Phantom

by Steve Berman

  While I had no definite reason to think so, nevertheless there was no doubt at all in my mind that my experience had been in some way brought on by what I had seen that day in the window of Mr. Wosslynne’s house. This unjustifiable conviction preyed on my mind, as I was expected at Mr. Wosslynne’s house the next day, and I was utterly at a loss as to whether or not to go. I had difficulty thinking at all, and sat like a statue on the corner of my bed, staring inattentively at my hands. They shook. Watching them move on their own, sway to one side or other, had the effect of making my fright abstract, as though it were a property only of my hands. The fear I felt was entirely like that; it didn’t get into my core, though it drove in near. In the tips of my fingers, I detected a series of very particular sensations—were they fingers or were they something else? There was nothing out of the ordinary in their appearance or behavior, although as I say the sensations were strange, but I wondered if I had the right word or idea of them. I was mentally comparing them to my notions of anatomy.

  I didn’t persevere to any conclusions, I simply put my hands aside onto the counterpane with an emotion of irritation and distraction. For a time I thought about nothing, but despair poured into me from somewhere, I was sure from somewhere but my thinking was distempered and I was nearly in tears, although even that felt uncertain, suggesting I had the wrong idea again. My every other thought and word was “something,” “someone,” or “somewhere.” The thought of the gear under the wing came back to me with startling force. For an instant I thought I felt the wing in my bed, under the counterpane. I saw the birds explode en masse from their perches in the tree, hurtle through space and then return a moment later, and my thoughts were like the birds, liable to explode in all directions but perhaps not so liable to return. What I felt there under my hand was something like an inveterate chain of reasoning proceeding with irresistible logic from one point to the next; it was like a little spine made of cubical structures of gas or cubes of light, or it was like a piece of fine-linked jewelry at once supple and sparkling metallic, beautiful, but alarming like a frenzied ant hill. I wanted to gaze at it without participating in its activity.

  “This is probably very unusual,” I thought, “and other people don’t have experiences like this. I wonder if I’m a machine, or an extraterrestrial, or a ghost, who’s forgetting that other people exist. That would make sense of things, wouldn’t it?”

  I went to my window; there came, I know not by what association, into my mind a kind of story, or outline for a type of story, its form suggesting itself to me prior to any particular content. It would end with an abrupt shift in perspective; one character has an unusual way of looking at things, perhaps even a very strange way, and then another busybody character supervenes at the end to change the first character’s story—it almost never happens the other way around—to restore the familiar. It comes down to which of these worlds the reader imagines himself to belong to, even though the purpose seems to be only to drift awhile in another current, and then get snatched out again. The first character might think that in some unremarked way he’d changed, or were discovering a truer nature beneath his apparent one, and mentally become a machine let’s say. I was specially struck by the possibility that the change could take place unnoticed, even by the person who underwent it. He wouldn’t be able to say anything about his transformation; he could only begin with the idea that he’d transformed. Then it occurred to me that the idea could just as readily end a story, by which I mean he could bring any line of events to an end at once with that idea, saying to himself, “but then, I’m a machine.” Or he might well say, “but then, I’m human,” by which he would mean something entirely distinct from what is usually meant by “human.” He would be referring to what was really human, insofar as he stopped taking for granted, possibly for the first time in his life, his own frightening, alien, unknown humanity. In that case, it is the idea of humanity that transforms, from what it seems to be, ordinarily, to what it is. That is why there would have to be two characters, I thought.

  The stillness in my room was complete. By now I could hear only the faintest sound from the streets. I looked out at the city’s silent teeming. Simply by waiting this additional moment, I permitted the decision to make itself.

  I couldn’t be certain, the door might not have looked the same, and nothing had looked the same. My room in the soft brilliance of early morning light—the moment I’d left it, it became a memory, and imaginary. Nothing in my surroundings was quite recognizable to me; it was as though nothing upon which my eyes fell had the power to do any better than resemble something familiar to me. I found Mr. Wosslynne’s house virtually by luck alone; it was necessary for me to visualize the route I normally took in a long kinked line leading from my door to his, measured in blocks. The blocks were, I believed, of more or less uniform dimensions. Around me were homes and shops, and I thought, of course, they might well be the homes and shops I’ve come to know in my long residence here. What a meager effort would it take, finally, to recognize them, I thought; it would be like making a very minor adjustment to a camera out of focus. Yet it seemed even that small exertion was too much for me. While I felt wide awake and alert, even exaggeratedly alert, there seemed to be an all but palpable fog in my mind as well.

  By the time I’d reached the door to Mr. Wosslynne’s house I felt myself growing unnerved. Frankly, I felt trapped between the shining day, a simmering panic, and the sheerly indifferent front of Mr. Wosslynne’s house. I can’t recall now whether or not I rang the bell or otherwise saluted, but my nervousness was strengthening every moment for no reason I could detect, a sudden fear that I might go to pieces in the street took hold of me—although, as always, the streets seemed absolutely empty—and without thinking I turned the doorknob. It turned easily and the door sprang open in my hand, which, parting the door from its jam, disclosed cool shade inside that absorbed me of itself. With the barest atom of volition I was inside Mr. Wosslynne’s house, feeling as though it were a whim of the atmosphere of the place that I should come in. My relief was immediate, and I shut the door behind me, groping for words and uncertain I could make myself understood despite my self-confusion. I raised my head to meet the gaze of the presence that strode forward to greet me, but that was an illusion and there was nothing to be seen. It occurred to me the house was no more, nor less, familiar than anything else I’d seen today. Here I was, though, entirely certain I’d just been approached by someone—only an outline or movement in the air. But it didn’t strike me that Mr. Wosslynne had come to meet me; this I thought felt like a woman’s presence.

  The furnishing of the house did seem to draw the outlines of a woman, in the sense that they conformed to what I considered to be recognizeably feminine gestures, and a woman’s size. Mr. Wosslynne, needless to say, lived alone. I reasoned this was an illusion, and part of the unsettled state things appeared to be in that day.

  I called, and heard music. Moving into a large room, where I had sat many times before on chairs not unlike the ones I saw, the music grew stronger, and I suddenly caught sight of a human being, sitting on a chair, facing me. I was fascinated, I confess I stared, and the human being clearly saw me, with that relentless human music streaming over me, pauselessly, as incomprehensible to me as silence in its insistence and continuousness. Was Mr. Wosslynne there at all?

  After what seemed to me, but might not have been, some time, I found the human being had vanished, and the music had gone (I don’t say “stopped”). There really was no material difference between the strangeness of the house and the strangeness of the street, and Mr. Wosslynne, if he were there, did not join me, therefore I began to think about leaving. My body responded on its own to the thought. I was turned and caused to go by some fiat of the air or the gravity of the ground. I moved through the door as if I were being driven along by a powerful wind or an ocean current, and my feet did not seem to rest firmly on the ground. My body folded, and, in this strange posture, suddenly I was flying alon
g the street. I was hurtling uncontrollably along city streets, swerving around corners, now fast, now slow, jostling a little from side to side in mid air.

  JONQUILS BLOOM

  Geoffrey H. Goodwin

  I never learned the way. Marcie always led me blindfolded. She’d pick me up, strap my eyes while we were in my apartment and then we’d get in a car. Other nights—when we didn’t play the game—she had a Datsun so we probably rode in that. I felt like we were riding in her Datsun but her car was new enough that it didn’t make distinctive sounds or vibrations.

  She’d drive a while, stop, then weave me along a path that muddy-grass-squished until she’d squeak a gate open. We’d descend seventeen big concrete-sounding steps. My feet were all I’d hear. Once, I thought I heard street noise but I wasn’t sure. It could’ve been an echo from the cavern at the bottom of the steps.

  That’s where she would take the blindfold off.

  Last night, I smelled her perfume and thought of orchids. She always smelled like different fresh petals. That’s what I did for a living. I arranged bouquets for Gary’s Floristry. It’s peculiar how often I imagined her. Nonstop: in dreams, in the shower, opening bills, watering plants, but especially when she’d come, late at night, to my apartment.

  I met her at this weird club that I’d go to whenever watching black and white movies on cable didn’t feel right. I always went to work at sunrise so the displays in Gary’s window would look nice when he opened the shop at eight.

  Silly as it sounds, the place where Marcie found me was called Sir Dance-A-Lot’s. It had strobes and blacklights and was loud with vacant and sticky revelers, but when I got lonely it was company. People called me the flower guy. They knew my job and I’d wear these baggy spring-print shirts.

  To me, she looked more significant than a woman should. The sort of person people write show tunes about. I couldn’t play myself in the musical because I can bounce around and dance but went bald in my mid-twenties and can’t cook. I eat too many TV dinners, so I’m pudgier than I was when I flunked out of college.

  Marcie had on tightly laced black boots and was practically topless. This little band of shiny silver cloth went around her chest, leaving her tummy bare. She was sexy enough to make me want to hide in the bathroom, overwhelmed by surging desires and things I wanted to do to her.

  Her long black ringlets bloomed from under this red leather cowboy hat that would’ve looked desperate on anyone else.

  Blondes have never struck me as real, like plants made of vinyl that smell nice but feel greasy to the touch once you get up close.

  This cover version of Madonna’s song called Into the Groove came on. The vocals were sung in a pent-up and frustrated style. The DJs played it most nights and I would twist my shoulders around and punch the air with my fists. People cheered me on because they knew I liked it. Sometimes drunk people would chant “Flower Guy! Flower Guy!” But not very often.

  Too many songs today are creepy and hyper—and this one was too, with smashing cymbals and metallic clanks—but I learned to love it because I was a fan of the original version.

  Like I started to say, I went to community college for three semesters, studied botany, and met people and had a few romantic experiences with them. But the night I met Marcie was different than those couple of times in college. This was genuine, like I crossed over into some other level of life. Subtly trying to sneak a peek in her direction, I saw her shimmering breasts and short skirt first, but then her teeth captured me. They didn’t sparkle but were perfectly centered and the right size for her mouth.

  The next song started. Some people strut at dance clubs, all shoulders, but I don’t like bumping other dancers unless that one Madonna cover is playing. I was sweating, so I went over to where the music was quieter and the floor wasn’t crowded. The perky miss followed. It seemed ordinary because I didn’t think she was coming after me. Not to sound crass, but Marcie looked like the kind of girl someone wealthy would keep. I didn’t think of it then, but one night—dreaming of how her teeth sparkled and listening to Debussy—I marveled at how well maintained her illusion was, how hard it must have been for Marcie to look like she did.

  “I’m Miss Levitch, but you can call me Marcie. They call you the flower guy?” was what she said. The smoke and the noise didn’t swallow the words from her soft throat. She seemed friendly enough that I felt nervous. Normal, but frightened.

  I looked at the gray acoustic tiles in the ceiling before I said, “Yes, Marcie.”

  I’m from rural Vermont. I don’t have family or close friends anywhere near Wisconsin. I’ve spent time learning to protect myself from strangers. Maybe because people think they see a meekness or timidity about me.

  A tingle of excitement crept up my leg like a black widow spider. I stammered and must’ve looked foolish. She was so enticing that even if Marcie and my mood were out of the ordinary, the need to touch her came over me in choppy waves. I remember that my leg, I think it was the right one, started quivering. I thought I was going to pee.

  I just stared at her.

  “A hot chick says hello and you frown?” she said. I knew I was supposed to act experienced with hot chicks, but I didn’t know how. I’ve always been lousy at doing new things when I haven’t spent enough time thinking them through.

  I cleared my throat a little. My hand extended itself and started petting her hair. She looked at me funny, but didn’t move to stop me. My heart started thumping.

  “How old are you?” was the only thing that came, so I asked it.

  Her glossy lips didn’t move and I thought I’d screwed up. Even still, a bulge created itself in my jeans. Finally her stunning face shook around and said, “Quite old enough,” and thanked me like it was a compliment. It might sound wrong or horrible, but I was so aroused that I couldn’t think straight. I was disconcerted but Marcie turned my feelings around.

  “Listen, this place isn’t right for us to get to know each other. Can we duck outside?”

  That made me queasy, but Marcie was my height and used my elbow to slide me past people, through the door, and into the night. Maybe people in the club, or outside smoking in the parking lot, saw us, but I was too out of it to notice if there were any witnesses. I was shaky so Marcie brought me away from the parked cars to the back of the lot where a big oak grew.

  “Hey, I’m not tackling you and dragging you into the woods here.”

  “Feel free. I’m hazy, but the shock is passing. Are you, I mean, you are the most attractive display of a woman . . . ”

  “Re-lax, Marcellinus, I want to talk to you. Breathe for a minute.”

  My scary feelings prickled. No one knows that name or any way to tie me to it. I go by Mark—not a great name either—but tolerable. My parents died canoeing when I was twenty and I changed every bit of paperwork. I’m not “Marcellinus” to anybody. I’m Jewish . . . my last name’s Glickman. My mom was flaky, into astronomy, astrology and odd stuff. With everything going on in early 1969, she was keyed up about how the Mariner 6 and 7 spacecrafts passed close enough to Mars to get good pictures.

  Keyed up enough to name me after a planet. My parents realized how stupid it was and no one called me Marcellinus once I turned nine. After I changed it legally, I didn’t tell a soul.

  “How can you know my name?” I wanted her to like me because she was so pretty but something was wrong. She said some dude at the club used it, then saw how much her lie creeped me out.

  “Okay, it’s not what you want to hear.”

  I got so anxious that I threw up on the oak tree. It oozed and spattered along the bark. My baby blue Hawaiian shirt became less baby blue in a few spots. It was very embarrassing. More than anything, I remember how I really wanted to pee.

  “Ah, Marcellinus, I could tell you so much—but I shouldn’t.”

  I shivered when she said it again. My eyes must’ve told her how much she frightened me.

  “Please, Mark,” finally sort of dribbled out my lips. I can�
�t explain it, but when she understood, something vital in her smile made her gorgeous again. She waved her hands around for a moment, as if smoothing wrinkles in the air, and my insides went calm. Maybe it was because her name had that gentle marce sound too. Maybe not.

  “Gotcha. Mark. Sorry if that seemed strange.”

  “How do you . . . ?”

  “I don’t want to tell that part yet.”

  Suddenly enchanted, I didn’t need an explanation. All I needed was for this seraph named Marcie to tell me what she wanted. I felt the urge to start petting her hair again, but she stopped me when I reached for her. Instead, she removed her cowboy hat. Her breasts jiggled while she did it. The points of her little fingers fished around inside and pulled out what looked like a “joint.” Normally that would get to me, but the serenity I felt was like special permission, an excuse to break my rules. It seems like I’d be okay with smoking a plant, even if it was illegal, but I tried it once when I was young and freaked out badly. That and my parents did it all the time.

  “Is that pot?”

  “Barely. Mostly sage, corn silk, horehound and licorice but there are some other bits and pieces.”

  I didn’t care. She motioned around to the other side of the tree. I marveled at how sweet it was that she didn’t even crease an eyebrow at the horribly nasty smell of my puke. When she pulled car keys out of her hat and unlocked the door to the nearest car, I wondered if she had a hidden set of keys for every car in the lot. This was before the humongous “joint.” Things made even less sense after.

  It was kind of like if an egg could poach and fry and get hardboiled all at once. I totally lost my skin, but somehow I could still caress her hair. We were crowded on top of each other in the front seat of her hatchback. I just lifted up the band of silver cloth that covered her tiny, perfect breasts and revealed moons more striking than Phobos or Ganymede. Then we were naked and at this contagiously cheap hotel that I’d never even slowed down near before. The “magic fingers” vibrating massage was going nuts all over the layers of skin that I also seemed to have lost. I felt like every inch of my body was being turned into a giant pickle.