Sharkman

by Steve Alten

  Take my previously mentioned ability to heal. Reversing a colostomy leaves a deep wound in place of the stoma—a hole which usually takes two to three months to close. To my surgeon’s amazement, the hole in my belly filled in sixteen hours! This wasn’t just a record; this was impossible—at least for humans.

  Don’t even go there, I told myself. After all, sharks don’t heal like this either. But clearly something was happening to me that was more than a bit unnerving. And it was attracting lots of attention.

  The hospital administrator came to visit me a day after my surgery, accompanied by a cute thirtyish brunette in a sexy business skirt. Annie Moir owned a public relations firm in Boca Raton; the hospital had hired her to issue a press release about the “local paraplegic whose spinal cord had been healed at Bethesda Memorial Hospital.” Annie needed permission to use my name, since I was technically a minor.

  “I don’t know, Annie. I sort of figured I would keep this on the down low.”

  “Kwan, a week ago you were bound to a wheelchair; two days ago you were doing wind sprints up and down the hall. Trust me, the word’s out. The hospital’s already fielding hundreds of interview requests, including producers at 60 Minutes, The Today Show, and David Letterman. You need someone to control the media circus, sweetie. Hire me to be your manager.”

  Normally my ego would be supersized, but after all that had happened, I felt wiped out. “Sorry, Annie, but Sun Jung’s already struggling to support us on her limited income. I seriously doubt she could afford you.”

  Annie smiled. “Kwan, sweetie, you don’t pay a manager. A manager works on commission. Standard in the entertainment industry is fifteen percent.”

  “Wait . . . are you saying I can make money from this?”

  “Are you kidding? Kwan, you’re a walking miracle. Who wouldn’t want to eat the breakfast cereal you eat; wear the track shoes you wear? Sweetie, if you’re not a millionaire in six months, go ahead and fire me, because I didn’t do my job.”

  Millionaire? Screw the emo shit . . . You only live once!

  I smiled from ear to ear. “Do it. Make me rich and famous.”

  Turns out Annie already had a plan. The hospital would discharge me on Tuesday—the best day of the week for media exposure. We’d do a press conference in the hospital cafeteria with all my doctors and the administrator present to answer questions. Then we’d fly to New York to do either Today or Good Morning America on Wednesday, then Letterman that evening. I would be bigger than Psy—another Korean phenom, only better since I was half-Caucasian and a hundred percent American, making me far more endorsement friendly than “Mr. Gangnam Style.”

  Kwan Wilson: Celebrity millionaire.

  “Annie, what about school?”

  “You’ll be tutored. Better yet, why not just take your GED test now. Use this next year to help your family and—”

  “No. The money sounds great, but I want to go back to Seacrest High. I want to play basketball for the varsity, earn a college scholarship.”

  “Sweetie, last week you couldn’t walk, now you want to play for the school team? I mean, it’s a great story, but maybe you need to let your body get a bit stronger first—the last thing we need is another emergency surgery . . . oh my, what are you doing?”

  She backed away as I continued pressing my palms against the aluminum rails of my bed until the support screws popped and the metal bent in half.

  “I feel pretty strong right now.”

  Annie’s eyes lit up. “Outrageous. You have got to do that for 60 Minutes.”

  And so it went—my body growing stronger every day, my ego keeping pace. Three days after surgery, I was pumping iron with a private trainer in the hospital’s weight room, my muscles responding as if they were engorged with steroids. The hospital administrator moved me to a private room where teams of specialists could examine me by day while allowing me to rest at night. Of course, I really didn’t need to be there, but Annie insisted I remain a patient until Tuesday morning’s big press conference. She also decided it was better I return to school the following day—that way she could use the announcement to set up endorsement meetings in New York the following week when I was scheduled to do the Today Show and Letterman. “Trust me, sweetie, by next week, the name Kwan Wilson will be trending at the top of the A list.”

  Annie wanted Principal Lockhart to schedule a special assembly on Wednesday for my triumphant return to high school, but I shut that idea down in a hurry. It was more important that I remain a regular guy at Seacrest High—part of the student body.

  Kwan Wilson: Regular Guy . . . yeah, right.

  That inner voice of mine was blowing so much smoke up my ass it must have been seeping out of my colostomy scar.

  The Tuesday morning press conference in the hospital cafeteria was mind-blowing. There must have been fifty news vans in the parking lot with several hundred reporters crowded around a makeshift dais. The hospital administrator gave a brief synopsis of what had transpired, purposely skipping any details about the IV bag and HGH injections, sticking to the agreed upon statement, “We’re still analyzing blood and tissue samples in the hopes that we can replicate this miracle and provide it to other paraplegic and quadriplegic patients around the world.”

  Dr. Prettelt was next. He spoke in medical jargon about what had happened over the last week, gave a shout out to my grandmother, “a valued member of our nursing staff,” then he introduced yours truly to the world.

  I stepped to the dais and read from a prepared statement, which included a brief mention that my injury had occurred while I was driving my mother to work and that she had died with me at the wheel. “No miracle can ever bring her back, but I know she played a part in my healing.” Then I jogged in place and performed a dozen jumping jacks before turning the proceedings over to Annie, who introduced herself, explained that a foundation would be set up in my name “to fund the medical means by which we hoped to spread this miracle to others.” She thanked everyone for coming as I was ushered out of the room by my keepers, all of us refusing to answer the reporters’ questions and their demands for more information.

  Sun Jung and I arrived home twenty minutes later. There were already four news vans staked out by the curb. By dinner that number increased tenfold. The story was spreading around the Internet faster than Annie could track it; the video of the press conference surpassing ten million hits.

  The circus had indeed come to town and I was its ringmaster, enclosed in a new kind of paralysis.

  18

  I was up before the sun bled the night gray, my head too full of thoughts to sleep. Today would be another milestone, one I faced with excitement and dread. Excitement because Anya would be seeing me for the first time as a fully functioning man (if you’re wondering if I was functioning fully down below, the answer is yes—although it took a few tries before I could get the “pump” fully primed). I was also excited to have received a phone message from Coach Flaig, inviting me to scrimmage with the varsity.

  So what was I afraid of? How about everything. When I decided to risk my life by injecting shark stem cells into my body, my only desire was to be able to walk again or end my misery—nothing about being the google center of the world. Admittedly, the thought of being a celebrity was stroking my ego, but things had quickly gotten out of control. Strangers were blowing up my cell phone with crazy messages, I couldn’t step outside my grandmother’s home without being bull-rushed, and a few religious zealots were claiming I was the anti-Christ.

  To Sun Jung, I was her long-lost grandson returned from the dead. Maybe it was all the attention or the lure of money—maybe it was just me no longer being a burden. Either way, I seemed to have found my way back into my grandmother’s heart.

  And what about Anya’s heart? Now that I was no longer the nonthreatening Asian guy bound to a wheelchair, how would she feel about me? Was I “hook-up potent
ial”? Was there an attraction? Looming over any chance of a relationship was a pending trust issue. Anya wasn’t stupid; by now she had to know I had stolen the stem cell pouches when she caught me in the lab refrigerator. Would she be angry at me? Who was I kidding; I had lied to her.

  And what about Dr. Becker? Would she come forward, claiming credit for my miracle or simply have me locked away? The press conference had most likely saved my ass against the latter, but I knew at some point I’d have to answer for my actions.

  While all this was happening, I was fighting to adapt physically and mentally to my body’s continuing metamorphosis. It had been almost a year since I had last stood, taken a step, or dressed myself without performing gymnastic maneuvers. Even a seemingly natural act like taking a dump in the toilet felt completely alien to me after having used a colostomy bag for so long. It had taken months of therapy to adjust after the car accident. Now everything was happening so fast; it was disorienting.

  Add to that my still-evolving musculature. Paralysis had caused my legs and butt to atrophy—now the shark stem cells seemed to be targeting these weak areas, directing the human growth hormone that was saturating my cells to increase the strength, size, and density of these damaged muscle groups. With each passing day, I was looking more and more like a professional bodybuilder. The problem was that I hadn’t worn my new physique long enough to develop any coordination—a necessary skill in shooting a basketball. Having been invited to a tryout with the varsity, I was scared shitless my shots would either fly over the backboard or dent the rim. The last thing I needed was to be putting up cinderblocks during my first team practice—in front of an army of cameras, no less.

  There was only one solution: I needed to practice—away from the media.

  Keeping the lights off, I fished out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt from a drawer and dressed. It was a surreal feeling to wiggle my toes as I pulled on my socks—but how great was it lacing up my high-tops again—even better than spanking the monkey!

  Searching my closet, I found a basketball; only it needed air. Quietly, I left my room and made my way through the hall to the pitch-dark kitchen, feeling my way along the wall to the door leading out to the garage, where I knew I would find the air pump.

  Touching the door, I froze. There was someone in the garage—three people! They weren’t speaking or uttering a sound, and yet I knew they were in there, in fact I was certain they were sleeping.

  How did I know this?

  Palms pressed to the door, I could feel their beating hearts! Not hear . . . feel! Somehow I felt their pulses in my neck and wrists, and in the femoral artery running up into my groin. It was like they were in my blood, beating like three independent timpani drums. Two thudded heavier than the third, who I surmised was female. Of the two men, one heartbeat was strong and slow, the other rapid and irregular, and for some peculiar reason (hell, the entire episode was beyond peculiar) I found myself drawn to Mr. Irregular Pulse like a lion to a wounded wildebeest.

  And now something else was happening—I could see! My eyes were adjusting to the darkness, only not in a normal way; this was more like a soldier donning a pair of night vision goggles. Within this gradual illumination of violets and purples, the kitchen sink, stove, and refrigerator appeared to materialize out of the dark ether.

  All of these changes were really cool and I probably could have remained there until daybreak, absorbed in this bizarre, adaptive predator dichotomy of the senses, only what I really wanted to do was to find out if I could still play basketball. So very quietly I unbolted the garage door and pushed it open.

  A gust of air offered a brief resistance. The lock on the garage window had been pried open, allowing one of the more aggressive news crews access into our home. The two men whose heartbeats were registering within my own bloodstream were asleep on the floor, their equipment defining them as a cameraman and sound man. The woman was blonde and pretty, and she was asleep in a lounge chair—her pulse causing her carotid artery to flutter.

  And suddenly there were so many options . . . all disturbingly violent.

  I could have ripped that artery out with my teeth and bled her to death. I could have bashed in Mr. Irregular Pulse’s skull with his camera, then strangled the sound man with his cords.

  How do I describe these bizarre thoughts? In retrospect, they felt more like a physical temptation than a voice in my head—predatory instincts, bordering on lust.

  Instead of entertaining these thoughts, I simply swatted them aside. Locating the air pump, I stealthily slipped out the open garage window.

  The night was tinged with tobacco smoke and urine, the pungent remains of take-out, and the festering odor of human sweat. My nostrils flared at the potpourri; my suddenly adept sense of smell guiding me around a maze of sleeping bodies and idling vehicles until I was beyond the paparazzi, moving at a pace I couldn’t begin to fathom.

  The park was closed—good. I vaulted the eight-foot fence and found my way to the two asphalt basketball courts. I added air to the ball, dribbled my way to one of the four foul lines, then set myself and hoisted a no-arc shot that thudded off the backboard without coming close to the rim.

  I spit in disgust. The basketball player I had left on the San Diego hardwood was gone, replaced by a muscle-bound bricklayer.

  Suck it up and go back to basics . . .

  When I was twelve, I attended a summer basketball camp visited by Hall of Fame basketball coach Herb Magee, the legendary “Shot Doctor” who piled up wins by the hundreds at Philadelphia University. Coach Magee taught us how to develop “a feel” by shooting two feet from the front of the rim with one hand.

  “Snap your wrist and follow through, Kwan, and you’ll create backspin on the ball. Make sure you point your second and third fingers at the target. Don’t take a step back until you feel the ball entering the hoop. Good! Step back and we add your guide hand. Step back some more and bend your knees, generating power from your legs. Back away another step and we add a jump. Shoulders square, shooting elbow at ninety degrees. Miss two in a row and take a step in.”

  It was frustrating; my muscles were tight, refusing to cooperate. But I wouldn’t give up, and after about twenty minutes I found a rhythm. By the time the sun came up, I was shooting jump shots from the elbow—the corners of the foul line.

  I switched to layups off the dribble and reverted back into Dorkenstein. Again, I had to break things down into simple movements until my brain tapped into my muscle memory and uploaded the information to my new lower body. Twenty minutes later I had my footwork down and was doing reverse layups.

  It was getting late—maybe seven o’clock, leaving me little time to shower and change. But before I could leave the court I needed to know one last thing . . . how strong were these new legs of mine?

  Leaving the ball by the foul line, I took a running start and jumped for the front of the rim—and smashed into it with my elbows!

  I landed from the fifty-three-inch vertical jump, dazed and giddy. Dunking had never been a part of my game. My high school coach who was Jewish used to tease me by saying, “The only thing more grounded than a Jew was a Korean.” On my best day I could barely grab the rim with both hands.

  But this? This was ridiculous.

  Grabbing the ball, I dribbled toward the basket and leaped, easily dunking with two hands. Circling the arc, I drove and elevated again, laying down a vicious one-handed tomahawk. That was followed by a two-handed reverse, a nasty left-handed windmill, and a cock-the-hammer, in-your-face rim rattler. I didn’t care about the time. I didn’t care about Anya or Dr. Becker or school or appearing on Letterman or even being rich and famous. This was heaven, every flush an orgasm, every move as smooth as butter and I couldn’t wait to dunk on Stephen Ley in today’s scrimmage. With any luck, it would find its way onto SportsCenter.

  Gonna make you my bitch . . .

  Drenched in sweat, I f
inished my workout with an off-the-backboard, Blake Griffin jaw-breaker, thunder-maker, molar-loosening throw down that ended with a yell into the heavens—probably more Michael Jackson than Rambo II.

  Grabbing the air pump, I set off for home.

  Even with the police escort, I was late to school and had to report to the office. Principal Lockhart saw me at the front desk filling out a late slip and his jaw dropped. Seriously—the dude’s chin was just hanging over his bow tie. Rachel Solomon came over and gave me a tearful thirty-second hug.

  By the time she pulled away, there were a dozen students aiming iPhones at us.

  “Sorry I’m late, Dr. Lockhart. Do I need a note to get into Mr. Hock’s class?”

  “Mr. Hock? No . . . but I need to see you in my office—damn, you filled out. You’re not on steroids, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Because that stuff’ll screw you up. You heard of roid rage, right?”

  Roid rage? What the hell was he yabbering about? So what if I had contemplated chewing on a woman’s carotid artery? I wasn’t on steroids.

  He led me to his office door, which was closed. “Go on in, I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I entered, the door pulled shut behind me.

  Oh, hell . . .

  Seated behind Principal Lockhart’s desk was Dr. Becker.

  19

  Are you insane?”

  I sat down, readying myself for her lecture. “Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain . . . and all the children are insane.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a line from a Doors’ song, about the big sleep, you know—suicide. Maybe I was insane. All I know is that I couldn’t handle things anymore; I was either going to walk again or die trying. I’m sorry for stealing the stem cells, but they worked and I’ll forever be indebted. Anyway, the good news is I proved the treatment is safe for humans. You could come with me on The Today Show. Think of all the money I could help you raise.”