gallery in her hometown once she graduates. The two of them are trying to live without regrets, both knowing that their relationship will end when Dawn’s student visa expires.
How could I have forgotten two of my closest friends?
I watch their playful make-out session more blatantly. I’ve been in love like that, where you lose yourself in another person, though thinking back on the experience now is humiliating. Bobby in the residence hall was my first plunge. No denying it felt amazing. I was entering college, destined to become a filmmaker, and for the first time, I felt like an adult instead of a kid forced into adult situations. Bobby kept our relationship a secret, while I wanted to shout it to the world. When I dropped out of college, he became just another thing that made me angry and ashamed. I thought dating a guy had been a mistake.
Then there was Shirin. I loved her—I loved her more than anyone—but that love changed to hate so thoroughly that it’s hard to rectify the two feelings in my mind. We were best friends, and she was my sister and then my lover and then my enemy and now she’s a memory I want erased. Even in paradise, she haunts me.
Where were Keith and Dawn during all that? For some reason, I can’t remember. How did we meet?
While I’m lost in thought, Dawn, before I can stop her, kisses my mouth. I don’t wonder how to kiss; I just kiss her back, and it feels right. It feels amazing!
Take that Shirin. “See! I can kiss!”
Dawn laughs. We continue making out. Kissing is awesome. Why haven’t I been doing this all along? Why have I been abstinent for two years? Why have I pushed everyone away? Keith puts a hand on the back of my neck and gives me a gentle shake.
I pull back. “Sorry.”
But he’s not angry like I expected.
He smiles, showing his approval. Oh god. I can have everything here I desire. Why have I been so timid?
I kiss her deeply as he watches. He laughs at my enthusiasm.
“Maybe crazy isn’t such a bad place,” I say, out of breath, my heart racing.
Dawn SLAPS me across the face.
A middle-aged, black woman has slapped me. Where is Dawn? What’s happening? The skin of my cheek feels brittle and burns. I'm still in my underwear, but now I’m outside on the city street in the cold.
“Get away from me!” she shouts. ‘I'm warning you!”
As the woman hurries away down the sidewalk, I’m still disoriented. “Wait!” The word is slow in my mouth like I’m drugged.
I'm outside my apartment. It’s freezing!
I hug myself and breathe in short quick spasms. I'm in shock. What am I doing out in the cold? How long have I been outside?
The sun isn’t setting; it’s nearly sunrise. I try the front door of my apartment building, but I already know it's locked. I pat my hips, but of course, I don’t have my keys in my underwear. I go to the intercom and push my landlord’s room number, my arm almost too heavy to hold up, my fingertip numb against the grid of silver buttons.
I hear a scratchy, “Hello?”
“Call an ambulance.”
I collapse.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Midpoint
11.0
It’s important to note that, at this point, I thought my psychotic breaks were a personal apocalypse without any wider implications. I had no idea that my mental instability was caused by the PXX pheromone. Documenting my decent into madness for posterity was the last thing on my mind.
Sartain doesn’t seem to understand that my life began before the Brief Pose Exposed film and most of my drama with BP had nothing to do with riots or mass hysteria or slit throats. But in Sartain’s world, if it wasn’t caught on film, it didn’t happen.
With cinéma vérité, editor and director work together to cut down countless hours of handheld footage until a narrative emerges. They strip away complexity for the sake of drama. In the case of BPE, the facts were stripped down until all that was left was Eric Loan fighting a corrupt company to save his friends. . . . [The film,] while well received by both critics and audiences on release, was constructed to have a happy ending and discourage further investigation of the personal motivations of the key players involved. (Sartain, 1)
Sartain makes only a cursory analysis of the film. His real focus is the extra footage briefly housed on the movie’s promotional website, made available to the public so as to foster transparency.
“For two months, almost fifty hours of additional raw footage; organized by day and time, but without further explanation; was made available on the film’s website under the name ‘The Archive.’” Sartain goes on to say, “Before its hasty removal, [‘The Archive’] was a wealth of information, overlooked at the time, but of vast historical significance.”
Sartain tracked down the pulled footage and wrote a whole book about his findings, not caring who he hurt.
Ninety percent of the footage once housed in “The Archive” is now readily available through P2P sharing. Countless decoy torrents promise revelation while delivering dummy files and computer viruses, but sift through enough trash and anyone can find the forty-plus hours of available footage. . . .
While not always riveting, the footage answers questions far beyond that of authenticity. . . . [It] provides context sorely missing from the finished film. Initial CDC, CPSC, FBI, and FTC reports concealed the identities of many involved. Those people can be identified using “The Archive.” (Sartain, 22-23)
As the pheromone continues to affect my ability to distinguish fantasy from reality, I will be using Sartain’s descriptions of the footage to counterpoint my perspective. But unlike Sartain, I have changed people’s names to protect their privacy.
Before I move on, here is Sartain giving a more detailed overview of “The Archive”:
Many assumed that “The Archive” was a superfluous bonus section, at most made available to prove that the documentary, with its quick edits and melodramatic music cues, wasn’t a found-footage hoax. Few visitors watched the unedited video in its entirety. . . . The uncompressed footage took an inordinate amount of time to buffer. The first dozen hours consisted of protesters chanting slogans at a Brief Pose storefront. These protests were led and organized by Clara Powers, the terrorist sympathizer and left wing radical. . . . Eric Loan doesn’t even appear for nearly an hour and a half. Without a central character with which to identify, the average visitor [to the website] didn’t have the patience to sift through the footage, not when the primary film summed up everything so succinctly and with such dramatic flair. . . .
The film’s dramatic excess is the main reason why “The Archive” is so essential. The unedited footage lets the viewer draw conclusions without being emotionally manipulated. (Sartain 23-25)
In the next chapter, Sartain goes on to talk about “The Archives’” removal:
Interest in the footage only arose after “The Archive” was taken away. After all, what was so damning that it had to be removed from the general public’s undiscriminating eye? The removal was hotly debated, even inspiring multiple conspiracy theories. (Sartain 39)
Sartain devotes the rest of the chapter to these conspiracy theories, failing to mention the real reason “The Archive” was removed: Many people featured in the footage never signed release forms.
Once this oversight was brought to the attention of BPE’s marketing department, “The Archive” was taken down, and an apology was sent out to those adversely affected.
I received one of those apologies.
Sartain concludes his long list of conspiracy theories and the chapter with a defense of the government and a call for patriotism:
I will not use this footage to criticize the official response to the threat. No one denies that the government made mistakes. Initially, governmental agencies were slow to react, and once they finally acknowledge the threat, the administration may have encouraged the FBI to expedite their investigation so that the national discourse could move forward. But to suggest that elected officials turned a blind eye to American deaths, all to protect a corporation, is absurd, offensive, and detrimental to a rational discussion of the facts laid out here in this volume. . . .
They were dealing with unprecedented events that no one had predicted or adequately prepared for. After all, hindsight is twenty-twenty. . . . Those were chaotic days without a clear enemy. Americans were killing Americans. A nightmare had swept the nation. People feared that there was no waking up. . . .
Thankfully, those days are behind us. The American Society is once again united and levelheaded, prepared to fight against any subversive element that might wish to destabilize our perfect union.
How this stability was reestablished is worth a closer look. Was PBE the savior it is made out to be, triggering a series of needed reforms and regulations, or were there other factors at play? (Sartain 42-44)
11.1
INT. ??? HOSPITAL - DAY
I huddle in a blanket on an exam table in a dreary examining room, too embarrassed to ask which hospital this is. A DOCTOR in his seventies looks over a clipboard. Hair grows from his nose and ears. Bright red veins web his overly large earlobes.
I hold a warm ceramic mug of coffee close to my face. My shivering makes it difficult to drink, so I mostly just absorb the heat through my hands. My memory of the ambulance ride is disconcertingly vague. That happens when you lose consciousness.
“There’s no need to lie, young man. You can't get hypothermia from standing outside for a few minutes.”
I hear him, but he’s not making sense. I say into the cup, “Hypothermia? What day is this?”
“Tuesday.”
Four days until Loo’s funeral. I barely made it through day one.
He goes back to studying
the clipboard. “I see you have a history of suicide. A psychiatrist can prescribe medication.” You talk to a doctor once about suicide, and suddenly you have a history.
Hypothermia?
But it felt so warm. The sun. The sand. The people. “People die from hypothermia,” I say. “Mostly people who get lost in the woods. But not as many as you'd think.” The wilderness is a safe place relative to the city. Fewer guns and drunks and traffic. Fewer people.
11.2
I argue with a concerned SECRETARY behind a counter in the hospital reception area, my blanket still wrapped around me. I’m cold and weak, and it takes willpower to expend any energy at all. I’m dressed in used clothing donated to the hospital and now donated to me.
Her round, fat face contorts to an expression of tender sympathy. “I'm sorry, honey. Your insurance doesn't cover attempted suicide.”
“I just quit my job.”
“There's nothing we can do.”
My brush with death makes me want to live, but I can’t afford it. Rent. Electricity. My cell phone bill. Now hospital bills. Later I will discover that I was charged a hundred dollars for the blanket.
11.3
I collapse onto my mattress, pry off my new-to-me ill-fitted sneakers, and drag every blanket on top of my still freezing body. I’m not sure it's safe to be alone, but I don’t have anywhere to go. I’m exhausted. I can’t go back to my job. Loo is there. Not literally of course, but reminders of her are everywhere. JuanCarlos must be happy I’m finally gone. Would they even take me back? Blanket Mountain warms everything except my frozen feet.
I don’t wake until the next morning. It’s Wednesday. I heave off the blankets. My subconscious must have been working on the problem all night because now I have the solution.
11.4
INT. BRIEF POSE - DAY
While Adam and Hunter talk rugby, I slip past them unnoticed. This is a bad idea. I can already tell.
Behind the checkout counter, Tara scans items, neatly folds them, and puts them into bags for a man in his forties dressed like a college student. I get in line and remember JuanCarlos and Tara kissing. Why is she dating such a jerk? She masturbated in the back of the store. The underwear rack clanged to the floor. My face heats remembering my embarrassment.
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