He didn’t catch much of the rest of the show. He was too fascinated by the viscous black cables extending from the crowns of his beloved children. Their hair hid the exact point where the tubes connected to their skulls. Was there scarring? He wondered.
Later, unable to sleep, he prayed that Angelina had not looked across and noticed where his eyes were really looking. He began to wonder if he was becoming some kind of pervert; a fetishist or porno freak. He didn’t even know the answer to that.
Chapter 5
A crowded kind of loneliness descended upon Johnson. No matter where he went, the one thing that made him exactly like everyone else set him apart from them. He’d changed now and there was no going back to a state of ignorance. He longed for the bliss of childhood, that easy innocence of the young but either it would not or could not return.
Meanwhile, the condition of his own tube worsened. More frequently his tube would pull his head in some direction or other as if trying to attract his attention. Often it would happen at a moment when he had almost forgotten the problem existed. It was as if it waited for him to be off guard for the more dramatic effect it would cause.
He assumed that, to others in his office, it looked like he had developed some kind of nervous tick or twitch but if they noticed anything, they never mentioned it. Everyone was under pressure at the firm and signs of stress were common. A bout of tears, a sudden snap of the temper, a muscular twitch. It was all pretty normal. No one bothered about it. Except Johnson. Johnson bothered about it a lot.
He decided to probe Shuckman for clues. As he knocked on his superior’s private office door, he had the intuition he was making a mistake but Shuckman had already recognised the knock and yelled for him to come in.
“How’s it going, Robert? Got another problem for me?”
“Not exactly, Bill.”
“Well what are you wasting my time for?”
Johnson almost shuffled his feet in embarrassment. He wanted to leave. Coming in here was stupid.
Shuckman registered his discomfort and toned down the office machismo. He liked Johnson’s dogged approach to work, his determination to finish every job properly. He liked his honesty, too. He could read the man like a comic strip. He saw the tiredness around Johnson’s eyes, the pulled up tension in his shoulders, the unusual lack of care taken over his clothes.
“What’s the problem, Robert? I’ve got five minutes for you and you can tell me anything. If I can fix it, I will. Davies giving you heat again?”
“No. It’s uh…it’s kind of personal.”
“You mean Angie?”
“Oh, God, no. Nothing like that, Bill. It’s more like a stupid health problem or something.”
“Drippy dick?”
“Jesus, Bill, what kind of guy do you think I am?”
“Take it easy, Robert, I’m kidding. But there are millions of penises out there using your surname.”
It was Shuckman’s oldest and favourite joke where Johnson was concerned and for the first time, Johnson actually laughed. He laughed because he needed the outlet, not because he was amused, but Bill took it as a compliment and it bought him some more of the man’s time.
“So, spill it.”
Johnson put his toe in the water.
“Ever get those twitches?”
“What twitches?”
“You know, the ones that make your head move.”
Bill thought about it.
“Can’t say that I do. Why? You get ‘em?”
“Kind of.”
“It’s probably a muscle spasm, Robert. I mean, look how tense you are. You’ve got all that frustration and internalised bullshit pulling your shoulders up around your ears, for Christ’s sake. It’s no wonder your head’s jerking.”
“I didn’t say it jerked.”
“Twitches. Whatever, Robert.”
“You never had it happen?”
“Never. But the muscles around my left eye twitch like a son of a bitch sometimes, though. Always seems to be when I’m in a bar talking to a young lady. I don’t want them to think I’m crazy like that guy in those Pink Panther films—what was his name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“His face used to get all kind of–”
“I remember the films, Bill, just not the guy’s name.”
“Sure, sure. Look, you’re really worried about this?”
“I guess I am.”
“I can get you some tranquillisers. The ones that help to relax your muscles.”
“Will I be able to work all right?”
“Uh…They can make you a little drowsy.”
“I can’t take risk falling asleep at my desk, Bill. I’ve got to get that promotion.”
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you’re overworked, just like almost everyone in this place. Take some time off.”
“I can’t.”
“I’ll put in a good word. Say you’ve earned it.”
“Thanks but no.”
“Well, you’ve got one other option.”
“Yeah?”
“Go to the doctor.”
“Shit, Bill.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just never thought of it.”
Johnson laughed. Maybe the doctor was the answer. He turned to let himself out.
“Hey, Bill?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Any time, Robert. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but you’re one of the people that keeps this company afloat.”
“Thanks.”
Back in his cubicle, Johnson felt a whole lot better. An hour later, the twitching began again.
Chapter 6
One afternoon at work, a rough yank on the tube jerked Johnson’s head back hard. He’d been bent over some figures on paper, tinkering with a pencil in the columns. The unexpectedness of the movement and the fierceness of it, the almost pointed maliciousness, had caused his heart to skip a beat. With a vulnerable, fluttering sensation deep in the left side of his chest and a sweat breaking on his forehead, he locked himself in one of the cubicles of the male restroom. He put the lid down and sat on it. As he considered his next move, he wondered if there were hidden security cameras in use.
He had often thought about touching the tube but had discovered within himself his own taboos regarding it. He felt his sanity depended on the possibility that the tube was an illusion. If he discovered something else to be the case, if the thing was material and tangible, he didn’t know how he would cope. So far, he believed he’d done well keeping his reactions under control but feeling it with the skin of his hand, knowing for certain it was real and attached to him…
Raising a trembling, hesitant hand, he reached up as if it was not himself he was about to touch but perhaps the sexual organs of someone he had never before met. His fingers made contact with a smooth surface. It was not cold, as he had expected but warm like his own skin. The texture was greasy but when he took his hand away there was no residue on the tips of his fingers. There, surrounded by the faint smell of blended urines and throat catching disinfectant, under the glare of bright artificial light, Johnson discovered the tube was a fact; as true as his own body.
But the tube was not of his body. If it was, it contained no sensory nerves because, although he could feel it through his fingertips, the tube itself experienced no sensation. Or, if it did, Johnson was not the one to receive that sensation. Like an anaesthetised limb, it was numb; alien, un-him.
He took his hand away.
He stayed in the cubicle a little longer wondering what he could do, praying there was someone he could turn to. It was only then that the question of ownership occurred to him. Was it correct to say that it was his tube or was it the other way around?
He reached up once more, less confident than the first time. More daunted by the implications of further discoveries. He wanted to squeeze it, to find out what was inside. He pressed it betwee
n his thumb and forefinger. The sensation was fibrous and grainy as if the tube was packed with strands of wire or twine. It felt like there might be liquid inside too; there was a turgidity that suggested fluids under internal pressure.
He took the tube more forcefully in his whole hand, making a fist around. He squeezed. Immediately, he felt a contraction below the surface of the tube and it fattened in his grip. On his head he felt the presence of the tube for the first time as it gripped him. It yanked his scalp upwards and he felt a drawing sensation where the tube met his head. Though the sensation of intimate connection nauseated him, squeezing the tube caused no pain. He did not black out or feel short of breath.
It was all the investigation he had strength for that afternoon but he took Bill Shuckman’s advice and called to make an appointment with the family doctor.
Chapter 7
Surely, Dr. Alpert would be willing to discuss the matter in confidence.
As Johnson sat in the waiting room he tried to come up with a way of communicating his problem without sounding nuts. When the receptionist told him to go through to the surgery twenty minutes later, he’d made no progress at all.
“Robert. This is a rare pleasure. According to your notes, I haven’t seen you for four years.”
Johnson wanted to apologise for not seeing him more regularly but it seemed such a dumb thing to say that he kept quiet. How was it that doctors could make you feel so awkward?
“How’re Angie and the kids?”
“Just fine. Angie’s still makes curtains at home for a few folks and the kids are doing real well in school.” Johnson shrugged. “How about you, doc?”
“I’m just as busy as bears goin’ fishin’.”
The doctor smiled.
Johnson didn’t know what to say. He remembered now that this was always how it went with Dr. Alpert. All smiles and quaint sayings followed by a finger up your ass.
Dr. Alpert gave him his cue.
“So, what’s your trouble, Robert?”
He put on his spectacles and leaned over Johnson’s notes with a fat gold fountain pen at the ready. He was yet to computerise his surgery and many folks loved him for it. They thought it was a personal touch.
“I’ve been having a problem with my tube?”
“Oh yes? What kind of problem?”
“It keeps jerking at me.”
Dr. Alpert took of his spectacles and looked up at Johnson.
“Excuse me?”
“Uh, twitching. Jerking. You know.”
Johnson made a few sudden cocking motions with his head to illustrate the point. Dr. Alpert stared at him for several seconds before speaking. Johnson eyed the glistening conduit that rose like liquorice from the doctor’s head and vanished through the ceiling.
“Let me be certain I understand you correctly, Robert. You’re saying your penis is jerking, right? Is this happening when you ejaculate?”
“No, doc. Not my penis.” Johnson dropped his voice to a whisper. “My tube.”
“I’m sorry, Robert, I don’t understand you. What tube are you referring to?”
Johnson gestured with one hand, waving it beside his ear in a vaguely cranial direction and rolling his eyes upwards. He leaned forwards.
“My…tube.”
Dr. Alpert sat back and blinked in confusion. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to fathom out a complaint without much help from the patient. He scratched his head. Then a look of triumph spread across his face.
“You’re talking about the tubes in your middle ear, aren’t you? You’re saying you’ve been losing your balance. Am I right?”
Johnson sagged a little in his chair but did his best to hide it.
“You’ve got it, doc.”
Ten minutes later he walked away with a prescription for an antibiotic to clear up the infection in his middle ear. In his car he wept without making a sound before tearing up the prescription and dropping the pieces into the ashtray.
Chapter 8
That night Johnson made a decision based on the facts. The tube was merely pulling at him. It had never hurt him and, as far as he could make out, it had never hurt anyone else. The fact that people either didn’t know or didn’t care wasn’t important. Perhaps everyone came to a similar realisation about their tubes when they discovered them. Perhaps they never became aware of them.
He realised it didn’t matter. He wasn’t prepared to throw everything away by letting himself go crazy. He had a beautiful wife and fabulous children. He had a comfortable home and a good but challenging job with a promotion not far away. He had built this life for himself and he was not going to let it crumble over an obsession he could easily control. It was like quitting smoking or going on a diet—it would be tricky, there would be temptations, but he would do it.
He made himself forget.
And when the tube plucked at him, he ignored it with a smile and carried on with whatever he was doing. Following this decision, the power the tube had over him diminished. Nothing about it seemed as bad as when he’d let its presence rule him.
The following evening the family viewing was not interrupted by his trips upstairs. They even had a family session of gaming on their well used Maruyama Entertainment Console, playing Narco Cop and Spider Hunter until late. He did not stare at his children. He no longer worried that his wife was watching him, noticing his strangeness. Together they tracked down drug dealers and blasted hordes of arachnids until their thumbs were sore. He slept well. The next day he was able to concentrate correctly at work for the first time in more than a month. That weekend he took Angelina out for dinner and when they came home they made love for the first time since his birthday.
Johnson developed an intense caring for everything in his life. He began to see the difficulties of his job as blessings, he noticed his children’s individuality more, tried to control them less. He adored Angelina again as if it was only a few days since they’d been married. The twitches and tugs ceased to nag him.
He forgot about what the tube might imply and became the happy, contented man he had always wanted to be.
Summer came and with it the barbecues. The Johnson household played host to many weekend parties of work colleagues and old friends. Johnson himself, with his new passion for life, became a focal point of sociability; an effusive, outgoing entertainer. A joke teller, a storyteller, a shoulder to cry on, a good friend. He had found himself.
Forgetting, as he was soon to discover, was not enough.
Chapter 9
The sun shone, drawing sweat from every brow. The guys sucked on their beers while the girls sipped spritzers and sodas. The kids chased each other with water pistols and squealed. Guffaws and giggles erupted from every part of the Johnson’s back garden. Greasy blue smoke rose from the grill each time Robert Johnson turned the meat. This was how a weekend ought to be; people relaxing, having fun, forgetting about their pressures.
When Johnson’s tube hoisted him right over, leaving him on his back in the grass still holding a wiener in his tongs, people couldn’t help but notice. Some of them genuinely believed that he’d lost his footing and slipped. Others had the unpleasant impression that something had yanked him off balance. They dismissed the idea immediately but deep down, if only for a moment, a few of his guests realised that something very strange had happened to him, that he had been manipulated in some way.
As he picked himself up and smoothed down his cooking apron, Johnson glanced around, trying to gauge people’s response to what had just happened as subtly as he could. He placed the wiener back on the barbecue to sizzle. Everyone appeared to be laughing and talking amongst themselves exactly as they had before he been hauled over. There was no atmosphere of suspicion, no air of uncertainty. Everyone was having as much fun as they were a minute before it happened. He picked his baseball cap and put it back on after dusting some grass cuttings from its peak.
“Want to watch your step there, Robert.” Shuckman was smiling at him. “Either that or ease off th
e rum and cokes.
Gimme a little of that marinated chicken action, would ya?”
Everyone had let it go. It was as if they’d chosen to forget. For Johnson though, the spores of doubt had returned to grow like fungus in the darkest reaches of his mind. He recovered his poise as best he could but, for him, the rest of the barbecue had all the appeal of flat champagne.
When everyone had left, he went upstairs to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. It was there as, he assumed, it always had been; a huge black artery. He seemed to have shadowy memories of it from his childhood but couldn’t be certain if he was imagining such recollections.
Does it really matter now?
It surprised him that the answer was yes.
He realised that he could not have been born with the tube attached to him. People and tubes were solid things. It would have been impossible. Either the tube had become attached some time after birth or he and everyone else had not been born in the normal way. Feeling the weight of the implications bearing down on him with sudden and irresistible force, he decided to get away for a while. He needed time to think on his own. He didn’t say goodbye to Angelina or the children. He didn’t take his phone or his wallet. He took the car and drove into the hills outside the city.
The higher roads of the mountains had lookout points for picnickers and tourists and it was to one of these that Johnson drove, parking the car with its bumper right up to the safety barrier. It was long dark by the time he arrived. He put the seat back and tried to sleep but couldn’t sink any deeper into unconsciousness than a light dream state. There he encountered only the nightmares that his conscious mind hid from him during the daylight.
He dreamed of umbilical strangulation and Ventouse delivery during which the vacuum sucked out his brain rather than drawing him intact from the womb. He dreamed of running to escape cohorts of black eels that flew though the air behind him. He dreamed that he was paralysed in the trailing stingers of a giant jellyfish. He dreamed that each time he woke and checked his watch, the dawn was always farther away. That was the nightmare that distressed him most. Each time he had the dream he would moan, a dull cry muffled by the leather interior, heard by no one.
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