“Phone sex is like listening to your grandmother read a recipe,” Regis said. “Where is it written that conjugation should be convenient?”
63
Before Simon showed up for his next appointment at Bellevue Hospital, he called Wallace Waldo Enterprises hoping that Rosy would answer the phone. He felt bad about leaving without having said a proper goodbye to her and he wanted Polly Moon’s unlisted number. If he wrote Polly so much as a postcard it would never get past Fritzel’s dragon eye and he didn’t want to show up at Polly’s apartment pushing his groin on a dolly instead of a Westinghouse.
Rosy wished him the best but she fudged about giving out a celebrity’s phone number. Simon tried to explain that he knew it was borderline ridiculous and less than gallant for Sinbad Green to suggest any future encounter with Ms. Moon but he’d noticed in the latest issues of Billboard and Variety that The Windchime Concerto was off the charts and Polly’s name was nowhere on the Top Ten list; he told Rosy he felt a strong urge to console the singer while she coped with the looming terror of invisibility. Rosy was adamant. She wouldn’t risk Benny Valaris’s wrath and lectured Simon about the dangers of turning into a star-fucker, maybe a stalker, maybe worse. Rosy reminded Simon there was always the chance of making a comeback even for obsolete overnight sensations.
Worrying about Placebo’s anguish helped lessen Simon’s own building anxiety. He hadn’t left his bed in days. Food was sent up to him from Gussie’s Luncheonette around the corner from the Flatiron or from Charlie Woo’s Jade Palace down the block.
His room was filling with empty coffee containers and flapped white boxes that still held remnants of sesame noodles, stir-fried vegetables, slivers of pork and half-eaten egg rolls growing strange fur like Chia Pets. He posted a do not disturb sign on his doorknob to keep the floor maid at bay. Blockade seemed the sensible solution for dealing with his embarrassing scourge. His penis was longer than his foot, his testes nearly the size of his head. To replace the sling provided by Bellevue which was already too tight for easy mobility, he used a scratchy burlap sack that once held Jamaican coffee beans.
Simon remembered a joke Chirp Bennet once told him about Adam saying to Eve, “Watch out, honeybunch, I don’t know how big this thing gets” but he couldn’t remember why it once seemed funny. He took regular doses of Drainamerol, a strong diuretic from Regis Pharmaceuticals prescribed by his doctor, to flush away excess fluids, but while that drug didn’t do much to reverse enlargement, it forced Simon to urinate twice an hour. He learned to relieve himself without the anguish of getting up—he lay back, aimed and fired a stream of piss across the room, through the open bathroom door, directly into his toilet. Pulling at a chain fashioned from the paper clips he’d expropriated from Wallace Waldo Enterprises accomplished the flush. Pissing and TV were his only diversions.
When Simon got to Bellevue with the help of a Flatiron desk clerk, two formidable men met him at the reception desk wearing scrub suits and surgical masks. They lifted him into a wheelchair and rolled him to the Isolation Ward, explaining that his condition might be contagious, that he could be a virulent carrier like the legendary Typhoid Mary.
While he was undressed and wrapped in a hospital gown, Simon demanded to see the intern familiar with his case. “He knows me. I like him. He’s caring and compassionate. He has my test results. I feel comfortable with—”
“Don’t complain,” one of the attendants said. “You’re trading up. The intern is out of the picture. The good news is Dr. Mercy Merriweather is taking you over. She’s the one I’d want to see if I was in your underwear. New York Magazine listed her as New York’s most brilliant surgeon.”
“Surgeon? I’m leaving right now,” Simon said. “Get me my walker.”
“You’re not going anyplace, Mr. Green. Relax and settle in.”
Simon was hooked up to a bank of monitors. Wires and tubes wrapped around him like vines. They trailed tendrils linked to ominous machines, each with its own high frequency hum and erratic beep. His every breath and movement caused a cascade of tiny lights to blink like insect eyes.
Heavily sedated, Simon fell into, and climbed groggily out of, chemical euphoria He was considering the possibility that he’d changed from a person to a tropical plant in an unknown forest. When Dr. Merriweather came to examine him he felt as if she was probing his branches for fruit.
“How are we feeling today, Mr. Apple?”
“Cross pollinated,” Simon said.
“I am Dr. Mercy Merriweather, your attending physician.” Simon’s glossy eyes focused on a short, slender woman wearing a white coat, white shoes and white rubber gloves. She had a square white face half covered by a white mask under a tight crown of white hair. She reminded him of a blank notepad. “I’ve been reading your medical history. It’s quite fascinating. Reads like a Gothic novel.”
“You called me Mr. Apple. My name is Sinbad Green.”
“We can drop the alias,” Dr. Merriweather said. “I know exactly who you are. And by the way, I dislike The Windchime Concerto. The idea of cannibals eating mermaids is reprehensible.”
“I can’t take credit for the lyrics. Or the music. I was more conduit than composer. Just following orders.”
“I dismiss that defense,” Dr. Merriweather said.
“But how do you know about—?”
“I could say you talk in your sleep and I could say several people have shown an unusual interest in your progress or lack thereof.”
“Is it true that I’m a carrier of some deadly disease?”
“Not in the usual sense. I don’t think your condition is directly transmissible to other humans. But economically speaking, I’m told on excellent authority that you are a host for a disastrous pharmaceutical virus. I see on your chart that you’ve been responsible for inhibiting the distribution of Cripthalizine, Nonacripthae, Viloxidril, Aquathaline, Expeloton, Xanelul and now what? Your test results show a distinct possibility that your genital enlargement is connected to the use of Solacitrex.
“Mr. Apple, you’ve personally cost the health care profession, most directly Regis Pharmaceuticals, billions of dollars in lost revenue. It might interest you to know that Regis Van Clay, whose wife happens to be my sister, has been forced to print warning notices of potentially horrendous side effect on every package of wonderful drugs which gave few, if any, previous hints of causing any life-threatening symptoms beyond mild attacks of dementia in non-smokers. How do you feel about that?”
“I feel sorry,” Simon said, “for myself.”
“Typical of your solipsistic generation. Uninvolved and uncaring. Don’t you comprehend that this kind of fiasco has a humongous price tag and that those costs are ultimately passed on to the people who can least afford to pay? Widows, orphans and insurance companies? Doesn’t it bother you that you don’t seem to be a signatory to the social contract?”
“I resent that,” Simon said. “Those warnings could save lives.”
“Which affects another vital industry. Undertakers, cemeteries, clerics—the list goes on and on. The ripple effect is virtually endless. Mr. Apple, even before I examined you, my recommendation was for immediate amputation.”
“The A word? Did I hear right?” Simon said.
“I could have you home in a week practically as good as new. Would it be such a tragedy if you couldn’t reproduce? I think not. It’s the efficient way to go and that course of action is still very much on the operating table. The only one urging me to sheath my scalpel is, ironically, Regis Van Clay. His gnomes are searching for a miracle cure. My educated guess is that no panacea will be found. You’ve had more than your share of miracles, Mr. Apple. When all is said and done, you’ll tie up valuable hospital space and squander precious attention while we wait for the impossible. I like to ask my patients, humorously of course, wouldn’t it be better to—no levity intended—cut your losses? Frankly, your prognosis is miserable. Why subject yourself to needless suffering and the risk of an agonizing death? If
I were you, I’d refuse further delay and give me the green light to proceed. Did you know that not once but twice geldings won the Kentucky Derby?”
“I’m not entered in this year’s Kentucky Derby.”
“Selfish, self-centered, self-destructive,” Dr. Merriweather said. “True to form.”
“Could I get a telephone in here?” Simon said.
“No. No distractions.”
“Then could you make a call for me? I would like my family to know where—”
“In due time,” Dr. Merriweather said. “You wouldn’t want your nearest and dearest to see you looking like a satyr.””
“You have a wonderful bedside manner,” Simon said.
64
Amos Blum, a Customer Relations man at one of the Regis Pharmaceuticals subsidiary companies in Canada—Eucalyptus Shamanics—owned a world-class collection of shrunken heads. When one of his colleagues was given a retirement party, Blum brought one of his heads, a grizzly skull the size of a Bartlett Pear.
His intention was to use it as a prop, a visual aid to illustrate a short farewell speech he’d written about the importance of keeping an active mind through one’s golden years by doing things like crossword puzzles, taking adult education courses and embracing a hobby to stimulate the brain cells.
After the party, Marvin Latch, a research technician, aware of the mother company’s sudden interest in shrinkage, expropriated the head on a wispy hunch. Alexander Fleming had discovered penicillin by paying serious attention to a piece of moldy bread. That mythic story had motivated every scientist since; nothing was too innocuous for study, anything might yield a secret worthy of the Nobel Prize. Latch promised Amos Blum the diminutive head would be returned fully intact.
The technician had been led to believe his employer was interested in finding a substance for use by the textile industry. Following that assumption, Latch spent weeks treating natural and synthetic fabrics with hormonal extractions laboriously culled from the head without any significant result. Amos Blum was demanding the head’s return since its absence disrupted his collection’s continuity; the gap in Blum’s display case was an aesthetic insult. Latch yielded to his colleague’s demand, pledging to surrender the prized head after one more experiment.
On the morning of his final day with the head, exhausted after a long and restless night, Marvin Latch relaxed his usual cautions and somehow allowed his unprotected thumb to dip into a beaker filled with primitive embalming fluid and a mixture of cobra venom, alum and ear effluvia he’d extracted from the overdue skull. By noon he noticed his thumbnail blacken, crack and separate from its cuticle anchors. By mid-afternoon the thumb was half its normal size.
While Latch saw no connection between digital shrinkage and the manipulation of cotton, rayon or polyester fiber, after lunch he decided to report the event to a superior. Marvin Latch had no inkling that he’d be named Employee of the Month, albeit in absentia. By five p.m. he’d experienced total subtraction, vanished without a trace. The compound Latch discovered was named Thumicsk in his honor.
In New York City, Regis Van Clay was being ministered to by his lovely Trilby in a tub filled with hot cocoa, listening to Bix Biederbek play “In a Mist” through a submersible speaker powerful enough to send vibrations rippling through the warm brew.
Regis liked what Trilby called their mocha meanderings. The girl was endlessly creative. She was gently inserting the nozzle of a Ready Whip can into his expectant anus when the extension phone he’d had installed in her apartment signaled emergency.
“This better be good,” Regis said into the receiver. He knew he was talking to Thurston Blek, his Senior Executive Assistant. Nobody else had the number.
“Exciting news from the front,” Blek said. “The boys downstairs just disappeared a pig. It only took one infusion of Thumicsk and sucrose, what we call the Canadian cocktail. Nothing left but the echo of an oink. We know the result was a tad extreme, sir, but we feel confident that we’re zeroing in on a breakthrough in Operation Reduction. Our boys and girls are back at the drawing board—we’ve got two whole teams working simultaneously around the clock. One on inhibiting tissue contraction, the awful reaction to Thumicsk that caused Marvin Latch, and the poor pig, to vanish. The other on reversing chronic tissue expansion, the Patient X problem. They’re absolutely bewildered about operating at cross purposes not knowing about Latch or Patient X, and both teams are ready to drop from fatigue.”
“Don’t tell me about their whining,” Regis said. “More time is not an option. If they complain, threaten the lot of them with immediate extinction. And please remember that utmost secrecy is the golden rule. Any further word on Patient X?”
“Not good, sir. Dr. Merriweather called from the Intensive Care Unit. A certain young man is fading fast. She’s quoting the Hippocratic Oath, insisting you give her permission to amputate.”
“Permission denied,” Regis said. “Listen, I want you to run some of that shrinking juice over to Merriweather right now. Carry it yourself. Tell her to use it immediately.”
“Too much too soon could be overkill. We can’t control the de-gree of shrinkage. When we tried it on the pig, well, poof, no more pig, not even a stain. Before human trials, more tests are definitely—”
“No time. We’ve got to roll the dice, Thurston. If the boy dies, he dies. But he must be kept alive and intact while there’s a hangnail of a chance to get him back to normal, near normal or reasonably normal proportion. Call my bitch of a sister-in-law and tell her to put away the cutlery. Tell her the latest results with Thumicsk strongly suggest we’ve found a safe, effective antidote for her favorite patient. Say we’ve gotten Phase One approval from the FDA. Tell her anything. Remind her that Solacitrex, diluted with Thumicsk, could be a rain shower in the parched forest of unleavened penises. Millions of them! And forchrissakes, do not mention that pig of blessed memory. And call our office in Brazil to see about finding a dependable supply of shrunken heads.”
“Will do.”
“Have our admen begin to think about repositioning the Solacitrex image before a certain side effect goes public. Christen an amalgam of Thumicsk and Solacitrex with a memorable name. I’m thinking Stalagamide. The perfect combination of Stalactite and Stalagmite—two stones for one, shall we say, troubled bird. And don’t ignore the subconscious suggestion of a shaft entering a cave. A nice warm, wet tunnel of pleasure.”
“Like Howe Caverns? That’s positively lubricious. Stalagamide. The elevator drug. Up and Down. Works both ways. I’m hearing the word organic. Can we use the word organic?”
“Yes, definitely organic. Let’s line up the actor who played Rocky for our spokesperson. Damn, I wish his name wasn’t Sylvester.”
“Consider it done. Your mind is a steel trap, Mr. Van Clay.”
“God, there’s so much to do and I end up doing it all myself,” Regis said when he ended the call.
“You work too hard, dear,” Trilby said.
“It’s true,” Regis said. “Some Wall Street eunuch is always yowling about my quote, excessive compensation package unquote, but what do they know about my daily anguish? What do they know about excessive?”
“What were you saying about a rain shower for a certain parched forest? Should I buy more stock, baby Regis?”
“Ask me in a couple of days,” Regis said.
A week later, when she heard good news, Trilby bought a thousand shares.
Solacitrex (500 mg)
Trade name: Silentush
The famous windbreaker that now offers an extra benefit . . . strategic inflation when you want it most!
Now combines with:
Thumicsk (.001%)
Trade name: Retdema
Big news for anything swollen, from Regis Pharmaceuticals. We bring your troubles down to size!
Now, together! Presenting:
Stalagamide
The ointment that helps you rise to the occasion . . .inch ahead of the competition . . . then go home smiling. F
inally, no more worries about those four-hour—or even four-year—erections! Because Regis Pharmaceuticals raises your horizons . . . and reduces your concerns!
65
“A peanut? Jellybeans?” Simon had said a month after his first dose of Thumicsk.
“A few weeks ago you couldn’t get around without the help of a crane. Now you’re more portable, mobile, trim, perfectly healthy, and still complaining.” Dr. Merriweather said.
“I need a magnifying glass to see my johnson. I’m Pan without his peter.”
“Size isn’t everything. Let’s not forget the importance of technique. I grant you, appearance may affect first impressions. But think about how much has been achieved by others with far worse physical challenges than yours. Take the case of the Elephant Man, or Napoleon.”
“Right now being the Elephant Man or Napoleon doesn’t sound so bad. So, this is it?”
“We don’t know. Thumicsk did its job. It reversed the unpleasant Solacitrex side effect. That we do know. You’re back at a manageable size. We have no indication of any negative side effects.”
“Manageable if I lived under a mushroom. Is there a chance for future growth?”
“There’s always a chance,” Dr. Merriweather said. “I once had a hibiscus that lost all its leaves but I kept those bare stems alive through an awful winter and the following spring it produced a whole bouquet of the most beautiful—”
“What about the ads I see for Stalagamide? Those ‘Inch ahead of the competition’ commercials? The ones with the dancing ruler. Wouldn’t that help me add a few centimeters?”
“ Stalagamide is a derivative of Solacitrex combined with Thumicsk. We could try it in small doses. It’s a drug that might cause a relapse. You’re highly allergic to Solacitrex as we know. Maybe you should thank your stars for Thumicsk and let it go at that. Something is better than nothing. You dodged another bullet, son. You’ll never know how close you came to castration.”
Side Effects Page 31
