by S. G. Browne
We talked for more than half an hour about life and politics and the next thing I knew, I was joining the Bruin Democrats and dating the cute redhead, whose name was Monica Kaplan. Our relationship didn’t last long. We broke up after a few weeks when I realized she was fiscally conservative and didn’t believe in global warming.
Nat, who doesn’t really have any political aspirations and only joined the Bruin Democrats because I did, takes another drink of his beer, then puts his arm around me and says, “I think I’m in love.”
“We’ve gone over this,” I say. “I’m hetero.”
“Not with you, bro.” Nat points to a pair of women standing near the other end of the bar wearing UCLA garb. They’re not part of our group, but they’re apparently from school. “With one of them.”
The tall brunette with endless legs looks like a young Anne Hathaway, while the cute little blonde standing five feet and change reminds me of a shorter version of Taylor Swift.
They’re both what you would call major-league gorgeous. We’re talking all-star material. And both of them are well out of Nat’s league. If this is baseball, the blonde and the brunette are starting for the New York Yankees while Nat’s batting .200 in Single A.
“Which one?” I ask.
“Both of them. But the blonde keeps checking me out.”
He’s right. She does keep looking our way, but I’m getting the distinct impression that she’s looking at me and not Nat.
“She’s into me,” says Nat, nodding and taking a drink of his beer. “I can tell.”
Nat has bad vision at the plate. He also gets thrown out a lot trying to stretch an infield single into a double. A triple is a rarity. And he strikes out more often than he gets a hit.
“She’s totally hot,” he says. “I bet she’s even hotter naked.”
“Yeah. And I bet you’d get off before your pants did.”
Problems with control and consistency are the most common reasons players like Nat get sent back down to Single A ball.
“You’re not exactly helping,” he says.
“Well, you’re not exactly Casanova, you know.”
Nat takes a drink of his beer. “Okay then, Romeo. Tell me what I should do.”
I look over at the blonde, who is most definitely checking me out, and I give Nat the same advice my father always gave to me.
“Just be who she wants you to be.”
“How do I know who she wants me to be?”
“I don’t know. But most women want a guy with confidence. Someone who knows what he wants and who isn’t afraid to go get it. So start with that.”
“Okay. So I just need to walk up to her and let her know that I want her.”
“You might want to go with a little more subtlety than that,” I say. “Women like to be nuanced.”
“I’m a guy. I don’t understand subtlety and nuance.”
Like that’s news.
“And it helps if you can make them laugh,” I say.
Nat takes a drink. “I think I’ve got that covered.”
More than once over the years I’ve seen a girl or a woman laugh at Nat’s advances, sometimes right in his face. Which doesn’t help with his self-esteem.
“It’s all about playing the part,” I say. “Adopting a persona. Pretending to be the right man for the right time.”
“Like Captain Kirk?”
Nat has always had a man-crush on William Shatner.
“Not exactly,” I say. “But if that’s what works for you, sure. Just don’t pull out your cell phone and ask Scotty to beam you up.”
Nat takes another drink, then wipes his mouth. “All right. Let’s do this. Let’s be the men we’re supposed to be.”
Spoken like a true romantic.
“But just to be clear,” he says. “I get the blonde and you get the brunette.”
“Sure thing.”
Though I’m guessing he won’t end up with either. And with Nat, when it comes to women, nothing is ever a sure thing.
“Hello, ladies,” he says, coming across as both desperate and drunk at the same time. It’s a rare talent but one Nat has managed to cultivate over the years.
The brunette gives a forced smile and turns to the blonde. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Which is woman-speak for I’m not interested in these losers.
As the brunette walks off, the blonde smiles at me. “So are you two boys part of the Young Liberals?”
Her voice comes out smooth and lyrical, with a soft southern lilt.
I love a southern accent on a woman.
“Bruin Democrats,” I say.
“You interested in joining?” says Nat, looking at her like an excited dog. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.
She finishes off her drink and shakes her head. “I don’t believe in political parties. They’re like organized religion. Eventually, everyone just ends up believing they’re right and everyone else is wrong. I don’t really see the point.”
“The point is to get involved in something that’s bigger than you,” I say. “Do something to try to make a difference. Focus on the present and do your part to change the world.”
She smiles and opens her mouth to say something but before she can, Nat points at her empty glass. “Hey, you’re low on fuel. Can I get you another?”
“Sure thing, sugar.” She hands him her glass. “Screwdriver. Grey Goose.”
“Coming up,” he says. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
After Nat heads off to the bar, the blonde turns to me. “So do you really want to make a difference? Change the world? Or is that just a line you use to try to get laid?”
“Are you talking about now or in general?”
She tilts her head and smiles. “I guess that depends on how focused you are on the present.”
I glance past her to where Nat stands at the bar and I wonder how he’s going to react when he realizes he’s been benched for a pinch hitter. Not like this is the first time that’s happened, but it’s always kind of awkward when I bring her home.
When I look back at the blonde she’s looking up at me, waiting for my response.
“You must live in the present,” I say. “Launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.”
“That’s lovely,” she says, her voice as intoxicating as any drug. “Did you just make that up?”
I shake my head. “I borrowed it from Thoreau.”
“Is he an actor?”
I smile. “Close enough.”
She smiles back at me and holds out her hand. “By the way, I’m Delilah.”
CHAPTER 22
I’m sitting at my desk in my office at work the day after Halloween, staring at the headline on my computer for an article on CNN.com:
Another Los Angeles–Area Death Connected to Black Market Egos
I’m not sure how long I’ve been gazing at my computer, but it’s noon already and I have no idea what happened to the last hour. All I know is that I’m having trouble focusing on the text, which is giving me a headache. The words keep blending together, so I hit the video report and listen to the news anchorman explain what happened.
“According to a friend, the deceased had recently purchased a black market Ego in the Los Feliz area and had bought Egos from the same dealer several times before without incident. Police have taken the suspected dealer into custody. His name has not been released.”
On the video over the anchor’s left shoulder is a photo of a blond woman who looks vaguely like someone I’ve met. But then, in Hollywood, a lot of blond women look familiar.
“The woman, Abigail Parsons, died after suffering what appears to have been a massive brain aneurysm after attending an Ego party in the Hollywood Hills. She was found this morning dead in her car, a tragic irony considering that she’d attended the party as Jayne Mansfield.”
The news anchor keeps talking but all I can see is me dressed in my dark green suit while holding two martinis, one of whi
ch I give to a woman who looks like . . .
Who are you? Gumby?
Part of me wants to believe it was just a dream and that this is just some bizarre coincidence—that my memory didn’t really happen. But another part of me knows I was at that party with her.
The anchor goes on to say that this is one of more than three dozen confirmed Ego-related deaths to occur in the Los Angeles area in the last few months, fueling rising concerns about the safety of black market Egos. Bill Summers, a spokesman for EGOS, is quoted as saying: “This senseless tragedy is another indication that amateurs should not be meddling with science and selling inferior merchandise that hasn’t been produced under controlled conditions and undergone the rigorous standards and testing that ensures a safe and reliable product.”
He goes on to say that EGOS stands by its product and invites anyone with questions or concerns to contact the company and speak with an authorized agent.
Then someone’s talking about the cost and popularity of Big Egos and how the recent deaths associated with the black market versions could have a positive impact on sales of authorized Egos. The report ends with the news anchor mentioning that the police are continuing to crack down on the sale of black market Egos in the Los Angeles area.
I sit and stare at the computer monitor, thinking about the three dozen deaths the reporter mentioned, then I close my eyes. I see Jayne Mansfield and David Cassidy and Ace Ventura and more than a dozen other celebrities and fictional characters I’ve met over the past several months. I’m hoping all of them are okay and that Jayne Mansfield just died from a defective black market Ego and that I didn’t have anything to do with it—except I’m not doing a very good job of convincing myself.
Could there be something wrong with the antidote? Could I have killed her? Or any of the others? Are they all dead? Is it possible I’ve been poisoning people all this time?
“. . . something’s wrong.”
When I open my eyes, Vincent is standing in my doorway. At first I think I was talking out loud and he knows about Jayne Mansfield and the antidote and my fears that I might have killed a dozen or more people, but from the concerned expression on his face I get the feeling there’s something else going on and that I missed the first part of what he said.
“What?” I say.
“Chloe,” he says. “I think there’s something wrong with her.”
“Wrong?”
Vincent’s look of concern is now directed at me. “Are you okay?”
I look back at the news story about Jayne Mansfield and I wonder if Applied Research knows anything about this.
“Yeah,” I say.
I’m aware that I’m giving single-word, monosyllabic responses and struggling to form a sentence that contains a predicate and a verb. I close my eyes and shake my head, which I realize probably looks incongruous to the answer I just gave to Vincent. When I open my eyes, he’s still standing in my doorway wearing his concerned expression. And I’m suddenly aware that his expression is contagious.
“Chloe?” I say, standing up. “What’s wrong with her?”
I’m still more than a little freaked out about the news story, but at least I’m speaking in complete sentences.
“It’s hard to say,” says Vincent.
“What’s she doing?”
“Nothing. She’s just sitting there, staring at her desk, making these weird sounds.”
I walk past Vincent and out of my office. “What kind of sounds?”
“Kind of like a pigeon or a dove,” he says, right on my heels. “Or maybe an owl. Except that’s not exactly it, either. It’s more like . . .”
Even before I reach Chloe I can hear her cooing, soft and low. Then she stops for several seconds before starting up again. Coo, coo, coo. It’s almost rhythmic. Except the closer I get, the less it sounds like cooing and the more it sounds like . . .
“Whooping,” says Vincent. “She’s whooping.”
Other than Chloe the office is quiet. Emily and Angela went out for lunch, Neil called in sick, and I don’t know where Kurt is.
“Where’s Kurt?” I ask.
“He’s in Hawaii,” says Vincent. “On vacation.”
Vacation? When did Kurt go on vacation?
“Right,” I say, figuring this is something I should probably remember, considering I’m the one who would have approved his time off.
Just add it to my growing list of What the Fuck.
When we reach Chloe’s workstation she’s sitting there with her back to us, staring at her desk, not moving, slightly slouched in her chair, head angled down, hands limp in her lap. I don’t have to see her face to know something’s wrong. Before I have a chance to say anything, her body moves ever so slightly, her shoulders shifting forward as she makes her strange call.
“Whoop, whoop, whoop.”
“Chloe?” I walk up behind her. “Chloe, are you all right?”
No response. She doesn’t turn around or acknowledge my presence. Not even when I reach out to touch her. It’s like I’m not even there.
“Chloe?”
I wave my hand in front of her face, poke her in the shoulder. For a moment I think she’s lost consciousness. And then:
“Whoop, whoop, whoop.”
“Spotted hyenas sound like that, too,” says Vincent.
I turn to look at him.
“And Bigfoot,” he says. “I heard an audio clip on the Internet. They make the same sound.”
“Whoop, whoop, whoop.”
I kneel down next to Chloe, who remains focused on her desk. Her eyes are open and unresponsive, her hair hanging down across her face. Spit dribbles out of the corner of her mouth and pools in a wet spot on her shirt just above her right breast.
Somehow I don’t think we’ll be discussing Thoreau or Chaucer or Dante today.
“Chloe,” I say. “Hey Chloe, can you hear me?”
Nothing. Just a blank stare, drool, and that same, incessant cry.
“Whoop, whoop, whoop.”
I brush the hair back from her face and wipe the drool from her mouth, looking in her eyes for any sign that she’s in there somewhere. I think about that night at the Blue Goose a couple of weeks ago, how she sat there with her chin propped in her hand and asked me if I wanted to have an affair. I remember the playful expression on her face, the wicked little smile, her eyes filled with mischief.
But there’s nothing in her eyes now. Chloe is gone. Chloe is on vacation. Chloe doesn’t live here anymore.
I stand up and walk over to Vincent. “How long . . .”
“Whoop, whoop, whoop.”
“. . . has she been like this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes. At first I thought she was talking to herself or singing along to a song or something so I didn’t really give it much thought. Then I noticed she kept saying the same thing over and over. So I stopped what I was doing and started listening. That’s when I came over to look at her and found her like this.”
I look back at Chloe, sitting there nearly catatonic, and I’m thinking about the anomaly Angela mentioned and wondering if this is somehow related.
“Call medical,” I say. “Tell them to get down here now.”
Vincent nods and picks up the phone. A moment later Chloe’s nose starts bleeding, like someone flipped a switch and opened up a valve. But she doesn’t notice.
“Whoop, whoop, whoop.”
CHAPTER 23
Angela, Emily, Vincent, and I sit in the meeting room, the rest of the office empty except for Neil. I can hear him opening and closing his drawers, adjusting his chair, moving things around on his desk. He does this every night before he leaves. It’s one of his compulsive routines. And I have to admit, it’s got a nice beat. Kind of an OCD lullaby. The Obsessive-Compulsive Orchestra’s Greatest Hits.
Open, close. Open, close. Shuffle, shuffle, slap.
Angela sits across from me, her hands on the table, twisting and grabbing each other, holding and clenching like a c
ouple of wrestlers. I don’t know if she’s aware of what she’s doing, but it’s making me nervous just watching her. Next to her, Vincent flips through an old copy of Wired and appears much more relaxed, though I’m guessing it’s just a front. At the far end of the table, Emily picks silently at her carcass of a Cinnabon.
Kurt, who is on vacation, is the only team member not in attendance. The rest of us are all waiting on Neil to finish his end-of-the-day ritual. Chloe, of course, is the reason we’re all here.
“Do you know how she’s doing?” asks Angela.
I shake my head. “The last I heard, she was being transferred to Metropolitan.”
That would be the state mental hospital in Norwalk, about fifteen miles southeast of Los Angeles.
“Jesus,” says Vincent.
Personally, I don’t think Jesus had anything to do with what happened to Chloe. But then, my lack of faith in a higher power is part of the reason I’m sitting here. You can’t do what we do and expect to sit in church on Sunday without feeling a little out of place. While we’re not exactly cooking in God’s kitchen, we’re definitely making up some new recipes.
Angela takes a slow, quiet breath and starts chewing on her lower lip as her hands continue their wrestling match. Out in the office, Neil continues to serenade us with his obsessive-compulsive symphony.
Open, close. Open, close. Shuffle, shuffle, slap.
I’d yell for Neil to hurry up, but he has to go through his routine or he gets cranky. Plus I don’t want to distract him and make him lose track and have him start all over.
“Did HR have anything more to say?” asks Angela.
Although a team from corporate came to discuss the incident and remind us about the availability of in-house counseling for anyone who wanted to talk to a therapist, they didn’t shed any light on what actually happened to Chloe other than to say we didn’t have anything to worry about. So I met with Human Resources to see what they could tell me.
“Not much,” I say. “They told me they couldn’t release any personal information about Chloe because I wasn’t family. But they assured me that whatever happened to her had nothing to do with her use of Big Egos.”
