Side Effects

by Harvey Jacobs

  “Congratulations,” Simon said. “Though it’s hard to think of you as a grandma.” His mind flashed to the portrait of a topless sixteen-year-old Rowena Trask his father kept for occasional reference. Simon found the relic hidden in a book about Mt. Rushmore; Rowena’s image seemed to belong there.

  “That’s my news,” Rowena said. “Except that I found out I was dyslexic. Can you imagine? If I’d known that, it could have spared me all kinds of anxiety from trying to read books right to left. Otherwise, just the usual complaints that come with age. I had a bone density scan. It shows some osteoporosis but nothing major. And I have an arthritic knee. I might need arthroscopy but not yet. You look well, Simon. Any word about a reprieve?”

  “Denied.”

  “Oh, you darling boy, I am so disappointed. It’s on for tonight, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t I insist that Zack and Rebecca come with me? Maybe they’ll drop in with your dad. He said he’d definitely pay his last respects.”

  “I’d like that,” Simon said. “But it’s not necessary for Zack and Rebecca to schlep themselves out here. Zack must have his share, what with the actress, and my sister must have her hands full with Lucy Alice. Just tell them goodbye and good luck for me.”

  “I will,” Rowena said. “Did Francine put in an appearance?”

  “She did,” Simon said. “Though I’m not sure she knew exactly why she came.”

  “Don’t be too hard on her,” Rowena said. “She fell in love with another man. It happens all the time. And not every woman has maternal instincts. I’m sure she cares very deeply for you.”

  “She did send me a birthday present when I turned thirteen.”

  “There you go,” Rowena said. “God, when I think about the old days, who would have thought things would work out the way they have? I guess you never know.”

  “That’s what keeps life interesting.”

  “You should have considered your family before you killed that person, whatever your reasons, which I’m sure were good.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Simon said. “Robert J. must have told you.”

  “He must have,” Rowena said. “Another joy of aging. I can’t remember what I had for lunch. Things just slip out of my head.”

  “I won’t have that problem,” Simon said.

  “You always did accentuate the positive,” Rowena said. “I admire you for that. I wish more people had your attitude. Especially in this kind of world when you don’t know if you’re standing next to some crazy with a bomb in his pants. Oh, I brought you a box of Mallomars. I know how much you love them. The guard confiscated the package. He said they had to search the box. Can you imagine? But he promised they’d be delivered to your cell in plenty of time.” Rowena reached for a Kleenex and blotted a teardrop from her cheek. “I know I was a lousy excuse for a stepmother but I tried. I loved you. Love you. I’m trying to say we’ll never forget you, Simon.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Rowena. You were certainly the best looking stepmother in Glenda. Are the best. Present tense.”

  “The present is certainly tense,” Rowena said. “Here’s to future perfect. Well, Simon dear, I seem to be out of words.”

  “We reach a point when we fall off the Cliff of Words into a puddle of music,” Simon said. “Hugs and blessings.”

  35

  Sandwiched between graduation from Glenda Middle School and the murky terrain of Glenda High, Simon spent his summer working at Quikpix by day and watching TV shows like The Bionic Woman and The Six Million Dollar Man at night, listening to records by Springsteen, Simon & Garfunkle, Dylan, The Eagles, and Pink Floyd, reading Rolling Stone, Penthouse, and Hustler, crapping around, eating junk food, worrying about the fucked-up world, wondering about the meaning of life.

  Returned to health by all objective standards, Simon felt anxious, pointless and bored. He was told more than once that his cure was a gift, a sign from above that he’d been saved for a purpose but the purpose eluded him. He saw himself as entirely useless, twitching in limbo like his frenzied scrotum.

  Simon’s only solace was in jerking off on his own Fantasy Island, imagining encounters with assorted film stars past and present. It was easier for him to deal with a Marilyn Monroe, Farrah Fawcett or Elizabeth Taylor (living or dead, in color) than it was to seduce a Jean Harlow or Carol Lombard (definitely dead, in black-and-white) knowing those vibrant girls had long since gone to dust and ashes, but there was something especially seductive about their lingering ghosts. After his voyages to celluloid necrophilia, he was left with a queasy feeling as if he had robbed a grave, which in a direct sense, he had. He quieted that angst by telling himself that postmortem masturbation was a form of prayer, a combination of recognition and resurrection, like reading a book by a dead author. It was what his mother, Francine, in her rare dips into Yiddish, used to call a mitzvah, a true act of charity. Simon read that dead celebrities still employed agents, or their executors did, and he wished he could send a check somewhere rather than indulge in such arcane soul searching.

  The leading ladies Simon cast in his bedroom extravaganzas, current or departed, had one thing in common: they were openly gracious and grateful for his ardent attention. And it wasn’t Academy Award or Emmy winners that scored highest on Simon Apple’s nightly phantom-fucking scale. Surprisingly his best wet dreams were inspired by Robert J.’s portfolio of local celebrities. Doing the women he recognized from his father’s collection of erotic outtakes (he’d stumbled on that hidden album while chasing a bug into a file cabinet marked Tax Returns) gave him new respect for the mysteries that lurked behind Glenda’s locked doors and drawn blinds.

  Using those photos as fuel, Simon’s swollen dick effected a spiritual bond with his neighbors. There was the lady who worked at Woolworth’s checkout counter baring a world-class breast; there was Honey Fikel in a transparent nightgown, sporting a neatly trimmed triangle tempting as a poppy; there was the clerk from Berman’s Bakery mooning a Kodak with a luscious ass that grinned vertically—the selection in that fleshy catalog was deliciously diverse, a gathering of beauties and beasts. As for the beasts, it puzzled Simon that it was often the plainest of the plain who made him pant the hardest and last the longest before he came and then, spent and languid, welcomed sleep.

  He liked the feeling of largesse that came from pleasuring the especially needy; dispensing his favors was definitely an aphrodisiac. If a Mrs. Kripeldorf (the tailor’s wife who looked like “The Roadrunner”) knew she’d been chosen to spend the night featured in a Simon Apple production, winning out over a superchild like Twiggy or a harem full of Lauren Huttons, she would have sung a song of gratitude.

  Simon often wondered what would happen if Robert J. put his picture collection on exhibition at Town Hall—whether Glenda would implode, explode or just look the other way. If his father were another kind of man he could have gotten rich through blackmail. Some of the most revealing photos were less than flattering; even latent exhibitionists would have paid to keep them hidden like The Dead Sea Scrolls if only to avoid confronting savage reality.

  Simon would have liked to hear his father’s thoughts about the Quikpix collection but that conversation was impossible to hope for; Robert J., custodian of the archives, would stay mute under torture, an honorable protector of Glenda’s bright façade.

  Simon thought it was both a sorrow and a mercy that in the span of a century the dyes in every color print ever made would fade to invisibility. A few years later, the monochromes would also decompose. Eventually the album’s linen pages would go blank. So Glenda’s best-kept secrets were safe, but was safety a fair tradeoff for loss? All those fleshy photos would corrode like the wind-whipped tombstones in Arch of Angels Memorial.

  Alone at Quikpix one evening, Simon browsed Robert J.’s illustrated history looking for the image he would sneak home in his mind’s pocket for productive nocturnal use. He settled on an anonymous lady bending over a washing machine holding a box of
Tide detergent, stark naked under her apron. She was no starlet but she had frisky eyes, a luscious, promising mouth and serious cleavage. Simon knew she would do very nicely as a midweek companion.

  His shameless indulgence in what he called Glendadelecti ended abruptly when the Quikpix door chime tinkled announcing the arrival of a customer. Simon slid the album into its plain brown wrapper, put it back into its violated crypt, put on a cordial smile and greeted the newcomer; this man wasn’t a regular customer yet he looked vaguely familiar.

  “Good afternoon,” Simon said. “Can I help you?”

  “You can, Simon Apple.”

  “You’ve got the name right. Should I know you?”

  “We met once before under unusual circumstances.”

  “We don’t have many unusual circumstances around here,” Simon said. That face did occupy a niche somewhere in the past, but where, when, why, who and how? Simon’s brain tried to spit out the answer.

  “We didn’t meet anywhere around here. Think about the great state of Florida.”

  “Nixon’s men,” Simon said. “That afternoon on the beach. You were one of the black suits.”

  “Right on. You have an excellent memory, lad. My name is Beem. Brian Beem. Agent Beem, formerly of the Secret Service, now with the FBI.” He reached out a hand. Simon shook it.

  “I’m impressed with your credentials,” Simon said. “Does this have anything to do with the cemetery business? Because . . .”

  “This is a social call. A reality check. Just touching base. I see things have changed for the better. No more portable aquarium? I heard you were cured.”

  “What can I do for you?” Simon said. “Our special today is double prints for the price of one or a free replacement roll of film, your choice.”

  “I dropped in to see how you’re getting along. That Aquathaline seems to have done the trick. You know, it cost millions to cure you. Aquathaline was what’s called an orphan drug, a medication that cures an illness so unusual, so rare, there’s no way a cure can ever be profitable. As it turned out, the combination of Viloxidril and Aquathaline proved golden as a cosmetic ingredient but nobody could have anticipated that. You see, I’m talking about a labor of love here. A tremendous investment only because so many good people are genuinely concerned about your welfare. Tell me, son, how’ve you been getting along?”

  “I’m tip-top,” Simon said. “Thanks for asking. Who exactly is concerned about my welfare? President Ford? Maybe the United Nations?”

  “Don’t forget the folks at Regis Pharmaceuticals. We hope you hold no animosity toward any person or persons who might have been involved with your recent ordeal. What happened to you was no more than a freak accident of nature. A case could easily be made that your unique body chemistry was as responsible for the unfortunate but temporary gill episode as any amount of Viloxidril. When it comes to an unfortunate side effect, it takes two to tango.”

  “Or tangle.”

  “There shouldn’t be any reason for you to harbor conscious or subconscious thoughts of revenge.”

  “Revenge? I’m just getting on with my life,” Simon said. “I don’t plan to climb a tower and shoot anybody if that’s what you mean.”

  “That wouldn’t be in anybody’s best interest.”

  “My attitude is what’s past is past,” Simon said. “No hard feelings, as the eunuch said to the sultan. Tell whoever sent you that they won’t have Simon Apple to worry about any more. So is Nixon the prick they say he is?”

  “Let’s not be a smart ass. Let’s be respectful. If it wasn’t for Mr. Nixon you’d still be drinking worm shakes. I like you, son. Sensible. Good attitude. You deserve a nice, quiet life.”

  “Not too quiet I hope,” Simon said.

  “Just one other thing. Your friend, Polly Moon. Have you seen much of her? How are things with Polly?”

  “I’ve seen plenty of her,” Simon said. “But not lately. Why are you asking me about Placebo?”

  “What did you call her?”

  “Skip it. What has Polly Moon got to do with anything? Is this about the cemetery thing because if that’s why you’re here—”

  “What cemetery thing?”

  “Never mind. Look, I’ve got ten exposed rolls to deal with before we close. So if you’re done with me—”

  “I hope I’m done with you,” Beem said. “Believe me, I want to be done with you. We all want to be done with you.”

  36

  “Apple, you have another visitor,” the guard said. “He looks like he crawled out of a toilet. They wouldn’t let him ring the bells at Notre Dame. If you’re feeling social, OK, but we suspect he might be a reporter or some kind of kook. Says his name is Cecil Blee. Says he’s a close personal friend. Do we keep him or kick his ass out of here? Your call. Just remember your conversation will be monitored. No interviews.”

  Simon couldn’t place any Cecils and he had no close personal friends. If his visitor was a camouflaged reporter he’d be from some radical weekly with two readers but whoever it was had taken the trouble to come so what the hell. “Cecil? Yes, I’ll see him. Good old Cecil, the poor slob.”

  “You’ll have to go to the visiting area. I can’t allow him access to your cell. Usually we only admit relatives, lawyers and clergy on the last day. Nobody else. But the warden made an exception in your case. I hope you appreciate that.”

  “I do,” Simon said.

  “You must have pull.”

  “No comment.”

  Cecil Blee waited behind a thick glass partition in the visitor’s room. He crouched on a metal chair with his legs folded under him, absorbed in massaging his earlobes while he touched his tongue to the tip of his nose. The man looked like a hairball, all beard and eyebrows under a battered baseball cap. He wore what was left of a brown suit over a sweatshirt splashed with ketchup and mustard stains. Half a bow tie dangled from his neck. He squatted on army boots laced with rope over feet with no socks. His boots seemed to come from opposing armies.

  Simon tried to connect Cecil Blee with some cogent memory. Nothing clicked. He sat across from his visitor and picked up the intercom phone. For a moment Cecil Bee looked befuddled but got the message from Simon’s gestures and did the same. Simon heard him blowing into the receiver.

  “FYI, I want you to know they’ll be listening to whatever we say,” Simon said.

  “ Wuh. Wuh .”

  “So tell me, how’ve you been?”

  “ Wuh. Wuh .”

  “Good to hear,” Simon said. “It’s great to see you. A real surprise.”

  “ Wuh. Wuh .”

  “Marvelous. Could you be a little more specific?”

  Cecil Blee put down the phone and fumbled with his jacket pocket. His hand disappeared, then surfaced holding two pieces of torn cardboard. He pressed them against the glass. Simon squinted to read something printed in faded type. Before Simon could make out the letters the guard was there, grabbing the fragments to examine them for any dangerous content. Cecil Blee began weeping. He wiped away tears and snot with his sleeve. The guard made a face like vomit and returned the confiscated cardboard. That calmed Cecil who held them against the glass again.

  Simon strained to focus. They were ticket stubs. From the Lombard Cinema in Glenda. One half said admit one. The other said gone with the wind. Cecil Bee was on the phone again.

  “Starren Vivenlee an Cagobble.”

  Simon had an epiphany. Vivenlee an Cagobble. Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable. Cecil Blee, the visitor sitting across from him, was Crazy Henry, the man who lived in the Lombard’s ticket booth. Cecil Blee, who was in his own protected witness program for reasons unknown, had come to offer Simon Apple a nice parting gift, a complimentary ticket to the hottest movie of 1939.

  This time it was Simon whose eyes filled with tears. Cecil Bee tried to push the ripped ticket stubs through the glass partition as if it was some kind of membrane. Frustrated, he gave up the effort, left them on the small shelf at the barrier’s base, clapped hi
s hands, unfolded his legs, and ran for the exit door.

  On the way back to his cell, Simon asked the guard if he could have the ticket Crazy Henry left behind. The guard told him not to press his luck.

  37

  The class of ’78 at Glenda High staggered through its formative years like gorillas in the mist, absorbing the skills and knowledge that would carry them to the new millennium and beyond. For all the lectures, books and field trips most of what was learned came to them outside school: lessons from sitcoms, films, infomercials, commercials, music from hi-fi speakers and boom box radios, dinner table gossip, family arguments, loving gestures, little triumphs, massive tragedies, the invisible academia of acquisition and denial.

  The students were nicely prepped to enjoy the full bounty of the American Century. They were taught to be optimists, urged to think like astronauts riding rockets powerful enough to arc over any limiting horizon. They had their youth, dreams of glory, and The Pill. They had cigarettes, pot and beer. The luckiest even had cars.

  There was no war to worry about except for the ever-threatening nuclear one, and that was an equal opportunity destroyer. The prospect of evaporation caused transient anxiety in some but for most it communicated a welcome sense of urgency. There were rumors about lousing up Planet Earth’s ozone layer and melting its ice caps but what with recycling paper, glass bottles and aluminum soda cans, it seemed there’d be plenty planet left to go around.

  The 50s in-your-face Beatniks had long since died for the sins Jesus missed. Hippie ashes from the 60s blew in the wind leaving traces of flower petals and magic mushrooms. For the most part, Vietnam vets swallowed their rage and kept quiet about what they’d seen and done. The new breed of prophets hinted that racism, sexism, poverty and injustice could be erased, that the present could apologize to the past and the apology would be graciously accepted. With a little effort the shock troops of the enlightened 70s would make peace with the offspring of slaves, embrace Native Americans (formerly Injuns), build ramps for cripples, lower elevator panels for the vertically deprived, train Seeing Eye dogs for the blind, discourage lurking assassins, shuck off webs of guilt. Any slate could be wiped clean by confession. The road ahead was a six-lane highway, the Force was with you for the asking. Even God—Himself/Herself/Itself—was ready to be more tolerant of assholes. The new American mantra was: make money, eat right, exercise and live forever.