by Gayle Forman
“Why? You need me to haul you down a flight of stairs or something?”
“Damn, shorty, are you always so paranoid?”
“Says the guy who conned me into building a ramp and getting him carried down the stairs at some club and then disappeared. And stop calling me shorty. I’m taller than you.”
“Everyone’s taller than me now. And I mean it as a term of endearment.”
“Oh, do we have endearments?” I point back and forth between us. “I wouldn’t know.”
“So you are pissed!”
“I’m not pissed. I just don’t appreciate being used. It’s like you only come by when you need something.”
“So you think I’m, like, booty-calling you?”
“If the booty-call fits.”
Ira blows his nose loudly.
“The thing is, dawg, I thought you’d want to go with me to the big city. I have some business to take care of. And . . . Beethoven’s Anvil might maybe be playing tonight. But we don’t have to go to that. I know you don’t like them.”
“I don’t not like them,” I say, trying to play it cool, trying to pretend that I haven’t been thinking about Hannah, Googling the band. “It was just really loud standing by the speakers. My ears rang for a whole day.”
“This club has no stairs. We can stand wherever we want. But I get if you don’t wanna go. We can skip the show. I really just need a wingman for my other thing.”
Ira starts hacking.
“You okay there, Mr. Stein?” Chad calls.
“Ira,” Ira rasps. “And I’m fine. Nothing a hot bath and a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
He’s right. Might as well give him a day to recover. I turn to Chad. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll go.”
* * *
“So what I am wingmanning you for?” I ask Chad on the drive to Seattle. “Some girl you like?”
Chad laughs. “Nah, dawg. We’re gonna see a man about a dick.”
“What?” I ask, panicked.
Chad laughs. “Relax, dawg. Nothing like that.”
“So what is it like?”
“How much do you know about SCIs?”
“What’s an SCI?”
“So nothing, basically. SCI is short for spinal cord injury. When I fell off that cliff, I severed my spinal cord at the thoracic vertebra four.” He reaches over and touches me below my shoulder. “But not all the way through.”
“So does that mean you’ll, like, walk again?”
“Probably not. But, hey, I have total control of my hands.” He lifts both off the steering wheel to sparkle his fingers. “And good trunk control, so I can sit up on my own and I can tell when I have to pee or shit, which is good.” He pauses. “But there are . . . issues . . . in the performance department.”
“So can you not . . . ?” I gesture toward my lap.
“Get it up?” Chad says. “I can. Sort of. But not reliably. Or the way I want to. Or used to.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Not to toot my own horn, but before my accident, I was a boner machine. Ten seconds of porn. Boom, I was hard! The sight of Mrs. Newkirk’s bra. Did you have her for ELA? She was hot!”
I nod.
“That would get me a rod. The wind blew and I’d pop a woody. Thinking about a boner I’d had would give me a new one.” He sighs. “Ahh, the good old days.”
“And now?”
He sighs again. “Like everything else, it’s different.”
“How?”
“For one, I can only get a boner if someone touches my junk.”
“So?”
“Well, I get a boner anytime someone touches my junk. A cat could walk across my lap. I once got a boner when a nurse probed my dick. Which is not hot. And neither was she. But I got hard because something was touching my junk.”
“Like a reflex?”
“Exactly. It’s even called a reflex boner. But the problem is that’s the only boner I can get. And I wanna be able to get a psychogenic boner . . .”
“A what?”
“The kind of erection you get if you’re watching porn, or making out with someone, or feeling lust, or love, I can’t get hard from those. I need the manual stimulation.” He grimaces a bit as he shakes his head. “And then there’s orgasms.”
“Can you not . . . come?” I trail off, realizing I’ve never talked like this to a friend. To anyone.
“Kind of. I get that tensed-up feeling before you shoot off, but then nothing comes out. It’s frustrating as hell.”
“But if you can get hard, and feel like you’re coming . . . That’s good, right?”
“I mean it’s better than nothing. But it’s not the same. I can’t finish and even if I could, coming is like a physical thing, like sneezing. It’s not connected to desire.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Yeah, it is,” Chad replies. “Think about it: You wanna fall in love with someone and have all the physical and emotional stuff, and I can’t. It’s bad enough wondering if anyone can fall in love with damaged goods like me. But if they did, could I fall in love with them? Like if I can’t translate this.” He taps his head. “To this.” He taps his crotch. “Will it happen? I don’t know which is the chicken, and which is the egg, but I know I want that all-consuming love. The one that makes all the other shit in life worth it.” Chad looks at me. “I want that so much. Don’t you?”
By all accounts, my parents had that. And look what it led to. So there’s part of me that doesn’t want anything to do with a love that can make or break you.
Except here I am, heading to Seattle to see Hannah Crew.
“Yeah, Chad,” I say. “I think I do.”
* * *
I assumed Chad’s man with a dick would be a doctor but he turns out to be a super-handsome, white-toothed, hair-gelled guy in a wheelchair. He greets Chad with a hearty handshake. “So happy to meet you in person,” he says in heavily accented English.
Chad introduces me to Frederic, who he’s been corresponding with for nearly a year now but has only just met because Frederic lives in Budapest, Hungary.
“Oh, have you read any Magda Szabó?” I ask. “I think The Door is next on my reading list.”
Frederic looks at me blankly.
“I only mention it because she’s a Hungarian author.”
“Never heard of her,” Frederic says.
“Aaron’s very smart,” Chad says. “That’s why I brought him along.”
Frederic reaches for a leather attaché case and dials the combo, opening the lid with such a flourish I expect there to be a vial of some magical boner elixir inside. But what he pulls out is a glossy brochure with the words RESTORE YOUR ESSENTIAL SELF emblazoned on the cover.
Chad shows me the brochure. It’s full of images of men in wheelchairs, some holding babies in their laps, others with gorgeous women draped over them, all looking very happy. Beneath the pictures are testimonials, the before-and-after language queasily familiar: Changed my life. Restored my family. Gave me my future back.
Frederic is featured on page three, with a blonde woman sitting on his lap.
“Who’s that?” Chad asks.
“Lena. My wife.”
Chad whistles. “Your wife’s a stone-cold fox.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“Were you together before your accident?” Chad asks.
“Lena and I met after.”
“And you can . . . you know?” Chad seems suddenly shy. “Perform.”
“Lena has no complaints.”
Chad stares longingly at the couples on the pages. “If a genie came to me tomorrow and said I could walk again or have sex like normal again, I’d choose sex.”
Frederic smiles. “Consider Dr. Laszlo that genie.”
“Who’s Dr. Laszlo?”
I ask.
“The doctor who restored my manhood,” Frederic says. He taps the brochure. “The inventor of the Stim.”
“Stim?”
“The Spinal Erectile Stimulator,” Frederic clarifies.
“What is that?”
“It’s a small device that is implanted in the spinal column, connecting the groin area to the non-damaged area of the spinal cord.” He turns to Chad. “I think of it as a man-made replacement for the neurological pathways SCI disrupts.”
“How does it work?”
“It’s in the brochure.” Chad turns to Frederic. “Did you talk to Dr. Laszlo about me? Does he do T-4s?”
“He’s had excellent success with T-4s, T-1s, even C-6s.” Frederic pauses. “I’m a C-6, incomplete.”
“Wow,” Chad says.
“Wow?” I ask.
“It means his injury was higher, less chance of recovering boner function, and it worked for him.” He turns to Frederic. “And how long until you noticed results?”
“Like most patients, I had improvements before I even left Bangkok.”
“Bangkok?” I interrupt. “As in Thailand?”
“Yes,” Frederic replies. “That is where the clinic is.”
“Can’t you have the procedure here?” I ask Chad.
“Naw, dawg. The FDA is slow as shit approving things like this and if I wait for them to get their act together, I’ll be a sixty-year-old man and no longer in need of boners.”
“But Thailand? Is it legal?”
“In Thailand it is,” Frederic says.
“Is it safe?”
“I can assure you, the clinic is state of the art,” Frederic says. “Most patients say it exceeds anything they’ve seen here in the US.”
“I’ve been on the fence,” Chad says, “but now that I’ve met you, I’m gonna do it!”
“I think you’ll be very happy.”
“So what happens next? Dr. Laszlo has all my records.”
“Yes. You are approved. Once he receives the deposit, you will join the waiting list. Another third is due when the procedure is scheduled, usually three months prior. And the final third before travel is booked.”
“How much does this thing cost?” I ask.
Chad ignores the question. “And how long’s the waitlist?”
“Currently from nine to twelve months.”
“Okay.” Chad nods. “That’ll give me time to come up with the rest of it, but once I pay the deposit, I get on the list?”
“Yes,” Frederic replies.
“Will I lose my deposit if I can’t get the money in time?”
Frederic smiles. “No. Dr. Laszlo is very understanding about financing. You only lose the deposit if you withdraw from the procedure.”
“Oh, I won’t do that,” Chad promises. “And it really helped?” he asks Frederic. “And you can . . . ?” He gestures to his lap. “Like you did before? And live a normal life? Fall in love? Get married?”
“Your Lena is out there,” Frederic promises. “And now you’ll be able to find her.”
* * *
We have a few hours to kill before the show, so Chad suggests we get some Thai food. “’Cause, you know, I’ll be in Thailand soon.” He Yelps a place nearby, which says it’s accessible on the listing, but when we get there, the tables are so tightly shoved together Chad can’t fit and the manager insists on rearranging things while apologizing profusely. I can tell the entire thing makes Chad uncomfortable and I’m relieved on his behalf when we finally get situated.
“What’s the difference between spring rolls and summer rolls?” Chad asks, looking at the menu.
“Spring is fried.”
“Let’s do fried. Do you eat shrimp?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Isn’t it, like, against your religion?”
“We’re not religious like that, Chad. We don’t even go to temple. Not that there’s a temple to go to near us.”
“Oh, cool. Wanna split the shrimp pad thai? It has the word Thai in it, so it must be a thing. And some spring rolls?”
“Sounds good.”
Chad beckons over the waitress and we order. After she leaves, he adds, “Yelp says the portions are huge, so we can share and it’ll be cheaper. ’Cause, you know, I’m in economy mode now.”
“How much is the Stim?”
Chad unsnaps his chopsticks and rubs them together. “Not as much as you think,” he says. “It’s actually a total steal compared to how much things cost here.”
“Total steal is maybe not what you should be looking for in a medical procedure.”
“I only meant that it’s not as inflated as healthcare here is.”
“So how much is it?”
Chad hesitates. “Thirty grand.”
“Thirty thousand dollars?”
“Keep it down, will you?” Chad says, gesturing around to the empty restaurant.
“Thirty thousand dollars is a lot of money,” I whisper.
“It includes travel expenses, minus the flight,” he adds.
“Isn’t the flight the travel expense?”
“No, there’s food. And your stay in the clinic and five weeks’ rehab. You know how much rehab costs here? A thousand dollars a day.”
“But isn’t that covered by insurance?”
“Not all of it. We had a ton of debt when I got out, and had to spend nearly all the settlement money on it.”
Yeah. We had a ton of medical debt too. And no settlement money. “Do you have thirty thousand dollars?”
“No,” he admits. “I have enough to cover the deposit and some of the second payment. My dad—he gets why I want the procedure—says he’ll take out a loan to pay for the rest. But my mom doesn’t want to go further into debt for a surgery in another country.”
“Your mom sounds wise.”
“As opposed to who? Me?” Chad’s mouth sets into a thin pursed line.
“I didn’t say that. It’s just . . . how much have you researched this procedure?”
“All I’ve done is research.”
“So there are trials? Studies? Papers?”
Chad rolls his eyes. “Who needs that shit? I’ve gone to the source. Talked to guys who’ve had it.”
“Like Frederic, you mean?”
“You got something against Frederic?”
“You met him online.”
“News flash, Aaron. Online is how you meet people these days.”
“But have you met any of them?” I pause. “It’s pretty easy to scam people online. You know, like catfishing.”
Chad guffaws. “You think Frederic is catfishing me?”
“Not like that. But, you know . . . what exactly is his role in all this?”
“What do you mean, what’s his role? He’s like me. Only he’s had the procedure and he has Lena.”
“And he just happens to be in Seattle?”
“So what? People come to Seattle all the time.”
“And he doesn’t work for the clinic?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“But the doctor’s name is Laszlo, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And he’s Hungarian?”
“How should I know?”
“It’s a Hungarian name. There’s a famous author named László Krasznahorkai.”
“Uh-huh.” Chad looks bored.
“Well, don’t you think it’s a little fishy that some Hungarian guy just happens to be in the city and happens to have had the procedure and is meeting with you out of the goodness of his heart?” I pause. “Like, he obviously works for the clinic. Maybe he’s not even paralyzed. Maybe Lena’s not even his wife.”
“You saw the brochure!”
“Anyone can make a brochure!”
<
br /> “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying it seems shady and you should maybe do more research.”
“I see,” Chad says. “Because obviously I’m too stupid to figure this out on my own because I don’t read books like you do or know authors like László Krapishinski.”
“Krasznahorkai,” I correct.
Chad glares at me. “I know you think you know everything about me, but if you’d known me longer than two weeks, you’d know I’ve actually been researching this since the day I woke up in the hospital.”
“I just don’t want to see you taken advantage of.”
“Why do you assume I’m a moron? Just because I didn’t know Gone Girl was a book you think I haven’t done all the due diligence and come to the right decision? Your brother was right about you.”
At the mention of Sandy, my blood goes cold. “What was my brother right about?”
“He said you were a condescending goody-two-shoes little shit.”
“He said that?” My voice cracks, the hurt humiliatingly fresh, even after all this time. Fucking Sandy! He’s the reason I know not to trust glossy brochures. We got so many of them over the years from places called New Horizons and Second Chances and Clean Futures, all of them brimming with heartfelt testimonials, promises of a fix. And in the beginning, I believed them. God, how I hoped one day Sandy could be one of those happy endings.
Here’s what the brochures don’t tell you: That the relapse rate for most addiction is more than fifty percent. That because of the particular way opioids remain in the system longer than other substances, they are even harder to kick. That just when you think you’ve reached the finish line, opioids pull a Lucy on you and yank up the football. And that there’s no such thing as a miracle.
“I was only trying to help,” I tell Chad.
“I don’t need your help. I might never get my legs back, I might never get my boner back, I might never fall in love or have anyone fall in love with me, but I’d still rather be me than you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re a coward.”
“How am I a coward?”
“You sit up there on your high horse, hating on everything, judging everyone else like you’re better than us when really you’re just a chickenshit.”
