Vapor

by Amanda Filipacchi

  He sighed, and said, “Yes, that’s better. Thank you.”

  I opened a second bottle and emptied it on his face as well. It drenched his collar.

  “Now open your eyes so I can rinse them,” I told him.

  “I can’t,” he said, so I held his eyes open with my fingers, one at a time, and poured a third bottle into them. My fingers on his eyelids started to feel a little nervous as I noticed, once again, his attractiveness. His face was sinuous and his features aquiline, with no sharp edges. His hair was blonde, shoulder length and slightly wavy. He seemed to be in his early thirties.

  By the fourth bottle, my eyes had started wandering down his body again, and I had all but forgotten the matter of the pH, because, to be frank, the matter of his humanness interested me more than that of his super humanness. Accordingly, I tried to get a glimpse of his penis again. But maybe I had hallucinated.

  I leaned toward his crotch slightly to get a closer look. I hadn’t hallucinated. It was really there.

  The man suddenly grabbed my wrist. Straightaway, I imagined the worst: that he caught me looking. But no, he was simply readjusting my aim, repositioning my arm over his face, because I had begun pouring the water on the sidewalk.

  “You seem distracted,” he said, keeping a hold of my wrist. “What were you looking at?”

  They say that when you lie you should try to stay close to the truth: “I thought I saw a policeman for a second, but I wasn’t sure if I had hallucinated.”

  “You weren’t hallucinating. But ignore him, because he won’t make any difference.”

  I suddenly realized with discomfort that he knew perfectly well I was looking at his penis, and that it was the subject of our conversation. That being the case, I wondered what he meant by telling me that his penis wouldn’t make any difference.

  “Then why is he there?” I ventured.

  “It’ll emerge in time.”

  I wondered if the “it” referred to the answer to my question, or what. I decided it was probably to the answer, but possibly to what.

  I started to rinse his hands and asked, “Do you know why these men attacked you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do you think we should report it to the police?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Do you want to go to an emergency room?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’d like to go home. If you could just hail me a cab, I’d be grateful. And would you mind also giving me your phone number so that I can thank you properly?”

  I took out a piece of paper on which I wrote Anna Graham, and my phone number. I handed it to him, and he squinted at it, still unable to open his eyes completely.

  “Thank you,” he said, shoving it in his pocket. “I’m Damon Wetly. I won’t shake your hand in case I’m still contaminated with your spray. How far do you live?”

  I told him, and since we didn’t live in the same direction, we decided each to take our own cab. I hailed two and before Damon climbed into his, he gave my cabdriver a twenty-dollar bill. I told him it wasn’t necessary.

  “It’s the least I can do,” he said. “It was a relief to meet you, and almost a pleasure, which is saying a lot under the circumstances. And again, thank you.”

  It was only once I was in the taxi going home that it occurred to me we could have asked to use the supermarket bathroom. But then I recalled the pH problem: the tap water’s pH level might not have been to his liking. This seemed preposterous to me. I didn’t know what to make of it.

  When I got home I sat on my couch for an hour, wondering why in the world I had put my life at risk to save this man. Was I a courageous person and just hadn’t known it? Was I noble, deep down? I wasn’t sure, but these possibilities made me feel good.

  Or maybe my risk-taking had simply been caused by the frustration of having tried so hard to succeed at something and failed. And I certainly had tried hard to improve my acting.… In addition to striving to erase myself, I did all sorts of other acting exercises. Among those, of course, was the standard practice of performing scenes in front of the class. But apart from that, I had my own strange little activity that I performed exclusively at my other job, at Copies Always, the Xerox shop. I was supposed to copy documents, but actually, I also copied people. When customers came in, I immediately copied their mannerisms, behavior, and tone of voice. Since the customers didn’t know my true self, they had no idea I was imitating them. One day, however, I think a client did notice it because as he was paying the bill he said, “Your prices are quite reasonable here. And you didn’t even charge me for your Xerox of me.”

  I think the sound of the copiers triggered off this need and ability within me to become a copier myself. It wasn’t unlike singing along with a song on the radio: I felt quite competent as long as the real singer’s voice was there to support, guide, and slightly drown out mine, but as soon as I tried to sing that same song alone, the result was usually less gratifying.

  I knew I had tried hard at my acting. Yet perhaps I had to try still harder. But what did trying harder consist of? What more could I do? I mean, should I just abandon acting?

  No. That, I would never do. I would rather spend the rest of my life trying without success than succeed at anything else.

  Chapter Two

  I spent the following day doing my acting exercises. I was still quite depressed about my meeting with Aaron, but in the midst of this sadness, I experienced little sparks of joy whenever I happened to think about the subway incident and, more particularly, about Damon. Unfortunately, these thoughts interfered with my acting and spoiled my concentration. So I tried to push them from my mind, but to no avail; they were too pleasant.

  I wondered if Damon would call to thank me, and if so, how he would thank me. I wished I knew more about him. Out of curiosity, I even looked in the phone book to see if he was listed. He was. I wanted to see him again. It was practically all I could think about. I felt so lacking in willpower that I almost regretted having saved the man. I finally decided to put an end to these thoughts by promising myself that if he were to call me and ask to see me, I would refuse. This decision put me in a grim mood, but at least I felt virtuous and dedicated to my craft.

  My concentration improved, and I was able to work on my acting more productively. At least for a day or two. But the problem was that my virtue was unearned, and my sacrifice soon started to feel like a fraud. My mind began drifting again, because after all, Damon had not called yet, and I had not rejected him yet, which meant that the potential for happiness was still present, floating around in the air. I started doubting whether I’d have the strength to stick by my decision, were he to call. And why wasn’t he calling, anyway?

  The situation finally came to a standstill one morning, when I was on the roof of my building, with my scene book, and realized I had reread the same simple line five times without grasping its meaning. I stood there, feeling powerless, not knowing what to do. Suddenly, the sky became very dark and rain started pouring. And the solution came to me.

  I realized sadly that if I were to have any chance of regaining my concentration, I had to extinguish the sparks of joy completely. I had to speed up the rejection process. Since Damon had not called me yet, I had to call him. I would do it under the guise of a courtesy call, as if to find out how he was doing, which I was genuinely curious about anyway, naturally. After some small talk, if he asked to see me again, I would refuse, claiming that it was impossible, that I had no time, that I was swamped with work, and then the whole business would be over with, once and for all.

  I felt strangely invigorated by this sad scenario. I was back in control. A flash of lightning suddenly lit the sky, which had become almost as dark as night. The rain was pouring over my scene book, and I quickly ducked indoors and ran down the stairs. When I entered my apartment it was dark, lit only by occasional lightning. I did not turn on the lights. I stripped down to my T-shirt and underwear, leaving my wet clothes strewn across th
e place. I sat on the floor with the phone between my knees. I felt that I was about to commit a very significant and symbolic act, not entirely unlike black magic that could very well turn my life around. I was, after all, going to perform a sacrifice. This instrument, this phone, resting between my knees was the key. It was the weapon with which I would sacrifice not life, but love.

  The storm outside was undoubtedly adding importance and mystery to the occasion. I liked this atmosphere and desired to push it even further, to make the whole procedure even more formal and solemn, so I lit some candles and sat back down. The lightning lit up my phone and legs. This should be an hour of celebration, I told myself. Don’t be sad. Rejoice!

  I dialed the number I got from the phone book, which I hoped was Damon’s number.

  “Hello,” he answered, on the second ring.

  “Hi,” I said. “Is this Damon?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Anna.” I paused for a second and added, “We met in the subway the other night.”

  I think I heard a faint intake of breath. And then nothing.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Yes,” he answered very softly, very seriously, with more surrender this time, and a hint of sadness.

  “I’m sorry, you probably don’t remember—”

  “Anna Graham, my savior. Please don’t think such a thing. Of course I remember.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m just calling to find out if you recovered from the attack, and from the spray.”

  “Yes. Thanks to you. I was going to call you. I was wondering if you’d be willing to have dinner with me sometime.”

  “No, it’s really not necessary.”

  “Why don’t we, for a moment, ignore the fact that that statement, other than being completely beside the point, is wrong. Having dinner with you would mean a lot to me. I would very much … enjoy it. That’s if you’re not too busy, of course.”

  “Actually, I am very busy.”

  He paused. “You don’t have any time?”

  “I really don’t have much free time.”

  He paused longer. “Can’t I persuade you?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m so busy.”

  “Oh. How disappointing. I wish I could change your mind, but not at the risk of being a pest. Hopefully another time then.”

  “What other time?”

  “Whenever you want. Like in a month, or whenever you’re less busy.”

  “Hmm. Well, I don’t know, because unfortunately I’ll be even more busy in a month.”

  “Oh. Well then, in six months, or whatever. No big deal.”

  “Okay. Though in six months I will be even more busy.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, it doesn’t matter then, don’t worry about it. If you want, give me a call whenever it’s practical for you.”

  “Okay. Though since I will be increasingly busy, from now on, then, logically speaking, the most practical time for me would be this evening. But I don’t know if that’s convenient for you.”

  There was a long silence.

  Finally, he answered, “Yes, it is.”

  We settled on a time and place.

  When we hung up, I sat motionless, staring at the phone for a while before getting up. I left my apartment and climbed the stairs back to the roof, oblivious to the possibility that someone might catch me in my T-shirt and panties.

  I walked out into the rain and sat on the ground, cross-legged, unblinking. My hair and T-shirt were quickly drenched. I was cold, but I did not allow myself to shiver. I forced my muscles to relax and let the cold enter me, hoping it would numb my body as well as my anger.

  Maybe I could hang off my balcony by my hair. Or I could dump garbage all over myself. Or perhaps I should step in front of moving vehicles. No. Dying was not the point. Punishment was.

  There would be a steep price to pay for that little number I pulled. If I thought I was going to let myself get away with it, I was wrong. I didn’t know what the price was yet, but I sure would think of it. And it wouldn’t be merely to be sitting out in the rain.

  Strangely, my anger infused me with strength, making me feel invulnerable, invincible, even against the elements. The thunder and lightning seemed like a breeze. I felt in complete control. All I had to do was think of a bad enough punishment, and everything would be fine. I set my mind to work immediately.

  I could fast for three days. I could deprive myself of sleep for four days. I could stop talking for a week. I could whip myself, slap myself. I could not blink.

  These weren’t great; I was just warming up.

  I could streak naked around my block. I could be a prostitute for one night. I could sleep out on the streets for a few evenings or spend an afternoon begging on the subway. I could shoplift and get arrested.

  I was not satisfied with any of these ideas. They were not quite on target and seemed slightly irrelevant to the crime.

  Torture. I could do something with bugs. I could try to get my hands on a cockroach and eat it. I could breed cockroaches in my apartment and set them loose. I could eat worms. I could do something horrible with my own excrement. I could sneak into a lion’s cage.

  These were not much better. My difficulty in coming up with a suitable sentence made my crime seem all the more serious. The rain was beating down on me, wearing me down. I began feeling fragile in the middle of the lightning.

  I could cut myself.

  I could bruise myself, break a finger. Punch my fist through a glass window.

  Enema.

  I could stare at the sun.

  Raindrops were running into my eyes as tears were running out. I had a block. I could not think of any more punishments.

  Self-criticisms and reproaches, however, I had not run out of, so I indulged in throwing them at myself: How could I have been so pathetically weak? And deceitful? How could I have betrayed myself this way? Part of me suspected that I knew from the start that I was calling him to get invited out. I bet I knew all along I was going to accept. I even bet that if he hadn’t asked me out I would have asked him myself. In fact, that was pretty much what happened. And all that for a pretty face whom I didn’t even know. I was willing to jeopardize my future, my dream, for a pretty face. How shallow could I get? How superficial? While I was at it, why didn’t I just walk up to a total stranger in the street and tell him I wanted to sleep with him, right then and there? That wouldn’t be much worse than what I did. It would have saved time, been easier, more true to my lazy, undisciplined nature. I forced my mind to visualize myself accosting a man in this way. I made myself endure the distress of picturing the man’s reaction, the shock, the embarrassment.

  I continued pondering with disgust this hateful little drama, when suddenly, to my horror, I recognized it for what it was: my Punishment. It loomed large and obvious in my mind. I had finally found it.

  I immediately tried to reject it. I could never perform such an act. It was impossible, too hard, too awful and sinister.

  Which, of course, was why I had to do it. Why I would do it. I already knew it was inevitable, that it was the only solution. And once my initial horror passed, I was awed by the perfection of it and relieved by the dreadfulness of it.

  I would do it now.

  I got up. The sky had cleared and the rain was letting up, as if handing me the reins of discipline.

  I went down to my apartment, got dressed, and went out into the street.

  Before I fulfilled my sentence there were a few factors that needed to be determined, a few rules that had to be set. Rules were necessary, or I’d try to get off easy. So as I walked down the street, I established in my mind all the rules of my punishment.

  For instance, how, exactly, would I accost the man?

  Well, for starters, I would approach him and say something along the line of, “Excuse me. I want you. Badly. Here and now or as soon as possible. I can’t wait.” I would then make an assertive physical pass, such as placing my hand on his backside and squeezing it. I would
keep up this act, not forgetting to include some variations, like hugging and sighing.

  The next very important point that had to be determined was: How long did this have to go on before I allowed myself to stop? I thought about that for a while and finally came up with: until he started running away. Yes. I would not allow myself to stop harassing him and pressuring him, verbally as well as physically, until he ran away. In fact, I would even begin taking off his clothes, if necessary, to make him run.

  We’d see how good an actress I was, how much of a fool I was willing to make of myself. Great actors had to be willing to go to extremes.

  But what if—oh horror of horrors—he were to reciprocate or take me up on my offer? Then I’d have to start running. Anyway, whatever trouble it got me into, I deserved.

  All that was left for me to do now was to choose a man. The streets were wet and not very crowded. I gazed at every man that crossed my path. I wanted to check out a few before making my selection. There was no point in rushing things. I walked three of four blocks, occasionally stopping in stores along the way to see if I could find some good ones lurking around.

  I finally entered a store selling musical instruments and saw a man who was quite appealing, more so than I deserved for my punishment. But after all, I had not specified in the rules that the man had to repel me. And anyway, an attractive victim did not really make the task any easier. On the contrary, in a way—it created its own challenges and barriers.

  I had decided not to bother trying to not be myself during my punishment. The act I was about to perform was so unlike anything I would normally do, that I would automatically be acting unlike myself, without even trying.

  I stood behind a harp and stared at my prey through the strings of the instrument. He was checking out a piano. While I contemplated him, I was absently plucking at a chord from the harp to seem busy.

  “May I help you,” asked a salesman, coming up behind me.

  “No, thank you. I was just looking,” I said, leaving the harp and checking out a cello (my favorite instrument) before moving on to the synthesizers.