Silence

Silence

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

0.

It would be a good thing if you considered taking it off. Have you given any thought to that lately?

there is silence, and a small buzzing in my head. quiet, hardly there. it's enough to concentrate on. it's not coming from anywhere. maybe loose static, floating around.

looking for a home.

I know it's hard to lose something when you've had it for so long, but you really don't need it any more. Not physically, at least. The attachment is entirely psychological, based in damaging emotions.

what is he saying? is he talking to me? i feel like i should be listening to him but he's not saying anything.

You no longer need to count. Trust me.

i don't even know you

 

 

124.

We lived on a quiet street when I was young, a quiet street in a quiet neighborhood. There were very few cars along the roads. If a kid spotted one coming by, it was his inherent duty to holler at the top of his lungs, alerting all his friends, acquaintances, and semi-enemies, that they might stand on the sidewalks and watch. We kept track of the cars, tallying them up as a group, how many sedans we'd seen that week, how many trucks, how many two-doors, how many SUVs. It was a hobby, I guess. I always had the tally before anyone else. Never took me long at all.

There were twelve trees along the left side of the street, twelve and a half if you counted the Andersons' seedling which was hunched by itself in a pot. Destined to birchhood, it slumped wearily, like the weight of this inheritance was already too much for it. When it had been there a day, it had nine leaves, dangly weak little things. After two days it had ten; after five, seventeen.

Sue told me that I ought to talk. She was always saying this to me: Talk, talk, talk, talk, you really should talk more. People want to know what you're thinking, and they can't if you don't tell them.

I told her to shut up. She looked surprised for a second, then burst out laughing. I could divide the sound of her laugh into two beats—there was a snorting sort of inhale which she would hold for six point five seconds, chuckling, followed by a choking exhale and a wheeze. It was more attractive than that description.

I count things. Everything.

If I see a rock, and there are other rocks nearby, I must count those rocks. All of them.

I am really very good at it. Once when I was a little kid I watched a television show about adventures in outer space, with cleft-chinned men clad in intrepid space suits, you know, one of those annoying educational shows that parents tell their kids to watch so they'll learn something. I was interested mainly by the stars outside the shuttle, nothing but tiny points of light, far off in the distance.

How many are there?

This was from my mother, who came into the room at some point during the show and peered over my shoulder. She knew what I was up to.

Twenty-three thousand, six hundred eighty-one, I said. Oops. Eighty-two.

I was right, and I know this because I went back five years later and watched the show again to make certain. By the time the credits rolled, I'd seen seventy-five thousand, four hundred ten.

Thirty-six people, if you are wondering, participated in the making of that particular show, and eighteen of those were Czechoslovakian. I know this because their last names were of Czechoslovakian origin, which I know because I did research after the show was over to make certain.

I like knowing that things are for certain. It's comforting.

 

 

633.

I went to a college for the legally blind, but I can see.

My parents finagled this because I had a letter from one of the leading psychiatrists in the country. The letter said that I was certifiably disabled. Apparently, I suffered from a condition commonly known as Lloyd's Percensitis, a word containing precisely eleven letters, broken down to percens-, which is derived from the Latin percenseo, or to count over, and contains seven letters, and -itis, which means, essentially, inflammation of and contains four letters. In short, I suffered from inflammation of counting.

I have counted three hundred thousand, eight hundred, ninety-nine things. If I were to list these things, that list would include the following:

words in the book The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

drops of condensation on the side of a half-empty bottle of Miller Lite

blades of grass

black ants

desks in a classroom

stars visible from a kids' educational show

teeth

grains of sand

people

small children

motorized vehicles

A lot of things. Eleven, actually.

Have you wondered what the numbers indicate yet? That's good. That means you have a curious mind. Maybe by the end of everything you'll have figured out the answer. Puzzles are like math problems; there's a solution out there, only waiting for someone to say, Why didn't I think of that? Solutions are better when they wait quietly and occupy themselves without making themselves known, doing stuff like crosswords. Solutions that run at you waving their arms wildly are no fun at all. You only enjoy finding something when you've looked hard for it.

Gay is another word for homosexual. It is a little cruder, but not as crude as other words, like fag or fairy or queen. I'm not a homosexual man: I had a girlfriend six years ago, and we were very fond of each other. She's gone now, though. I killed her.

Does anyone know who Lloyd is? I would really like to know.

 

 

984.

Yesterday my therapist told me that Lloyd, which contains five letters, is a shorter version of the name Lloyd Jonathan Anderson, which contains twenty-one letters and was the name of an American man. This man was the first man known to modern science to suffer from percensitis, which is why modern science dedicated percensitis to him. Once modern science discovered it, that is. I find that I sympathize with his story.

Lloyd Jonathan Anderson was born on July 6th, 1965, in a small Midwestern town commonly called Shitville, nicknamed for its significantly large shit output, output thanks to its significantly large number of cows. When Lloyd became the newest member of its population, Shitville, or Scottsville, contained two thousand, five hundred forty-three longhorn steers. And they all shat. Often.

I don't know Lloyd's opinion of Shitville, unfortunately. I've heard all this secondhand, so to speak, and very few truly interesting or important things last. History focuses on numbers: Thirty-five thousand men were killed in this war, which was fought over four hundred square feet of worthless land, but no one remembers the name of the seventh of those men, or the name of his pet terrier, or what kind of eggs he had for breakfast that morning.

That's the way history works.

Lloyd, like me, counted everything. His percensitis was incredibly severe. Because there were so many longhorn steers in Shitville, Lloyd, as a teenager, spent hours wandering in the streets, counting them. With each fall of a hoof, the steers sent up tremendous puffs of yellow dust. The dust collected in Lloyd's hair, in every possible orifice—his eyes, nose, ears—and in the crooks of his fingers and the bends of his elbows and knees, so that he drifted home smelling and tasting entirely of beef. When his parents learned that he was constantly compelled to count things, they panicked and began calling famous, costly doctor after famous, costly doctor, demanding to know what was wrong with their son. But not a single doctor could tell them.

You might say that suicidal tendencies are a symptom of percensitis. Living doesn't seem like the greatest idea when you can't look at a magnificent sunset without wondering how many other people are looking at the sun too. Percensitis takes all the fun out of life. It is truly a fun-sucking disease.

Lloyd Anderson hung himself from the rafters of his father's barn in 1981, five thousand, eight hundred and sixty-nine days after he was born. In 1992, four thousand fifteen days after that, percensitis was officially discovered and christened. In 2000, two thousand, nine hundred and twenty-two days after that, I entered the world, a ready-made abacus. I am currently nine thousand, eight hundred and sixty-one point seventy-five days old—in years, I'm twenty-seven, accounting, of course, for leap years, because the extra point two five is really very important. Most people don't like doing complex calculations with days. I'm not sure why.

 

 

1,480.

I promise no one's going to hurt you if you take it off.

I don't want to.

why can't he just leave me alone?

You're talking—that's good. That's a big improvement. But you still don't feel really safe, do you? You still believe you need to keep it around.

where is the buzzing?

Your fiancé came by today—do you remember that? You were pretty out of it, and I couldn't let her see you. She understands. I had a talk with her over lunch; she knows recoveries don't happen right away. She's willing to give you all the time you need.

I don't need time.

finally there's silence. i can almost hear the sound again. it's such a beautiful sound. i wish it would stay forever. there is nothing to count with this sound. only melody.

I'm glad you started using your recorder, Jonah. Have you found that it's helped you? Diaries are a great way of expressing yourself. They're a sort of spirit-talking. Words are certainly a better therapist than I'll ever be.

i don't like your laugh.

Well, Jonah, I think our session's up for today. I've really enjoyed talking with you. I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Same time, same place.

sue cannot come to visit me. sue is dead.

doesn't he know that?

 

 

1,701.

I am a good man. Murder doesn't make me a bad man. I was very sorry afterward.

It was mainly her fault anyway, which, of course, doesn't mean it was okay—but that does mean it wasn't mainly my fault. That means I'm still a good man.

We met in college. As I said, I went to a college for the legally blind: it was called, aptly enough, Delcroix's School for the Visually Impaired. Delcroix contains eight letters and is a technically incorrect name, being a combination of del, which is a Spanish word containing three letters, and croix, which is a French word containing five letters. If you ignore the inaccuracies, it is loosely translated to the cross, which contains eight letters. Crosses are holy things, and I am a Christian man. Or I was. I hope I still am. It was mainly her fault.

I told her from the beginning that getting to know me would not benefit her, but she wouldn't listen, and she died.

Susanna Abigail Rodriguez isn't an easy name to learn when you have to work with Braille. We called her Sue for short. She learned her full name in ten days, eleven hours, and six seconds, and her nickname in only forty-three minutes. I learned her full name in eight days, nine hours, thirteen minutes, and two seconds, with her hand wrapped around mine even though that was unnecessary, our fingers twined, feeling the vague scratch of her false nails. She smelled like coconut crème pie and white lilies. When her hair brushed my cheek, twelve strands at a time, the ones that persistently escaped a tie, I wondered how anything in the world could possibly be so beautiful.

Murder doesn't make me a bad man. It doesn't.

 

 

1,997.

My therapist took my recorder today and listened to the tape. I couldn't see him and wasn't exactly sure how he looked at me, but he was annoyed, so I'm guessing he glared. He said, Jonah, why don't you try starting from the beginning? A kind of memoir. Maybe telling things in order will help. Jumping around the way you've been, he said, and I know he was displeased, is more confusing than anything. Why don't you work on organization? This is a good start, but why don't you work on organization?

I have nothing else to do.

I don't know if I counted things when I was first born. I don't think I knew numbers then. But I do remember the mobile my mother bought me. It was one of those that spins, with small fuzzy animals dangling and making tinny music, and she hung it over my crib. I took to it immediately.

Look, he's watching! Do you think he likes it?

This was my mother.

Sure he does—see the way he's smiling?

This was my father.

They were doting parents. I loved that mobile. When I grew older I would count it, over and over and over—one hippo, two giraffe, three elephant, four alligator, five penguin—while it spun. Counting something that spun was more of a challenge, because occasionally I'd get mixed up and have to start over. Eventually I muttered the numbers aloud to myself. There were twelve bars in my crib, six per wall.

Eight of my hobbies as a young child were as follows:

counting cars

counting leaves

counting blades of grass

counting rocks

counting dogs

counting books

counting words

counting toys

And so forth. I had a lot of hobbies. I wasn't very fond of them. They were things I had to do, not things I wanted to do. Worst of all, they drove my father nuts—especially at mealtime. Food was one of my favorite things, but not because I liked to eat it.

What's he doing? Honey, what's he doing with those noodles?

He's counting them, Tom. Quiet. Just let him be, okay?

I had a good time at school today. I aced my science test. Hundred percent. (That was my older brother, Zach.)

I can't stand watching him with that food. He's not even eating it.

He'll get around to it. Give him a break.

Why is he always counting everything? Is he insane? Should we ship him off to an asylum? Get him a padded room?

No, he just needs to work things out for himself. You're not helping.

My teacher says I'm very smart.

Damn it, Jonah, stop playing with your dinner and eat!

Dad?

Jonah, I'm not going to tell you again—

Honey—

It's always Jonah this, Jonah that. Jonah, don't count this. Jonah, eat. Jonah, pay attention. Jonah, talk to me. I hate you. You don't care about me.

Zach—

Jonah, don't you run away from me. Get out from under that chair—

I wish you weren't even my parents. And you know what I wish most of all?

Zach—

I wish Jonah was dead!

 

 

2,530.

I've decided not to organize things any more. I gave the tape to my therapist, and he said he was proud of me, that I had done a very nice job and that my progress was altogether impressive. But I don't want to remember things like that.

I run fingers along the walls every day and count the ceramic tiles, over and over, until I'm sure I'll never forget that there are eighty-nine, with an average of one hundred fifty-four dimples apiece, again. This bores me. I want to remember things that are pleasant, things like Sue, or like my old friends, Rob and Mike. Sue and Rob were completely blind—Mike wasn't, and he thought my blindfolds were the stupidest thing he'd ever seen. Rob gave me my blindfolds, starting with a used sock.

I had three friends.

Mike drank and smoked, and we always knew when he was coming because we smelled the alcohol and the nicotine. The tips of his fingers were yellow. I wore a silver cross around my neck in college, sort of to remind me that I was a good Christian man, and Mike laughed about it. He thought it was just hilarious. He was an angry drunk—once we got into a fight, before my blindfolds, and I gave him a black eye because he had tried to hurt Sue and I always tried to be chivalrous, and he grabbed my cross and broke the chain. It rolled across the street and fell through the sewer grate, and I never saw it again. Days later, after Rob and I held Mike under a cold shower, after he sobered up and promised not to drink so much, I found a new cross on my pillow and Mike curled in a ball, drunk, on the floor. And that was Mike.

Sue I have already talked about.

Rob was a tall guy, measuring in at six feet five inches, which is seventy-seven inches, or one hundred ninety-five point fifty-eight centimeters, or one thousand nine hundred fifty-five point eight millimeters. He couldn't see his hand in front of his face and was really blind as a bat—he walked with a thin white cane, just like the blind men in films. I have one of those now.

Rob was incredibly intelligent. He mastered Braille before any of us, and he always seemed to know what he was talking about, even when he was actually dumber than a post about the topic. Sometimes he'd reach up and touch his nose with a crooked forefinger. When you asked him why he wanted to touch it so often, he'd say, Well, I can't see it, and I gotta make sure it's still there. And you had to laugh.

Anyway, I wanted to talk about the blindfolds. Blindfolds saved my life. They really did.

Blindfold is a compound word containing nine letters, made up of two smaller words, blind, which means sightless or unable to see and contains five letters, and fold, which means to yield or give in and contains four letters. All in all, blindfold means to yield the ability to see.

Before I got myself sent to Delcroix's School for the Visually Impaired, I was pushed around a lot. I never seemed to meet anyone who wasn't out to get something. Everyone's out to get something, whether it's money or fame or revenge or a box of double chocolate chunk cookies from the supermarket, and I met one hundred and forty-three point five people before college, and that's one hundred and forty-three point five somethings, which is a lot of somethings. Babies count for half—that's where the point five comes from.

These guys discovered pretty quick that I could win them bets, and I could make them rich, just because I counted so fast. You get faster at something when you practice it, you know.

We'd hunt down some suckers, or the guys would shake suckers from the woodwork one way or another, and it would go like this:

There's no way he can count that, someone said. Always one of the suckers we were swindling, and always a smart aleck.

Yeah. That's impossible. This being the aleck's right-hand man.

You wanna bet on it?

A moment of consideration. We all studied the object in question. Usually it was a thing most people could never count, maybe blades of grass or the pebbles scattered on a certain patch of hillside. If you didn't know me, the situation was completely outrageous. Sure money.

Okay. Yeah, I wanna bet on it. I'll give you thirty bucks if he counts that.

Wait—how we gonna know he's not lying to us? What if he just busts out with the wrong number? We ain't gonna count it—

We swaggered a bit. Threw our shoulders back. One of us said mockingly, Hey, it's your loss. We pretended we were going to walk away, like my counting pebbles was the next great wonder of the world and the chumps would miss out on it. Nobody could resist that.

Idiot. Lead guy elbowed right-hand aleck. Keep your trap shut. How's that? We wanna bet. Make it forty bucks instead.

Hands were shaken.

Okay, Jonah, do your thing, man.

I turned and studied the rocks. There were tens of them, hundreds of them, thousands of them. Tiny little things, scattered positively everywhere. My mind clicked and whirred and buzzed around in retracted circuits of agony. How many were there? I absolutely had to know. I crouched down and examined them closely. It took me about five minutes.

Three thousand, eight hundred seventy-two, I said, straightening up. No, wait. Seventy-five. There were three under a weed.

Money? we said smugly, palms extended. We smirked.

Take your fucking money. Four ten-dollar bills slapped regretfully into our hands.

We won't be seeing them again.

Nope.

But we got the fucking cash, man.

Say, Jonah, how'd you count that so fast? Someone always had to ask this, even though he knew what the answer would be.

Practice.

 

 

3,545.

I hate numbers. Have I mentioned that? I do.

Numbers are annoying. A huge pain, really—there're so many of them, and you can put them in infinite orders, making an infinite number of additional numbers, so things go around and around and you end up right where you started. Numbers are a lot like life. That's why I hate them.

In case you've been wondering, I don't count things for fun.

 

 

3,616.

You've been doing a great job with your diary, Jonah. I think you're really making progress. Are you enjoying keeping track of your thoughts?

Jonah?

Yes. It's fun. I enjoy it.

That's excellent.

i can nearly hear the sound again. it's like someone's talking to me. a sort of quiet murmuring noise.

Let's talk about your childhood for awhile, okay?

Okay.

Did you have any pets when you were younger, Jonah?

Yes.

i wish you'd go away.

What kind of pets did you have?

I had one pet. It was a cat.

her name was lulubelle. that was my mother's idea.

where has the noise gone?

 

 

3,740.

Lulubelle was a stray. My brother Zach picked her up from the side of the road when he was four thousand, three hundred and eighty-three days old and I was only three thousand, two hundred and eighty-seven point twenty-five days old. She was balding in places, with four small, coin-shaped patches of gray skin on her head and by the base of her tail. Someone had torn her ear—it looked like a pizza with one piece missing.

Because of her ear, I wanted to name her Anchovy. Zach wanted to name her Leonardo, because he was currently obsessed with a cartoon called The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I don't think either of us really picked up on the fact that he was a she until our mother came by and enlightened us:

The cat's a girl, Zach.

Zach and I studied each other for awhile, mulling over the latest development. He hadn't wanted a girl cat and, though I hadn't given much thought to it myself, I would've preferred a boy. The object of our thoughts sat down and began swishing her tail: She lifted her front feet one at a time, licked them, and ran them meticulously over her face.

My mother was still standing behind us, looking over our shoulders. She looks like a Southern belle, she said.

What?

A belle, Zach—it means a beautiful girl.

It has five letters.

That's right. Five letters.

We watched the cat for a little while longer, until our mother knelt down. I'm sure not getting any younger, she hissed, curling her fingers over my shoulder. She smelled like mint leaves and chamomile.

I reached out a hand and stroked the cat's back—its fur was dusty. Small chimerical clouds evaporated at my touch.

Well, what should we name her?

Anchovy.

She's a girl, Jonah.

It's all right, Zach, said our mother. Anchovy works for a girl cat, too.

I don't want to name her Anchovy. That's a stupid name. And I found her, so she's mine. She's mine, right, Mom?

Wouldn't you like to share her?

Well. Maybe. But I get to pick her name.

Zach worked on picking Lulubelle's name for three hours the day he plucked her from the sidewalk and carried her inside. I sat on the floor playing with her, running my hands through her fur and teasing her bald spots with my fingertips, while he thought of sixty-five possibles. He tried each one aloud several times—he called, cajoled, hollered at, coaxed, and threatened Lulubelle to see how the names sounded, whether they rolled off the tongue or caught unpleasantly in the back of the throat. Here are ten of the names Zach considered:

Abbey Road (after The Beatles, a band he loved at the time)

Ace Baby Toadflakes

Anastasia

Gata (which is Spanish for female cat and contains four letters, five letters less than are in English for female cat)

Gemmie

Sage Felicity Bridgette Shit-Head

Shelley

Emily (after Emily Dickinson; this was a suggestion of my father's)

Raelin

Veruca Salt (after the spoiled girl in Willy Wonka, who falls down the chute because she demands a special goose; this was my idea. I loved Willy Wonka as a kid.)

After three hours of that, Zach gave up. A friend of his, a boy named Steve, came to our house and rang the doorbell, leaning heavily on it until someone answered: my mother let him in, and he and Zach retreated to Zach's bedroom to watch television. I perched on the couch, cat held in my lap, to think of names myself, but had no luck.

Lulubelle went nameless for two months and ten days, which is seventy-one days or one thousand, seven hundred and four hours. Mainly, when we needed to address her, we called her the first thing that popped into our heads. She got called by many different names, ranging from Get That Pain-in-the-Ass Cat Out Of There to Anchovy, which I called her every time I got the chance, taking pleasure in small victories.

On the seventy-second day, Lulubelle was sitting in our kitchen, dead-center, washing her face, and my mother came up with a name. The sink was full of soap and bubbles were rising over the sides—her hands were buried in the water. She paused in the middle of her work, brandished a mug, and declared:

Lulubelle.

What? I was sitting at the table, doing my homework. It was a worksheet of math problems. I'd almost finished.

Lulubelle, Jonah! That's the perfect name for her!

You mean Anchovy?

Doesn't she look like a Lulubelle?

I nodded. Suddenly it seemed that she did.

Lulubelle contains nine letters and is made up of the word lulu, which contains four letters and means a remarkable person, object, or idea, and the word belle, which contains five letters and means a beautiful woman. Essentially, Lulubelle means remarkable and beautiful. We got along great until the nasty little counting bug in my brain acted up. Then I decided I had to count her.

How do you count a cat? It's real simple. You don't.

 

 

4,633.

I have the solution, Rob said. I figured it out. He was practically dancing, the tip of his cane bouncing eagerly on the tile. It bounced seven times, ending on the upbeat.

I grinned. Figured what out, man?

Your counting problem—I solved it. It's just like you said. The solution's always waiting, you only gotta think of it.

I've been thinking for awhile and I haven't come up with anything yet.

You can see. That's the answer.

I know I can see, I said. You're the one who can't, remember?

Rob touched his nose. Course I remember. But if we make you blind, you won't count.

How's that work?

Easy. If you can't see something, you can't count it. You'll feel a lot better. Nobody'll push you around. No more betting for fucking Jonah. Blindfolds. Rob felt for his laundry hamper and reached inside. We were in his bedroom listening to the radio and eating potato chips.

The next thing I knew, there was nothing but darkness. Rob's hand was warm behind my neck, pulling together the ends of a sock—a used sock, nonetheless. From the odor, he'd probably been wearing it for a week. He hated washing clothes.

Man, I can't see!

That's the point! How many fingers?

And I couldn't count them.

 

 

4,840.

In counseling today, the therapist said that I should leave my room. Jonah, you've made a lot of progress in a very short time, which is remarkable, but you never mingle with the other guests. Are you afraid of them?

No.

Do you dislike them?

No.

I've had a great time talking with you, Jonah. This afternoon, I'd like you to consider going for a walk. I don't see most of my patients in their rooms. I'm willing to make an exception for you, but I think social interaction would help you recover. Okay?

I kept silent and counted the seconds. It took thirty-nine.

I'll see you tomorrow, Jonah. Take care. He walked out and made sure to shut my door behind him, making as little noise as possible. He shuts my door when I can't see out—what's the use? I don't like him. He's an idiot.

He thinks I can see.

 

 

4,997.

Mnemonic devices are the key to medical school. I know this because my older brother, Zach, went to medical school, and when we talked, though we never talked often, he'd sometimes talk about his education. He wanted to be a doctor—a neurologist. I'm not feeling well this afternoon. I kicked my therapist in the shin yesterday. Technically, he should be the one feeling bad.

Kicking him in the shin was an accident. I was aiming for his balls.

Not being able to see makes hitting what you're aiming at harder than it used to be.

He's always talking about my progress. My recovery. My will to keep on going, to do better. How proud he is of me for persisting in the face of such a seemingly hopeless situation. Damn it, what if I don't want to get better? What if I want to count things again? What if that was the only thing that was ever halfway fucking special about me?

I don't deserve to progress. I don't want to improve. I think it would be pretty damn nice to die, in fact, because I am a fucking murderer.

I killed Susanna Rodriguez. Sure, it was mainly her fault, but I killed her.

There's no buzzing noise any more.

Rodriguez contains nine letters and is a common Spanish surname which, loosely translated, means son of Rodrigo. Rodrigo contains seven letters and is the Spanish form of Roderick, which contains eight letters and means famous power. She's not powerful now that she's dead, though. She was so beautiful. Her name could've been Lulubelle and that would've been okay.

If I find a tumor on my body, I know how to determine whether that tumor is benign or malignant. I simply have to follow the checklist for skin cancer, like this:

Asymmetry

Border

Color

Diameter

Elevation

Benign tumours are symmetrical, while malignant tumours spread in all directions. Their borders are uneven and rough, as opposed to the smooth ones which mean safety. A benign tumour is a healthier shade of pink, as opposed to the dark, foreboding tones of malignant tumours, which range from red to black to purple—et cetera.

This is a mnemonic device. It works because it's based on the first five letters of the English alphabet, which is the kind of thing pretty much everyone in medical school knows. On an exam, Zach wouldn't have had to think of asymmetry and elevation—he would only have had to remember A-B-C-D-E, which is a lot easier. I'm still not feeling well. I can tell. My thoughts won't stay where they should. I'm remembering numbers from years ago, and the digits are getting mixed up with Sue's hands.

I never had to see them to know they were ugly.

 

 

5,448.

Do you remember kicking me yesterday, Jonah?

i really wish i'd aimed higher.

Yes.

I'm sorry for making you feel threatened. You must have felt threatened to act out physically. You understand that I'll never do anything to hurt you—?

Yes.

Just a few days ago you were doing so well—improving so quickly. I thought you might almost be ready for visitors. What went wrong, Jonah?

I don't know.

i want the noise back. that's what's wrong.

the noise is gone.

I think you don't really understand that you don't need this any more. I think you're afraid. Am I right?

It's okay to be afraid, Jonah. Did you know that?

It's okay to be afraid.

 

 

5,574.

I'm going to start with organization again. Things are better when they're organized—they're more orderly, easier to keep track of. When you think, really think, about everything in the world that's frightening, you find that all the items on your list are unorganized. War, for instance. Death.

Clowns.

Growing up with percensitis isn't exactly easy. My biggest problem, for a long time, was Lulubelle. I had to count her. Her features were nothing, the work of an instant—she had two eyes, two ears, four feet, one tail—but I was addicted to hair. Hair was my thing. By my ninth birthday, I'd already investigated the heads of my mother, my father, and Zach, executing very detailed head counts (head counts—get it? It's a joke), and Lulubelle was something new to torture. I remember this from Scripture class: And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered.

It's appropriate.

No normal human being would be able to count each hair on a man's head, let alone each hair on a cat's entire body, but I'm not a normal human being. I've always been able to count things right away. Spending every second of every day thinking about numbers is a lot of practice.

Mom, Zach would whine. Jonah wants to count my head again.

Jonah, do you absolutely have—

I'd nod my head emphatically. Yes. I do. Please, Zach? Just once?

Oh, all right. And Zach, resigned, would sit at the kitchen table.

I leaned on the table for that procedure because it was easier to have something to lean on, and I sorted the hair of my victim with a plastic comb which I'd abducted from my mother's bathroom for precisely that purpose. At my best, I could finish Zach in less than thirty minutes.

Lulubelle, however, was hell on paws. She ran. Fast.

My desire to count my brother's cat only really set in on her eightieth day of residence, which was shortly after her christening. Zach was still twelve and I was still nine, and nine-year-old boys are wiry and quick, but young cats are wirier and quicker. For seven days, I did nearly nothing but attend school and chase Lulubelle. I was as determined to count her as she was to escape.

Come—here—Lulu, I'd pant, as I narrowly missed the coffee table. It'll only—take—a minute!

Lulu was not fooled. She wasn't keen on being held in the first place, and she especially wasn't keen on being combed, and a combination of both was something she absolutely refused to endure. I could only chase her for so long—eventually I broke something and got in trouble, or my legs gave out, or Zach rescued her and popped me one. I got whacked a lot when I was a kid—being scrawny didn't help. That's why, after the chasing, I went to the trapping.

If there is more than one way to skin a cat, there are several trillion ways to trap one, and I think I tried them all. I hid food in all corners of the house. I set up the door of her carrier so that it would snap down while she was inside. When I tried a trip-rope and landed a bucket on my father's head, that was the end of that. But I absolutely had to count that cat. Because resolution was denied, the compulsion grew worse and worse. And worse.

My mother walked in on me one day. I'd caught Lulubelle yet again. I had her pinned to the floor, one leg thrown across her back, one hand grasping the scruff of her neck, the other busy with a comb.

What are you doing, Jonah?

Counting Lulu.

She knelt down beside me and peered into Lulu's eyes. I'm sure they were violently dilated. The cat was pissed as all get-out and seriously thinking about homicide.

Jonah?

Yes, Mom?

Why do you count everything, honey?

I looked at her. Lulu looked at us and let out a growl rivaling the San Francisco earthquake of '89.

I don't know. I guess I just have to.

Is someone forcing you to?

No, Mom.

How could I explain the urge? It was more than an urge—it was a desire, a need. I counted. That was who I was. That was what I did. I saw things, and I counted them. And the stupid cat just would—not—hold—still.

I wish you wouldn't, Jonah.

I nodded. I wish I wouldn't, too.

My mother reached out and ruffled my hair. You can't count everyone, sweetheart. Some people—she eyed the prone Lulubelle—and some cats just don't want to be counted. It's going to annoy them.

There was a scratch on my left arm, my own small wound from the Comb Wars, and a long, thin line of blood. I extended this for my mother's perusal.

It annoys Lulu.

Yes. It does. Very much.

It annoys Zach too.

It annoys all of us a little, honey.

We thoughtfully studied Lulubelle again. I glanced up. Should I let her go, Mom?

I think she'd like that.

Would you like that?

I think I would.

I lifted my hands and my leg, and Lulubelle scampered indignantly away. We watched her tail disappear around the corner. Though the resistance took a lot out of my wearied nine-year-old mind, I never tried to count her again.

 

 

6,474.

I can easily solve advanced math problems, but they treat me like an invalid. Kill someone once and people think you're off your rocker forever. I just don't understand it. I'm many things, but I'm not stupid. Can you calculate the density of a foreign object 5.25 x 10⁶ miles away from the surface of the Earth, orbiting at a speed of 1.0 x 1025 km/s? I can. Not to brag. But I can.

I can also provide you with the number of fibers in the living room carpet of my childhood home. Three trillion, ninety million, eighty-three thousand, six hundred and four. There are probably less now, since it's been trampled for years by shoes and paws and chair legs, but that's how many there were when I counted.

That was an interesting experience. Zach had a friend over at the time. I was eight, Zach eleven and riding on air with all the confidence of sheer stupidity. He never had to count the stars in a space show. He didn't know what it was like. Thank God.

What's your retard brother doing now?

I don't know. Who ever knows what he's doing?

Hey. Retard. What're you doing?

I looked up.

Counting.

Zach and his buddy exchanged glances. Counting what? There's nothing to count, stupid.

I'm counting the carpet. Zach's friend was intrigued by now. I don't remember his name—it's been too long and he wasn't exactly a unique character—but I do remember that afternoon. Very clearly. Too clearly.

How long can that take? There's one. One carpet.

No—I'm counting the threads. See? There's lots. Thousands.

He knelt down and tugged at the carpeting to see for himself. A few fibers were jerked out and drifted to the sides—he'd pulled with too much force. I did some hasty subtraction and watched.

All of these?

Yep.

You really are a retard, you know that?

Zach stepped forward. I think he sensed that something was going to happen. Unfortunately for me, he was too late. Heat stirred in my chest. I got to my feet and met Zach's friend's eyes. He was twelve—four years older, two feet taller, and probably about seven times stronger.

What'd you call me? I said. My voice caught embarrassingly on the words.

I called you a retard. That's what you are. Even my dad—he says you're an idiot and he doesn't know why your parents don't lock you up 'cause you're always muttering stuff to yourself and are never gonna get a real job. My dad says you're too dumb to—

I hauled off and punched him in the face.

I'm not a retard, I breathed, as my hand fell limply back to my side. The blow hadn't really had the desired effect. Don't you ever call—

And then I was up close and comfortable with the fibers I'd just been counting, and there was a knee digging into the small of my back, and an alarmed Zach was hollering, Get off my brother, you assface, and everything went black. I fainted.

Needless to say, Zach lost a friend that day. The boy who listened to his father never set foot in our house again.

 

 

7,037.

Sue and I never made love, but we spent a lot of time coming close.

We wanted to save ourselves for marriage. It's the twenty-first century, but people do still save themselves for marriage. They're just an extreme minority. The technological revolution came with the biggest sexual upheaval in decades—in dozens of decades. You're crazy these days if you don't think sex is just sex. Forget the days of baring ankles; these are the days when the hidden stuff is hot.

Rob sprawled on his bed when he listened to the TV. That was an odd habit of his. The deaf have closed-captioning, but the blind are screwed—except Rob never accepted it. He turned on the shows he used to love, closed his eyes, and imagined. It's just like the radio, he'd say, only with pictures. Just because I can't see them doesn't mean they're not there. He was blinded in a car accident, when a strip of metal was driven into his skull, and he misses things.

How many words have they said so far? he asked me. Even though I'd been talking to Sue, Rob and I knew each other too well.

Nine hundred and twelve. Oops. Thirteen. I grinned.

Man, you're a fucking genius. Rob grinned back.

Obsessive, maybe. Genius? Nah.

Sue dug her fingers into my ribs. We were sitting on the floor, ignoring the show, and I was holding her. You're too modest.

This guy? Modest? You must not be talking about Jonah.

I'm modest, I protested. And if you keep stuffing your face with those, you're not gonna fit through the door. Share?

Rob rolled up the bag of Lay's and winged it in my general direction. Unfortunately, two blind men shouldn't play catch. I heard the cellophane whistling through the air, reached for the bag, knocked it down, and spilled what sounded like a trillion potato chips on Sue's head.

It's raining, she said dryly. Indoors. That's just fantastic.

Sorry, I murmured, running my fingers through her hair, brushing the food off. She grabbed a fistful of crumbs and pushed it against my lips.

Salty?

Sweet.

Oh, get a room. This one's mine.

You can't see us.

No, Rob growled, but I can hear you fine, smartass. Your kissing's louder than the TV and this is the best part.

The room was filled with gunfire.

How do you even know what's happening? I asked. Maybe the good guys are the ones getting shot. I smirked. Maybe I changed the channel.

Seen it before. Memorized it. Shut up.

A fingernail ran along my spine. It definitely wasn't Rob's. I reached back and squeezed the accompanying hand. My nostrils were flooded with coconut crème pie and lilies.

Sue?

Jonah?

I kissed her ear. She'd always had small ears. I wished that I could see them.

Why do you want to be with a freak like me?

She was quiet for a minute. You know the answer to that.

I chuckled. Because you think guys in blindfolds are hot.

Because I'm in love with you, you ninny.

I touched my lips to the soft skin of her neck. And I'm in love with you.

Shut up! Something large, solid, and heavy hit the back of my head. After recovering from the resounding crack and impending vertigo, I felt around for it. It was one of Rob's old hiking boots.

Why does your aim improve when you're trying to injure me?

Rob laughed. Necessity.

 

 

7,611.

You wouldn't think I'd kill her, would you?

Better be with the dead, whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, than on the torture of the mind to lie in restless ecstasy. That's Shakespeare. Macbeth.

He was a murderer too.

 

 

7,652.

Jonah, I'm worried about you.

Okay.

It's not that you haven't been recovering—you have. But you can't seem to believe that you didn't kill Susanna. She's still alive. I spoke with her, in fact, just this afternoon.

buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Do you want to talk about it, Jonah? Can you describe the circumstances of the murder?

Jonah?

No.

see? it's comforting.

When did you kill her, Jonah?

How?

I don't remember.

why won't he pay attention?

Your next goal is to leave your room, Jonah. Socialize. You didn't kill Susanna. Try to accept that—try to be comfortable with it. I care about you, Jonah. You're unhappy.

and i shouldn't be?

buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

 

 

7,765.

I opened my door this afternoon. I don't know what was outside, a hallway or another room or what. I shut it again in a minute. You're very vulnerable when you're blind. You can never be sure. You have to be careful. Someone asked me once how I could make coffee or cross streets—didn't I nearly get hit? Didn't I burn myself? I said after you burn yourself once, you learn.

Rob didn't cry. Only on a single occasion did I see him shed tears, and even then I didn't really see it. I never understood how he stayed dry-eyed—if I were in his place, I wouldn't. He deserved self-pity more than any of us. I was born with percensitis, even though I didn't realize it at first; there had always been a little genetic bug in my brain, waiting for the right moment to sink its teeth into my gray matter and start chewing. Sue was born blind. Mike was different, with his hatred of sobriety. I don't know what he thought about his disability—he never talked to me about it. I don't know if he suffered.

Car accidents, though, are unfair. Rob was born with perfect vision, a solid 20-20, able to read letters twenty millimeters high from twenty feet away. Then his skull shook hands with titanium, and Rob wound up with a lingering, poisonous feeling of having been cheated. A truck driver cheated Rob out of a lifetime of light.

It took less than five minutes for Rob's world to darken forever.

We left our doors unlocked most of the time at Delcroix, Sue, Rob, Mike, and I, and whenever one of us took it upon himself or herself to visit another, that was only a matter of knocking and turning the doorknob. I think it was Sunday afternoon. Around noon.

Rob?

Jonah.

What's up, man? I stepped inside. It's kinda dark in here. Why don't you turn on a light or something?

This was a private joke of ours. He usually told me to fuck off, but he never really sounded angry. I like to think that I can tell if someone is smiling by the tone of their voice. Rob always smiled.

I'm a little busy. You wanna come back later?

Busy doing what?

I was bored and more than a little cranky. Sue had gone home to see her family that morning—I stood at the bus stop waving, though I couldn't watch her leave, until the sound of the engine faded and disappeared in the distance. Nothing was for sure between us yet. We were still in the early stages of our relationship, acknowledgement and exploration and fun.

Just stuff, Jonah, okay? Things. Studying.

There was something odd about his speech, but I couldn't put my finger on it. He sounded raspy and congested.

You catch the flu again?

Naw.

I walked across the room, because I felt like it, and sat on his bed, where his feet should've been if he was lying down.

Get out, asshole. Can't you just leave me the fuck alone?

Leave you the what alone? Rob knew his habitual use of profanity annoyed me—which was probably why he swore every chance he got.

Get out. He choked a bit. Now.

I stayed where I was and plucked idly at the bedspread, wondering what his blue funk was about and whether the potato chips, really my only reason for coming by, were still on top of his dresser. He sighed. Neither of us said anything. Ten minutes passed. I squeezed the button on my wristwatch.

The time is 12:17 P.M. and thirty-five seconds.

Handy things, talking watches.

Man. You there?

I rolled my eyes. What do you think?

I used to paint. I ever tell you that?

No. Probably figured I'd say you were a wuss.

He snorted. Probably did.

Wuss.

Rob leaned back and his head rapped against the wall. They put a plate in after the accident.

I was kind of obsessed with it, he said. Painting. It was my thing, you know? Everybody has a thing. Yours is counting, Mike's is drinking, Sue's is pretty much making out with—

Hey. Watch yourself.

Anyway, I got fucking good, even won a couple awards. I mean, I was in high school, so the awards were, like, three signatures on a sheet of some crappy paper, but a prize is a prize, you know?

I let the fucking slide.

What'd you paint? I asked.

I dabbled. He laughed. Sorry, painters' joke. Landscapes, still-lifes, portraits. They were good, but they were never great. Somebody else's was always better. You get what I'm saying? I never had that emotion those French guys with the dorky hats talk about. Passion. Desire. Look at the delicate fall of the pine needles. That crap. I only painted what I saw.

You were supposed to paint what you didn't see?

You don't get it. Yeah, I never got it either.

We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, which is not unusual for two men who are discussing their feelings. Or lack thereof.

So this—I waved my cane—this is about your horrific art skills?

I guess. He blew his nose in the darkness. Fucking stupid.

Not really. I wanted to write.

You never tried, he muttered. It wasn't a question.

No. I had the ideas, and I had the time—

But you knew you'd always be average.

Yeah.

It's hard. Being motivated when you know, like, I can try for ten years but I'm never gonna have what it takes. I'm never gonna be better than okay.

It is, man. It is.

One time, senior year? There was a judge who looked like he walked straight out of a European art studio. Even had the stupid beret. It was crazy. He said my problem was—Rob's voice jumped an octave in mocking—I couldn't see the underlying beauty of the countryside, I saw the way the light fell across the hills but I didn't understand what it meant, light was Nature's paint and I wasn't capturing that, I thought light was just a tool. I didn't understand it was something special.

I nodded, invisibly.

Know what?

What?

I could paint a fucking great picture now. Fucking great.

Life really has a way of kicking a guy in the balls.

It does.

Say, Rob?

Yeah.

You still got those potato chips?

Rob blew his nose again, and this time he laughed. I still got 'em. He pressed a wrinkled mass of cellophane into my waiting hands.

Want some?

Maybe later.

This isn't the end of the world, you know.

I know.

 

 

8,917.

Mom loved to sing. She'd always be humming—in the kitchen, in the garden, cleaning the bathroom—wherever she was, she never ran short on melody. Her life had a soundtrack, and she'd always share it. Her voice wasn't beautiful or spectacular or anything like that. It wasn't much more than mediocre on a good day. But Zach and I loved listening. When we were little, Mom would come in every night before we fell asleep, hold us in her arms, and croon off-key lullabies.

Sometimes, if I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still hear her.

 

 

9,023.

There weren't many cars in our neighborhood. I think I talked about that before. If one did come around, though, it came fast—much faster than the speed limit allowed—and if you happened to be in the street at the time, well, so much the worse for you. Your family'd be scraping you up with a spatula.

Roadkill piled up intermittently before our house. We'd go weeks without any animals at all—then we'd step outside and find three squirrels, or a cat and her kitten, or an opossum. On one occasion I found a giant raccoon, its beady eyes staring at the trees like it was planning an escape doomed before it began. Sometimes their organs spilled through slits in their bellies, sometimes ants ran aimlessly in and out in and out of their slack mouths, sometimes you thought they'd just died but when you approached flies floated up in a cloud. It varied.

They tended to appear in pairs, and that really got to me. I still can't figure it out. Is it better to go with your loved one or leave them to keep living alone?

Whatever the answer, killing her definitely wasn't the best option.

Anyway.

We never had a pet other than Lulubelle, but we loved playing with our neighbors' pets, even when we didn't have permission. Zach really loved big dogs, especially the ones that looked like they planned on having a little kid for dinner. Cats were my favorite—I was fascinated by aloof creatures that could express such incredible affection. Either that or I wanted animals that wouldn't eat me. Sometimes I tried to count them, but the incident at home made that easier to control.

Our father was low on tolerance. He meant well. His temper just hung by a thread, is all, and some unseen puppeteer was holding a knife to it, severing strands one at a time. We had our good times, though. Everyone has good times, because everything is relative. If you're a prisoner of Nazi Germany, you might enjoy finding a chunk of moldy bread in the snow. If you're Bill Gates, you might enjoy creating a virus for your latest operating system. To each his own, right?

When I was seven and Zach was ten, my father took us to the zoo. I'd never been there before, or to the marina even, and I'd never seen so many big animals in the same place. As a neurotic kid, I was really, really glad they were in cages. Zach, on the other hand, was full of spirit, eager to prove his courage and intrepidity. He marched along the paths, clasping both Dad's hand and a sucker bigger than his head, declaring that they should let the animals out, 'cause he wasn't scairt of any damn lion. Dad's regulations in the cursing department were lax at best.

It was fun. Believing that teeth existed purely to be rotted beyond imagining, Dad bought Zach and I cotton candy, popcorn, and large sodas, packing our arms with goodies until we staggered under the load. We spent a lot of time admiring the games—I hung around the weight-guessing contest, where I loudly pointed out that the subject's pockets were full of rocks until I was appeased with a stuffed zebra. Zach, not to be outdone, tried his hand at popping balloons and won an orange teddy bear. I was thrilled with the zebra; it had twenty-seven stripes and fifty-nine threads in the tip of its tail, and it was three times the size of my head.

How you gonna carry that? You're too short. You can't even carry your soda. Zach snickered.

I tried to dump the drink on his head.

Zach, quick to act, shoved me away.

My foot caught on a crack in the road, I fell, and I landed, fortunately, with the giraffes.

If I was short, my new friends sure weren't. While the paper cup exploded on the ground and Pepsi splashed eveywhere, I sat dumbly, staring around in shock, trying to figure out how I'd gone from up to down so fast.

Jonah!

Dad!

Jonah! Are you okay? Where are you, son? Talk to me!

I'm down here, Dad! But my voice squeaked, and I had to try again. Dad! Here!

Two faces appeared over the ledge above me—Zach's terrified and a little guilty, Dad's just terrified. He was looking to my left. Hold still, son. Don't move. You hear me? Don't. Move.

I moved, of course, turning my head, and what should I find but someone else watching me? This someone had an elongated face, brown eyes, and two small horns, and its nose was about two inches away from mine. Its breath, whooshing in and out, was surprisingly warm. I had bursts of confidence at the oddest times. I reached out a hand and stroked its velvety cheeks.

To this day, I think that giraffe winked.

For God's sake, Jonah, don't touch it! We'll get you out of there. You'll be fine. Just hold on.

It likes me, Dad!

Be careful! Zach yelled. Having pushed me in the first place, he was probably just assuaging his guilt, but I was too happy to care.

I tried giving the giraffe a scratch; it preferred that to the petting, and lowered its head to tug at my clothes with its tongue. Kids don't understand when they're in danger, so I found nothing unusual about sitting in the middle of a pen, petting an animal that was dining on my scarf.

You're spotty, I said. The giraffe didn't respond.

How many?

Still no answer.

I got to my feet. I wouldn't think about my good luck in not breaking bones or snapping my neck until I was older.

Dad figured out my agenda pretty quickly. Jonah. You cannot count it. Jonah, are you listening—Jonah, don't even think about—Jonah, you're going to—son, just hold on!

More curious faces were appearing, and a chorus of voices addressed my father.

What's he doing?

You must be proud of him—he's real brave.

Look at him—he's not afraid of it at all.

Why isn't someone getting him out of there?

Good thing giraffes aren't carnivorous—he'd be dinner by now.

Zach was fully recovered and back to snickering, now that he'd seen I was going to be okay. Wittle Jonah-Wonah's having a fit again, isn't he, Dad?

But I wasn't having a fit, I was having fun. You've got a lot, I muttered. Twenny-one, twenny-two, twenny-twee…. I'd worked around to his tail by then and he hadn't moved, only darting an eye in my direction occasionally, like he was asking what I was doing.

Zookeepers were already coming to my rescue. One used food to lure the giraffe away, and another picked me up, asking if I was all right. He had kind eyes and a short brown beard that tickled my face. He smelled of elephants.

You okay, son? No busted bones? No wounded pride?

Ninety-twee, I said, grinning.

Ninety-three what?

Spots!

The man's jaw dropped. Wait. You're saying our giraffe has ninety-three spots?

Yup! Where's Dad?

He threw his head back and laughed. Sir, he called up to my dumbstruck father, you have a special boy here. A very special boy. He's going to be somebody.

 

 

10,192.

Foliage flourishes everywhere. There were daisies poking from the wreckage of the Pentagon. There are wildflowers surrounded by sand. Even a cactus can bloom.

About seven years ago, three daffodils grew on the side of the road. I don't know if they're still alive, or if they were trampled a few minutes after I saw them, or if someone kept them in a cheap plastic vase until they drooped over the sides and faded quietly. I like to think they're still alive, but I know how unrealistic that is. Their persistence was inspirational, somehow; the pavement was a death sentence, but there you are—they kept on going.

Surrounded by hopelessness, those three daffodils thrived.

 

 

10,305.

I've been remembering a lot of things lately—so many it hurts to think. I'm a little scared, talking like this now, because I don't know where I should start. My therapist says that thing won't record any stutters or mistakes; apparently, it's highly advanced technology, and more than capable of distinguishing words from gibberish. We had recorders similar to it in college; I probably didn't need to ask my therapist at all.

It's been so long. What's the truth? What did I know before? Why have I forgotten? What have I forgotten?

These are normal questions, he murmurs, and I can't see him but I swear to you I can feel the weight of his eyes. If they're normal questions, he wants me to answer them anyway.

I sob a little. I'm confused, I say.

You're making a breakthrough. His hand falls on my shoulder, and his palm is warm and callused, and I wonder how a counselor forms calluses—really heavy pens?—and I'm leaning into him and we embrace, and it's nice. No one touches me. I wish I could burrow into his chest and stroke his heart, because my nose is full of lilies and coconut crème pie.

And then I'm holding Sue and her blood is on my fingers, and her tears run with mine, and her breath rattles helplessly, and she breathes Jonah and dies.

And then I wake up.

I'm clutching desperately to something—once I gripped my pillow so tightly that my fingernails pierced the casing, which was funny because crazy people aren't allowed to have long nails. That's how hard I held on. Two weeks ago I fell out of bed and cracked my elbow on the floor. Someone ran in and helped me back up, probably because I was wailing. I never cried before I came here—maybe it's this place that depresses me. People who can see aren't the only ones who are miserable.

They give me a lot of drugs—no opiates, no highs—I get syringes that dull my thoughts, tablets that clog my mind, powders that clean my slate. The fog in my brain is fibrous, and the fibers are interchanged with the dendrites of neurons, and everything fades.

And sometimes I don't wake up.

 

 

10,687.

I'm worried about you, Jonah.

aren't you always

How have you been feeling lately?

Fine.

Is there anything you'd care to discuss?

has there ever been

No.

i got a noise today. this is nice.

Talk to me, Jonah. Please? I care about you. And I think you're on the verge of a breakthrough.

i'm making a breakthrough. but his palm isn't callused.

where are the calluses.

Let's talk about your past a little more.

what past

You came from somewhere, Jonah—

why

—tell me about it.

no

 

 

10,774.

I'll talk about—what should I talk about? I know—I'll talk about Christian. Christian wasn't a Christian, but that happens a lot. Maybe we tend to develop aversions toward our namesakes. Happens often enough. Only why don't people name their children Buddhist, or Author, or Street Musician, then? With all of today's nicknames, it'd work. Friends could call him Buddy.

Christian Tolsbury was one of the guys, if you remember them, who believed I was not only a homicidal abacus but a racehorse, and a fast one at that. In other words, Christian bet a lot of money on my counting abilities, and he always won, because I was good. I am good. Not a soul on God's green earth can count faster than I can.

What's the highest number I ever counted to? I don't remember—and I never forget numbers. That's how high it was.

That's how good I am.

I met Christian Tolsbury during my senior year of high school. High school was not a nice experience. To put it mildly, teachers hated me on sight. I think that, by now, you've figured out why: I counted their classrooms. I tallied desks; I totaled chairs; I added pencils and multiplied students. After Lulubelle, however, I stopped counting hair. Did my classmates make fun of me? Of course. They thought I was a moron. But that's not their fault. I am a moron.

Luckily, Christian was a bigger moron.

Twenty years ago, I ran from my fourth class of the day to my fifth, and I tripped over someone's feet. This has always been a talent of mine. The feet were wedged into shoes three sizes too small. They were very fat—the feet, not the shoes. I looked up.

Sorry.

Get off me, fucking freak. You're drooling on my fucking shoes!

Christian was a classmate; otherwise he wouldn't have been so affectionate.

Sorry, I muttered again. I'm sorry. I'd dropped my textbooks, and my backpack was in a puddle. The papers inside would be a soggy mess.

Those cost me forty bucks. I just bought 'em. Son of a bitch.

I squinted at the shoes; it was hard not to, since I was lying on them. They were a popular style, and more and more people were wearing them recently. I'd seen every color of the rainbow, from hot pink to neon green to black, and what must've been a dozen different patterns. Unfortunately, Christian's were the latter, dotted with a multitude of tiny white skulls. I looked at the skulls, and I looked back up at Christian's face. He was livid.

Christian?

What?

Could you stand still?

Are you insane?

No—just for a— I was trying to hold his feet down.

Get your hands off me, retard!

Counting the skulls usually wouldn't have taken me more than two minutes—they stood out and there weren't that many of them—but Christian was determined to make things difficult. He was sputtering by then, unable to find breath for even a litany of profanity. There was a murderous glint in his eyes. I think that, had he been able to find a suitable weapon, he would have killed me.

So I bit his ankle.

Hard.

My percensitis has always worsened in times of stress. The more stressed I become, the more my percensitis acts up. As my percensitis worsens, so does my stress. It's a vicious cycle. The vicious cycle had never driven me to physical acts of violence before, but there's a first time for everything, and ankle-biting isn't high on the list of felonies.

Christian, capable of logical thought occasionally, hauled off and kicked me in the face. I heard something crack and was overwhelmed by throbbing pain.

I slumped back and murmured, to no one special, Nineteen.

Nineteen what, you fucking moron?

Your shoes. Nineteen skulls. I touched my nose and drew my bloody hand away with a gasp. That hurt. I think you broke it.

People were rushing up by then, administrators barking into their handhelds, pushing observers to the sides, students forming a semicircle of dog-eat-dog curiosity. Fighting was strictly outlawed. Since I was the only one who got injured—despite Christian's enraged inspection, I hadn't so much as torn his jeans—I got off pretty easily, with a four-day suspension. Christian was suspended for two weeks and had to go on trial for assualt and battery.

He stared at me while the V.P. pulled him away, and I thought his expression was that of a man realizing he'd just kicked opportunity in the nads.

In this case, he kicked it in the face.

We encountered each other again sometime after his suspension was over. Christian was wearing a very odd shirt that day; it was a black muscle tee with a caricature of a rock star on the front, the picture one of those fun things you see sometimes, like a big mural composed of dozens of smaller copies of itself. My gaze went to his chest immediately and stuck.

Hey, he said, watching.

I glanced up. Hey.

There was silence for a minute.

How's your nose?

It was taped and fairly painful, and if I happened to roll over and bump it in my sleep I woke up shedding silent tears. The doctor said it would be crooked for the rest of my life. But I only said, It's broken.

Figured. Look. Sorry about that.

What?

Sorry about that. It was an accident. Okay?

Your foot just magically connected with my face?

You bit my fucking leg!

Yeah. Well. Sorry.

He groaned, like he was consciously trying to regain his composure. What do you think of my shirt?

It's cool. That's, uh, Elvis?

Elvis went out thirty years ago. Where've you been, in a cave?

No.

Christian grinned. You know, you're not bad. Not a bad guy.

This from someone who broke my nose and called me a fucking moron. I said, Thanks.

Say. Do me a favor, Jonah?

Sure.

I bought this awhile ago, but I never figured out how many. He gestured at the rock star. You happen to know?

I'd already counted it. Stress and all that. Eighty-seven, I muttered.

He laughed. Are you sure? What if you're wrong?

I'm never wrong. Unfortunately.

Never?

Never.

You're a fucking genius, Jonah. This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Christian slung an arm over my shoulders and grinned.

 

 

11,912.

When I talk to you, I feel like someone's listening to me. Really listening. Thinking about what I have to say. Actively listening, they called it in ninth grade. Recorders don't talk back. They gave you to me because my therapist recommended it—he said I wouldn't talk to him during our sessions, and he thought I might be more comfortable communicating if I kept a diary. So I got a device two days later, and you're really just a cross between a tape recorder and a word processor, bolted to the table and with round edges.

If you're crazy, everything is bolted down and squishy. It's odd. Living with this stuff would make anyone go insane. Almost a regular catch-22:

Have a mental breakdown, even a small one, and you're nuts and they lock you up, saying that they're going to fix your problems, make you better, and keep you there until you're sane again. And while you're there you're surrounded by padded objects and drugs, all preventing you from becoming sane. And if you should happen to recover some sanity, they say, hey, your condition is worsening, so you have to stay longer.

I really think I'll never get out of here.

But my therapist isn't such a bad guy. It could be worse.

I dream about Sue often, how soft her skin was, the thin white rose scars on the tips of her fingers. Mostly her scent, the way it was light and cloying at once and stuck to your clothes so you remembered her all day. The first time we kissed our teeth clicked and we had to try again to get it right, and she tasted like a cold glass of water, and she called me a beaver.

I've been working on remembering killing her, but the memory is gone, or maybe it was never there, or maybe it's there so strong I'll never get rid of it. I remember the heat of her blood, and I remember wondering how anyone could live with that much fire inside. But I don't remember how she died.

 

 

12,265.

Good afternoon—this is Dr. Scott Johansen, head psychiatrist here at Delcroix's Institute for the Mentally Impaired. Jonah has requested that I give my professional opinion on his condition for posterity. He, in fact, specifically asked for his recorder to be brought to my office. It arrived this afternoon. It's larger than I anticipated, and there are holes where it was bolted down. I didn't order it to be fixed to the table.

Jonah has done very well so far, considering the myriad difficulties facing him; he has a great deal of physical and emotional trauma to overcome, and recovery won't be an easy road to travel. He suffers from percensitis, which is bad enough in itself, and he is convinced that he murdered his girlfriend, Susanna Rodriguez.

In my professional opinion, Sue is very much alive.

It worries me that Jonah refuses to leave his room. Because of his recurring homicidal delusions, I think he feels that he deserves to be punished or incarcerated, and he's taking care of that sentence himself. He also believes that he is blind, when his inability to sight is only due to the fact that he always wears a blindfold. To the best of my knowledge, his eyes have been shut, and the lids filled with some kind of nontoxic putty.

I would not call Jonah insane. He is troubled, sullen, and unresponsive, but he's still entirely sane.

I will continue looking for a way to help him make a much-deserved breakthrough. We're close. I can almost taste it.

Dr. Johansen, over and out.

(I've always wanted to say that.)

 

 

12,519.

My parents divorced when I was eleven and Zach was fourteen. I didn't understand what happened and so, overwhelmed by nervous fear, my percensitis worsened considerably. During that time Zach kept to himself, scarcely leaving his bedroom; he played music loudly and spent hours, even days, out with his friends. Our mother was too hurt to pay much attention. I think she acknowledged the strange behavior, but couldn't bring herself to do anything about it.

She acted like her world was ending, like a bomb had dropped from the sky and crushed any hope she might ever have again. Sometimes I wondered if she realized ours was ending too.

Thanks to eavesdropping and thin walls, I heard most of my parents' conversations.

You're abandoning us. Did you think about that? How can you live with yourself?

I have to do it. I love you. You know that.

If you loved us, you'd stay.

I can't. Okay? I just can't any more.

Your sons need you. Doesn't that mean anything?

Whether they need me or not—it's just—don't understand—time—come—

Then their voices trailed off, leaving me wondering what every child wonders when the time come:

Did I do it?

The answer was, of course, No—No, Jonah, you didn't do anything. It's no more your fault than it is Zach's or mine. Sometimes people need a change, that's all. Their need doesn't make it okay. It's never okay. But sometimes they just don't have any other choice.

And so this is what happens?

Yes. This is what happens.

But why did it have to be my Dad who needed a change? Why not—

I don't know, Jonah. And she would sigh and shake her head. I just don't know.

Our father was a good man. He was, in fact, often a great man. Maybe he had a midlife crisis. Maybe he got sick of us. I never really found out, because we never talked afterward—he packed his things, there was a settlement, less hostile than it could've been, we stayed with Mom, and he drove away and the last trace of him was his white palm waving in the rearview mirror. Every family has its problems—no one's life is perfect. This was what Mom said, over and over, the day after he disappeared. It's going to be okay, she said. Don't worry, it's going to be okay.

She walked around the house and said it, and she sat on his side of the bed and said it, and she touched the jacket he'd left behind and said it, and when she found me in my room staring at the wall she hugged me and said it again.

Turned out things really were going to be okay.

Zach had more of a problem adapting than I did. He wasn't capable of understanding such a sudden, desperate need for change. None of us were, I guess, except Dad. Three weeks later I was lying awake, on the verge of drifting off, when I heard voices from the room our parents used to share. Someone was in there, crying.

It's just—

I know, honey.

I—miss him, and—it's hard—

We're doing good. We'll make it through this.

Sometimes, when you call us in—for dinner—and I hear a car outside—I think he's coming—home—and—

It's okay. It's okay. Relax. It's all right.

I pictured my brother and my mother embracing, and when I thought of the way she was probably rubbing his back, murmuring empty, vital words, I realized that Zach would survive. He wouldn't be the same, of course, but he'd survive.

The next morning, over breakfast, his eyes were a little red. From years of sibling rivalry and weeks of grief, I knew better than to mention it.

Can we go see the movie, Zach? I said instead. You promised we could see the movie.

Zach looked at me and grinned. I did. Yeah, we can. Wanna go after school?

Yeah!

Our mother watched the exchange. What movie are you boys going to see?

Oh, it's just a cartoon, Zach said. Completely G-rated, kid-safe and all that.

But you want to see it, right? I asked nervously.

Sure. I'll put up with you counting singing dinosaurs or whatever for that long. 'Kay, Jonah?

'Kay.

And we dug into our eggs and sausage silently after that, only speaking once in a while to say things like:

Pass the salt.

Or:

Don't give Lulu those. She'll have bad breath for a month.

Or:

This bacon is great, Mom.

And we never said touchy things, like:

Were you crying, Zach? Your face is blotchy.

Or:

I miss Dad.

Or:

Is Dad ever going to come back?

And that afternoon Zach and I were outside the theatre for the four o'clock showing of the singing dinosaur film, and when we watched it I kept my counting to myself, and it was nice.

 

 

13,254.

Today I opened my door for five minutes. I opened it and backed away, of course, not wanting to stand too close because who knew what might be coming down the hallway? You can't be sure with these things. There was nothing to hear when I listened, like the door wasn't open at all, and I nearly had to put my hand through the frame to check. I stood halfway across the room and waited.

After two minutes and twenty-eight seconds, I caught the sound of someone pushing a cart, but it was pretty far away. So I checked my watch.

The time is 9:48 P.M. and eleven seconds.

That explained it. Most people were going to bed. Lights-out is at ten, and the residents are all supposed to be brushed and washed and curled up snug in their beds, visions of sugar-plums high in their heads. I don't worry about washing, myself. Someone knocks on the door every night at ten-fifteen to make sure I'm asleep. They don't get to my room until after ten, because there are a lot of patients here. It's a lonely place. It might be less lonely if I left my room, but I don't want to.

I have to learn places.

Normal people, people who can see, don't worry about that, because they can tell where they're going and what's around them at a glance. But when you can't see something, you have to remember it—you have to touch it and make a map in your head, table is over here, chair is over there, stairs are that way. If you're in a place you've known for a long time, that's not hard. Humans have this crazy wonderful thing called muscle memory. After walking the same way, day after day, year after year, you are, literally, able to do it blindfolded. And you never move anything. Ever. If you do, you bark your shins for a month.

Learning a new place is always exhausting. You don't know if your next step'll take you off a cliff. No one likes to feel that they're surrounded by the unknown, because man is terrified of the unknown, hates it like he hates the guy screwing his wife.

That's why I haven't left yet, I think. I'm twenty-seven years old. I've learned six hundred and ten places and broken five bones learning them.

I'm done with learning new rooms. I want to stay here, losing myself in memories of the old ones.

I shut the door after the five minutes were up, not a second later, and put my hands against it, wondering if I could feel what was outside through the wood, sensing vibrations like a dolphin, underwater sonar. I couldn't, of course. Then I checked my watch, and it was ten-ten, and I got into bed and closed my eyes so they wouldn't tranq me, and I lay there for two and one half hours before I fell asleep.

13,747.

Here's a list:

Colorado desert sidewinders

baleen whales

Russian Desman moles

humpback anglerfish

New Zealand ark clams

beaded sea anemones

methane ice worms

It's a list of seven animals, obviously, and you wouldn't think it right off, but they all have something in common, some very important thing:

They have terrible vision.

I find it odd that a sea anemone and a mole, two things that are so incredibly dissimilar, can share something as vital as an absence of sight.

An anemone lives underwater and hardly moves; it whiles away its entire life in the same place, with its floppy polyp of a foot stuck to the same rock, waiting to see whatever comes by. It has wavy tentacles, and its tentacles sting small fish, paralyzing those fish so it can consume them. Clownfish are impervious to the anemone's venom, and they're often seen swimming in and out of those deadly arms.

A mole, on the other hand, is a small, furry creature that lives underground. It digs tunnels and eats really, really quickly. Moles have to ingest their body weight daily to survive, which obviously doesn't leave much time for anything else. Moles don't catch the evening news. They're not poisonous—rather than zapping other creatures, they hunt them down. Moles hardly ever wander around in the open air, because they would be easy prey for just about everything.

And both are blind.

That's very strange.

Lunch arrived about an hour ago, the same way it always does, entering with a knock on the door and leaving with a sigh:

There is a rap.

Jonah? Mr. McDermott? It's me. Nurse Susan.

The nurses here have no surnames. This is a pointless, foolish habit adopted in order to engender a friendly, sociable environment—or so it says in the mission statement. Patients are supposed to feel comfortable with staff, and staff are supposed to feel comfortable with patients. Whether they actually are or not is something else altogether, and of no real importance.

I don't answer. She expects this. I hear the sound of a knob turning, and footsteps approach.

It's a great day today, Mr. McDermott. You should see the way the sun shines.

Susan sets a tray down on the desk by the window.

Roast beef and mashed—your favorite. I even made sure to get the green Jell-O.

I turn my head in her direction and say nothing.

I remember that you like the green, because you always eat it all. I bring you yellow and you leave some, red and you leave some, blue and you leave some, but when I bring green you always eat it. Every last bite.

There's extra gravy, she murmurs. I can feel her watching me.

No one moves for a minute. She opens the window, and a cool breeze ruffles my hair. I'm glad she opened it. Light doesn't matter, but I like air. I could've opened it myself.

I smell the beef. It's not very good. It's the best of the worst. Green Jell-O really is the best, though. I don't know how she remembers.

How are you feeling, Mr. McDermott?

I wait.

A hand falls lightly on my shoulder and squeezes. Fingers tease the bandanna. I don't know how old or how young Susan is; from the sound of her voice I think she's fairly young. Maybe about my age. Maybe older. Really, her age doesn't matter either.

I reach up and touch her hand a little.

I'm sorry, Jonah. She's choked up.

I wish you'd talk, she says.

There is silence for a few minutes, and her palm is warm, and then she sighs. Soft-soled shoes whisper away. The door shuts. I'm alone.

Anyway, that was lunch. Real food is what I miss the most.

Sometimes I wonder what moles eat. I forget.

 

 

14,384.

Jonah, I have a surprise for you today! I think you're going to enjoy it.

buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Would you like to know what it is?

Jonah?

Yes. I would.

a surprise.

Well, I spoke with Susanna this afternoon, and she gave me something that she wants you to have. She believes it may help speed your recovery.

buzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Here, Jonah, it's yours.

Thank you.

Have you given any thought to leaving your room?

it was for five minutes, and i think

i heard a cart

maybe

that was a person

No.

Well, Jonah, I hope you will. I hope you will.

 

 

14,485.

My therapist didn't tell me what he gave me because he wants me to look at it. I don't like that; I don't like the idea that people are trying to push me around, even here, even in this stupid screwed-up cuddly insane asylum. Yeah, it's cuddly, when everybody's on a first-name basis and they bring you Jell-O and squeeze your shoulders and cry in the potatoes.

It's a book.

Subject? Author? Title? How should I know? It's heavy, though, and it smells funny, like leather that's been handled over and over. I found a bookmark between the pages—even the tassel's worn.

Dead people don't give gifts. They're dead, after all. That's the whole point of being dead, isn't it? No more obligations. Once you die, you don't owe anybody anything, and you never will again. Someone told me years ago that he thought suicide was the ultimate act of selfishness, because it leaves everyone else in the world to bear the burden of all those forgotten debts.

If Sue didn't ask for it to be given to me—and she obviously didn't—maybe it belonged to her before she died.

Either way, beyond the leather there are lilies.

I often lose track of the days. I never know whether it's dark or light outside, or if it's raining or snowing or sunny, or which way the wind is blowing. Sometimes I wonder.

Yesterday, while I ate my lukewarm clam chowder, which arrived with soda crackers and a plastic cup of flat 7-Up—I don't eat like a human being any more, but like a senile white-haired woman, gumming my gruel in silence—I thought about Mike. He was a real character. With the drinking problem, if you didn't know him, you would've thought that he was a troubled, deep soul, the kind of guy women want to swoon over and tend.

Right?

Ha!

Mike drank because he loved to drink. There was nothing he enjoyed more than cracking open a Budweiser and licking off the foam. Was he a drunk? Well, I guess he was—at least technically. But we were never bothered by it, because it never bothered him.

The three of us went to the movies a lot, mostly nights when the theaters showed old films. Not black-and-whites, but films from maybe a century ago. They were starting color a century ago, and color was poor quality then compared to what it was later, in our time period, but we all agreed that we liked old movies, and so we went to them. A lot.

Sounds bizarre coming from a man who can't see, doesn't it?

Let's see if I can remember. I've forgotten a lot lately. Seems like the more they tell me I'm crazy, the more I believe I am. But I think it's coming back.

So. I want to hear Jurassic Park.

That was Rob—ever a fan of anything involving slaughter, death, or giant, bloodthirsty, carnivorous lizards.

Hey, it's my turn, buddy boy, and I said we were hearing Two Weeks' Notice.

Sue, of course. Your clichéd romanticist, and a sucker for Hugh Grant.

What the fuck are the two of you talking about?

Mike. What's up, man?

Hey, Rob. Sue. Where's Jonah?

Here, I said. I was lying on my stomach beside Rob's bed, eating nachos drenched in cheese and dosed liberally with jalapeños and flicking the jalapeños at people when I felt like it.

Mike walked over and swung his foot in an arc, trying to find me. He kicked me squarely in the ribs.

Ow! What was that for? Where's your cane?

He snickered. I got it right here.

Then why'd you kick me?

Seemed like fun.

What time's the movie? Rob asked, flopping down on his pillow. His foot hit the ground directly next to my head. I idly dipped a finger in the cheese and smeared it all over his shoe.

You mean Two Weeks? It starts in half an hour.

Mike checked his watch. The time is 3:42 P.M. and twenty-one seconds. Yeah, we had the same watch.

Good, he said. I have time to get a drink. See ya in a few.

Get me a Coke while you're at it? Sue laughed. I'm too lazy to go myself.

Sure. I heard his cane tapping against the wall and the turning of the doorknob, and he was gone. Rob stood up.

Hey. My fucking shoe's wet!

What's the matter? I selected another chip as calmly as I could.

Son of a bitch! Jonah. What'd you do.

Nothing. What're you talking about?

Sue took Rob's place and leaned down to share. We kissed, and she tasted like the gas station across the street—which was, of course, where I'd bought the nachos. You taste like a gas satiated, I said, chewing away.

Gas satiated?

Station. Gas station. I swallowed.

You're fucking insane, man. This is cheese. You put cheese on my fucking shoes.

Shoe, I said. I put cheese on your shoe. Singular. And watch your mouth.

We're not hearing Two Weeks' Notice, Rob griped, sitting down and scrubbing at his shoe with a paper towel.

You really want to hear nothing but roaring and screaming for two hours? Sue smirked.

You really want to hear nothing but people making out for two hours?

I wouldn't mind, I said.

That's because you secretly wish you were born a woman.

Hey, Rob, watch it. Sue punched him.

Sorry. Didn't mean to mess with your little lover-boy or anything.

I meant to say it's not a secret.

That's it. No more chips for you. Grinning, I scooped up a heap of them and crammed the prize into my mouth.

But I could never say no to Sue.

 

 

15,354.

There are currently eighty-eight known modern constellations. A constellation is a group or a pattern of stars; some are elaborate, with hundreds of stars, and some are simple, with only a few. When Zach was a boy, he loved to look at them. He and our father would go outside, spread a blanket, lie down, and watch the sky for hours. Though I wasn't really interested, I'd come anyway.

Those were quiet times. Dad had binoculars, which he'd bring along so Zach and I could take turns trying to see the planets, so tiny and far away. Occasionally we'd try for the all-out camping experience, with a portable gas grill and a plastic bag of marshmallows. We joked and told ghost stories and I counted points of light, and Dad asked what the moon was made of, and when we didn't know he said, Butter.

Look at that, boys. Isn't she beautiful?

Why's the moon a she, Dad?

Well. He grinned and lifted his arms. We crawled against him, resting our heads on his chest. I'll tell you a story. How's that?

Okay.

This is a story about your mother and me.

Mom's the moon? I asked, pressing closer.

No, silly. Now do you want to hear the story?

Zach plucked the marshmallow from his stick and waved it at me. He'd blackened it, just the way I liked them. I breathed ash, sugar, and my father's cologne. I reached for the marshmallow and bit into it and chewed until my teeth stuck together.

Yesh, Dad, I wanna hear th' story.

He settled back. Know how to find the North Star, Jonah?

No. How?

You find the brightest star in the sky, and there it is.

The whole entire sky?

Yes. The whole entire sky. Your Mom taught me that seven years ago, and I haven't forgotten it. She says she wanted to make sure I'd never get lost again.

How did you and Mom meet? Zach asked, roasting another marshmallow.

Dad closed his eyes and stretched.

We waited.

I was in New York for a conference at the time, he began suddenly, and it was one of those annoying days where you can't so much as see the sun because everything's rainy and dark. He tickled my ribs. And, not being a little boy who loves jumping in puddles, I wasn't enjoying myself.

Mom was there because she loved the city—loves the city, he said.

Dad's voice softened.

She'd be happy wandering around downtown for hours at a time, even when she didn't have any money. She used to say it was the people she went for, not the stores. You know how Manhattan is the only place where you can find a man with nipple rings and a mohawk right beside a woman in a bikini and silver stilettos? Your Mom liked that. I'm not sure why.

He looked at me suddenly and grinned. But I have to watch what I say, don't I? Little pitchers have big ears.

Pitchers don't have any ears, Dad, Zach said.

You're right, son. It's a stupid saying, isn't it?

Yes, I said.

The conference started at three in the afternoon, and they wanted me there by two forty-five. I was already running late—to make things worse, I couldn't even seem to hail a cab. Anyhow, there I was, under a dripping overhang, holding a wet umbrella, cold, and checking my broken watch, and here comes your Mom, prancing up the sidewalk merry as can be. She looked more cheerful than the other people I'd seen, so I called her over.

Excuse me, I said, do you happen to have the time?

Why, yes I do, she chirped. And she rolled up the sleeve of her raincoat—it was a truly hideous raincoat, by the way, boys, neon purple—and displayed her wrist. She had a children's plastic Mickey Mouse watch. The kind you get from cereal, after you collect enough box tops.

How many did that cost you? I asked.

What? She looked down and beamed. Thirty-eight, actually, but I had help. Like it?

It's got a certain… rudimentary appeal. M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E. I was a little ashamed of myself for knowing the song.

She stared at me like we'd been dancing and I broke her toes.

Sorry, I have to go, I said hastily, embarrassed. Late for a conference. It's sure to be boring, but—well—it's—you know— I backed away. Been a pleasure.

Wait!

I turned around, caught off-guard.

There's something I like about you.

Pardon me?

She blushed. Don't get me wrong. I don't say that to every guy I meet out here. I mean, a few minutes ago I saw this old man with a shirt three sizes too small and a skull on his belly, and it was really, really ugly and a crime against humanity and I just wanted to— Sorry.

What's wrong?

I'm rambling. You have to go. Excuse me. She pushed by me, clearly intent on leaving, and I reached out and took her hand before my mind really knew what the rest of me was doing.

Don't go yet.

Your Mom glanced up, and I noticed that her eyelashes were too long to be human eyelashes. They were like radio antennae. It was… strangely attractive.

Why not?

There's something I like about you, too. Don't get me wrong. I don't say that to every girl I meet out here.

Lunch? she asked quietly.

Lunch.

I grinned, and she grinned, and that was about to be the end of our first meeting when I realized something.

I was lost.

Dad stopped talking and looked at Zach, who'd fallen asleep, head pillowed on his arms, feet nearly in the barbeque grill. That was quick, he murmured.

I'm still awake, Dad. I yawned and shifted, trying to hear his heartbeat.

That you are.

We were quiet for a while, and I'm sure both of us were looking for the North Star.

How many words was that, son? Dad said suddenly, glancing down at me.

Five hundred seventy.

Dad laughed. You sure that's right?

Yup!

You're a good boy, Jonah.

Thanks, Dad.

And the three of us lay there in the yard, watching the moon, until Zach stretched and rejoined the land of the living.

When Dad decided he needed a change and left his family to fend for themselves—when Zach was devastated and Mom realized she didn't know what to do with two boys who both needed her—that was the end of both worlds, ours and his.

I don't think I've mentioned that he came back five months later.

 

 

16,371.

Resilience is man's most sickening aspect. Our ability to bounce back from almost anything keeps us both alive and utterly repulsive.

Say you're walking down the street beside your best friend and somebody speeds by, points a gun at him, and pumps his chest full of lead, just like that. Blood's going to spray everywhere, passersby are screaming, and you'll—hopefully—be appalled. Maybe you cradle his head in your lap and brush the hair from his eyes with your fingers; maybe you offer him platitudes, reassurances like Everything's going to be okay or Hold on, I won't let you go, which don't mean anything but make him feel better; maybe you curse fate; maybe you even cry.

Here's the thing.

Whatever you do, however terrible you feel, eventually his last breath will rattle in his lungs and he will die. Flat-out, never-coming-back, this-is-it die. And you'll be distraught, and you'll probably say you won't recover ever, you're practically going to die with him because it was so sad.

But you're lying, and you will recover. Because you're human. It may take a lot of therapy, it may take a straightjacket and a padded room, it may take happy pills—what it takes is irrelevant. You're going to get over watching your best friend die, and maybe even one day you'll feel happy. Happy because things weren't the other way around.

That's resilience. Sickening, isn't it?

I think sometimes grieving shouldn't stop. Sometimes we owe it to people to grieve for them until we're the ones walking toward the light.

I'll do my best to grieve forever.

 

 

16,646.

Music is absent.

Wanna hear something funny?

Guess you don't have a choice, do you?

I was going to say that a palindrome is a word or phrase spelled the same way forward as it is backward, and then maybe talk about how music is absent is a palindrome, making the statement more profound than it already was—but it's not even a palindrome, it's not a palindrome at all. Music is absent spelled backward is Tnesba si cisum, which doesn't mean anything at all. The only recognizable word is si, containing two letters, Spanish for yes.

That's interesting. Spell music is absent the wrong way and you get yes. Just say it and it agrees with itself. Maybe agreeing with yourself is the best way to fill silence.

I don't know much about filling silence, but I do know that emptiness hurts.

I wish they played music here.

Well, on second thought, I may not be telling the complete truth. They may play music in the other rooms, the rooms that I haven't seen—that's a joke—but I haven't heard it. The sound can't travel all the way to where I am—I'm too far gone.

Why is that?

Ever notice how much our tastes change as we age? Our taste in music certainly is no exception. When I was a kid, I listened to We Sing cassettes, Bible songs, and I sang along with childish voices at the top of my lungs, and I didn't care if I was in the wrong key. When I was a teenager, I—

I really don't want to talk about this any more.

Silence isn't so bad. Maybe I should learn to appreciate it.

 

 

16,919.

We haven't talked in awhile, Jonah.

and it's great.

How are you feeling?

Jonah. Can you hear me?

buzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Jonah.

Jonah!

Jonah!

 

 

16,945.

My therapist says I had an accident last week. He called it a Traumatic Regression to Childhood and told me that I curled up under my desk, rocked back and forth in the fetal position, and went into anaphylactic shock. Luckily, my therapist is a Very Adept Man. He called for a crash cart, which arrived with a horde of first-name nurses, and they restored my heartbeat to its ordinary insane self within two minutes. Two minutes or less, and I wasn't going to die. It took two minutes to decide my eternity.

That sure wasn't the decision of a Very Adept Man.

God made the universe in six days—what's two minutes?

The process of temporarily cutting off the oxygen supply to my brain has performed its own restoration. Ironic. I'm remembering things that I—well, that I'd forgotten. Like how I got into college in the first place. Like my failed marriage proposal to Sue Rodriguez. Like keeping my running shoes for ten years, until the cloth deteriorated and the rats crapped in the toes, because I was a pretty fast guy.

And—I don't know why—I want to talk about them.

I haven't wanted to talk about anything, really wanted to talk about anything, in a long time. Normally my therapist tells me that I should talk, so I do what he says because I don't have anything better to do. I still don't have anything better to do, but at least I'm motivated. The next time I talk, I think I'll finally be talking for me.

It's been five days; five days ago my head was against my chest and I felt the touch of a man with smooth palms on my back and wished to be anywhere else, before I gasped for breath that wasn't there. Before I passed out.

I'm a little dizzy.

 

 

17,242.

Know one of the biggest problems with being a blind teenager? Blind people can't drive. People with bad vision, who are nearsighted or something, they can take handy little tests, see their optometrists, and buy glasses—glasses that get them behind the wheel. But blind people are pretty much screwed. Putting little shiny things in front of our eyes isn't going to help at all. Guess what that means.

Yep. It means every time a blind man asks his seeing girlfriend out to dinner, she expects either to take mass transportation or foot the gas bill.

I never dealt with that, of course. When a blind man asks his blind girlfriend out to dinner, they both expect a bus, and nobody gets disappointed. Sue and I rode the bus a lot—and I mean a lot. I mean we rode the bus so often that we were on a first-name basis with just about every driver in the city. We'd hear the engine idle at the curb, I'd get on and hold out a hand to help her up, and a voice would come from behind the wheel:

Hey, Jonah, hey, Suzanne. How's it shakin'?

Sometimes it might be:

Pleasure to see you again, Mr. McDermott, Ms. Rodriguez.

And occasionally it was:

Sue, honey bunch, how ya doin'?

Coming from one man in particular who had a tremendous crush on my girlfriend.

He went so far as to ask for her phone number once, but she was halfway down the stairs and didn't hear him. I ran into him afterward and made it explicitly clear that he was to lay off by twisting his balls. Literally. Nearly had a complete revolution before he broke down, sobbing like a baby, saying he'd leave her alone, he'd leave her alone if I'd only get my hand off his fucking dick. I obliged, of course.

His name was Trevor, I think.

Taylor?

Tommy?

Anyway. After they greeted us, we'd greet them:

How are the boys, Charlotte?

Or:

Out to dinner, Don, and you?

It was nice. We always sat in the very back, talking, and sometimes we'd kiss but only once or twice because the world tends to frown on public displays of affection. Sometimes we forgot that people could see us. We were probably a real spectacle for everybody else, thanks to my blindfold—I used to get a lot of questions—but they left us alone.

Another nice thing about our situation: Neither of us had to think about what we wore.

Her laugh was magic. It was neither tinkly nor melodic nor anything remotely resembling noises a siren might make, and she snorted like a rutting pig, but I couldn't listen without smiling—and I tried. Sue said the stupidest things, things I'd never normally have found funny, but I laughed because they were coming from her.

Don't get me wrong—I knew she had faults. She had plenty of them. There was something about her, though, that I couldn't help returning to. That I wanted to get to know. That I eventually grew to love.

That I still love today.

I proposed to a woman for the first time on a bus. Of course, when I say woman I mean Sue—who else? I'm not sure what I was thinking. Propose to my long-time girlfriend in the back of a bus while I'm sitting on a cold pleather bench, smelling stale ketchup because she dripped the theater French fries all over her new coat? What a great idea! Let's do it!

Yes, well, I guess that's what I was thinking, because it sure as heck is what I did.

Sue?

She was blotting her front with a crumpled paper napkin. I touched her hand and took over.

What? Jonah, I can't believe I did that. This jacket cost me fifty—

Will you marry me?

 

 

17,910.

So a snail crosses a freeway by taking the f out of free and the f out of way. How does the snail do it?

Easy. There's no f in way.

That's a joke. I've never understood it myself, but I'm not the kind of person who gets jokes. I heard it in high school, when a popular classmate told it—I knew it was funny because his friend laughed loudly and slapped him on the back. I don't understand why I still remember it—I don't think I bothered memorizing it.

Please tell me why it's funny.

I had another dream last night.

I was crying again. I looked in the mirror and tears were streaming and streaking and thundering down my face and I thought, What's wrong with me? Because I couldn't stop. But no one answered.

There was an empty tissue box beside me. I put my hand inside and felt around to see if anything was left, and I found one, and I had it halfway to my nose when it dissolved, flaking and drifting to the ground piece by piece, and my hands were running with hot blood. And my tears were red. And my ears filled with an unbearable sound, the screaming of a soul, a violent final grief for man's sheer humanity, an unanswered cry for help.

And a hand grasped my shoulder and I woke with a jolt.

And I hadn't shed a tear.

 

 

18,131.

Ever thought about all the stuff that can happen to someone in his lifetime? I have—there's not much else to do here—and it's a lot of stuff, an awful lot of stuff. It is, in fact, a nearly incomprehensible amount of stuff. It's certainly not something that can be counted. Trust me on this. If it could be counted, I'd've counted it.

I believe that I've mentioned my sexuality before, but I'll mention it again. I am a heterosexual man. Through and through. Down to the very marrow of my bones, I am straight. I walk the straight and narrow. I am a ruler, that's how straight I am.

The first time I kissed anyone I kissed a man, but that's a different story.

Why bring up sexuality now, why spring a strange piece of information out of the blue, why drop this irrelevant thing from the sky? Shock value? I guess I can understand that, but why bother? There's nobody around to shock. I'm in a room that I haven't left for six years, sitting at a desk, talking to a wall. There could be a guy behind me with a bloody machete, and I'd be none the wiser unless he tripped. It could be dark, and I wouldn't know. I wouldn't care.

It's odd.

As a kid, I had a series of obsessions. Percensitis isn't much more than a selective form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. The only real difference is that, rather than merely touching every fence post for a mile, I have to count them—along with flowers and people driving by and cracks in the sidewalk and the rest of the world in general.

I would like to say that was an exaggeration. Unfortunately, I can't. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

Unfortunately, I've done it.

For awhile, my obsessions weren't very interesting—nothing to write home about. I went through the Red-Food-Is-Acceptable-And-All-Else-Is-Sacrilegious stage, a period of time when my mother kept tubes of food coloring by the Cheerios for easy access. I was enraptured by the glorious act of smashing snails and decided they were a plague and the responsibility for their elimination rested on my shoulders (and I counted them while I crushed them, one-SPLAT two-SPLAT three-SPLAT ew). We've already discussed my desire to count Lulu and my repeatedly counting everyone else. I had the cleanliness bug, like every good OCD kid. I pushed wall switches three times before leaving a room, just in case the pesky switch-flipping sprites came up while I was distracted to turn the light on again.

Usual stuff. You get the idea.

More amusing things surfaced occasionally. Looking back, I'd have to say the most memorable occurred when I realized something:

The world contains signs. A lot of signs. Dozens and dozens of signs.

Signs are everywhere.

Now that's not really a problem, right? Of course not. We see signs all the time; we walk by signs, we look at signs, we laugh at signs; some of us even take it upon ourselves to steal signs, which I don't understand—why would you want Beware of Dog on your closet door? But what we don't do is obey signs. Sure, we obey to a degree—when we think we want to obey—but while that decision is semiconscious and subliminally influenced, it's still a decision. It's still our decision. We've still made it, and we could've said, No.

All this to say that I went through a stage, as a boy, of obedience.

All that to say that, when I read a sign, I did what I was told.

Imagine the complications this posed. Try to wrap your mind around it. You won't be able to, but take a shot. If I went to the mall with my family and we drove by a billboard that proclaimed, in broad, bold print, nonetheless, VISIT SHOE PALACE TODAY, I'd tap my father on the shoulder and say, Dad!

What, Jonah?

We have to visit Shoe Palace!

And then we would have a fifteen-minute discussion covering all the oh-so-important points. As follows:

Just because a billboard says you have to do something doesn't mean you have to do it.

Yes, that goes for any sign.

Why not? I don't know why not, you just don't, okay?

Even if I wanted to visit Shoe Palace, son, we don't have time. We're in a hurry.

Jonah. We. Are. Not. Going.

Honey, do something with your son before I wring his neck!

These were all my father's important points, obviously, not mine. Mine were more along the lines of:

Does that go for every sign?

Why not? I do have to do it!

Please, Dad? Please? Please?

Can't we be in a hurry later? Zach wants to go too. Ow! Stoppit, Zach!

Only for a few minutes!

I had more memorable times. Posters in stores gaily asking customers to BUY NIKE© BRAND SHOES 10 OFF GREAT DEAL THIS WEEK ONLY inspired me to proposition my mother for a pair, despite the fact that my feet were too small and we were in the women's department. If I was walking to school with Zach—he was forced to accompany me until I learned the route myself—and spotted a stop sign, I planted my feet on the sidewalk and refused to budge.

My mother found my new habit both funny and exasperating. I hope we never see a sign that says JUMP OFF THE BRIDGE or something, she said, because he'll be gone before we can blink.

If he keeps this up I'll push him off myself, my father growled. He's not normal!

No, Jonah's not normal. He's different. He's a sensitive child.

He's a crazy child, is what he is. The kid's a fucking walking calculator. Gonna wind up drugged in some mental institution if we're not careful.

Honey, you shouldn't say things like that. I think it's… cute.

You wait until he really does something stupid, and then watch—it'll be, Sweetheart, you were right, I'm sorry, let's lock him up. In a nice padded room. Where he can't count anything.

And after Dad said something offensive like that, Mom would eye him for a few minutes in silence until he relented. He always relented.

Okay. He could be worse. Happy now?

Yes. We're lucky to have two good boys.

Okay. Even if one of them wants women's shoes, my wife says we're still lucky.

Yes. We're still lucky.

There'd be a pause.

Have you thought about what happens when he grows up gay?

Our son will always be welcome in our home. Mom blinked and rubbed her temples. Whether he comes with the leader of a motorcycle gang or not.

Dad snickered.

None of that. If Jonah decides he doesn't want to worship the Lord, he'll still be our boy.

Well, no. I was just picturing little Jonah with your motorcycle guy. Big muscles. Tattoos up and down his arms. Probably named Butch. Sweaty. Likes leather.

Mom laughed, unable to help herself. Jonah'd find something to count. Can you picture that?

And they'd both dissolve in laughter.

When I was five and just starting to follow the instructions of every sign in sight, my mother—intelligently—decided to bring me along to her favorite haunt, a lingerie store—Victoria's Secret. From the beginning, the trip didn't go well. As soon as we approached, I tugged on her hand.

Mom. Mom. What is it?

What's what, Jonah?

Look! I pointed up. What is it?

Honey, I don't understand.

Her secret! What is it?

I was learning to read, getting better by the day, and couldn't pass up the opportunity. But that wasn't the worst of it. After my customary gawking, eyes nearly rolling from overstimulation, asking a hundred questions at once, I settled down to prowl the lower shelves alone. I tapped the shampoo bottles, sneezed at the lotion, and got in as much trouble as possible without actually being caught. My mother left to browse the racks of pajamas.

Right then, as she was walking away, I spotted what I'd been looking for all along—a toy. It was pink and fluffy, and I thought it was a little girly, but it would do. I reached for it and plucked it clumsily from its stand. I turned it over in my hands and spotted something on its base.

A sign.

I brought the toy close to my eyes and read:

PLAY WITH ME.

Hey, that was perfect! What great timing! I was ready to play with it anyway.

I rolled the puffball around between my palms, buried my face in it, and coughed as feathers teased my cheeks. It was a great toy, all in all; I sat down on the floor and began to toss it back and forth, content.

Things would have been fine if I hadn't leaned to retrieve it and rammed my shoulder into the side of the table. There were a lot of things on that table—in the next thirty seconds, I could've sworn they all fell off one by one, each trying to make a louder noise than its predecessor. Something landed on my head before hitting the ground. I picked it up and inspected it. It was a jar about the size of my closed fist, empty, chipped, and sparkling.

My mother rushed to my side.

Jonah! What on Earth happened? Are you okay?

For lack of another option, I proffered the puffball. She touched it and grinned.

This isn't a toy. It's a powderpuff. Girls use this to look pretty. It's full of glitter. Honey, you're covered in glitter.

She snorted and choked and bent over at the waist, all the while weakly running a hand over my head, showing me her disco ball of a palm after each stroke.

What were you doing? she asked.

I held up the puffball again. It says PLAY WITH ME, I said. So I played with it.

Oh, Jonah, you did—I can't—that's too—

Mom slid to the ground, sat beside me, and laughed until she cried, while the passing customers eyed us as if we'd escaped from the nearest asylum and the saleswomen readied their secret Get-These-Crazy-People-Out-Of-Here stun guns.

She lifted one arm and drew me into her embrace. I giggled with her, shedding stars.

 

 

20,084.

Since I already had three strikes against me as a teenager, I was screwed from the start. What were those strikes? Well, firstly,

I counted everything in sight.

And secondly,

I had obsessive-compulsive disorder.

And thirdly—most importantly—

I was a teenager.

The third was bad enough by itself.

I think I've said that percensitis is a fun-sucking disease. It is; it really, really is. In fact, if I were motivated enough to research the most common causes of suicide around the world, I'd be willing to bet percensitis would take first prize. And I don't make bets when I might not win, because I always win. Always. So you can bet—get it?—that I'm right.

Once I tried to kill myself, of course. It was an unpleasant experience, because I was never exactly brave and didn't have the guts to follow through with anything, least of which tearing open my brachial artery with a steak knife. Oh, I wanted to do it; I knew I deserved whatever punishment I received; I certainly had plenty of opportunities.

But I lacked the guts.

I sterilized the knife; that's how scared I was.

If I was going to die—if I wanted to die—why sterilize the knife?

 

 

20,300.

Today I left my room.

I left my room!

God, saying it now makes my heart beat fast. I can hear it in my ears and feel it under my fingers. It's thumping violently, helplessly. Frantically.

When we were boys, Zach showed me a video of a dog's heart being dosed with epinephrine. The dog was sprawled on towels that sprung up teal and orange around its blood-soaked fur, and someone had applied a spreader, prying its rib cage apart so the bones flashed a garish white near the outskirts of vision. Its heart pumped quietly until a hypodermic syringe slid in from the left-hand corner. We saw a gloved finger squeeze and withdraw.

The carcass began to rock back and forth, its innards thudding against mangled walls of flesh, writhing in throes of desperation. I thought it was crying for help.

I couldn't watch the video for very long. The epinephrine made my chest hurt.

I always wondered if the dog lived.

Didn't think I'd ever leave, did you? I left, I really left!

Today I had a cheeseburger for lunch. The nurses call them cheeseburgers, but I don't think they've ever even aspired to become something remotely resembling a cheeseburger. Mine was a rubbery lump of fake meat—I couldn't taste any cheese at all. If the cheese had any sense, it probably got up and left the tray. I ate as much of it as I could choke down, because they like us to eat balanced meals, and my nurse shed a tear and squeezed my hand and called me Mr. McDermott in a voice dripping with pity, and I ignored her, and she left.

Once the door shut, I squeezed my watch. It was twelve-forty-five in the afternoon.

I was alone.

Don't get me wrong—I'm always alone. But that seemed the ideal time to try something different. I ran one hand over my desk, wondering if the cheese had opted to go for a stroll. Going for a stroll sounded pretty good to me, too.

I got up and made my way to the door, where I swung my hand around in a circle, trying to find the knob. I had bruised knuckles for my trouble, but I found it—I twisted and shoved, and then it was open and I forgot to breathe. I've opened the door three times now. Opening it again didn't make a difference. I'm blind either way: I'm not stupid, I know that.

What I can't explain is how a room changes while it doesn't change at all, how I know there's something wrong when I can't see.

How I know there's something different.

It's like the universe suddenly expanded, and we all understand.

Anyway, I stood for five minutes and three seconds with my face turned toward emptiness, and after five minutes and four seconds I lifted my left leg and took a step. A small step, I guess, but a step nonetheless. With my cane, I found the doorframe. I took three steps, found the doorframe again, and took one more, and I was out. I left my room. I walked through my door.

There was no going back.

In truth, there was going back—a lot of going back, since I only stood there for twenty-two and one-half seconds before slamming the door shut and bolting to my desk as fast as a blind man can—but my thoughts were in the hallway.

My seeing thoughts were in the hallway.

 

 

20,880.

I'm very proud of you, Jonah—very proud.

You've made more progress in a few months than many of our patients make in a year. In years.

is it even possible to progress

from the bottom?

theres the buzzing noise

thats better

Susan tells me, Jonah, that you even left your room yesterday. That's incredible.

ten letters

Jonah, that's the first time you've left in six years.

 

 

20,951.

Here is something remembered:

lips are fleshy and thick and breath is hot against mine and no fireworks but occasionally maybe an invisible spark and arms come around my back and this is incredibly wrong and this should never have happened and fingers caress shoulder blades and he is softer than i imagined

Here is something forgotten:

hell is not a scream or a howl or a groan it is not desperation or grief it is not sorrow

it is the whistling

of a bullet

aboveground

 

 

21,039.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge in a pear tree.

For over twenty years, I've asked myself two questions: How'd he get the partridge to stay there? and How'd he get the tree in the house?

Mom used to tell me that I was too logical, too analytical—that my mind was so full of numbers and counting and tapping and straightening it didn't have room for anything else, which was why I couldn't grasp the simple beauty of a Christmas carol. Magicians and artists depend on a willing suspension of disbelief, and Mom said I was sorely lacking.

Zach used to say, duh, didn't I know any better? He didn't bother trying to fit the tree in the house—he planted it outside and brought her to see it. And, duh, how did I think he got the partridge there? He must've tied its feet to the branches. Boy, I was an idiot.

Dad said the partridge was enchanted. It would stay in the tree forever—until the man's love died. When there was no love left, the partridge would fly away, never to return again.

Mom said he was cute.

Zach said he was a romantic fool.

I didn't know who to believe. But I spent a lot of time watching the sky for a solitary bird.

 

 

21,275.

Dreams have been coming fast and furious lately, one after the other, night after night after night. Kind of like the way a machine gun operates—bang bang bang bang bang—like that. They're amalgams, different things and people, maybe-memories I can't identify and can't hope to identify because I'm not stupid. And because I don't want to identify them.

Five of their most common elements:

1. blood

2. kiss

3. purple elephant

4. coconut crème pie

5. loud noise

Where did the purple elephant come from? I have no idea. When I'm dreaming, I tend to think of him as a Heffalump. You know—from Winnie the Pooh—if I remember right, Piglet traps one and discovers that what he thought was an evil monster is really a kind friend. I'm not sure if Piglet's adventure is related to the adventures of my subconscious or not. I'm also not sure why I remember Winnie the Pooh at all, since I can hardly remember what they served for dinner yesterday.

Strange.

 

 

21,447.

Let me tell you a story. I haven't told a story in too long. I have told my own story, over and over, or pieces of it anyway that, once fit together, form a picture I can't quite make out—but that's not the same. So I'll tell you a story.

Six years ago, I was in college. This was not really a college college—it wasn't a university and it didn't focus on the sciences or the arts or traffic laws (you can major in anything these days, you know? You want to study dirt, you can even major in that, for heaven's sake, mudology). I've already talked about Delcroix. It was a community college, a place you went if you were so far down on your luck you forgot how to be up at all. In short, you went to Delcroix to learn to be blind.

Being blind, believe it or not, is something that has to be learned, and you have to practice. A lot. You have to practice reading Braille. You have to practice avoiding obstacles. You have to practice operating without seeing everything you could operate perfectly well before. If you are planning on getting a guide dog, you practice telling Fido or Fifi or Skunkman III what to do, and then you practice what you have to do once he listens. You learn to sort the bills in your wallet so you don't pay twenty dollars for a five-dollar newspaper, because paperboys will cheat you if they can—and when you're blind and can't tell the difference, they can.

Right now you're probably wondering, well, how did people like Sue wind up at Delcroix too—people who were born blind? Sue was sheltered. She wouldn't like my saying that, but she was. Her parents made sure she had everything she needed when she needed it, and they were always there to help her with—with everything, really. They taught her at home. Then suddenly Sue graduated from high school and had to go into the real world and fend for herself, and Mommy and Daddy realized that pampering her wasn't the brightest idea. And so guess what?

They shipped her off to Delcroix.

It wasn't very easy for me to be accepted, of course. The staff who interviewed me asked over and over why I didn't t just take off the blindfold. They wanted to know how refusing to remove a dirty rag made me legally blind. I went back to my psychiatrist with my mother, and he gave us a note to bring to Delcroix's Board of Directors, saying that I suffered from the rare disease percensitis and, because my brain's ability to discriminate went on the fritz years ago, was considered blind enough for admittance.

You don't hear that phrase often, do you? Blind enough for…. What? Who wants to be blind?

I did. I am blind now, with more proof than a slip of paper and an illegible signature. Officially blind. Hold up a finger and I can't follow it. Blind as a bat, blind as a sheep without eyes, blind as one of those fish that swim around deep undersea with lights dangling in front of them to attract breakfast and lunch and dinner and pretty much every other meal of the day. Did you ever think about the last thing fish see before they die?

Hey, but I forgot for a minute that I was going to tell a story.

I'll warn you before I begin; the story has no point. It has no marked beginning and no marked end, and I'll start telling it any time I feel like it, and you won't know when it's over, and when you realize it's over you won't be satisfied. But you will enjoy yourself.

If I close my eyes—that's a joke—I can almost be back at Delcroix, sitting in history class. History class is what I think of every time I think of Delcroix, mainly because the desks were so uncomfortable. You couldn't sit in one for ten minutes without winding up with a backache, and we had to sit in them every day for fifty. Usual complaints, same crap every other college student in the galaxy deals with.

I was reluctantly listening to our professor—Dr. Stephenson, a boring name for a boring guy—when someone pressed a crumpled wad of paper into my open right hand.

I unfolded the paper and stared in its general direction.

Rob, I hissed, man, we're passing notes now? We're not in preschool any more.

It's not a note, idiot. It's more than a note. He had the seat directly to my right. Fingers touched my shoulder. Did you open it?

Well yeah.

So what do you think?

Oh it's great. Love it. I pushed the note back across the desk. What do you think I think?

You didn't read it.

Read it. I can't see.

Fingers touched my wrist this time, forcing the paper back, guiding my motion. It's Braille. Did you not pick up on that?

And it was. Braille on notebook paper. Someone had punched holes with the tip of a pencil or a pen, maybe, harder than usual to make sure the message was legible. The letters were large and sloppy but there. I was just learning, so I read slowly, trying to catch each word.

It's from Sue, I said, here's her signature. But this is a note. She wants to go to the movies this weekend. I really had to get this in class?

Don't ask me—ask her.

She doesn't have history with us.

Now different fingers found my other hand. She does now, someone whispered.

Sue?

The fingers squeezed. I squeezed back.

Your back's gonna hurt, I said.

My ears hurt already. This guy's a dullard.

Quiet! Scott was hissing from behind. He was a devoted student of Delcroix who fervently believed that each word of each lecture and each piece of criticism or praise had to be digested and mulled over until it was imprinted indelibly on the brain, because anything else would cop you a failing grade. I don't know why he cared so much about passing classes. We weren't even in a community college, that's how stupid we were, just a pack of blind lazy-asses running our hands over swapped notes because we never listened to the professor. He was no better than the rest of us.

Shaddup, fucker, Rob muttered. You got a lot of sucking-up to do. Better get to it.

A hand fell on my shoulder. Mr. McDermott? Excuse me. Mr. McDermott. Are you listening?

Yes, sir, Dr. Stephenson.

Then you won't mind if I have a look at your notes, will you? To make sure you caught everything. I wouldn't want you to miss important points when you study for exams.

No, sir, I don't want that either. I gave the machine a small push in his direction and heard him twiddling with the pages, and waited obediently.

It seems, Mr. McDermott, that you saw fit to cease following the lecture fifteen minutes ago. Would you care to explain yourself?

Uh. I was—busy. Sir. With, uh, with my, my uh—

I believe you should leave the classroom, Jonah, for the rest of the hour, since you can't manage to pay attention. Please gather your things.

Shoes tapped away.

I picked up the machine and slid it into my bag, keeping quiet. When you're surrounded by people who can't see and you want to be discreet, you stay quiet; it's the only way to go. They can't hear you, they don't know what you're doing, you're all good. Stephenson started running his mouth again. He was at the podium, from the sound of it.

Jonah, Sue whispered. See you? She held out a hand.

I found her somehow, drew her fingers abruptly to my lips, pressed them there, bussed them with a kiss. Yes.

I was chivalrous—a chivalrous idiot.

Mr. McDermott. You still haven't moved.

Yes, sir, I said.

And I didn't come back.

 

 

22,134.

Dear Elizabeth,

It's Johnny. You remember me, don't you? I'm pretty sure you do. You should, anyhow. We've known each other for a long time, a long, long time. Too long.

I forgot the way to write a letter, I think, but I remember learning it years ago—in middle school maybe or elementary, or high, one of those grades that you forget real easy like they never existed soon's they're over. I guess you know I went and got myself stuck in some asylum. It's a place for crazy people here. I ain't crazy, Lizzie, you know that, right? But they figure I am so that's why they put me here.

The food's not so bad. Average, I guess. I eat it, which I sort of have to do.

How are things on the outside? You're lucky, not staring at puke-green walls all day, every day, like I am. I'm staring at one right now, actually, and it's driving me nuts, so I'm trying to think of what that color looks like. Besides puke. So far I came up with your mother's overcooked collard greens and the dog's crap after he ate those two heads of lettuce and the dress that bridesmaid at our wedding wanted to wear before you busted her balls about it. Well she didn't have balls and all but if she'd had 'em you would've busted 'em. I keep staring at these walls and if I have to stare at them for another second I'm gonna go insane. And they're really gonna want me to stay here then.

I get bored sometimes, you know? So I walk around. It's a big place. Crazy people get a lot of room to be crazy in. Maybe they figure we want all that space and if we don't have it we'll do something really insane, like smuggle in a gun or something and shoot up the place. That's annoying. We should be able to shoot up places if we want. Not like being crazy has a lot of perks.

Do you still think I belong in here? You know I didn't mean it, right? I mean, it was an accident and all. Accidents happen, right?

I think there's somebody else, besides the other guys, with me in this place. I walk around a lot, 'cause there's not much else to do, and I found a door that's never open. It's another patient's room, it's got a number and everything, but it never opens. I never see anybody come out and I never see anybody go in. Well, except for Psych Man. He's supposed to be a fancy-pants psychiatrist, but he hangs out with all of us and does everything we ask for, so we gave him a nickname. Now that's what all the guys call him. Thing is, Psych Man goes into that room all the time, and comes out, too, but nobody's ever with him. No patient. Nothing.

I'm gonna find out who's in there sometime soon. If I'm stuck here for doing something I didn't even do, I'm gonna know what's going on. I know everybody here except that guy. How's he eat?

Anyhow, tomorrow I'll be outside his door for awhile. Till I see him. I heard a door opening a couple times, but when I came by it shut again real quick.

This time you bet it's not gonna shut.

Gotta go.

your Johnny

 

 

22,785.

What did you think of the story? Could you figure out where it ended and where it began? I don't know. I couldn't. I'm not sure it had a beginning or an ending at all. In a way, that makes me think I never told one—or I never began, and I haven't stopped yet—or I stopped years ago, and everything after's an epilogue. That scares me a little. A lot. It scares me a lot.

I don't want to go to Hell, which may be a problem because I may be going there. When I was a boy, my mother told me part of Christianity was trusting in God, believing with absolute certainty that He wouldn't let you go to Hell—and He wouldn't, as long as you believed in Him. I believed in Him then, and I believe in Him now, I think, I'm pretty sure, but maybe I just can't trust Him enough. See, I've always been a little afraid.

I've tried, but I don't know how to really trust Him. Maybe I don't know how to really trust anybody. Who knows any more? Who cares any more? Did anyone ever care? Did I ever care?

Can I care?

A good deed done from fear isn't a good deed. It's just something done because you were too busy wetting your pants to think of another option.

I may go to sleep tonight, and I may never wake up again. And you will continue on.

 

 

23,014.

Christian Tolsbury.

Here is what my father, when he was still alive, still a man with lumpy, misshapen knees and a handlebar moustache, might have said about him:

He was a real character.

The phrase, by the way, contains five words and nineteen letters, and doesn't make sense because everyone is a character—what does saying that one person is a character really mean?

Answer: It doesn't really mean anything, but my father, when he was still alive, was the kind of guy who'd say stuff for no reason at all, just so he could laugh while you stared at him and asked what he was talking about. He bounced me on those lumpy knees years ago, when my bones were padded with toddler insulation that blossomed into dimply arms, and I laughed as I flew and gasped as I came down, fingers reaching and forever falling short.

Christian and I got to know each other fast. I won't say that I liked him at first; I hated him at first. I hated him because I knew he wore that shirt to irritate me, I knew he wanted me to count it but I counted it anyway, I knew he was setting me up and I kept my eyes open when I stepped in the trap. His arm was too heavy around my shoulders. A small part of my mind thought about how a quick movement might snap his bones. The sound of all that calcium shattering would have been satisfying.

Instead, I fake-punched his ribs and grinned. Yeah, that's cool. I looked at him, and looked down the hallway, and grinned. I grinned at all the people who weren't being awkwardly embraced by Christian Tolsbury.

He had a lot of friends. He had a gang of friends, in fact. They didn't wear a specific color or scribble graffiti in the restrooms, but they were a gang all the same. You never saw Christian walking anywhere without a few members, either by his side or behind him, moving like they owned the place. Which maybe they did.

The gang took longer to understand that I, age-old number-crunching geek, was suddenly about the coolest kid in the entire school. But they picked it up fast enough.

He intercepted me on my way to the lunch lines the next day.

What's up, man? Where you going?

It's lunch, I said haltingly. I'm going to get food. For lunch. I paused. You wanna come?

Christian glanced over his shoulder, like he'd left someone behind and wanted to make sure they didn't move. Yeah, sure. I'll come.

Schools in Delcroix never sold anything edible. Schools everywhere are probably no different. The thing is, you're so hungry by the time the bell rings you'll eat meat that looks like it's been pre-chewed and you won't think twice. Lunch cost me three bucks in those days, and I'd get a hamburger that made me wonder what happened to the cow, but I was a loyal customer anyway. Well, until Christian.

He stood in line behind me and followed me out empty-handed. Why'd you waste your money on that crap, Jonah?

He remembered my name. What a shock. I dunno, I said, I'm hungry. It's not that bad.

Not that bad? It's terrible. Looks like the kinda stuff my gramma eats, man, and she's dead!

Oh. I looked at the meat. Suddenly it was a little unappetizing. Well, I mumbled, yeah, I guess you're right.

'Course I'm right. Why don't you ditch that shit and come with me? I'll show you what a real lunch is.

There was a trash can nearby, and Christian glanced at it, making sure I got the message.

Well—I really should—are you sure—okay.

My carton of milk, sides soggy with condensation, thumped against the bottom, and the hamburger began to sound better and better again. Maybe it was food for the undead aged relatives of the world, but it was my meat, and that was my milk, and both were covered by smelly junk.

Come on, Christian said. He'd already taken a few steps. Hurry up.

And, with a last look back at my wasted money, I hurried.

I was a little out of breath by the time I reached Christian, who was moving efficiently through the crowd, people sidling away on both sides, gliding against the current like how a ship can cut through the waves He was a magnificent creature and I wanted to kick him so hard he wouldn't get his ass out of his shoulder blades for a year.

Where're we going? I asked, between gasps, feeling that this question hadn't been addressed and was, all told, pretty damn relevant.

I'm going to give you a real lunch, like I said. He grinned over his shoulder, the way sharks grin before they chomp smaller fish into nothing but chunks of flesh and clouds of blood. By the way, Jonah, do me a favor?

What?

You happen to know how many people we've passed? Christian waved a hand at the crowd. He wore a ring on his middle finger, a ruby set in the jaws of a silver dragon.

Thirty-six, I said promptly. And thoughtlessly.

And you're sure that's—

I'm sure—I'm always sure.

Sure is a word that contains four letters, two vowels, two consonants, and can get a guy in an awful lot of trouble.

Okay. Christian nodded, staring at me. Trying to read my face, maybe. Okay, he said again. Come on.

He headed off, faster than before, and, with a helpless shrug to no one in particular, I hitched my pack higher and followed. We went in the direction of the attendance office until the students behind us closed ranks and we disappeared.

The first bet came the next afternoon.

My real lunch, by the way, consisted of a crushed PB&J and an apple, both stolen with limited success from the kids at the elementary school nearby. Christian and his friends were high on false bravado, low on smarts. All I'd done was trade one cheap, crappy cafeteria lunch for another cheap, crappy cafeteria lunch, along with the wails of a disappointed child and squishy fingerprints in the bread that weren't mine.

There were three members of Christian's gang. The first was a short Hispanic guy named Raoul Alvarez, except the others called him Ralph—when I asked how that nickname came about, one of his friends said he'd barfed all over the principal's shoes on his first day of middle school. Apparently they'd known each other awhile. Anyway, he had curly black hair that was always plastered to his head, like he gelled it every morning and afternoon or something. I figured if he ever scraped all the gel off, he might not have any hair left.

Carlos was the second guy. He was both taller and fatter than Raoul. Nobody could fill a pair of size eighteen factory-faded blue jeans the way he could. In fact, I think whoever invented the Big'n'Tall was related to him. Carlos's backpack was the most massive thing I'd ever seen, and when he bothered to open it up you couldn't see anything past the swirl of crumpled notebook paper. Looked like somebody set off a bomb in there. He had a very strong accent, so I couldn't always understand him, but I pretended I could because you always understood Carlos or you got a black eye for trying.

Third guy's the only one left, of course—I think his name was Stephen. He didn't talk much. He was Chinese and very thin, and he had a funny way of laughing so that he sort of wheezed with each inhale and wrinkled up his nose with the exhales, like heeeeeeh-snort, heeeeeeeeeeh-snort, heeeeeeh-snort. It drove me insane, because the way he acted you'd figure he thought everything everyone said was hilarious. He'd just laugh and laugh and laugh until you wanted to wring his neck.

I liked Raoul right off. When Christian and I got to where he was going that first day, Raoul, Carlos, and Stephen were sitting under a tree talking in low voices. They quit the conversation immediately so they could eye me warily as I approached, but I started to like Raoul then 'cause he was the only one who smiled, the only one who looked friendly.

Anyway, it was the next afternoon, and I was eating alone. I'd escaped Christian, bought my usual lunch, and brought the food to a table near the library so I could enjoy it in peace, when—what do you know? He showed up.

Eating that shit again? he said.

I considered saying, It's not shit. Then I considered saying, Who asked you?

I wound up saying, Yep.

Come with me. He didn't wait to see whether I acquiesed or not. I followed him, both out of curiosity and because I probably didn't have a choice.

Where we going?

Christian slowed down and whapped me on the shoulder with a big paw. He'd painted his fingernails black, but the polish was peeling. You have a lot of money, Jonah?

Er—no—

So you wanna have more, right?

I thought this over. It sounded like a pretty good idea. Yeah, I do, I gasped. Man, he walked fast.

Well, I—me and the gang—we're gonna take you to make some money.

I wondered if I was going to have a stroke. Count me in, I said.

Cool.

Christian's gang were sitting in the same place, under the same tree, probably discussing the same stupid things. Christian called them, or signalled to them, or blew an invisible dog whistle, or something, because next thing I knew they'd approached. I followed him another few feet, and we came upon four guys. These guys were sitting by the basketball courts, sprawled across the dingy stands. Looked like they'd been waiting for us.

We're here, Christian said. Let's see the fucking money. He slapped a hand on the nearest bench, making a hollow ringing noise.

I glanced at him. Probably not the best time to tell him I'd rather he didn't swear.

You don't see nothin' till we see what he can do. The guy who was straddling the top removed his sunglasses and studied me. Don't look like he can do much.

Hey, don't judge the book by the cover, asshole. So we on, or what?

We're on, the second guy said. Count the fucking things.

What? I said.

Christian turned to me. Hey, Jonah. You said you wanted money.

Well, yeah, who doesn't? But look, what's he talking about counting stuff for?

That's all you gotta do to get the money. You gotta count. You're fuckin' great.

You want me to help you out, you don't swear.

Okay. Whatever you want. Christian glanced at Raoul, who was just behind me, watching my every move. Ralph. You wanna tell him?

Raoul stepped forward and sidled to the left. See that? he said. He had a Spanish accent, but it wasn't hard to understand—instead, his words all flowed together, like a quiet green river on the other side of the world. He pointed at the gym floor.

Yeah—

You gotta count the lines.

The grain? I was more than a little skeptical.

Come on, Jonah, Christian said. Just do your thing already, all right?

Well— I walked over and stood beneath a hoop. It'll take a minute.

Take a minute. Hell, take ten. Christian was growing impatient. Just do it, he hissed.

So I did it, and was done in nine.

Eight trillion, nine hundred ten billlion, one hundred fifty-two thousand, six hundred eleven. Twelve, sorry. Six hundred twelve.

What the fuck— This from the guy with his legs dangling. What the fuck was that?

That, Christian said, slinging an arm around my shoulders, was Jonah. Pay up.

And, you know, they did. They didn't complain. They didn't protest that the contest was rigged, or unfair, or any combination of the two. They didn't even ask for proof. They reached into their pockets and pulled out three crumpled wads of money, and they pressed that money against Christian's empty palm, and they walked away. I'm pretty sure I heard some leftover curses, but there you are.

I'd never seen anything like it.

Fifty-five dollars. Christian was thrilled. Fifty-five dollars in ten minutes. That's crazy.

Nine, I said, but nobody listened.

We're gonna be rich, Carlos whooped, slapping Stephen on the back. Stephen's breath rushed abruptly out of his lungs and he laughed, heeeeeh-snort, heeeeeeeeeh-snort, and said, Fifty-five fucking bucks!

We gotta celebrate, Christian said. You free after school, Jonah?

Uh, I began, uh, sure.

Okay then. Here after school. Fifty-five bucks, fifty-five fucking bucks, that's like fourteen apiece and it's just a start.

No, it's eleven apiece, I said, dividing by five. He'd only divided by four.

Look, whatever, man, we'll work it out later.

 

 

25,772.

How are you, Jonah?

do you even care

Jonah? Answer me, please. Can you do that?

I am fine.

That's good news.

why

I spoke with Susanna earlier. She would like to come by and visit you. She'd like that very much.

visit

If you continue to progress the way you have been, Jonah, we may be able to arrange it. Would you like to see Susanna again?

i can't see

Jonah. Would you like to see her?

No.

she's dead.

buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

 

 

25,855.

Would you like to see her? he said casually. Making it simple. So simple. Would you like to see her? Making it so if I said, Yes, that way, if I said, Yes, he could bring her in from just outside the door, with her coconut crème pie and her lilies, and once he brought her in he could say casually, Here she is. But that's not simple, it's not simple at all, because he can't do that and she can't do that and she's gone, she's gone, she's gone she's gone she's gone.

I think she died two years ago, except I don't remember for sure any more because everything's getting confused in my head. Sometimes after the nightmares it starts to come back and I get it piece by piece, and then I know this:

Somebody shot her.

And later I know this:

My fault.

And always I know this:

She was beautiful.

 

 

26,013.

In the whirling mob of light and sound, while I stood by the dance floor, someone touched his lips to my ear and whispered. His breath was sweaty; his words tickled my hair and rolled warm over the side of my face, like a watery caress.

It was Raoul, of course.

I turned and he was right there, his eyes one point two three eight inches away from my own, unreadable. He had to yell over the noise, but even though he was close it seemed like I'd muzzled the rest of the world so everything disappeared, leaving his voice behind, drifting. Omnipresent. A Chesire Cat smile, surrounded by nothing at all.

What's up? I hollered, trying to break the spell. He was wearing a black suit and a blue tie—when he shifted I saw his shirt was striped, twenty thin lines just visible under the jacket, two shades of blue alternating, a flash of wrinkled white cotton.

I want to show you something, he said. He wouldn't meet my eyes. Come here for a sec.

I followed him without thinking. The party wasn't that great; the disc jockey was giving me a headache; I had neither a date nor a group of friends to laugh with; wherever Raoul was going, it had to be more interesting.

Turned out he was going to the janitor's closet.

He held his arm behind my back and I moved obediently; he let the door fall shut so the noise of its latch clicking broke the silence like a gunshot. Thanks to the mops and moldy cleaning equipment, I couldn't take more than a few steps.

What's the deal, man? I asked. What'd you want to show me? But I think a small part of my mind, one I didn't look at very often, understood.

Then he moved forward and his lips were against mine, dry and soft, and his arms came around my back and mine came around his. And there was a damp unfamiliar pressure that could only be someone else's tongue, trying to get inside, and then suddenly I opened my mouth too and his tongue stroked mine and I bumped a shelf with my shoulder and we were kissing. Really kissing.

I could hear nothing but his breath, in, out, in, out. He panted, a little excited gasp.

And I thought, over and over, Wow. This is… weird.

After that I thought, Raoul's gay?

And after that I thought four times, in quick succession, I'm not. Which sounded like I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not—two words, one a conjunction with two letters, the other not a conjunction with three.

I slid my hands up to his face and cradled his jaw, delicately because we were still friends, with more force than necessary because his fingers were an inch from my balls and my dick was harder than it should've been.

I stepped away.

I'm not gay, I said, and I was maybe panting too. Sorry. Sorry Raoul, sorry Raoul sorry Raoul. Thoughts were blurring together in my head, and my face was numb and my lips were probably flushed, and he was looking at me like I was crazy.

You're not, he said. Not a question.

No.

I am.

I know.

Neither of us mentioned how I'd come about the knowledge. He moved back toward the door, dropping his hands to his sides. Suddenly the suit didn't fit him. The sleeves were too long and the jacket was too small. I felt he was trying to be something he wasn't, and it was depressing.

I like you and all, I said. I do. But—you know—

It doesn't feel right, he supplied, shrugging.

He understood. He understood. Yeah, that's really it. It doesn't feel right.

And it didn't.

That's okay, he said. I get it. Look, we don't have to be—to be—

Hey, if you were—if you were a girl, I began, I'd, I mean I guess I'd—

Same goes.

Our eyes met.

But I'm not gay, I said, and I meant it. I wasn't.

Raoul nodded. That's okay, he said again.

You wanna—? I glanced at the door he'd closed—time to open it. You wanna go back? Have a little fun? I grinned. Pick up a few girls? A few guys?

Prom's not over yet, right? He was hesitant. Guess that sounds pretty good.

Pretty good? It sounds really good. I turned the handle and stepped outside, into the too-bright fluorescent hallway. C'mon.

Raoul touched his cuffs before he followed, brushing away an invisible speck of dust. This didn't screw anything up, he said, when we reached the doors of the gym. We're still cool, right?

Right, I said. It didn't, and I wasn't gay, and I never kissed a guy again.

But I dreamed about the closet for awhile. I remembered how the shelves dug brutally into my shoulder, poking and bruising and grounding, tried to memorize his taste, trace the intricate road map of his tongue and teeth, touch his velvety gums when I was floating in the haze before sleep.

I couldn't. The very idea of being gay went against what I'd always believed, everything I knew existed. Heck, it was a cardinal sin. Just about unforgivable.

Sometimes I wish it'd been special, the deciding moment of my life, classic romance-novel crap like that.

Life would be so much simpler.

 

 

26,880.

I used to like birds a lot, back when I could see. They'd never get close enough for me to count them though, and most of the time I watched them fly, so they were hundreds of feet away. Part of me would've wanted to know just how many feathers they had, but most of me daydreamed. They were beautiful—the way they soared through the air, moving silently, so gracefully—the way they chirped, the way they perched in trees, the way they shat on passing cars. Beautiful.

I wanted to try it, so I jumped off the roof.

Yeah, I admit jumping off the roof was a pretty stupid idea, maybe even a really stupid idea, but it sounded good to me at the time. I was only a little kid then, eight or nine, and while I knew enough about gravity and natural laws to get by, those were still things that didn't apply to me. Childhood magic was still a floater in the whites of my eyes, hanging around to damp the ordinary world with illusions. I was bridging the gap between youth and adulthood, and I thought I could fly.

You know.

If I flapped hard enough.

They took me to the ER afterward. Shattered three metatarsals, fractured my tibia.

Never tried to fly again.

 

 

27,109.

Dear Lizzie,

Did you get my last letter? I figure I better ask, 'cause you never know what they really send around here. Sometimes they say they're gonna send somethin' and you find out later that it's just been sittin' in their mailbox for a year. Fuck that, you know? I write somethin', I wanna make sure you get it.

Anyway it's not a big deal. The food's got worse an' I'm not eatin' it any more except for when I absolutely have to or else I'd die. They still say I'm crazy an' you can tell by the way they walk an' talk around me that they figure one wrong move and I'd be set off like a firecracker jus' like that, a sort of big boom an' they'd be left nursing their wounds an' maybe suckin' on stumps where I'd of blown their fingers right off. I'm forgetting how to write, Lizzie, and I know my writing's gettin' worse, maybe this place's making me stupid, I don't get to do much. I wish you'd come an' get me out of here. I don't like it here, Lizzie, I don't like it. It was an accident, can't you understand that, Lizzie, I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to.

I am gonna find out about that guy. I waited outside his door after I told you I was gonna, only I didn't see anythin', so I figured I'd have to come back. I listened real carefully the second time but I didn't even hear anythin' then either, except somebody was mumbling but nobody was saying stuff back. Maybe he talks to himself. Since he don't come out I guess he don't have anybody else. Tomorrow I'll walk by when they give him his lunch 'cause I wanna try to get inside. He'd probably want a friend. I figure I wouldn't be a real good one, but I want a friend too so maybe we can work somethin' out. I'll let you know how it goes, OK Lizzie? I wish you'd come so I could tell you in person.

They say I raped that girl, but I don't remember doing it. You hear that? How can they lock me up for doing somethin' I don't even remember doing? Maybe they're lying an' I didn't really do it at all only I'll never know, will I, 'cause I only have what they say to go by. They say after I did it I looked around an' found a rock that was lying on the ground an' I picked it up 'cause it was real sharp and pointy an' bashed her head with it, over an' over, till I broke her skull in. After that they say I sat down to cry, an' I still had some of her blood on my hands an' I sat there crying for two hours till they took me away. But I forgot it already I guess.

Anyway if I got off 'cause I'm insane, which is what they said, how come I can't go home and be crazy with you? How come I gotta stay here?

I'm tellin' you Lizzie this place is making me stupid, but I'm gonna find out about that guy before I leave.

I love you

your Johnny

 

 

27,690.

It's a Bible.

I don't know how I figured that out, but I've been touching it for awhile, thinking, and today I took out the bookmark, ran the tassel through my fingers again, and realized the book smelled funny. Musty almost, not an unpleasant moldy musty but a welcoming musty, if that makes sense. The way a much-loved novel smells, when you take it off the shelf and the pages are dog-eared and someone spilled hot chocolate on chapter five. Like that. And so I kept thinking, because I had clues—it had been very special, maybe years ago, maybe yesterday, and it was bound in butter-soft leather, and it was long (one thousand six hundred nine pages, I counted twice to make sure I didn't screw up). And I was tracing the spine when I thought, so it's a Bible.

It's a Bible! I said aloud, surprised. It's Sue's Bible, I said again, and then once more, It's her Bible, I have her Bible. Oh God, I have her Bible.

After that I opened it a little, being very careful not to tear anything, and buried my nose inside and imagined that I could still smell lilies, and wept like a child.

I introduced Sue to Christianity one day when she was feeling especially down. You want to introduce people to religion and things like that when they're feeling bad, since that's how it actually started. Guys who are on top of the world don't need a higher power—they don't even care whether one exists. It's the guys at the bottom of the trash heap, the ones with everybody standing on their shoulders, who look for salvation. Anyway, I think it was midafternoon but I really remember the way she cried, curled up with her head against my chest and her back shaking, how she couldn't hold all that stuff in her any more. Like she was full of poison or acid or something, that was eating her from the inside out.

We'd been sitting there for an hour and three minutes before, in a park by Delcroix, and we were pretty sure we were beside a lake because of the running water, but we could've been anywhere really—heck, even near a toilet that got left to keep going till someone jiggled the handle. There was a breeze on our faces, ruffling our hair. We picked fistfuls of flowers.

Then she sobbed suddenly and burrowed into my shirt, and before I knew it warm tears were soaking through the cotton.

What's wrong? I asked, touching her shoulder. Sue, you okay?

Yes, she said, but her breath hitched. One word, three letters, and I wanted to cry myself.

I said nothing. I waited and she waited, with my arms around her now, her breath feathering hot against the curve just there, the place where a neck stops being a neck to start being something else altogether.

You're not okay, I said finally, are you.

I guess not. But—I thought—

Something happen at school?

I'm not a kid, Jonah. She pushed away. Look, I'll be fine.

I reached out and cupped her elbow with my hand, running my fingers along her forearm, thinking suddenly about the hidden cells, thousands of them, and the bones far beneath the layers of skin—ulna, radius, clavicle, scapula. Delicate. Strong. The femur can bear nineteen thousand pounds. At the nineteen thousand and first, it snaps.

I know you'll be fine. But I'd like to help you.

Sue's muscles relaxed—she fell into me, and I held on. Things just catch up with you after awhile, you know? she said. And then you don't know what to do. It's just scary is all. Kind of overwhelming.

Yeah. I know what you mean. I touched her again. Would you come back to the dorm with me? I want to show you something.

Show me? She snorted derisively. No one's shown me anything in years.

I stood and put out my hand. Sue grasped it. I helped her to her feet. You'll like this, I said. I promise. It'll help.

Well. Okay, Jonah. But if you drag me all the way over there for nothing— She choked, just a little, a short, sharp inhalation that wrenched my heart when I hadn't known she held the key.

I won't.

I nearly did, it seemed, because she wasn't content to sit on my bed and wait while I rummaged ferociously through drawers. She asked me a total of seven questions, including these four, and she repeated many of them:

1. What're you looking for?

2. You sure you know what you're doing?

3. Why don't we do this later?

4. I'm not bothering you, am I, Jonah?—Jonah?

No, I said, through jaws clenched so tight I could've hired myself out as a nutcracker, you're not. Just wait a sec, all right?

All right, Sue mumbled, and kept up the relentless questioning.

I found it in the third drawer of my desk, where it was buried under, respectively:

1. a tangled school lanyard

2. a half-empty pack of Trident, spearmint flavor

3. four birthday cards

4. one of Lulu's smelly cat collars

5. six empty mechanical pencils

6. two notepads, one with the cover missing

7. three wads of used Kleenex

Ha, I muttered, I knew I'd get you eventually.

What was that? Sue asked.

Oh, nothing. Just gloating.

Gloating about what?

My victory.

Over what?

My desk. Forget it. I grinned and brandished the prize. Here it is.

Here's what? Sue sniffled. I hadn't realized she was still crying. I groped for my tissue box, found it, and waited until she blew her nose.

Just throw that in the corner, I said, knowing my luck it'll probably find a friend and breed.

The tissue?

What else? I sat beside her and slid an arm gently around her shoulders. Look at this.

Look at what?

In response, I guided her hand to the cover of the book, drew her fingers back and forth. This, I said. This is what's going to help you.

The Bible? She'd read the title. Jonah, I know you're—well, you believe in—but I don't.

I know. But I'm hoping you'll change your mind.

Sue stiffened. You brought me here to preach? That's what it's about?

No, it's not about preaching, it's about helping. Life sucks, Sue, you know it does. This is how I deal.

If this is how you deal, and you love it so much, why'd you have to search?

A bright one, my girlfriend, a real bright one. Well, I muttered, I happen to have two, and I kept the second for—well, for—

For a rainy day? She snickered.

Yeah, actually, and it's pouring right now. Please. Take it, okay? Read it. Just read a little. If you hate it, you can quit. But just try.

She touched my wrist. I pulled her into me, and she rested her head on my shoulder.

All right, she said. For you. She opened it.

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.

I gave her the Bible, and I never saw it again. She kept it for years, long after the covers were faded and dingy, long after she could've bought a replacement.

This is Sue's Bible.

 

 

28,880.

(Knocking.)

(Pause.)

A:Who's there?

B:Hi, I'm Johnny. Jonathan Cruz, actually, but you can call me Johnny if you want.

(Silence.)

B:Can I come in?

(Pause.)

A:In where?

B:In there! Where else?

A:In here?

B:Well, yeah.

(Pause.)

A:I'm not sure.

B:Not sure? What's there to be not sure about?

(Silence.)

B:I'm a pretty good guy. I mean, they say I did some stuff, but you know, I mean, you can't believe everything you hear, right?

(Silence.)

B:I just want to say hi.

A:And come in?

B:Sure!

(Doorknob rattles.)

B:But the door's locked. Can you—?

(Silence.)

B:Hey, it's okay if you don't want to right away. I'm cool with being out here.

(Silence.)

B:So how come you stay in your room all the time?

(Pause.)

A:I don't know.

B:Something wrong with you?

(Pause.)

A:I don't know.

B:Hell, there's something wrong with every damn body these days. They even got diseases for your hair. They just wanna pump you full of drugs. Know what I mean?

A:No.

B:That's cool. At least you're honest, right?

(Pause.)

A:Okay.

B:You're not real talkative, are you.

(Silence.)

B:Hey. You still there? Ah, what am I saying? Where else would you be? (Laughter.)

A:Where else would I be?

B:It's getting late and I gotta go before they figure out I left, but I'm gonna come back tomorrow, all right? I kinda like you. Dunno why.

(Pause.)

A:Okay.

 

 

29,145.

Today I spoke to someone. I don't know if I enjoyed myself or not. I think the someone handled most of the conversation. He said one hundred and eighty-four words—I said twenty-six. That's roughly eighty-seven point sixty-two percent to twelve point thirty-eight percent, which is, rounding up and down when appropriate, a ratio of eight to one—counting words only, of course. It'd be a completely different ball game if we threw in characters, or tried separating vowels and consonants, or any combination of the above.

Rob used to say that a lot—a completely different ball game. I never understood what he meant. How can words be so confusing?

He said his name was Jonathan, but I can call him Johnny. I wonder if he's going to come back.

Zach taught me to play video games when I was seven and he was ten, when we still did things together, before he figured out that he had a retard for a little brother and decided that he'd much prefer a pile of smelly, week-old cat crap, if that option was available. My first game was called Mario Brothers. You could do two-player if you wanted, and we did that all the time; we'd sprawl on his bed, our legs in the air, waving the controllers around while we moved the characters because that was Zach's habit and I picked it up.

I was always Luigi—Zach was always Mario. I liked green better than red, I never really grasped the game, and Zach loved playing Mario and you didn't come between Zach and his favorite character.

There were six mushrooms on the first level. The last one fell from the sky right before a question block, and you were supposed to bounce from the shroom to the top of the block, getting points while you grew taller, one after the other, wham wham like that. I couldn't manage the jump. I tried and tried, but every time I'd be too busy trying to count the spots on the shroom to leap properly.

Come on, Jonah, Zach would mutter while Luigi made the approach, come on Jonah, come on JonahcomeonJonah….

And then Luigi would squeal and fall off the screen butt-first, and I'd say triumphantly, Six and a half if you count the little one in the corner. And Zach would throw his controller on the ground.

Why do you keep doing that?

I dunno, I said thoughtfully. Why not?

'Cause you keep dying!

But we can just start over.

But you always want to start over!

I picked up the controller and gave it to him. C'mon, Zach, please?

He took it, looked at it, looked at my face. He was watching me like I'd done something disgusting or repulsive. A ten-year-old boy can pull off that type of expression like no other human being in existence. He dropped it.

How many stripes? he asked, pointing at his bedspread. It was striped, of course, in muted shades of black, orange, and red.

The game's theme song was still playing, and the notes were tinny and irritating and somehow consoling.

Twenty-nine.

Zach shook his head. Twenty-nine. You sure? His voice was strange.

Yeah. I'm—

Always sure. Right.

I rubbed my right thumb over the palm of my left hand in small circles, counting them, one, two, three, four. You wanna play again? I asked.

Zach leaned across and switched off the TV. No.

Maybe—later?

No.

 

 

29,792.

Good afternoon. It's Dr. Scott Johansen again.

Jonah McDermott's recorder arrived at my office this morning. My secretary tells me that an aide carried it in at nine o'clock. I found a sticky note on the plastic casing, which reads as follows:

Prof. opinion please.

The note is unsigned and the handwriting is just about illegible—to be expected, since the man behind the words hasn't seen daylight for years. I'm a little surprised he still remembers the mechanics of writing, though not, of course, disappointed; that's a good sign. If he remembers, odds are he's practiced, and if he's practiced he understands, whether consciously or otherwise, that his behavior is abnormal. And if he understands that it's abnormal, maybe he hopes for recovery.

I can never truly help my patients until they want to help themselves. Self-initiative is the first step.

So Jonah wants my professional opinion again. To tell the truth, I'm not really sure why he asked for it in the beginning. This recorder—for some reason, I feel tempted to say you, as if I'm speaking to a human being; very odd—has a tape with about fifty-five more hours of use available, and while it can be ejected it can't be rewound. Jonah obviously is not listening to what I have to say, and if he is not listening to what I have to say and no one else will ever listen to what I have to say, I really don't know why I'm saying it.

Ah, but I digress.

In my professional opinion, Jonah McDermott, resident of room number 1312, is progressing at an unprecedented rate. He has not left his room yet, but that's to be expected. From observing these recent months, I have reason to hope that he will make the leap soon.

Regarding his future goals, I feel I must say this: I do not—in my professional opinion—believe Mr. McDermott will ever leave our facility again, and certainly not in the guise of a functioning adult male. Unfortunately, I think he may be too far gone.

…

Dr. Scott Johansen, over and out.

 

 

30,140.

Bet you didn't know God appreciates irony. Oh yes He does, appreciates it as much as the next guy and probably a whole lot more, because the world is really, really, really ironic. That is, if you know where to look.

Awhile ago, back when I was six thousand two hundred nine point two five days old and in my last year of high school, back when I still knew Christian and was taking bets left and right and walking away without a dime but before I learned that Raoul wasn't exactly straight as an arrow, I liked to walk. Not for exercise, but because I needed some way to occupy my thoughts. I'd turn the volume on my iPod up as high as I could stand and touch every single fence post and tree branch I counted. I'd do this for hours in the evenings, staying out until night fell, until my mother had absolutely no idea where I was and nearly phoned the police. Once she actually did phone the police.

Anyhow, I found an empty coffee cup in a bush.

Not an unusual event, sure. I glanced at it and counted the surrounding leaves and snorted because people who littered were unutterably stupid and was about to keep going when I stopped. This was because I'd realized something.

It was not just any half-rotted plastic coffee cup. It was a half-rotted Starbucks plastic coffee cup.

You might not know that Starbucks used to have a thing where they'd write stuff on the sides of their cups. They didn't do it with frappuccino cups and junk like that because those were clear, but for hot drinks you could take off the sleeve and find a little blurb entitled The Way I See It. Right next to the title there would be a number, like #258, which I loved, and at the end you'd find out who, exactly, was seeing. For instance, it might say: —Michael Jackson, child molester, should be hanged by his private parts until dead.

I took a few steps back and poked gingerly at the cup. Never knew if spiders hid in the blackness beside it, waiting for the opportunity to lunge forward and sink their fangs into the fleshy ball of my finger. Nothing moved, so I figured I was safe and gave it a tug.

The cup popped free easily, along with a small flying bug which—I swear—looked indignant as it darted away.

I jerked the sleeve off, holding it between the pointer and thumb of my right hand, and turned the cup until I found what I was looking for. It'd already decayed, but I could still read it.

Some biologist learned an important lesson from his parents—guess he felt it was his civic duty or something to impart that useless fact on the rest of the world. As if we didn't have everyone and their uncle preaching to us already, commericals and billboards all over the place screaming about why this brand of toilet paper was better than that one, how special extra-thick sanitary napkins helped prevent spotting more than regular not-extra-thick ones, when you had to take your kids to Disneyland (one of their five thousand parks, established worldwide) because it was the happiest place on Earth. I wanted to know which park was happier than the others.

I tossed the cup back in the bush (after counting the words—twenty-two) and took three point five steps. Then I ran back, grabbed it again, and laughed.

The biologist wasn't preaching about Always or Mickey Mouse. He was preaching—wow, what do ya know—about biology. About how the only way to leave your mark on the world was to make sure it was cleaner when you went out than when you went in. In other words, he was saying, Don't litter.

Now if that isn't irony, I don't know what is.

I laughed on the sidewalk for five minutes and eight seconds, though it wasn't really that funny. I put the cup on top of my TV at home, and it stayed there for two-and-a-half years (which is nine hundred thirteen point one two five days, or twenty-one thousand nine hundred fifteen hours, or one million three hundred fourteen thousand nine hundred minutes—which is a really long time).

 

 

30,942.

Mike's real name is—or was, maybe he's dead by now—Michael Scott Anderson, and he hated it.

This hating thing went beyond distaste for Mike. It went beyond, Please call me Mike, delivered in scathing tones to half-deaf toupee-sporting substitute teachers. When I say he hated it, I mean he hated it. I never learned exactly why, but I figure it had something to do with his father.

Momma Anderson caught Poppa Anderson in their bed with the maid one day. She got off work early and certainly didn't expect to find her husband doing the horizontal tango with another woman. She slapped him. Poppa, being a kind, gentle guy normally and a bloodthirsty sex-craving zombie at times, slapped her right back. The maid, who'd been asleep, sat up—she was naked from the neck down, I say from the neck down because she had a hat, the little lacy thing maids wear in male fantasies, which I think counts—and promptly screamed her head off.

Once the maid's screams trailed away and the neighbors finished calling the police, Momma asked why she was wearing a diamond ring. On her ring finger.

I'm married, the maid said, blushing.

Oh that's just great, said Poppa. Why didn't you tell me?

Momma stood there, speechless. Then she turned the lights back off and left the room, without so much as slamming the door. She didn't speak to Poppa at all that evening. He thought, for a little while, he was going to get away with it.

When he came home from work the next day, she'd changed the locks. His suitcases were packed, zipped, and arranged neatly on the front lawn. Momma was a woman of myriad subtleties, but if she did something it got done.

Neither Mike nor Momma ever saw him again.

Mike never made a habit of talking about his past, and he especially hated talking about anything that remotely concerned his father. I got the Momma-Poppa-maid story out of him when he was stone-cold drunk. It was entertaining, I guess. He told me in fragments, each one muffled because his face was wedged into his pillow and slurred because he'd drunk half a case of beer that hadn't worn off yet. For a guy who drank so much, he was a lightweight.

I found him in his dorm room that afternoon after classes. Sometimes he didn't show up, and when he didn't I tried to make a point of checking on him. I never said, you know, that I was checking on him, like, Hey, Mike, didn't see you today, you doing O.K.? What I said was more along the lines of:

Hey, you lazy jerk, you just hang around and drink all day or what?

Then what he said was this:

Whaddaya want, asshole?

Nothin'. I sat down on the foot of the bed. Your breath smells like a dead skunk.

What the fuck you talkin' about.

Crawled in your mouth and died and nobody found it for ten years.

You're… fuckin' crazy.

And now it's all decomposed. And ants are crawling around in its mouth. And its intestines are hanging out and there's probably maggots in its butt.

He punched me. Harder than he needed to, but probably not as hard as he intended. Alcohol took the edge off.

Oh c'mon, that was weak.

You wan' me to do it again?

I scooted a little farther away. Naw, I'm okay.

He snorted, and I heard something sloshing around. Sounded like he hadn't quit yet. We weren't even supposed to have liquor on campus. Since this seemed to be a relevant point, I thought I'd better raise it.

Aren't you worried about getting caught?

You think I care? Let 'em kick me out, I don' give a fuck. His speech was starting to slur. Crap, that couldn't be good.

How much did you drink?

Dunno, lost count maybe three ago. Mike laughed, as if he'd cracked a joke. I didn't.

How much?

Fed up and too hammered to care, he flung the half-empty can at the floor. There was a crashing noise, followed by a muted splash. I picked it up right away and sniffed the top. This isn't your usual stuff, I said.

Store was out. C'n you believe that? Man, jus' when I really need one I drag my ass down there an' they're sold the fuck out.

This smells like crude oil. You're gonna have a serious hangover tomorrow.

But 's nice now. All warm 'n cozy like everythin's great, dunno why I don' do this more often.

Because it's insane. You didn't even lock the door.

Lock it… y'self. Can' move.

So I got up and locked the door. Then I tried to decide whether I should leave. Normally I wouldn't sit around with Mike when he'd been drinking, partly because I didn't trust him and partly because I didn't want to hear what spilled from his inebriated mind.

I believe that middle- and upper-class white guys are as likely to become alcoholics as lower-class guys, sure. I've heard all the sob stories. We live in a house big enough for eighty with rooms I haven't even seen yet and I take the limo anywhere I want to go but nobody understands me, so I'll leech off my parents for twenty years until there's nothing left of my liver and they put me in a nursing home. Et cetera. Boo hoo. Mike just gave me the feeling there was something more to his problem, is all.

When I say something more, I'm not talking about twelve years of sexual abuse—or heck, maybe I am, I don't know, maybe he just never said anything. But he had a problem, and thoughts escape their restraints as alcohol clogs the synapses, and I didn't want to listen to it. I wasn't this terrible, cold-hearted guy or anything. I knew he'd be embarrassed later, and maybe a little part of me figured I didn't want to look at him differently.

Understand—not that I thought I would, but that I sort of did, in case it was something I hadn't even imagined.

I never got the chance to decide, though. He rolled over.

Was the maid, he mumbled. Fuckin maid, slut whore, hell it was me too.

Maids were interesting.

What? I said, sitting back down.

None of us saw her fuckin ring. Right there even. Ugly thing.

Whose ring?

Bet whoever married her… paid her…. Probly was too fuckin much, she was a shrimp. Bet she couldn' even get him off.

Our conversation continued in that vein for awhile, with his story growing cruder and cruder and my remarks shorter and shorter until I stopped talking at all. I don't think my input was necessary. I think he forgot I was there.

After awhile, he trailed off.

Mike. Hey. Mike.

No response.

You awake?

Same.

You alive?

I leaned over, resting on my elbows, and touched two fingers to the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. Fortunately, I found one. Seemed he'd just passed out.

Man, considering how drunk you are, I murmured, you sure are lucky. I can't believe nobody came by here. The place smells like a cheap bar.

Of course he didn't say anything. Not like I really expected him to.

I stood up, kicking the beer can under the bed, and clumsily jerked the bedspread over Mike's very limp, very unconscious form. He'd be out for awhile.

The maid, I said. Never would've guessed.

 

 

32,204.

(Silence.)

(Knocking.)

A:(Pause.) Who's there?

B:Hey, it's Johnny again.

(Silence.)

B:How ya doin'? I told you I'd come back, didn't I? I mean, it's a little late and all, but things happen. You know?

A:Not really.

B:Not really what?

A:(Pause, hesitantly.) Not really, I don't know.

(Silence.)

B:You don't talk much. What's your name, man?

A:(Pause.) Jonah.

B:That's a good name. My sweetheart, she's outside waitin' for me, her name's Lizzie but she always liked Jonah. From the Bible, right?

A:Yes.

B:He got eaten by the big fish or something. That's how I remember it anyway. You got a big fish at home, that why they named you Jonah?

A:No.

B:Kinda hard talkin' to you like this. I feel like I'm talkin' to a wall. Hell, guess I am talkin' to a wall, it's just got a big hole. Sure you don't wanna open the door?

A:Yes.

B:I haven't seen Lizzie in a long time. Maybe eight years, seems like. You think she's dead by now? Sometimes I figure maybe she is. I ain't ever gonna get out of here anyway. Neither're you.

A:I know.

B:You don't mind? You don't have anyone out there waiting for you?

(Silence.)

B:I guess that wasn't a good thing to say. You probably don't wanna talk about it.

(Silence.)

B:Did ya try that crap they call a sloppy Joe today?

A:(Pause.) Yes.

B:Well?

A:(Pause.) What?

B:What'd you think?

A:I don't know.

B:You gotta know. You have an opinion, don't you?

A:Yes.

B:What is it, then?

A:(Pause, haltingly.) I thought—I thought it wasn't—very good.

B:You're damn right it wasn't. That shit's so disgusting I wouldn't feed it to my sister's dog, and I'd strangle that mutt with my bare hands is how annoying he is. You ever have a dog?

A:No.

B:Well, good. (Pause.) Don't get one. They sure are annoying.

(Silence.)

A:Okay.

B:You always so agreeable?

A:(Pause.) I don't know.

B:(Laughs.) Lizzie told me all the time I should be more agreeable, 'specially when we got into an argument. Not like we argued a lot or anything, well, we sorta did, but little stuff. It's 'cause we were both bull-headed. Know what I mean?

A:Yes.

B:Yes? Hey, that's a new one, thought you were gonna say no.

(Silence.)

B:(Slowly.) Last thing I remember us fightin' about was, uh, mail, I think. (Laughs.) Sure was funny. We were in the city, and I was drivin', and we went by the post office, 'cause we always go by the post office, it's right on the way to the house. (Pause.) You there?

A:Yes.

B:There you go again, yessing. Better than noing, I guess. Anyhow, she pointed out the window and says to me, You see that sign? And I says, Yes, and she says, They close 12:00 P.M. on Mondays, now does that mean noon or midnight, and if that means midnight shouldn't it be 12:00 A.M. Tuesdays? Isn't that crazy?

A:(Pause.) What?

B:Her wantin' to know a stupid thing like that. Isn't it crazy?

A:I don't know.

B:Well.

(Pause.)

B:You wanna talk? I mean, I can keep talkin' if you want, but I figure you should say something too. That's how it works, right?

A:(Pause, slowly.) Yes.

B:I hear you talkin' to yourself in there, so I know you're not stupid like lots of the other guys. There's one might as well swallow his tongue, at least get use out of it that way.

A:I'm not stupid.

B:Hey, see? Now we're gettin' someplace. How come you're not? All these yes-thises and no-thats, I might just be talkin' to a parrot.

A:I don't know.

B:(Pause, laughter.) And… one step forward, ten steps back. Okay then.

(Silence.)

B:Oops, that's my cue. Listen, I gotta go, but I'll be back. I still kinda like you. Still don't know why.

(Footsteps.)

A:(Pause, slowly.) Good night, Johnny.

 

 

32,894.

Fifty to five hundred fifty-three.

That's eight point two nine percent to ninety-one point seven one percent—approximately, of course—which is, rounding when appropriate, a ratio of eleven to one, worse than the last (which was, rounding when appropriate, only eight to one).

I'm confused. He came back, and I didn't expect it. I don't like people doing things I don't expect. I like expecting things. You can prepare for something if you expect it. Now I'm nervous and my fingers are moving funny. They keep hitting the desk and they're all jerky and I can't stop them and that's scary.

I can't think also. That's bad and it also scares me.

If I touch my face with my hands, which I'm doing even though they won't stay still, it's wet. I don't like that because I don't remember crying so I must have cried without noticing. And if I cried without noticing I don't like that because it means I'm going crazy.

Being a murderer is not so bad as long as you're not a crazy murderer. Once you're a crazy murderer you're screwed. They can lock you up forever if they want and they can never let you out. And if you ask to get out they can just ignore you because what do they care? You're crazy.

I'm alone, and that scares me. And I don't know why.

 

 

33,115.

Hello, Jonah. We haven't talked in awhile.

it's been great. guess it couldn't last.

I've been well—what about you?

I am okay.

That's good. That's great.

buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Jonah, I'd like to ask you a personal question. Is that all right?

do i have a choice

Yes.

When was the last time you laughed?

i forget

 

 

33,183.

I'm very ticklish. Sue was too, come to think of it. Seemed like sometimes all I had to do was just touch her ribs with a finger and she'd be giggling, falling on the floor for laughing too hard to breathe.

That's completely honest, you know. Nobody ever really started tickling her because they were always kind of afraid she'd hyperventilate and die. And that's got to be the worst way, right? Imagine how she'd be, lying on the floor, legs twisted up under her body, face frozen between a grin and a gasp, and maybe one of her friends kneeling, saying over and over, What's wrong? What's wrong, Sue? Sue, why'd you stop laughing?

Anyway, I wasn't that ticklish.

I think I laughed sixty-one months ago, give or take a day or two because nobody's ever sure about these things. She was tickling me. We weren't married yet, of course. Pre-marriage. I say pre-marriage, of course, because if there's never been a post- there can't be a pre-, because there can't be an after-something when you never had a before-something and the something's existence is a moot point. Guess that got a little tangled. Sorry.

McDonald's started it. Sue and I had a kind of unwritten contract where we'd spend every Friday together and each of us got to choose the place—like I'd pick the movies one week and she'd pick an Italian restaurant the next, which wasn't fair because the restaurant was more expensive than the movies and I didn't always want to spend fifty dollars—like that. It was my Friday and we were both hungry, so I said we'd go to McDonald's.

Because she had to place her own order, having this thing as she did about being the only one who could ask for what she wanted the right way, I found a table. Didn't take me very long. People tend to give up their seats when they see a blind guy coming their way, tapping his cane all over the place, pretending he doesn't know where he's going even though he does because he comes there all the time. I'm guilty of that. I pulled that a lot. If you have to have a disability, why not use it? At least I always got the table I wanted.

Sue liked chicken sandwiches. Whenever she bought fast food, no matter where she was buying, it was going to be a chicken sandwich. The guys behind the counter always learned what she wanted right away. They'd have her food ready before she even hit the front of the line. I liked hamburgers, myself. Not the eight-foot kind, with three-quarters of a cow in the bun, but the ordinary kind, one patty, two at the most, a couple leaves of lettuce and half a tomato. You know.

She carried our meal over so quietly I didn't hear her until she was in the booth beside me. I jumped, sort of startled, and grinned.

Did you get my—

Yes, I bought your burger. I don't know how you eat those things. She laughed. They smell terrible.

Ah, but they taste great. Sort of like a friend of mine. I kissed her. Mmm. Beefy.

I oughta hit you for that, she said, a minute later.

But you won't.

She sighed. Yeah. I won't. Sounded as if she was smiling.

So we unwrapped our sandwiches and started eating, crunching on crispy sesame seeds, slogging through our respective mounds of roasted flesh—I make that sound more disgusting than it was. The food was actually very good. I had a little mayonnaise dripping down my chin. She probably had some on her face, too, but I couldn't see it.

I bet you have mayo on your face, she said suddenly.

I bet you have it on yours.

How much?

How much what?

How much you wanna bet I have mayo on my face?

I smirked. Five bucks.

Okay, you're on.

We traded faces, and I was about to tell her she owed me five bucks when she dug her fingers into my ribs.

Hey! Hey! That's a foul!

No harm, no foul, she said. She really went to town on me. I could hardly help myself.

Man, Sue—cut it—we're gonna get—thrown out—

Thrown out? No way. Just as long as you don't—start—

Laughing?

It was too late, of course. I was laughing like nobody's business, trying to plug my mouth with a fist because, heck, we were in a fast food joint and there was mayonnaise on my face and probably there was a pimply-faced teenager behind the counter who really didn't want us rolling giggling all over a dingy plastic booth, scaring who-knew-how-many customers away. But we couldn't see the booth, so we didn't notice the grime. I don't think we would've cared.

Well, I hit my head on a plastic plant and cracked my toe on the table—she got one of my elbows in her gut. We both got thrown out, and neither of us finished eating lunch.

Probably the best time I've had in… oh, I don't know. Sixty-one months.

I killed her twenty-two hours later—that's why.

 

 

34,047.

So. Zach. Medical school.

Zach figured out that he wanted to be a doctor back when he was a senior, I guess. A high school senior. Thing was, he had a science teacher who loved him—thought he was the best thing the world coughed up since sliced bread, and better than that on good days. The man was bright enough. I took his class a few years after Zach graduated and didn't like him because he sprayed spittle over the front row when he lectured. I also didn't like him because he didn't like me, and he didn't like me because I caught all his errors. Every one, and I made him fix them, too. If I was in the room, you wouldn't find a single inaccuracy on the board. I caught 'em all.

I sat in the front row a lot.

Anyway, our parents didn't have a problem with the Dr. McDermott thing. They were happy. Having one son who wanted to make something of himself by starting on the road to a productive, life-saving career meant they hadn't birthed two complete failures. I was the first, of course.

About that time, Zach decided to tackle science head-on. He'd stay up late into the night poring over diagrams of various organs until he nodded off—then he'd leave them lying around the living room, so we sat on arteries to watch television and I amused myself counting labels. One for the auricle, one for the auditory meatus (pronounced me-ahy-tus, not meet-us, by the way), one for the semicircular canals, but should that count as three, and so on and so forth and so on and so forth for hours.

You'd think a boy my age wouldn't adopt such a childish hobby. Percensitis changes a lot of things. A lot.

I learned plenty of stuff about the human body that way, though.

Zach was really nervous when he had to send out his college applications. I guess he was under a lot of stress. He spent night after night with his friends, and sometimes we didn't see him until the morning, so he'd come down the stairs (there were thirteen) almost stumbling and no amount of rubbing would get all the sleep out of his eyes. Mom yelled at him for staying out so late once or twice, but her yelling couldn't stop him. She mostly gave up. He kept his grades high, so I guess she didn't really mind. I was always the one they had to worry about anyway. Probably kept 'em pretty busy.

Turned out later on he got into the college he wanted—Harvard, would you believe it, my own brother went to Harvard. They chose him with no never mind to the thousands of people they had to turn away. That's the only thing that bothers me; for everyone who gets in, six people don't. And how do they feel?

Mom was thrilled. She and our aunt made dinner reservations at a fancy hotel. We sat around a huge table under a chandelier. I kept wondering if it was going to fall on our heads, but we survived. Thirty-nine diamond lights, twinkling in three tiers, two burnt out at the very top, and I sort of wanted to replace them except for no ladder anywhere I could see, and they probably didn't like people standing on chairs.

We said how it was incredible that he got in, how we never were really sure he had a chance, how he would be a great doctor since he really loved science and all. He drank champagne like it was going out of style. I drank a little too. Didn't like the way it went down my throat. Bubbly as if we had something to be happy about.

 

 

34,709.

(Pounding.)

B:Hey. Jonah. You in there? Jonah?

A:(Pause.) Yes.

B:Look, you gotta let me in. They're after me. Shit. Hurry up.

(Footsteps.)

B:Shit. Jonah! Open it!

(Silence.)

A:Who?

B:Them! C'mon. Don't you know who I'm talkin' about?

(Footsteps.)

B:Jonah. Jonah! If you don't—open this, they're gonna kill me. They're gonna kill me! Fuck, man, hear that?

(Door is unlocked.)

(Door opens.)

(Door is closed and locked.)

B:Thanks.

(Silence. Creaking of bedsprings.)

B:So. Uh, what's up with the blindfold?

A:I don't know.

B:You're wearing it. You gotta know. Right?

A:I don't know.

B:Why don't you just take it off? Bet you'd see better.

A:I—

B:You don't know. Yeah. Sorry, I forgot.

(Pause.)

B:This is where you hang out? What's the rent like?

A:I don't pay—

B:Just a joke. Relax. (Laughs. Pause.) Thanks for letting me in.

A:You're welcome.

B:Nobody ever comes here, huh.

A:(Hesitantly.) No.

B:Only Psych Man. Now me. You got a pretty small room.But since there's nobody else in it, I guess that works. You can't see it anyway.

(Creaking of bedsprings.)

A:No.

B:They don't come after me very often. When they do—oh man. It's 'cause they think I raped her. I didn't. You know? And even if I did—even if I did—I can't remember it—how can you lock a guy up for somethin' he doesn't even remember? She's dead. She forgot too. They ain't lockin' her up.

A:(Pause.) No.

B:What're you in here for, anyway?

(Silence.)

B:Hey, I know you don't wanna talk about it, but I show you mine, you show me yours. Can't be that bad.

A:Murder.

B:You killed somebody? Whoa.

A:Yes.

(Silence.)

B:I guess that's worse than rape. Except they figure I did both, so it's a double score, two points for me—hey. You okay? Hey, look, I didn't mean to upset you or anything—you crying? Hey. Hey. It's okay.

A:She was my girlfriend. That's why they think I'm crazy.

B:Never heard you say so much—hey, don't cry, you're gonna be okay. You're not crazy. You're gonna be okay.

 

 

35,074.

Lizzie

Somebody was cryin' in my arms yesterday. That guy who never has people in his room, you know, the one I told you about. I tricked him so he'd open the door, only now I feel kinda bad about it 'cause he got real scared and he thought I was tellin' the truth. Says he killed his girlfriend but I don't believe him. He just looks harmless. Like even if he had a big mosquito on his arm he'd just sit there and stare at it, wouldn't even think about squishin' it. I guess I wish I didn't try to trick him like that. It worked real easy. Opened the door and let me in. Never figured I was lying.

I wouldn't kill you. You ain't worried, right? Maybe you're not writing me 'cause you're worried I'm dangerous. I ain't.

I miss you.

Johnny

 

 

35,171.

Once, back when I could still see, before Rob had the idea, I was waiting in line at Jack-in-the-Box. I liked their food well enough—mainly I went because I got bored, because I got hungry, and because Rob loved curly fries. He smothered them in ketchup till they were almost too soggy to lift before he asked me if I wanted any. I'd say I didn't and he'd eat them one by one, letting globs of ketchup run down his chin. Pretty disgusting, but he loved it, so I took him when he wanted to go. Then he had the idea and if we wanted to go we rode the bus, no more walking, safer to ride the bus when the blind lead the blind. But we still went together. We were friends. I'm not really sure what he thinks of me now. He could be dead. If he's not dead, he probably hates me because Sue is.

I had Dr. Pepper with me at the time. Not my favorite drink, but the best choice available. Didn't know whether to put it on top of the trash or not, because that was probably dirty, so I mostly just stood there holding it and trying to look like I knew what I was doing. What I was doing was waiting for my order, except I never got really good at that. Sometimes I looked like I was loitering and sometimes I looked like I was almost ready to leave, and they forgot about my food altogether.

Anyway, I hadn't been standing for long when this kid walked up. He didn't want to talk to me, so I didn't get nervous and watched him. Cute kid. I guess he was about nine or ten, maybe eight if he was big for his age. Black hair, black shoes, blue jeans, Spiderman T-shirt. Twenty-three lines on Spiderman's mask. Sometimes I wish I had a kid.

He headed over to the soda fountain, clutching a cup. I thought he was going to refill his drink, like everybody else does because you take advantage of free soda when you get the chance because this is America, but he only held it under the stream of Coke for a few seconds before he took a sip. That's not exactly normal customer behavior. I sidled closer.

The kid dumped the Coke into the drain, where I guess it splashed on the abandoned ice cubes that were down there already, and got some water instead. He tossed the water around in his cup for a second and poured it away, stained a little brown.

What the heck is this kid doing? I thought. Then I caught on.

While I watched, he went through the rest of the choices methodically—diet lemonade, sip, rinse, root beer, sip, rinse, orange Fanta, sip, rinse, diet Coke, sip, rinse—settled on Sprite, filled the cup, added the ice last (rookie mistake), and walked away.

That was no ordinary little boy. He was street-smart. He wouldn't just walk up and choose something he might not like—no way. He was testing the sodas. And he wasn't stupid enough to add one before he'd completely emptied the other; that might screw with the flavor, when he wanted to know exactly how they tasted.

I burst out laughing.

I'm not sure why I did that. I just thought it was funny. Only a little kid, but he already knew what he was after, and he wasn't about to let anybody get in his way. He wouldn't stand for anything less than ideal.

When I got our food, I counted the ice in the drain and took the sandwiches over to Rob, waiting at a table in the corner, his cane sticking across the aisle. Rob always left it in the aisle, no matter where he was. I think he figured that, since life cheated him of sight, he'd use his disability to trip other people every chance he got. Even if they did get hurt, nobody yelled at him. Sure they'd look up from the ground ready to set in, eyes squinty and teeth bared—but nobody yells at a blind guy, because he's blind and it would make them terrible.

It's okay to yell at a guy who can see, but nobody yells at a blind guy. I don't get that.

You watch that kid? I said. The one at the soda machine. Sometimes I forgot.

Oh yeah. He's a real looker.

Sorry. Seriously, though. Weirdest thing I've ever seen.

So you were the one laughing. I wondered what was so funny.

Well, maybe not funny, but weird. I told him about the soda-gourmet Spiderman fan.

That's some lunch conversation, Jonah, I gotta give you that. He grinned and raised his sunglasses. Yeah, I guess sunglasses are the ultimate cliché for the seeing-impaired… sight-impaired… for the blind, but Rob wasn't ashamed of himself. Instead, he liked knowing that people couldn't tell what he was looking at (though he wasn't actually looking at anything), because they always worried that he was watching them.

Hey, it made sense to Rob, and when a guy has a plate in his skull most people humor him. Even if the sunglasses he wants to wear are bright pink and covered with rhinestone daisies.

His eyes were dimming with limited exposure to light. He told me once they were brown, but in Jack-in-the-Box they were gray, kind of foggy.

I hugged someone yesterday. Really it was more that I cried and leaned at him and he held out his hands so I wouldn't crack my skull but it was still a hug, and that was me hugging someone and someone hugging me and maybe I'm not so bad after all.

 

 

36,187.

He said, over and over, You're not crazy. Over and over, just like that. It's okay, you're not crazy. It's okay, you're not crazy. It's okay. You're not crazy.

He was rubbing the words into my shoulders because he was rubbing my shoulders, hesitantly at first but then up and down, up and down, like he actually sort of thought he might want to be friends.

He raped and murdered a child, so he could be dangerous, but you can't be too choosy in an insane asylum unless you want to hang out with the nurse who has no surname and brings you salty green Jell-O, and you know it's salty because she added a few tears. Shed quietly when you weren't looking, of course. Sometimes she forgets you can't see.

I didn't want him to stop. That's the thing. His hand, up and down, like that, all warm and sort of caring, reminded me of somebody else's hand. And I really liked that hand.

It was a long time ago. Notice how many stories begin a long time ago? Nothing begins yesterday. Everything begins five years before. Ten. Fifteen.

The hand belonged to a black woman. I don't remember much about her except she was older than me and taller than me and black, she was in my personal space although people never came in my personal space if I could help it, and she murmured, Amen, over and over, which made me nervous and all weird inside at the same time. But I should know better than to tell a story backward. Let me start again.

I saw a play once. It was a play for Easter, about the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. It was the best play I ever saw. It was the only play I ever saw. It was pretty incredible.

They told the entire thing, from John the Baptist, who said he only baptized in water and man should wait for the one who baptized in the Holy Spirit (in case you haven't heard that), to the crucifixion, where Jesus and the thieves carried their crosses up the stairs to the stage, and they hung Jesus at center stage, and I knew the blood was fake but I kept having to remind myself anyway because, God, it looked so real. When it ended dozens of people—not people from the audience, people who were really in the play—walked up the aisle and met Jesus in heaven because he'd come back from the dead, and there was an old woman who threw away her cane and a retired soldier who knelt, and I was crying.

Afterward the pastor picked up the mike again, talked for a few minutes, said he wanted to ask people—anyone, I guess—to come to the stage so he and other members of the church could pray with them. Don't know what got into me, but I stood. It was kind of like a dream.

I went down the aisle. Not sure where my feet were, but they weren't on the ground. He was praying but I could hardly concentrate for this lump in my chest that'd come out of nowhere, so I didn't really hear most of what he said. I waited and the woman rubbed my back. I let her because I couldn't think and because it felt good. Nice.

We walked to the back rooms, the overflow areas—teenagers to the left, men and women to the right, private counseling at small tables in the corners. Each of us got a Bible and filled out a card (name, address, age) and we bowed our heads to pray. I cried.

I locked myself in a bathroom stall, wiped my face with a paper towel that'd seen better days, and went home. Didn't forget it though. Didn't really remember it, but didn't forget it.

Never forgot it.

That's what he reminded me of, telling me I wasn't crazy, I'm not crazy. He never said I didn't do it, but he said I wasn't crazy. I guess he couldn't say I didn't do it, because I did do it. Wish I hadn't. Really wish I hadn't.

His name's Johnny. I wonder if he's going to come back.

 

 

36,876.

Been thinking about my dad lately.

He was a tall guy, about six-and-a-half feet, with black hair that was so curly it was practically glued to his scalp, sent a lock up every now and then when it shouldn't as if to announce its presence—hey, big guy, still here, ain't falling out yet. I think he needed the reminder. He started going bald in his early fifties—that's pretty early for somebody who was in love with his head. Brown eyes, and he had a running joke about shampoo commercials—always said they'd sell a lot more of the stuff if they only got around to hiring him. I don't know if that's right, since they never hired him.

His name was William, but Mom called him Will because she said William was too much of a mouthful for anybody. He put up with it. Nicknamed her Sam because she loved the name Samantha—out of spite.

I remember most—when I think of him—his closet. I hid inside as a little boy. I buried myself in the corner, beneath a mound of ties and shirts removed from their respective hangers and organizers, inhaling his pervasive cologne and exhaling dreams, or something similar. He had a bear slipper. I don't know where he got it, and I don't know what he did with the other one, and for awhile I didn't even realize it was a bear (it was just a big fluffy lump), but I've never forgotten it. I'm not sure what happened to the bear when he left. Maybe it was in the trunk of his car. When he came back, a few months later, it was gone.

Let's see.

I remember that he liked fake Christmas trees, the ones you have to remove from the box in a trillion pieces and assemble. Driving out to a tree lot involved finding a tree lot, tromping through the cold while going to the tree lot, choosing a tree, tying the tree to the roof of the car, lugging the tree into the house, and spending an hour and a half convincing it to stand upright—afterward, there was mopping up the water that splashed from the stand all over the floor. It was too much trouble for him. He preferred wrestling with false pine needles for a hundred and twenty minutes straight. Not sure why. I think if there's a simpler way to do something, that's the way it ought to be done.

Rob used to call me a lazy bastard. Got so lazy bastard practically became my nickname. I hardly ever swore, being a Christian and all, but if you said, Hey, lazy bastard, get over here, I'd right away get over there. I guess Rob had me pretty well trained. Life's weird that way.

Other things I remember: He had a fish once, my dad, a plain ordinary goldfish that swam in circles (it died because he didn't feed it or fed it too much, I forgot which a long time ago). The day he realized that he was finally losing his hair, he came into the family room calm as anything and said he needed to borrow forty dollars. When he got home in the afternoon, he'd shaved it all off—every last curl. And when my mother asked him why, he said, If it's gonna go, it's gonna go on my terms.

It did.

Will McDermott was bald as a cue ball and Will stayed bald as a cue ball till the day he died and when they laid him in his coffin the rainbow-colored sunlight danced off his skull because he'd never have hair again.

 

 

37,515.

This is a thing:

When you do not talk to people for a long time, like a year or half a year or even longer, you forget how.

This is another thing:

Talking is not like riding a bike. People say it is but the only people who say that are talking, aren't they, so they've probably never forgotten how.

When you forget how to talk you feel always like you should know how, but when you move your lips and your tongue in a way that is sort of familiar nothing comes out, and so you are just stupid.

 

 

37,620.

Everyone dies. Do you think about that often? No, I guess you don't. But I'm going to die, and you're going to die, and Johnny is going to die and Psych Man is going to die and eventually, though wood and stone and dirt can't die, the desk will decompose and these walls will collapse and in two hundred years which is only two centuries or seventy-three thousand fifty days no one will remember me.

I remember how Sue died now. It came back all at once.

It was a gunshot. He shot her in the chest. She didn't stand a chance. She crumpled to the ground from the force of the blow and I held her against my body and pressed my lips to hers because I thought maybe I could save her with just breath, just tears, and I felt the blood pool in her mouth and some of it pooled in mine and it tasted like molten copper. And it was warm. Hot almost.

I went to see her that afternoon. The day she died. She was cheery.

Hi, Jonah, she said, standing in the doorway. I touched her hand.

Hi, Sue.

You're early. She ran her thumb over mine, and that was how she smiled.

Couldn't stand to be away from you for another minute.

Oh you.

Oh me.

Do you still want to go out? she asked.

Is there… an alternative?

She slapped my wrist. Not the one you're thinking of.

Then yeah, I guess we better.

Well. If you insist.

So we went out.

We went to a convenience store on the corner, because Sue wanted a bite to eat, and once we'd bought a few sandwiches we were going to walk to the park. Sit on a bench in the shade for awhile, touch, that kind of thing. Nothing to count unless you included the candy bars and packs of chewing gum, because I could run my hands over them and count them that way, murmuring the numbers under my breath till the salesman asked me to quit touching the Snickers. When he said it he always made it sound dirty somehow. Chocolate harassment.

I caught a little boy stealing one time, but I didn't tell the guy because he pissed me off. That's where bad karma gets you. Twix short.

The bad stuff came at the convenience store, since we never actually got to the park. Started off okay. She went to the little glass fridgies to grab our drinks, a Coke and a Pepsi (we argued over that a lot) and I went to the counter because that was where you ordered your sandwiches. No line, which was great since I hated hitting people in the ankles with my cane. I got to the front right away.

The salesman was Chinese or Korean, something like that. I could hardly understand what he was saying, he had such a thick accent—so I made things simple for him.

One. Ham. Sandwich.

Then a mumble that sounded like the word bread:

White.

Then a mumble, something about everything:

Yes.

Then no response.

And one. Roast beef. Sandwich.

Mumbling began—

White. Yes.

Twenty-first century, so many technological advances, and I was giving this guy my lunch order like he was a caveman and I was the guy who'd just invented the wheel, look, Stevie, draw a line on the ground and I can roll this over it. The ham was for Sue. She liked ham. Still don't know why.

The man fumbled around with our food for awhile. I heard him opening cabinets and shuffling through bags, then the grinding sliding sound as he unearthed a knife and sawed at a loaf of bread. It's true what they say, how being blind sharpens your other senses. He was scooping out the mayonnaise and laying on the meat when the door opened. The bell rang. Used to be a dingy bell, and I always looked at it and thought, Someone really should clean that thing. It could've been clean then, but I wouldn't have noticed.

Silence. Footsteps moving in my direction. I turned around.

The Asian man behind the counter screamed.

Glass hit the ground and exploded.

I heard Sue calling from two aisles down. Jonah? Is that you? What's going on? Are you okay?

I dropped to my knees and crouched against the counter, my head pressed against the tile, waiting and listening to the Asian man's keening. He was crying like an animal, gasping with each breath. There were more footsteps, this time to the right, and a loud sound like fireworks going off. A gunshot. The Asian man screamed again.

Jonah! Sue was terrified. I could tell by the sound of her voice. Jonah! Where are you?

I didn't dare speak.

The gunman was behind the counter, rifling through the sandwich things. He picked up my half-finished roast beef and took a bite, but I guess he wasn't satisfied because he spit the bolus (a bolus is what food is called after it has undergone mechanical digestion and the beginnings of chemical digestion in the mouth, I learned that from Zach) over the cash register, and I heard it splat behind me. Then I lost track of him.

Suddenly something hard and round was against the side of my head, and I flinched. I'd never seen one before but I knew what it was, God help me I knew. A gun. There was a gun against my head.

I thought this with sudden, frightening certainty: I am going to die.

Don't move, he said. You stay very still, okay?

I nodded.

I said don't move.

I did not nod and I did not move. In eleven words and thirty-one seconds he'd terrified me. I felt the loosening of my bowels. Something smelled like ammonia.

Oh God. Don't do that—don't do that—shit. The gunman was distraught.

What?

Just don't move okay. Don't. Footsteps moved away. I heard the sound of a woman crying.

Sue? I said.

J-Jonah?

Where are you?

I'm—I'm—the sodas. She couldn't talk straight. Her words were jumbled and confused. She was more scared than she'd ever been. I didn't know it was possible to be so scared and live.

By the counter, I whispered. I'm okay. Except I wasn't because I was kneeling in my own piss. But the gun was gone.

I moved. Over to the aisles. Put my hand on the side right where the sign should've been, saying something like 1 — Snacks Bread Cakes, leaned around, listened, no footsteps. No footsteps. No footsteps anywhere. Sodas should've been in the aisle directly to the right, but nothing from there either. I shivered. Jeans were wet and clinging to my thighs.

Another gunshot.

A scream.

Sue Sue are you okay where are you?

Well, damn. Way to go, self, with the not-giving-away-your-position thing. I wished I'd thought to jam a fist in my mouth while I had the chance, take off the blindfold and turn it into a makeshift gag, something, but no such luck. He had to have heard. But Sue answered.

I'm still here, Jonah. Shh.

I'd figured that one out on my own, thanks.

A voice. Now the gunman was talking to her.

That your boyfriend?

Y-yes.

Better tell him to shut the fuck up.

Sue shouted, and I don't think she meant to shout but it was the fear shouting, high-pitched and somehow enraged, Jonah! You heard him! Oh Jonah shut up!

Now where is he? This was the gunman, and from Sue's muffled answer I figured he was covering her mouth.

Idunnowopleasopleasdonhurme.

I'm not going to hurt you, bitch, as long as you—oh forget it. Thump. He must've shoved her to the ground. Muffled groan. Someone being dragged along the floor. He had the back of her collar or her shoulders maybe and they were going toward the front counter and she smelled like lilies my lilies how could he touch her.

Where are you, Jonah? Gunman. More footsteps. Did you get eaten by the big bad whale?

Low voice. Smell of ammonia. Damn, he could smell me. I shifted to the right. To the right again. Ran into something tall and thick and warm. Leg.

Gun against my head. Keening noise, can't tell where it's coming from, sharp, frightened. Oh stop crying. He's talking again. You're a bigger wuss than your girlfriend. And now hands are gripping my shoulders, they're rough through my shirtsleeves, rough. I'm moving.

He threw me against the counter. Sue's fingers touched my arm and I grabbed them like they were the only thing that'd ever be real again.

You're crying, she whispered.

So're you.

I know.

The gunman must have been pacing, because the footsteps didn't stop. He went behind the counter again, came out, I smelled ham which meant that he was tired of my sandwich and had started on hers. He talked to us with his mouth full.

I'm gonna have to shoot you both now, he said. Took another bite. And that is fucking not what I wanted. Is it—another bite—so much to ask? Shoot up the fucking place. Get a little money. Get some food. Murder's different, they lock you up for that, if the sons of bitches catch me on this they can lock me up for life. Shit.

He was swearing too much, making me uncomfortable. Sue scooted a little closer. Her hip bumped mine.

I just don't get it. That fob's always closed by this time. Fucker should've been at home. Just wanted to break in. Didn't want to kill anyone. Didn't want to—

A sob. He was sobbing.

Sue's courage was mounting; with each blow to the gunman's self-esteem, we felt a little better. He might've been holding the only weapon in the vicinity, but the more afraid he was the more chance we had of defending ourselves and maybe maybe just maybe living. She whispered in my ear:

All the sociopathic gunmen in the world and we had to get Mr. Sensitive.

I laughed. Insanely.

What's so funny? The man turned around. What's so fucking funny?

Nothing, I said. Um. The Asian guy. You didn't know. It's Sunday. He's always—he's always open later Sundays. Which wasn't true, but in his fragile state of mind I thought our attacker might believe it. Thank God he did.

Oh. He cackled. Oh that's just rich. Sundays.

I think if we keep him talking, I whispered, we can surprise him.

He would've heard us, I was sure, if he hadn't been so immersed in his depression-ridden monologue. He was pacing the center of the room, down one aisle and back up to cross in front of the counter again, talking. The world was out to get him. O he was down on his luck and no one ever fed him, no one ever gave him money because they thought he would only spend it on drugs and booze and even if he would wasn't that just rich, just fucking rich.

We need to get the gun, Sue said.

He's holding the gun. My face was frozen. I couldn't seem to move it at all. If he's holding the gun how do we get it.

Bring him over here.

Hey, I said. Sir?

This interrupted his conversation, and he wasn't very happy, but it pulled him back to Sue and I. He slapped his hands on his hips and I realized that he was going crazy.

What? What do you want? I'm busy. I'm hungry, O I'm hungry, so damn hungry….

Maybe he was.

I can get you food.

No you're lying to me they're always lying to me why doesn't anyone ever just tell me the fucking truth?

I am telling you the truth. Food. I don't live far from here. I can get you some.

No I don't believe you.

Little-kid logic now. I was willing to bet that he had his hands over his eyes, rocking back and forth probably, definitely crying because we could still hear his broken sobs occasionally so there were maybe tears running down his cheeks. Almost felt sorry for him.

If you'll just let me up, I murmured, I can get you food. Lots of it. More food than you've ever—than you've ever seen in your whole life.

He faltered.

Ever?

Ever.

Well maybe.

I sensed a weakness. I can be back in five minutes. Before you even know I'm gone I'll be back. With food. So much food.

He sniffled. What kind of fucking food.

I thought quickly.

Cheeseburgers. Dripping in ketchup and mustard with the meat so hot and red that when you bite into it it's like congrats man you just caught yourself a cow.

Another sniffle. I don't like cheeseburgers. What else.

What do you like? If you tell me I'll make sure to get it.

He paused. Long, drawn-out sniffle, like a great congested breath. I… like… choc'late.

Chocolate?

Yes. Choc'late.

I nearly asked, Milk or dark? but caught myself.

Hershey's, I said, Twix, Milky Way, brownies and fudge, that kind of chocolate I've got, cake fresh from the oven with frosting so thick you can scrape your finger through it and still not see the bread, melted chips and M&M's that get your hands so dirty it's delicious….

Oh. Ohh.

He sounded almost orgasmic. What the heck? Food turned this guy on?

I got truffles too, I said. In a nice pretty heart-shaped box with a red bow and those little chewy lumps of nougat, and if you bite into some you get caramel that clings to your mouth like a lover… and I got steaming cocoa with marshmallows, huge fat marshmallows… and I got….

I was running out of chocolate ideas. But it seemed to be working. Thank God.

You want chocolate I got chocolate, I said, in summation, and he groaned. Then he groaned again, and he was breathing heavily and we hadn't heard from him in awhile and… crud.

Sue.

What?

I think this guy's jacking off.

What?

Just get the gun, okay?

Yeah.

She slid across the floor, her hip brushing mine, and I heard her move to the gunman. He'd collapsed but he was still gasping. The guy jacked off to bonbons. Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned porn?

Well, I thought, almost snickering, different strokes for different folks.

I got it, Sue whispered, but I think he's going to… er….

What?

Notice, she hissed, and then she screamed.

Look what's in my pocket! I didn't expect to find you in my pockets, girlie. You want some?

A slap. Sue must've hit him. How many times had I told her that you never slapped somebody in self-defence, you hauled off and socked him one? And here she was and it was finally crucial and what'd she do, she slapped him.

Well maybe I'll just take that back, bitch, and teach you a little something. They were wrestling.

Why was I sitting there so long?

I reached up and felt along the counter for something to use as a weapon. Anything would do. Really. Anything. Lollipops, chewing gum, little plastic rings with fake diamonds, dog biscuits, papery stuff that must've been maps… ah. Ah.

I cracked him on the back of the head with a ballpeen hammer. Hard, too.

Hey!

He rolled over beneath me and we engaged in a little boxing match for possession of the hammer, but he was stronger than I was and I didn't stand much of a chance. I felt in his pockets for the gun with my other hand.

Turned out I didn't find it because it wasn't there.

Metal against my heart.

Sue. Don't shoot don't shoot don'tshoot.

Gunman. Fucker tried to kill me.

A click.

I couldn't move.

Any last words, fucker?

Uh—uh—

Gunman. So solly, Cholly.

And someone knocked me out of the way and the gun went off and the world was blood and pain.

And I never saw again because I killed her I killed her I killed her. And if I take off the blindfold I will be blind forever.

If I hadn't said it was safe she wouldn't have gone over there and if I hadn't hit him with a hammer she wouldn't have jumped in the way.

She took my bullet that was my bullet and now she's dead I killed her.

 

 

40,380.

Johnny came by again today. He didn't have to trick me to get inside this time. He only knocked and said his name and I let him in. I have not remembered how to talk to people much more, but that was okay because Johnny did most of the talking. He is good at that. He said five hundred twenty-eight words, and I said one hundred ten. He asked me why I refused to take off the blindfold. Since I couldn't see, was I afraid that people might make fun of me? Or was there another reason entirely?

I didn't know where it came from, and I still don't, but I said this:

No. I am afraid that I'll see.

If it was a lie that doesn't make sense. It didn't feel like one. Still doesn't. Not really.

 

 

40,518.

How are you, Jonah? Has anything interesting happened lately? Is there anything you'd like to tell me about?

i remembered

No. Nothing.

Are you sure, Jonah?

nonononono

Jonah? Are you sure?

No.

No, you're not sure?

yesyesyesyesyes

Jonah, are you okay?

Yes. Yes. I remembered. I remembered.

oh God i remembered

 

 

40,568.

I cried in Psych Man's arms yesterday, buried my face in his shoulder and cried like the world was broken and they'd never put it back together again, and guess what he did? Held me and rubbed my back. Said, It's going to be okay, Jonah. You're making a breakthrough, Jonah. And then he even cried a little bit, just a few sobs like that gunman, choking and short. And he said, I don't know anyone who deserves it more.

And he kept holding me until I stopped crying, which took a pretty long time, and he handed me a tissue to dry my eyes except he forgot I can't do that, and the whole time he kept his hand on my arm and I could tell by the way he talked he was smiling.

Now he says that the next step is for me to leave my room. And he says I'll need counseling so I can understand that Sue isn't dead, that I didn't kill her.

I don't know what to believe any more. I don't know which way is up.

Someone said this—maybe it was Edgar Allan Poe:

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I'm sad. I know that.

But maybe I'm a little happy too.

Just a little.

 

 

40,792.

Last night I dreamed of men standing in a circle and thinking of bonbons and getting off, and I dreamed about Zach, but they're probably not connected. I hope not, anyway, because that means maybe Zach was that gunman.

Why would Zach be a gunman? Yeah, there's another one of those things I've been remembering.

The story of Zach and the story of me going to a college for the blind and the story of how our dad died are all the same story, and it's a longer story than most I've told and so I may get tired and have to keep it up later on, because in my head it is maybe over three thousand words which is quite a lot of words for someone who was never very good at talking in the first place.

Zach went to Harvard. He was a smart guy. I wasn't a smart guy; I could count faster and more accurately than anyone else in the world, but I was nowhere near as smart as Zach. If Dad took us to a baseball game together, I could tell him how many people were in the stands, but Zach was a textbook of team trivia, and so Zach was more interesting. That was it—how it always was between us, how it would be until the end of forever. And then bad things happened.

The first bad thing: Zach's junior prom.

While I didn't go to my junior prom at all and went to my senior prom alone, only to have my first kiss in the janitor's closet (and a pretty great kiss it was, too, considering I wasn't kissing a girl) with a gay guy named Raoul, Zach went to both of his proms with women, and he got into trouble with both of them.

His junior prom it was a buxom brunette named Sandy, who squealed a lot and thought everything was like wonderful and Zach's little brother was like a complete retard. Which maybe he was—who knows? She showed up on our doorstep in a red dress, silk concealing the bare minimum of breast, and while I made small talk, waiting for Zach to come down the stairs, she examined her manicure and ignored me. Pointedly.

She was good at that.

Zach drove Sandy's car, a Jaguar, to the prom because his own used van wasn't cool enough for the occasion. Unfortunately, big-breasted Sandy had a couple grams of coke under one seat and a couple grams of heroine under the other, and they both had some friends at the party who were more than willing to come down and share.

The cops found them around midnight, slumped over the seats, stoned. Zach used his phone call to ring our house, and Dad answered. I was watching a DVD and counting dialogue at the time.

'Lo? It's one A.M. Who's this?

Twenty thousand. Twenty thousand ten.

Dad. It's me. Zach.

Zach? Is something wrong? Where are you?

Twenty-one thousand eighteen.

Uh—I need a lil' help.

Did something happen at prom, Zach?

Twenty-one thousand three hundred two.

See, it's like this—

And there was a cracking sound. He'd dropped the receiver; it bounced off a bench and landed on the ground.

Zach. Zach?

Twenty-one thousand six hundred eight.

Pause.

Sir? This is Officer Andrews. Sir. Mr. McDermott. Are you there?

Yes. Yes, this is he. Where's Zach? Is my son all right?

Twenty-two thousand four hundred seventy-six.

Well, we picked up Zachary and a few friends earlier this evening. You see, we found them in the parking lot.

Are they hurt? What's wrong with Zach?

Twenty-two thousand six hund—

Jonah. Shut the fuck up.

Our father had been a Christian man for most of his life. He seldom swore, and when he did he often spelled the words out, as if that somehow made using them okay. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard him use that word, if I'd ever heard him use it at all. I learned most of my curse words from my classmates.

I shut up.

And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

At Zach's senior prom he took drugs again, with a different girl and different friends and, of course, different drugs, but he wasn't found collapsed in the backseat of a car—instead, he was rescued by firemen, because he and his idiotic buddies had a bright idea. Let's, they said, jump on top of a moving train car and see where we get. They wound up clinging to an archway somewhere between here and the end of the Earth. A wise passenger noticed their feet dangling behind the train, phoned 911, and our parents bailed Zach out.

Again.

Zach got into Harvard because he kept his grades up, and he kept his grades up despite goofing around, smoking pot behind the toolshed, banging everything with legs to spread, and masturbating in the boys' locker room until the soccer coach dragged him out by the ear, threatening to chop his balls off if he so much as tried it again.

On the day of my senior prom, Zach came back from college. He took a day off and drove down to watch his little brother become a man.

He knocked on the door while I was combing my hair, and Dad hollered for me to answer it. I had one hundred thousand, nine hundred eighty-seven strands of hair that day and I'd combed them thirty-five times.

Hey, bro, Zach said.

Hey. I didn't know how to respond. I stepped aside so he could come in.

He smelled like alcohol.

Thought I'd come by today, 'cause it's a special day. My little brother's gonna—he's gonna be a man. Tonight, right bro?

I'd rented a tuxedo for a hundred and thirty dollars and done up my tie eight times until I was sure I had the knot the way it was supposed to be.

Right, I said.

He sat on the couch, threw his legs across the cushions, spread his arms, and sighed. It's good to be home. Hey, Jonah-Wonah?

Dad had paid a hundred and fifty dollars for workers to come in with a machine and what must've been two dozen hoses to steam-clean that couch until they'd removed every last speck of dirt. It was spotless. It looked great.

Yeah? I said.

Get me a beer, would ya?

We don't have any.

No beer in this house? What kind of place is this? Zach swung his feet to the carpet again. Hey, Dad! he hollered. You throw out all the beer after I left or what?

Dad came down the hall. Zach. His face was emotionless. Haven't seen you around in awhile.

It's been too long, Zach said. Place looks just like always. Never changes.

The walls had been repainted and we bought a new television, hung it on the wall this time, and aside from the coffee table and the doormat and the lamp in the corner Zach was spot-on.

Jonah, go get changed, Dad said, without looking at me. You don't want to be late.

I was ready to leave by the time Raoul and Christian pulled up outside, shoes tied and teeth flossed, but there were no photographs and parental smiles because Mom and Dad were sitting in the living room, leaning forward like broken parentheses, arguing with Zach. Zach was drunk and didn't need more beer anyway.

I'm tired of this story. More later. My eyes hurt.

 

 

42,095.

Lunchtime. I am spinning my cane.

It has made thirty-eight point five revolutions and it is still going.

I am holding it above my head, and if I could see it I think it would look like a ceiling fan, and I am a little tempted to make the appropriate sounds: woop woop woop woop. But I don't, because it's lunchtime and a nurse is due soon, and if she realizes that I am just a bit saner than she thought she may try to talk to me again.

Or if she thinks the woop woop woop-ing is a sign of psychosis she will tranq me, and I can't bear that. I would rather die.

So I lean back and imagine the kitchen fan in silence.

She knocks on the door, but I don't tell her to come in. It's all a part of routine—routine is the key to everything. Routines are the key to life. And she comes in anyway. There are her shoes whispering on the tile floor, there is the squeak of the tray. Now she will tell me what's on the menu today. Maybe she thinks my eyes aren't the only things malfunctioning. Does she believe I cut off my tastebuds?

Pot roast today, Mr. McDermott, she says sadly.

The pot roast at our hospital would make anyone sad, but that's not why Susan sounds like she's about to cry.

I have your favorite Jell-O. Green.

She wheels the tray over until it's beside me, takes my hand, and gently guides my groping fingers to the silverware. Plastic. Always plastic. You'd think they wouldn't want to stop us from offing ourselves—we all just take up space here until we die anyway. Nobody thinks he's going to get out. Nobody will get out.

Susan touches my shoulder, and her hand trembles.

I'm so, so sorry, Mr. McDermott.

About what? I wonder. Maybe she'll keep talking. Answer my question anyway. That happens often.

I didn't know what happened with your girlfriend, Jonah. That's such a shame. And here you are all guilty, sad because you think you did something you didn't even do.

I freeze. She doesn't notice.

The world is a terrible place, Mr. McDermott, she says, and her voice is thick with unshed tears. Then she lifts her hand and withdraws. But it's not my place to tell you how terrible, it's no one's place, you shouldn't have to know.

Sniffle, sniffle.

Enjoy your Jell-O, Mr. McDermott. It's your favorite flavor.

When she leaves her cries hang in the room for minutes afterward and I think: How did she know?

 

 

42,533.

It's weird, being a Christian and having atheist friends—it was in high school, anyway, and Raoul (obviously) and Christian, despite the irony, and Carlos, and Stephen were atheist as you get—three of them had never heard of any kind of god at all. Stephen, who had heard of Christianity, was too busy heeeeeeeh-snorting to get his message across, and so I was never sure what he thought. Of anything, actually.

Carlos introduced me to porn, but it didn't go the way you'd expect. He and the rest of them showed up at my door one Sunday afternoon while my parents were away and Zach was at a friend's. I was surprised to see them on the step, but I let them in.

Hey, man, Christian said, smiling, have we got a surprise for you.

What? Most of Christian's surprises weren't actually that great.

Carlos stepped over the threshold, and I noticed for the first time that he carried his customary bulging backpack. He said something in Spanish, but I couldn't understand it. Six words though.

Can we go into your room? Raoul asked.

Sure.

Being a ditzy, dimwitted kid, I didn't think twice about bringing these guys into my house when I was alone. Did I consider the fact that they might be dangerous? That they might be armed? That they might be about to destroy my innocence by showing me high-resolution photographs of incredibly attractive women?

No. I definitely didn't.

Christian sat on my pillow and grabbed Carlos's bag. He undid the zipper with a flourish. Since you've done so much for us, Jonah, he said, we're gonna do you a favor in return.

Oh. That's nice. A little dazed, I leaned on my desk and waited.

Sit down here. Stephen pointed at the carpet and dropped to the ground himself. Heeeeh-snort. You're gonna fucking love it.

Uh— I began.

Hey. Christian smacked Stephen in the head. No cursing in Jonah's place. Remember, idiot?

Raoul sat beside Stephen and Carlos sat beside Raoul and I sat in front of both of them, and, upon completing his search, Christian slumped beside Carlos clutching about ten magazines. Here we are, boys, he said, the cream of the crop, the crème de la crème, the hotsy-totsies.

Christian knew a phrase like crème de la crème existed?

Stephen took one, snorting and laughing like a pig rooting for slops. Carlos looked through the heap and selected his own with great care, admiring the cover and sighing like he was in the Metropolitan, talking about how the artist's use of primary colors brought out the strong emotions of the stormy seas.

Raoul was hesitant, but he found a magazine anyway. And then it was my turn.

Expecting Rolling Stone or Popular Mechanics, I caught the pile of magazines and found myself face-to-face with all the parts of a woman's body I'd never seen before, including a set of breasts that had to have been manufactured but were magnificent nevertheless. It took me less than ten seconds to realize that these were some mechanics with which I was unpopular and about which I knew absolutely nothing.

I think you got the wrong magazines, I said. Naïve. So naïve. You just can't go back.

Oh no, Christian said, snickering, these are definitely the right magazines.

Right magazines. Heeeh-snort. Stephen already had his open. I couldn't even see his face.

But this is a—

It's a pussy, said Carlos, about as crude as it got. Now we gonna have some fun or what?

Uh—

No one paid me any attention at all.

I pried my magazine open and peeped at the first page, hoping the table of contents might make relatively safe reading material, but the article names alone made my toes curl and I could not stomach the little photographs in the margins. And my friends were engaged, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves.

If I could just pretend to be enjoying myself too, I thought, I'd satisfy them and they'd leave, and I'd never have to look at naked women again.

Oh great, I said lamely, it's been, uh, it's been a long time since I've seen—seen one of these.

Yeah, we figured. Christian smirked. Happy?

Uh. Yeah. Thanks.

With one hand, I felt around behind my back. I found my bottom dresser drawer and pulled it open. I kept my Bible in there,, and if I could… just… get it out….

Then there was a short, barking cough. Crap, someone noticed.

I jerked my hand back and scanned the half-circle. Raoul was watching me very intensely. I blushed. He smiled and… turned his own magazine around and….

Wow, that guy was well-endowed.

I nodded, unable to think of any other way to respond. Raoul laughed and went back to his magazine—I got my dirty little paws on the Bible, slid it inside mine, and read about John the Baptist.

 

 

43,376.

(Knocking, expectant.)

(Door opens.)

(Footsteps.)

(Door closes.)

B: Hey, man! Long time no see! Well, I guess for you it's long time never see, but what the hell.

A: What the hell.

B:You're turnin' into a real smart guy. Must be hangin' out with me too much.

A:Must be.

B:So how's tricks?

A:Tricks is okay.

B:Damn, you're talking today!

(Pause.)

A:Yeah.

B:Well. Well.

(Silence.)

B:Well damn man, I never thought you'd be talkin'!

A:Me neither.

B:You still ain't talkin' much, but it's somethin'!

A:Yes.

B:This calls for a—a celebration!

A:Not really.

B: Ah, you're right. How we supposed to have a celebration in this place anyway? Those nurses, I bet they get paid to make sure nobody has fun. Ever.

(Silence.)

A:What did you have for lunch?

(Silence.)

B:Did you—did you just ask me somethin'?

(Silence.)

B: Fried chicken. You?

A: Ham 'n' pineapples.

B:The chicken sucked. How was the ham?

A:Not much better.

B:You're kinda funny.

(Silence.)

B:But you don't hafta be funny if you don't wanna be.

A:Well that's a relief.

B:(Laughs.)

(Long silence.)

B:I ain't heard from my Lizzie in a long time. (Pause.) So long I wonder sometimes if maybe she went and forgot about me.

A:Why would she do that?

B:Before they put me in here I says to her, Lizzie, I says, I'm prob'ly gonna be in here for an awful long time, and you're not gonna be able to talk to me and I ain't gonna see you, but I don't want you to forget me. You're not gonna do that, right, Lizzie?

A:Uh-huh.

B:And Lizzie, she says, No Johnny, I'll never, never forget you.

(Pause.)

A:But now you think she has.

B:I keep writin' to her, and I make sure to write real careful so she can always read what I'm sayin', and they say they keep mailin' the letters, but—

(Pause.)

B:But I never get nothing back.

A:Who'd you rape?

(Silence.)

B:What'd you say?

A:Sorry.

B:Hey. No, it's okay. I guess I better be damn happy you're just talkin', right?

(Pause.)

B:It was a little girl, only I didn't do it.

A:What did she look like?

B:(Coughs.) She was a white girl, maybe only hey tall (Holds out a hand, remembers, withdraws it.) and with curls so pretty and gold it was like God made 'em with a big old chunk of sun.

(Silence.)

B:Had this dress on, blue and white. Bow in her hair too. She was real little. Just so damn little.

B:I guess I better get going.

A:Okay.

B:I'll come back and see you later, 'kay?

A: Yes, that's okay. I'll be here.

B:(Laughs.) Where else?

 

 

43,857.

Sue and I rode the Ferris wheel once, before Rob had the idea, and I was terrified of heights, but she told me over and over how much she wanted to go, so I gave in.

I rode the entire way up clutching the safety bar and groaning.

Jonah, she whispered, what are you so scared of?

I don't know. Falling, maybe?

Oh we're not going to fall. She took my hand and I squeezed her fingers. Ow. Jonah. Hey. My hand.

Sorry. It's easy for you to say we're not gonna fall, you're not the one who has to look down.

Tell me about it. She turned her face in the direction of my voice and smiled.

About what?

What you see. Everything. Tell me about it.

I'll probably just tell you a bunch of numbers. You know how I am.

It's okay. I'll help you. Start over there. What's over there?

I looked to the right.

There's a row of trees. Big trees, deciduous pines. Um—there's twelve of them, and the tallest one's probably about fifty-two feet high.

Is it sunset, Jonah, is the light hitting them?

Uh—yeah. Yeah, it is, actually. Kind of shining off the needles.

How many needles are there?

On the tallest one—I can't see them all. Maybe a hundred, two hundred million.

And what's to the left?

Well, I can see the city off in the distance. About twenty-five buildings up close. There's a one that's shaped like an isoceles triangle. It's got fifteen windows. Square windows.

Are the windows glowing, Jonah? Are there people inside?

I think so. Six of them are glowing.

She laid her head on my shoulder and smiled. I smelled her hair. The wheel wasn't really so high any more.

What's down below?

Eight kids are walking by. They've got big, multicolored ice-cream cones. The biggest kid's cone, it's gotta be half a foot taller than he is. There's a guy about five yards away dressed up like a teddy bear. And the fat lady in the guess-your-weight booth—she's three hundred two point eight pounds by the way—she's eating a hot dog and laughing.

Is it pretty, Jonah, what you see?

Yes. Yes, it's pretty.

 

 

44,151.

I am crying.

 

 

44,155.

While he was studying to be a doctor, Zach showed up at home occasionally. I didn't go anywhere after I graduated from high school, because I didn't know where I could go. My control over the percensitis was slipping away day by day, I could feel it, and there came a time when I hardly left the house. In the outside world I was bombarded by sights and scents and sounds, so many things to count and consider, that I couldn't handle myself. My brain just shut down.

Half the time I would wake up and find that I was somewhere I wasn't before. It was like blacking out, but I was functioning—moving and talking and smiling like anybody else. Doctors said that I had problems because I had next to no ability to discriminate, and they gave me drugs, because they knew a way to fix what was going on, help me live. Mom and Dad were thrilled. They wanted me to be someone else's problem.

So I took the drugs.

Some of them induced minor narcolepsy. I slept everywhere. I'd doze off looking for a soda in the fridge, or talking to a friend on the phone when I wasn't even yawning, when it was midafternoon. Oh, I could discriminate—but I wasn't living. Mom found me sleeping in the vegetable crisper and decided she'd had it with that.

From that drug, I moved to something the doctor said was recently developed, fresh on the market but—he assured us—FDA-approved. It didn't make me drowsy, but it made me angry. Everything pissed me off somehow, and I was never satisfied. It's not a nice feeling. Drove my parents insane. I'd get into arguments with them over nothing at all. If I woke up and something wasn't exactly right, from breakfast to the newspaper, my mood would be spoiled for the rest of the day. I snapped when I shouldn't—and while I knew it was irrational, I couldn't do anything about it.

Cue the next prescription.

Every drug, every treatment I tried seemed to have some side effect, some reason why I couldn't keep taking it. With some of them I went through the day in a haze, unable to work up any emotion about anything. With others I was too emotional. Nothing did the job.

That's why, most of the time when my brother decided to stop for a visit, I was at home. I called Rob and Sue or talked to them online, and they came by to see me when they could, but my percensitis kept worsening. I was at the edge of a cliff and about to take the plunge, and I kept grabbing onto branches and rocks and watching as they fell away. I think my parents were going to institutionalize me. As a last resort, sure, but that last resort was looming closer every day.

I was terrified.

When Zach drove down, he slept on the couch. He brought great black trash bags full of laundry with him, and Mom washed his clothes without complaint. He fought with Dad because he hadn't stopped the drugs and he hadn't stopped the drinking—and sometimes he smoked on the back porch, not weed but ordinary Marlboros. His breath always seemed to smell of alcohol.

I heard him talking on the phone one night, when I woke to get a drink of water. I froze in the kitchen.

Yeah. No, I'm back home.

Seriously? What the fuck, man.

What were you fucking thinking?

I can't. You know how my parents are.

Shit, yeah, he's still here.

Yes.

How's tomorrow?

Spring break. Hell, you gotta take the bull by the horns sometime. Get out while you got the chance.

All right. Later.

I looked into the living room, and he was sprawled on the couch, facing away from me. He'd dropped the phone on the coffee table. Laughing to himself. Just lying there laughing to himself.

When he was quiet again, I turned and left, water forgotten. The glass was still on the counter in the morning.

My parents argued about him often. I'd hear them in the evenings behind closed doors.

He'll learn, honey, as he gets older. Don't worry so much about it.

That's my son. My son. He may not live to get older.

If we keep attacking him, telling him what not to do instead of what he should be doing—we're not helping him to understand. He knows that we're hostile and feels like we're pushing him away, so he acts out.

We've been telling him what he should be doing for ten years, sweetheart, and I hate to say this, I really do, but it's not working!

Well, he does come back to visit, and he's still in school.

His grades are dropping. You heard. Didn't I tell you that his professor called the other day?

No. What did he say?

That if Zach doesn't do better in his classes, he won't graduate.

What?

And if Zach doesn't stop goofing off, doing drugs and staying out late, they're going to have to expel him.

Not Zach—he's always been such a good boy—

Sweetheart, you gotta open your eyes. Your good boy is turning into a fucked-up adult, and we're pouring his fucking tuition down the drain.

At least we've always got Jonah.

Oh yes, we've always got Jonah, and we always will have Jonah. He's worthless. Stupid and worthless.

Honey. Keep your voice down. What if he heard you?

Oh he'd never hear me, he's probably too busy counting something.

 

 

45,111.

Hi, Jonah. It's nice to see you again.

Hello.

buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Have you talked to Jonathan lately?

It's Johnny.

Oh. I'm sorry. Johnny, of course. I'm glad you're beginning to make friends here, Jonah. That's a great sign. You've made fantastic progress in these last few months.

Thank you.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Jonah, I have a surprise for you. I think you're well enough to have a visitor.

A visitor?

Yes. And this isn't just any visitor; this is a very special visitor. This is someone, Jonah, who's been wanting to talk to you for a long, long time. Who misses you very much. Who cares about you.

Who is it?

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

zzzzzzzzzzzz

Well. You'll find out right now. Let me call her in.

HER

 

 

45,234.

Sue was here yesterday. She touched my hand but I knew it was her when I smelled her perfume. I don't know anything any more. Was she a ghost? Am I going crazy? Or is she somehow—is she somehow—

Is she somehow not dead?

I screamed. I screamed until my throat was sore and my face was red. I pushed out of my chair and ran past Sue, straight past Sue and out the door, and I hid in the men's bathroom which I hadn't known existed but which I discovered soon enough, rows of urinals that I identified with my cane, sat on a toilet in one of the stalls and wept uncontrollably. I trembled.

Sue called my name. She said, Jonah. Jonah. It's me. Jonah, it's me.

My therapist said, Wait, Jonah, come back. You're going to be okay.

But I screamed and ignored them both and ran as fast as I could, because I knew that was the only way to escape, and even as fast as I went something else was going faster and I could not evade this thought:

She is not dead not dead not deadnotdead

If Sue's not dead, that means I didn't kill her. If I didn't kill her, I didn't do anything wrong.

And I don't think I can live with knowing that I haven't done anything wrong.

If she comes back—

 

 

45,467.

Dear Jonathan,

It's Elizabeth. I wanted to let you know that I've received all your letters, but I haven't responded because

Dear Jonathan,

I'm sorry you're not having fun, but I'm proud of you for reaching out to that man who never comes out of his room. He sounds like he needs a friend, and I know you're just the man to help him. You're such a kind, loving guy, Johnny. I'm not afraid of you—I've never been afraid of you. It's

To Jonathan,

You're an idiot, Johnny. What do you think—that you can rape and murder a teenage girl and get away with it?

If I had my way, you would never get out of the hospital again, and you'd get the death penalty on top of everything. People like you don't deserve to breathe, Johnny, and they certainly don't deserve to be on the streets, where they can hurt people who haven't done anything wro

Jonathan:

Please stop writing to me. I just

Dear Johnny,

I'm sorry. I know you won't understand this, but the doctors say there's something wrong with your mind. You haven't been feeling well. Do you remember what you did? I guess it's okay if you don't. No one really expects you to. But Johnny, I can't get you out of there. Not yet, maybe not ever. It's your sentence and the judge says you have to stay until your therapist pronounces you well enough to leave.

I miss you, Johnny, but you can't keep writing to me. Not so often. You just can't.

I'm glad you're helping that man who never comes out of his room. I think he's fallen in with the right crowd; he couldn't do better than you. You are a sweet man, and you always mean well. I don't see how you can possibly hurt him.

Please take care of yourself, Johnny—I miss you very much.

I am so, so sorry.

Elizabeth

 

 

45,801.

The Bible, I'm touching the Bible. It's cradled in my arms and I'm holding it because there's nothing left to hold, nothing left to touch, the world has fallen away around me and I've got my hand wedged in a crack, a little stone line between existence and forever. Funny that a book will save my life when I can't read.

My father died at fifty-eight, which is twenty-one thousand, one hundred eighty-four point five days. Most people don't die at such a young age. He was taking the subway to visit his parents, took a few minutes to use the bathroom, and went into cardiac arrest in the stall—by the time the janitor, walking around to close the place down, found him, he'd been slumped on the floor for two and a half hours. Rigor mortis had set in, and he was beginning to smell. Soon, the janitor, who had gray hair and a goatee, said to the news reporters, his bowels would have released their contents, and he'd have rotted in his own runny shit.

That was too much information about a man who lay with his sons on the lawn to watch the stars and shaved his head before he lost his hair.

How Dad's death is related to Zach's various addictions is this:

Thanks to drugs and alcohol, Zach's professors called home—and called home again—and kept calling home, warning my parents that, if his grades dropped any further, he would have to be expelled. My mother phoned him, lectured him, told him he was her best boy but he needed to work a little harder—tried everything she could. Nothing worked. He was squeaking by with the lowest possible grades in all his classes, and that continued for one and a half years.

In 2019, I started college at Delcroix. I'd been blind for four months and I was learning to find my way around, tapping too feebly with my cane, still running into walls and panicking if they moved the furniture. It sounds funny, but when that recliner suddenly appears where you found nothing but space a day ago, you get scared.

Zach showed up at around midnight on Christmas Eve. He didn't know about the blindfolds before he arrived, so the whole thing was news to him. I was sitting in the living room listening to the television; he knocked on the door and I asked who was there—I couldn't look through the peephole any more.

Look through the damn hole!

I can't.

Why the hell not?

I opened the door. Because I can't see, I said.

Oh, this was just too much for my brother. Silence. More silence.

What… the fuck? Are you wearing a blindfold?

Yeah.

Why?

I have to. Otherwise I'll go crazy.

He walked by—I heard his hiking boots on the tile. As if you're not already, he muttered. And Mom and Dad are letting you get away with it?

So long as it gets me out of the house.

Footsteps went down the hall. Hey. Dad. I'm home.

I latched the door and headed after him, making sure I was holding onto my cane. Zach, it's the middle of the night. They're asleep. Keep your voice down.

Oh, right.

I couldn't see where he was. I waved the cane around a little and whacked him in the leg.

Hey. Watch it.

Deep breath—alcohol. Crud.

Were you drinking again?

I heard him blow out his breath. Sounds are odd when they aren't accompanied by actions; it's like a silent movie, but the other way around. What are you, my mother? Do I need you on my back all the time, retard?

That stung. For years Zach defended me from the name-callers of the world, the people who were out to insult me, even when they were his friends—he got into fights to honor my good name, because I was his little brother, his sibling, and, despite my being a complete moron, those who said I was stupid said he was stupid too.

Apparently, college changed things.

I brushed by, down the hallway, back to the living room. Smelled like pine and sugar cookies—classic, right? Mom still thought I believed in Santa. When I came down, she decked the place out, from stockings over the fireplace to stars on the tree—and I couldn't see any of it.

So when did you start going to college, lil' bro?

Came from the couch. He'd followed me.

I suddenly felt threatened.

This year, I said.

Think you're all smart now, do you? Big brainy Jonah, gonna take on the world an' prove that he's not a retard? Couch springs gave as he stood.

No. I'm, uh, not a— I took a step back and bumped into the fireplace. My head hit the mantelpiece with a crack. I winced. I heard him moving. My direction. A step to the left—

Hands on my shoulders.

Whiskey. He'd been drinking whiskey.

You're drunk, I gasped, you're drunk and you're gonna do something you'll regret Zach so just stop Zach just stop please.

Oh I'm not gonna regret it.

I don't know what I was afraid of, but I was terrified, and then—his fingers, his hands were everywhere.

No don't do it.

Come on, I know you've never been laid, I'll do you a fuckin' favor.

He was fumbling with my fly—must've been too drunk to work the zipper, and then cool air and fingers thick and warm right there. I jerked back and brought up a knee, trying to get him in the balls, and I knew I hit something because he gasped and doubled over. I was breathing hard, so hard, so hard I don't know how I stayed alive. I sobbed.

Zach—oh Zach—

You little fucker. He wrapped his hand around my calf and pulled. I nearly fell to the floor, partially from surprise and partially from fright.

Well if you're not gonna hold still I can just—

No. Protests were forgotten. I groaned—I couldn't help it. Someone was keening like an animal. And then.

I'll never forget the way it felt to kick Zach head-on, the sick give of his flesh, his quick gasp, thinking Thank God I'm wearing shoes because otherwise this'd really, really hurt—those are the holiday memories that stick around, you know? Oh, I'm not saying he didn't deserve it—just that I'll never forget it. And it felt good. Great.

A door opened down the hall. My parents' bedroom.

Zach? Is that you?

Neither Zach nor I answered. We couldn't move. He was kneeling, groaning in pain and clutching his bleeding nose, and I stood above him, my fly undone, shivering and crying and crying, blindfolded. A regular tableau.

 

 

46,936.

More things about Mike.

He was pretty funny. If you were feeling lonely, depressed, like the world was out to get you—all that great stuff, you just went to Mike and asked him if he wanted to have a talk. Mike always knew a joke. Always. No matter what happened—a semi ran over your dog, a semi ran over your foot, your sister ate your ice-cream sundae and you didn't even get to try the chocolate sauce—Mike could make you laugh.

And, best of all, I understood his jokes. Most of them, anyway.

When I say best of all, three words, four two three letters, let me add that I've never been very good with jokes. Never been good with jokes at all, actually. The there's no f in way thing—that's only the tip of the iceberg.

The last day of college we were all in Mike's room. I'd already packed my things, Sue was doing hers later that evening, and we'd come over to watch Rob and Mike tear down their posters. Time for us to move on. I was lying on the bed, a little moody. Sue sat beside me.

You're gonna miss us, Rob said, running his hand along the wall for a thumbtack.

Hell yeah. Mike slapped him on the back.

I wasn't talking to you.

Oh sure you weren't.

I laughed. Yeah, I'll miss you, man.

I still can't believe you put up those posters, Sue muttered. How do you even know what they're of?

That's a funny story. Rob slumped in his desk chair. See, we don't know what they're of.

So you guys just walked into the store and grabbed whatever?

Pretty much, Mike said.

So we could be sitting here surrounded by naked women and not know it? I said.

And wouldn't that just suck? Rob grinned.

Well, the professors probably wouldn't've let you keep them up if they were pornographic, said Sue, my lovely buzzkill.

Did you have to say that?

Hey, Mike, wouldn't you rather know?

No, Mike said, I'd rather pretend that I'm surrounded by babes, thanks. Instead I got blindfold boy, the Tin Man, and Helen Keller.

I laughed. You couldn't think of anything catchier than blindfold boy?

Nothing that wouldn't scar you for life.

I'm not deaf you know, said Sue.

Shut up, Rob yelled, I'm trying to take out this fucking son of a bitch staple and I can't concentrate.

Why'd you put them in with staples anyway? I said.

Less chance of injuring myself. He snickered.

Oh. So you never, like, stapled your hand or something?

Once. But I'd rather staple it than hit it with a hammer.

I heard an odd tinny noise just then, as if someone was rapping his knuckles against a metal sheet. What's that?

Ouch! Mike! Cut it out!

Hey, Tin Man, I'm only seein' if you're hollow.

After that taking down any more posters was pretty hopeless because we were all laughing, Sue asking me wasn't there a donkey's tail I should be messing with and Mike wanting to know where Anne Sullivan was and Mike throwing his head back and roaring like a starved lion because sometimes you just gotta laugh.

Anyway, I don't know the point of this story. I forget why I started it, and I don't know where I should end it, or maybe I'll just end it now by reaching over and shutting off the recorder, like

 

 

47,518.

One day Christian made a bet that was too big for him—he bit off more than he could chew, and he nearly choked on it. Well, he would've choked if I hadn't won the bet, that is.

We were hanging around the baseball field after school, buying foil packets of peanuts and chucking the especially salty ones at the players when we felt like it. Just something we did for fun sometimes, if classes were over and we couldn't think of anything else to try. The coaches knew it was us, so eventually one of them'd march up the bleachers and tell us to leave, but until then we really had a good time trying to hit their helmets. You hit 'em in the right way and it made a noise you could hear up by the scoreboard.

Hey, Jonah, Christian said, who you think's gonna win?

You've actually been watching?

No, but I have a hundred and fifty bucks riding on it.

Oh.

Raoul was sitting farther down. He leaned forward on his knees, squinted at us, and said, Who'd you bet with?

Christian grinned. You know who I bet with.

Not those guys. Raoul's face fell. Christian man you're gonna get us killed.

Our team was up to bat, and Jesus Martinez stood on the pitcher's mound, shuffling his feet like he was getting ready to throw something they'd never touch in a trillion years. Christian, I thought suddenly, was going to be a hundred and fifty bucks richer by the end of the day—so what was Raoul worried about?

Hey, we got Jonah on our side. You forget that or something?

Carlos said, You're the one who forgot—they'll beat the shit out of us and Jonah también.

Jonah, you won't let us lose, right? Christian turned and looked at me. My heart jumped to my throat. This wasn't going to go down well—I could taste it.

Uh—

Well, Jonah?

Uh—what do I have to do?

You'll see, Christian said. And he laughed.

Halfway through the game, Christian told us to stop playing with the fucking peanuts, because he didn't want to be thrown out. Something important was going to happen and he wanted to see every second of it. Stephen heeeeh-snorted, tore his last bag open, tilted his head back and swallowed the Planters, clumps of salt and all.

Maybe we should get going, I whispered to Christian. It doesn't look like you're gonna win.

In the beginning we'd pulled ahead easily, racking up run after run, but our lead was dropping—two-thirds of the way through the game, and the other team had a good shot at coming up from behind and winning. Christian was going to be out a hundred and fifty bucks and, from the way Raoul and Carlos were talking, we might be out our lives.

No. I wanna stay for this. Shut up.

I shut up.

We lost, which was to be expected, by three runs. The game went six innings. Jesus Martinez, our best pitcher, slapped the fence with his glove, and the guy who'd batted last tore after one of the outfielders with the bat, and because no one knew (1) whether he was completely sane or (2) how to tell when he was kidding, the outfielder ran and didn't quit running 'til he was off-campus.

So we gonna heeeh-snort go? said Stephen, grinning. Don't know what he was so happy about.

Hell no. Christian patted his wallet. I made a bet, remember?

But you lost the bet, I said intelligently.

Oh but I'm still gonna let 'em collect. It's only fair. Right, Stephen?

Only fair, right man.

You're an idiot, Stephen, I hissed, and Carlos laughed.

You'll be an idiot too, hombre, when you're dead.

If you weren't my friend, Carlos, I think I'd be peeing my pants right now.

Carlos elbowed me. Who says we're friends?

That was my cue to get the heck off those bleachers. I mean, there's joking, and then there's joking.

Raoul, Stephen, Carlos, and I followed Christian around the baseball field, our shoes kicking up tiny clouds of dust in the sand, and behind the bleachers. A group of guys (six) were lounging in the shade and, as we approached, they perked up and met our gaze. The tallest said, So Christian where's our money?

Stephen elbowed me. His voice, it's heeeeh-snort squeaky. Doesn't he sound heeh-snort stupid?

I ignored this.

Yeah I got your money, Christian said. He straddled the lowest bleacher and dragged his toe around in the dust.

Where at?

Christian said nothing.

Fuck man you owe us. We won fair an' square.

Don't— I began reflexively.

Raoul grinned. You don't swear, okay? he said. You swear and—he made as if dropping a bag—no money.

Okay. Give us the fucking cash and we'll spare choir boy's virgin ears. Another boy, with a black baseball cap and dingy checkered Vans, laughed.

One more thing. Christian smiled.

We already won—

Carlos got in the big guy's path as he stepped forward, and he stopped, but he looked pretty ticked off. One thing first, Christian said again. Hey don't worry it'll be real easy. Piece of cake.

What? The baseball cap boy wasn't very happy either—and I wondered if he was as strong as I thought. And strength wouldn't matter if he had access to some kind of weapon. Maybe I should think about shutting Christian up before he got us in serious trouble.

It's gonna go like this. Christian pointed at the diamond and said, You gotta count it.

Count what? Big guy came forward again, dodged Carlos this time, put on what must have been his Threatening Face. You gotta be kidding me. Who the fuck said we had to countsomething?

Language— Raoul shifted.

The sand, just the sand. But all of it. One of you goes against one of us and if someone can do it then they win but if no one can do it then we walk away.

You're fu—you're crazy. Nobody's gonna check it. What if somebody lies?

Hey, what've you got to lose? Christian laughed.

Two of them looked at each other. Who's to say we don't just beat it out of you?

Well, you can, Christian said—I took a step back—but what makes you think nobody's gonna see? And he was right: the coaches and their assistants were still putting away the gear; the players, their knees grass-stained, their faces grimy, were drinking Gatorade in the shade and making fun of each other for screwing up.

Everybody looked around, then looked back, then looked at their shoes. One of the other guys slipped a hand into his pocket.

There was a brief conference.

Christian winked at me.

Considering the circumstances, I wasn't reassured.

Okay. The tall guy shrugged. Fine. Luke does it.

It's a deal. And for us—Christian pretended to think about it, studying Raoul, Stephen, Carlos, and I in turn—Jonah. And I'd understood his scheme before—not like it wasn't obvious—but when Luke walked toward the diamond and indicated impatiently that he was waiting for me to follow, I just about ran. The other way.

Of course I could do it. In fact, I'd done it during the game. I could've told 'em the count before Luke got to the pitcher's mound.

Poor Luke, the sucker, obviously had no idea what he was doing. He stood there and turned in a circle and acted stupid. I gave him a few minutes to come up with a guess. Always good sportsmanship to let the other guy go first.

Finally, Christian crossed to us and said, So Luke-meister what's your answer?

Luke shrugged. Uh... five hundred million?

He was off by a lot.

And choir boy? the big guy called.

I stepped off the mound. Three trillion two million eight hundred thousand fifteen, I murmured.

What?

Christian repeated it, and all hell broke loose.

What the fuck?

He's lying.

How'd he do that?

Naw he made that up. Son of a bitch.

Language—

Nobody leaves.

I'd started to slip away, but the big guy caught me. Nobody leaves, he said again, till he explains what you just did. He looked at me. You cheat?

Uh—no. I shrugged miserably. Wish I did though.

You some kind of genius?

No.

Raoul slapped me on the back. Yeah he's a genius—

No, no I'm not. I hate it. If you're going to kill me can you make it quick?

The big guy frowned. So you're sayin you actually counted it. Baseball Cap toed the ground, took off his hat, and examined it for specks of dust. There weren't any.

I sat in the sand and said nothing at all. In fact, I shut my eyes and did my best to pretend that I was not there.

Christian said, We won, man. You said it yourself.

I heard several noises then—footsteps, whispering, someone unzipping a bag. Paper rustling. More footsteps. I kept my eyes closed until I felt a hand on my shoulder, and then I looked up.

Stephen was there, watching me.

You heeeeh-snort okay?

I'm okay. Uh, thanks.

They're all gone.

What happened?

Stephen slumped beside me, grinning. Christian got heeeh-snort his money.

They actually thought I counted it right?

Well you did didn't you?

Yeah. I guess I did.

And that's how Christian made a really crazy bet that nearly got us all killed, and how I saved our lives by counting a baseball diamond.

 

 

49,188.

A man named John Kennedy Toole wrote a book.

The book is called A Confederacy of Dunces. The title—which is unusual, right?—comes from something said by Jonathan Swift: When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.

I thought it was a pretty good book. I'm not sure if I recommend it. Toole killed himself in 1969 when he was thirty-two, eleven years before the novel was published and acknowledged as a work of true genius. Ironic.

I wonder sometimes if he ever regretted it.

 

 

49,290.

(Knocking.)

(Door opens.)

(Footsteps.)

(Door shuts.)

B:Thanks.

A:It's okay.

(Long silence.)

B:You killed someone.

A:Maybe.

B:Just maybe?

A:(Pause.) Sometimes I'm not sure.

B:You either did or you didn't.

(Creaking of bedsprings.)

A:It's not that easy.

B:So you didn't or what?

A:I don't know.

B:Why not? You just too dumb?

A:Hey. What's—

B:No one's too crazy to know whether're not they killed somebody. They ain't. They can't be. That'd be too crazy.

A:(Quietly.) Too crazy for what?

B:Too crazy to live, Jonah, that's what! Too crazy to live!

(Footsteps.)

A:Johnny.

B:What? What'd you want? Why's everybody always want something from me? What'd I ever do? Why can't you just leave me alone?

(Silence.)

B:(Quietly.) Hey Jonah.

(Silence.)

B:Jonah, hey look, I'm sorry.

(Creaking of bedsprings.)

B:I'm sorry, I didn't mean nothing by it, Jonah.

(Silence.)

B:I just don't know what to do any more—

A:It's okay.

B:No it's not.

A:Yeah. It's okay.

 

 

49,468.

I left again today. Johnny's girlfriend, whoever she is—I'm not really sure—finally sent him a letter, but there were a lot of things at the top scribbled out and all she said was for him not to write her again. I had him read it to me but he broke down halfway through and so I didn't get to hear the end. Is it hard to love someone who's done what he's done? Is it possible? I don't know. Maybe I never will.

I don't know why she gave me a Bible I can't read. I think I'd like to ask.

When I left my room today, I tried to find my way back to the bathroom, the one with all the urinals. I haven't had to rely on a cane for awhile, so walking was difficult. Sometimes I felt like I was falling into space and if I wasn't careful I'd go forever, just drop for eternity, and other times I got heady and confident and thought I'd be out in no time, doing just fine.

I did find the room eventually. I thought I'd want to count the urinals and stalls, tally them up like figures in a checkbook, but I didn't. Instead, being very careful to aim accurately, I unzipped my fly and relieved my bladder. Then I washed my hands, returned to my room, sat at my desk, and breathed.

I am touching the Bible now. Someone's humming, but I can't tell who it is. Maybe it's me. Who knows.

You think she'd come back?

Not for a long time, just so I could ask her a question.

You think she would?

 

 

49,738.

How are you today, Jonah?

I'm okay.

How do you feel about visiting with Sue last week?

i dont know i really dont know.

Okay.

I apologize for that, Jonah. I was hoping that you would be comfortable with her, but I can see I pushed you into a situation when you weren't ready.

am i

I hope someday that you will be prepared for it. I hope so very much.

Do you think you'd like that too, Jonah?

Jonah?

you still talk to me as if i'm a child

why's that

Can she come back?

Sue? You'd like Sue to come back?

Yes.

Well. Well—maybe soon, Jonah—maybe soon.

 

 

49,851.

I went to an amusement park for the first time when I was twelve. I don't remember a lot of things about being twelve—very few things, actually, either I was a boring twelve-year-old or I forgot—but I definitely remember the amusement park. My mother, my father, and Zach all came along. It was a family day. Our parents used to set those aside, days when you couldn't count things or disappear to a friend's house but stayed home and did things with your relatives.

Zach and I were still friends then. I rode my first roller coaster, and after the initial dip, during the tremendous climb, I was overwhelmed by the knowledge that I was going to die. Not sometime in the next sixty years, right then. We'd mount the hill and fly off the tracks and it'd be over.

I was deciding whether to shut my eyes or keep counting the people in the cars ahead of us when Zach, sitting beside me and screaming his fool head off, put out his hand.

In the split second it took to register the action, we were holding on.

I went on the coaster four times. With each ride I grew more and more comfortable with the insane passive motion and more and more confident that I was not going to die—probably not yet, anyway. I never actually got around to waving my hands in the air, but I began to do my share of screaming. Of course, after the third ride I had to go hurl in a trash can, but there you are.

Mom spent her three hours strolling from shop to shop. When Zach and I caught up at the end of the day, she was laden with the most hideous souveniers known to man and thrilled because she'd won a stuffed tiger by hurling softballs at milk bottles. The tiger had cost her twenty dollars, five times what it would've cost in the supermarket, but it was the principle of the thing. Apparently.

We played bumper cars together. I made four circuits of the arena chasing Zach's car before I reached him, but when I rammed it he turned and smiled.

 

 

50,221.

Here's how I met Rob:

I saved him from killing himself.

He was about to walk in front of a truck at the time.

Normally blind people are very careful when they're crossing streets. Obviously. Lots of listening involved, turning the head back and forth, really honestly trying to hear if something's coming, and waving a cane around helps drivers recognize that, hey, they'd better go slow or they could catch you by surprise and splat, vehicular homicide.

Rob was on his way home from the mall with his older sister. She'd dragged him there because she wanted to drop off a package at the post office, and they'd gone to see a movie afterward. Rob sat as close to the speakers as possible—not because there was anything wrong with his hearing, but because he figured he would make up for his bad sight by bombarding his other senses. It was an action movie, without much talking, so he didn't like it. Explosions are boring when you can't tell what's being blown up. Or exploded.

I was out because I'd been to the library. I loved to read as a boy, though I had to count all the words. I guess I was about sixteen, and Rob was probably around the same age. He had the accident when he was fifteen, so he wasn't used to being blind.

While I was walking down the sidewalk, carrying three books—A Spot of Bother, The Hound of the Baskervilles, and Something Wicked This Way Comes—I spotted Rob and his sister across the street. She was a head taller than he, and he walked with his head down, hesitantly. I looked at him for a minute before I realized that he couldn't see.

They seemed to be talking animatedly.

We walked together, I on one side of the curb and they on the other, for two blocks. At the third, I pressed the round white button, waited for the little person to appear, and stepped into the crosswalk.

Then I heard a woman screaming.

I spun around, searching for the source of the sound. And there was Rob's sister, face pale and eyes terrified, and there was Rob, who'd just taken two or three steps into the middle of the right lane and now stood in the path of an oncoming semi. The truck was still far enough away that she could save him if she tried, but I guess she was paralyzed by fear or something. Seemed like the only thing she could manage was screaming. She was pretty good at it though.

Rob!

Must've been twice as scared because of his accident a year or two before. One car took Rob's eyesight, and another came to take his life.

Suddenly, before I really knew what I was doing, I was heading at a dead run for the right lane, about to get my brains smushed by a truck. He stood there, not shaking at all, with his eyes closed like he was just waiting.

I tackled him with everything I had.

He made a noise like, Oof, when my shoulder hit his chest. I tried to put an arm around him to shield him from the blow. I skinned my elbow on the concrete and he was winded, but we were both alive.

Rob's sister, who had finally finished screaming, fainted.

I levered myself off Rob and tried to help him to his feet with hands in his armpits, but he pushed me away. Who's that?

Uh you don't know me. I just wanted to help.

Where's my sister?

She fell. But I think she only fainted.

What the fuck were you doing?

A truck was gonna hit you, so I—

You knocked me out of the fucking way?

Uh yeah. Sorry if you got hurt.

Rob grinned. Hey, don't apologize, man. You crazy? You just saved my life! And now you can help me up.

I hooked my hands under his arms and pulled until he was standing.

So where's my sister?

She's over there. And she was, sprawled on the ground, just coming to. I said, Want me to try and get her awake?

Yeah, sure.

I touched her face. Hey. Are you okay?

She blinked at me and she didn't look especially scared, only as if she was thinking, Hey, this isn't my brother. What'd that idiot do this time?

Who are you? she asked.

Jonah McDermott, I said, without thinking.

Rob knelt down beside her so she could see that he was okay. Hey. I walked into the street, but Jonah here tackled the crap outta me and I guess he saved my life. You okay, Grace?

Yeah.

I took a step back. My cue to leave. In my experience, and I had a lot of it, most people didn't want me hanging around once I'd worn out my welcome. I got to counting everything in sight and tapping light switches and that pissed them off. I figured that Grace would be so busy with her brother that neither of them would notice I was leaving.

Jonah. Where're you going?

I stopped in my tracks. Grace was looking at me over Rob's shoulder (because she'd given him a massive hug), and I met her eyes.

Oh I gotta get home. I kind of tapped the books. Dinner. Gonna be late.

Well, thank you for saving my brother's life.

Rob turned around. You can't go yet.

Uh—

Give me your phone number, then. Tell me how to reach you.

Why? I swallowed.

Because I wanna talk to the guy who kept me from killing myself.

Killing yourself?

What's your number?

And I told him.

 

 

51,188.

My father chased Zach out of the house with a gun. I don't know where he got the gun, I don't even know if it was a real gun, but it must've been threatening enough to Zach's drunken mind because he ran. Fast.

How dare you come here on Christmas drunk? my father yelled from the doorway. What do you think you're doing?

I did up my fly in silence.

Is that you? my mother said. She was standing in the hallway, squinting at me. Jonah? What's wrong?

And from out front my father continued screaming, Zach you're my son, how could you do this to me? My own son.

And that was when I remembered how Rob stood in front of a semitruck, just stood there like he was in no danger at all only waiting for something that had been inevitable for a long long time, peaceful—I remembered how he walked into the street like it was nothing, and I envied him.

 

 

51,354.

Sometimes little kids play a game where they say, Mommy, guess how much I love you.

And they stretch out their arms, but Mommy can stretch out her arms farther; she's bigger and hers are much longer.

So they try again. As high as I can hop. But Mommy smiles and says, As high as I can hop. And Mommy can always hop higher.

And finally they think of the biggest love in the world: I love you to the moon, Mommy, all the way to the moon!

And Mommy smiles and cradles them as they drop off to sleep, proud that they've out-loved her.

Then, while their eyes close and their breathing slows, she says quietly to herself that she loves them to the moon and back.

And no one is around to hear.

When I played that game with my mother, I was one thousand four hundred sixty-one days old, which is four, and I already knew how far it was to the moon and back—the average distance is four hundred seventy-seven thousand seven hundred and twelve miles, and it has to be an average because the moon has an elliptical orbit.

Somehow the game was not much fun.

Mommy held my chin, looked in my eyes, and said to me, Honey, I know that you'll love me forever. You will love me a million times to the moon and back. And so it doesn't matter. Okay?

But sometimes, afterward, in bed—

I think she might've cried.

 

 

51,606

Dear Lizzie

I know you said not to write to you anymore only I dont think I can do it. I miss you so much Lizzie. Sometimes I think I dont miss you but then I know I do cause I cant sleep without thinking about you. I feel like Im just getting stupider and stupider here. They drug me I think. Lizzie I am not gonna mail this cause you said not to. I wish you would come. I want to hit the doctors so hard they die. Is that bad.

If I am here for hurting somebody and I hurt somebody her too can they put me here again. I am already here right.

I wont mail this to you cause you said not to okay. dont be Mad at me. I am sorry Lizzie I cant seem to think right. Everything is Jumbled up in my hed. It is fuzzy. I talked to that Man lizzie and I made him Mad and he said it is OK but it isn't you know. I am going to die and so are You only i think I will die first. If that is OK with you

 

 

51,804

Have you ever read those funny warning labels? When companies put warnings on things even though they are warning the public against stuff that is completely obvious and must be common sense? For instance:

On a box of Christmas lights: For indoor or outdoor use only.

On a bag of Arm & Hammer Scoopable Cat Litter: Safe to use around pets.

On an iron: Remove clothes before ironing. (Why is ironing naked so important?)

And:

On a bottle of hand lotion: For external use only. (Too bad, 'cause I really wanted to exfoliate my esophagus.)

These are the sort of jokes I can understand. I think things like this are hilarious, and Mike had dozens of them for me whenever we talked, and eventually I forgot to ask him whether they were legitimate or stuff he'd pulled out of his hat because they were so funny. And so I got in this situation:

Hey man.

Hey!

Got another one.

Great.

Found on a pack of cigarettes:

Uh-huh.

Warning—the Tobacco Institute has determined that smoking just one cigarette greatly increases your risk of heart attack by making you so incredibly sexy that gorgeous members of the opposite sex surround you night and day, begging for intercourse and wearing you into exhaustion, unless, of course, you have another couple of cigarettes to settle your nerves.

Hey. Mike.

He blew a puff of cigarette smoke in my face. Yeah?

You made that up didn't you.

Mike snorted. Sounded like he choked on his own smoke. What?

Did you make that up?

You mean you—

I what?

You never figured it out?

I was getting a little impatient, and a weight formed in the pit of my stomach, bigger and bigger by the second—the same weight that formed there when I realized that other people didn't count things like me, when I accidentally told a young classmate that Santy didn't really exist and set her to bawling until the teacher pulled us apart and looked at me like I was the Devil and said, Don't worry honey, I've met him.

Not the Devil, Santa Claus.

Dude, I've been making 'em up all along, Mike said, putting out his cigarette in an ashtray. That ashtray was his Christmas present from Sue the year before. It was a figure of a naked woman, and he couldn't see it but he told me he'd touch it at night and think about some girl from high school, which I ignored because he was a pervert.

You're good, I said.

Hell yes. Had you going didn't I.

Yeah, you had me going all right. I shrugged. Well. Hope you had fun 'cause I'm not gonna fall for it again.

Intercourse and wearing you into exhaustion— he laughed, and I couldn't see but I figured he was throwing his head back, a regular belly laugh. That was Mike's thing. I wish. Oh yeah, intercourse 'til exhaustion, I wish alright. He thumbed his lighter a few times and I heard the flame crackle into being.

That would be nice, I said.

You kidding? It'd be more than nice, man.

And while we were both laughing and the weight was making itself at home in my stomach, the door opened.

It's me, Sue said. She tossed her purse on the couch and sat down beside me. What's up, Jonah? Thought you'd be in your room.

Oh. So you came here to see Mike, huh? I elbowed her.

Maybe.

I was just telling Joney here that all those stupid labels, they weren't real. Made 'em up. Mike grinned. Wish I coulda seen his face, bet he looked like kids look when you tell 'em Santa Claus doesn't exist.

Strangely appropriate, I thought.

Wait, Sue said. She put a hand on my knee. What'd you say?

Uh—that I told Joney I made up all those joke labels. Why?

You made them up?

You didn't know that either?

No. You're good.

I chuckled. And then I laughed. And then I tickled Sue's ribs until she was laughing too, at herself and at me and at Mike for being such a damn funny guy, and she fell over backward so her head was cradled in my arm and I stroked her hair a little and we lay and laughed. And laughed.

 

 

52,528.

Today I had lunch—green Jell-O, frozen peas, lukewarm chai tea, and chicken-fried steak. The dishes were a little greasy; not so greasy that you wondered whether they were safe to use, just greasy enough so you thought maybe you should wash your hands afterward. When I wash them I dry them on my slacks because it doesn't matter if I look bad. I can't see me and no one else cares.

I am wearing the shoes old men wear. I used to watch them sitting at bus stops, their backs curving with osteoporosis, wearing those shoes, and I thought that they looked unhappy. Sometimes if I was being stupid I thought they'd be happier with better shoes.

I am wearing their shoes now and I don't think better ones would help.

I want to see Sue today. I am holding the Bible she gave me, stroking the cover. The leather is soft and I remember that her skin was maybe this soft once, a long long time ago, ages ago, forever ago. And there is a part of me that wants to touch it again.

Even if this means I am a necrophiliac I want to see her, touch her, love her like I never loved her when she was alive.

It's a sin to have sex out of wedlock I believe but life is too short for that now. Life is not the way it was when I was twenty-one or twenty-two and there were years for things like that because I'd live a long time. Now I am twenty-seven and there is no time at all.

I fantasize about her sometimes. I think that might be a sin too.

I miss her—God, I miss her so much.

 

 

52,821.

About my mother: She knew a lot.

If you wanted to know the square root of 651, for example, in thousandths, you could ask her and she would tell you—actually, she'd probably tell you to figure it out yourself because how was she supposed to know something like that, so bad example.

But Mom knew what belle meant. She knew how to stroke your hair when you were sick and had just finished hurling in the kitchen trash can, how to brush it off your sweaty forehead while her delicate fingers traced a foreign language on your flesh, letters that spelled love.

She knew that little boys didn't want to talk about some things (like the first time mommies caught them sneaking downstairs to stuff their sheets into the washer when nobody was around) and had to talk about others (like how they'd had a glitter fight with Trent at lunch and won which meant they now had rainbow-colored shorts) and sometimes did things they didn't want anybody knowing about (like how it was okay to maybe put that Snickers in your pocket while mommy was paying for other stuff, 'cause she was buying stuff anyway).

She knew that when you washed dishes you never set them on the counter upside-down because that meant you got all the germs on the rim, which was the part you drank with.

And though it'd been a long time since she used them herself, she knew all the old jump rope songs:

Ms. Suzie had a steamboat,

The steamboat had a bell,

Ms. Suzie went to heaven and the steamboat went to—

Hello, operator, please give me number nine,

And if you disconnect me I will chop off your—

Behind the fridgerator, there was a piece of glass,

Ms. Suzie sat upon it and it went straight up her—

Ask me no more questions, please tell me no more lies,

The boys are in the bathroom, zipping up their—

Flies are in the courtyard, bees are in the park,

The boys and girls are kissing in the D-A-R-K dark!

Zach used to ask her if she ever wished she'd had a girl instead, but she brushed him off. Boys, she said, your Dad and I love you more than anything in the world. And if we had a girl we would love her that much too.

But if I was a girl I would be like you, Zach said.

And do you think I want someone just like me? She laughed.

But then you could—

Oh stop Zach, she said. She ruffled his hair. Do you know that I love you?

He grinned.

Well if you know that why are you worried?

I dunno. I love you Mommy.

And she'd hug him.

I don't think I ever asked her things like that when I was a boy—whether she'd prefer a girl, I mean. Probably I didn't think of it because I'd just never figured that sometimes people were less than happy with what they got. You got it and then… well, you got it, and there you were. Ta-da.

Either that or I just didn't think about it. Sometimes kids don't think about stuff. Who knows why? Who knows why they do?

Mom was from New York. She was remarkably normal, considering.

She grilled Ballpark franks in the back yard under the trees, fishing the leaves out irritably when they fell on the grill and shrivelled up from the flames, turning yellow and brown at the edges and curling. The franks would taste like charcoal and sometimes they'd be blackened like marshmallows left on the stick too long. Zach and I decorated them with heaps of golden mustard and ate them three at a time.

Do you know much about mythology?

I'm going to say that Mom was a sylph, and I guess if Zach were here he'd probably agree with me. But I don't want him here, so it's a good thing he's not. And if he were here he would make a crack about the Oedipal complex, me calling her a sylph and all, which is not related. I know what happened to Oedipus and it's not what's happening to me because I never loved her, not that way I never did.

Oedipus killed this guy who pissed him off on the road, and then he solved the riddle of the Sphinx and arrived at a place without a king. Because he'd solved the riddle, the people welcomed him as their king instead. Then, however, before he'd really settled in with his new wife, Jocasta, the city suffered a series of terrible plagues. It had a curse.

Turns out that Oedipus was the son of the old king, who sent him away so he wouldn't fulfill a terrible prophecy. But he fulfilled the prophecy anyway—he murdered his father and married his mother. And he was so distraught he went into exile and Jocasta, his mother, gouged out her eyes.

Now Freudians and psychologists with fancy names bring Oedipus into everything. Just like everything is somehow about sex, we all want to bang our parents.

Subconsciously.

Anyway, Zach's not here and that's great. Sometimes I wonder where he is. But I don't want to know.

Sylph is a five-letter word and it means two things—it can mean a woman who is slender and graceful, like a ballet dancer, or it can mean one of a race of supernatural beings in folklore. How that works is this: People believe that the physical world is made up of four elements—water, earth, air, and fire. Each of these elements is represented by an imaginary being; salamanders dwelt in fire, undines, or nymphs, were water spirits, and could marry men in order to become mortal, gnomes were ugly old men or dwarves that lived underground, and sylphs, air-dwellers, were light, dainty, and beautiful. Like sprites, drifting on the wind, here there and everywhere at once. And most of the time that was our mom.

I mean she wasn't always that way. Sometimes she'd clomp down the hall in her big filthy work boots and Dad, sitting on the couch, would want to know if anyone else felt the earthquake.

 

 

53,873.

I had a heart-to-heart with Raoul once. He told me some stuff and I told him some stuff and that was that. It was four days after senior prom, so I knew he was gay, but he hadn't told any of our friends yet. He never said why he didn't want to do it. Probably he thought Christian would make fun of him. Unfortunately, Christian would've made fun of him.

I was in the library, searching for a book and having a bad day, when he showed up.

Uh hey Jonah, he said nervously.

Hey, man. I put a book back on the shelf (North to the Rails, by Louis L'Amour) and tried to be normal. Looking at him without thinking about being kissed by him in the janitor's closet wasn't exactly easy.

Can I talk to you for a minute?

Sure. I worked in the library after school, and they all knew it, so I was pretty sure he hadn't come for reading material.

He found a chair and twisted his hands together and glanced out the window.

What's up?

Oh—nothing. Raoul paused. Good book?

That? I laughed. Okay, I guess. About a guy who hates carrying a gun. You interested?

Yeah. Sure.

He obviously wasn't, but I took it down again and passed it to him anyway. Three men on the cover were riding horses across the Western plains, their shirts rippling in the wind, the sand golden as the sun.

Thanks.

No problem.

I went back to shelving books. Raoul went back to denial.

So why don't you come out? I asked, over my shoulder.

What?

I turned around, and he was staring at me, dumbstruck. You could just about see little yellow birds over his head, that's how surprised he was.

The porn. I figure if they knew you wouldn't be lying.

The head librarian walked by just then. I touched the shelves, acting like I was still putting novels in alphabetical order and not talking about gay porn, and Raoul opened the L'Amour, burying his nose like he actually gave a crap about westerns.

She passed.

You're pretty smart, he said. I saw you too so I just figured—

The Bible. I shrugged.

Wait. The Bible? Raoul gaped.

Yeah—uh—John the Baptist actually—

You kidding me? He laughed outright then. I was looking at some guy's dick and you were reading the Bible?

I grinned. Yeah, I guess so, huh.

You're insane!

So we laughed about that for awhile, and I didn't get any books shelved but I sure had a good time. He wouldn't hold anything against me because he didn't fit in either, not really. He was a guy pretending to be straight and hating every minute of it, and I was a closet Christian. Aside from the fact that hanging out with him was probably a cardinal sin, we were doing pretty good.

And it was too late to worry about cardinal sins by then. Heck, I'd already made out with a guy and hid the Bible in the Playboy centerfold.

Hey, he said, when I'd collapsed into a chair beside him, laughing so hard I couldn't even stand.

Yeah?

Why you work here?

I dunno. I like books I guess.

Yeah, books are cool. Good for you. Make you smarter.

You really believe that?

Naw.

Yeah neither do I.

Then he turned to me and said abruptly, What's bugging you, man?

Which seemed a little odd because, considering the circumstances, I felt like I should be asking him.

What're you talking about?

Raoul touched the L'Amour again. I was almost tempted to ask what he thought of the cowboys on the cover, since they were pretty well-built, but I didn't think it'd be appropriate.

You looked depressed, he said. When I came in I mean. So I wondered what was up.

Ralph, I don't normally have heart-to-hearts with guys. I shrugged. Sorry. And I guess it's a stereotype me implying that you're gay and touchy-feely and all but—

You don't have them with anybody do you?

It's not like it's a big deal, I said defensively.

Hey, it's fine. He waved the book. Wanna check me out?

And then we both realized how silly that sounded.

When we already hit second base, I gasped, I think we kinda skipped a grade. So no. No I don't.

I didn't tell Christian, he said all of a sudden. Any of them, actually. I was hoping you wouldn't.

That's why you came by?

Uh—yeah I guess. Sorry.

Hey, it's no problem, I said. Secret's safe with me.

You're a good guy, Jonah. He grinned. If you weren't straight—

Okay we're stopping there.

I headed for the main desk, Raoul following me with the L'Amour in one hand even though he didn't actually have to get it—maybe he liked westerns after all—and the head librarian was still staring at me as if she'd heard more than she wanted to let on. It was kind of odd, two teenage guys cracking up about gay porn in the fiction section, so I gave her a break and dropped the subject.

You really want this book? I asked, just before I rang it up.

Yeah, I do.

Alright. I scanned the bar code (four nine zero five nine zero two four five eight seven three) and demagnetized it so he wouldn't set off any alarms on the way out.

Thanks, Jonah. He smiled.

As he was walking away, I called, It's my birthday.

He spun around, propping the door open with his foot, and hollered, Sorry about that.

 

 

54,798.

I've always wanted to be crippled. Not because I think being a cripple is easy or anything—I'm sure it's hellish. But the thing is, people with a cane or a wheelchair, people who always have to limp—everybody sees them and knows they're hurting.

I tried to break my leg once. I just wanted somebody to know.

 

 

54,857.

Jonah, I'm afraid that I have some bad news.

sue

Is it Sue?

Oh. Oh, no. No, Jonah, it's not Sue.

i dont believe you

Who?

First let me say that it's not your fault. None of it—none of it's been your fault, and no one will ever blame you because you had nothing to do with it.

Who is it?

It's Johnny, Jonah.

Yesterday one of our night nurses found him on the floor of his room. We don't know how he did it yet, but he got access to a shaving razor somehow, and—I'm afraid he's dead.

…

Jonah. Are you okay?

Jonah.

Nurse—

…

…

No. I'm okay.

dear god i think im okay

 

 

54,990.

I never said anything to him. All those conversations and I never said anything.

I'd like to see him, but I guess that's morbid, wanting to see a dead guy. Nobody told me how he died. There are lots of things you can do with a razor blade if you want to kill yourself. You can slit your throat with it, of course, aiming for the jugular or carotid, or you can do the radial vein, or you can make a lot of deep wounds and wait until you bleed out, or swallow it even if your mouth is big enough.

Where is Lizzie? Have they told her?

I wonder if she knows.

I had breakfast this morning, and it was weird. I ate a rubbery fried egg and drank some orange juice that still had chunks of ice floating around, and my buttered toast was on its last legs, and the nurse put her hand on my shoulder like she always does because I haven't wanted to say anything to her yet because she's annoying. And all I could think about, you know, was he's dead. And he's never going to wake up and here I am and the eggs are just as bad as they were yesterday.

There is something in that. The eggs have not changed, but Johnny will never see a sunset again.

I threw out the orange juice after the nurse left. It was too cold and it hurt my teeth.

 

 

55,227.

My mother asked me on Christmas Eve if I would be okay sleeping alone, like I was a little boy, someone who needed his hand held until he dropped off, who needed Mommy to scare the nightmares away. But I'd already straightened my clothing and after a frontal lobotomy I knew nothing would ever bother me again.

So I went to sleep on my own, as I had for years.

Mom and Dad argued into the wee hours of the morning. We opened gifts under the tree Christmas Day, and Zach's sat there for forty-eight hours. He never returned.

What happened next was this: Zach did not come back on the fourth day, or the fifth, or the sixth, or the twentieth. I went back to college and he stayed gone. Sue said that he probably needed some time to himself and he'd make contact with us eventually, when he felt better. Mike laughed, threw me a beer, and said, Loosen up Joney he's not gone forever. And Rob played six action movies in a row, shared the potato chips, and let me pass out on his bed without complaint.

I didn't tell any of them about Christmas Eve. And nobody asked. But I dreamed about it once, and somehow Zach and Raoul became the same person. When I woke up I was shaking.

I think that he killed our father. He didn't shoot anyone, as far as I know, and he didn't strangle him or drown him or slit his throat. He tried to rape his brother—yes, that's right, he tried to rape me and he would've done it too—and while I lived and I'm okay Dad chased him off—and I think a little piece of Dad broke that day—and not too long after the rest of him followed.

My mother called me more often that year, sometimes about nothing at all and sometimes to say only he'd had a bad day, and I always knew who she was talking about because really what other he was there?

Hi, Mom, I'd say, standing in the hall wrapping the cord around my hand, and she'd say:

Hi, Jonah, how are you? Like she had a whole new reason for calling.

I'm good, Mom. And you?

Oh, I'm—okay—

And while I was playing cat's cradle we both knew she wasn't.

Where's Dad?

He's out again. You know how he likes to see his friends.

Which meant he was drinking. Dad the Christian man, who wanted to control his hair loss and used to say alcohol was the nectar of Hell, was out drinking on a Friday night, upsetting his wife so much that she called their mentally-deficient son at one A.M.

You should get some sleep, Mom.

Yes. That's a good idea, Jonah. You should too.

Like she'd already forgotten that she phoned me in the first place.

All right. I love you, Mom.

I love you too, honey.

I always waited for her to hang up before resting the receiver in the cradle, listening to the click like I was waiting for a goodbye someone never said—the goodbye Zach never said, maybe, or the I'm sorry. I waited a long time for that I'm sorry. Used to think, lying in bed, that he said it with his eyes like they do in Harlequins, where the man's eyes speak volumes et cetera et cetera, but he didn't you know. I looked right at them and there was nothing in his eyes at all.

I think that's what scared me the most. If there is guilt in someone's eyes, at least he felt bad. If there is shock, at least he lost control. And if there is fear—at least there is recognition.

But when there's nothing he might as well be dead.

Anyhow, Mom called me twice a week for three months. Dad wasn't always drinking—sometimes she just wanted company. We never spoke for very long. One of us would have something else to do and the other would acquiese and that'd be it. She wouldn't tell me right out what Dad was doing. When he'd been drinking she talked about how he just loved seeing his friends. When he sat outside for two hours looking down the street she said he was watching the stars. And when he yelled at her—which he didn't do very often because, at the heart of everything, he was still a good man, only a broken one—she said he'd had a bad day at work.

It was a well-developed code.

I can see her very clearly, sitting on the edge of their bed, her feet tucked under the blankets, holding a Kleenex and murmuring, I love you too, Jonah. Jonah, I love you too.

Don't get me wrong; she was no martyr. But he walked all over her, and I don't think I ever forgave him.

After the three months were up, Dad gradually fell back to his ordinary routine. He spent less time drinking and more time working, took care of the garden and tinkered in the shed, came home on time for dinner again. I don't know about his sex life because that's not the kind of thing I'd ask my mother—hey Mom, you and Dad play in the sack lately?

She called me once or twice a month. I called her when I missed her. We didn't talk about much, but we dropped the code.

Thank God.

 

 

56,133.

You're stepping on my feet.

No way, you're stepping on mine. Hey. Cut it out!

I didn't know how to do this when I could see, okay?

That's no excuse. Come here.

…

That's not a dancing lesson.

…

That's not either.

Look. You just put your hands there—and move the way I do. And stay close.

I can handle that.

You pervert.

…

See? It's working!

Spoke too soon.

Ow. You're going to break my toe.

Sorry.

Hey, you'll get the hang of it.

Next year.

Just hold on.

I'm holding.

Not that tight.

Sorry.

…

Feeling better?

Not really.

You're not stepping on me any more. That's good.

Just luck so far.

Oh don't be so negative.

Don't be so positive.

I know you can do it.

Hope springs eternal.

…

…

…

This is kinda nice.

See? I said you'd get the hang of it, Jonah!

Yeah yeah yeah.

…

It's a good thing we're alone.

Oh quiet.

…

…

…

Wish I could see you.

I know.

56,309.

Six of my favorite foods as a teenager:

original-flavor bubble gum

dill pickles

jelly beans

ranch dressing

Mountain Dew

ham sandwiches

Christian used to say that he didn't know whether I was pregnant or just really, really weird. Occasionally I told him I was the only pregnant man ever because I'd signed up for a science experiment to implant fetuses in men only it hadn't started to show yet, just to see if he'd believe me. Luckily, I don't think he ever did.

He did look at me funny though.

 

 

56,406.

Rob called me the day after I saved his life. I was reading a book when the phone rang, but I didn't answer right away because it was seldom for me. I wasn't this incredibly lonely kid or anything—I just couldn't make friends. So he hit the answering machine—our nice, normal answering machine:

Hi. You've reached the McDermotts. We are unable to come to the phone at the moment. Leave a message at the beep and we'll get back to you.

Beep.

Heavy breathing.

Hey. I had a good time last night too, Jonah. You were grea—

I slammed down the book and snatched up the phone. Who's this? Do I know you?

Well you were shouting my name last night—

And I still don't know how I made the connection, since he'd been so incredibly sane before, but I said, Rob?

Amen.

Oh. I grinned. Hi.

Yes, hi, savior of mine. I want you to come over.

Always a blunt one, Rob. I was dumbstruck. What?

I. Want. You. To—

Why?

So we can reenact the greatest night of my life.

Huh?

Just come over, okay?

Uh, okay, I said. I hung up, looked blankly at my book for a few moments, looked blankly at the phone for another few moments, and called, Hey Mom, I'm gonna go to a friend's house.

Which, of course, was the news of the century. Mom went on and on about how I never went to friends' houses—as if she had to rub it in, right?—and how I must be excited and how she hoped I would have fun and did I think I would be home for dinner and if I was we were having roast beef and by the way did I like roast beef?

And when I was finally heading out the front door I remembered that I didn't know where he lived.

Luckily, Rob called again half an hour later to enlighten me.

That time I made sure to pick up the phone.

1488 Sherlock Avenue.

Huh?

Click.

So, because my curiosity was overwhelming, I put the address in Yahoo!, printed some directions, and set off. Could've been some stalker's house, or some rapist's, or the pizza parlor, for all I knew—but no, it had to be Rob's.

I rang the bell and heard the chorus to Don't Stop Believin', by Journey. A few minutes later, a voice said, What's the secret word?

Uh—please?

No, that's the magic word. One more try.

Huh?

Ladies and gents, we have a winner.

The door swung open and there was Rob, grinning to beat the band. I said, Hi.

Hello there.

He stepped aside.

Can I come in?

What do you think?

Rob wasn't your normal guy, and his family wasn't straight out of Leave It to Beaver. They had leopard-print couches, a singing fish trophy—yes, some people actually buy those—a fake Christmas tree that must've been there for eight months, and a cat from hell. But—and I couldn't help it—I liked him. He was funny; he was not running away from me; he was not calling me a fucking moron. Heck, it was the perfect friendship.

What's up? I said, sitting on a fake leopard.

Rob, perched on the arm of a chair, shrugged. Something wrong with wanting to talk to the guy who saved your life?

Oh. Nope.

So you want a Coke?

I grinned. I'm more of a Mountain Dew guy, actually. But thanks.

He gave me a can anyway, fresh from the fridge, cold enough that I almost hurt my hands holding it. That Coke was great for two reasons, count 'em, two: (1) it tasted great; (2) it gave me something to do.

Hey—Rob?

Yeah? He wasn't looking at me. I mean he couldn't look at me, but you know.

Is huh really the magic word?

Secret word. And no.

You're pretty funny, I said, without thinking.

And you're pretty stupid. Why'd you care about some guy you never met?

And just like that, I was introduced to Rob's patented method of dealing with all sensitive topics of conversation—dodge around them, dodge around them, dodge around them, dive in headfirst. Something about catching people by surprise, I guess.

I don't know. Your sister. She was screaming.

So because my sister screams you figure you ought to tackle me? He smirked.

Well, when he put it that way, even I had to admit it didn't sound right.

The truck was gonna hit you, I tried.

I just don't see why that was your problem.

Uh—

Yeah. It wasn't. There's no way out of this, Jonah.

Hey, look, I'm sorry. I put the empty soda can on the coffee table and stood up. I'm sorry I saved your stupid life, okay? I made a show of glancing around. Nobody's here now, so if you wanna go stand in the street, I'll even help you.

Rob shook his head. Don't.

Don't what?

Just don't go there.

Go where? You're the one who called me. You forget that? You dragged me down here—

I don't want to live, Jonah.

And that was a fist to the throat. I sat on the couch again with a whoosh and wished I hadn't finished my Coke. After a minute, I said, What?

I figured this was an easy way to do it, you know? I'd just be the stupid blind guy who didn't know the car was coming and bam.

But your sister—

It's not like she hasn't seen me get hit by a car before.

That was harsh. I shook the soda can. Don't know why. Nothing left.

Why? I asked.

It's a long story, he said, and I said, No. You didn't tell me to come over here so you could say it's a long story.

Suddenly I felt the brush of fur along my leg. I looked down and there was the cat, just about the fattest Persian I'd ever seen. Ugly little thing—really small face, way too much hair.

What's its name?

Oh, the cat? Not mine. Rob grinned. My sister's. Name's Delphinium.

The flower?

Do I want to know how you knew that?

Probably not.

And then Delphinium, having decided that she did not like my shoes, rolled over and sank her teeth into my ankle. And they were frigging sharp.

Ouch!

She bite you?

Yes she bit me! What's wrong with this cat?

I'm not sure, actually. She has a thing. For feet.

Where's your sister and everybody else?

Rob slid off the chair. They're not home right now. Look—can you come back tomorrow?

Tomorrow? I eyed Delphinium warily. She was contentedly licking her chops and washing her face, bringing up her front feet, one at a time, to drag them over her ears. Why tomorrow?

I just need a while. Okay?

Fine. She going to be here again?

Who—the cat? He laughed. I guess so. You scared of her?

Is the Pope Catholic?

I'll lock her up.

You know how much hair she has, by the way?

Huh?

Now you sound like me.

Do you know how much hair she has?

Yeah, actually.

How much?

About twenty trillion, I'd say.

He shook his head. Jonah—

What?

I'll see you tomorrow.

 

 

57,629.

One of my favorite poems is called Fidelity of a Dog. It's by William Wordsworth, who was an English guy from a long, long time ago and wrote that thing about lonely clouds that everybody recognizes. I like that one, I guess, but Fidelity is the best. Dog lovers are always posting it places. You know how they are. Personally, I like dogs—I've loved dogs—but I've never been a dog lover. The phrase is kind of creepy.

Anyway, once upon a time a terrier bitch was walking the highlands with her master when he slipped and plunged to his death. But the terrier, heartbroken, refused to accept the fact that he was gone. Instead, she guarded his body for three months, never straying, until she died of starvation right beside him—or, at any rate, that's how the story goes. I guess nobody can say for sure. Some people think the tarn is haunted by her ghost.

Wordsworth, who, you know, lived there, wrote a poem about her. Obviously. I memorized a lot of poetry over the years and, whatever else is wrong with my head, I can still remember most of it. Like the last stanza. It goes like this:

Yes, proof was plain that since the day,

When this ill-fated traveller died,

The dog had watched about the spot,

Or by his master's side:

How nourish'd here through such long time,

He knows who gave that love sublime;

And gave that strength of feeling great

Above all human estimate.

The thing is, I'm pretty sure Wordsworth had the terrier's sex wrong. Lucky that's not what the poem's about, right? It's ironic. We all probably wish we had a lover just half as loyal as that terrier bitch, who starved to death in the snowy, rocky tarn by her master's side.

 

 

57,942.

To Elizabeth:

You don't know me, but

To Elizabeth:

I'm sorry, I don't know your last nam

To Elizabeth:

I was a friend of your husband boyfriend male acquaintance, and

Dear Elizabeth:

As a friend, I thought I should write and make sure you heard the news. Jonathan Cruz, who came and talked to me when no one else would, has committed suicide. I'm very sorry. Please don't feel guilty. I don't think it was your

 

 

58,017.

I prayed last night. I didn't know what to say. It's been a long time. I have always thought that I am going to die and God is going to find my name in the Book of Life and just as He's saying, Okay, you can go to heaven, go right ahead, He'll stop and say, Hold on a sec, Jonah—see, you thought you knew Me, but I never knew you. Sorry.

And then I'll burn in hell for eternity.

It's a pretty uncomfortable thought.

So it wasn't a long prayer. Mainly I said I would like to repent for just about everything and I hoped God was doing okay wherever he was. Then I asked Him to protect the people who haven't died yet and hung up.

I wasn't using the phone or anything, but I said Amen, which is the same thing as hanging up, right?

Anyway, I felt better afterward.

 

 

58,179.

Hello, Jonah. How was lunch?

Not very good. Thank you for asking.

what'd he expect

Well, I'm glad you feel safe enough to be honest with me. What was bad about your lunch?

The ham was too cold and the ice cream was too hot. Thanks.

You don't have to thank me so often, Jonah. It's okay.

thanks

Okay.

I have some good news for you today.

…

What is it?

It's about Sue.

the suspense is killing me

literally

I talked to her last week, and she called me back this afternoon. She can come to see you soon, Jonah—if that's what you want.

Really?

Yes. Really.

Yes. It's what I want. Thank you.

i am going to see her

(literally)

 

 

58,303.

There are certain diseases that don't take over. They are happy to sit in their own little corners, lock their bedroom doors, and handle what's been allotted to them without complaint. Diabetes, for instance, is something that can be lived with. On some days, it is forgotten about—on others, practically ignored. It affects life, and it changes life, but it can't be life.

Percensitis is life. When you have percensitis, that is what you breathe. That is what you think about, how you digest dinner, what you sing about and talk about and dream about. You count, and that's who you are. And, worse, that's all you are.

Counting was the most important thing in the world. If I just knew how many, I felt I could cure cancer, turn down the global thermostat, revive endangered species.

But counting, like overeating, only feels good while you're doing it. It's afterward that you're depressed, because you're never finished. There is always something else to count. If you tap light switches, it's because you can't leave that room without making sure the switch is down all the way. What if you close the door and the light comes back on? The horror. (Maybe that's what Kurtz was talking about.)

And so you keep tapping the switch, even after the third time, which is luck. And you wash your hands twice because maybe you didn't get all the dirt off. And you feed the cat over and over because you don't want her to starve. And you wiggle your fork and count bites because eventually you lose track of what's important.

There were so many things I couldn't do.

No one took me to crowded places, because they tired of me counting pedestrians. I never went to the barbershop, because I'd be surrounded by hair. (Mom cut my hair at home for years, me perched on a stool before the sink and her hacking away because she'd never been very good at it.) If I went to the park, I counted blades of grass. If I went to the library, I counted—well, you get the idea. But I went to the library anyway.

It got so the librarian wore earplugs.

Christian didn't hate me, but he was a boy who'd been raised to take advantage of opportunities, and I never knew him to let one slip. And just as that wasn't his fault, arriving on his doorstep with a great big bow on my head wasn't mine. I was the best opportunity that Christian had seen in a long, long time—a stupid, immature kid who counted faster than anyone in the world. He would've been really stupid himself to pass me up.

Because I wanted friends, I won bets. Because I won bets, I made friends. Christian had a full wallet, and I didn't have to be alone.

But, you see, now Psych Man tells me I won't need to count ever again. I guess they drugged me, or hypnotized me, or de-percensitized me. Whatever they did, Psych Man says it's for good.

At first I was scared of that. Hell, I am scared of it. Terrified. Sometimes I wake up and think I wouldn't see anything if I took off the blindfold, if I cleaned out my eyes, and I'm afraid, and sometimes I wake up and realize I would and I'm afraid of that too, and I don't know which is worse.

I am going to take it off though.

Really.

 

 

58,893.

My father died of an aneurysm, and there's no proof it's Zach's fault, medically or otherwise, but I know it was.

Aneurysm is an eight-letter noun, pronounced ān'yə-rĭz'əm. It is defined by The American Heritage Science Dictionary as a localized, blood-filled dilation of a blood vessel or cardiac chamber caused by disease, such as arteriosclerosis, or weakening of the vessel or chamber wall. In other words, an aneurysm is a weak spot. Most of the time you never know it's there, and then suddenly, one day, poof—too much strain. It breaks.

When an aneurysm breaks, blood rushes out into the rest of the body, right where the blood isn't supposed to be. And that's fatal. So Zach killed him.

I found out that Dad was dead because my aunt called. I answered the phone expecting to hear my mother, but it was my aunt, crying.

What's wrong?

Honey—Jonah—

Aunt Carol? Are you alright?

Honey, you have to come home. It's your Dad.

Sue, standing beside me, waited until I hung up. What happened?

Uh—I think it's my father, I said, confused. That was my aunt. She—says he died. Wants me to come home.

And Sue, rather than giving me a hug or telling me things would be okay, because she knew they wouldn't, took my hand and led me back to my room. You better start packing, she said.

Yeah. I nodded. Okay.

I caught a cab out to the suburbs. The driver sounded kind of suspicious when he saw who was waiting for him on the curb, which was understandable because who was waiting for him was a twenty-year-old male with a blindfold, a cane, and a suitcase, but he didn't pass up the money. I sat in the backseat dry-eyed.

When we arrived, two hours later, he rolled down the glass and said, Hey. Buddy. We're here.

Thanks. I felt around for my suitcase, which slid to the other side of the car during the drive, and opened the door.

You gonna pay me or what?

Oh yeah. Sorry. How much?

Twenty-eight bucks.

Even?

I'll keep the change.

And just then I realized that I'd left my wallet at Delcroix. Damn. Uh, I said, half in and half out of the car, I have a little problem.

How little?

The guy sounded like he was getting angry.

Uh— I took a deep breath. Twenty-eight bucks little. See, I left my wallet at—

Fuck, the driver said emphatically. I knew when I saw you you were trouble. Why'd you hafta do this to me? I'm a nice guy. It's midnight, for fuck's sake.

Look, I've had a pretty bad day myself. If you'll just let me go inside, I can get you the money. Okay?

Oh, forget it. Get out of my car and don't come back.

Huh?

Like I said. It's late. I guess you're pretty damn tired too.

Uh—well—sure. I was standing on the curb in two seconds. He started the car, and as he drove off I called, Thanks.

But I don't think he ever heard.

The door of my parents' house was unlocked—I tried the knob and went right in. All my relatives were crying. They hugged me, patted my arms, said they were so, so sorry about everything that had happened—and you just knew they meant Zach, too. We never saw it coming, my uncle said, he was a good man. Always so nice to the children, said my aunt, who had no kids of her own. Sorry, terrible, disastrous.

I found my mother in their bedroom, sitting on the foot of the bed.

Hi, Jonah.

Hi, Mom. I slumped beside her. You alright?

No, sweetheart. But I will be.

I put my arm around her, and she snuggled close. I know, I said. I know.

He wasn't here when it happened, Mom murmured. He was at work. They called my sister first, and she had to call me. Like we were kids playing Telephone.

I know.

You think I could've—

No.

But—

No.

She cried, and I held her, and after a little of that I began to forget who she was crying for—her husband, growing apart for two years thanks to his own pride, so they hardly knew each other any more? Her oldest son? Or her youngest son, who was maybe just worst of all?

 

 

59,630.

Dear Lizzie,

You don't know me, but my name is Jonah, and I have something very important to tell you. It's about Jonathan. He died last week.

I'm sorry I was so blunt just now. I don't communicate well. I'm insane, actually. But they said Johnny was insane too, so there you are.

Anyway, he talked about you all the time, and I wanted to make sure you heard what happened. I think your asking him not to write again hurt his feelings. He read me the letter. I guess you had a good reason. You did, right? He remembered a lot of things, like the post office and how you loved the name Jonah.

I haven't been having a good day—please understand.

Johnny got ahold of a shaving razor and killed himself. They wouldn't tell me how, but if you write or call I'm sure you can ask.

The drugs were messing with his head, I think. He said he kept getting dumber. I know he's sorry for what he did, Lizzie, and I hope—well, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive him. I don't know you, and really I hardly knew Johnny, but somehow I believe that would mean a lot.

Sincerely,

Jonah McDermott

 

 

59,847.

Rob. Hey, Rob.

Rob! You here or what?

I went by his house the next day and rang the doorbell incessantly until he answered. His neighbors were looking at me funny by then, like they didn't know why I wasn't getting the they-are-not-home message and going away, but I wouldn't quit. He'd said to come back tomorrow, and I wanted to know what he meant—wanting to die and having been hit by a car—and he was going to tell me. Or—or—something bad would happen. To him. Not me.

What's the secret word?

Huh? I just about screamed it.

Sorry, couldn't hear you—

Rob, open the door.

My mommy told me not to speak to strangers. And my daddy told me not to have sex with them in their vans. So—

You trying to get rid of me? I said angrily.

You're too good.

I laughed. No. I came back to hear you out, and I'm going to hear you out. Okay? So open the damn door.

Rob shrugged. I'd be willing to swear he shrugged. I nearly heard it. I can't open it, he said.

And now I was annoyed. Okay. I'll bite. Why?

Because I can't see the lock.

I walked away.

The man across the street, mowing his lawn with a riding machine that he really didn't need because his lawn was about the size of a postage stamp, glanced at me and smirked as I went down the driveway. Guess he thought I finally got the message. Maybe I did.

Unfortunately, Rob called again the next day. My mother answered the phone and hollered down the hall, Jonah, it's for you. Some guy who says he had a good time last night?

When I took the receiver, I said, You know Rob, now I'm talking to you everyone thinks I'm gay. Or stupid.

They're finally accepting what they've suspected all along.

I laughed. Sure.

Look, he said, after a few minutes, sorry.

Yeah, forget it. I shrugged, though he obviously couldn't see. Heck, even if he hadn't been talking to me on the phone he wouldn't have seen it.

Okay. Rob paused and kind of sighed. So—thanks for not letting me die and all.

No problem.

Okay. Uh—see ya later.

Hey, Rob?

I don't know why I stopped him just then, but something told me to speak up before he hung up. And I did.

Jonah?

You busy on Friday?

There was silence.

You really are gay, aren't you? I guess there's nothing wrong with—

Oh, come on.

Maybe I'm not. He paused. Why?

Thought we could hang out or something. Watch a movie. I haven't seen Die Hard yet.

Rob laughed. Which one?

Uh—any of them, actually.

Damn, Jonah, you're a geek. What do you do for fun?

Well, I—

Yeah, Friday's cool. I'll come by your place. Okay?

Sure.

Never seen Die Hard. Do you just not get out of the house?

 

 

60,369.

This place—the mental hospital where I'm staying—is pretty big. In fact, I'd call it huge. So far I've walked along the hall outside my room all the way to the end, and I found an elevator, but the buttons weren't marked with Braille so I didn't risk pushing one for fear of ending up on the roof. Or, worse, in the basement surrounded by monster rats. Maybe they do animal experimentation here. How would I know?

There are eighteen doors on my floor. If each door opens onto a patient's rooms, that makes nineteen patients—counting me. I'm not going to knock, though. I don't think any of them want to talk to me, and I don't want to talk to them. I do wonder about them. The one in the room beside mine—who is that?

I wonder how many rapists are here. How many murderers.

How many of us are kindly old gentlemen who wandered outside naked and tap-danced in City Park?

How many of us are harmless?

 

 

60,543.

Yesterday I thought about people who are starving. In this country, in this city, in countries halfway across the world, someone's dying from hunger. Someone's feeling like his stomach is so empty it's digesting itself. Someone would cut off his left arm for a bite to eat, and someone would eat his arm.

Millions of others have more food than they've ever wanted; thousands never have to feel a pang. At the slightest twinge, those people can head off to their kitchens for a Twinkie, or a Milky Way, or a bag of Lay's salt-and-vinegar potato chips (which are excellent). On the way home from work, those people may pass dozens of fast-food joints, of supermarkets, of 7-11s and Dairy Queens.

And, you know, we're all on the same planet.

But I don't think those of us who buy banana splits at the place on the corner every weekend need to feel guilty.

People just aren't built to care on a grand scale. You care about yourself, hopefully, and you might care about some close friends and family members, and probably your pets—and that's great. You buy your groceries from a checker at the local SaveMart once, find out the next day that he died of a heart attack—yeah, you're going to pause for a minute and say, Hey, what a shame, but you won't really care. Not really.

Here's a better example: Darfur. It's horrific, isn't it? The evening news is full of footage that makes us all want to envelop those dying kids in a big hug and give them more food than they could consume in a lifetime. In two lifetimes. I'm not going to say we shouldn't react that way to such sad stories—just that we cannot care about them all.

If you go to those countries as a missionary, if you help them by devoting your time, I admire you, really I do. But I wouldn't do it.

I think that, for survival's sake—well, man may not be an island, but he is far from a planet.

Make any sense?

 

 

60,882.

Sue will be here to see you tomorrow, Jonah.

yes

Thank you very much.

Anything to help you, Jonah. I hope you know that I'll do anything in my power to help you.

Why?

Well, there's this thing called a paycheck I get at the end of the month—

Really. Why?

you're still not funny.

I care about you like I care about all my patients.

How's that?

i really am curious

for once

To be honest—I guess you can say I want everyone to have a happy ending.

 

 

60,985.

The year of the shooting, Sue was finally beginning to think things would work out. She planned for a spring wedding, a garden party where we'd stand in a shower of rose petals, watching them fall like snow—embrace beneath a white trellis as the vines, juniper-green, climbed ever higher. Family. Friends. Cake four tiers high, plastic couple on top, feeding each other gobs of frosting and laughing.

I wonder if she remembers.

 

 

61,058.

At my father's funeral, only one person cried. I don't know who he was. He stood in the back of the crowd, so far away from the gravesite that he might not have been attending, head bowed and face dripping with tears. From beside the coffin, with my arm around my mother, I heard him.

Mom didn't cry—I think she was just empty. She didn't say anything at all. And Dad's friends said he wouldn't have wanted them to get weepy, but they were lying. He would've. Then he would've laughed.

But the man in the back of the crowd, in a black suit that was two sizes too large, never said a word to Mom and I, or to any of the other guests.

After the ceremony, I walked around, asking about him—but he'd already left. Eventually, as I approached the street, I heard someone getting into a car parked by the side of the road. He sat behind the wheel for a few minutes and drove off, quickly like he was trying to escape the past.

To this day, I have no idea who that man was. I have no idea why he was there, or how he knew my father.

But I am forever grateful to him, because he grieved.

 

 

61,284.

Rob told me about wanting to die while Delphinium attacked various parts of my body and I fended her off as best I could, using anything from coffee table books to one of his grimy tennis shoes.

He was going to a football game with a friend. The friend drove, because Rob didn't have his license yet. Traffic was heavy that day.

The light turned red and the friend, who'd been fiddling with his radio, kept driving.

Rob walked away. His friend, named Eddie, thought he was okay at first, even talked to him. Wow. Damn, that freaked me out. Sorry, man. But then Rob turned, and Eddie saw the thing protruding from his skull, and Rob opened his mouth as if about to say something and fell to the pavement and began to seize.

Now, Rob muttered, he wished he could remember what he'd wanted to say.

I shoved Delphinium away from me and she skidded across the floor, looking more indignant than she had a right to be.

This is no housecat, I said. This is a man-eating monster.

Yeah. Rob laughed. Just kick her.

They can call the SPCA on you for that you know.

Not if nobody tells.

I shrugged. I guess you can't see bruises under fur.

You are one sick guy, Jonah.

Hey, so are you.

His sister walked into the room—we'd turned the television on, but neither of us was paying any attention to it—sprawled across the couch, and grabbed the remote. If you guys aren't watching this I'm gonna watch America's Top Model.

I turned to Rob. Wait. She actually watches that?

I think it's every girl's dream.

Let's go.

He blinked, and that was disconcerting. I'd never been so close to someone who was blind before, and, while I knew I was being shallow, I thought it was odd—watching his eyes function normally, knowing he could blink for a thousand years and still see nothing at all.

Why?

I'm not going to sit here, getting killed by your cat and looking at a bunch of anorexics.

They're not anorexic, said Rob's sister, turning up the volume. You guys are so narrow-minded.

So we went to Starbucks, because it was within walking distance. I glanced at Rob whenever we had to cross a street. Just in case.

We sat at a table outside, and I stretched my legs out across the sidewalk, and an old woman, gray-haired, carrying a cane, gave me a dirty look. I ordered a white chocolate mocha frappuccino. Rob ordered a latte and asked me if I was always such a girl.

I guess it's not easy. I mean the accident and all, I said.

You're a bright one.

But people still care about you. It's not the end of the world, right?

Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. Then he turned his head in my direction.

I just really don't want to talk about it. Okay?

I nodded, waited for him to respond, and finally caught myself. Yeah, okay.

Our drinks came.

So what do you look like? he asked.

Huh?

Well, I could be talking to this babe with a deep voice and an identity problem.

You're out of luck there.

So—

What do you think this is, a blind date?

Rob laughed. And laughed again. And kept laughing until the couple at the next table, who were sitting so close together they could've been a single entity, glanced over at us. And after a second, I joined him.

And—well, we were friends.

And that was the end of that.

 

 

61,871.

Sue walks in the door. I hear the knob turning. I imagine she's watching me.

Jonah. It's so good to see you again. So good. But why are you talking funny?

I point at the tape recorder and say, For posterity. You never know, right? Maybe one day I can sell this tape for a trillion bucks.

She stands there awkwardly. I get up and cross the room to her. I can tell she's nervous. Maybe she thinks she might scare me away. I don't know any more.

Oh, Jonah—

She is crying, I believe. But quietly.

I take her hand in mine and bring it to my lips. I know that's stupid and romantic but she used to love romantic.

Jonah, I still do—

I wonder if she remembers me.

I could never forget.

Sue, I say, and I smile, I miss you. So much. I never stopped missing you.

And slowly—very slowly—I reach up to the blindfold.

The End