Madhouse Fog

by Sean Carswell

  “No?”

  She shook her head.

  “Nearly ninety-percent of pets can predict their master’s return and that doesn’t suggest anything to you?” I asked.

  “Oh, it definitely suggests something. It suggests that pets and their owners are communicating on some unspoken level. It even makes a compelling suggestion for one of the uses of the collective unconscious. But there’s a big difference between suggesting something and proving it.”

  I dumped a packet of sugar into my iced tea and stirred. “So, what’s the next experiment?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Part of me hoped that this was the end of it. That way, I could give my falsified data to Caster Oil Walters and get my dog back and life would go on. But I knew that wasn’t the way science worked. I knew that if the phenomenon still suggested something to Dr. Bishop, then more research would follow. So I tested her unconscious a little. I said, “That must’ve been one expensive experiment, with all the surveillance cameras and everything.”

  “Oh, no. Eric rescued those cameras from the old Winfield scandal.”

  “From the scandal?”

  Dr. Bishop blew on her coffee. “Let’s stay focused here.”

  Which I wanted to do. The Winfield scandal seemed like gossip and what I really wanted was my dog back. And I wanted him back without having to do anything that would lead me to hate myself. So I said, “Do you need funding for this research? I’m sure I could get this funded.”

  Dr. Bishop shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think of what would happen if this research fell into the wrong hands.”

  I’d thought about that. Believe me, I’d thought about it. But I was curious as to what Dr. Bishop thought. I said, “What would happen?”

  “Well, if you haven’t thought of a way to use this knowledge as a weapon, you’re a good man.”

  And that was all she said on the subject.

  A boy, maybe ten or eleven years old, took a seat at the patio, away from both the homeless woman and Dr. Bishop and me. He set a leather day-planner and a cellular phone on the table. He held on to his frozen coffee, which looked more like a milkshake with all the whipped cream, slivers of ice, and streaks of chocolate. His cellular phone rang. He answered and gave street directions to someone he referred to as “Mr. Steve.”

  The homeless woman, in the meantime, counted her change for the eighth or ninth time.

  Dr. Bishop listened to the kid’s phone conversation, then turned back to me. “Maybe I’m just hanging on to those core beliefs from the ’60s. I don’t know.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the kid with the huge caffeine slurpee and cell phone or if she was talking about something to do with her research. I prodded her in the latter direction. “If you’re worried about your findings falling into the wrong hands, why do it?”

  “You have to think of the positives, too.”

  “I’m not sure what they are.”

  “A deeper level of communication, a way of tapping into the unconscious that allows us to both better understand ourselves as individuals and as social creatures. Think about how much better it would be to be able to delineate your personal beliefs that you’ve formed based on your own experience instead of the core beliefs that you’ve plucked out of a collective unconscious or group think. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  I didn’t, really. She was a lot further along in her thinking about all of this. I was still at the stage where I just saw dogs and a batty doctor, where I spent a lot of time questioning my own intelligence. I had thought I was a reasonably bright guy, but my time spent with Walters and the psych hospital crew was leading to a lot of self-doubt. “Most of this is over my head.”

  Dr. Bishop reached out with her bony fingers and tapped my hand. “You’re a good soul,” she said.

  I smiled and looked down at the table.

  Did I feel like a hypocrite, drinking tea purchased by Dr. Bishop and accepting her compliments while, fifteen miles away, my memory stick stole her research? Did I feel dirty knowing that I had a lunch meeting set up with Frank Walters exactly one week away? Did I feel whorish because I knew every man had a price and my price was apparently one dog? Yes.

  Dr. Bishop lifted her coffee cup to drink, but set it down before it made the full trip to her lips. “This research is risky,” she said. “That’s why I’m only working with you and Eric. That’s why I’m keeping everything hush-hush.”

  I swirled the tea in my clear plastic cup, watching the murky brown liquid create a whirlpool. “So what are you going to do next?”

  “I have another experiment in mind. Will you help me?”

  I nodded. I stood to do the only thing I could think of to assuage the tell-tale heart threatening to rip out of my chest: I bought a muffin and a cup of coffee for the homeless woman who clearly didn’t have enough change, no matter how many times she counted it.

  16

  Eric led me through the rocky foothills east of psych hospital grounds. We hiked and climbed and stumbled through the bends of an all but forgotten trail, surrounded by manzanita, chaparral, sagebrush, and various other trees and shrubs and plants of Southern California that seem destined less for the landscape of this growing freeway culture and more for a future as the namesake of suburban streets ending in a cul-de-sac. Eric had assembled his arsenal. It contained:

  - one five-gallon plastic bucket

  - one fishing net with a six-foot pole

  - one plastic dog carrier with a screen fastened to the door

  - three bottles of water

  - one plastic bowl

  - four hollow metal poles, each about a foot and a half long

  I carried the fishing net in one hand, using the pole of the net as a walking stick. In the other hand, I lugged the water, the bowl, and the four poles in the five-gallon bucket. It wasn’t heavy, but the hike had been long enough for me to trade the load between hands a few times. Eric lugged the pet carrier. It was made of lightweight plastic, but the bulkiness made it cumbersome. Eric rotated the carrier from shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. I tried to imagine how he’d tote that thing home once we filled it. If we filled it.

  And who else was with Eric and me? My good little dog, Clint Dempsey. He darted in and around the shrubs. He sniffed trails. He raced away on unexplained missions, then raced back when he had strayed too far from us.

  Eric had explained his plan before we set off on our hike. There was a lone oak in a clearing at the end of this trail. We’d rush the clearing, raise a racket, and scare all nearby squirrels into the lone tree. Eric would use the fishing net to scoop the brave or panicked squirrels trying to flee the tree. We’d escort the captives home in the pet carrier. “I’m not at all sure this will work,” Eric said. He assured me of his lack of assurance several times.

  I’d made my peace with that. I was up for the wild squirrel chase nonetheless. For me, it was more of a hike with a theme than an actual hunt. It was an excuse to get Clint Dempsey out into the woods, an excuse to have a little bit of fun with my newly returned dog. And there was another element to my decision to go on this little adventure. The voice had come back—that little nagging voice that kept popping up in the back of my brain, issuing instructions, making me question just how well I knew myself. I thought about skipping this venture just to shut up that little voice. Maybe if I stopped obeying it, it would go away. That’s what I thought anyway. Maybe I was going a little nuts. I had to acknowledge that possibility.

  We crested the final hill. The clearing opened up below us. Eric set the pet carrier on the ground, just off the hiking trail, and sat on it. I found a nearby log and took a seat. The five-gallon bucket sat between us, blocking the trail, but no hikers were in these hills, anyway. I grabbed the water bottles, handed one to Eric and kept two for myself. The springtime air in the foothills lay still. The day had begun with its obligatory fog, the sun steaming up the cold Pacific waters and
swallowing the coastline in its cloud. As morning wore on, drier, warmer inland regions inhaled what cloud it could suck up, dreaming in vain for more water. This led to powerful midday breezes. And now, Eric and I sat in the late afternoon balance, when the ocean was warm enough and the land was cool enough, the coastline calm and the desert sated, everything at peace and ready for the setting sun. Just about squirrel-hunting time.

  I took the little plastic bowl out of the bucket and filled it with water. Clint Dempsey raced over and started lapping it up. This reminded me of how thirsty I was, so I drank from my own bottle. Eric did the same.

  Eric wiped his mouth with the short sleeve of his blue work shirt. The embroidered patch with his name on it caught the brunt of the late afternoon sun. “You want to go through the plan again?”

  “Nah,” I said. It didn’t matter how many times I heard the plan. It wouldn’t get any better.

  Eric took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped away the sweat from his forehead. I looked at the rigid lines of his face, well worn as the rocks around us, casting shadows in the late afternoon sun. Clint Dempsey stopped lapping up water and walked over to Eric. Eric scratched Clint Dempsey behind the ears. “This little guy ought to help a bit, huh?”

  “Probably.” I wanted to say more. I recognized that Eric was stalling while he caught his breath. I looked for more to chat with him about, but I just didn’t know the guy that well. Ideas for conversations kept coming up empty.

  We sat there for maybe five minutes, not really talking, not really drinking much water. Just giving our bodies a few minutes to prepare for the madness. I gazed into the clearing. The oak stood among the high grass. Behind it lay the rotting trunk of the oak’s brother, long since fallen. Nothing stirred. No breeze blew, no blade of grass flickered. The amber rays of the late afternoon sun trapped the scene. It could’ve been a painting. The world around us could’ve been oils on canvas.

  Eric leaned over and tied the loose shoestring on one of his work boots. I leaned down to check the laces of my own shoes. Tight. I grabbed the four metal poles and passed two of them to Eric. He took one quick sip of water and stuffed the bottle back into the bucket. He said, “Let’s hunt some squirrels.”

  If the clearing had been a clock and noon was in the north, I walked to the three. Clint Dempsey followed me. Eric waited for us at the nine. Hills framed the clearing. The growth around it was neither high nor dense. Just more chaparral, more cacti, more rocks. I climbed up the hill about ten feet. It was about as steep as the roof of a house. Eric did the same on his side. He smiled, his glowing white teeth shining in the late afternoon sun. I nodded. Game on.

  Eric took off running through the hills, banging his metal poles together. He ran clockwise toward me. I ran clockwise away, banging my sticks. Clint Dempsey followed the arc between Eric and me, barking away. I watched my feet on the uneven terrain, skidding on rocks, hurtling over chaparral, scraping past cacti, up and down the hill, metal clanging, the shins of my jeans taking on a new skin of briars, tan dirt nestling into my jogging shoes. A murder of crows rustled from a sycamore in the distance. Rodents and reptiles fled into the tall grass of the clearing. I swung past six o’clock about the time Eric hit noon. The clearing came alive in fluffy tails. The vibrations of the metal echoed in the hills and rung in the palm of my hands. I made it to eight o’clock and saw, not four feet away, a rattlesnake coiled and poised to strike. This left me three choices: fight, flee, or freeze. I froze. Both metal poles in my hands, inches away from one another, halfway to contact, feet planted in the grooves of dirt I caused by skidding. The rattlesnake sounded his castanets. His black eyes met mine. We regarded each other. Clint Dempsey barked and darted among squirrels in the clearing. In my peripheral vision, I could see Eric nearing three o’clock. His ruckus rattled the clearing. I stayed stock-still. Ten seconds passed. Fifteen. The snake and I stared each other down. He moved first. He crept backwards, back down to his belly, uncoiled himself, and slid inches past my foot. I let him pass. As he climbed the hill above me, I slammed the sticks together again and took off into the tall grass of the clearing.

  Eric and I swung large circles through the high grass, cutting off any exits into the hills. Clint Dempsey covered the ground we couldn’t cover. Squirrels upon squirrels sought shelter in the canopy of the live oak. We spiraled toward it, our very own whirlpool of noise and madness. Eric reached the trunk first. I swung in behind him. Over the din of metal on metal, Eric yelled, “You stay here. I’m gonna get the net.”

  I nodded. Eric ran off, no longer banging his sticks. I settled into a rhythm at the trunk of the tree. In my mind, I knocked together the beat of the Clash song, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais.” I sang along. Midnight, to six, man. For the first time from Jamaica… Squirrels darted through the branches, too many to count but seemingly hundreds. No squirrels chanced the seven- or eight-foot drop from the lower branches, especially with the barking Clint Dempsey right below them. A few skirted down the trunk, then turned tail and made for the branches. I kept banging out the tune and singing along. They got Burton suits, ha, they think it’s funny, turning rebellion into money.

  Eric returned with his fishing net and his pet carrier. He set the pet carrier down. He shouted, “Stop banging the sticks and step back. Let a few squirrels loose.”

  I took seven or eight steps backward, beyond the canopy of the live oak. Loose leaves fluttered down and settled on my shoulders. I stopped my tune. I scooped Clint Dempsey up in my arms. He stopped barking and licked my face. Almost immediately, the first few squirrels darted down the trunk and made for the hills. Eric took off in pursuit. He swiped his net through the high grass, racing thither and yon, sliding in his work boots, slipping down onto one knee and popping back up. Continuing the chase. He swatted the net three or four times and ran nearly out of the clearing before he yelled, “Got one!”

  I set Clint Dempsey down and started banging the sticks together again. The second wave of squirrels raced back up the trunk, not ready yet to take their chances in the high grass with what could only appear to be a volatile Roads and Grounds employee in a moment of madness.

  Eric dumped his one squirrel in the carrier and shut the gate. He made his way back to the tree trunk, his chest rising and falling in tune to deep breaths. He used the pole of the net as a walking stick. When he reached me, he stopped and leaned even more weight on the pole. The thin aluminum curved, but didn’t give out underneath him. Between heavy breaths, he said, “Your turn.”

  We traded sticks for net. Eric banged out the tune. I picked a spot outside the canopy, held the net like a lacrosse goalie would, and said, “Let’s do it!”

  Eric stopped banging the sticks. He knelt and held Clint Dempsey. A new wave of squirrels raced down the tree. They beat a path for the hills, running everywhere except for where I was. I chased. I focused on one bushy tail popping above the high grass. He ran much faster than I could, but I had a bigger stride and I knew where he was going. I cut down the angle and made a diving swipe for him. He darted outside the shadow of the net just in time. I hit the ground, rolled, and popped up onto my feet again, searching for more squirrels. Eric banged the sticks again, holding any of the more timid squirrels in the tree for that much longer. Clint Dempsey stayed under the tree, barking. I locked into the next bushy tail and chased after it, both of us zigging and zagging through the clearing until I got him turned around. He raced for the tree, hit the shadow, got skittish, turned tail, and unwittingly ran right into my net.

  His struggle to escape the net only got more tangled. His little teeth tried to chew an escape hole. I rushed him over to the pet carrier, flipped the fishing net, held the net high, and let the squirrel drop in on his colleague. I closed the gate and huffed and puffed my way back to Eric. His rhythm had slowed down. “I thought I was in decent shape,” I said, “but this is hard work.”

  “No kidding.”

  Bang bang.

  “How many of these squirrels does Dr.
Bishop need?”

  “A dozen or so.”

  Bang bang.

  “I don’t think we can chase down ten more of these.”

  “Nope.”

  Bang bang.

  “You got a new plan?”

  “Yep,” Eric said. “Take the sticks.”

  We traded. I started back on the “White Man in Hammersmith Palais.” Eric told me to keep banging. He stalked around the canopy of the tree, searching for low running squirrels, shaking the branches to knock them out of the tree, tracing the falling leaves and branches and rodents, and scooping up the dazed squirrels when they hit the ground. He managed to get three in the net before dumping them all in the carrier. I kept banging the sticks, but I changed my tune. I stuck with the Clash’s first album, skipping ahead to “Janie Jones.” He’s in love with a rock and roll girl. Eric swept under the tree a few more times, whacking at the branches, knocking loose the leaves, scooping up the squirrels. I banged Clash songs and sang to myself and watched Eric and Clint Dempsey.

  By the time I banged my way through “Bored in the USA,” the pet carrier held thirteen squirrels. Eric hoisted the carrier onto his shoulder and hollered, “That’s enough.” He took to the trail.

  I stopped banging the sticks. The rest of the oak, so alive with squirrels, cleared out of rodents. They raced to the hills. Clint Dempsey nipped at the heels of a few, but he didn’t catch any. I picked up the net, returned my metal poles to the five-gallon bucket, and fell into line behind Eric. We followed the trail back to the psych hospital.

  17

  Several days later, I unlocked my apartment’s front door, stepped inside, and dropped my keys on the newspaper rack/table. I’d returned the surveillance camera to Eric, but he and Dr. Bishop both encouraged me to keep the table. They contended that pressed-wood furniture with a big hole for a surveillance camera in the middle of the drawer was essentially worthless to them. It had worth to me, though. It held my keys.