All Too Surreal

by Tim Waggoner

  He nodded, wishing he’d never come up with that stupid Jerry Garcia line. He thought about taking a sip of coffee, decided against it. His luck, he’d end up spilling it all over both of them and sending them straight to the burn unit. “I’ve read the personals for years … always wondered about the people who wrote them, what they were like, why they chose to reach out like that. It seems so … I don’t know. Anonymous.” He realized how that sounded and hurried to add, “Not that there’s anything wrong with taking out an ad. I mean, I answered yours, right?”

  If Connie was upset by his answer, she didn’t show it. Instead, she leaned forward, green eyes suddenly intense — forest green, emerald green, dancing green flame, hot and cool at the same time. “Why did you respond to my ad? Why did you pick mine out of so many others?”

  Brad thought for a moment. “Honestly? Because it sounded as if you weren’t expecting too much.” And because he was so damned tired of being alone, but he decided not to add that part, not this early.

  She smiled again, and he sensed she was sizing him up with those green eyes, coldly appraising him. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if she were shining twin klieg lights on him that revealed every flaw, both outer and inner.

  “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” she asked. “Something … interesting.”

  Forty-five minutes and two cups of coffee later, Brad had finished telling her his life story, or at least the bare outline of it.

  “You know something, Connie? You’re really easy to talk to. Easier than my …” He’d been about to say therapist, and even though she knew all about that now, he instead said, “than anyone else I know.”

  “Why don’t you tell me one more thing about yourself, something that you’d change if you could. Just one thing.”

  Brad hesitated. He wasn’t sure why; he’d told her plenty already, too much, probably.

  “It’s just for fun,” she urged. “Kind of like a little personality test, a way to get to know you better. But if you don’t want to …”

  He wanted to, God how he wanted to! He had never met a woman like Connie before, one that seemed to accept who he was, warts and all, unconditionally. He’d told her all about his screwed-up life, and she hadn’t blasted him with pepper spray and run screaming into the night. If she wanted to play a little Q&A game, that was just fine by him.

  “I don’t know. I’ve got more than enough bad traits to choose from.” He chuckled uneasily. Connie continued smiling, but her eyes bored into him, their intensity more than a little disturbing. “I guess if I had to pick just one thing about myself to change, I’d like to stop smoking. I had an uncle who smoked two packs a day for nearly thirty years and died of congestive heart failure before he was fifty. I’d like to keep from going the same route, you know?”

  Connie nodded. “That’s a good place to start.” Before he could ask what she meant, she looked at her watch. “It’s getting late; I have to go.”

  Here it comes, he told himself. Here’s where she says she had a nice time talking with me, but she doesn’t think it’s going to work out. Have a nice life, Brad.

  “I had a good time talking with you, Brad.”

  He groaned inwardly. He was about to tell her that he understood, no hard feelings, when she added, “Let’s do it again. Maybe tomorrow night? Same place, same time?”

  Brad was so surprised that for a moment all he could do was stare. Finally, he managed to make his head bob up and down in a fair approximation of a nod.

  She gave him one last smile. “I’ll look forward to it.” She stood, started to go, then paused and laid a hand on his shoulder. Her touch made him shiver. “I like you, Brad. I think you have a lot of potential.” Then she removed her hand and walked away. His gaze tracked her as she wended through the bookshelves and out the door.

  Brad sat for several minutes, unable to believe how well things had worked out. He felt like a man who had won the lottery, been told by his doctor that the test results were negative, and received a telegram from heaven stating that his sins had been forgiven — all on the same day.

  It wasn’t until he was on the bus heading home that he realized Connie hadn’t told him anything about herself.

  Later that night, at three in the morning, Brad sat before his computer, working on a Web page for a client and thinking about his meeting with Connie. He couldn’t believe that he had told her so much. He had babbled on and on, practically telling her his entire life story — such as it was. He was twenty-nine, and until last summer he had lived with his alcoholic dad and his agoraphobic mom. He was a recovering alcoholic himself, as well as a recovering drug addict. Along with a host of other neuroses, he was prone to panic attacks and obsessive-compulsive behavior. Physically, he wasn’t in great shape either. He was plagued by allergies, migraines and irritable bowel syndrome. His face was pock-marked by the severe acne he’d suffered during his teenage years, and due to his atrocious diet — consisting primarily of Taco Bell and Dunkin Donuts — his cholesterol level was sky high. Because of his various psychological and physiological problems, his medicine cabinet was a mini-pharmacy of prescription drugs whose various and often conflicting side-effects only added to the sum total of misery in his life.

  He wasn’t a complete loser, though. Thanks to his skill with computers and an inherent sense of design and composition, he was able to support himself, more or less. He barely made enough money as a Web designer to cover the cost of his medicine and the rent on his one-bedroom hovel, but at least he didn’t have to live in the spiritually toxic dump that was his parents’ house anymore.

  Best of all, tonight he had met a beautiful, intriguing woman who seemed to accept him for what he was and who — wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles — wanted to see him again!

  Brad decided to mark his good fortune with a celebratory cigarette, realizing as he made this decision that he hadn’t felt the urge to light up since leaving the bookstore. Which was kind of weird, since he usually smoked a pack-and-a-half a day. He told himself that he’d probably just been so jazzed about meeting Connie that he hadn’t really needed a jolt of nicotine until now. He reached for the pack of Camels next his mouse, and as his fingers wrapped around the plastic, fire blossomed in his gut, as if some invisible assailant had rammed a white-hot knife blade into his stomach. Hissing in pain, he released the cigarettes and fell out of his chair onto the wooden floor. He lay on his side, dripping sweat and panting like a wounded animal, until the pain subsided.

  He managed to get on his feet and stay there, though his legs felt as if their bones had been replaced by pipe cleaners. He’d had reactions to his medicines before, but none this severe. He’d have to call his doctor in the morning. He reached for the cigarettes again, fully intending to get back on the carcinogenic horse that had thrown him, but he hesitated. He knew it was foolish, knew that the cigarettes had had nothing to do with his attack, but in his mind, he couldn’t help but associate them with the agony that had ripped through his insides.

  He withdrew his hand. Maybe he’d try again later, when the memory of the attack wasn’t so fresh.

  It wasn’t until close to dawn, when he finally crawled onto his bare mattress and settled down to sleep that he remembered the last question Connie had asked him in the cafe, about which aspect of his personality he’d like to change. He remembered how she’d responded when he’d told her he’d like to quit smoking.

  That’s a good place to start.

  “Hold it a little higher.”

  Brad obeyed, lifting the sheaf of wallpaper up and trying to press it flat against the wall. “Well?”

  Connie frowned. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “I like Miro.” Some people might have found the surrealist artist’s trademark lines and squiggly shapes an odd choice for a wallpaper design, but Brad thought it would go well with the ultra-modern, ultra-hip furnishings Connie and he had picked out.

  “Me too. I’ll get someone in here the first
of the week to put it up for us.”

  “Couldn’t we do it ourselves?” Brad asked.

  Connie put a hand on his forearm. “You make too much money to be hanging your own wallpaper, sweetie. Besides, you need to save your artistic energies for work.”

  “I suppose.” He dropped the sheaf of wallpaper to the floor and walked across the polished hardwood floor of their loft apartment. His footsteps echoed in the generous space of the living room, though it was so large, Brad had come to think of it as the living auditorium.

  Connie came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, stopping him. She lay her chin on his shoulder, said, “Is something wrong?”

  “No … yes. I don’t know.” He sighed, gently pulled free of Connie’s embrace and turned to face her.

  “Aren’t you happy with your life?” she asked. “Eight months ago you were living in a one bedroom roach farm. And now —”

  “Now I’m the boss of my own Web design company, and I live in one of the most ridiculously overpriced apartments in town. I don’t smoke anymore, don’t feel a need to drink or do drugs. I’m not nervous anymore … at least, not much, and I said goodbye to my therapist two months ago. The strongest medicine I take these days is an occasional decongestant.”

  “You forgot to mention that you’re in love with a beautiful, exciting woman.”

  Brad smiled. “There’s that, too.”

  “I can see why you might be unhappy,” Connie said in a teasing tone. “Your life sounds like a living hell.”

  Brad chuckled. “I don’t mean to complain. My life’s wonderful, like a dream come true. Better than a dream, because it’s real. It’s just …”

  “What?”

  “I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t really deserve all of this.” He gestured at the apartment around them, though he was talking about so much more than merely their quarters. “It feels as if everything is somehow your doing.”

  Connie’s eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed slightly. “What makes you say that?”

  He took her hand and led her over the white leather and chrome futon, and they sat. He continued holding her hand as he spoke. “The first night we met, when you asked what one thing I’d like to change about myself, and I told you I wanted to quit smoking?”

  She nodded for him to continue.

  “I stopped that very night. After that, whenever I tried to pick up a pack of cigarettes, I became violently ill. I couldn’t smoke now if I wanted to.”

  “Honey, that’s just —”

  “And it’s not only the cigarettes,” he hurried to add. “It’s booze and drugs and being afraid to talk to people and not having enough confidence in myself, and a dozen other things. All problems that I used to have… problems that you somehow fixed.”

  Connie’s smile seemed forced. “Maybe the love of a good woman —”

  He shook his head. “It’s more than that. Every once and a while — not every day because that would be too obvious, wouldn’t it? — you ask me about something in my life that I’d like to change. Not always in those words, but that’s what it boils down to. And whatever I tell you I want to change, whether it’s something big, like I don’t want to drink anymore, or something small, like I don’t want to feel awkward riding elevators with strangers, the next day or so, it’s fixed. I no longer have the desire to drink; just the thought of it makes me want to vomit, and suddenly I’m no longer intimidated by people on elevators, I’m striking up conversations with them. And it all happens after I’ve talked with you.”

  Brad felt foolish for bringing this up, hoped that she would pat him on the hand, tell him it was all his artist’s imagination at work, suggest that he consider seeing his therapist again, maybe just once or twice more, to dispel this silly fantasy.

  Instead, Connie looked at him a long time, her expression unreadable. Finally, she took in a deep breath and let out a noiseless sigh. “All right. It’s true. I have been … helping you.”

  Brad felt as if his spinal fluid had been replaced with Freon. He wanted to yank his hand away from Connie’s, wanted to get off the futon, put as much distance between them as he could. That’s exactly what the old Brad would have done. But the new, improved Brad was no longer ruled by his fears, so he remained sitting, and continued holding her hand while he listened.

  “You know the old cliché about how behind every good man there’s a good woman? About how a president or king often has an influential advisor that’s called the power behind the throne? Well, that’s what I am. Or rather, what my people are. We can … inspire changes in humans. Help them become more than they are, reach their full potential.”

  Brad remembered something Connie had said to him at their first meeting, just before she left. I like you, Brad. I think you have a lot of potential.

  “My people don’t have a name for ourselves, at least, not one that matters. Over the millennia, some humans came to realize what we can do. We’ve been called everything from muses to witches, demons to angels, genies to gods, and I suppose there’s some truth in all those terms. But we think of ourselves merely as artists whose chosen media are human lives.”

  Brad wanted to laugh, to congratulate her on coming up with such an inventive joke. But he knew from her tone and facial expressions that she wasn’t putting him on. More, he could sense the truth of her words deep in the core of his own being, and why not? If she truly had been somehow rearranging his life, his very personality, why wouldn’t he be aware of it on some level? What else would have prompted him to raise the subject in the first place?

  “So the ad you placed …”

  “Was my way of finding new men to work with. Some of my people are drawn to those already in fields of power and influence — business, politics, entertainment. But I prefer working with more modest material.”

  He recalled the first line of her ad: I’M NOT LOOKING FOR PERFECTION.

  “Thanks for the compliment.” Now he did stand and walk away. Connie rose to her feet and followed.

  “It’s not what you think,” she said.

  “Isn’t it?” He walked over to the picture window, looked out at the city lights glowing the dark. “You talk about humans as if we’re some separate species, a particularly clever animal that you can teach amusing tricks to.”

  She stepped beside him, slipped her hand into his. His surprised himself by not drawing away. “It’s not like that,” she said. “At least not with me. I need to fall in love with my subjects before I can fully commit to working with them. And I fell in love with you that first night in the cafe. You were so sweet, so vulnerable …” He didn’t turn to look at her, but he could hear the smile in her voice as she added, “I couldn’t resist you.”

  “Subjects, plural. There’ve been others.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. My people live much longer than hum — than yours. Would you hold it against me if I had other lovers before you, perhaps a husband or two?”

  He thought for a moment. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  She shrugged. “This is no different.”

  He turned to her then. “But it is. You’ve used whatever powers you possess to change me, to make me into something different than I was.”

  She reached up to touch his cheek. “Love always changes the one who feels it. My power is just somewhat more direct. Tell me: are you happy?”

  “Yes.” He couldn’t deny it.

  “And do you love me?”

  Softer, almost a whisper. “Yes.”

  She leaned forward, kissed him gently. “Then what’s to worry?”

  He put his arm around her and together they looked out into the night.

  After a time, he said, “You know, I’ve been thinking lately that business is pretty good, but it would be nice if I had the opportunity to develop my artistic side more.”

  Connie smiled.

  Swirling images — a barking Doberman, a man sleeping, furry-meaty road kill, a baby crying — backed by a nearly subliminal susurratio
n of voices. A large mirrored panel rotated slowly in the middle of the featureless room, reflecting the images onto the smooth, white walls, as well as onto any viewers that might be present.

  “The mirror’s rotation needs to be speeded up a bit,” Brad said. He listened for a moment. “The audio should be louder too.”

  Connie keyed a note into her palm-held computer. “If you had flown in to oversee the installation of the exhibits yourself …”

  He waved her comment away as a mass of scuttling beetles moved across his chest. “I was busy finishing that new piece for the Tamika Corporation. Besides, I sent detailed instructions which, evidently, were too difficult for the idiots who run this museum to read. C’mon, let’s go check the next one.”

  They exited the room, walked down a short unlit corridor and entered another chamber. Here, four large screens surrounded the viewer with blurred still images whose details were impossible to make out. At random intervals, the images simultaneously exploded into roaring, rushing movement lasting only a few seconds before once more falling still. All the while, a voice whispered a continuous chant about losing one’s individuality, one’s very identity to the monster called Love.

  “This one seems pretty good.” Brad had to speak loudly to be heard over the chant and the periodic outbursts of roaring sound. “The screens could be moved back a little, though, and angled so they aren’t quite as symmetrical.”

  Connie made a note, and they walked to the next room.

  “So, how does it feel to have your very own retrospective?” she asked as they entered the next exhibit. Here, two giant screens faced each other, lines of numbers scrolling across their surfaces so rapidly that the eye could barely make them out. The screens were hooked to twin computers which constantly struggled to infect each other with a virus while defending themselves against the other’s attack.