Limitless

by Glynn, Alan

  OK … the shapes and curves of streamlining created the illusion of perpetual motion. They were a radical new departure. They affected our desires and influenced what we expected from our surroundings – from trains and automobiles and buildings, even from refrigerators and vacuum cleaners, not to mention dozens of other everyday objects. But out of this an important question arose – which came first, the illusion or the desire?

  And that was it, of course. I saw it in a flash. That was the first point I would have to make in my introduction. Because something similar – with more or less the same dynamic at work – was to happen later on.

  I stood up, walked over to the window and thought about it for a few moments. Then I took a deep breath, because I wanted to get this right.

  OK.

  The influence …

  The influence on design later in the century of sub-atomic structures and microcircuitry, together with the quintessential Sixties notion of the interconnectedness of everything was clearly paralleled here in the design marriage of the Machine Age to the growing pre-war sense that personal freedom could only be achieved through increased efficiency, mobility and velocity.

  Yes.

  I went back over to the desk and keyed in some notes on the computer, about ten pages of them, and all from memory. There was a clarity to my thought processes right now that I found exhilarating, and even though all of this was alien to me, at the time it didn’t feel in the least bit odd or strange, and in any case I simply couldn’t stop – but then I didn’t want to stop, because during this last hour or so I had actually done more solid work on my book than I had in the entire previous three months.

  So, without pausing for breath, I reached over and took another book down from the shelf, a study of the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. I skimmed through it in about forty-five minutes, taking notes as I went along. I also read two other books, one about the influence of Art Nouveau on 1960s design and one about the early days of the Grateful Dead in San Francisco.

  Altogether, I took about thirty-five pages of notes. In addition, I did a rough draft of the first section of the introduction and worked out a detailed plan for the rest of the book. I did about three thousand words, which I then reread a couple of times and corrected.

  I started to slow down at around 6 a.m., still not having smoked a cigarette, eaten anything or gone to the bathroom. I felt quite tired, a little headachy perhaps, but that was all, and compared to other times I’d found myself awake at six o’clock in the morning – grinding my teeth, unable to sleep, unable to shut up – believe me, feeling tired and having a mild headache was nothing.

  I lay down on the couch again and stretched out. I gazed over at the window and could see the roof of the building opposite, as well as a section of sky that had a tinge of early morning light slowly filtering through it. I listened for sounds, too – the lurching dementia of passing garbage trucks, the occasional police-car siren, the low, sporadic hum of traffic from the avenues. I turned my head in against the cushion and eventually began to relax.

  This time there was no unpleasant prickly sensation, and I remained on the couch – though after a while I realized that something was still bothering me.

  There was a certain untidiness about crashing out on the couch – it blurred the dividing lines between one day and the next, and lacked a sense of closure … or at least that was my line of reasoning at the time. There was also, I was pretty sure, a lot of actual untidiness lurking behind my bedroom door. I hadn’t been in there yet, having somehow managed to avoid it during the frantic compartmentalizing of the previous twelve hours. So I got up off the couch, went over to the bedroom door and opened it. I’d been right – my bedroom was a sty. But I needed to sleep, and I needed to sleep in my bed, so I set about getting the place into some kind of order. It felt more like work than before, more of a chore than when I’d done the kitchen and the living-room, but there were definitely still traces of the drug in my system and that kept me going. When I’d finished, I had a long, hot shower, after which I took two Extra-Strength Excedrin tablets to stave off my headache. Then I put on a clean T-shirt and boxer-shorts, climbed under the covers and fell asleep within, I’d say, about thirty seconds of my head hitting the pillow.

  [ 4 ]

  HERE IN THE NORTHVIEW MOTOR LODGE everything is drab and dull. I glance around my room, and despite the bizarre patterns and colour schemes there’s nothing that really catches the eye – except of course the TV set, which is still busily flickering away in the corner. Some bearded, bespectacled guy in a tweed suit is being interviewed, and immediately – because of the central casting touches – I assume he is a historian, and not a politician or a national security spokesman or even a journalist. I am confirmed in my suspicion when they cut to a still photograph of bandit-revolutionary Pancho Villa, and then to some very shaky old black-and-white footage from, I’d guess, about 1916. I’m not going to turn the sound up to find out, but I’m pretty sure that the spectral figures on horseback riding jerkily towards the camera from the middle of what seems like a swirling cloud of dust (but is more probably the peripheral deterioration of the actual film stock itself) are incursionary forces all riled up and hot on Pancho Villa’s tail.

  And that was 1916, wasn’t it?

  I seem to remember knowing about that once.

  I stare at the flickering images, mesmerized. I’ve always been something of a footage junky, it never failing to strike me as astonishing that what is depicted on the screen – that day, those very moments – actually happened, and that the people in them, the extras, the folks who passed fleetingly before a camera and were captured on film, subsequently went on about their daily lives, walked inside buildings, ate food, had sex, whatever, blissfully unaware that their jerky movements, as they crossed over some city street, for instance, or got off a tram, were to be preserved for decades, and then aired, exposed and re-exposed, in what would effectively be a different world.

  How can I care about this any more? How can I even be thinking about it?

  I shouldn’t let myself get so distracted.

  Reaching down for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the floor here beside my wicker chair, it occurs to me that drinking whiskey at this time is probably not such a good idea. I lift the bottle up anyway and take a long hit from it. Then I stand up and walk around the room for a while. But the dreadful hush, underscored by the humming of the ice machine outside and the violent colours now swirling all around me, have a distinctly disorienting effect and I judge it best to sit down again and get on with the task in hand.

  I must keep busy, I tell myself, and not get distracted.

  OK – so, I fell asleep fairly quickly. But I didn’t sleep very well. I tossed and turned a lot, and had weird, disjointed dreams.

  It was after eleven-thirty when I woke up – which was only about what, four hours? So I was still very tired when I got out of bed, and although I suppose I could have held on for another while longer, trying to get back to sleep, I knew I would have just lain there, wide awake, replaying the previous night over and over in my mind, and of course putting off the inevitable, which was to go into the living-room, switch on the computer and find out whether or not I had imagined the whole thing.

  Looking around the room, though, I suspected that I hadn’t. Clothes were folded neatly on a chair at the foot of the bed and shoes were lined up in perfect formation along the floor beneath the window. I quickly got out of bed and went into the bathroom to take a leak. After that I threw cold water on my face, and plenty of it.

  When I felt sufficiently awake, I stared at myself in the mirror for a while. It wasn’t the usual bathroom mugshot. I wasn’t bleary-eyed or puffy, or dangerous-looking, I was just tired – as well as all the other things that hadn’t changed since the day before, the fact that I was overweight, and jowly, and badly in need of a hair-cut. There was another thing I needed, too, but you couldn’t tell it from looking at me in the mirror – I needed a c
igarette.

  I tramped into the living-room and got my jacket from the back of the chair. I took the pack of Camels out of the side pocket, lit one up and filled my lungs with rich, fragrant smoke. As I was exhaling, I surveyed the room and reflected that being untidy was less a lifestyle choice of mine than a character defect, so I wasn’t about to argue with this – but I also felt quite strongly that this wasn’t what counted, because if I wanted tidy, I could pay for tidy. What I’d keyed into the computer, on the other hand – at least what I remembered keying in, and hoped now I was remembering accurately – was definitely something you couldn’t pay for.

  I went over to it and flicked on the switch at the back. As it booted up and hummed into life, I looked at the neat pile of books I had left on the desk beside the keyboard. I picked up Raymond Loewy: A Life and wondered how much of it I would actually be able to recall if I were put on the spot. I tried for a moment to conjure something up from memory, a couple of facts or dates, an anecdote maybe, an amusing piece of designer lore, but I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t think of anything.

  OK, but what did I expect? I was tired. It was as if I’d gone to bed at midnight, and now I was up at three in the morning trying to do the Harper’s Double Acrostic. What I needed here was coffee – two or three cups of java to reboot my brain – and then I’d be fine again.

  I opened the file labelled ‘Intro’. It was the rough draft I’d done for part of the introduction to Turning On, and I stood there in front of the computer, scrolling down through it. I remembered each paragraph as I read it, but couldn’t have anticipated, at any point, what was going to come next. I had written this, but it didn’t feel like I had written it.

  Having said that, however – and it would be disingenuous of me not to admit it – what I was reading was clearly superior to anything I might have written under normal circumstances. Nor, in fact, was it a rough draft, because as far as I could see, this thing had all the virtues of a good, polished piece of prose. It was cogent, measured, and well thought out – precisely that part of the process that I usually found difficult, even sometimes downright impossible. Whenever I spent time trying to devise a structure for Turning On, ideas would flit around freely inside my brain, OK, but if I ever tried to box any of them in, or hold them to account, they’d lose focus and break up and I’d be left with nothing except a frustrated feeling of knowing each time that I was going to have to start all over again.

  Last night, on the other hand – apparently – I had nailed the whole goddamned thing in one go.

  I stubbed out my cigarette and stared in wonder at the screen for a moment.

  Then I turned and went into the kitchen to put on some coffee.

  As I was filling the percolator and preparing the filter, and then peeling an orange, it struck me that I felt like a different person. I was self-conscious about every movement I made, as if I were a bad actor doing a scene in a stage drama, a scene set in a kitchen that was improbably tidy and where I had to make coffee and peel an orange.

  This didn’t last for very long, though, because there was an incipient old-style mess in the trail of breakfast spoor I left behind me across the work-top spaces. Ten minutes saw the appearance of a milk carton, an unfinished bowl of soggy Corn Flakes, a couple of spoons, an empty cup, various stains, a used coffee filter, bits of orange peel and an ashtray containing the ash and butt-ends of two cigarettes.

  I was back.

  Concern about the state of the kitchen, however, was merely a ploy. What I didn’t want to think about was being back in front of the computer. Because I knew exactly what would happen once I was. I would attempt to move on to the rest of the introduction – as though this were the most natural thing in the world – and of course I’d freeze up. I wouldn’t be able to do anything. Then in desperation I’d go back to the stuff I’d done last night and start picking at it – pecking at it, like a vulture – and sooner or later that, too, would all come apart.

  I sighed in frustration and lit up another cigarette.

  I looked around the kitchen and considered tidying it again, returning it to its pristine state, but the idea stumbled at the first post – the soggy bowl of cereal – and I dismissed it as forced and unspontaneous. I didn’t care about the kitchen anyway, or the arrangement of the furniture, or the alphabetized CDs – all of that was sideshow stuff, collateral damage if you like. The real target, and where the hit had landed, was inside there in the living-room, right in the middle of my desk.

  I extinguished the cigarette I’d lit only moments earlier – my fourth of the morning – and walked out of the kitchen. Without looking over at the computer, I crossed the living-room and went into the bedroom to get dressed. Then I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I came back into the living-room, took the jacket I’d left draped on a chair and searched through the pockets. I eventually found what I was looking for: Vernon’s card.

  Vernon Gant – it said – consultant. It had his home and cellphone numbers on it, as well as his address – he lived on the Upper East Side now, go figure. It also had a tacky little logo in the top right corner. For a moment I considered phoning him, but I didn’t want to be fobbed off with excuses. I didn’t want to take the risk of being told he was busy or that I couldn’t meet him until the middle of next week – because what I wanted was to see him immediately, and face to face, so I could find out all there was to know about this, I suppose, smart drug of his. I wanted to find out where it came from, what was in it, and – most important of all – how I could get some more.

  [ 5 ]

  I WENT DOWN TO THE STREET, hailed a cab and told the driver Ninetieth and First. Then I sat back and gazed out of the window. It was a bright, crisp day and the traffic, as we cruised uptown, wasn’t too heavy.

  Since I work at home and hang out with people who mostly live in the Village and the Lower East Side and SoHo, I don’t often have occasion to go uptown, and especially not uptown on the East Side. In fact, as the cross streets flitted past and we moved up into the Fifties, Sixties and Seventies, I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d been this far north. Manhattan, for all its size and density of population, is quite a parochial place. If you live there, you establish your territory, you pick out your routes, and that’s it. Certain neighbourhoods you just might never visit. Or it might be that you go through a phase with a neighbourhood – which could depend on work, relationships, food preferences even. I tried to think when it had been … maybe the time I went to that Italian place with the bocce court, Il Vagabondo, on Third and something – but that’d been at least two years ago.

  Anyway, as far as I could see, none of it had changed that much.

  The driver pulled up at the kerb just opposite Linden Tower at Ninetieth Street. I paid him and got out. This was Yorkville, old Germantown – old because there wasn’t much trace of it left, maybe a few businesses, a liquor store, a dry cleaner’s, a delicatessen or two, certainly quite a few residents, and old ones, but for the most part, or so I’d read, the neighbourhood had been Upper East-Sided over with new apartment buildings, singles bars, Irish ‘pubs’ and theme restaurants that opened and closed with alarming frequency.

  At a quick glance, I could see that it certainly looked that way. From where I was standing I was able to pick out an O’Leary’s, a Hannigan’s, and a restaurant called the October Revolution Café.

  Linden Tower was a dark red-bricked apartment building, one of the many built over the past twenty or twenty-five years in this part of town. They had established their own unarguable, monolithic presence, but Linden Tower, like most of them, was out-sized, ugly and cold-looking.

  Vernon Gant lived on the seventeenth floor.

  I crossed over First Avenue, took the steps down on to the plaza and went over towards the big revolving glass doors of the main entrance. By the looks of it, this place had people going in and out of it all the time, so these doors were probably always in motion. I looked upwards just as I got to the en
trance and caught a dizzying glimpse of how high the building was. But my head didn’t make it back far enough to see any of the sky.

  I walked right past the reception desk in the centre of the lobby and turned left into a separate area where the elevators were. A few people stood around waiting, but there were eight elevators, four on either side, so no one had to wait for very long. An elevator went ping, its doors opened and three people got out. Six of us then herded into it. We each hit our numbers and I noticed that no one besides me was going higher than the fifteenth floor.

  Based on the people I’d seen coming in, and on the specimens standing around me now in the elevator car, the occupants of Linden Tower seemed like a varied bunch. A lot of these apartments would be rent-controlled from a long way back, of course, but a lot of them would also be sub-let, and at exorbitant rates, so that would create a fair bit of social mix right there.

  I got out on the seventeenth floor. I checked Vernon’s card again and then looked for his apartment. It was down the hall and around the corner to the left, third door on the right. I didn’t encounter anyone on the way.

  I stood for a moment at his door, and then rang the bell. I hadn’t thought much about what I was going to say to him if he answered, and I’d thought even less about what I was going to do if he didn’t, if he wasn’t home, but standing there I realized that either way I was extremely apprehensive.

  I heard some movement inside, and then locks clicking.

  Vernon must have seen that it was me through the spyhole because I heard his voice before he’d even got the door fully open.

  ‘Shit, man, that was fast.’

  I had a smile ready for when he appeared, but it fell off my face as soon as I actually saw him. He stood before me wearing only boxer shorts. He had a black eye and bruises all down the left side of his face. His lip was cut, and swollen, and his right hand was bandaged.