The Man Who Cancelled Himself

by David Handler

  He tensed instantly. “Why, what’d they say?”

  “Their version of the events leading up to your shock therapy is markedly different from yours.”

  “Well, you gotta expect that,” he said, waving it off mildly. “You don’t think they’d admit the truth, do ya? They’re covering their butts, pal. But the facts don’t lie. They had a son who was a bad ass. A son who dealt drugs. A son who—”

  “Tried to commit suicide by jumping off the roof of his high school gym.” I gave it to him hard.

  And he took it hard. Like a boot in the balls. From Raoul Allegre. All of the air went out of him. His face went completely white. He hovered over me a moment, making those farting noises of his with his lips. Then, slowly, he sank onto the sofa, somewhat like the Goodyear blimp Columbia touching down. “That was … no big deal,” he whispered. “I’m sure … I’m sure whatever they told you about it was total bullshit.”

  “You didn’t tell me anything about it, Lyle.”

  “Because it was no big deal,” he repeated, sticking his chins out at me. He’d reverted to the bully boy. “Aren’t you listening to me?”

  “I’m listening. I just don’t hear you saying anything.”

  He hesitated, his chest rising and falling. “Look, about this book …”

  “What about it?”

  “A positive spin on things wouldn’t do me no harm under present circumstances,” he reasoned. “If ya know what I mean.”

  “How about if you leave the spin up to me, Lyle. And just tell me what happened.”

  “Why should I?” he demanded.

  “Because if you don’t I’ll quit.”

  He looked at me, incredulous. “What, just like that?”

  “Just like that. There’s no in-between with collaborators, Lyle. Either you’re prepared to take me into your confidence or you’re not. If you’re not, then I don’t want to have anything to do with the project. So let’s have it—the whole story. Or I’m out of here.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t bother to answer him.

  “Well, okay then,” he said reluctantly. “If it’s that big a deal.” He kicked off his Birkenstocks and stretched his mammoth self out on the sofa.

  I sat there in my chair with my notepad, waiting. Celebrities often fall into the patient-shrink thing with me. Sometimes I think I ought to just get a degree like Cousin Tommy did. His hours are better than mine. And no one ever tries to run him over.

  “It was an acid thing,” he began, gazing up at the cracks in the ceiling. “That’s all it was. They built it into something bigger. But it wasn’t, I tell ya. I flipped out, that’s all. Dropped some bad acid, and bummed.”

  “Describe it.”

  “I don’t know if I can. To someone who’s never dropped, I mean.”

  “Lyle, you’re speaking to a man who once spent the whole night convinced his entire body was clad in Mylar. I was unable to move a single muscle for nine hours. Couldn’t even speak.”

  “Really?” He grinned at me, amused. Then his face dropped. “Then maybe you remember how … sometimes you could sort of lose your normal perspective.”

  “That was sort of the whole point, wasn’t it?”

  He swallowed. “I guess I—I just opened up one of those doors that you’re better off keeping shut.”

  “Which door are we talking about?”

  “I mean, if you ever actually think about what happens to you after you the…”

  “Oh, that door.”

  “It’s pretty fucking depressing—even when you’re not tripping. And when you are, well, it gets you to wondering what the point of any of it is. And, wow, before you know it you can’t think of a single reason to stay alive. No matter how hard you try.” He lay there recalling it, pudgy hands resting on his belly. “I dropped at lunch, on a full stomach. Figured I wouldn’t start peaking until school let out. But I was wrong. It was potent, potent shit. Orange sunshine it was. And I started coming on to it right away. By the time final period was over, I was really tripping my brains out … Had to get away from people. There were just so many people everywhere. I felt so—so …”

  “Trapped?”

  “Yeah, trapped. Kids crowding the halls, the exits, the gates, everywhere. I just had to get away from them, y’know? Sure ya do. You been there. I—I went up on the roof of the gym to chill out. We used to go up there all the time at lunch to sneak joints. Only this time, some janitor saw me up there and freaked. He called the cops. They called my parents. And they right away stuck me in the hospital. Christ, it was just the acid. Y’understand what I’m saying, don’t ya? I was fine soon as I came down the next day.” He trailed off, brow furrowed. “Okay, maybe it was two days before it was totally outta my system. I can’t remember exactly. The point is I was fine, soon as I got my head straight. But Herb and Aileen, that wasn’t good enough for them. They couldn’t deal with it. They had to make it into something wrong. Something bad. So they had me jumped. I was fine, and they fried me, those evil fucking—”

  “You weren’t fine, Lyle,” I said quietly.

  He turned his head to look at me. “What’d you say?”

  “I said you weren’t fine. There’s more to it than that. Something you don’t remember. Something that was … that was wiped from your memory. Or maybe you’ve just blocked it out.”

  His eyes searched my face. “What is it? Tell me, damn it!”

  “It wasn’t one or two days, Lyle. It was six weeks. You sat in a darkened hospital room, sobbing, for six weeks. You went into a bottomless pit of depression that the doctors couldn’t bring you out of.”

  He shook his head violently. “No way. Uh-uh. No!”

  “Yes! They tried drugs, therapy, everything. Nothing worked. You were hopelessly suicidal. Diagnosed as manic-depressive. The shock therapy wasn’t some willful act of social repression by your parents. It was the doctors trying to save you. And they did.”

  He jumped to his feet and started thumping around again, greatly agitated. “N-No way. That never happened.”

  “It happened.”

  He stood there over me, hulking, his fists clenched. “You believe them over me, don’t you?” he said with quiet rage.

  “I believe something happened that you don’t remember. And I don’t believe they’d make this up.”

  “They would, too!” he screamed, the veins popping in his fat red neck. “They’re liars! They’re lying to you!”

  “Why would they?”

  He let out a harsh laugh. “To cover their asses, that’s why,” he replied, sneering at me. “Just like I told ya before.”

  I tried the reasonable approach. “Okay, fine. You don’t have to believe them, Lyle. We can go out to the hospital where it happened, get the names of your doctors, track them down. I’m sure some of them are still in practice. We can look up your medical records. We can look up your—”

  “Records are bullshit!” he roared. “Nuttin’ more than people rewriting history. I don’t believe records. I believe what I know, and I know what happened. You hear me? I know it!”

  So much for the reasonable approach. I got up and went over to the window. I parted the leopard-skin drapes. Not much to see. Just the dirty air shaft, but it was something. The outside world. Real. I could feel his eyes on me; I turned to him and said, “Lyle, I realize this is hard.”

  “You realize shit!” he raged, storming over to me. “My own parents are making up stories about me! And you believe ’em! And I have no way of proving that they’re total fucking liars! None!”

  “They’re not liars, Lyle.” I went chest to chest with him. He wasn’t much taller than me, but he was so much wider. I grabbed him by his meaty shoulders. “Do you hear me? They were coming clean. They were astonished to discover you blame them for authorizing the ECT. It shook them, Lyle. Really shook them. Because they’ve never, ever understood why you hate them the way you do. They were only trying to save you, Lyle. You’ve got to un
derstand that. You’ve got to let them off the hook.”

  “Never,” he insisted. “I can never do that.” He shook himself loose from my grasp and flopped back down in his desk chair. “Never.”

  I stood there a moment, looking down at him. “Why don’t we get in touch with some of your doctors?” I suggested gently.

  He waved it off. “I don’t remember any of their names.”

  “Herb and Aileen will.”

  A derisive snort.

  “Want me to find out their names for you?”

  He looked at me curiously. “You’d do that for me?”

  “I would.”

  “Does this mean you’re my friend?” Like a child he said it.

  “It does not.”

  He frowned. “Then why are you doing all of this? What’s in it for you?”

  “A memoir with my name on it. I’m somewhat old-fashioned when it comes to books. I believe they should be about something. Even if not many people in publishing agree with me anymore. What do you say, Lyle? Shall I call them?”

  He stared at me. “I don’t know. Could you … ?” He trailed off, swiveling his chair around so that he faced the window, his back to me. “Leave me alone for … for a while, okay?” he asked, voice choking with emotion. “I—I need some time to think about this.”

  “Okay, Lyle.”

  I gathered up my things and started for the door. He was already sobbing by the time I closed it softly behind me.

  Leo was hurriedly searching through my desk drawers, her fingers deft and nimble. She was not alone there in my office. Two very large and very alive lobsters were bobbing around on the floor in a big clear plastic bag filled with greenish sea water. Maine lobsters, direct from our editor’s posh summer home in Ogunquit. The Merchant of Menace had sent them to me that morning when he got word of Chad’s death. His note said, “I hate to be greedy, but how do you do it?” No reply was expected, which was just as well. I don’t know how I do it.

  I stood there in the doorway watching Leo and wondering what she was searching for.

  Until she noticed me. If she was startled she was much too cool to show it. Just adjusted the Sherman parked behind her right ear and barked, “I was looking all over for you, Stewart Hoag.”

  “I seldom hide in my desk.”

  “Came in to leave you a copy of the memo,” she said stiffly, offering me one from the sheaf she was clutching.

  It was addressed to all Uncle Chubby staff, informing them that production was to be shut down for a minimum of two weeks, effective immediately. The writing and office staff would continue working, but the cast, crew, and all other staff were dismissed until further notice.

  “Also to tell you that Fiona wants to see you,” she added.

  “Any particular reason?”

  “She just said it was important,” Leo answered dubiously.

  I tugged at my ear. “Care to make a deal, Leo?”

  She gazed down her nose at me. “What kind of deal?”

  I sat in my chair. “I don’t tell Lieutenant Very I found your Sherman butt in the bomb rubble if …”

  “If what?” she demanded icily.

  “If you tell me who it was that used Lyle’s john just before the Chadster got himself zapped.”

  “I saw nobody.”

  “Your desk is right outside of Lyle’s suite. You claim you were sitting there just before it happened. Never left—until Chad went in there. That means you saw who did it. You had to. You don’t want to tell Very, that’s fine. Tell me.”

  “I saw nobody,” she repeated, louder this time.

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe you, Leo.”

  “I couldn’t care less what you believe!” she bellowed angrily. “Or what you do! I’ve got nothing to hide. You want to tell your cop friend about that butt, you go right ahead and tell him! And while you’re at it I really wish you’d go fuck yourself!” And with that she brushed past me in the tiny space and stormed out, keys jangling on their chain.

  Annabelle came scurrying in a moment later, wide-eyed. “No way! I’m, like, what was that about?”

  “That was just me wearing Leo down. The woman’s nuts about me. I can tell.”

  Annabelle glanced down the short hallway, and lowered her voice. “Can we cop some face time? I’m like, deep into the shit thing.”

  “All right.”

  She glanced around my tiny office. “It’s not the same without Lulu, is it?”

  “It certainly smells a lot better. What kind of shit thing, Annabelle?”

  Before she could reply there was a tremendous commotion out in the hallway. And then the two blond Munchkins came hurtling in, all energy and noise.

  “We found you!” cried Caitlin, excitedly hugging Annabelle.

  “You found me!” sang out Annabelle, as she embraced both of them. All three were about the same size.

  “We get to go home,” said Casey.

  “I get to see my kitten,” said Caitlin.

  “And I get to see my Tony,” added Amber, who stood planted there in the doorway in her jodhpurs and riding boots. “Cast officially dismissed.”

  “I’m, like, lucky you.” Annabelle sniffed. “We worker bees have to stay here and write.”

  “You and Lorenzo must come out this weekend,” Amber insisted. “We can unwind by the pool, putter in the garden. The kids would love to have you.”

  “Yeah!” they chimed in.

  “Sounds awesome,” said Annabelle. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Please do.” Amber treated me to the aristocratic flared nostril bit. “I hope you’ll still be around when we return from hiatus, Hoagy.”

  I treated her to my best grin bit. “Why, do you know something about my future that I don’t?”

  Amber immediately got very uncomfortable. “Why, no. Not at all,” she said hastily. “It’s just that people are always coming and going so fast around this place. That’s all I meant. Really. It was just something to say.”

  “I see,” I said, not believing one word of it. I wondered what she’d heard about Lyle’s future, and from whom. Possibly Fiona had heard it as well, and that was why she wanted to see me.

  Amber turned back to Annabelle. “Call us.”

  “Like, I will,” Annabelle promised.

  Then she and The Munchkins departed.

  Annabelle shut the door behind them, which made the tiny, airless office even tinier and more airless. “Just for a second, okay? I’m, like, it’s about your cop friend. The babe.”

  “Very.”

  “Fer shure,” she acknowledged, licking her lips. “But I’m, like, he’s in Lorenzo’s face, okay? About whatever got put in the chili, okay?”

  “It was fluid essence of ipecac. Not available over the counter.”

  “Lorenzo hasn’t worked in a pharmacy for years.”

  “Then he has nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah, he does,” she countered, tossing her lacquered big hair. “They wanna beam on his tax returns.”

  “So?”

  She lowered her eyes. “So there’s, like, something maybe a little nonkosher in them, okay? Like when he’s hard up, he shoots a little blah-blah-blah, okay?”

  “Blah-blah-blah?”

  “Porn. Hey, somebody’s got to do it, and they pay real money. Only it’s not a union deal, which means he gets paid under the table, and his union isn’t hip to it.”

  “Is the IRS?”

  “Of course,” she said defensively. “You think he’s some kind of crook?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what to think.”

  “I’m saying he could get thrown out of his union. That’s what I’m saying. You got to help him, Hoagy,” she pleaded, grabbing me by the lapels with her tiny fists. “He’s the one great love of my life. I’ll die if he gets in any kind of trouble. I won’t eat. Not a morsel of food will pass these lips. I’m a desperate woman, Hoagy. I’m, like, begging you. Please help him.”

  I extricated myself from
her grasp. Linen wrinkles so easily. “And what doesn’t the IRS know about?”

  She reddened. “What makes you think there’s—?”

  “I have to know, Annabelle. If you want me to help you.”

  After a moment’s hesitation she caved in. “Okay, okay. So, like, maybe he’s done some other shit he hasn’t reported. Chump change, strictly to make ends meet. I’m talking eating here.”

  “Such as what, dealing drugs?”

  She gasped in horror. “No, never. I swear. No drugs. Not ever. Strictly legal stuff. But the IRS could wax him over it. The penalties alone would—”

  “What does he do?”

  “He drives a cab.”

  “Ouch. That was not a good answer.”

  “I’m, like, it’s the truth.”

  “I’m, like, it’s still not a good answer.”

  “Will you help him, Hoagy?”

  There was a knock at my door, somewhat timid. She reached over and opened it. It was Bobby. He was unshaven, and he looked like he’d slept in his clothes—on the floor of Penn Station. He also seemed greatly agitated. He was blinking furiously and trembling. He clutched a script, his knuckles white. “You g-got a minute, Hoagy?”

  “He’s all yours,” Annabelle answered. “Just remember, Hoagy. This woman’s heart is in your hands. Not that I’m trying to pressure you.”

  “No, of course not.”

  She scurried off. Bobby closed the door behind her. It was a morning for closed doors.

  “What’s on your mind, Bobby?”

  He smiled at me, or tried. It came out more like a grimace. “How are y-you enjoying the sitcom business?”

  “It’s not dull.”

  “Still, you m-must be anxious to get back to your novel.”

  “I’d be a lot more anxious if I had the slightest idea what it was.”

  “Yeah, b-but at least you’ll be doing what you want. A free man.”

  “You just keep right on believing that, Bobby. What was it you wanted?”

  “It’s this c-cop,” he sputtered. “This V-Very guy. He’s been checking up on me. As if I’d every t-try to hurt anybody. It’s absolutely n-nuts. It’s insane. It’s—”

  “It’s thoroughly justified under the circumstances, Bobby. You told everyone you were in Boston seeing your shrink the morning of the bombing. You weren’t. In fact, you haven’t seen him on Tuesdays for quite some time.”