A Changed Man

by Francine Prose

  Meyer pauses for a round of applause.

  “Freed, my friends, because of what Brotherhood Watch was able to do on his behalf! In honor of this great event, we have decided to award our Iranian brother Cambiz Khosthami—in absentia—the brand-new annual Laura Ticknor Prize for Courage in Journalism, which we are giving tonight for the very first time.”

  Meyer is a genius. The crowd is up on its feet. Meyer points out Laura Ticknor. The crowd turns toward her and claps harder. Laura puts her hand to her heart. Getting Laura to increase her support will be like taking candy from a baby.

  Meyer waits for the applause to die down. “Tonight I make you a promise. Next year at this time, Cambiz Khosthami will be here with us to accept his award in person.”

  The room cheers this vision of a handsome Iranian with his beautiful wife and children, the whole family gratefully acknowledging the gift of nothing less than a man’s life, which he owes the men and women applauding themselves and him. Bonnie stands and claps, too, but now she is fending off a faint pinprick of unease. Whose idea was the Laura Ticknor Prize? Did Meyer come up with it himself? Shouldn’t Bonnie have been the first to know, or was she left out of the loop?

  “Should I describe the shipments of medicines, the rivers of vaccines and antibiotics, that Brotherhood Watch has sent streaming around the world? The children’s lives saved, the victims of genocide resettled? Or perhaps I should update you on our successful conferences, the important and moving dialogues between Palestinians and Israelis, Chechens and Russians, Bosnian Muslims and Serbs, the atmosphere of love and trust that we have been able to establish, and that has allowed representatives of these embattled groups to speak from their hearts and even to become friends?”

  Meyer pauses and the crowd cheers for…what? A dream that almost seems possible over mesclun salad and good white wine. World peace and understanding. Who doesn’t want that? And it’s Bonnie who gets to spend her life to try and make it happen.

  “Or maybe I should mention the summer programs for high school kids—”

  Bonnie wishes he wouldn’t mention that. Somebody in the crowd must know about last summer’s pot bust.

  “—programs that bring young people together with their first foreigner or even, in some cases, their first hyphenated American.” The first hyphenated American? The crowd gasps. Where have these kids been living? On Mars? Somewhere in the…Midwest?

  “These children spend two weeks together at a remote location and come away with a new understanding of their own feelings about the other, and more importantly, with the truth about who those others really are. The reason I don’t need to tell you any more is that you may soon be able to see for yourselves. Tonight, it is my pleasure to announce that PBS has expressed some interest in funding a documentary about our annual Pride and Prejudice camp.”

  Annual Pride and Prejudice camp? Documentary? When did this happen? And what is “some interest”? Bonnie takes off her glasses, then puts them on again. Roberta is smiling, taking credit. Where was Bonnie while this was going on? Closeted with her neo-Nazi while Roberta was negotiating with a major network? Well, not exactly major. But PBS isn’t nothing. Fine. Roberta’s doing her job—at last! A film can only help Brotherhood Watch, provided, of course, that no one gets wind of their legal trouble and 60 Minutes gets involved. What a story that would be. Teenage drug use at the high-minded foundation retreat. But if the film goes well and gets aired, Bonnie’s job will be easier. Sure, I’d be happy to donate. I saw your group on TV.

  “But—” Meyer pauses for effect. “Human rights cannot exist without human responsibilities. Human rights requires from each of us what Kierkegaard called the leap of faith, a leap as brave as jumping out of an airplane. A moral bungee jump.”

  The audience, not the bravest crowd in the world, adores this image of themselves. Moral bungee jumpers. Engaging in extreme sports. So what if their daring leaps involve their telephones and checkbooks? Supporting something like Brotherhood Watch is a gesture, a gamble. They’re gambling on human goodness and the future of the race. The collective enthusiasm works like a dose of Viagra. The guests rise to their feet.

  Bonnie looks at Vincent. Meyer’s hypnotic speech has briefly mesmerized her into forgetting that Vincent is on next. Talk about a hard act to follow! What is Vincent supposed to do after Meyer’s fireworks? It’s possible that he could get up there and panic and start mumbling into his shirt. He could slip and say something racist. Rican. Jap. If Vincent blows it, he could undo some of the great work Meyer is accomplishing right now. The last thing they want the crowd wondering is how much money the foundation has wasted on some redneck’s semi-successful moral reclamation.

  Vincent’s so focused on Meyer that he doesn’t notice Bonnie looking at him. She’s trying to be objective, searching for a trace of a smirk, of irony or disdain. But all she sees in Vincent’s face is admiration and affection. He loves Meyer and the foundation as much as Bonnie does. Who could help it? And that love will guide Vincent through whatever he has to do and say. Vincent takes a sip of wine and a bite of salad without taking his eyes off Meyer.

  “Each leap stretches us, like exercise. As our friends in science would say, it blasts new neural pathways. Just as they are proving that in childhood we form fat cells in which to store body fat, so our souls grow faith cells, repositories of trust and belief. It’s one more reason to proceed, one heart at a time, man by man, woman by woman, child by child. Human being by human being. Another reason to stop blaming others and go out and do it ourselves—”

  Meyer pauses, and the crowd applauds this do-it-yourself approach to saving the world. Meyer stops the applause with one hand. He’s playing the room like an orchestra, shaping every note. “If I had to pick one word for what we do, for what we try to do, what we want to do…that one word would be—”another pause, everyone’s guessing—“that one word would be…change. Spiritual and political change.

  “The person I want to introduce now is a man who has changed. A prodigal son returned to the fold of love after wandering in the desert of prejudice and hate. To meet this young man is to understand that we cannot spend all our time preaching to the choir. He is the living embodiment of what we must do—reach those who don’t think as we do, those who think in ways we may fear and despise. We must learn about them, they must learn about us. And we will all be transformed.

  “Vincent Nolan is a living example of the human capacity to change from one kind of person into another. Within the last weeks I have had the privilege of seeing a man who has lived among the political descendants of those who killed my family and so wanted to kill me that I spent my childhood in hiding. And I have seen this man changed, as so few of them were changed. I’ve seen his eyes opened, his path diverted from the way of hate to the road of love. Ladies and gentlemen, new friends and old, let me present to you…Vincent Nolan!”

  Each time the audience leaps to its feet, standing gets easier. Everyone’s craning and twisting for a peep at Vincent, who rises along with the rest but seems otherwise unaware that the commotion is for him. His face has a distant, mournful look….

  Does Meyer mean Vincent to come join him? Bonnie can’t tell, and Vincent doesn’t seem to think so. The two men are communicating in a code she will never break. The audience sits down again, and Meyer forges ahead.

  “During the short time that Vincent has been with Brotherhood Watch, he has changed from a member of the American Rights Movement, also known as the Aryan Resistance Movement, into a believer in our mission. Those of us who have always refused to accept the idea that some part of man is evil, that our behavior is predetermined, hardwired, those who refuse to believe that there is something genetic, some product of race or gender, that makes us good or bad, those of us who stubbornly hang on to the faith that men and women can be changed for the better…even we sometimes wonder if such change can really occur.”

  Meyer pauses to let this sink in. The crowd responds with gentle applause. They’ve
wondered about this themselves. They would like nothing better than to hear that every sick bastard can turn into Mother Teresa.

  “Our hope is that our new friend and colleague can work with us to design an outreach program to help us find and change other young men like himself. And now, my friends, the living proof. I give you…a changed man. Vincent Nolan.”

  As if to fortify himself, Vincent takes another quick bite of salad. He stops and gives Bonnie a slightly wild look, and then goes up to join Meyer.

  Together on the podium, Meyer and Vincent embrace for as long as the flashbulbs keep popping, as long as it takes for every eye to water over this image of the elderly but still potent Holocaust survivor and the young white-power punk, changed by love and knowledge into dear friends who love one another.

  Only now does Bonnie take a bite of salad, of baby greens drizzled with olive oil and balsamic. Something crunchy underneath. Bonnie peers under an arugula shard, refusing at first to believe the horrendous evidence of her senses. Then, half-rocketing out of her seat, she looks over at Vincent’s plate. Unless there’s been a miracle, Vincent has eaten nuts.

  It’s as if she’s the allergic one. Her heart speeds up, her throat swells. What is she supposed to do now? Shut down the proceedings? Charge up to the podium and make sure Vincent’s okay? Drag him off to a doctor? She would, if he were her child.

  Bonnie told the caterers to be aware that many of the guests had allergies. And she should have warned Vincent to be extra careful, just in case. She should have gotten one of those syringes filled with what they prescribe for kids allergic to peanuts and bee stings. She should have carried it everywhere, but there never seemed to be any need. Vincent was always so conscious, and so—until now—was she. Until the worst possible moment, which is when and why it happened. This is no time to blame herself. The question is: What now?

  Why not give it a minute or two? Maybe he didn’t eat any nuts. Maybe they’re not the kind he’s allergic to. Given Vincent’s past, and the strangely haphazard way he seems to have learned crucial facts about his own life, there’s always a chance that he isn’t really allergic at all. In any case, she’s got to trust him. He’ll stop if he’s feeling ill. Maybe it happens slowly, slowly enough for him to give his speech. If anything seems even slightly off, she’ll intervene, and that will be that.

  Meanwhile, why endanger everything they’ve worked so hard to create? Of course, she won’t let things get to the point at which Vincent’s health may be at risk. None of this is worth that, not one penny of the money that Meyer and Vincent will bring in from this evening. She’ll watch Vincent, and Vincent will signal her if something’s wrong. He will know how bad it is.

  Vincent knows how bad it is: about as bad as it can get. It’s hard to think of much worse than chomping down on that second bite of salad and getting a mouthful of nuts seconds before he has to step up to the Egyptian temple and talk to five hundred strangers. Not just chewing but swallowing the poison he’s masticated to help it disperse through his body. And why has this happened? Because Bonnie, Maslow, and their warped little crew have disabled his instincts. They’ve removed the batteries from his survival smoke alarm. From the standpoint of mind control, this is worse than anything that happened to him in ARM. They’ve disconnected the reflexes that normally would have made him spit the half-eaten nuts all over Irene and Laura Ticknor’s black suits and hair helmets.

  Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe he’s outgrown his allergies. He’s read where that can happen. It’s probably been fifteen years since his last attack. So let’s see how this plays out. And hell, if he’s going to get sick, he might as well do it in front of the maximum number of Jewish doctors. The combined brains and income in the room will get him to the ER and the epinephrine shot a whole lot faster than if he was on his own.

  So this crowd has to want to save his life. Which gives Vincent a few minutes to convince them that they can’t live without him. Besides which, he wants to do this. He wants to be the man. And he’ll be damned before he lets some allergy make him blow his big chance.

  The chance to do what, exactly? The chance to be the Brotherhood Watch flavor of the month? As soon as Maslow mentioned the Iranian who would be here next year to accept his award, Vincent knew his days were numbered. A year is all he’s got before the new kid on the block rolls into town.

  Then why take the risk? Because Maslow and Bonnie care about him? Because he wants their…love? Or could it be that Vincent has finally sold himself on that scam he came up with that first day? I want to help you guys save guys like me from becoming guys like me.

  All the time Maslow’s hugging him, Vincent’s fighting the urge to spill his personal catastrophe into Maslow’s ear. Look, I’m about to die up here. Man, you’ve got to save me. But Maslow could never hear him above the noise of the crowd, and anyway, Vincent would rather die than show the whole world what a wimp he is, crying to Daddy.

  Maslow leaves. Vincent is on his own. How alone he feels! The first symptom of anaphylactic shock is a sense of impending doom. Goddamn right there’s a sense of doom. Because you’re dead, and you know it.

  What would the Warrior do now? Identify the enemy. Vincent has been there. Done that. His enemy is salad. He stands between the pillars looking out at the crowd. He touches the stone on either side, the graffiti and the hieroglyphics. If only he were Samson and could pull this clam shack down. He feels a mild scratchiness in his throat, that first knock-knock of…fuck it. He’ll go down screaming.

  He leans into the microphone, wrestles the head from its stand. He’s thinking: Elvis. He says in Elvis’s honeyed tones, “Let me tell you how it happened.”

  That gets the room’s attention: the promise of a story. Just like Maslow suggested. It’s better than what they expected—five minutes of platitudes and two minutes of begging. The challenge is to wrap it up before his throat swells shut.

  “It was early in the spring. I was living with my cousin.” Vincent wishes he hadn’t said that last word. But there’s no way to tell this without it. “At the time, I belonged to a group that, I realize now, fed on the fears and insecurities of hard-luck schmos like myself.”

  The crowd laughs, a little uneasily. Do they think he’s doing stand-up? Just because he called himself a schmo doesn’t make him Woody fucking Allen.

  “Sometimes, on weekends, my cousin”—Vincent can’t say his name—“my cousin would take me on these field trips, little lessons to teach me who to hate and why I should hate them.”

  Just saying hate in this crowd creates a buzz. These people don’t want to hear about anything but love. But if it weren’t for hate they wouldn’t be here, so hate should get some credit. And in fact, the word turns them on. It’s hot. It’s so taboo. No one they know would tell anyone why they should hate someone else.

  “Not that he would admit that. He said it was all about love. You had to know who your enemies were before you could love your own race. We’d go to synagogues. We’d park outside till the Jews came out of services. My cousin would tell me to look at their cars. To count the Lexuses and Lincoln Navigators.”

  Vincent pauses and waits for the shudder. That’s their cars he’s talking about. And they’re right to respond that way. Vincent’s not making this up. Raymond used to do that. Vincent went along. After all, he was staying on Raymond’s couch. He had to be polite. And now he’s being punished. His nose is starting to feel stuffed up. Every second that passes is a second less to find that epinephrine shot.

  “And so maybe six weeks ago, my cousin asked me to come for a ride in his truck.” Vincent thinks of the pickup, still stashed in the city garage. Trusty old friend. He exercised it and paid its board just a few days ago. He might need it if Raymond shows up. When Raymond shows up. How cheated Raymond and his buddies will feel to learn that Vincent died at the benefit dinner before they got a chance to work him over. The sense of doom is deepening. His palms are beginning to itch.

  The first time it happened,
he was eight; they were living in some hippie ashram. He and his mom wound up in the Middletown ER after his mom grabbed him away from the honcho guru pervert who said that all that Vincent needed was a coffee enema and some fresh-squeezed carrot juice. For the first time ever, Vincent was glad to see a fully loaded hypodermic coming at him. He’d like to see one right about now. His chest is feeling tight.

  “We drove out to the country, to these giant greenhouses in the middle of a field. My cousin parked his truck. He said, ‘Look. A Korean owns all that.’”

  Vincent lets this seep in. Besides, he needs a break.

  “‘Come on,’ said my cousin. ‘Check it out.’ There was no one around. Light was streaming in through what looked like white parachute silk onto these tables covered with rows of boxes filled with earth, all perfectly neat and labeled. In each one was a tiny sprig, a green wisp of something being born.”

  Vincent’s got the crowd now, and not a minute too soon. His pulse races, then slows again. He’s getting that sinus headache.

  “What I wish I could tell you is how beautiful it was in the early spring wind, the clear white light. Those rows of flats, the moist dark soil, those tiny shoots of green stretching for what seemed like acres. My cousin said, ‘Some Korean…’ And he used a word I won’t repeat in this company.” He feels the crowd’s disappointment. All right. “Korean motherfucker.” He waits for the shocked, orgasmic gasp. “But that’s not what I was thinking. I was thinking that it didn’t matter who owned all this beauty, just so long as it was there. I didn’t care what race the guy was, what country he had come from. And I kept thinking that the whole scene was like watching a beam of winter sunlight cross the floor.”

  Where’s Bonnie? Is she listening? Did she notice he got it right?

  “Just then a Korean guy appears and asks what we want. He looks at me and my cousin. He knows who we are.”

  Vincent feels as if someone’s pinching his nostrils. He’s underwater, drowning. Hang in there. Just a few seconds more. He’s almost got to the punch line.