Side Effects

by Harvey Jacobs

  “No. Even if the powers have decreed that after a few short years the drug we’ve birthed will lose exclusivity and enter the cursed realm of the generic. Some pissy outfit in India or Canada will have the right to sell the same drug for a hundredth of our price. Despite those indignities we keep a happy face. Before we lose exclusivity, we do manage to realize a few billions in profits. Proudly, I point out that a substantial portion of those gains flow toward our shores through subsidiaries from around the globe. Inflow, not outflow, Congressman Eff. Assets, not deficits.”

  “I am aware of the importance of—”

  “Of course you are. And you’re also aware of how much our industry contributes to your party and to your campaigns. We are not misers.”

  “And you know, Mr. Van Clay, how much we—”

  “Allow me a few more minutes to reach my point though I know I’ve taken the scenic route. Getting past R&D, the eons of wading through red tape, the focus groups commenting on the shape and color of a product and its package, the presentations to doctors and nurses, the advertising and promotion, moving past all that, there is still the matter of disclosure. Which brings us to the subject of side effects.” Regis’s right hand mimicked the universal gesture for masturbation. “If I begin to sound emotional it’s because I am. No herb or potion since Hippocrates first dissected a gladiator has been entirely free of some side effect however rare, however unlikely to affect an ordinary mortal. But when even the most obscure side effect is documented, my government requires that a warning of it be included in all relevant literature, cited in advertising, or, perish the thought, noted like a blight on the product’s label in full view.”

  The Congressman smoothed his silver hair. “You must admit dangerous side effects deserve full disclosure. Recent studies predict that the number of deaths caused by drugs, many of which are prescription drugs, will soon rival the figures for traffic fatalities. To jeopardize—”

  “You support the notion that every wisp of alleged bad news should be displayed for each unqualified, neurotic, paranoid, over-protective schmuck to see? Is that what you’re saying? Of course you are. What else can you say with the liberals circling? Now let me ask, have you ever considered what acknowledging a side effect means to my bottom line?

  “Take a marvelous drug like Xanelul. Forget that it’s been the antidote for despair preferred by millions of depressed neurotics for whom nothing more than reading the daily newspaper has meant unendurable pain and suffering. Last month alone, Regis Pharmaceuticals was required by the FDA to issue a side effect alert to every grateful user of that marvelous psychotropic because of something called Atonal Cacophonic Analopathy. Because of that warning, untold numbers of the afflicted will quit spending dollars, pounds, yen, lira, francs, shekels per pill for the most successful tranquilizer in the whole history of medicine. Our sales projections for Xanelul have gone from fabulous to dismal. You think America’s trade deficit is bad now? Wait until next year when the Xanelul factor kicks in. I’m talking about ink redder than a mandrill’s bottom. Or should I say the Kremlin flag?”

  “Actually a mandrill’s bottom is blue. I don’t mean to nitpick—”

  “The color of a mandrill’s ass is not the point here,” Regis said, gesturing toward Abraham Lincoln’s marble visage. “Let’s go back to 1860. If John Brown and Jefferson Davis, not to mention slaves and abolitionists, were on monitored doses of Xanelul, if that actor, Booth, had the pill, if Dr. Mudd had written a prescription for Abe and especially Mary Todd Lincoln, there might never have been a Civil War. This statue would have a grin on its face instead of that tortured look. But what if those agitated folks back then had refused to swallow a few milligrams of Xanelul because they’d read some gibberish about Atonal Cacophonic Analopathy? I’ll tell you what. We’d have had the war we had! Which we did! Are you following me, Congressman Eff?”

  “You’re shouting, Mr. Van Clay. It’s not in our best interest to attract attention. I’m still uncertain as to why you asked for this meeting.”

  “Congressman Eff—the Honorable Jason Weston Eff—I’m going to tell you about one of your constituents, a young man named Simon Apple. When you hear me out you won’t ask why? You’ll know why. And you’ll know what must be done. Not just for my company, not only for my shareholders. This is for those spacious skies and waves of grain we cherish. This is for the nation.”

  51

  Dean Squandor’s suspicion that attending the commencement ceremonies might be problematic was confirmed. Simon, The Ancient Mariner, was renamed The Tailpipe Prodigy after a local TV newscaster broadcast selections from Gerald Warren’s tape of The Windchime Concerto along with his questionable story of its composition.

  The Minneapolis press was quick to pick up the story and managed to get hold of Simon Apple’s yearbook photo. Simon, who was back in Glenda, learned of the fuss from the chairman of Celadon’s board of directors who strongly advised him against granting interviews to the media. The warning was redundant since Simon, Robert J. and Rowena had no intention of prolonging what they felt was an agony of humiliation. Still, the Apples tabled any idea of attending Simon’s commencement ceremony. They limited their celebration to a private party attended by themselves and the Fikels.

  When Marvin Klipstein, Esq., read a blurb about “the new music” in Time Magazine he offered his condolences. When Robert J. mentioned the possible role of Xanelul in the unfortunate affair, Klipstein offered to instigate another civil action against Regis Pharmaceuticals. The offer was refused. Simon burned his only copy of Warren’s tape in a backyard bonfire and was glad to see it go up in smoke. Whatever had caused the musical outburst, Solacitrex had stifled any recurrence; Simon was glad there was no need to sleep inside a concrete cave. The incident was a closed book.

  In a long-distance telephone call plagued by static, Dr. Trobe expressed his feeling that there would be no permanent damage to Simon’s bowels or pyloric sphincter though he did recommend regular monitoring of his “gifted colon.” That phrase and Dr. Trobe’s extravagant reaction to The Windchime Concerto infuriated Simon. “I’m not into jazz as a rule,” Dr. Trobe said, “especially when it flirts with atonal themes, but I’ve listened to the duplicate tape you sent me with undiminished awe. It’s like listening to Thelonious Monk and Stravinsky riffing in some Greenwich Village basement. I’ve advised your Dr. Fikel to put you on a reduced dose of Solacitrex for the time being but I want you to know the truth is I can’t help hoping that you’re poised to give us another masterwork.”

  “I think I’ll pass on that. I’m thinking seriously about what you said about New York.”

  “If you’ve decided on anonymity, there is no better place. And, Simon, I want you to know that I’m giving up my practice,” Dr. Trobe said. “Without sounding like a quitter, I’ve been subjected to a series of bruising thumps since our last conversation. First it was some ridiculous inquiry about the ethical implications of sleeping with my patients. I happen to believe that penetration is the shortest distance between two animals and though it was exhausting for me I was willing to spill my seed in the interest of mental health. Then there was something about the accreditation of the medical school I attended in French Guiana. And so on and so forth. It got to a point where aggravation exceeded expectation. I should tell you I’ve written a series of illustrated children’s books under a nom de plume called “Tiffany Flaxseed’s Bugaboo Journals,” which have been selling quite well.”

  “Bugaboo Journals?” Simon said. “My father told me you took hundreds of pictures of bugs with shells and now it begins to come together.”

  “There are literally trillions of bugs alive at any given moment on this fabulous planet and a huge percentage are blessed with shells,” Dr. Trobe said. “They’re the real owners of the Earth. Some may be nicer than others. To quote myself:”

  I wash my hands, I wash my hands,

  I wash them six times an hour—

  There are bugs in bands

  From
invisible lands

  Who would cut down a man like a flower.

  “Truer words were never spoken,” Simon said, making a spider out of his fingers and running it up his cheek.

  “Of course, many bugs are our best friends,” Dr. Trobe said. “Friend or foe, so far as we know, not one of them is anorexic, bulimic, bipolar or neurotic.”

  “All the best with your new career,” Simon said. “Maybe we’ll meet in a bookstore someday.”

  “It’s a brave new world for me. I’m one of the lucky men whose hobby becomes his vocation. There might actually be a God. Like my heroine, Lulu Ladybug, instructs her larvae, ‘Don’t watch your step, watch where you step.’ ”

  “It’s a bumper sticker,” Simon said. “But let me ask you, what about the turtles. My father told me you were a big turtle fan.”

  “You reach a point in life when choices must be made,” Dr. Trobe said.

  “And you went with bugs. Why not? I suppose you feel a pang when you see a turtle on the road. Wondering what might have been.”

  “Your mockery is a good sign in our relationship,” Dr. Trobe said. “It shows I’ve made some progress getting to you. I hope you’ll listen when I say that I want you to stay on your medication. But you should know that Regis Pharmaceuticals has forbidden me, and every other licensed medical practitioner, from writing prescriptions for any of their products for you, and warned every pharmacy, on pain of excommunication, from selling them to you. So, a word to the wise—I’m mailing you a whole prescription pad which, after all, would be the same as if I left it on my desk and you swiped it, as you certainly would, recognizing an opportunity.”

  That night, Robert J. told Simon that Rowena was pregnant with twins. “It hasn’t been easy for her,” Robert J. said. “She’s been taking fertility drugs. Without the help of modern science those babies wouldn’t have been conceived. I know you’ve had some setbacks arguably traceable to side effects but sometimes the good news cancels out the bad news. And you’ve got to admit, your peculiar chemistry contributed to your rotten medical history. Who knows why? Maybe if you were a different kind of boy, less angry, more accessible, more content, easy-going, normal, things might have gone differently. It’s not as if your mother and I weren’t genetically sound and didn’t do the best we could to make you happy.”

  “I wasn’t pointing fingers at nature or nurture,” Simon said. “I hope the twins are happy, healthy and have the right attitudes.”

  “We’re not blaming you for your supposed side effects,” Robert J. said, his face reddening. “But when things don’t work the way they’re supposed to, it does make you wonder.”

  52

  Dr. Henry Fikel was permitted to see Simon in his cell rather than the visiting area, a professional courtesy extended by Warden Donal. Simon was surprised to see how much the doctor had aged: he walked with the help of a cane, his hair had turned March-sky gray, his skin had the texture of an overripe pumpkin, he spoke with a tremor. “You seem to be holding up nicely,” Dr. Fikel said.

  “Actually, I feel pretty good,” Simon said. “Too good. That could make the dying more difficult. I’m alert as a kitten.”

  “I expect they’ll add some soporific, probably diazepam, to your last meal. That should put you in a pliant frame of mind to meet the reaper.”

  “You could tell them to add a pinch of saltpeter. I’m incredibly horny.”

  “Not unusual. Some of the cadavers we dissected in medical school belonged to condemned men and they often arrived with a prodigious bulge in their wrappings. Sex is life’s greatest affirmation though these days I have a hard time remembering why.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a conjugal visit or two,” Simon said.

  “One or two for the road? I don’t think our society is ready to offer that solace.”

  “They won’t even give me a pack of cigarettes.”

  “You still smoke?” Dr. Fikel said. “After all my lectures?”

  “I think those lectures started me on the habit.”

  “I had you pegged as an addictive personality. You were a dedicated finger sucker as I recollect.”

  “It was hard to find an available nipple in those early days,” Simon said. “I used to chew the rubber erasers off pencils in grade school.”

  “Wasn’t that mentioned at your trial?”

  “Yes, as an example of pre-adolescent aggression. I thought that was a stretch by the prosecution but it seemed to sway the jury.”

  “Your attorney should have objected.”

  “Klipstein was too intimidated to object to anything but his fee. Besides, they promised him a judgeship. He never got it though.”

  “We go back a long way,” Dr. Fikel said. “All the way to Cripthalizine. A lot of water under the bridge since then. And I wanted to wish you safe passage.”

  “Noted,” Simon said. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve also come to ask a last favor considering all we’ve been through together. I hear tell you’ve opted for cremation. That would be a terrible waste. I know you’re missing some key organs but many might be salvageable. You could give the gift of life.”

  “We both know that after they pump me full of poison my organs won’t be eligible for transplant. Except maybe in Third World countries.”

  “Well, yes, that’s generally true,” Dr. Fikel said. “But even if you won’t be the most desirable donor, your body would be invaluable to science. You do have a phenomenal track record, medically speaking. I was hoping you might be willing to sign over . . .”

  “Are you here of your own accord? I find it hard to believe you came up from Glenda to scout my body for purely philanthropic reasons.”

  “Let’s not pussyfoot around, Simon. I’m representing Regis Pharmaceuticals. They have a vested interest in you. And they’re willing to pay two million dollars in return for—”

  “I’m confused,” Simon said. “A few hours ago I was told that an urn filled with my hot ashes would give aid and comfort to Regis Van Clay. Now you tell me my cold corpse is—”

  “That is so typical of corporate confusion,” Dr. Fikel said. “Whoever dared suggest such a thing?”

  “Belladonna and Trilby. I was sure those two women were sent by Van Clay. They said the motive for their visit was at least partially altruistic but I never for a moment believed them. It’s so touching, to think they were completely sincere.”

  “Belladonna? Trilby? Did they have credible identification? I smell a rat. Would you want to be scooped up by some German or Japanese conglomerate? Tell me you weren’t stupid enough to sign any contract because even if you were we’ll match and trump any offer they made you and the most binding agreement can be unbound, Simon. Mr. Van Clay called me personally to ask that I present his offer. The money would be paid in cash to Robert J. and Rowena along with any estate taxes. You know your father dreams of opening a fully digitized portrait studio in West Glenda.”

  “I didn’t sign any contract,” Simon said. “But I’m weighing my options.”

  “I hope your decision won’t be influenced by that quack Dr. Trobe your father called in without consulting me? I could have told him Xanelul wasn’t for you. You’d already shown a proclivity toward akisthesia and agranulocytosis but did anybody ask for my input? Second opinions. Everybody who isn’t cured in time for The Late Show wants a second opinion. In my humble opinion, second opinions kill more people than first opinions. I wouldn’t put it past a charlatan like Trobe to be involved in industrial espionage.”

  Dr. Fikel pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and rattled it at Simon. “You’ve already demonstrated your patriotism, your willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice. Take the final step. This is your last chance to be an authentic role model, another face on Mt. Rushmore. Sign yourself over to an American company. Regis Pharmaceuticals wants your discards. One way or another they’ll get you anyway. Two million in cold cash. Come to your senses, Apple. Don’t be an obstinate prick. Sign here.”

  “I
t’s flattering to know I’m a person of worth,” Simon said. “Still, I need to think things over.”

  “The quickest way to get to heaven is to give the devil his due,” Dr. Fikel said. “Don’t waste everybody’s valuable time.”

  53

  Shortly after Simon’s graduation-in-absentia from Celadon College, under pressure from Dr. Trobe, with an assist from Marvin Klipstein, Esq., Regis Pharmaceuticals had agreed to pick up the tab for Simon to retreat to a corner of the world where any recurrence of drug induced nocturnal musicality would go unnoticed. Even with Solacitrex such a recurrence was not only possible but likely according to Dr. Trobe’s analysis of the latest research statistics from Regis’s lab even though Regis’s chemists felt 87.4 percent sure that a few months would be time enough for their newest antidote to cure the only documented case of Xanelul induced Atonal Cacophonic Analopathy. “I don’t like the odds. Take the money and run,” Dr. Trobe told Simon.

  Simon took the money. The very day he deposited Regis’s generous check, he was asked, and gladly volunteered, to put in a few hours at Quikpix while Robert J. and Rowena attended a luncheon sponsored by the Glenda Chamber of Commerce. Simon welcomed their absence; he wanted another chance to check out the private album he hadn’t browsed in years. When he took the book from its hiding place, what he found were twenty pages of new snapshots. Most of the faces (when faces were visible) and bodies were unfamiliar. Glenda had grown; its population had burgeoned. There was a whole new cast of characters.

  Even the pictures were strikingly different: less coy, blatantly sexual, deliberately outrageous. Simon missed the old feeling of peeking under a window shade at some homey intimacy to catch a glimpse of friendly local pussy. The new photos mimicked the style of sleazy tabloids, more prurient and less stimulating. Simon felt a tug of nostalgia for the town’s vanished sensibility.