The Strange Fascinations of Noah Hypnotik

by David Arnold

“Library?”

  Val nods. “Straight out of Beauty and the Beast. Honestly, I’m shocked you haven’t pitched a tent in there yet.”

  “Where?”

  She points to the end of the hall where the ceilings curve into a high-arched doorway and a dimly lit room within. “Knock yourself out,” she says, heading toward the bathroom. “I’ll come find you in a bit.”

  Alone again, I walk to the end of the hallway, peer into a cavernous room of books, every wall filled with them, old and new. And sitting in a leather armchair beside an unlit fireplace in the corner—either a captive to the army of books, or their captain—a boy I’ve never met sings a song I know well.

  11 → Circuit, a conversation

  “Hey.”

  “Shit, dude. You scared me.”

  “Sorry, I just— You were singing.”

  “Ha. Yeah. My mom says I do it without thinking, like a tic or something. What was it this time?”

  “‘Space Oddity.’”

  “Fellow Bowie fan, I see?”

  “What?”

  “Your shirt.”

  “Oh right. Yeah. Okay, then. Sorry I scared you.”

  “You’re Noah, right? One third of Valanoah?”

  “One third of what?”

  “Did you guys become friends because your names mash up like that?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Oh, come on. Val. Alan. Noah. Valanoah. Sounds like a fucking ski resort.”

  “Do I know you from school, or . . . ?”

  “Nah, I’m homeschooled. But I’ve seen you guys around the neighborhood. You okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”

  “So you live around here, then?”

  “Yeah, just up on Piedmont. I’m Circuit.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Circuit Lovelock.”

  “Oh.”

  “What?”

  “I think I just met your sister? Sara?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Cool. I wasn’t lurking out here, just so you know.”

  “I didn’t think you were. Here, you want some?”

  “Oh, thanks, no. I don’t really smoke weed.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Okay. Well, nice meeting you.”

  “Can I be real with you for a second, Noah? You seem like the kind of person I can be real with.”

  “Um. Sure?”

  “For the last hour or so, I’ve been in here contemplating the Middle English origins of the word conversation.”

  “Really?”

  “When I get nervous, I look up the origins of words in the dictionary. Calms me down. Anyway, being in this house—out there with all the drunken buffoons—I got to thinking about the word conversation, which, according to this dictionary, means . . . Okay, where’d it go? Here it is. . . . ‘Oral exchange of sentiments, observations, opinions, or ideas,’ and do you know what occurred to me?”

  “I do not.”

  “We have monologues, make-outs, drinks, dancing, shooting of shits, plenty of socialization going on, but in the entirety of this enormous fucking house, there isn’t a single conversation happening. Without exchange, there is no conversation. And then do you know what I realized?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I had a real conversation, as defined here in this dictionary. So I promised myself the next person I saw who wasn’t a colossal douche, I would initiate one. And lo and behold, you show up.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re not a colossal douche, are you, Noah?”

  “I like to think not.”

  “So. Shall we converse?”

  “We sort of are, aren’t we?”

  “Nah, I’m basically whining, which doesn’t count. Here, join me in one of these ridiculous chairs. You want scotch? Longmires keep the good stuff. Looks like we have . . . Springbank ten-year-old? Something called . . . Glenmorangie? Not sure I’m saying that right. Oh wow, this one’s twenty-six years old. Single malt, what do you say?”

  “I say you know a lot about scotch for a non-dad.”

  “Here, try this one.”

  “What is it?”

  “Laphroaig fifteen-year-old. This was Dad’s favorite.”

  “Shit.”

  “Right? Puts hair on your chest.”

  “Tastes like fishy lava.”

  “Okay. We are sitting, we are drinking, we are speaking as adults. Tell me something about yourself. Something real, though. And then I’ll tell you something about me. Remember—exchange of ideas.”

  “Circuit. Look, this is weird. Don’t you think this is weird?”

  “If it is, it’s only because authentic conversation has been programmed out of us.”

  “Okay, well. Fine. My friend Alan.”

  “Yes.”

  “In the kitchen just now, we had an argument. Or not really an argument, so much as . . . I don’t know. I said something.”

  “Go on.”

  “Alan’s my best friend, and I love him, but sometimes his bullshit is tiring. And sometimes it’s just little stuff, like they were just talking about Wilco—”

  “The band.”

  “Yeah. And Jake fucking loves Wilco, and Alan fucking hates Wilco, and they just went on like that for a while.”

  “So what, then. You like Wilco?”

  “I’m indifferent, actually. I don’t feel strongly one way or the other, which is like a lost art. It’s like, if you don’t love something or hate something, your opinion doesn’t count. But not everything boils down to the best and the worst. Not everything fucking rules or fucking sucks, some things are just a little okay, or a little not okay, and that’s that. But it’s like, with Alan . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “It’s okay, Noah. You can trust me.”

  “I’ve heard about you, you know? There aren’t a lot of Lovelocks on the block.”

  “But that’s not why you’ve heard of me. Is it?”

  “Your dad, he’s like . . . I mean, he was . . . this famous inventor, right?”

  “You know—the important thing about true conversation as I see it is willing vulnerability. Letting the ideas flow in whatever direction they see fit, no matter how uncomfortable. If you’d like to discuss my father, we can. I’m happy to do that, Noah, happy to be vulnerable with you.”

  “Thanks?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “So . . . your dad.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Sorry, I thought you just said—”

  “Oh, we’ll talk about my father. But you’re avoiding the bigger issue.”

  “I am?”

  “We were discussing your issues with Alan, and then—bam—we’re talking about my dad. Part of the human condition, we get too close to the truth and it scares us. But let’s try to stick to the spirit of things.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “Truth. Consequence. Exchange. Noah—this is the only real conversation happening in this house right now. What we say here can matter, you understand? We don’t have to cluck like a bunch of fucking chickens, or talk about favorite bands or shit movies, or will-they-won’t-they on TV, or will-they-won’t-they IRL, LOL, SM-fucking-H. We’re not debating the inherent value of a like over a favorite, or how the Clarendon filter really brings out the blue in my eyes.”

  “Is that hydroponic weed?”

  “We don’t have to talk about one hundred and one ways to succeed in life. I’ve done that, you’ve done that, and I think we’re both done with that.”

  “The spirit of the thing.”

  “The spirit of the motherfucking thing.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve outgrown my life, Circuit.”

/>   “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I mean—I hear myself say it, and I can’t . . . I don’t know.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Last night I found out I got a swimming scholarship to University of Milwaukee, which I know I should be silly jazzed about, but it’s like we start these trajectories when we’re twelve, or worse, the trajectories are started for us, and then we’re expected to stay on that trajectory for the rest of our lives? Fuck that. I’m done swimming. And I don’t want to go to college. I want a new trajectory. Everything— everyone—in my life is stagnant. I’m not saying I’m better than anyone. For all I know, everyone else is growing too, just in different ways, but—it’s like my life is this old sweater. And I’ve outgrown it. Doesn’t mean I don’t like that particular sweater, or I don’t see the value of the sweater. It just means I can’t wear it anymore.”

  “You need a new sweater.”

  “I need a new sweater.”

  “Noah?”

  “What.”

  “I think you should come with me.”

  12 → unfortunate fates

  Begonias, as it happens, are not especially fragrant. Or maybe these used to be, who knows. I do wonder if the Ivertonians who live here knew what they were getting into when they planted their flowers so near the sidewalk, that one day some kid would consume his weight in Jolly Rancher beer, top that off with some fishy lava juice, have a bizarre conversation with a total stranger in a huge library, and agree to walk home with that stranger at the drop of a hat, at which point this kid would need a convenient and timely spot to blow Jolly Rancher lava chunks.

  I should send a thank-you note. Just to let them know their begonias were used exactly as they’d imagined.

  “You okay, dude?” Circuit keeps his distance behind me.

  “Define okay.”

  “Ha. Right.”

  “I mean I drowned myself in a sea of cherry beer, so you tell me.”

  “Sounds . . .”

  “Catastrophic?”

  “I was going to say spectacular. But then I’m not the measure of restraint.”

  We resume walking, and I can’t speak for Circuit, but it takes most of my concentration just to keep one foot in front of the other. I don’t know if he drove to the party or not, but Piedmont is only six blocks over, which is great because there’s no way I’m getting in a car with this kid.

  “I would kill for a coffee,” I say.

  “Oh, dude. No doubt. What I would do for immediate transportation to the Wormhole right now.”

  “The Wormhole?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to the Wormhole.” He pulls out his phone and a minute later hands it over. “Check this out.”

  I scroll through pictures of a coffee shop decked out in eighties paraphernalia—everything from ancient computers to classic movie posters to . . . “Is that—”

  “Yep. A DeLorean.”

  Being drunk is weird. Like a coffee shop with a DeLorean doesn’t sound all that strange now, but I’m guessing at some point tomorrow it’ll hit me, and I’ll be all, WTF?

  I hand the phone back and only now realize how tall Circuit is. I never got a great look at him back in the library, other than the horn-rimmed glasses and shaggy hair. His skin is even paler than his sister’s, translucent almost. Like a ghost. Who doesn’t get out much.

  A hermit ghost.

  “Truth be told,” Circuit says, “I never really understood its value.”

  “I forget what the— Hmmm . . .” God. I am never drinking again. “I forget what we’re talking about.”

  “Restraint, and how I have none. Restraint!” he yells; the word echoes through the neighborhood, and I feel a little better knowing I’m not the only one losing my shit. “I just always felt like—you know, why wouldn’t you want more?” he says.

  I know exactly what he means. “I sometimes think”—swallow, shake my head, get it together—“I think my appetite for life exceeds that of a normal human, like I’m about to run out, so I’d better live it all, feel it all, do it all now before it’s gone.”

  “My dad once said he wasn’t built for long-term maintenance. Which now seems eerily premonitory.”

  Earlier this year an article about groundbreaking inventions ran in Time or Newsweek or something, and Dr. Lovelock’s name was mentioned as one of the year’s true tragedies. Bullet to the head, as I remember, which culminated in perverse levels of curiosity throughout the neighborhood. The Iverton hive mind isn’t exactly forgiving of those who seek privacy, a by-product of being wealthy and bored at the same time.

  “So your dad,” I say, every bit a part of the curious hive.

  Luckily, Circuit doesn’t seem to mind. He says his dad preferred the term cognition architect to inventor, as people generally associated the latter with middle-school science fairs. “He was always a little strange, though. Hence my first name.” Apparently Circuit’s parents couldn’t agree on a name, so they flipped a coin to see who chose the first and who chose the middle. “And that’s how one winds up with the name Circuit Patrick.”

  He starts whistling “Space Oddity” again.

  “That your favorite Bowie?”

  “I think so.”

  “Alan’s too. Whenever we debate superior Bowie songs, he always says, ‘It literally opens with a launch countdown, No. The future of space exploration hangs in the balance.’”

  “So what did you argue was the superior Bowie song?” asks Circuit.

  “I like ‘Changes.’”

  “Ha. Appropriate.”

  Circuit doesn’t really laugh, I’ve noticed. He says ha, like it’s any other word, which ends up sounding scripted, like we’re in a stage play and he’s regurgitating memorized lines.

  “Favorite Bowie album?” I ask.

  “Hmm, that’s tough,” says Circuit. “I mean, I know it sounds like a cop-out, but all of them, really. Impossible to pick just one.”

  Okay, look: no one loves Bowie as much as I do, and not even I like all his stuff. From first album to last, the man evolved maybe more than anybody, so unless you’re the kind of listener who really does like everything (I’ve never understood these people), it’s difficult to imagine a person truly loving all his records.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket before I can challenge Circuit on it: five unread messages from Alan, one from Val.

  Alan: Dude. Did you seriously leave???

  Alan: WTF is going on with you right now?

  Alan: OK we’re talking later. Jake just challenged me to a “25 freestyle swim race” whatever the fuck that is

  Alan: Imma put him in his place

  Alan: You’re not off the hook with me, No

  The one from Val was a single word. . . .

  Val: Noah

  “This is me,” says Circuit, pointing to a house three doors down.

  My phone buzzes again; I switch it to silent and stick it back in my pocket as we walk through a yard to a house that looks, unsurprisingly, like a cookie-cut version of my own. Next door, an old man sits on a porch, smoking a cigar. At his feet a longhaired collie stands at attention, watching our every move with a certain gleam of human awareness. The dog is quiet, calm, seems old.

  “My dog would be walking in circles about now,” I say, and it’s true; he always does when strangers walk by the house. And God forbid someone ring the doorbell. Pandemonium pissing, that’s what Mom called it once, a pretty accurate description of events.

  “That’s Abraham,” says Circuit. “The dog, I mean. Been around since I was little.” Circuit waves at the old man, raises his voice a little. “Hey, Kurt. You’re out late.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing about you, Young Master Lovelock.”

  “Ha. You got me there, man.” Circuit unlocks his front door, swings it open. “We
ll, see you around.”

  The old man blows a ring of smoke into the night sky. “Not if I see you first.”

  13 → a concise history of me, part twenty-two

  The road to Fluffenburger the Freaking Useless is paved with many Jacks.

  But here, I should start at the beginning:

  Twenty-six thousand years ago, a boy walked through a cave. The cave was in France, and it was called Chauvet Cave. The boy carried a torch. A dog walked by his side. There were, most likely, torch-bearing boys walking beside dogs long before this one, boys and dogs and torches aplenty. But this particular boy’s footprints and this particular dog’s paw prints were captured in time, and the ashes from that particular torch fell to the ground in Chauvet Cave where they survived far longer than that boy could have imagined. Eventually, science did what science does: it caught up to them. It caught that boy, but more important, science caught his dog, the grandfather of dogs the world over, its paw prints the earliest evidence of man and wolf in like mind, walking side by side, cohabiting.

  Man’s first best friend.

  Twenty-five thousand, nine hundred some-odd years after that boy and that dog walked in a glimmering flicker through Chauvet Cave, I read The Call of the Wild in the glimmering flicker of a T. rex night-light. I was only ten, but I remember a chapter called “The Dominant Primordial Beast,” in which two dogs fight to the death to prove their own supremacy, and thinking at the time, The Yukon really isn’t all that different from the playground.

  I was never very tough.

  The book was a Christmas present from my uncle Jack, who was the worst. Noogies, wedgies, titty twisters, wet willies: Uncle Jack belonged to that peculiar subgroup of individuals who found pleasure in the obnoxious, but he liked dogs, had a big one named Kennedy, which looked like a wolf. And, that curious Christmas, as I pulled back my uncle’s musty-scented camouflaged wrapping paper to reveal The Call of the Wild, Uncle Jack produced a low-pitched growl from deep within his belly, let it build a bit, and then . . . barked. Like a dog.

  Uncle Jack: ever the dominant primordial beast.

  A man named Jack London wrote The Call of the Wild while living in what is now Piedmont, California. He wrote other books too—his words and stories would go on to influence the likes of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, but more than anything, he is remembered for the dogs he created: White Fang and Buck.