‘What happened?’ she asks, knowing the answer before he can get it out. Boy doesn’t say anything. Instead, he crawls into the bed and pulls Megumi close to him. He pushes his scruffy bearded face into her back until everything is dark; his head is under the covers and no light can penetrate his blanket shield.
₪₪₪
Hours later, hours in which Boy spends pressed against Megumi’s body, there is the inevitable knock at the door of the hotel room. It can only be one person.
‘I’ll get it,’ he says to Megumi.
‘I’ll come too,’ she says, finally having pried out of him what happened at the museum, albeit a muffled version.
Boy slithers out of bed and brushes his shirt off, like that will do anything. A dull pain in his lower back makes him cringe.
‘Your back!’ Megumi says, gasping at the marks Glass Wings made with the tips of his razor-sharp wings.
Boy reaches his hand around and feels a few scabbed ridges. He tosses his torn shirt to the floor, grabs his pearl snap button-up as he walks to the front door.
‘Hi,’ Oggie says with his usual wince-smile. ‘May I?’
‘Please, come in,’ Boy says. Oggie is the same as ever – tie and vest, a small laptop bag hung over his shoulder, polished dress shoes. Megumi enters into the suite’s living room and settles in on the couch.
‘So…’ A pained look adds a splash of shadow to his face.
‘Yes?’ Boy realizes he should have thought out what he would say before inviting his patron into the room. Next to him, Megumi looks down at her hands.
‘I guess there’s no real way to start this, so I’m going to just come out and say it.’ Oggie reaches into his bag. ‘There was an incident at the museum, am I correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Luckily, at least for your show, the incident was highly isolated, and not many people witnessed what happened.’
‘Okay.’
As he explains to Oggie what happened, Megumi’s hand slides down her lap and falls into Boy’s open palm. He squeezes her hand as he relives his nightmare, squeezes it as he explains to Oggie that the monster threatened Megumi, and that was why he came back to the hotel. Oggie listens patiently, as he did the previous night.
‘So, things are getting worse,’ he finally says through pursed lips.
‘I-I-I think they are.’
‘Okay, well I want you to take a look at something.’
Oggie turns his tablet PC in Boy’s direction and presses the play button on the screen.
₪₪₪
A grainy color video starts and Boy sees himself from the fisheye view of the gallery hallway. The security camera. The soundless video shows Boy running down the hallway and whipping around, as if something was coming at him. He trips over his own feet and runs into a door – the small office. He runs out seconds later and keeps on down the hallway.
The video slices to another angle which captures the end of the hallway as well as the supply closet. Closer to the camera now, the genuine look of panic is evident on Boy’s face. From the supply closet, he pulls out a mop and what he knows is a screwdriver (which is a little too blurry to discern in the video).
Boy waits near the door and swings the mop several times in front of him. Eventually, the mop flies from his hand and smacks against the wall. He comes crashing down onto the floor and begins stabbing the air with his screwdriver.
Oggie turns the screen away from him. ‘It’s a hallucination,’ he says with a finality that pierces Boy’s heart.
‘I-I…’
‘We need to get you some help.’
With her hand behind his back now, Megumi touches the fresh wounds on Boy’s back. He looks to her slowly. She feels them too. He hesitates for a moment, knowing that what he says next will be the start of a new chapter of his life.
‘Okay,’ he says, nodding softly. ‘I’ll get some help.’
Chapter 13: Aftermath
Boy’s Age: 25
Not everything is what it seems.
LaGuardia Airport. Outside sun setting blood tinged copper. Tension presses down on the shoulders of the people waiting to pick up their loved ones. A voracious German Shepherd drags his K-9 officer towards the interminable check-in line.
September 11th is the worst day to fly.
Boy feels the threat even though he has nothing to hide. He’s sitting on the end of a metal bench next to a teenager with baggy pants keen to kick-start his rap career.
~~THE CURRENT THREAT LEVEL IS RED. PASSENGERS SHOULD STAY WITH THEIR BELONGINGS AT ALL TIMES. REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY TO AIRPORT PERSONNEL. DO NOT ACCEPT ANY LUGGAGE~~
Too many voices in the air.
He hasn’t heard any voices – Penelope’s specifically – for three months now. Arriving back in New York from Japan, Oggie got in touch with a neuropsychology professor interested in experimental psychology at Columbia. After being explained of Boy’s condition, Dr. Benny Shepard began a series of tests monitoring Boy’s sleep, or lack thereof. His vital signs were checked once a day, and Boy was put on a sleeping aid. Other medications would come once he’d been properly diagnosed.
Unlike a person suffering from peduncular hallucinosis – the closest neurological disorder to whatever he suffered from – Boy had no lesions on his brainstem. He also showed no signs of any other neurological disorders, such as dementia or epilepsy. He was an anomaly, a neuropsychologist’s wet dream.
~~THIS IS A LAGUARDIA SECURITY ALERT: KEEP YOUR EYES ON YOUR BELONGINGS. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, TAKE ITEMS FROM STRANGERS. UNATTENDED BAGGAGE WILL BE SEARCHED AND REMOVED ~~
After the first month of tests, Dr. Shepard, with the help of a grad student, began working on a paper detailing the extent of Boy’s condition. During one of their sessions, Boy told Dr. Shepard about Megumi, whom he’d been Skyping with ever since leaving Japan. Fascinated by the similarities of their condition, Dr. Shepard offered to fund a trip for her to visit New York.
At first Megumi declined. She wasn’t interested in being studied, didn’t want to explore her condition any more than it had been explored by her, and in some sense, by Boy. But the reason Boy wanted her to visit New York was twofold – sure, Dr. Shepard hoped to study Megumi’s condition, but also, Boy missed her greatly. She was the only person he’d met whom he shared his bizarre condition with. They’d survived that attack in the hotel room together, she’d saved him.
And he told her this, and reluctantly, with a pixilated Skype smile on her face, she agreed to come to New York.
₪₪₪
But that’s not who Boy is waiting for at LaGuardia. Megumi would come in about a month and a half, just in time for his birthday at the beginning of November. She would stay three weeks and if things went well, he’d visit her in Japan early next year.
The swarm of moving people is Francis Bacon and amorphous. Watching the crowd stir gives Boy the urge to paint. A portrait of a moving crowd flashes across his mind’s eye. The portrait could be made using a variety of palette knifes to add movement and chaos. Tea Rose, Charcoal Gray, Maroon, White Smoke.
Boy pulls out a small paper pad he purchased from Japan. With a pen he keeps in his front pocket, Boy sketches a swirling crowd in quick dashes. He looks up from time to time, for details and to place emphasis on particular people in the pell-mell throng.
The rapping youth sitting next to him stands and disappears into the blooming crowd of people waiting for God knows who. At least it’s quiet now.
In the end, Boy agreed to let Oggie have the Glass Wings statue. It was part of his contract, and even though Boy would’ve rather destroyed the piece (and truth be told, still had fantasies of bringing a bat to it), Oggie’s promise that he would preserve the statue as evidence of his condition finally convinced Boy that it was safe in his hands. The piece, along with the rest of Portraits of the Ghosts that Haunt Me, was set to be displayed in Seattle in December. Boy, at the advice of both Dr. Shepard and Oggie, would not attend this opening.
Through a video editor Oggie knew, the interviews have been spliced together with clips of Boy fighting the ‘invisible monster’ through the hallways of the gallery in Japan. Once the collection opens in Seattle, patrons will be funneled into a dark room to watch the video. A black bar will shield Boy’s eyes as he speaks.
No longer wanting to hide behind who he is, his neurological disorder has become part of his art, part of his identity. His pieces from this point forward will always be tinged with speculation and acknowledgement of the works featured in Portraits of the Ghosts that Haunt Me. Part of Boy felt he was exploiting himself; the other part was relieved to finally get it all off his chest.
Still, in the interviews, he never told Dr. Shepard of the scars on his back from Glass Wings. Megumi had also agreed not to mention the scars when she came to New York. In a statement that was less macabre joke and more precautionary remark, she also told him that she’d be bringing her special knife with her.
~~THE CURRENT THREAT LEVEL IS RED. PASSENGERS SHOULD STAY WITH THEIR BELONGINGS AT ALL TIMES~~
A quick glance at the crowd startles him.
Not here.
Boy stuffs his notepad away and closes his eyes. He breathes deeply, tries to relax himself. This is one thing Dr. Shepard suggested: do not give your hallucinations the attention they require to coexist with you.
Boy feels hungry all the sudden, and reaches into his other pocket for a granola bar he purchased at the bodega near his studio. He tears the package open with his teeth and slowly opens his eyes.
₪₪₪
Thirty minutes pass and the flight from Arizona arrives. Boy stands and stretches, even though he knows it will be another ten or fifteen minutes before Girl and Lucy exit the terminal. He doesn’t know how he’ll react once he sees Girl; it will be strange to see Lucy too. I’m an uncle. Just saying this makes him feel old, and that name of hers…
~~THIS IS A LAGUARDIA SECURITY ALERT: KEEP YOUR EYES ON YOUR BELONGINGS. DON’T, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES ~~
He walks over to the exit point outside of the baggage claim area. The gangster youth stands nearby, rapping and moving his hand in the air like he’s petting a wave.
Boy inches far enough away to tune him out. He’s seen pictures of Girl and Lucy on the internet, pictures she’s sent him as well as a few uploads on Facebook, but those can be misleading (he only has one photo of himself on Facebook – the picture of him in Mexico with Friend next to the zonkey).
He knows that he’ll recognize his sister instantly, but wonders if she’ll recognize him. He looks more or less the same as he did when she last saw him almost seven years ago. Blondish-brown hair, same nose, same semi-skinny frame, Converse or Vans. Maybe he’s stooped over now. Maybe his skin has leathered. No one knows how they really look to others.
The plan is to hang out in New York for a few days, do some shopping, visit Chinatown, the Statue of Liberty and the MOMA. He’s made arrangements for them to stay in his upstairs bedroom. He’ll sleep downstairs in the studio, amidst his paint, his half-started canvases and a growing collection of books sitting like a pillar on the floor. His life.
On Sunday, they’ll return once again to LaGuardia to catch a flight to St. Louis. Neither of them has seen Mom in years, and it will be a family reunion of sorts. The last time he saw Mom was after moving to Austin (and that was just for a measly Thanksgiving dinner in which she mostly spoke about Girl and how she felt her children had betrayed her). There would be some resentment for sure, but hopefully together, Boy and Girl, and all together, Boy, Girl, Mom and Lucy, could make it work.
Cue a happy ending.
₪₪₪
People begin pouring out of the baggage claim area dragging suitcases and blathering on their cell phones. Boy stands to the left of the exit point with his hands in his pockets. The colorful multitude pushes past him.
The world is a work of art; People and animals are helpless pigments, misguided splashes of color that have bled together. Boy blinks and the floor of the airport is suddenly covered in vibrant paints and people sludge through it, oblivious to the colorful splatters dappling their pant legs, skirts, jeans and blouses.
If only it were real.
A small girl runs forward, sprinting through the paint and misting the people surrounding her with colorful flecks. She’s scooped into the arm of an old man, an old man with a crooked nose and legs thin as picks. The little girl looks over at Boy and her eyes go white. She grins; glass teeth covered in ink black blood grow from her gums.
‘Not here,’ Boy says, turning his back to them. A quiver of fear so powerful it makes him gasp, judders up the nape of his neck. Not here. He splutters, swallows it down, forces the gulp of fear to sink deep into his belly to be devoured by his stomach acid.
The paint subsides, unbeknownst to the people who’ve just waded through it, and seconds later, Boy spots his sister pushing a stroller away from the baggage claim area. Girl has no luggage, only a backpack and a smile the likes of which he’s never seen before. He waves and runs to greet her.
It’s finally over.
His demons are a backdrop, his future a serrated landscape, the present moment a freshly primed canvas, the past a faded drop of ink spreading on wet parchment. Paint those monsters away; paint them and make them beautiful. Let the colors blend; let them melt into one another; let them form something new entirely. Paint those monsters away; fillet the past and leave the strips to dry.
Damn if it isn’t true. Damn those who believe it isn’t.
The end.
Reader, if you enjoyed Boy versus Self, please review it here. This is the only way for this book to reach more readers. Continue on for notes on the book and samples of my other works.
-Harmon Cooper
Back of the Book Shit
Dear Reader,
Glad you made it through this, glad we all have made it this far. Boy versus Self was handwritten from about February 2013 until December 2013. Stupidly, I sent an early copy to my grandmother who told me it was trash (she was a literature professor in her heyday) and that I should be ashamed to have written something like this. It was arranged differently then, Ghosts and STDs being the first chapter. I suppose a chapter about having sex with a ghost is sort of inappropriate, but I also was convinced that she would see the bigger picture as to what I was developing as the novel progressed.
Word of advice: don’t give this book to your grandma unless she kicks ass (many do).
More about the book.
Boy versus Self still troubles me to read and edit, as some of these things have happened to me in my real life, most notably portions of Outside Over There Mexico, Santiago Escapes the Sharks, the art piece Flowering and Sri, Sri, Sri. Don’t worry, unlike Boy, I don’t see things, at least not as often as he does. Some of the things, however, have happened to me, like being part of a less-than-desirable medical study.
Speaking of Boy... I told a woman over a beer at a company gathering two years ago that I was writing a book and the lead’s name was ‘Boy’. She laughed this off, telling me, ‘Oh, you are one of those writers.’ I guess I am one of those writers, but my original reason for naming the character Boy was simply because I didn’t have another name for him at the time. It was just a placeholder, a placeholder that grew on me. In fact, the first chapter written for this book was Salome and Maeve (chapters 7 and 8), and I named him Boy because I planned to change the name later. I also named Friend ‘Friend’ and Girl ‘Girl’ for the same reason. Upon reading it back, I liked it and it stuck.
So if you hate the names, sorry. I’m apparently one of those writers.
Looking back – the name does match the title of the book, though. After all, Boy is essentially fighting himself. Now is he just hal
lucinating or is he seeing things that are actually there? You decide. The chapters were developed to suggest either angle. Some things shouldn’t be real even if they are.
Black Olive Eyes, the chapter in which Boy fills out the food stamp form, is the hardest for me to get through. Interestingly, I entered the chapter in a writing contest judged by writers in 2013 and I had quite a bit of feedback. Some people loved it, others called me a racist, still others applauded me for my conservative values (Ha! See my digital short collection, Dear NSA).
Interpret this chapter how you will, but know that it was written to show the plight of the poor and how the easily their (our?) perception is controlled by powerful media and political forces. Mom could use food stamp assistant due to the fact she is a single mother with two children getting paid minimum wage, which we all know isn’t enough in most states (this coming from a man who spent nearly ten years of his life being paid minimum wage), yet she is too proud to apply. Some may champion this notion, but anyone in their right mind, who has seen how some of the poor actually live (from third world countries to third world within the contiguous United States) as opposed to how the wealthy live, will see just how far a little help can take someone. Grains of salt to be passed around at the end of this almost rant.
The first draft of Boy versus Self was 120,000 words. The one you’ve just finished was about 98,000. I originally wanted to publish this book traditionally, so I shaved off over 20,000 words to get it under 100k, which is still pretty large for a first-time author. I sent about 50-100 manuscripts out around January 2013, all of which were rejected. The book was set up differently at the time, as I mentioned before.
I then retired the book.
It sat on my computer without being touched until April 2015, when I let my girlfriend, my beta-reader and cover artist (known as White Comma due to her popular fashion line here in Asia) read the book. She fell in love with it and tore through the pages, which gave me inspiration to give the book another shot. Together we decided on a cover and after she painted it, my first reaction was to scratch through Boy’s face, making it look as if his head were exploding. I can’t think of a better way to encapsulate this book.
Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller) Page 32
