The Strange Fascinations of Noah Hypnotik

by David Arnold

  “Just tell me one thing,” says Alan.

  “Name it.”

  “Do Luke and Lorelai ever get it on?”

  * * *

  Alan is asleep again, and this one does seem deeper. We stay in bed like that, Val and me on either side of him, the two of us watching Rory Gilmore move into her college dorm room at Yale, which still seems odd after years of her Harvard dream.

  “Why SAIC?” I ask.

  “What?”

  I’m not sure, is the thing. I’m not sure why I asked. “It’s always been SAIC for you. Why?”

  Quietly, so as not to wake Alan, Val says, “It has one of the best photography programs in the country. Undergrad and graduate, if I decide to go that route. Plus, it’s local. Why do you ask?”

  Now I know why, and even though part of me wants to say, “No reason,” I can’t, because along with everything else, Val’s feed is back to normal, to her first and true love: movies. Because there’s only one city in the world that so perfectly integrates the magic of movies and photography. And because the only thing worse than Val leaving is Val sticking around for second best.

  “You should go to LA.”

  She sits up on her elbows, pauses the episode. “What?”

  This is right, an opportunity for revision, I know that—even so, I have to hold back tears. “I read somewhere that UCLA’s photography program values narrative aspects over technical ones. Val, that’s you. That is so you.” Swallow—go on. “You’re the most talented person I know. And you’re the absolute best person to watch movies with. And I think you should be doing more than watching them.”

  I can’t read Val’s face. I don’t think she’s mad, but—I don’t know. She puts her head back down on Alan’s chest, pushes play on her phone, and after a solid minute, says, “You’d come see me?”

  I reach my hand across Alan, and she takes it, and together we feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, hear the rhythmic beating of his heart, let this tangible proof of his life wash over us, each wave a reminder that we are, in fact, living our best lives.

  “All the time, Val.”

  97 → animals

  Tuesday after school I knock on my sister’s bedroom door.

  “Come in!”

  Inside, Penn is hunched over her desk with her iPad and four open textbooks; Fluffenburger the Freaking Useless limps toward me, and just when I think maybe he’s going in for the snuggle, he fakes right and heads out the door into the hallway.

  Yeah, it’s good to have him back. Mark Wahlberg was entirely too big for his britches.

  “Ready for a change?”

  I look back at Penny. “What?”

  She motions to my clothes. “Your outfit.”

  “Oh. Yeah, it was time.”

  “I agree and approve.”

  “Well, that’s a load off.”

  “How’s Alan?”

  “He’s good,” I say. “Should be home in a few days.”

  “Good. I like that guy.”

  I swear. This girl. “Yeah, he’s all right. Listen, I was thinking about watching this movie called Breakfast at Tiffany’s? I’ve heard good things, didn’t know if you’d maybe wanna watch with me.”

  Whatever reaction I’d imagined this might conjure doesn’t happen. Penny squirms in her seat. “That’s sweet of you. But no thanks.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I’m—done with that movie now.”

  “Penn, are you feeling okay?”

  She looks up at me over her sea of homework. “This girl in my class, Karen Yi, watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s on my recommendation. And then yesterday at school she asked me how I could like a racist movie like that. I asked her what she meant, and she said she cried because of how horribly they depicted Mr. Yunioshi. And now she won’t even look at me, she’s so hurt.”

  I’m trying to remember the last time I’ve seen Penny like this, so quietly, deeply shaken. I listen to her tell me she’s done with Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and how she doesn’t want to be the kind of person who likes stories like that, and as I listen I find myself sad that her heart is so clearly broken, but happy that her heart is capable of such brokenness.

  “Penny.”

  “The movie really hurt her, Noah. And I told her to watch it.”

  In the brief silence, I stand there wondering at the ways in which I might protect that heart. “Penn, you are a singular human being. And I love you. And I think I have an idea.”

  * * *

  So we watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and since Penny never actually recorded the time stamps of Mr. Yunioshi’s scenes, we write them down as they happen. During one of these scenes, Penny actually looks away—from the TV, and from me—and I know she’s thinking of her friend from school, and it halfway breaks my heart to see it dawn on her that this most wonderful and cherished of things is not without serious blemish. But I also know that sometimes—not always, but in the best of cases—innocence lost can be knowledge gained, and I think this is one of those times. Because in truth, whatever hurt Penn feels watching this now pales in comparison to the hurt Karen must have felt.

  I want to hug Penny, and so I do, and I tell her she can still love this flawed thing. I tell her it will be a different love, a little sadder maybe, but wiser, too. I tell her that if we can’t love flawed things, we probably wouldn’t love anything at all. And she says that makes sense, because she loves me even though I mostly ignore her, and that pretty much breaks my heart the rest of the way.

  Penny falls asleep near the end, and I find myself alone, watching Holly Golightly dump her cat into some rando alleyway, and it’s one of those weird moments when you feel a movie is trying to tell you something, but you’re not sure what, and so you sit up and take note.

  I sit up. I take note.

  Earlier in the movie, Holly Golightly adopts this cat as a pet, names it Cat, and now Cat is in all these scenes, just sort of hanging around like a normal cat, but not really part of things until the end when Holly releases it into the alleyway, and of course, it is pouring rain, so watching it, you’re like, Wow, Cat’s a goner, I guess, but then, like, five minutes later Holly’s love interest—a writer she calls Fred Darling—really gives it to her for acting like a child, and he goes off in search of Cat. At which point Holly sees the error of her ways and joins him, so now she’s running around in the alley in the pouring rain, screaming, “Cat! Cat!” like a total nutjob. She finds Cat in between these wooden boxes, picks him up, and then turns to Fred Darling—who’s been standing there staring at her the whole time, apparently—and then they sort of stumble into this awkward kiss, but the thing is, Holly is still holding Cat, who winds up smooshed between the two, looking right into the camera like, Man, you would not believe the fucking day I’ve had.

  And that’s it. The End. So yeah, at first I hated the movie.

  But then I figured out what it was trying to tell me.

  98 → the sun will rise

  I half expect twobytwooak@gmail.com to be taken. It’s not, so I claim it. A minute later, on YouTube, I scroll to the comments section of the Fading Girl video, type in, Hello—I really enjoyed your video, and would like to ask a quick question. If you have a free moment, would you mind emailing me at twobytwooak@gmail.com? Thank you. Not a single exclamation. And I haven’t read Les Misérables, nor seen any of its theatrical iterations, so I have no context for Penny’s advice, but I know truth when I hear it, and I have known a very dark night, and I know how to pick myself up off the ground. So I link my Gmail app to my new account, and because sometimes it feels good to say things out loud, I say, “That’s one down.”

  Five minutes later I have the date and location of Pontius Pilot’s next show programmed into my phone calendar. “That’s two.”

  And the bones of Mila Henry may be buried in the ground of the Wood Capital of the Wo
rld, but I know those bones for what they are. I’ve seen their roots dug deep in the earth, and I’ve felt their pulsing aliveness, and some may say she’s dead and gone, but I know better: she is with her family; she is forgiven. “And that’s three.”

  I look around my room, revel in its cleanliness, its organization; I listen to Bowie’s “Changes” followed by “Space Oddity,” and even though it’s late, the house long asleep, I say, “Even the darkest night will end,” and I think of how my Strange Fascinations are rooted in a single thing: a fear of being alone.

  Thing is, I’ve never been older than sixteen. I can’t know what it’s like to have lived a whole life only to look back and realize I was truly lonely. But I know the flip side of that coin, what it’s like to see my life spread out in front of me as a hundred roads to be traveled, and what if I choose the wrong one? Or worse, what if the wrong one is chosen for me, and I get to the end of this road and no one else is there? That fear I know well. And sometimes I think the potential of loneliness is scarier than actual loneliness.

  I grab my phone. Seems a good time for some company.

  “Three down, one to go,” I say to the empty room.

  Me: You up?

  Alan: For you? Always

  Me: You’re texting with Tyler, aren’t you?

  Alan: ¯_(ツ)_/¯

  Me: You know there’s an emoji for that now?

  Alan: I heard. Kids these days

  Me: No sense of work ethic.

  Me: So how you feeling?

  Alan: Fine. A little better. I mean there’s some improvement, so we’ll see.

  Me: Wait.

  Alan: It’s okay. Doc says things are progressing.

  Me: ARE YOU BEING ME???

  Alan: IT’S A LITTLE TIGHT, BUT GETTING THERE

  Me: Touché.

  Alan: Been waiting to do that since I woke up

  Me: If you’re quite done, I need you to join me on a quest

  Alan: Sorry. I thought you just said you needed me to join you on a quest

  Me: I did.

  Alan: Sorry. I thought you just said you did

  Me: I’m being serious.

  Alan: When you say *quest,* you mean like NeverEnding Story?

  Me: I cannot believe you still reference that movie.

  Alan: I mean your dad was HELLA eager to show it to us.

  Me: Haha and remember he kept calling it “wack”

  Alan: OMG YES

  Alan: “THIS MOVIE IS A LITTLE MORE WACK THAN I REMEMBER”

  Me: The cokeheads of the 80s really found a home in children’s cinema

  Alan: No joke, dude. Labyrinth, anyone?

  Me: Yeah, but Bowie

  Alan: Well yeah, Bowie

  Me: Okay, Atreyu. Here’s the deal. I wanna take a cat to this old dude.

  Alan: I don’t know what that means

  Me: It means I want to take a cat to an old dude

  Alan: Hang on, I’ll just google it

  Me: Dude, it’s not a euphemism.

  Me: A literal feline.

  Me: To a literal man who might actually die soon

  Alan: What’s wrong with him?

  Me: Nothing. He’s old. Shit happens

  Alan: OK, well, I might sit this one out? No offense. Sounds kinda dumb. Plus Tyler and I are discussing funny sex words

  Me: OMG, I didn’t mean this very minute.

  Me: Also. Which words?

  Alan: Lovemaking

  Me: Why is that funny?

  Alan: Come on. Like it’s a pie with an intricate recipe?

  Me: Ah. OK. Got it

  Alan: Mmmm, honey, this love you made is outstanding.

  Me: I get the picture

  Alan: Could you email me the recipe for that love you made last night? DELECTABLE

  Me: So are you joining me or not? The QUEST needs you, Atreyu

  Alan: On my way

  Me: OMG I WISH

  Alan: Right?

  Me: When do you get out?

  Alan: They said Thursday probably

  Me: Thursday it is. I’ll come over after school.

  Alan: The Never-End-ing Stooooo-horrrr-eeeeeyyy!

  Me: Atreyu out!

  Alan: IM ATREYU YO

  Me: Whatever. Don’t stay up all night sexting

  Alan: ¯_(ツ)_/¯

  * * *

  Thursday after school, I drive straight to the Rosa-Haases’, which both smells and looks like it’s been converted into the basement kitchen from that British show my parents can’t get enough of, where like a million people are running around in tuxes, and every meal has seven courses, and for all the “ladyships” and “lordships” around, it sure seems like the flour-faced cook is the one who knows what’s what.

  “Eight o’clock, nene,” says Titi Rosie, dumping some delicious-smelling concoction of oregano and onions and garlic and I don’t know what else into a food processor. “At the latest, you hear me?”

  Before I can assure her that I understand, Mrs. Rosa-Haas walks into the kitchen and literally makes me pinkie promise to have Alan back by eight p.m.

  These two basically live on the same page.

  “I promise,” I say, as solemn as possible. “Back by eight. Got it.”

  Val walks in, leans over the freshly pureed concoction in the food processor. “Your sofrito smells like heaven, Titi Rosie,” to which her aunt shrugs and nods like, Yeah, it usually does.

  Mrs. Rosa-Haas then reminds me that Alan is not allowed to overexert himself in any way whatsoever. Behind his mother’s back, Alan mimes jerking off, which makes me giggle, which Mrs. Rosa-Haas interprets as me not taking her seriously.

  “This is a joke to you?”

  I shake my head. “No, Mrs. Rosa-Haas. Alan was being super-inappropriate behind your back.”

  Alan gives his mom the innocent puppy-dog look; she returns it with that smile moms sometimes give where you could swear they’re crossing their fingers behind their back. “Love you, mijo,” she says. “But back by eight or it’s over for you.”

  “Where’re you guys going?” asks Val, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “Taking a cat to this old dude,” says Alan.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  Alan smiles at me. “Told you.”

  “It’s not a euphemism,” I say. “We’re literally taking a cat to an old guy. You should come with.”

  Val takes a long swig. “With those skills, Noah, it’s shocking you’re single.”

  “The universe is a mysterious place, Val.”

  Minutes later, the three of us are in my car, scrolling through ads for free cats on Craigslist. “How lucky are we to be alive right now?” says Alan. “Getting ourselves a Craigslist cat.”

  Val is all, “Wake me up when they deliver.”

  Alan pretends to be on the phone. “Yes, hi, I’d like one large thin-crust, a tabby cat, and some fucking Fancy Feast, yo.”

  “May I live to see the day.”

  We eventually land on a Craigslist cat whose address is only a couple miles away. Alan gently pats the dashboard. “Make haste, ye fun guy ballsack!”

  I don’t suppose I’ll ever feel normal again. Certainly not conversationally. But there’s something to be said for knowing things turn out okay in the end. “You know,” I say. “I saw this commercial, and it’s actually pronounced hun-day.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Val has a cat named Bonkers in her lap, and we’re headed to the gas station on OMG’s route, and they never once ask what made me think to do this, never once make a joke about it. And ever since my conversation with Val in the basement—where she confessed to unwittingly assisting Circuit, and I told her the gist of what he’d done to me—she’s been nothing but a supp
ortive friend. And even though I’d given all the details to Alan in the ICU, he was in his own Under at the time; I don’t know if he heard me, if what I did that day helped bring him back. And I do wonder how things will change with us next year, what other shapes our friendship might take, but I’m hopeful that one day, in the Rosa-Haas pool, maybe, I might come up for air, break the surface, inhale, wet hair in the hot sun . . .

  “Dude,” Alan might say.

  “That was like a record,” Val would say. “You okay?”

  And I would take a few deep breaths, grateful not to be alone. “I have to tell you something,” I might say; and instead I tell them everything. Because really, what else does it mean to share history if not to share a story?

  99 → and how perfect

  Three days later there’s an email in my twobytwooak@gmail.com inbox from someone with the email address singthebodyelectric@yahoo.com. The message is brief. Six words. I read the email twice, set my phone on my desk, and stare out the window.

  * * *

  “Hi,” I said, unsure how else to start.

  “Who are you?” he asked, a reasonable question.

  “I’m Noah.” I held up the cat. “This is Bonkers.”

  The man looked anxious, eager to get back to his walk, and I tried not to think of him as Mr. Elam, tried not to think of all the ways I thought I’d known this man. “Look,” I said. “I know this is weird, and I don’t know you. But I thought maybe you’d like to have this cat.”

  “I can’t carry that cat,” he said, as if that were the only thing stopping him.

  “I’ll carry him for you.”

  The man nodded once, started walking again, and I followed. We passed Alan and Val, who sat on the hood of my car at the gas station; they sort of smiled, sort of shook their heads, and I sort of shrugged, as if it were all too random for any of us to respond with any gesture of certainty. I followed the old man to a small house a few blocks away—a far cry from a cozy bed-and-breakfast—and again pushed down the sensation of sadness that crept in every time something didn’t line up with what it was while Under. The man fumbled in his jacket pocket for a key, unlocked the door, stepped inside. He hung his cane on the wall, and then reached for the cat.