“If it doesn’t matter,” I responded, “then why not sit in the black chair, like everyone else who comes here?”
“Because I have a preference,” said Y____. “I prefer white objects. If I express a preference for white objects, why not allow me to sit in the white chair?”
“Perhaps I have my own preference,” I said.
“Do you have a preference?”
“Yes. I prefer the white chair. The white chair is my preference.”
“Then by all means, take the white chair,” said Y____. “I would never interfere with your preference.”
We both sat. I smiled. He smiled back, but only for a moment.
“So here I am,” he said. “You wanted to see me, and now you have. This is your office, and I am here. I’m in your office.”
“You are,” I said. “Thank you for coming in. It’s really nice to see you.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Of course it’s nice. Let’s talk about how nice it is. This is a wonderful office—you have plants, carpeting, a relatively quiet air conditioner. It’s contemporary in a classic way, or perhaps vice versa. Can we get to work now? Or do we still need to have a pretend conversation about how much your rent is?”
“We can absolutely get to work,” I said. “That’s a good attitude. I’ve really been enjoying our work thus far. The progress has been, you know—progressive. But let me ask you something, before we get going: You mentioned that you liked white objects. That’s an interesting thing to like.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Well, what if I think it’s interesting?”
“What if I think it’s not? There’s no meaning here, Vicky. My affinity for the color white doesn’t say anything about me. Look, we’re not going to do this. You need to accept that. I already understand the process. We both understand the process. I don’t need to slowly grow comfortable with the conceit, and you don’t need to understand why I like white objects. Let’s get to the provocation. Let’s start with what matters: You think I’m telling a fictional story. Your stomach tells you that I’m telling the truth, but your mind insists your stomach is crazy. I’ve been thinking about this all week. When we last spoke on the phone, I realized I misspoke. I said that I didn’t care if you believed me. That’s not accurate. That was my mistake. What I meant to say is that I don’t care if you think I’m an honest person. I don’t care if you think I’m a good person or a bad person. But I do need you to believe the specific things I’ve told you. If you don’t believe I’ve done the things I’ve done, it will derail our conversation. You will hear everything I say as an extension of a delusion, and the content will get ignored. I will say things like, ‘I once saw Event A happen to Subject Zed,’ and you will wonder, ‘What is his inner motive for telling that particular story about this particular fabrication? What does this story represent?’ But that won’t be what’s happening. Anything I elect to tell you won’t be theoretical or metaphorical. It will be something real that happened in my life. So I need you to believe that what I’ve said—and what I will continue to say—is not untrue.”
Y____ stood up from the chair, jarringly, throwing himself upward by pushing down on the armrests. It was like watching a giraffe awaken from a tranquilizer. “May I walk about,” he asked. He began to pace around the room, erratically, looking down at the floor while gesturing with his hands. This behavior is what I’d come to classify as “the Y____ Character.” Whenever Y____ became “the Y____ Character,” his dialogue would feel rehearsed. It was like watching a one-man show. Though I’d already experienced several of these moments over the phone, this was the first time I witnessed it with my eyes. Over time, I’ve come to accept that the Y____ Character was (probably) the real Y____. It was everything else that was (probably) the show.
“So how can we do this?” Y____ continued. He loved semirhetorical questions. “How can I make you believe me? What could I do, short of being cloaked in front of you, to make you accept my words at face value?”
“That’s an intriguing question,” I said. “Maybe it’s an impossible thing for me to accept. So if I never accept this, how will it make you feel?”
“Vicky, we’re not doing this,” he said. “We’re not doing some kind of exercise where I make a declarative statement and you ask me how I feel about that declaration. We’re not going to talk about my development or my primal memories. Maybe we will eventually, but not today. Right now, today, I need you to tell me how I can make you believe I’m not like other people. That I can do things other people cannot.”
He stopped pacing and looked at me, frozen, waiting, saying nothing. The moment I began to respond, he commenced his pace.
“If there were some witnesses to this partial invisibility,” I said, “and those witnesses came in here and verified what you had said, honestly and scientifically, I might believe you.”
“There are no witnesses to my life,” Y____ said. “That’s one of the keys to being unseen: If there are witnesses, something went wrong. So what else?” His pacing continued.
“Video evidence,” I said. “A videotape of you doing something that only an invisible person could do.”
“That would prove nothing,” said Y____. This was a game to him. “I could fake that with any computer. And even if my video was perfect—even if it was so seamless and unimpeachable that it couldn’t be faked by a moviemaker—you’d still assume it was somehow unreal. You would merely think it was the best fake you’ve ever seen. You’d believe I was David Fincher before you’d accept who I actually am. Try again.”
“Any reported evidence that this could be done. A Wall Street Journal article that describes your research. A textbook about the process.”
“There is no such article or textbook,” said Y____. “I would be the only person who could write it.”
“Maybe you should do that.”
“Not my thing. Not anymore. I hate writing.”
Y____ returned to the black chair. He was smirking. I asked if he wanted coffee. He said he didn’t want coffee or need coffee. He seemed calm, smug. Not very adult. More like a high school senior in the final days of May.
“Well, what about this,” he finally said. “What if you just considered everything I’ve told you and weighed that information against the degree to which I seem credible?”
“That’s what I’ve been doing,” I told him. “From the first day you called me on the telephone, I’ve been calculating that very equation. I’ve taken what you’ve said at face value, and I’ve considered the source. I’ve tried to be as open-minded and nonjudgmental as possible. I’ve taken all your statements seriously and professionally, and I’ve come to a conclusion. Do you want to know what that conclusion is?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Do you promise to be as open-minded and fair with me as I have been with you? Because that’s essential.”
“Yes, yes. Yes.”
“Then my diagnosis is this,” I said, as evenly as possible. “You are an educated, affluent, highly functioning person who has experienced a break from the life you used to live. You have become obsessed with an imaginary life, and you use your natural intellect as a crutch to make that imaginary life real. This allows you to ignore the pain that still exists from whatever caused that break to happen.”
I waited for a reaction, but he said nothing. His expression did not change.
“Now, that probably sounds very bad to you, and perhaps even insulting,” I continued. “I can’t tell if you already know I’m right, or if you’re about to walk out my door and never speak to me again. Obviously, I have no control over what you do or how you react. But this is a solvable problem. Your very presence in my office proves you understand that. You want to get better, and you know that a better life is possible. So here is what I want to do: I want both of us to get in my car and drive to Seton Medical Center. They don’t have to admit you and you won’t need to stay overnight. However, they will conduct a short interview and a few tests in ord
er to decide what the next step should be. From that point on, it’s totally your decision. There are people there who are better suited to deal with this situation than me. If you want to continue using me as your primary therapist, that would be fantastic. I enjoy working with you, and I care about what happens to you. But you need to talk to a medical doctor, and I am not a medical doctor.”
Y____ waited until I finished. He wordlessly thought about what I had said (and seemed to treat my words seriously). But then he stood up and resumed pacing, instantly rematerializing as the Y____ Character. It was as if I had said nothing at all.
“What about this,” he began. “What if I told you something I couldn’t possibly know? What if I knew something that could only be known by someone who was able to make themselves unseen?”
“I’m not sure what that would be, and I’m not sure what that would prove.”
“You read a Malcolm Gladwell book last year,” Y____ said.
“What?”
“You read a Malcolm Gladwell book. Last winter. Try and tell me that you didn’t read a Malcolm Gladwell book last winter.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“That happened. Right? It happened. So how do I know this?”
“What Malcolm Gladwell book did I read?”
“I can’t remember. One of them. The first one, or maybe the other one. The third one? All the covers look the same to me.”
“So, the fact that I read a book by one of the most popular writers in America, an author who sells several million books every year—this proves you have the ability to be invisible?”
“Well, I would have liked to use a more specific example. But you don’t seem to read many books.”
“So, what … are you implying that you’ve been watching me? Is that what you’re claiming? Because that’s a crime. Be careful what you say right now, Y____. Don’t make up a story that will create a new problem for us.”
“Well, that’s why I only mentioned the Gladwell book,” Y____ said. “I don’t want to scare you. If I told you something too specific—if I told you the color of your living room carpet, for example—you’d probably freak out. I’m not going to freak you out.”
“What is the color of my living room carpet, Y____?”
He said nothing. Maybe he smiled, but I can’t be certain.
“There’s a reason you’re not telling me the color of my living room carpet,” I explained. “And the reason is not that you don’t want to scare me. The reason is that you don’t know what the color of my carpet is. Now, maybe you think you know, or maybe you know you don’t know. I can’t tell. Right now, that’s our problem. And this is why we need to go to Seton Medical. This—this scenario, right here. This thing we are dealing with, right now. This incongruity. This is the problem. Not your guilt over spying on people, not the stress from being an ‘almost invisible’ man. Nothing that involves the outside world. Our problem is the chasm between who you are and who you want to be. Everyone deals with this problem, Y____. Everyone. You are not alone. Half the work I do with my other patients is about the difference between who someone is and who they wish they were. The only difference here is the degree. You have a fixable problem. Your condition just happens to be a little more severe than what I typically encounter. But I am on your side here. Do you see that? I want to help you.”
For the next thirty seconds, I thought I’d broken through. Y____ stopped walking and stood at the center of my office. He looked sad. He looked defeated. There was a moment when I anticipated (hoped?) that Y____ was going to cry. But then he changed entirely. His concern melted into stoicism, and then evaporated into low-level joy. He smiled and ran a hand across his bald skull; it was like a different person had jumped inside his bones.
“Okay, Vic-Vick: You win,” he said. I thought this meant we were going to Seton Medical Center. It did not. “Next week. I will see you next week. Things will be different a week from now. But just try and remember what we talked about, okay? Remember what I said today. Really think about the things I said. Digest my words. They will make sense later. How about this: If you still feel this way seven days from now, I will go to the hospital. That is my promise. But only if you’ve really considered the things I’ve told you. Okay?”
I did not believe him, but I shook my head up and down. What else could I do?
“Goodbye, Vicky. Your skepticism is adorable. Don’t ever lose that, no matter what happens.”
And with that, Y____ walked out of my office. For the rest of the day, I seethed at my desk. He had dodged me again, and he talked to me like a child. He was so uniquely troubled. I should have known what was coming, but of course I did not.
May Ninth (The Revelation)
What can I tell you?
Nothing you will believe.
Nothing I would believe. But this happened. And this is when everything changed (and never changed back).
There was a knock at my door. I knew it was Y____. I had been daydreaming about this meeting all week. I had so many condescending, incisive things to say to him, although I can scarcely remember any of those things now. They all seem irrelevant in light of what transpired when Y____ opened my door and was not there.
“Who is it,” I asked, seeing an empty doorway. I said “hello,” and then I said “hello” again. I said it a third time. I stood up with the intention of walking across the room, assuming someone (a confused child?) had opened my door by accident and fled upon the cognition of his mistake. I simply wanted to close my door. But the door closed itself, and then the door spoke.
“Come here, Vicky.”
It was the signature moment of my life.
I tried to step backward and forward simultaneously, and I fell to the ground, knocking most of the contents of my desk onto the carpet as I tried to catch myself. I got up as quickly as I could and tried to scream, but the only sound that came out of my mouth was garbled, muted nonsense. It was a terrifying ten seconds. You’d think I would have assumed I was losing my mind, but I instantly knew this moment was real. It was not a dream or a hoax.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I said. I’m not sure why this was my first thought, but it was.
“I won’t hurt you, Vicky,” said the void. “Calm down. Sit down, if you need to. I’m not going to hurt you. I am not … going … to hurt you. Remain calm.”
I did not sit. I tried to balance against my desk like a Christmas party lush. I was staring at my door, trembling. I could vaguely taste vomit on my tongue. Suddenly, Y____ spoke again—but I could tell from his voice that he’d come closer. He was maybe three feet away. My desk was the only barrier.
“There was a reason I didn’t want to do this,” he said. “This is the reason.”
“What the fuck are you doing to me,” I said. “Why are you doing this? I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, but don’t do this to me. I’m so sorry. You can take whatever you want. I don’t care. I’m sorry. Why is this happening?” I had no idea what I was pleading for or what I was pleading against.
“Just think about all the things I’ve told you,” Y____ said, “and accept that those things are true. That’s all that I want.”
I stood and did nothing. I think a lot of time may have passed, but I can’t be sure.
“I will give you time to absorb this,” said Y____. His voice was recognizable, but the tone was dissimilar to that of the person I’d met the week before. It was lower and leathery. More AM than FM. “Put out your hand. Give me your hand.”
I lifted my right arm and extended it outward and upward, almost as if I were trying to pick an apple off the lowest branch of a tree. I could see my hand shaking, but I couldn’t make it stop. Suddenly, I felt something: I felt the fingertips of another hand. Reflexively, I pulled my hand back. But then I extended it a second time. I started to relax. I touched Y____’s fingers, and then I touched his palm. I felt a glove, but a glove so sheer I could still detect the texture of the skin underneath. When I pulled my hand
back, my fingertips were lightly coated with a silvery, greenish film that reminded me of the glitter a child would use to make a Valentine. I rubbed my fingers together and the film seemed to vaporize, even though I could still sense the grittiness. I collapsed into my desk chair and reflexively put a hand over my mouth. My fingers smelled like antibiotics, so I rubbed them on my pant leg. I wanted to say something, but my head was both empty and full.
“Now … this is what you wanted,” Y____ said. “It is. Remember that. You demanded that I show myself in this way. It was my only recourse. And—to a degree—I respect that request. It’s what your job requires, and it’s what your personality dictates. Those who believe without seeing are blessed, but they tend to be bad conversationalists.”
“Well, Christ—why didn’t you just show me the suit?” I asked. “Why didn’t you just bring the suit into my office? Why did you walk in here like this, knowing what that would do to me?”
“If I had shown you a suit on a hanger,” he asked, “would that have been enough? Or would we still be having the same argument?”
For a long time, I sat and said nothing. Eventually, I spoke like a child: “I’m sorry I did not believe you.” I thought he would respond by saying, “I forgive you.” Instead, he said, “I’m sitting down now.”
I looked at the black chair. Then I looked at the white chair. It seemed like Y____’s voice had come from the white chair, so I moved over to the black one, feeling it with my hand before sitting down. I sat and looked across at the empty white lounger, unsuccessfully pretending that this was not exploding my perception of reality. “This,” I said, “is incredible. It’s incredible. It’s incredible.”
The Visible Man Page 7
