“I was fast asleep, you crazy bastard.”
“Whatever you say.”
A half-hour later, the music began again. This time, following a wild hunch, Gerald Warren carried his recorder toward Simon Apple’s room and watched its volume needle spin like a compass in the Bermuda Triangle. When he got to the door Warren turned its knob. A groggy Simon had left it unlocked.
Inside, Warren saw Simon sleeping on his belly across from a wide-open window. His arms embraced a pillow, his body arched like a bridge with his behind at its apex.
While Simon’s top half wheezed and snorted like a baby with a stuffed nose, his bottom half played The Minstrel’s dulcet score. When it came time for the climactic chaos of the finale, like the last act in a fireworks display, Simon’s stomach gurgled the cue for what became a series of humongous farts in merciless machine-gun cadence.
That barrage even woke Simon. He saw Gerald Warren (the bassoonist, backed flat against his bookcase) plugging his ears, simultaneously pinching his nose—an acrobatic that involved both hands. In the process, he’d dropped his tape recorder onto the floor but its spindles still spun. “All that beauty, all that majesty is anal!” Warren said. “No wonder your gut is rioting. You’re digesting Mozart, Wagner, George Gershwin, the Rolling Stones, Philip Glass, Johnny Cash, even Vivaldi and a few lesser artists from the Baroque period.”
Because of Gerald Warren’s ranting and the audiocassette he offered in evidence, Simon Apple had agreed to an examination by Celadon’s attending nurse. A few hours later, when his test results were in, Simon sat across a massive desk facing Dean Abraham Squandor, assistant to Celadon’s chancellor, who studied a scribbled report from the infirmary.
“It seems she found nothing unusual,” Dean Squandor said. “Though there was some indication of a slight deviation in the sphincter.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Simon said. “Why am I here?”
“There were significant disturbances last night and the night before that made sleep impossible within a five-block radius of this building. And the finger points to you as its source.”
“That nurse’s finger inside a rubber glove?”
“Let’s avoid a defensive posture, Apple. I have no wish to sound confrontational, only to examine Mr. Warren’s accusations. This is exam week. As you well know, whole careers turn on test performance, including your own. I’m sure you understand why we can’t abide another interruption of what I will call campus solitude after ten o’clock.”
“I never heard the music you just played for me,” Simon said. “Gerald Warren is a nice guy who I hardly know. Last night I found him hysterical in my room making insane statements about my anus. It seems to me you should be talking to him. Instead of probing my sphincter, you should be examining his head.”
“More than one witness stated that the music in question came from the general direction of your dormitory. And let me add that while the composition was universally admired, except by the most traditional classicists who described it as simply eclectic, many felt the melody was excessively provocative. Sexually provocative, Mr. Apple. At this juncture, I blame you for nothing. Please consider my position. I could suggest that you commit to a battery of sophisticated tests at an accredited clinic to confirm or deny your, let’s call it, unique talent. If those tests proved positive, you could assert your right to special treatment as a disabled person under strict guidelines provided by the Federal Government.”
“Disabled? By what disability?”
“Some perverse need to seek attention through a kind of gastronomical aberration resulting in uncontrollable rectal recital, I suppose,” Dean Squandor said. “In which case, our beloved Celadon College would be required to build a soundproof facility for your exclusive use. We are not a hugely endowed institution, Mr. Apple, and the cost of providing such accommodation would be prohibitive. We’re already facing serious shortfalls in construction costs for our new football stadium. As alternative to such a disheartening series of events, I’m prepared to make you the following offer: If you will agree to remove yourself from this campus, we would consent to eliminating all requirements related to your pursuit of a Bachelor of Arts degree. In short, we will give you your diploma. Cum Laude.”
“I could skip my finals?”
“Absolutely. There is one more condition. We feel that Celadon College is entitled to all rights to The Windchime Concerto. Considering the disturbance you’ve caused.”
“Be my guest,” Simon said. “I wouldn’t feel right about profiting from creative farting. If I leave now I get my degree with honors and I’d be entitled to attend graduation? It means a lot to my family.”
“That would be possible. Though you should realize that Mr. Warren has not been very discreet about his so-called discovery of what he calls your intestinal genius. There might be some harassment from the less evolved.”
“They might heckle me?”
“That’s likely and probably unavoidable.”
“I’ve been there before,” Simon said.
“Let me know if you accept my offer before this evening,” Dean Squandor said. “We don’t want further disturbance. And if you refuse my offer, remember please that I could have you expelled for encouraging lewd and licentious behavior.”
“Summa Cum Laude,” Simon said.
“Agreed.”
Simon rushed out of the Dean’s office and took long, deep breaths of spring air. He felt the urgent need to talk with someone understanding. He called Dr. Herbert Trobe in Boston.
“I was afraid of this,” Dr. Trobe said.
“Afraid of what?”
“We’ve had other reports of a quasi-musical reaction to Xanelul. Nothing remotely as ripe as yours, Simon. At most, only a few bars, single choruses, some tunes hardly more melodic than a police whistle. But there have been incidents. I want you off Xanelul immediately. I’m faxing a prescription for thirty milligram tablets of a new non-resonant anti-spasmodic dispersion formula called Solacitrex. It should inhibit the worst of your emissions. Your colonic stereo should unplug within a few weeks. Or months. However, I do want to alert you about potential symptoms from the sudden withdrawal of Xanelul. Watch for mood changes. Avoid stress. And I thank you, Simon, for helping me make a difficult decision. I’m going to strongly recommend that Xanelul carry the warning of a potentially serious side effect—Atonal Cacophonic Analopathy. On that other matter if I were in your shoes, I’d accept Dean Squandor’s offer.”
Simon rubbed his temples. “So what do I do besides avoid mood changes and stress until the Solacitrex kicks in? I can’t stay awake for weeks or months. If I go home to Glenda, I might give the whole town insomnia.”
“I’ll see to it that Regis Pharmaceuticals picks up the cost of a trip to someplace nice, someplace where you won’t disturb another living soul during rehab. Someplace where they appreciate New Age sounds. Come to think of it, I can only recommend one such place with absolute confidence. New York. The city never sleeps so what’s another series of sonic booms, eh? Take your Solacitrex religiously—I’ll send you some blank prescription pages for you to use as needed for refills. Please keep me posted about your progress. And send me a copy of that tape you mentioned.”
“New York,” Simon said to himself as if he were talking about a dragon.
Solacitrex
Trade name: Silentush
Sweet dreams from Regis Pharmaceuticals
49
Regis Van Clay sat on the cool steps of the Lincoln Memorial gazing up at the pensive pale face and sad wise eyes of the president. Regis looked around to see that nobody was within earshot.
“So, Abe, you made it onto a postage stamp, you got your face stamped on a copper penny and a paper five-dollar bill,” Regis said. “The bad news is they also put Donald Duck on a stamp. A penny can’t get itself picked up off the sidewalk or buy a wish in a soda fountain and you know what a fiver’s worth today?”
There was a lot disturbing about the
statue’s body language and detached expression. It told Regis how much the marbleized Lincoln knew about the elation of victory and the awful cost of Civil War. That sullen face showed that every bleeding wound and rotting corpse, every accusing ghost of a fallen soldier shriveled his soul. The end of slavery was partial justification for so much destruction, but only a glorious future could offer sufficient reparation for all that carnage.
Regis could see that any peace Abe Lincoln’s own lanky ghost might know would come from an America so grand, so powerful as to shine forever as the world’s cradle of hope. “How ironic,” Regis said to the colossus, “that only a mile from where you sit a huge bureaucracy conspires to mock that very vision.”
Regis imagined himself sitting comfortably beside America’s icon, certainly a seat he’d earned, with his arm around Lincoln’s bony shoulders. He could almost hear the pair commiserate over the foibles of senators and representatives, toadies and lackeys, secretaries and commissioners, lobbyists and reporters tainted by the twisted liberal notion that salvation lay in regulation, that the minds of the best and brightest be encased in condoms of restraint. “We grownups know that the foundation of democracy is capitalism,” Regis said. “Its cornerstone is profit. To inhibit profit through restrictive laws eviscerates the beautiful body of Lady Liberty. Inflicting such laws in the name of some public good is the ultimate crime against humanity.
“Take my case as a prime example. Every day I face an ultimate dilemma. Regis Pharmaceuticals is in a race to market some life saving product before some foreign competition snatches away the prize. But wait! Before we can milk the golden calf, I suppose I should say cow, we’re forced to surmount impossible barriers, climb Everests of paperwork, endure endless studies, terminal testing, then retesting, then testing the testers. Before we can trumpet the news of a new balm in Gilead, offer solace to the afflicted masses at a fair price, we’re further plagued by the curse of excessive disclosure. We must taint every package with a warning label that details any possible side effect, however obscure, that might, just might, affect some troll living under a bridge in North Dakota.
“To advertise everything from corn plasters to remedies for gastroenteritis, antiwrinkle creams to enemies of jock itch, vaginal lubricants to laxatives, therapies for cancer to muscle-building tonics, there must be a list of alerts and alarms displayed in print or recited in television commercials. We’re compelled to squander immense amounts of time and money frightening our best consumers.
“Tell me, Mr. President, is there anything good in life without a possibly harmful side effect? Isn’t progress a trade-off between benefit and risk? Take the Union you saved. Did you expect that majestic word to end up on the banner of the AFL, CIO, UMW, or, God help us, Actors Equity, the Writers Guild, the Teamsters—the list goes on ad infinitum?
“You and I, Mr. Lincoln, are in the same boat. You sit there looking like you just may have welcomed the bullet that gave you release. Well, Sir, don’t think Regis Van Clay hasn’t considered assassination as an enviable end to his own earthly bondage. But frankly, without sounding vain, my existence is simply too important to terminate. Regis Pharmaceuticals employs 246,000 workers on six continents.
“You agonize over the deaths of a handful of young warriors? Right now, in puddles of African sludge, tropical South American swamps, offal piles in Asia, lord knows what shit holes in Europe, the Middle East, those imploding Commie countries, maybe even in an ice chip from a melting arctic glacier or some meteorite hurtling toward Earth, some virus is mutating, replicating, some germ is germinating capable of wiping out the entire human species. And those little bugs don’t need approval from the Food and Drug Administration to run rampant. Does Regis Van Clay get handouts from the Pentagon? Not a dime, not directly at least. And is there a greater defender of the right to life?
“But fair is fair, there is a bright side. Every one of those recumbent molecules, every one of those demonic spirochetes means opportunity for my business. The more lethal the scourge, the more chance for a stock split and a dividend increase. Regis Pharmaceuticals supports the work of more research scientists than all the universities in the world while we watch over the welfare of millions of our shareholders. The jobs generated by my company and the stock dividends we pay mean money to buy vitamins, sewer systems, food, shelter, antiseptic sprays, vaccinations, medical care, medications, beauty products, clothes, cars, houses, toilet paper, dental floss, engagement rings, suppositories, steroids, sugar substitutes—the pantheon of things that make life pleasurable, even possible for millions. And never forget, my workers and stockholders pay taxes.
“Well, Mr. President, facts are facts, there’s money in disease. No apology for that. Do you really believe it doesn’t hurt Regis Van Clay when something as lucrative as polio, scarlet fever, measles or smallpox vanishes as an important profit center? Yes, it hurts. I’d be a liar to say otherwise. I suppose it’s ironic, even comical, that in the microbe business every cure is a catastrophe.
“No sweat because it’s only a matter of time before some new plague finds a home in a monkey’s gut and that the toxic ape will bite some Zulu’s nose or get served to a gourmet in one of those four-star French restaurants. That ever-present, dependable threat, Mr. President, is in addition to the mayhem simmering in test tube arsenals we keep for good measure in case our hydrogen bombs leave a few people vertical postwar.
“And when the latest plague opens on Broadway, where would the world be without Regis Van Clay, Honest Abe, Mr. Stamp, Mr. Penny, Mr. Fiver, Mr. Statue? Should I be looking up at you? Who should be admiring who?”
50
A dapper gentleman climbed the monument’s white marble steps two at a time. He looked like the model Regis chose for his company’s ad campaign for Predator (The Scent-Sational Men’s Cologne).
“Regis Van Clay?”
“Congressman Eff?”
“Yes. It’s an honor to meet you, Van Clay.”
“The same,” Regis said. “And please call me Regis. I was delighted that Agent Beem could bring us together. I’ve admired your spunk. I like what you stand for.”
“Glad to hear it. Kind words are always appreciated.”
Regis squeezed the Congressman’s shoulder. “Now that we’re past the appetizers let’s get on to the main course. I’m here to ask a favor. I know you have the ear of the White House.”
“An ear is not a testicle but an ear is an ear and I’m proud to say a cordial relationship exists between . . .” The Congressman pulled at his left lobe and winked at Regis who fought not to wince.
“Congressman Eff, if you were to uncover a sinister plot to undermine the economy of this country, I assume you would be inclined to take drastic action.”
“It goes without saying.” The Congressman nodded, affirming his patriotism.
“Let me begin by reminding you that our economy has been rather slovenly of late. Our balance of trade is no less than scandalous despite a shrinking dollar.”
“There are promising signs of an up-tick in the GNP. Economists predict—”
“That things will turn around? The economists with jobs, you mean. We’re told inflation is not a problem. Good news except for the slightly curious epidemic of shrinkage evident to every shopper with half a brain. Packaging hasn’t changed, the boxes are still big enough to glut landfills but, oops!—we’re paying a significant percent more for a hell of a lot less including everything from detergents to candy bars. At this rate, what’s inside those packages and containers might disappear altogether.
“Truth is, we’re dancing in deep shit and it’s getting deeper. We’re giving away whole industries, squandering our technology. America has become ‘a service economy.’ What in hell is ‘a service economy’? Tell me who’ll buy the glut of crap being manufactured overseas if nobody here is working. And what’s our major export? Entertainment for idiots.”
“There’s something to be said for bread and circuses,” Congressman Eff said. Regis ig
nored the comment.
“There is one bright spot on an otherwise turgid horizon. Our medical and pharmaceutical complex is thriving. Even with the oppressions of Medicare and Medicaid, doctors manage to drive Mercedes. The price of adequate health care rises respectably year after year. And drug prices have more than kept pace; they’ve soared like noble bald eagles. There is no trade deficit in my business, Congressman Eff. Our balance sheets are satin. Red, white and blue satin.”
“Yes, I read your annual report and I must admit those numbers—”
“Can you imagine what those numbers would be without government interference? You must have some sense of how our business works. First, we isolate some ailment with enough victims to justify a huge investment in research and development. If we do discover a panacea to offer succor to the stricken, a testing phase begins. And following years of testing there’s a Figure Study to affirm the results. It takes nine to twelve years before a new drug is approved for general use. A baby born when our work began is ready to give blow jobs by the time our product comes to market.
“And when approval of a new drug is finally granted we must find ways to produce it as efficiently as possible which usually means in some remote corner of the world. Everybody’s doing it so what choice do we have? Of course, there can be no compromise with quality even if our product is made by a five-year-old with dysentery. Globalization. Share the wealth. Pardon me while we go fuck ourselves.
“Next, Congressman Eff, comes the task of informing thousands in the medical profession, more thousands of pharmacists and the multitude of patients of its existence. The gluttonous cost of that essential phase rivals and exceeds the expense that went into entire process of discovery. We find a catchy name and create a catchy image attractive to as many users as possible. That means designing a pill, ointment, cream, lotion, or suspension with universal appeal. So, by the time a product is actually in the pipeline, we’ve hemorrhaged hundreds of millions. Do we complain?
Side Effects Page 23
