by S. G. Browne
Melville doesn’t wait to give me a chance to retract my offer and snorts up one of the lines faster than you can say “Queequeg.”
Tolstoy eyes me a moment, then nods. “I may have misjudged you.” He takes the rolled-up hundred and snorts his extra line in a much more leisurely fashion, almost savoring it. When he’s finished, he closes his eyes and presses an index finger to the side of the opposite nostril and inhales.
He opens his eyes and smiles at me and starts to say something, more than likely another condescending remark. But before he can form any words, his smile falters and his eyes roll up and he drops face-first onto the framed photo, the glass cracking on impact. A moment later, Melville falls off his chair and collapses on the floor.
I grab the empty Baggie, then walk to the door and crack it open to make sure no one is around. I don’t see any sign of the Precrime police or the adjustment team or anyone from the party, so I close the door and head back down the hallway past the bathroom, where Twain and Wilde are still standing with their ears to the door, listening to Shelley and Stoker.
“I do believe Santa Claus is coming to town,” says Wilde.
Twain nods. “Or he’s about to come upon a midnight clear.”
“Or upon something else,” says Wilde.
“Either way,” says Twain, “I’m guessing someone is about to have a white Christmas.”
CHAPTER 60
I’m standing in my bathroom trying to keep from passing out. My thumb keeps bleeding, no matter how much pressure or gauze I apply, so I hold my hand over my head to try to stop the flow but all that accomplishes is to cause blood to run down my wrist and drip onto my vintage Ramones T-shirt.
I’m thinking I probably shouldn’t have worn one of my favorite T-shirts. And that I should have been a little better prepared before I attempted this.
On my Sirius satellite radio, Elvis is singing “White Christmas.”
It’s an Elvis holiday channel. All The King, all the time. When I look in the bathroom mirror, I realize I look like Elvis. I don’t remember injecting him, but then, I don’t remember a lot of things I’ve done lately.
But right now, I’m more worried about bleeding to death.
I put my thumb back under the cold water running out of the bathroom faucet, but the blood just keeps flowing. My thumb is throbbing and my vision is dimming. The longer I stand there, the more I feel like I’m going to pass out. Or throw up. Or both.
Trying to get a pint of blood out of myself without a trained technician isn’t as simple as I thought it would be.
Initially I was going to go to a Red Cross center and donate a pint and then rob the phlebotomist at gunpoint before she could ferry away my blood. But that scenario posed too many problems, not the least of which is that I don’t own a gun. Even if I used a knife or a can of pepper spray, I’d end up making a scene and people would notice me and the last thing I want is to draw attention to myself. Or end up in jail.
Plus I found out that the plastic bags they use to collect the blood contain sodium citrate, phosphate, and dextrose to keep the blood from clotting and preserve it during storage. I can’t have that. My blood has to be clean. Pure, 100 percent me with no additives or artificial sweeteners.
So I scratched that idea.
I thought about calling Emily or Vincent to help me, but I still don’t know if I can trust them. It’s probably just me being paranoid, but lately that’s the status quo. The last thing I want is either Emily or Vincent asking me why I’m draining a pint of my own blood. The less they know the better.
Last I heard, Emily, Vincent, and Kurt were still working at EGOS, though apparently after the death of Bill Summers, there was some question as to who would oversee Investigations or even if it could function with half its crew having been patched together from other departments. The deaths of the executive vice president and the chairman of the board have thrown the entire EGOS operation into a state of chaos.
Even if I could trust Vincent or Emily, I can’t risk the chance of a stray hair or dead skin cells from anyone else getting mixed in with my blood.
I realize I’m probably being anal retentive, but I don’t want to take any chances.
So I decided the only way to do this safely and without contaminating my blood or arousing any suspicion was to do it at home alone.
My first attempt was with a needle and syringe. I wrapped an elastic tourniquet around my arm and sterilized the soft flesh just inside my left elbow with rubbing alcohol and iodine, then I sat down in the guest bathroom with my arm on the counter and I went to work. Problem was, I couldn’t manage to hit the median cubital vein, and after half a dozen unsuccessful attempts I gave up. Which is just as well, since the syringe is only ten milliliters and I would have had to draw fifty samples to get a pint of blood.
I probably should have thought this through.
Eventually I decided to slice open my left thumb and drain the blood into a sterile, one-pint container. Which is fine in theory and when you see it done on television or in the movies, but taking a knife to your own flesh isn’t something you can do without giving it a second thought. Or a third thought. Or a tenth thought. I placed the blade against my left thumb more than a dozen times, taking a deep breath each time and closing my eyes, which probably wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had, only to open my eyes and set the knife down.
Finally, I took one more deep breath, picked up the knife, kept my eyes open, and sliced.
The normal time for donating a pint of blood using a needle and a plastic bag in a controlled environment runs ten to fifteen minutes. That’s not counting the time for juice and cookies afterward. But when you slice open your thumb with a fillet knife that you sterilized with alcohol and iodine and the blood starts dripping out of your self-inflicted wound into a sterile plastic specimen container, you begin to appreciate just how fast blood can flow out of you and how light-headed you can get watching yourself bleed.
I didn’t realize the extremities bled so much.
Once I had the one-pint container filled, I grabbed my thumb and rinsed it off beneath the faucet, then wrapped it up and applied pressure, taking deep breaths and sitting down because I felt like I was going to pass out. By the time I finally raised my hand above my head and ruined my Ramones T-shirt, I’d lost another quarter pint of blood.
I’m thinking I probably need stitches.
But the last thing I want is for someone to file a hospital report with my name on it. And since I’m not good with a needle and thread and I don’t think a staple gun would be a good idea, I go into the kitchen and rummage around in drawers until I find a tube of superglue. Back in the bathroom I unwrap my thumb, rinse it off in the sink, then I apply a ribbon of glue to the wound before the blood can start flowing again. I didn’t realize how much superglue would burn. It feels like I dipped my thumb in acid, so I let out a scream that nearly causes me to black out.
This isn’t something you should try without adult supervision.
On my Sirius satellite radio, Elvis is singing “Merry Christmas Baby.”
After about a minute the pain starts to subside and the glue seems to be doing the trick: the blood has stopped flowing. I wrap my thumb in gauze and tape, screw the lid on the one-pint specimen container filled with my blood, and put it in the refrigerator. As I’m closing the door, James Bond shows up, so I grab the jar of pimento olives, get out the vodka, vermouth, and a martini glass, and sing along with Elvis.
CHAPTER 61
James Bond and Elvis Presley are drinking martinis in my living room.
They’re sitting on the couch, sharing a laugh. When they catch me looking at them, 007 leans over and whispers something to The King, who sprays a mouthful of vodka and vermouth across the room and starts coughing.
Ace Ventura, who catches the brunt of Elvis’s spray, calls The King a loser and challenges him to an ass-talking contest. Leo Tolstoy stands nearby stirring his cocktail with a straw and shaking his head while Herm
an Melville snorts some cocaine out of a bullet. David Cassidy is across the room telling Jayne Mansfield that he thinks he loves her as Tarzan lopes past them and through the crowd of partygoers.
I’m not Morrison or Marlowe or Indiana Jones. I’m not Elvis or Captain Kirk or Holden Caulfield. I’m not anyone else, just me. But I’m wondering what all of these other people are doing in my house. And who invited them.
There’s Bob Marley, Walt Disney, and Napoleon Dynamite.
Ingrid Bergman, Rita Hayworth, and Lara Croft.
George Harrison, John Wayne, and the Fonz.
I feel like Miss Mary Ann on Romper Room, looking into her magic mirror and seeing all of her friends who are having a special day. Except none of these people are my friends, and most of them don’t actually exist.
I see Don Draper and Abraham Lincoln and Bridget Jones. I see Elmer Fudd and Rocky Balboa and Louis Armstrong. I see Ellen Ripley and Ferris Bueller and Hunter S. Thompson.
Romper, bomper, stomper boo.
I look at all of them and try to understand what they’re doing in my kitchen and my living room and my hallway, though I realize no one’s really here. This is all in my head. My first thought is that I’m projecting all of the Egos I’ve used over the past three years, but I was never Bridget Jones or Ingrid Bergman. And we never offered The Hunter S. Thompson because it was too unstable.
It takes me a few more moments of looking around before I realize that my houseguests are all of the black market Egos to whom I gave the antidote. All of the people I thought I was helping. All of the people who died as a result of my actions.
Though not all of them were an accident.
I see Bill Summers and David Cook. I see the chairman of the board and his wife. I see the black market dealer and his partner, Eddie. I see the CEO and president of EGOS. I see all of them here with me on this fucked-up version of Romper Room.
And none of them is having a special day.
CHAPTER 62
I’m standing alone in my living room. My houseguests have all gone, though Elvis is still on the radio singing “Santa Claus Is Back in Town” as I sip my martini and read the front-page headline of the Los Angeles Times on my iPad Platinum:
CEO and President of EGOS Found Dead
According to the article, Alistair Moore, the CEO of Engineering Genetics Organization and Systems, and Paul Lawson, the company’s president, both died from an apparent cocaine overdose during a private Ego holiday party held at Moore’s Beverly Hills home. Unfortunately, with the nature of Egos, eyewitness testimony is not always dependable, so the police don’t expect to learn much from those in attendance.
Moore and Lawson were pioneers who together turned EGOS from a struggling midlevel bioengineering company into the leader in molecular cloning.
Investigators are looking into the possibility that both Lawson’s and Moore’s deaths were caused by the use of Big Egos rather than recreational drugs. Along with the recent fatalities of Bill Summers, David Cook, and several other executives and board members, the deaths of Moore and Lawson—the company’s chief innovators—have caused EGOS’s stock to drop by more than 40 percent.
On my satellite radio, Elvis is singing that it’s Christmas time and the snow is falling down.
I finish reading the article, then I walk into my bedroom and strip down to my boxers and stand in front of the full-length bedroom mirror, studying my reflection as I sing along with Elvis, channeling The King even though I haven’t injected him in more than a month.
The boxers I’m wearing are cotton. From the Gap. Or maybe Banana Republic. At this point it’s all just speculation. But Delilah bought them for me last Christmas, of that I’m fairly certain. As I am of the fact that Delilah isn’t home. I don’t know where she is. Maybe she went out to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. Either that or she left me altogether, which seems more likely. I’d probably leave me, too, except I don’t have much of a choice.
My boxers are white with smiley faces all over them. Big smiley faces and small smiley faces. Yellow circles with black dots for eyes and black curved lines for mouths. Some of them have big smiles. Filled-with-capped-teeth smiles. Cheshire Cat smiles.
Like an emoticon on crack.
I can almost hear them laughing at me—in my head, in the room, lots of high-pitched laughter. Only I don’t get the joke because I’m not laughing with them.
I stare at my boxer shorts in the mirror, at the Cheshire Cat grins floating around my groin and upper thighs, and I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, only instead of making me larger or smaller my pills are making me someone else. And instead of Alice, I’m the Mad Hatter. And I’ve misplaced my hat. Either that or someone has stolen it. Doesn’t matter. But eventually I’m going to need to find something to wear on the top of my head.
My attention moves from my boxer shorts to my flat stomach, then to my chest and my shoulders, then finally up to my face. I look back at myself, not smiling or frowning but wearing an expression that’s devoid of emotion. I’m like a mannequin. Or one of those really expensive lifelike sex dolls. Either way, no one’s coaxing more than a blank stare out of me.
My face isn’t my face. Not the one I grew up with. Not the one I remember. It belongs to somebody else now. Someone famous. Someone fictional. Someone other than me.
It belongs to Elvis. It belongs to Indiana Jones. It belongs to James Bond.
It belongs to each of them and to all of them.
Actors and characters and celebrities.
All of these people I’ve pretended to be. All of these Egos I’ve been at one time or another. More times than I can count. More times than I can remember.
All for one and one for all. Though as far as I know, I’ve never been one of the Three Musketeers. Or even d’Artagnan.
I cock my head and so does my reflection. Then I cock my head the other way and my reflection follows suit. The image in the glass that’s me but isn’t me. My legs and arms and torso with someone else’s head. About the only part of my face I still recognize is my eyes.
My reflection stares back at me, and for a few moments I lose track of which one is the reflection and which one is me. Then I reach up to scratch my head and realize both of us are holding something in our hands.
In my right hand is a pair of electric clippers. In my left hand is a nearly empty martini glass. I don’t recall how either one of them got there. Or why my left thumb is throbbing and wrapped in a bunch of tape and gauze. Or how I ended up in front of the mirror in my boxers. But I’m suddenly thinking of David Cassidy and I’m pretty sure I understand what I intended to do with the electric clippers.
I just have to trust that whatever part of me brought me here knows what I’m doing.
On my satellite radio, Elvis is singing that Santa Claus is back in town.
I raise the martini glass to my reflection and give it a smile, down the rest of my cocktail, toss the glass aside, and turn on the clippers.
CHAPTER 63
Two dozen Christmas carolers are singing “Joy to the World” as they march back and forth in front of the security gate. Except they’re not really Christmas carolers. They’re protesters. And some of them are getting the lyrics to the Christmas hymn about Christ’s triumphant return confused with the Three Dog Night version of the song.
Jeremiah might have been a bullfrog, but I don’t think he had anything to do with the birth of the Savior.
Of course, everyone has their own version of salvation.
Jesus. Muhammad. Buddha.
Truth is, no one really knows what the truth is.
As I approach the entrance, the protesters stop singing and gather in a poorly rehearsed protest formation, splitting up on either side of the road and shouting over one another while holding up their protest signs.
No More Egos!
Let Go of My Ego!
What Would Jesus Do?
I’ll tell you what Jesus would do. He’d probably wonder why all these pe
ople are out here protesting against a consumer product rather than preparing for the celebration of his birthday. Never mind that astronomers and scientists have determined that Jesus wasn’t actually born on December 25 and that the celebration of his birth has been turned into the biggest commercial holiday in history.
It’s 8:02 p.m. on Christmas Eve. These people should be home with their families in front of a fire, drinking eggnog and eating fruitcake and watching It’s a Wonderful Life. Instead they’re marching back and forth in front of the EGOS laboratory in Los Feliz, singing Christmas carols and shouting out protests, their breath releasing in smoky plumes that vanish into the unusually cold Southern California night.
These people really need to get a life.
As I drive past them, the protesters start screaming at me, calling me a corporate whore and a capitalist pig and an identity rapist. Only they’re not screaming at me. Not really. They’re screaming at a concept, an ideology, at who and what I represent.
Or at least what they think I represent.
Once I reach the security gate, I roll down my window.
“Evening,” I say to the security guard, who slides open the security booth door and steps out. The guard is wearing a uniform with the EGOS name and logo. The ID card clipped to his uniform identifies him as WILLIAM BLAKE.
For a second I look at him and wonder if he’s actually the English poet or if he’s injected William Blake’s ego and likes wearing the name tag for fun. But then I realize he’s probably just a security guard with the same name. Of course, nowadays, you can never be sure.
Still, a line from Blake’s “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell” goes through my head:
If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is—infinite.
That’s what I’m here to do. Cleanse the doors of perception. Make everything clear to my fellow man. Though infinity is a little bit above my aspirations. I’m not that ambitious. I’m just shooting for the present moment.
