Side Effects

by Harvey Jacobs

  “I have a pretty good idea.” Simon said. “I saw the twinkle in your eyes, Dr. Merriweather. How many times did you ask me to sign those permission forms?”

  “I acted in your own interest, Simon. To keep you alive. And here you are, spared instead of spayed, cured and ready to go home. What ever happened to gratitude? It would be nice if you offered some small token of appreciation, a simple thank you, doctor. Not to mention your debt to Regis Pharmaceuticals.”

  “Thank you, doctor, I think. As for Regis Pharmaceuticals . . .”

  “I think my brother-in-law acted very well in a delicate situation. He demonstrated a real concern for public safety by acknowledging the remote possibility that Solacitrex might induce erectotesticular phalusial goliathism. That warning isn’t hidden in small print. It’s right out front on every label.”

  “Don’t forget the part about seeing your health care provider if your erection lasts more than a century. They’re crowing, not warning.”

  “That consumer alert is entirely gratuitous. There’s no proof that Solacitrex caused your problem, no statistical evidence that would stand up in a court of law. And you did sign an ironclad document absolving the company of liability. And you weren’t charged a red cent for your hospitalization or my services. I wouldn’t leave here bearing any grudge toward Regis Pharmaceuticals.”

  “I admit to mixed feelings,” Simon said.

  “You’ll be dismissed today,” Dr. Merriweather said. “Don’t over exert. Eat a balanced diet. Get plenty of rest. I’m going to give you this tape measure. If you notice any change in your dimensions, either way, please let me know immediately.”

  “Either way?” Simon said. “Is there a chance we haven’t touched bottom?”

  “I’m going to give you a few tablets of Stalagamide. If you detect any sign of swelling or more shrinkage, call me immediately. You should know that I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that you are not to be allowed access to any product produced by Regis Pharmaceuticals or its subsidiaries. So please tell nobody the drug came from me.”

  “I heard I was persona non grata at Regis. I’ll keep this quiet,” Simon said.

  “And don’t expect overnight miracles. Reversing the Thumicsk effect might take time. Or it might not work at all.”

  66

  When his cell door opened, Simon saw a short, full-bearded man in a black business suit, white shirt, navy blue tie decorated with quill pens, cowboy hat and western style high-heeled boots. Simon thought he must be another one of the multitude of lawyers who had filed appeals on his behalf over the years, some for altruistic reasons, most to get their names mentioned in the few newspapers that bothered to carry such reports.

  Now that the death penalty was back in vogue, the only lawyer who came around was Marvin Klipstein, mostly out of habit. Whoever he was, this visitor had to have some clout to be allowed a private audience, face-to-face, instead of under glass in the reception area.

  While a guard secured the door, the man identified himself in a deep bass voice, lifting Simon’s limp hand to shake it vigorously. “My name is Anson Tellerude. I suspect you might be familiar with my books and articles.”

  “I can’t place the name,” Simon said. “Which is not to say I never read what you wrote. I hardly ever remember an author’s name. It’s a problem that goes back to my formative years when I thought everything good was written by somebody named Arthur Unknown. It was years before somebody told me that I’d misread Author Unknown. That said, why are you here?”

  “I’m here representing Caged Creators, a group of volunteers devoted to encouraging the incarcerated to explore and share their experiences with the world outside the walls. My specialty is collecting the prose, poetry, essays or diaries of the condemned. A shit job you say? Naturally, most of us would rather cater to those with the slightest chance of redemption. However, I feel it’s never too late to help an inmate seek personal insight into a turgid past and gain the satisfaction that comes through reaching out to potential perpetrators in time to help them change their ways.

  “And there’s what I call the final triumph of the otherwise anonymous—the pleasure of leaving something of oneself behind that’s both signed and fully protected by copyright law. Of course, not everything written gets published. On the other hand, a rejection slip can’t be too traumatic a disappointment to the already executed.

  “Each year we sponsor publication of a collection called Dignity of the Damned—a powerful title, don’t you think? Where permissible, each contributor’s estate is paid a generous royalty. If you live in a jurisdiction that restricts profits from subsidiary rights to capital crime, the money goes to victim families.”

  “I did mean to write my memoirs but I never got around to it,” Simon said. “I do have a few hours left. Maybe I should get busy before too much longer.”

  “We meant to contact you sooner,” Anson Tellerude said. “You know how it is with volunteers. Oversight prevails. You fell through the cracks. I was hoping you might have a few scribbled scraps or doodles to offer for consideration. You could still make our deadline.”

  “I don’t expect you’d like anything of mine,” Simon said, “since the truth is, I’m not guilty in the traditional sense. And I’m not sure you’d be allowed to print anything I might write. My case is very complicated.”

  Simon saw the guard yawn and wander down the corridor.

  Tellerude’s beard brushed Simon’s face as he leaned close to whisper, “I know you’re not guilty of what Sixty Minutes called ‘Cold-Blooded Monkicide.’ ”

  “You know that?” Simon said. “Sometimes even I’m not sure.”

  “Look at me,” Tellerude said. “Take a slow look.”

  Simon studied the face hovering near enough for him to tell that his visitor had eaten a pastrami sandwich for lunch. Otherwise, there was no recognition.

  “The eyes? The chin?”

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” Simon said.

  “They did an incredible job,” Tellerude said. “You’ve got to hand it to them.”

  “I’m sorry if I seem impatient,” Simon said, “but I’d planned to use the time I have left to touch base with a few memories, so . . .”

  Tellerude positioned his mouth an inch from Simon’s left ear. “I’m Brother Lucas, the one you killed. Does that ring a bell?”

  “Yes, well, thanks for dropping in,” Simon said. “But you’d better go now or you’ll miss your spaceship.”

  “It’s the truth. I wanted you to know how things are. You can face your maker with a clear conscience.”

  “My conscience is clear. I know what’s going down and why. I suspect my maker has some knowledge of economics, gross national product, the flow of goods and services, the balance of trade, the cost of every side effect in the highly competitive global pharmaceutical marketplace, the need to sacrifice one lousy life in the interest of America’s place in the new world order. I have no problem with that so why should my maker?”

  “You’re the perfect patsy. They broke the mold when they made you.”

  “If you’re Brother Lucas, how come they reeled in your body?”

  “They found a body. Some poor bastard on their generic hit list. Or snatched from an undertaker’s parlor.”

  “And what about your Digital Shadows? Are they alive too?”

  “I wish. That was a real shame. Nice people. Very sincere. Call their demise a case of friendly fire. Collateral damage.”

  “I’m tempted to believe you. But a certain highly placed and well-informed person told me how you were shot, then carted away and dumped in Long Island Sound.”

  “Who? Brian Beem? Did he take credit for being the shooter? I love Brian but he couldn’t hit Dolly Parton’s tits with a heat-seeking missile. No, the spook establishment hated the fact that a Company dropout found spiritual fulfillment, financial security, and produced a pretty good pinot noir.

  “Plus they needed me—their dark star if I may say so—to deliver
a few delicate messages in the Middle East. So Brother Lucas was resurrected, reinvented and reinstated. Under duress. By the way, Simon, never believe a word Beem tells you. Frankly, I’m amazed he bothered to tell you anything. Though I did hear that the President feels a little queasy about this whole affair. Or is it the First Lady? They’re both Born Agains. Once would have been enough. Beem must have been sent to ease your mind, the same reason I came. In case they had you wondering if you really are guilty of advanced Monkicide.”

  “To ease my mind and your conscience. No, I know I’m not Monkicidal. What was all that gibberish about Caged Creators? The Dignity of the Damned?”

  “Amos Tellerude’s official credentials these days. Talk about born again. The organization and book are real. A front for Special Ops. The condemned enjoy the idea of getting into print so we pick up a lot of valuable last-minute information they won’t even confess to a chaplain. Incidentally, if you’re interested, I can get you published. A letter to your mom. A prayer for peace. A childhood memory. Recriminations and regrets, always welcome. Something upbeat. Nothing controversial. No? Well, if you change your mind, have your people call my people. Meanwhile, sweet dreams, Simon Apple. Regards to my Shadows.”

  67

  The immediate success of Stalagamide—to be taken under careful medical supervision—the first successful drug guaranteeing on-demand penis enlargement while combating excessive erectile size and duration—sent the stock of Regis Pharmaceuticals to new highs despite a cautionary warning on the new drug’s label that alerted consumers to watch for rare but possible episodes of errectotesticular phalusial goliathism and/or retractial priatic davidilate. Recommended dosage was three capsules daily for life, at a cost of two hundred eighty dollars per week. The stock split 3-1 and increased its dividend by 17 percent.

  Regis Van Clay’s reputation turned platinum, his face graced the covers of Fortune, Time, Business Week, U.S. News. Under Regis’s guidance, a drug with a potentially deadly side effect had been transformed into a marketing monster.

  Simon Apple was informed by Robert J. that some 5000 options to buy that stock, held in trust for him since the Cripthalizine settlement negotiated by Marvin Klipstein, Esq., represented a substantial windfall. That was all news to Simon who never read the fine print. Now that he’d reached age twenty-five (which Regis’s actuaries had bet against) he was eligible to receive an annual stipend sufficient to ease his way in the world. Quarterly dividends from his stock, plus the income from a moderately decent job, would allow him to live comfortably. Klipstein’s deal had one possible drawback—he also had an aversion to small print—the lawyer neglected to contest a provision stipulating that the stock could never be sold and that the shares would revert back to the company upon Simon Apple’s death.

  With the help of a bank loan, Robert J. exercised the options. Simon got his first dividend check in the mail along with a copy of the Regis Pharmaceuticals annual report, its cover featuring a detailed model of Voltan Zerminsky’s proposed tribute to the CEO. Inside the booklet, among columns of numbers and an impressive array of bar charts and mounting curves, there was a picture of the sculptor and his wife, Victoria.

  When Simon saw the photograph of Zerminsky’s spouse, who he did not consciously recognize, he began to weep for no reason he could explain. There was something haunting about that woman’s aura.

  The money came at a good time. Simon was still far from feeling his old self despite Dr. Merriweather’s pronouncement that his vital signs were better than normal. The use of Stalagamide did him no good. When he fumbled to find his pimple of a penis in order to urinate, he was throttled by crushing depression. He avoided showers and baths, covered every mirror that might reflect his mortification and moved about the city in constant fear that he’d be forced to seek out a public urinal and find himself standing next to a cucumber.

  Following his doctor’s advice, Simon tried to focus on the bright side, counting his blessings, repeating the bromide that less is more. Considering his liberation from the sling-sack-and-walker, things were looking up, but accepting the reality that he couldn’t satisfy the sexual appetite of a Munchkin or even a sugar ant diminished his sense of worth. Having already been circumcised once, Simon was further burdened by the anxious echo of déjà vu.

  Dr. Merriweather championed psychological counseling or membership in a support group as a good idea but Simon was more reluctant to expose himself emotionally than physically. The doctor tried to buoy his spirits by walking him through the hospital’s trauma unit before Simon was discharged, but that attempt at shock therapy backfired. Watching others struggle with their assorted miseries gave some solace; being empathetic was like being a philanthropist—it was definitely better to give than to receive—but that brief comfort was tempered by survivor’s guilt. Any residual benefit from the experience was lost when Dr. Merriweather took a wrong turn leading Simon through the hospital’s sex change clinic.

  He decided it was time to find refuge from the city’s concrete pressure—a place without skyscrapers, a horizontal place where he could cope with his abridged anatomy in relative privacy. Dr. Merriweather agreed. She thought a vacation might be just the thing to mitigate his chronic depression.

  Returning home to Glenda was no option. Robert J. and Rowena deserved better than a sulking visitor, what with their new twin toddlers, Zachary and Rebecca, to cope with.

  Meeting his father, Rowena and siblings in his deleted condition was an unattractive prospect. He was a walking time bomb, medically speaking. Any day things could get worse and not only because of further shrinkage. Dr. Merriweather explained that if Simon was resistant to Stalagamide, and, since the drug’s Thumicsk component that had so drastically shrunken his privates contained a heavy concentration of estrogen, there was a good chance that Simon’s voice might revert to its pre-adolescent soprano. He didn’t relish meeting old acquaintances back home sounding like a squealing gerbil.

  Besides, Glenda seemed as far away as Saturn, banded by impenetrable rings of crystallized time, circled by moons with quizzical faces. Going home was not a viable choice for rest and relaxation.

  Finding a cabin somewhere in a desert sounded feasible but Simon had a strong affection for trees and changing seasons. There was also the practical need to consider medical emergencies that would require quick access to Dr. Mercy Merriweather. It made more sense for Simon to study escapes within a hundred-mile radius of Manhattan.

  After browsing countless articles in The Sunday Times and Travel & Leisure, Simon’s imagination was captivated by a town called Serene Harbor near the tip of Long Island, described as “a quaint hamlet, an unpretentious neighbor to the posh Hamptons, once an important 19th Century port of call, back then a lusty mix of itinerant merchant seamen, whalers fresh ashore after five-year voyages from the South Pacific to the Beaufort Sea, whores, gamblers, Bible thumping widows of captains swallowed by the waves, peddlers and land speculators, Serene Harbor was transformed by receding 20th-century economic tides into a quiet village populated largely by fishermen, farmers and blue collar workers serving the needs and whims of elite Southampton, East Hampton and Bridgehampton society.”

  Serene Harbor sounded like a perfect location for rehabilitation, thankfully undiscovered, solidly anchored by carpenters, plumbers, masons, salt-of-the-earth citizens struggling to make a living in a community of no possible interest to tourists or the trendy creative. A town tempered by a long history, an anvil of repair for the flotsam and jetsam of a smithereened spirit.

  In the months of his treatment, first with Thumicsk and now with Stalagamide, The Windchime Concerto along with the cluster of feelings for Polly Moon had entered the gray limbo of nostalgia. Now Simon saw a TV infomercial listing Placebo’s recording of the song as a Golden Oldie available with thirty others for $12.95, +S&H. His fears for Placebo proved justified. When her name plummeted off rock ’n’ roll’s Olympus her moment of glory fizzled. In the torrid pace of American Evolution, generations
with tastes and preferences of their own emerged on a daily, if not hourly, basis. The morning’s hatch hadn’t the slightest interest in what came before; the past was a playground for arthritic clowns and the past meant yesterday. Its music was certainly not worth retail price.

  Nobody cared about The Windchime Concerto.

  There was no further need for Sinbad Green.

  So Simon dropped the pseudonym and became Simon Apple again.

  It was hard to let Sinbad sail away into the sunset. Simon felt as if he was losing a loyal friend. But, as Dr. Merriweather said, it was time to move on toward whatever horizon there was for the only known survivor of erectotesticular phalusial goliathism.

  68

  The first day of September, Simon bought an ancient minibus covered with paintings of flowers, peace symbols and slogans like save the rain forest! spare the condor! free tibet! yoko go home! krishna lives! litter not the stars! if it’s got tits or wheels you’re in big trouble! i brake for whims! burning gas and hauling ass! and left New York behind, heading due east.

  Emerging from the Queens Midtown Tunnel was yet another rebirth for him. Being forced to pay a toll to leave the city and begin a new voyage of discovery seemed oddly appropriate. It was like buying a ticket to the future. When Simon dropped his coins into the exact change basket, a barrier bar lifted and a green light signaled go. He experienced a sensation of release, the purging, purification and catharsis he’d heard joggers and devout churchgoers describe.

  Simon drove his minibus through a corridor of factories and warehouses, under advertising billboards tempting him with pictures of happy people eating, drinking, sunbathing, loving, traveling, playing, enjoying the world’s limitless bounty. Between the billboards, he looked out past huge fields of stone tombstones, statues of cherubs and angels, acres of dead New Yorkers arranged as neatly as crops of wheat and corn. That affluent group of cadavers were fortunate enough to be buried with a reasonably good view of the city’s fabulous phallus, the Empire State Building (which the shrunken Simon didn’t begrudge; the city deserved its big dick), though it was sad that they’d expired before the plots they now occupied had become choice real estate.