Side Effects

by Harvey Jacobs

  “Who bought movie rights?”

  “A very dedicated director. He personally told me it was the chance he’d been waiting for to push the envelope of his talent. This is no one night stand on television. This is a feature film.”

  “Nobody is going to make a movie about any of this,” Simon said. “In a week this will be forgotten. Swept under the carpet. I’ll tell you who bought movie rights. The government. Or was it Regis Van Clay?”

  “Nonsense. I read the plot outline. They did take a few liberties but there is a profound difference between ordinary and cinematic reality. Anyhow, the way it reads now, you were an abused child, the victim of a demented clergyman. They offered me a cameo role as a sous chef in the kitchen where they prepare the fish you poisoned. I’m one of the first to die.”

  “There will never be a major motion picture. Trust me. And take my advice, don’t press them for opening night tickets. These people don’t kid around.”

  “That is so cynical, Simon. What awful things did your father teach you about this wonderful world? Didn’t he ever mention that there’s much more good than bad? It was that vile collection of photographs that corrupted Robert J. Apple. He thought he could keep secrets from me. And that Rowena trollop. When I first met your father he was a God fearing, hopeful man. I should never have left my only child alone with him.”

  “It’s time to end this visit,” Simon said. “Thanks for dropping in. I’m glad to see you looking well, Francine.”

  “And you look marvelous, Simon. Have a good dinner tonight. You know, I was asked to say something to you about a lobster but I refused. I said if his heart is even half-kosher it doesn’t matter what he swallows. Or was insisting on lobster another of your subtle little ways to punish me? Is that it? Between us, I would have thought you’d ask for a nice cut of brisket. Well, Simon, we did have some good times together. Sweet dreams.”

  21

  On hiatus from the Munchkin Academy, sick of enforced confinement at home, Simon jiggled at the lock on his bedroom door with a coat hanger until he heard a snap and felt the doorknob turn. From downstairs he could hear Robert J.’s rhythmic snores that made Simon think of the purring of a cat dreaming of a world carpeted with small, plump mice.

  Still in his pajamas and bathrobe, Simon escaped his room, tiptoed down to the front door, opened its deadbolt and dashed outside onto a rainy street. He pulled the bathrobe’s terrycloth hood over his head, then ran through puddles toward the Waldbaum’s Supermarket three blocks away.

  When he reached that oasis of light and warmth he rushed past Produce, turned at Dairy, navigated displays of Beer and Soda then cut into the aisle for Pet Foods and Needs. It seemed the proper place to be since it was clear that he was transforming into some kind of animal. Even Placebo called him Rudolf on his last day at school. Others addressed him as Bonzo or Lassie.

  The prospect of facing future life as a beast didn’t particularly bother Simon. He had always enjoyed staring into the eyes hidden in furry or feathered faces. There seemed to be a peaceful wisdom dwelling there. Besides, gerbils to mongrels, the pets in Glenda lived good lives. A wide supermarket aisle entirely devoted to their nourishment and comfort confirmed Simon’s feeling that sporting four legs or a pair of flapping wings offered distinct advantages.

  While he cleared bags of Purina Dog Chow off a lower shelf, Simon swore to himself that he would be a credit to whatever species he was destined to join. He would be an asset to his new owner, content on a leash or chattering from a perch, peering out of a shell or squatting in a litter box. He wanted nothing more than a quiet life far from notoriety. Occasional visits to a vet presented a better prospect than the twice-weekly assaults by Dr. Fikel he was forced to endure.

  Back at the Apple residence, Robert J. woke himself with a choking snort. He went upstairs to give his son an overdue dose of diluted Hercumite. Regis Pharmaceuticals had agreed that Simon should be gradually weaned from the drug while the cause of his condition was determined; abrupt withdrawal could be a dangerous path and there was no final proof that Hercumite was to blame for the boy’s unfortunate symptoms.

  When Robert J. discovered that Simon was gone, first he checked every room including the basement looking for the fugitive. Finally, he notified the Glenda police and began his own frantic search for his vanished son.

  It was three agonizing hours before a detective waved Robert J.’s car to the curb and told him that a boy answering to Simon’s description had been found by a woman at Waldbaum’s Supermarket. The lady was shopping for a box of Milk Bone with a double coupon when she noticed Simon in his pajamas, his face looking plaintive under his hooded robe, sitting on a shelf with a price tag pasted to his cheek. When she asked him why he was hiding there he said he wasn’t hiding from anyone; he was there to be bought, put into a shopping cart and wheeled out to somebody’s car. He explained that he was good natured, playful and more than ready to join her household as a welcome addition. Then he began licking her hand.

  She’d squired the child to Customer Services where he was first pampered, then intimidated by a manager waving a box of Mallomars until he revealed his name, address and phone number.

  When Robert J. came to claim him, Simon was actually glad to see his father.

  Robert J. rewarded the Milk Bone Samaritan by paying for her entire cartload of provisions. That gesture astonished Simon; such generosity proved his father was genuinely happy to retrieve him. Still, Simon wondered how much of his father’s paternal joy was motivated by their reunion and how much by commerce. He’d heard himself referred to as a “multimillion dollar property” more than once by the advertising people in Chicago, certainly worth a bag of groceries.

  Outside the supermarket, Robert J. gave Simon a hug and kiss, then took him to McDonald’s for a hamburger, fries and a milkshake. To Simon, who’d been fed a supervised diet of vegetables and fruit juice for a month, that meal was reason enough to suspend nagging doubts about the depth of fatherly affection. After his attempted escape, Simon was given more freedom inside the Apple home but never allowed outside. Dr. Fikel continued his frequent visits.

  While Simon was being weaned off Hercumite, his classmates, especially Polly Moon, were closely observed for signs of antlerism. Polly had been exposed to identical environmental factors and daily contact with the victim. The chemists at Regis were hoping against hope that Polly, who had never swallowed any drug stronger than cough medicine, would develop some similar disease that might point to a virus or mold spore as the culprit. But the child Dr. Fikel called Placebo was in radiant health.

  After many disappointing attempts to reverse Simon’s bizarre affliction, after seven weeks of intensive research, an obscure researcher in Regis’s New Products Division stumbled on Viloxidril, a serum originally developed to enlarge rhinoceros horn, prized as an aphrodisiac in Asia. Since harvesting and selling the horn is illegal (the rhino being classified as an endangered species) the Viloxidril Project was known only to very few scientists. Curiously, when applied to human bones during a routine experiment, Viloxidril performed in a manner opposite to its intended effect on rhino horn. A memo on the drug’s odd skeletal behavior was sent to Regis Van Clay. On a wild hunch, he ordered it given to Simon Apple whose crown was no longer described as anything but an impressive set of buck antlers and whose tail hung nearly to the ground.

  Within days the antlers dried and snapped off like kindling. Simon’s tail showed signs of retracting. Within weeks, Simon Apple was well on the way to recovery.

  Viloxidril

  Trade name : Symmavane

  Shaping the future with Regis Pharmaceuticals

  Hercumite, which had already been heavily promoted on television and in better magazines with another robust poster boy, enjoyed a huge consumer response. Despite efforts by a battery of Regis attorneys, the FDA insisted that Simon Apple’s odd reaction, however rare, merited inclusion in the Possible Side Effects listed on the label. Regis Van Clay himself advised the m
edical community that, by every statistical projection, what had become labeled Simon’s Syndrome, coccyxonasty antalastium grimmalis, would affect less than .003 percent of users. In the event the Syndrome did manifest, the marvels of Hercumite could still be enjoyed by every infant, since the new Viloxidril, known to the layman as Symmavane, would cure the disease.

  Regis’s assurances were compromised when word came that an unfortunate tyke in Arkansas, a user of Nonacripthae aka Hercumite, grew antlers prominent enough to confuse a hunter who shot him. After the story of that accident broke on Entertainment Tonight, prescribing Hercumite was considered as too risky by more conservative pediatricians.

  Hercumite was permanently withdrawn from sale in North America and Europe. Regis Pharmaceuticals stock plummeted to new lows. There were rumors that the company had agreed to pay a huge settlement to the Arkansas victim’s family. Actually, a lively and lucrative black market for Hercumite developed among serious athletes on every continent, but the Wall Street analysts kept that information to themselves. When Regis Pharmaceuticals stock tanked, both Robert J. and Dr. Henry Fikel felt the pain of loss.

  With his new lease on life, Simon Apple was enrolled in public school. For him, mercifully, the slate was wiped clean; every day was a new beginning. The only thing Simon really missed about Munchkin was Placebo. He hardly ever saw Polly Moon aside from transient encounters, all too brief.

  Aside from occasional nausea, chronic constipation, dry mouth, acne, and excessive perspiration, Simon had no unusual side effects from Viloxidril.

  Not for several years.

  22

  Perched on a stool, Regis Van Clay sat in the presence of the darling of the Museum of Modern Art, the Whitney and the Metropolitan, not to mention temples of art and private collections around the globe.

  “I had an inspiration,” Voltan Zerminsky said, pacing back and forth, waving bare hairy arms. Regis’s eyes followed Zerminsky’s massive shadow as it eclipsed an entire wall of the artist’s studio. “One head is not enough. Each time I study your face I see another person. I think a triptych, perhaps an entire wall, a hemisphere, a curved universe, a galaxy of heads with a hundred bronze eyes focused on a single point, a beautiful rendition of your headless naked body, standing under a powerful spotlight. Thus the viewer becomes a participant, choosing the head of his or her choice. A fusion of essences. Interactive. Are you listening or am I speaking to myself?”

  “It’s an interesting idea,” Regis Van Clay said while he surveyed Zerminsky’s Greenwich Village atelier, a gigantic room in a former warehouse lined with shelves that held hundreds of plaster busts, a Who’s Who of the century’s celebrities. It was as if the room was built to hold the oversized sculptor.

  “I’m talking in the realm of revelation,” Zerminsky said. “I can see your mind thinking that such a sculpture would be too arrogant, a confession of excessive egotism. Or is it that you fear exposing so much of yourself, frightened by the thought of total access?”

  “My wife’s idea was a bust for our living room,” Regis said. “Frankly, the idea of self-glorification is alien to me. I am not Julius Caesar. But I agreed to indulge her. You’ve gone far beyond my limited imagination. I didn’t expect Mount Rushmore.”

  “Ah, yes, modesty. But if I may say so, false modesty. Regis Van Clay has risen above and beyond such inhibiting pedestrian gravity.” The sculptor raised his voice to a near scream. “Van Clay, admit that you’re worthy of a Voltan Zerminsky. You belong to the ages. Accept that future generations will want to know this amazing man who clawed his way out of poverty’s muddy tentacles, who climbed the icy Everest of challenge to its topmost peak, who built an empire dedicated to the betterment of humanity. I tell you, one head is not enough to tell your story, to preserve your music, your symphony.”

  “A wall of heads? That does make some sense,” Regis said. “It is original. But a decapitated naked body?”

  “By God, you’re right!” Zerminsky said, spinning 360 degrees. “What was I thinking? No, not naked. Wearing a simple business suit. In truth, that is your true skin. More naked than naked. And the fact that Regis Van Clay’s body is clothed will diffuse any banal accusation of narcissism. As for decapitation, I am talking headless, not heedless. Remember that the viewer will supply a head from the multiplicity of choices. The result? Gestalt! Ultimate closure.”

  “I don’t know,” Regis said. “Where would I put all that? Certainly not in the living room. Not in our entertainment center.”

  “Not in your home,” Zerminsky said. “I will gladly throw in a little bust for your mantle. Call it a wife-sized rendition of her loving husband. The installation I propose would not be a domestic ornament. Not even be suitable for the lobby of your company’s headquarters.” Zerminsky bent double, laughing. “Did I say head quarters? No pun was intended.” The sculptor’s wide face turned deadly serious. “Absolutely not for the lobby. You wouldn’t want your workers to be reminded of a plateau of success they can never achieve. I see now that the installation should be a posthumous memorial. We would proceed in stages. First, I will complete a single element. We will work quietly, keep our tribute in storage. To be unveiled in a glorious ceremony after your passing. Does it make you nervous to accept the fact that one day, many years from now, even you will die?”

  “I’ve made plans to be frozen,” Regis said. “Our cryogenics people are making incredible strides. Who can say that death itself won’t become obsolete?”

  “Marvelous. Then let’s assume that when your remains are thawed and your resurrection accomplished, you would enjoy the opportunity of visiting the Regis Van Clay Memorial in person.”

  “That would be a publicity bonanza,” Regis chuckled.

  “You blush with embarrassment,” Zerminsky said. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about. Embarrassment is apology. You have nothing to apologize for. Regis Van Clay has earned his monument which is more than can be said of most so-called heroes.”

  “Your gallery told me a single head would cost me a million dollars,” Regis said. “And maybe I should quit while I’m a head. Pun intended. How much would your wall add to the bottom line?”

  “You want to bring this down to a discussion of money?” Zerminsky said. “Because I won’t. Whatever the cost, consider that my art can only increase in value. The truth is, you will end up with a profit. A major work by Voltan Zerminsky? What will that be worth fifty years from today?”

  Zerminsky gestured toward the plaster casts of tycoons, politicians, generals, musicians, singers, dancers, a galaxy of stars, the work that made him famous. “Did they count pennies? Believe me, Voltan Zerminsky takes no credit for his genius—a gift that came directly from Above. But he does recognize that, in crass, secular terms, its value is measured in the obscene language of dollars and cents. Or Pounds. Or Euros.”

  “I guessed that,” Regis said.

  “I would be proud to sculpt your essence in exchange for nothing but a crust of bread. That I must make a good living to affirm and gratify my earthbound psyche is incidental. Adding up my income is like taking my pulse. I need to know I am alive.”

  “Listen, Voltan, let me think about your proposal. I think we can come to terms. As you might have noticed, I’m a bit distracted today. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “Tell me about it. I want to know you better than I know my brother. Knowledge translates into intuition.” Zerminsky flexed his fists. “Intuition guides these fingers.” His large, dark eyes darted toward a table where a blob of formless clay was held in place by a metal armature.

  Regis envied the artist’s magical ability to outdo nature, to seek out a human soul and preserve it for posterity. Zerminsky could duplicate face and form to perfection. Then Regis wondered if the artist’s alchemy was so different from his own ability to fabricate a generic drug from a formula just past patent protection, now in public domain? Or from supervising the development of a product like Hercumite from molecules elusive as quicksilver, bril
liantly camouflaged, shy of discovery as any spy or virgin?

  Was Zerminsky’s blatant flattery—his attempt to multiply a million dollar deal into a billion dollar extravaganza—was that so different from Regis Pharmaceuticals’ artful marketing of a gut-busting new laxative? Yes, Voltan Zerminsky is hailed by critics, celebrated in fashion magazines, lauded by the Arts and Leisure section of the Sunday Times as an icon. A Zerminsky creation inspires automatic reverence. Zerminsky accepts his role as palpable evidence of the Supreme Being’s divinity, a celestial celebrant while Regis Van Clay must be content with write ups in The Wall Street Journal, Fortune, Time, BusinessWeek, US News, where his achievements are documented for MBA undergraduates who see him as a phenomenon of free-wheeling capitalism, someone to emulate, then emasculate and dethrone.

  But is a Voltan Zerminsky really superior to a Regis Van Clay? If Zerminsky’s glorious prostate swelled, how long would it take him to trade his blessed hands for a cure from Regis Pharmaceuticals? The time it takes to sculpt an ant.

  Those thoughts left Regis feeling better, on a level playing field. “I think we can come to a satisfactory arrangement. At least on Phase One of the project.”

  “What is it that disturbs your well-deserved, refreshing sleep?” Zerminsky said.

  “Forget that,” Regis said. “It’s unimportant.”

  “Tell me,” Zerminsky said.

  “A dream that cuts like barbed wire,” Regis said, surprised that he bothered to answer. “I dream about a child, a boy, who gouges out great globs of my intestines with a fork.”

  “Evisceration,” Zerminsky said. “Disgusting. But I don’t mean to be judgmental.”

  “The dream is recurrent. I can’t shake it. I stay up watching stupid television shows because I’m afraid to close my eyes.”

  “So? Another face to consider for the wall. A tortured face.”