The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  How did he know these things?

  He knew that if he opened his eyes and raised his head, the bed and commode—as the voice had explained—would be in front of him.

  “Good to see you too, Ethan,” said the electronic voice. It sounded a little higher pitched than before. “You gave me a little scare. I was beginning to think you might be dead. What a shame it would be to miss what I have yet to share with you.”

  There was a brief pause.

  “I know you hear me, Ethan. Raise your head.”

  Ethan didn’t move. He was conscious and heard clearly the voice’s command, but he didn’t move. He remembered how his mother would call him to get up. He wished he were at home now. He would never turn over and cover his head with his pillow again. He wished he’d never done that to his mother.

  “It’s been almost two days, Ethan,” the voice said. “It’s time to raise your head. The rules are still active. Raise your head!”

  As the voice said the last word, a hard slap hit his face. It shocked him. His head came up. Tape still covered his mouth, but it did nothing to lessen the smarting sting of the slap.

  His eyes opened as his head came up to confront the face of platinum-blonde Marilyn Monroe—at least that was who he thought it was. Surreal didn’t come close to describing how he felt. Mortified, he noticed the position of her famous beauty mark. It wasn’t on her cheek but just below her right nostril. Then he knew: it was the popular new face of MTV. The Marilyn Monroe–esque Madonna stared back at him. He couldn’t tell who was behind the Material Girl’s reproduced rubber face, but he’d known that like the bed and commode, that mask would be in front of him. Again, he didn’t understand how he knew. He just did. The mask was disturbing but no more than everything else that surrounded him. He made no indication that anything was out of the ordinary.

  “Ethan, you listen to learn,” the now masked voice said. The ghoulish face mask tilted sideways like a dog trying to understand what his master was saying. “You learn and obey!” the mask screamed. “And as I told you before, you must remember to do those three things to live here longer.”

  Ethan stared at the mask, trying to imagine who was behind it. He desperately hoped it wasn’t Robbie, yet he could think of no one else. He didn’t know anyone connected with Syd, which now seemed odd. Could she really know someone as terrifying and delusional as this rubber-masked thing in front of him? He didn’t want to think so, but humans were capable of anything, good, bad, and evil.

  “As you listen, learn, and obey,” the voice said, “you will be given privileges—privilege to speak, privilege to eat, privilege to drink. That reminds me. You must be thirsty. You’ve peed enough for two.”

  Ethan knew without masked Madonna telling him or even looking that not far away was a container for his waste, to be used, if necessary, as a teaching tool. He was to do as he was told, or else. He knew he’d peed but couldn’t remember any more. He didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he swallowed and found his throat dry enough to hurt. Thirst was again on him, but he was not thirsty enough that drinking his own urine was an option.

  He nodded in response to the Madonna’s comment.

  “Stop moving your head,” it said.

  Ethan stopped.

  “Good, Ethan,” the Madonna face said.

  Ethan stared forward into the real eyes behind the mask. Already, holding the weight of his head up took effort.

  He saw more of the room without moving his eyes. It was about fourteen square feet, maybe longer than it was wide; it seemed about the size of his bedroom at his parents’ place, big enough for all he saw to fit comfortably.

  Ethan thought of the jail cell his aunt had taken him to as a kid when she worked at a police station; it was a place he’d never cared to visit again. The ghosts of bad things and madness were everywhere: on the walls, on the floor, and on the ceiling. All of it was here too, only covered in green carpeting and a coat of beige paint.

  He watched as the Madonna stood up and raised a white water bottle in one hand. It looked like a sports bottle out of a kid’s hockey bag. In the other, it held the shiny-bladed knife.

  “I had to tape you up again,” the Madonna said. Its voice had an encouraging tone, as if it had done Ethan a favor. “The last had become pretty gruesome to look at.”

  The Madonna chortled the witchy titter-cackle Ethan knew he would never get used to.

  “To allow you to drink, Ethan,” the Madonna said. The mask’s open mouth didn’t move. “I have to cut a hole in the duct tape.”

  The Madonna held the hunter’s knife out in front of Ethan as a magician might have shown an audience member a prop.

  Ethan knew the glistening blade could easily be the deciding factor in his staying alive.

  “As you’ve already learned,” the mask said. Then its electronic voice paused, as if it were remembering something important it needed to say. “And hopefully remembered, you are the one in control of the outcome. You will be the one responsible for making me do something beyond cutting a hole.”

  The Madonna then held up the white bottle.

  “To get this,” it said, and it shifted to hold up the knife, “I have to do this.”

  Ethan’s brain began a sort of meltdown as he looked at the water bottle. Thirst, which had found another place to exist for a while, was suddenly upon him like a wave of pressure sucking his breath away. His entire body seemed to salivate for what was in the white bottle. He did everything in his power not to move.

  “We need to get on with this, Ethan,” the Madonna said. “We have an important lesson to go through today.”

  The Madonna stared into Ethan’s eyes.

  Ethan was sure he recognized them. Whether he did or just wanted to, he couldn’t tell.

  Lower in his peripheral sight, he saw the shiny black boots. They were all he’d known of the Madonna thing prior to now, and they still made him wary. A muscle in his right thigh twitched. It hurt to flex his quad to stop it. He felt tightness in his thigh, as if something were pressed hard into it. He didn’t dare look to see what it was. The hunting knife was within striking distance. He doubted the Madonna would hesitate to cut him. But the thought of the black boot coming at his leg or head and the hard pain that would follow caused him the most anxiety. He tried to push the thought away.

  The Madonna turned and faced the same direction as Ethan, toward the bed and commode. For the first time, Ethan saw the bedside table.

  “You’re going to learn this lesson firsthand!” the Madonna said, shouting the last words. “Failure is the best way to learn. Isn’t it, Ethan? Remember, you’re doing the ultimate learning here, because every failure could be your last or at least a step closer to it. There’s not a more effective or efficient way to learn!” electronic Madonna screamed. “Is there, Ethan? How’s that for an engineering hypothesis?”

  It wasn’t the yelling that caught Ethan’s attention this time. It was the words it had used: engineering hypothesis.

  “That got your attention,” the Madonna said, seeming to know that it had. “Dinnit?”

  Ethan didn’t think he’d moved, but he must have revealed something. It seemed to know the words it was using would affect him.

  “It’s good to see you’re following the first rule, Ethan,” the mask said as it turned completely around and faced him again. It swung the knife back and forth as if conducting a band behind him. In the background, Chicago was playing their hit song “Saturday in the Park.”

  “Okay, okay, enough with my chitchat. Lesson three has the working title ‘Value-Based Decisions.’ No, no, I don’t like that at all. Sounds ridiculous. Pretentious. Way too academic. Too ‘This is an essay that has no relevance in life.’”

  The Madonna then stopped, as if perplexed by what it saw on the floor. Ethan stared at its platinum-blonde hair. It wasn’t real. Seconds passed before
it raised its head again.

  “Goddamn academics,” the mask said, shaking its head. “Always messing with words the rest of us can’t or don’t even want to understand.”

  The Madonna looked back at Ethan. Ethan hadn’t moved as far as he could tell.

  “Every decision is based on value,” the Madonna said, placing the hand holding the water bottle on its hip. “That’s the working title for lesson three. It’s not only the third but also the last lesson you will learn in this life.”

  The Madonna looked back at the floor. “It’s very relevant to you, Ethan. It will reflect on how much you really value living a little longer.”

  Ethan thought he could hear a smile coming from behind the Madonna mask, even in the electronic sound.

  “Some might lead you to believe that making decisions based on value is a new thing. That today we better understand how we make decisions. It’s a lie! We’ve been doing it as long as we’ve been here. Just because we can quantify and measure better, it’s as if smarty-pants people like you think they have gained a clearer glimpse into the human mind.”

  The Madonna again paused.

  “They haven’t!” the Madonna yelled, as if to emphasize the point to Ethan, but it wasn’t looking at him. It was still looking at the floor. It was almost as if the Madonna were talking to someone else. Suddenly, it raised its head, its blonde hair bobbing. “We make decisions, Ethan, because of how they make us feel!”

  Ethan couldn’t see the face behind the rubber mask, but if he could have, he was certain he would have seen an enraged madman with a pulsing vein down the center of his forehead. Veins and arteries like pull cords would have been protruding from its neck.

  “If a decision makes us feel good—and you can be sure we want to feel good—guess what? We make that decision.”

  The Madonna tilted its head sideways like a chiropractor might have moved it and continued.

  “If a decision makes us feel good or better than we would otherwise feel, that’s what we’ll decide. We’ll even make a bad decision because it makes us feel better. Think about it. Ever been depressed? Felt a little down? We’ll seek attention by making others feel guilty that they’re not paying us enough attention. And guess what? We’ll make a bad decision. But it’s a decision that we think will make us feel better than we would otherwise feel, even though”—the Madonna screamed the words and leaned forward close to Ethan’s face—“we really know the outcome of the decision will not be good for us!”

  “No matter how much you math and science guys say about quantifying and measuring and needing more data, it all comes down to making you feel good about your decision. You want to feel you’ve done enough to make the right decision. It makes you feel good!”

  The mask of Madonna took an audible breath. “We make decisions all day long. But we want affirmation that those decisions are right. Take, for instance, a big decision.”

  The Madonna paused, Ethan thought to scrutinize any movement he might make. Ethan didn’t move; inflicted boredom was better than inflicted pain. His fear was exacerbated by his thirst, but he held on.

  “What’s the first question you’re asked after making the big decision?”

  The Madonna stopped, appearing expectant that Ethan would answer. Ethan didn’t move.

  “It’s a simple question. Always the same.”

  The rubber reproduction of the music star’s face moved closer and stared at Ethan, seeming to forget its victim’s mouth was sealed with tape.

  “There I go again, asking you a question you can’t answer.”

  The mask shook its head, its titter-cackle raising the hairs on the back of Ethan’s neck.

  Ethan didn’t notice the changing background music for the most part. Yet the melodic chorus of Toto singing their recent big hit “Africa” made itself heard. “The rains down in Africa” harmony seemed to tease his nearly mad craving for a drink.

  “Ethan, my boy,” the Madonna face announced, extending its hands and arms in a gesture a performer might have made in front of an audience. The knife was in one hand; the white water bottle was in the other. The Madonna was still conducting. “You’re always asked, ‘So how do you feel?’”

  The Madonna’s shout did little to sway Ethan’s attention to the water bottle.

  “It’s like a law,” the Madonna said, its voice lowered. “It’s like Newton’s third law: ‘For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.’ Or your second law of—what is it? Thermo …”

  The Madonna seemed to hesitate, as if trying to remember a certain word—a word that Ethan didn’t give a shit about.

  “Thermodynamics—what a complicated word you guys came up with for heat. Damn, what was I saying? I’m digressing.”

  For a second, the Madonna’s eyes looked into Ethan’s.

  “Like the second law, things get more complicated over time. Yeah, no kidding, Einstein. You know that better than anyone else right now, don’t cha, Ethan? You’ve got entropy—there’s another word—on steroids happening right before your eyes. Remember, you’ve made me do this to you.”

  The Madonna stopped as if to catch its breath.

  “Like what else is going to happen. Things are going to align and simplify? Are you kidding? Ever been in a forest? The only trees that are lined up are those humans planted. Only our human brain seeks order. We’re the ultimate entropy busters, and it’s a never-ending effort in futility. Order to disorder over time—really?”

  The Madonna mask was on a roll. Ethan watched as it set down the water bottle on the bed. For the first time, he saw how the mask extended down into the mock-neck collar of its black shirt. No human flesh was exposed in the face or neck, only the eyes and hands.

  “Think about it, Ethan,” the Madonna mask said. “How do you think Truman felt after sending the Enola Gay out with her surprise package for the Japs? How do you feel, Mr. President? He probably didn’t say, ‘Good,’ but I’ll bet he said something like ‘It’s the right decision.’ He felt less good about the alternative of losing the war, despite knowing the human devastation that would take place.”

  Again, the Madonna mask paused and picked up the water bottle.

  “As I said, we’re going to demonstrate lesson three, Ethan, right before your eyes.” The mask turned to face the bed and commode again, like a master of ceremonies announcing the next part of the program. “Here for your enjoyment and education is our first demonstrator—the one, the only, the self-inflicted Ethan Jones. Come on down, Ethan!”

  The Madonna mask turned with hands and arms extended, directing the audience—the bed, toilet, and small table—to look at Ethan.

  “And look, ladies and gentlemen, he’s already here.”

  The Madonna turned back to Ethan. “Today we’re going to find out just how much Ethan values this.” The Madonna held up the white water bottle. “We’re going to watch how he makes his decision. We’ll attempt to prove that we always make decisions based on how they make us feel.”

  The Madonna screamed the last word, leaning toward Ethan. The rubber mask’s open mouth looked as if it were screaming.

  “Remember, Ethan,” the Madonna snarled, “you’ve made all of this possible.”

  CHAPTER 74

  Eyes Remain Open

  Ethan was terrified beyond his ability to think.

  “Let’s get back on track,” the Madonna face said, looking into Ethan’s eyes. Some jazz that Ethan didn’t recognize played in the air around them. “Lesson three: every decision we make is based on the value we attribute to what we believe will be the outcome. We measure that value with our emotions. We won’t make that decision until we have sufficient information to make us feel good that we’re making the right decision. That could require a lot of information gathering or none at all. We—the individual—get to decide. In lesson three, I’ll demonstrate it. So, Ethan, let us
begin.”

  The Madonna held up the water bottle. Then it held up the black-handled hunter’s knife. “I have to do this,” it said, pointing the shiny blade at Ethan. Then it turned its masked head and nodded at the white water bottle. “So you can have this.”

  Ethan didn’t move. He had to remember the rules.

  The Madonna mask stepped forward, holding the deadly weapon out in front of Ethan. The point of the knife moved to the duct tape. Ethan could feel the tape pull on his lips as the tip of the blade cut through the tape. He didn’t blink or move his eyes. The Madonna’s hand moved slowly and steadily, like a surgeon’s. The tip of the blade cut into the tape. Ethan did everything he could not to think about what was happening. The eyes. There was something in the eyes when they stared into his. It would have taken little effort for the knife to keep moving through the thin layer of tape, through his tongue and the back of his mouth, and into what connected his spine to his brain. Any move he might make to pull away from the plunging knife would make it worse and likely kill him. The Madonna’s hand kept moving. Ethan was convinced it wouldn’t stop.

  “So far, so good, Ethan,” the Madonna mask said. “The rules are in check. You’ve accepted the knife to get what’s in the bottle.”

  The razor-sharp blade remained in Ethan’s mouth. He fought his tongue against touching it.

  “Under normal circumstances,” the Madonna mask said, “you would never accept someone sticking a razor-sharp knife in your mouth in exchange for what might be in the bottle.” The Madonna paused and pushed the knife in a little farther. “No matter what is really in the bottle.”

  Ethan didn’t move, trying to show that the presence of the knife didn’t have any effect on him. But something else was pushing hard to be let in. He began to doubt there was water in the bottle; a feeling of déjà vu was slipping around his fear.