NOCTURNAL EMISSIONS a Diary of Dreams

NOCTURNAL EMISSIONS a diary of dreams

nathan j robinson may all your nightmares disappear and all your dreams be realized. “And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort? … We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it’s one little room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that’s all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that.”

—Dostoevsky TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction...... 13 A Concentration in Triangles...... 19 Zatz...... 19 Te Bill Gates Scholarship...... 21 Roger...... 23 Te Package...... 26 Te Perfect Smile...... 29 Te Girl Who Wrote For BuzzFeed...... 31 Nosebleed...... 33 Te Pornographers’ Convention...... 36 A Beard...... 36 Manatee County Jail...... 37 Four Flashes...... 37 Te Golan Heights...... 39 Te Boris Johnson Library...... 40 Gas Station Lawyer...... 43 Astral Parents...... 44 Foam Sale...... 45 Baghdad...... 46 Tifany...... 47 Four Fragments...... 51 A Christmas Story...... 52 Te Alligator Restaurant...... 55 Santa Monica...... 56 Te Constituents...... 57 Kids Say the Darndest Tings...... 59 Te German Restaurant...... 59 Christian Books Section...... 60 Veteran’s Day Cookout...... 61 A Perfect Distribution...... 62 Chickenscratch Congressman...... 63 Berlin...... 65 I Began To Weep...... 65 Law School Dining Hall...... 66 9 nocturnal emissions Monumentalist Lefism...... 67 Trivial Pursuit By Another Name...... 68 Pumpkin...... 69 Ebola...... 70 El Guapo...... 70 Skinderprints...... 71 All Sof Choices...... 71 Gilad X...... 72 Two Examinations...... 73 Te Liberal Democratic Party...... 74 Te Google Button...... 74 Five Charles Dickens Novels...... 76 Bzzzzzzzzz...... 77 Te Water...... 78 Wonkavator...... 78 Diner...... 79 Bellybutton...... 79 Alan...... 80 Wedding/Walls...... 80 Nautical Semester...... 81 Pink Slips...... 81 Political Science...... 82 Block Quotes from Hannah Arendt...... 83 Te Doughnut Breakfast...... 84 Jeb...... 84 Making It In Te Industry...... 85 Waves...... 86 Advice to Undergraduates...... 86 Leopard...... 87 Font Sizes...... 87 Zounds...... 88 Such Trivialities As Plot...... 89 Te Array...... 90 Te Beheading...... 91 Serial Killer...... 91 ISIS...... 92 Topiary Dentist...... 92 Difering Conceptions of the Optimal...... 93 10 nocturnal emissions Te First Innovation...... 94 Brandeis Day...... 94 Te Nigeria Bridge...... 95 Te Funicular...... 96 Te Prosecutor...... 97 Beach Ball...... 98 Sex Pistols/Melanie...... 100 Sea Turtle...... 102 1915...... 103 Tofu Fireman...... 103 Te Turmoil...... 104 Con Men...... 105 Realtor...... 105 Leather...... 106 Brother...... 107 Beluga...... 108 Te Crab Egg...... 110 Chalet...... 112 Tiki...... 113 Nelson...... 114 Grapes...... 116 Eagle...... 116 Water...... 118 Atheistic Ignorance...... 119 Te Suspect...... 120 Coates...... 121 Sturgeon...... 122 Tunnel...... 124 Demolition Derby...... 124 Police Ofcer Training Corps...... 125 It Was Adapted Into A Film...... 126 Crematoria...... 128 Papercufs...... 128 Te Turber Tapes...... 131 Clown Car...... 132 Mickey Finn...... 133 Sophistry Is Tef...... 135 Show and Tell...... 136 11 nocturnal emissions

Te M.S.C...... 137 Mongolia...... 139 Felonious Tweet...... 140 Te Big Book of Fascism...... 141 Mercedes Benz...... 142 Staircase Ghost...... 143 Model U.N...... 144 Tiger-Man...... 146 Mardi Gras...... 147 Te Veteran...... 147 Piglet...... 148 Te Little Mermaid...... 149 Te Passenger...... 151 Te Screenplay...... 151 Te Gas...... 154 Sherlock...... 157 Te Queen of Sheba...... 158 Te Vietnam Express...... 159 Water Babies...... 161 Melania...... 162 Wires...... 165 Te Personnel File...... 166 Te Western Wing...... 168 Te Sixtieth Degree...... 171 Possession/Te Perfect Room...... 172 Window Washer...... 173 Chinese Beignet...... 174 Juice/Coincidence...... 176 Sand Bar...... 177 Mob Pool...... 177 Bed Chair/ Ice Cream...... 179 Dying Birds...... 180 Te Car We Bought...... 181 Te Grand China Dream...... 181 Pun...... 182 Beyond...... 183

12 “Introduction”

I’ve sometimes heard that the most uninteresting thing one person can tell another is her dreams. I think this is probably correct, but I’m not convinced that it has to be. One of the main problems seems to be that people relay the dream badly, failing to draw out the real substance (the insightful juxtapositions, the refections and commentaries, etc.) But I think, when organized carefully and transcribed in deliberate prose, other people’s dreams can actually be engaging, surprising, and insightful. Te surrealists Michel Lei- ris and Georges Perec both kept records of their dreams, and the resulting collections make for not-at-all uninteresting excursions. For example, one of Leiris’s dreams goes as follows:

I am going on a trip, so I have to move all the books in my library fom one room to another. Since the occasion calls for me to show of one of my manuscripts to some of my fiends, I go down to the street, rip what appear to be streetcar tracks fom the pavement, and go back up to the apartment, dragging meters of rails behind me that bang on the stirs with every step I take. I then realize that this load is in fact made up of a series of large glass objects sim- ilar to those coasters that used to be placed under the feet

13 nocturnal emissions of the piano in middle-class living rooms to protect the carpet or the foor. Because this is indeed my manuscript, I am fairly annoyed. But I manage to console myself, given the fact that my arrival provokes the following comments: “He’s quite something, that Leiris! You ask him for a manuscript, and he drags up rails fom the street.” —from Nights as Day, Days as Night, pp. 56.

And one of Perec’s:

I belong to a group of hippies. We stop trafc on a national highway. We have surrounded a luxury car and are closing in on it, threateningly. —from La Boutique Obscure: 124 Dreams, pp. 14.

For about fve years, I have been trying to write down whatever I can recall about my dreams. Over certain stretches of months, I forgot to record any of them or did not have dreams of any signifcance. In 2017 I barely dreamed at all, which considering the political circum- stances was probably for the best. I’ve adopted a few rules for myself. I must not embel- lish any part of the dream; each word must refer to something I remember experiencing. If I quote somebody, the quote must be precise. If I cannot remember it precisely, I must summarize rather than quoting. As a result, some of my notes begin with sentences like “She turns to me,” without introducing what is going on or who I am speaking of, since I cannot remember. Te result is fragmen- tary and ofen jarring, but it is as accurate as I can make 14 nocturnal emissions it. Obviously words can never fully capture sensations, but I’ve done the best I can to ensure that my accounts are reliable and can be used productively by researchers. I have reached several conclusions. First, dream inter- pretation is ofen a relatively simple matter. Most of my dreams are straightforward musings on things that have happened to me recently. For example, one day I watched a documentary flm in which some children are shown how chicken nuggets are made. Te children shout “Ewww, gross” when they see the raw chicken-parts, but when the parts are transmuted into familiar deep-fried ovals, these same children have no problem fnding delicious what they were horrifed by minutes previously. A friend commented to me that it was strange for children to suddenly fnd enticing what they had only just described as revolting. Te night of our discussion, I dreamed I was afraid of a housecat that had been painted like a tiger. I knew it was a housecat, but couldn’t keep myself from being afraid. Upon waking, I understood that my dream had intended to rebut my friend’s point. One can know the “tiger” is actually a housecat, but reason cannot overcome instinct through mere willpower. Even though I have proof the chicken nugget is made from discarded cloacas, I cannot escape the associations that make me want to eat it. Next, I have learned that a number of recurring themes preoccupy my subconscious. Te most prominent is the failure of the West to adequately reckon with the Holo- caust. I have had a large number of dreams that touch on the Holocaust in various ways. Several have been set 15 nocturnal emissions in World War II Berlin. A dream in which a professor asks me to contribute to a Holocaust awareness fundraiser seems to critique contemporary trivialization of the tragedy’s meaning. Te State of Israel, too, fgures prominently, though usually in a relatively apolitical way. (Tese themes are surprising mostly because I am not Jewish and have never visited either Germany or the Middle East.) Several anxieties repeat themselves. I am an awful lawyer. I do not understand my PhD work. My politics do not make sense. In the dreams, I am not made out to be a very comfortable person. In them, I am inevitably ill-at- ease with society. I am constantly being told of by life- guards or librarians. I am being put in prison, or snifed unexpectedly, or asking a question that everyone in the room but me already knows the answer to. Tese are not the dreams of a satisfed man. As an exercise in self-knowledge, then, attempting to translate one’s dreams into prose would seem to bear useful fruit. But a caution label, Do Not Overinterpret, should nevertheless be afxed. Even as my dreams lead me to believe that I am a more deeply worried person than I have hitherto consciously accepted, I am unsure how frm I can be in this judgment. Georges Perec stopped his dream diary because he realized that his writing of the diary was infuencing his new dreams; knowing that he was taking notes, they performed too self-consciously. Te content they yielded was no longer buried treasure, but entertainment manufactured for consumption. I am troubled by the prospect of this loop. By recognizing the 16 nocturnal emissions themes, I may reinforce them, and thereby assure their eternal recurrence. One must be cautious. Nevertheless, the dream is a friend. It parodies our experiences, not to torment us, but to show solidarity. When the dream confrms that things were as we sus- pected, we can take comfort in knowing that we were not mad. (Unless the dreams are themselves a symptom of madness, in which case we cannot take such comfort, becaus we are mad.) Here, then, are a hundred or so dreams, written down exactly as they were experienced, to the best extent that they could be recollected.

“A Concentration in Triangles” Nov. 9th, 2013

My friends leave for the bathroom, and I am lef alone with her at the bar. “I majored in math,” she says, “with a concentration mostly in triangles.” She has a large purple triangle suspended above her on a spring from her headband, like a Teletubby. “Hah, Pythagorean Teorem, am I right?” I ofer nervously, trying to make conversation. She looks at me with menace. “It’s just… not like that at all.” “I majored in squaaaaaares,” I say mockingly, cracking up. A sterner look, and silence. My friends do not return...

“Zatz” July 18th, 2014

I found it hard to believe, but I just couldn’t remember whether I had seen a gun. Not to remember seeing a gun meant not having seeing a gun, surely. But I couldn’t remember. Te witness testifed that it was impossible for me not to, that it had been in his waistband from the start, that

19 nocturnal emissions it was there when he picked me up. He didn’t say I had planned anything with him, admitted nothing was ever spoken, but insisted I must have known what we were doing. As I experienced it, though, it hadn’t seemed like he described it. Te facts, fne, I agreed with the facts. But surely a kidnapping has a vibe. You can’t just mistake a kidnapping for a double-date. I thought it was innocuous. Zatz and I had been in the front seats, the two girls in the back. I had been sent in to get cofee; I asked what everyone wanted. Zatz was edgy, even shouty, but not unusually so. Te girls said little, ordered americanos. When the trial began, the judge had instructed the jury on the law. If the gun was visible, it was a kidnapping. If no gun, then a double-date. I had read Zatz’s book, and I looked down at it as I cross-examined him, hoping he’d get scared of contra- dicting his published account. “Have you ever been convicted of a crime involving deception?” “Yes.” “Did it have to do with faking your own death?” “No?” I knew it didn’t, but I thought I could plant multiple possible deceptions in the jury’s mind: the crime he would admit to and the faked death he wouldn’t. Te question was permissible under the rules, and I was proud of my slyness. Most of the jury had retired by now (at that time there was no requirement that jurors remain if they did not 20 nocturnal emissions wish to, once their minds were set), but I wasn’t concerned. I preferred addressing a single juror; I am very persuasive one-on-one. Te trial had a fxed length. It took place in a moving schoolbus, heading for the penitentiary. If I could convince a juror to acquit me by the time we arrived, I would be free. As my closing argument began, we pulled up to the gates.

“Te Bill Gates Scholarship” Feb. 8th, 2014

I was not awarded the Bill Gates Scholarship, though I had come to Seattle to interview for it. At the end of the weekend, they announced the half of us whom the Foun- dation had chosen, and the rest of us skulked of to the bar in the basement of the Foundation’s vast glass campus. One of the other competitors, another loser, was at the bar, already drunk. “It’s because they’re a bunch of liberal fucking hippies. It’s because it’s Seattle.” His project proposal for the Scholarship had involved subsidizing frearms for illegal immigrants. As he saw me approach, he became more aggressive. “I know why I lost,” he said. “Because they do not fucking care about their constitutional rights.” He paused. “I always carry,” he said, pulling open his jacket to reveal a 21 nocturnal emissions handgun. I twitched with unease, and sensing that I was afraid, he pulled the gun out. “What, are you scared? Scared like they are? Goddamn you people, it’s just a GUN.” I said “Oh, no, no, it’s not that, it’s just…” He began waving it around. “You’re all such pussies here!” He pointed the gun directly at me, and I became very agitated. Tat made him angrier. “Oh come on!” He pulled the trigger, the fame came out; a lighter. I breathed. “God, you make me sick, you thought it was a real gun… But seriously,” he said, “I do always carry.” And he took out a real handgun. I excused myself, went to the bathroom. As I fnished, Bill Gates was entering. I hadn’t expected to see him, the Foundation’s headquarters were sprawling and it was said he didn’t get involved with the business of Scholar- ship selection (though he would later shake hands with the winners at the Congratulations Gala). He went over to a urinal, and I thought I should at least say something to him. “Hello, I was a fnalist for the Scholarship this weekend. I didn’t get it, but, well, you know, I just wanted to say that I respec…” He turned and interrupted. “Could you zip me up please?” He presented me his undone fy. “Oh,” I replied. I hesitated, and then bent over and carefully zipped him up. Gates went over to the sink, began washing his hands, said nothing more. I was about to speak again, when he said: 22 nocturnal emissions

“Would you mind pulling up my drawstring?” He motioned towards his collar, around which there was a kind of twine. I edged over, got it between my thumb and forefnger, and began pulling upward. His skin sort of... tightened. “Like this?” He said nothing, but made an “mmm” face. As I drew the string into the shape of a triangle in the air above his head, he tightened further. “Uh, do you mind if I ask what this is?” I asked him. “Te string, I mean.” He pulled away from me and looked ofended. “I have multiple sclerosis,” he replied. Wiping his hands and throwing his paper towel away, he turned and lef the restroom.

“Roger” June 26th, 2014

I knew that “Roger” had gouged out my eyes and cut of my ears. It had all played out in these same hallways, at night. But here in the daylight I could not convince them he was dangerous. Roger was a mod. He had a billowy purple shirt, tight white jeans with thin pinstripes in primary colors. Blow- dried hair, perfectly parted, sideburns. He was charming. He kept trying to lead my colleagues into a side-room. I knew if he got them there he would

23 nocturnal emissions gouge out their eyes and cut of their ears, just like he had mine. I tried to show them. But they didn’t even notice that I had no eyes or ears. I began to alternate between thinking I had eyes and ears still, and thinking I did not. I could not counteract Roger’s charm. Everyone’s ears were cut of. I heard the screams from the side-rooms. Te last thing I remember was Roger in prison, holding a copy of his self-serving autobiography, Pass the Hatchet. In the cover photo he was in tweed and looked stern.

u u u u

I couldn’t fnd the city council meeting. I checked the list of councilors to see if Eric was one, but most of them were called Eric. Eric P., I told the front desk. Tere were three Eric P.’s.

u u u u

I returned to Sarasota to take up a case. I was meeting in the administration building at the high school. It had been a year since I graduated. When I got there, Adam Richards was arguing with Vice Principal Abrams. “Te Civil Rights Center is our space, and it is supposed to be well-equipped.” “You can ask Mr. Robinson there why we had to cut the funding. He’s the one who negotiated $15,000 as compensation for staying in school through his senior 24 nocturnal emissions year.” I had just walked into the room. Adam Richards stood up for me. “$15,000 is nothing for the privilege of graduating a fne lawyer like Mr. Rob- inson.” I hadn’t seen Richards in a year. No longer red-cheeked and buck-toothed, he had morphed into a formidable advocate. He openly told Mrs. Abrams that the campus cops were “plus-sized.” “All cops are just big onions,” he said. I couldn’t believe how brazen he was. We went into the Civil Rights Center. All of the com- puters had been stripped out and sold. Obama was already at the conference table, in drag. His blonde wig came down to his thighs We began to discuss the case. “I have one thing that might be useful,” he said, taking out an Alaska statute book. “When I was in law school, I worked for a professor, and I found this Alaska rule… Tey published my memo somewhere, let me see…” We were defending a boy who had committed a horrible crime, leaving a toddler to die in a car. But it was unclear whether the toddler had died because the car was too hot, or the car was too cold. One of our team had designed an orange and blue graphic with a little spinning needle to show the jury the diference between hot and cold. Te boy had tried to pin the crime on the toddler’s mother. Still, we liked him, and our cause had drawn national attention.

25 “Te Package” July 4th, 2014

Afer swiping the package, Freddie and I had each taken an identical blue van, to throw them of our trail. But my van stalled somewhere in the French Quarter, which made me nervous since I was the one with the package. I scrambled on foot through the city streets, ducking in and out of bistros with the grocery bag in my hand. I nodded hello to curious customers squeezing by me as I stood in teashop doorways scanning the block. I at last made it to the same safehouse I had used last time, a decaying, overgrown cathedral at the top of a hill. Tere was no longer a roof, but there were some little enclosed rooms along the sides of the nave. It was used as a student fophouse. Several girls looked at me. I tried to make conversation. “So, are you guys in school?” But the question only confrmed that I was too old to be there. I felt like a pervert. I called Mr. Vitte, to get instructions on where to drop the package. He said I was to leave it at “Te Forum.” He acted as if everyone knew what that was, but I’d never heard of it. I sensed it had columns. I asked him. “Tat’s all I know,” he said. I was furious, because I knew I’d have to spend the next hours asking everyone in the city what “Te Forum” was, and I’d look like a fool, and I desperately wanted to get rid of the package. I thought of my father. I wondered if it was possible for him to love me, given that he had signed me up for

26 nocturnal emissions this. What if they found me? How did the thought of my bones being crushed for his mission afect him? Did he think that was acceptable? I’ve never seen anyone so furious as they were when we took the package. As it turned out, Holly was living in one of the side- rooms. In chaos, as usual. I felt some relief, because she had a sense of the capable about her. Nothing can go too wrong here, I thought. She will explain her way out of the crisis. But there was no time to get comfortable. As I was looking round her room, two of them showed up looking for me. Te cockney, warty blonde one, in tight jeans and matching denim shirt, and Lemmy, oily hair past his shoulders, trenchcoat fapping behind him. Tey were asking some of the students if anyone had seen me. Te students looked dazed and didn’t reply. Te two men began overturning rubbish bins furiously. I was surprised at how quickly they’d found me. Last time I used this safehouse they hadn’t found it for ages. Holly instantly took charge. She closed the door to her room and stood in front of it, flling the doorway. “Can I help you?” she said. Tey must have sensed that she was going to be difcult.. Tey did not bother to ask if she had seen me. Tey asked more roundabout questions. “Does anybody work here?” the blonde one asked. Holly stalled them expertly. “Work?” she said. I put the package among some gar- bage. I hid in the corner. Te conversation continued, Holly perfectly evasive, 27 nocturnal emissions but the men more and more suspicious. Te blonde one looked through the little window in her bedroom door, and shifed his eyes around the room. I knew that he saw me. It hadn’t been this way last time. Last time when he looked through the window, I had been just out of sight. Tis time, my whole face was visible. We locked eyes. Te blonde one shoved Holly aside and dragged me out by the ear. He took out a penknife. “I’m going to ask you where the package is.” “I don’t have the package,” I lied. “We’ve just come from Freddie, and he said you had the package. Two vans can’t fool us.” “Freddie has the package.” Te man stabbed me in the palm. “Now, I am going to give you 15 minutes, and you’re going to go and get the package, and you’re going to give it back.” Dutifully, I went and got the package. It wasn’t worth being tortured over. “Since I gave you the package quickly, perhaps we could talk about letting me live.” I was instantly nauseated by my cowardice. Not at giving up the package so quickly, but at begging for my life to be spared when he had never even said it would be taken. Tere was a dog-eared poster of a rainbow on the church wall, a remnant from the days it was used to edu- cate disabled children. With the package returned, and their violent fury quelled, we all walked down the hill. Te men’s associ- ates came speeding round the corner in a blue van. Tey jumped out. Tey had machine guns. My interrogators 28 nocturnal emissions didn’t have machine guns. Te blonde one grabbed a machine gun, and said “watch this.” He began to take aim at some birds that were foating in a puddle that had formed like a stream. Holly advised him not to shoot the birds. “You’d do far better with a stone and a slingshot than a machine gun. Te problem is that at this short range your accuracy is poor.” She kept chattering and it took him ages to fnally fre. I knew she was trying to save the birds’ lives.

“Te Perfect Smile” July 18th, 2014

I asked the American Airlines reservation desk why I hadn’t received a confrmation. Was I booked on the fight? “Yes,” she said. “But you’re not leaving with the rest.” I asked her what she meant. “You’ll be placed on a diferent fight, which will inter- cept your actual fight mid-air. You will be lowered from one plane into the other with a harness.” I asked her if any other passengers were making such a dangerous maneuver. She showed me the seating chart, which had one seat highlighted, with the words “to be added mid-air” typed in. “No,” she said, “just you today.”

u u u u

29 nocturnal emissions

I was unhappy about returning to the prison compound, because I couldn’t get rid of the two screwdrivers before arriving. One was orange and one was red. Tere was no place to dispose of them and I was already walking into the main yard. I decided to hold them out plainy in front of me, hoping the guards would see that I was not trying to hide anything. Te screwdrivers were not like ordinary ones, with a plastic handle and a metal rod. Tey were entirely handle, which swooped down to make the screw head at the bottom. Tey were very heavy, as if they were flled with weights. Jimmy Neutron, the most brutal guard, was standing with two other guards, clearly trying to impress them with self-serving anecdotes. He saw me and stormed over angrily. He did not wait for explanations. He took one of my screwdrivers and plunged it into my stomach. He beat me without mercy. When he stopped, I had fve of my teeth in my hand. I could tell my face was a mess. He let me pass, and I went to the inmate recreation room. Te walls were purple. Te other inmates were all law students. Tey were very friendly. But I kept expecting them to show more pity, considering how brutal my beating had been. I kept moaning that I just wished I could put my teeth back in. It wasn’t until I got to a mirror that I saw what my friends had seen. All the teeth I lost had been from the back of my mouth, not the front. My smile was still perfect.

30 “Te Girl Who Wrote For Buzzfeed” July 21st, 2014

I arrived early to the reunion but it was already dark. When I went outside, I found that they’d flled my car with sand because I’d parked in a reserved spot. As people lef the reunion they saw me in my formalwear, scooping sand out of the front seats with my bare hands so that I could drive home.

u u u u

She and I were going to have a nice day in St. Petersburg, to make up for all the ugliness. But I got lost on the web of highways that crisscross the water, and by the time we arrived most of the shops were shut. I promised I would take her to the fve-story bookshop and the cake place, and she was suspicious but she said that sounded nice. But my parents were already at the frst cafe and so everything became uncomfortable. Teir friend Jimmy came in and started asking her questions like she was his pal. “So what was your frst choice college?” She looked unhappy again and I realized I was making it worse. Te lock popped of my old suitcase (the bur- gundy one). I started talking about the lock and how we needed to fx it right away, because the only realtor who

31 nocturnal emissions fxes locks in the Old Quarter closes in 15 minutes. Tey let me drive the streetcar. I went faster and faster, hoping if I scared everyone to death they’d stop talking.

u u u u

Te girl who wrote for BuzzFeed sat behind me, in a tight red evening dress. Nobody was happy to be there. Te classroom was rank and peeling, the teacher was a droning old fellow with a noisehair-moustache. Te girl who wrote for BuzzFeed kept making comments to her study partner at the next desk, who was mumbling in response. Te girl who wrote for BuzzFeed’s comments grew increasingly louder and were more criti- cal toward the teacher. “Tis is some bullshit, isn’t it?” she said. Te teacher continued talking about Melville. “Tis is some bullshit, isn’t it?” she said again, a few seconds later. Tis time he harumphed to indicate he had heard her, but he ignored it and kept speaking. I couldn’t believe her insolence. Everyone was growing uncomfortable. “Tis is some bullshit, isn’t it?” she said, so loud that the teacher had to stop. He walked down the aisle towards us. He looked weary, but not angry. He did not want to teach anymore and she was making a hard thing harder. “Do you have a problem, Ms. ____?” “Yeah,” I chimed in, “you think just because you write for BuzzFeed you have a right to disrupt the class and 32 nocturnal emissions disrespect the teacher?” Te teacher looked at me. “Mr. Robinson, I don’t think you should talk, given that you’re reading a book about Legos while I’m lectur- ing about Melville.” Te class burst into laughter. How did I end up the humiliated one?

“Nosebleed” July 23rd, 2014

Te Magazine Street eclair place was only open from fve till seven in the evening. “Twilight Hours,” said the sign. It was the morning and so afer peering through the window for a bit I headed for home. Everyone on the street, black and white alike, was wearing white top hats or white suits. I asked a group of people what it was all about. “Te ball is tonight,” the girl said. She invited me to go with their group. As we talked I learned they’d actually been my next-door neighbors for months, which we all had a good laugh about. I had to go back to my apartment frst. It was over- fowing with books. I decided I had too many books and therefore needed more books. I went to the bookshop in the back room of my own house. Te owner was a large man who always tried to beat me with a pipe or have his dog attack me, but his book selection was too 33 nocturnal emissions good for me to stop going there. Tis time when I lef he followed me outside and tried to assault me. I gave him a savage punch in the nose. His face dented. I apologized profusely. I said it was by far the hardest punch I’ve ever thrown. “Tat’s obvious,” he said. But for some reason it was my nose that started to bleed. It wouldn’t stop for hours.

u u u u

“Because of you, I’ve been cutting myself more,” she told me. “Please don’t do that,” I said.

u u u u

I thought about how Elvis is fading from the public mind, then I realized that I knew two songwriters who both had what Elvis had, though neither one knew the other. I would have them get together to rework the lost unrecorded Elvis Presley song “Parasol,” and it would be a big hit that put Elvis back on the map. I found a tiny car in the street, sat on it, and rode it home. I frightened some nuns with the point of the antenna by mistake. Ten I frightened some boys with the point of the car antenna on purpose. Te streets were full of people. “Bicycle streetcars” went by, which were bicycles modifed to run on streetcar tracks, housed in a streetcar shell. You could rent one from the Department of Transportation. 34 nocturnal emissions

Arriving home, I had to enter through the tiny red-and- yellow concrete tube. Usually I went into the tube feet- frst, and so slipped gracefully through its many twists and turns and popped out into the house. Tis time I went in head-frst, and it was tiny and claustrophobic and I could barely wriggle through. It took ages to work my way through and I was terrifed by the end that some liquid would come rushing through and drown me. (“My worst fear is being drowned in a tunnel,” I told an interviewer once by mistake.) I desperately wanted a way out but I knew I had to keep crawling. When I at last popped out, my mother was there, distraught. She said she had been delivering packages for Amazon. One of her deliveries had been at LSU, and some frat boys had asked if they could rape her, and when she told them Amazon wouldn’t let her, they became very upset.

35 “Te Pornographers’ Convention” Aug. 2nd, 2014

Te pornographers’ convention was taking place in the front part of the convenience store. In back, where the freezers were, I was trying to design the perfect sign to delicately explain that the pizzas were out of stock, due to interference by the pornographers. Te challenge was to make the sign’s wording accurate without being vul- gar.

“A Beard” Aug. 6th, 2014

I fnally attempted a beard, but discovered that I could only grow hair on one side of my face.

36 “Manatee County Jail” Aug. 7th, 2014

Te Orleans Parish Sherif had lost 16 manatees from its jails. As we walked around the building’s corridors, I explained to the sherif that this was totally unaccept- able. “Te building is beautiful. It’s historic. A classic South- ern brick structure. But what goes on in here is very ugly indeed...” Te sherif was apologetic. I remained unafected, and went on. “Manatees are very slow. It doesn’t speak very well of your ofcers that they can’t catch them, does it?” Te sherif hung her head. “And on top of that, these are mentally ill manatees, capable of who-knows-what!” I paused. “I really don’t think we can stop this unless we double your budget.” Te sherif perked up and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, we do need more money, that’s very true.”

“Four Flashes” Aug. 9th, 2014

I did not know that the girl who had died had been an extremely successful podcaster. I looked through her possessions and was mesmerized by the sheer range of

37 nocturnal emissions her production. Te podcast was adapted for mugs, post- ers, and, most impressively, two leather-bound volumes containing the entire transcripts of the series.

u u u u

I couldn’t fnd a cup of cofee anywhere in Galveston. Now that the city had been purchased by Disney, every cafe just had a picture of Goofy on it and served amus- ingly-named milkshakes for kids.

u u u u

I had been put in charge of making sure Chuck Berry hit all the right notes. I did not know how to play the guitar, so this worried me. But as my hands gripped Chuck’s and I let him take control, by halfway through “Reelin’ and Rockin’” I looked at the audience and knew we would pull it of.

u u u u

During the siege, I had fred a lot of rockets into the vast modern glass house down below. Tey waited until later to tell me that Eisenhower had probably died, but I knew it already. In the distance I had seen his limp body lying at the foot of one of the glass elevator shafs.

38 “Te Golan Heights” Aug. 10, 2014

Te flm’s protagonist was accused of a crime, and the entire story was about whether or not he had committed it. But at the end, with that question lef unresolved, we fnd out that throughout the entire flm he has been embezzling money before our eyes, and that if we had looked closely we would have caught him committing hundreds more crimes.

u u u u

When we retook the Golan Heights, the lack of resis- tance was eerie. Everyone there had fed, and we were able to immediately start assigning people to the empty houses. Afer some time wandering round, I struggled to pack my backpack quickly. I needed to get out of there. Te quiet was destined to end and I sensed a huge military response impending. A dark patch began growing on my forearm and I began frantically (and semi-success- fully) trying to wipe it of. Back in Cambridge, I rode with Alan Dershowitz in his Range Rover. As he pulled into the underground faculty parking garage, I asked him whether I had been right that retaliation was forthcoming. “Yes,” he said, “they’ll get it back.” I felt sick to my stomach at having asked him such an uncritical question.

39 “Te Boris Johnson Library” Aug. 14th, 2014

Te Boris Johnson Library was located in one room of a tiny shotgun house, one street over from my own. When I found it, the doors to both the house and the library were unlocked, and I went inside and looked around. Tere was nobody about. I found what I was looking for: a hardcover copy of A Bit of Fry & Laurie & Johnson. It was a lending library, but with nobody present I took the book and made a note to return and fnd the librarian to ofcially check it out. I continued wandering the streets of New Orleans, looking for further information about Johnson. Two days later, Russell Brand found me and helped me out. He gave a humorous monologue about the idea of American presidential libraries. He felt they were absurd. “I mean, can you imagine if we English did that? If Boris Johnson got 15 million dollars to build a Boris Johnson Center? In the shape of his hair?” Brand was currently the host of Tis is the World with Russell Brand (a.k.a. Tis is It). He took me into a shotgun house two doors down from the Library. He introduced me to a young blonde boy who had just come from working in Johnson’s ofce afer graduating from Yale. “I don’t know much about him,” the boy said of John- son, “but this was his favorite polo.” He went into a back room and came out bearing a necklace with a polo mint on it. Te mint had been painted with red bits to look

40 nocturnal emissions like a life preserver. He let me wear it. I didn’t ask how this boy had come to obtain Johnson’s polo. Out of the window, I saw police cars two doors down at the Library. “Looks like you’d better return that book,” Brand joked. I laughed but became nervous. I walked quickly over, past the two cops, Sam Hankson and Andy Pank- ington. Inside, the librarian, a Yale professor, was sitting flling out forms. I presented him with the dust jacket of A Bit of Fry & Laurie & Johnson. He looked cross. “I’m sorry, that book is unavailable at the moment. It has been stolen.” “No, I have it. I got it two days ago, I came in but there was nobody here.” His face darkened. “Burglary is a serious ofense. How did you get in here?” He pointed to the windows. “Did you break these?” Tey were not broken. I told him the doors had been open. He did not believe me. He wrote it down. I saw that on his desk was a poster labeled “Suspect” that showed a sketch of a black man. As the carriage passed through New Haven, the librarian explained to me that he was taking a hard line on me, because his experience with students had made him cyn- ical. “I’m going to make an example of you. Te chicks, these undergrads, as soon as you mention you’re not pressing charges, they totally tune out.” He was consis- 41 nocturnal emissions tently sexist. “You tell them you’re not pressing charges but that you expect them to repay you. Tey just hear that as they’re free.” He told me that there was one way he would grant me leniency, which was to attend his upcoming “Holoish fundraiser.” “It’s $100 per person. It’s for Holocaust awareness. You must bring a guest, and they must also pay $100.” I politely declined. My parents came up beside the carriage. Tey tried to make conversation with the professor about the new house. It was clear this was not helping. I gave them a signal to cut it out. Tey did not cut it out.

u u u u

I surveyed Obama’s America. I thought about how it would look generations hence. I imagined a little black girl writing a letter to her great-great grandfather. I saw cornfelds. I’d put all of this in my college application essay.

42 “Gas Station Lawyer” Aug. 23rd 2014

She was skeptical, but I reassured her that I was a lawyer and could take care of it for her. I didn’t tell her that I had never taken a case before. Or that I hadn’t passed the bar exam yet. “I’m going to get you $3,000,” I said. “But frst, hand me $3,000.” She did. I got out of the car and began to argue with him. “Do you know that you owe this woman $3,000 for car repairs? I have it right here!” I brandished the $3,000. “Do you have an invoice for that?” he replied, instantly destroying my argument. I poked my head back into the car. “Do you have an invoice?” I asked her nervously, knowing she didn’t. She shook her head and looked worried. I withdrew my head and turned back to the man. “We don’t,” I said. As I got back into the car I had to reveal to her that not only had I not gotten paid, but I had given him her $3,000. Te humiliation was infnite.

43 “Astral Parents” Aug. 26th, 2014

We stood outdoors politely clapping at the fundraiser, in which a boy with Down’s Syndrome was roller-skating for the frst time. He roller-skated like a professional. It was as if he didn’t have Down’s syndrome at all. As the fundraiser fnished, I talked to the boy, who was about 21, in sideburns and baseball cap. “But ‘Ryan Cooper,’ surely that’s not an Israeli name, is it?” I asked. He gave me a sort of wink. “Add ‘Ben Hur’ between Ryan and Cooper. Tat’s my real name.” “But your parents, they were Israelis? Tey didn’t come from America or Britain?” “You mean my astral parents?” He never said ‘birth’ parents. He always said ‘astral.’ “Yeah.” “I don’t talk to them.” He turned to his girlfriend, who had emerged. “Katie, how many days of quality time would you say I get with my parents each year?” She laughed. “Oh, two.” Tat night he and I both died in our sleep.

44 “Foam Sale” Aug. 27th, 2014

She had not believed me that a foam sale was a good idea. She said if we went forward with it, it was my job that would be on the line. I reassured her that with just one foam sale, we could get rid of every item in the store. Te customers were waiting outside the vast glass windows before we opened. Tey fled into the store, all eager for the foam sale. Te shop foor was flled with wares of all kinds, but before the foam sale started nobody was interested in browsing. Once hundreds of shoppers had gathered in the center of the store, I initiated the foam sale. An ominous rumble came from above, and a dark cloud gathered near the ceiling. With a buzzing sound, foam jet nozzles descended from out of the cloud. Once they locked into place, they began pouring foam onto the crowd. Te foam quickly flled the store. It was snowy white, and of such a consistency that you could either sit atop it or dive into it. It was moist but it didn’t soak you. It was lovely stuf, and as the entire store turned to foam, people became ecstatic. Teir joy triggered their desire to consume, and suddenly they entered a buying frenzy. Tey went in and out of the foam, retrieving and pur- chasing the products that had been buried by it. It was pandemonium. As the last foam dissipated, we realized just how well the foam sale had gone. Tere were no items on the shop

45 nocturnal emissions foor lef larger than a sequin, besides a pipe cleaner here and there. “And this we can sweep up easily,” I said to her, to show that even the debris was manageable. Little pockets of foam remained here and there but they were rapidly diminishing. She admitted that I had been right, that the foam sale had been a good idea.

“Baghdad” Aug. 30th, 2014

Location: Baghdad. It’s not as dangerous as you’d think, as long as you make sure to watch the garage door close behind you so that nobody slips in unnoticed. Lauren tells me she has met two of the best sound guys in Michi- gan, and that they can teach me to be a better audio doc- umentarian.

46 “Tifany” Sept. 4th, 2014

Sitting outdoors at the Outdoor-Indoor Cafe (the outdoors was also indoors), I saw a cafe that looked even better across the path. I was impressed mainly by the fact that its entrance had a revolving door in the shape of a tin of espresso powder. (Te irony being that they did not appear to serve cofee.) I immediately regretted being dazzled by this novelty; all of the menus were flthy with other people’s food. Coming back outside, I saw a tussle going on. An older lady was trying to make sure that an elderly man used his crutches and not his cane. Whenever she let him get near his cane, he leapt for it and she had to grab it away. I looked down at my phone. Lauren had sent me a photo of herself in my bathtub, covered in spaghetti, to prove she was better of without me. As the old man continued to struggle, his daughter (who was clearly on his side) gave me a wink. “Oh look, it’s Tifany!” said the daughter. Te man and woman stopped their tussling and looked over. I realized what was up and that I needed quickly to play the part of Tifany. I did not have any makeup or feminine clothes. I would have to act so well that viewers would assume them onto me. Tis I accomplished handily. “Tifany will regale us on the Piano, won’t you, Tifany?” I did not know how to play the Piano. “Certainly,” I replied, petrifed. I took my seat at the Piano, having no idea what to do. I began to stall with a

47 nocturnal emissions monologue, the kind I had seen lounge pianists entertain audiences with. “You know, every so ofen, a man and a woman, well, that’s a special thing, you know? And we’re all in some ways special, there’s something about each and every one of us. I know I used to think so. Ever since I was a child, I’ve always seen the stars behind people’s backs…” My monologue dragged on interminably. I knew eventually I had to begin singing. So I sang a cappella, as if I was performing the introduction to a song where the Piano part would eventually come in. Several times I arrived at a point in the song where the Piano probably would logically have begun, but I continued not to play. Eventually I arrived at the point where the Piano had to come in, and I tried to make it last as long as possible. “Becauuuuusee what loooooveeeee is abouuuuuuut iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiss….” I dragged the “is” out for about thirty seconds. I gave hand motions to encourage the audience, suggesting I was about to start playing. But instead of continuing to sing and bringing the Piano in, I simply went back into monologue, in a massive anticlimax. “….well, love’s a kind of mélange, isn’t it? It’s a fricassee into which all things are put? None of us experiences love in the same way. Love is what it is, love is a...” Suddenly I vowed that if I could make them laugh, I would fnally pursue the career in stand-up that I had always wanted. I made a joke about geese. None of them laughed. Eventually I sang a few more bars and then trailed of. I didn’t even touch the Piano. My performance was dreadful. I slunk away. 48 nocturnal emissions

u u u u

I went up the steps to the Ofcers’ Drinks Lounge. “Drinks” was embossed on the glass door under a picture of Lord Kitchener (“Millage Entrance other side” was added below in a paper sign). Te lounge was in a large colonial house with a wraparound porch. Tere were palm trees everywhere. As I entered, a ofcer in full uniform with epaulets was coming out. I paid him no attention. When he got to the steps, he turned around and barked loudly at me: “Did you forget something?” I didn’t think I had, but then I realized I was a private. “Oh, sorry. Sir, aye-aye, sir!” Tis was the standard respectful greeting to ofcers. I accompanied it with the mandatory salute. “Tat’s much better.” “Sorry about that, sir.” “What did you say? ” “Oh, er, I mean, Sir, sorry about that, Sir.” Every statement to an ofcer was required to both begin and end with ‘sir.’ To be precise, I should have said “Sir, oh, er, I mean, Sir, sorry about that, Sir.” (Tough a casual reading of the rule may make it appear otherwise, two sirs at the end are not technically necessary to conform with the rule.) “Much better.” “Yes, sir.” “Ahem.” 49 nocturnal emissions

“Sir, yes sir.” “And why aren’t you in uniform, private?” “Sir, I’m only here to deliver this telly-gram, sir.” I held up the telegram. “Give it to me.” I gave it to him.

u u u u

I was walking down a road through a lush valley, an elderly couple next to me. Every so ofen, at the side of the road, there would be a chain-link fence around where the land had been stripped for mining. Te lanes on the road were busy, and new lanes were added and dropped out with frequency. I was looking for the correct u-turn point, and surveying the mining areas to see where the mining regulations would go. Te older man was a right- winger and hated my work, his wife worked for the government and was a liberal. He wore a white suit, cane, panama hat, Hemingway beard. Tey spent the whole walk antagonizing one another. “Of course, nobody can enforce a regulation neutrally, that’s why they’re ultimately impossible,” he grumbled. “Not every job is political,” I said. “Of course it is!” he replied indignantly. “What about a job handing out pencils,” she asked “Is that political?” “No,” he said. “Tat would not be political.”

50 “Four Fragments” Sept. 14th, 2014

I had a lengthy discussion with a man from Africa on the diference between a hammerhead shark and an actual hammer. My chief point was that there is a hunting licen- sure regime covering the murder of hammerhead sharks, but no such regime covering murder with hammers.

u u u u

P.J. and I sat in the grass overturning snails to see which was the largest. Each was larger than the previous one until we were overturning snails at least two feet long. Many turned out to be dead when we turned them over.

u u u u

Lauren told me what she had been doing. It mainly involved being conscripted into “violent modeling.” “Like a stiletto through the eye and such.”

u u u u

Te girls in the ward tittered as the two nurses ofered me lotion. I said I wouldn’t mind lotion, and the nurses rubbed it on my clothes.

51 “A Christmas Story” Sept. 16th, 2014

I was sitting in a comfortable leather wingback chair in a high-ceilinged Georgian-style hotel, quietly reading a book. Nobody else was in the lobby, except a man in the other leather chair. He wore a trilby, then didn’t, had owl-glasses and was slovenly and unshaven. He kept loudly hacking up phlegm. I continued to read, then noticed the man had come and sat on the arm of my chair. He smelled revolting, had grocery bags everywhere. He began snifng me. “Hey!” I said. “Fuck you,” he replied. Ten he tried to put his hands down my shirt. “What are you doing?” I exclaimed. “I can do this,” he said. Ten he hacked a ball of phlegm onto my exposed arm. “Oh god, you’re disgusting,” I said. “Fuck you.” Ten he began slapping me. I pushed him away. “Tat’s assault,” he said. “No it isn’t.” “Your keys are in my phlegm.” He pointed. I looked over at the stage behind the chairs, and realized my keys were sitting on it, caked in phlegm. “Ew ew ew!” I went over and started trying to dry them on my shirt. My hands got all phlegmy. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

52 nocturnal emissions

“Fuck you,” he said. At that moment, a silver-haired, birdlike man in a sweater vest, a rolled up New Yorker under his arm, wandered into the lobby. I started to try to tell him what happened. He gave a disbelieving look. I glanced at my assailant, who was fddling with his grocery bags. I realized he could just deny everything. I would sound insane. But it was not so. He immediately came over and started slapping me again, in front of the New Yorker reader, whose name I instantly realized was Carrol. “Oh, I see,” said Carrol, as he watched the man phleg- mily slap me, hacking all the time. Te phlegm-man stopped. “I’m going to call the police on you,” he said. I was fab- bergasted. “You’ll call the police? How well do you think that will go for you? I have a witness!” I could still feel his phlegm all over my hands. “I’m calling them,” he said, nonchalant. I turned to the birdlike man in the sweater vest. “Listen, Carrol, would you mind sticking around to help me sort this out?” “Not at all, he’s the rudest man I’ve ever met.” Carrol and I went into the lavishly-decorated bathroom together. When we came out, the man walked up to us. “Te police are here. Now you’ll get it.” I couldn’t wait to start telling them what he had done to me. Two hotel police ofcers came out, dressed in forest-green pinstripe blazers and black neckties. Te dark- 53 nocturnal emissions haired one asked what was going on. I began to explain, but he stopped me. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take this gentleman aside and have him give a statement.” Te dark-haired one took Carrol into the vestibule and began asking him questions, leaving me with the other ofcer and the phlegm- man. “Describe it,” said my ofcer, moving closer to me. I began to tell my story. Te ofcer came closer. He was inches from my face. I noticed he had owl-like glasses and was unshaven. I became nervous. Te ofcer began snifng me. Ten he put his hand in my shirt, and I realized. “Oh god! Carrol!” I screamed. “He’s one of his rel- atives!” It was too late. Te ofcer and the man both descended on me, and began hacking and groping... I don’t know how, but they later ended up producing a big-budget flm version of what happened. It was called A Christmas Story and they added a whole family-friendly dimension and marketed it for the holidays. It fopped, because by the time it was released the crucial 56 minutes of the flm had leaked online and been watched by everyone.

54 “Te Alligator Restaurant” Sept. 19th, 2014

Te Alligator Restaurant was a terrible idea. As customers entered, they had to walk down a long hall with a live alligator walking behind them. Te hallway was only wide enough for one, so they could not stand aside and let the alligator pass. In the restaurant itself, the tables foated in alligator-in- fested waters. Te seats were separate from the tables, and were top heavy, so they bobbed unsteadily. One had to be very careful in order to keep the seat upright. Te idea of the restaurant was that diners could toss scraps of meat from their plates into the water, and watch the alligators eat them. But this made the alligators stay very close to the tables, and they were aggressively hun- gry.

55 “Santa Monica” Sept. 21st, 2014

I fnally came out to Hollywood and wangled a meeting with Steve Martin. He met me in his ofce, asked me to take a seat (though he himself would stand the whole time). “I’m here to encourage you to direct another flm,” I said. “Hah. Tey all want me to make movies again. But I tell them: art is my passion now.” “You’re depriving the world unfairly.” “Art, my boy.” We continued to discuss it with no progress. He said my words were cheap parodies of things every other fan had said to him. “I can help you, you know. I can write 200 jokes in a single night. Look.” I handed him a sheet with jokes I had written. “Tere are only fve jokes on this sheet,” he said. He paused. “Do you know the kind of return I can get on an investment in art?” “Films make money too, Mr. Martin.” And with that, having gotten the last word, I stormed out the door. I was atop a hill in Santa Monica, looking out over the coast. Te hill was covered in people on beach-tow- els and in deck-chairs. Tere was nobody on the actual beach below. I wandered down to the beach, wondering why it was

56 nocturnal emissions empty. As soon as I got there, I noticed the water creep- ing towards me, with greater and greater speed. I realized the tide was coming in. Ten, I noticed large rectangular shapes on the horizon approaching rapidly. Te apartment buildings were rolling in with the tide. People in the buildings were all on their balconies cheering. Tey had been out to sea for a long time. Tey had been swept away with the low tide and had to wait. Apparently it had been a national news story. I had missed it. Te people on the hill were there to watch the return of the buildings. My immediate concern was to avoid the buildings, which were fying past me like bullets. Te waves were also becoming increasingly aggressive. I was sucked under.

“Te Constituents” Sept. 24th, 2014

I was being strapped into what was referred to as the “go-kart” (it was more like an electric wheelchair.) Eliza- beth Warren despised go-karting, but had committed to regularly driving one among her constituents in order to show how much she liked it. Today I was playing Eliza- beth Warren so that she didn’t have to. I drove through the streets, avoiding obstacles and giving a senatorial wave. When I arrived at the picnic tents, 57 nocturnal emissions it was unclear how many people though I was Elizabeth Warren and how many knew I was myself. I sensed that most people believed I was her, but that elites and other senators saw through me. I bantered with the constituents. “I started wearing velvet because I was losing my hair. My wife said it would fx it,” said a middle-aged man. “And just look at you now!” I joked, pointing at his bald head. Everyone laughed. Te man looked very sad. Senator Blumenthal pulled me aside. “Listen, you little pissant, I know what you’re up to.” “Senator, I’m afraid I don’t know who you are,” I said, grinning. He couldn’t press the point, because he knew that I knew his father (his son’s grandfather) had been a Soviet collaborator.

u u u u

We prisoners of war were being kept in Hitler’s apartment. It was the last days of the war, and Hitler only had control of a small sector of Berlin in the blocks around his apartment. We never saw Hitler, though, and our guards were clearly unenthused about their jobs, letting us freely plot various escape plans. I helped the guinea pig to escape by tossing her out the window. But she came back. “How will I escape?” she said. “Trough the window,” I replied, exasperated afer having already shown her. “Tere’s nothing for a guinea pig out there,” she said 58 nocturnal emissions wistfully. Afer going for a walk to survey some recent bomb-damage, Ryan Cooper returned to the apartment with hundreds of toys, in giant sacks. I told him the toys were useless, that we wouldn’t be able to take toys with us when we escaped. “Berlin is full of them,” he said.

“Kids Say the Darndest Tings” Sept. 25th, 2014

I fnally got to be a contestant on “Kids Say the Darndest Tings,” and thought of something extremely witty to say. But just before Bill Cosby got to me, the producers realized I was 25 and pulled me ofstage.

“Te German Restaurant” Sept. 27th, 2014

I discovered a restaurant far more terrible and monstrous than the Alligator Restaurant. It was called Te German Restaurant. I do not know what was inside, but I knew I must never enter. [Note that there was no hint that the contents had anything to do with Nazism]

59 “Christian Books Section” Sept. 29th, 2014

Children were sitting all over the foor. It was my job to hand out their syllabi. I was walking among them, stepping over them, trying to fnd children that did not already have syllabi. But nearly all of them did. So I resorted to new tactics. “Does anyone want a syllabus that has been baptized?” I said. Afer a few minutes of doing this and a positive response from the children, I became very uncomfortable, because I realized a preacher was standing nearby and that the concept of baptizing a syllabus was probably ofensive. But the preacher was distracted. He was complaining to the children that few of them seemed interested in the Christian books section at the campus bookstore, and that the Christian books section was now full of books that had nothing to do with Christianity.

60 “Veteran’s Day Cookout” Sept. 30th, 2014

I had ordered a small live octopus (it was clear and could ft in your palm). When the box arrived in the post, I discovered that the octopus had been wrapped inside a much larger orange octopus that appeared to be dead. My octopus was squirming around inside the dead one, and I removed it. It jumped all over the room, sticking to things. I agreed with Roland that he would allow me to store my octopus in one of his tanks, if he could keep the dead one. (We had prodded it a fair bit to be sure it wasn’t asleep.) I flled a tank with water, but I couldn’t fnd a lid, so my octopus kept jumping out. It was feisty but friendly.

u u u u

Oren and I walked across a Brutalist-Colonial style campus. Oren was ficking his pocketknife at the undergraduates to frighten them.

u u u u

It was Veteran’s Day, and a crowd had gathered on the lawn beside the canal to celebrate. Tere was a big cookout and people on blankets. Pigeons were swimming in the canal. and if you went over to the concession building, you could buy the right to feed individual pigeons.

61 nocturnal emissions

You were then entitled to wade out into the muddy canal and hand pieces of bread to the particular pigeons whose title you had secured. I put some Chuck Berry on the boombox and played it loud, which everyone liked. I walked over to the concession to buy title to some pigeons. Just then, a Veteran’s Funeral Parade came marching somberly down alongside the canal. Everyone stood up, took of their hats, and saluted. It was very clear that we were supposed to pay silent respect, but the Chuck Berry I had put on was still playing loudly and ofensively. I couldn’t go over and turn it of without losing my place in line. Te song was so upbeat that it made the procession appear ridiculous. I ofended many veterans.

“A Perfect Distribution” Oct. 2nd, 2014

I look around when I hear someone say “Well, if we assume a perfect distribution of cat meows over time…”

62 “Chickenscratch Congressman” Oct. 6th, 2014

I have decided to run for Congress in Sarasota, to defeat Christine Jennings. I walk down Main Street in my white suit to the Supervisor of Elections’ ofce, ready to sign the paperwork to run. I meet a young would-be voter, who says this: “I am excited to come of age, so that I can pull the lever and cast my ballot. I have two political beliefs, which are that education is important and that 9/11 didn’t happen.” Stephen Bright awaits me at the ofce and makes an introduction to the Supervisor for me. “Tis is Nathan Robinson, his handwriting is like chickenscratch but he’ll make a good Congressman!” I go into the ofce and shake hands with the supervisor. I fnd I am very nervous when asking her for the paperwork, since running for Congress seems so pre- sumptuous. Later I discover there is a lot of vague corruption in the town (like a vegetable-stand that closes suddenly whenever I walk past it.)

u u u u

A student in our seminar, Chip Berlet Jr., goes insane during a class session. He is called on by the professor 63 nocturnal emissions to answer a question, and instead gives a lengthy speech about how he cannot continue with graduate school. We look down at our inboxes while he is talking and notice that he has also sent us his answer as an email, but the email version also includes a promise that he will not return to school tomorrow and shoot us. Of course, this incident is the end of his academic career. We all know Berlet’s father is the famous billionaire and cult investigator, but that cannot save him. An outside expert is brought in from Indiana University to calm Berlet, Jr. He is a jolly man who speaks only through videoconference. He reassures Berlet, Jr. that even though he probably thinks he has made a horrible mistake, someday he will think this was the best day of his life. He promises to take Berlet, Jr. to Indiana to show him how beautiful it is there. For the remainder of the semester, the original professor is replaced with Noam Chomsky, whose equations I fnd unintelligible. I accidentally annoy the rest of the graduate students by not being able to use the lightswitch properly. I fnd myself feeling much the way Chip Berlet, Jr. must have done. Can two students go insane in one semester?

64 “Berlin” Oct. 9th, 2014

I realize I have kept Oren in Berlin too long, and that now the situation for him is very dangerous. I encourage him to leave while there’s still time. We say our goodbyes. Two hours later, I discover him wandering the streets of the city. Furious, I ask him why he hasn’t lef. “Tere’s no way out,” he says. “It’s over.”

“I Began To Weep” Oct. 11th, 2014

I began to weep uncontrollably as I tried to explain that everything every generation of humans had done before me had been so that I could now be here.

65 “Law School Dining Hall” Oct. 12th, 2014

Tere was a lot of confusion between me and the man behind the counter. He did not speak, but I could not convince him to give me a sandwich instead of a danish. He appeared to believe that the pronunciation of both words was the same.

u u u u

Te red-faced patriarch of a Southern family remarked loudly as he passed through: “Well, I like the law school, but I’m not very impressed by this dining hall!” “It’s not a dining hall,” I replied. “You’re in the kitchen- ette of my apartment.” I went to investigate whether the building was as unstable as they said it was. While I was inside, the building collapsed. We were called into a meeting with the company at which each person ofered $680 in compensation. I made a powerful case to the group that they should not accept such a pitiful amount. At the end of my speech, the crowd rose to their feet and unanimously rejected the settlement. “Tat was some speech,” someone told me aferwards. “Well, a building fell on me!” I said.

66 “Monumentalist Lefism” Oct. 14th, 2014

Tere was an American subway crisis, a serious one this time, in which the ground literally shifed beneath our feet. Te Lef found itself completely discredited by its response. Some aspects of its ideology did survive, but Monumentalist Lefism was no longer tenable and forever disappeared. Oren was totally unable to use my subway pass. “Just try it at another gate!” I shout at him, exasperated. He does, and it opens, but not in the way either of us expect it to.

u u u u

Celebrity chef Greg Armin declares loudly to the host of American Idol that he would never stoop so low as to appear on such a show. We then cut to American Idol, to reveal that Greg Armin has in fact made guest appear- ances fve times before.

67 “Trivial Pursuit By Another Name” Oct. 21st, 2014

“I own a piece of land, too,” I told him proudly. True, it wasn’t anything like his 400,000 acres, but I did own some: .25 acres on the edge of London. Actually, I was very worried, because I had spent all my money on the land, and now the tax was due. I had no money for the tax, so I was going to lose the land. But I was still telling the truth when I told him I owned some land.

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“Wait, this is just Trivial Pursuit by another name!” I exclaimed. “We know that,” they said, and tried to calm me down.

68 “Pumpkin” Oct. 22nd, 2014

I was surprised that the guards let the prisoners have as many pumpkins as they liked. “Oh, pumpkins are useless,” the warden told me. “You can’t do anything with a pumpkin. Let alone escape.” “I could use a pumpkin to escape,” one of the inmates chimed in. “I would put a pumpkin where my head was supposed to be.” “Ten we would make that pumpkin explode, wouldn’t we?” retorted the guard with a laugh.

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“Why are you looking at me strangely?” she asked me. “Well, you said you were going to the bathroom to pee, you lef, and three seconds later you returned, coming from the opposite side of the house.” “You’re exaggerating.” I was not exaggerating.

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Te wind in the library was so strong that I was fxed to one spot, unable to take a step in any direction. Everyone else was shouting “Move!” but that didn’t help.

69 “Ebola” Oct. 23rd, 2014

I tested positive for Ebola. Because I was on the news, sales of California Sojourn skyrocketed (they had showed the cover on CNN: “Massachusetts Ebola Patient Writes Children’s Book”). But the more the book was talked about, the more people lef it negative reviews, partly because for some reason the books suddenly all had blank pages, and partly because I had given America Ebola.

“El Guapo” Oct. 24th, 2014

I was writing a pilot for Mexican television. It was to be a cannibalistic detective story, starring Detective Elliott, universally agreed (except by some) to be the world’s most careful sleuth. Det. Elliott’s catchphrase, which he used when people asked him why he was so special, was “Te only diference between me and your ordinary detective is that the windows on my car are divided into more segments.” I went location scouting and found the perfect place to flm the rendezvous scene, an old gas station with water fowing through it so fast that you had to sit on the pumps in order to avoid being swept away. A lifeguard

70 nocturnal emissions at the gas station told those of us who had come to see it that we would have to leave, because cleanup eforts afer the recent John Kerry talk held there were taking longer than expected. I would call my show El Guapo, or La Bella Dolce.

“Skinderprints” Nov. 2nd, 2014

I came up with a product, “Skinderprints,” which were underwear with pictures of genitals on them, for those who were not yet ready to show partners their parts, but still wanted to give a rough sense of what they were carrying underneath.

“All Sof Choices” Nov. 3rd, 2014

Someone whispered advice: “In chess, all ‘sof choices’ (those you don’t have to make) are either a mistake or arbitrary.”

71 “Gilad X” Nov. 5th, 2014

I was attempting to get to the airport, but there were military checkpoints throughout the neighborhood. Te soldiers were searching for a fugitive, Gilad X. I had seen Gilad X only an hour before, but I knew if I disclosed this they would never let me make my fight. We were waved through the frst checkpoint. But then my mother told me she had lef Gilad X’s golf clubs in the trunk of the car, and that they had his name sewn on them in enormous bubble-letters. If the soldiers looked in the trunk we were doomed. We made it through the second checkpoint as well, but at the third we were asked to get out of the car. Te soldiers were all bald women. Tey said they were Israeli, but this was clearly untrue. Tey looked in the windows, but didn’t notice the golf clubs. A soldier took me into a trailer, and began asking me questions. Ten I felt a sharp pain in my spine and wrist, and noticed there were needles in me. A TV mon- itor began showing my memories. Flashes of Gilad X’s forehead appeared, from just the angle I had seen it an hour before. “Aha!” said the soldier. “I didn’t consent to this,” I said. “You can’t extract my memories without permission.” She laughed louder and I gave up all hopes of making my fight.

72 “Two Examinations” Nov. 9th, 2014

Te PhD examinations included a “custom” section that was based on the profle of your interests as determined by your online history. I opened the test packet and found that I was expected to answer forty questions on Mo Willems’s Pigeon book series.

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To my surprise, the bar exam had introduced a “golf ” component, and I wondered whether “not being good at golf ” qualifed as a disability for the purposes of an exemption.

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“I can deal with rats,” I told the hotel manager. “Te mere presence of rats in my room is not the problem. It is the fact that they are so very unashamed.”

73 “Te Liberal Democratic Party” Nov. 15th, 2014

Te leaders of the Liberal Democratic Party are meeting in my kitchen. “Te problem is that a lot of racists have been joining the Party,” said the chairman. “Well, perhaps the Party should adopt some planks, or statements of principle,” I suggest. “Oh no no, we want to be inclusive,” he replies.

“Te Google Button” Nov. 13th, 2014

Setting: post-apocalyptic America. All surviving humans have crowded into the grand hall of an old conference center. We have one useful tool lef: a foating Google button. You can say anything to the button, and it will produce an exact (though unusable) replica of it. Te only thing we have been warned not to say to it is “100 million consequences of globalization”; because doing so will turn half the world into the carcasses of fac- tories and robots. A boy named Chip says the fateful words; not only that, but he says them indoors, where the results are even more sudden and devastating. 74 nocturnal emissions

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“If you’re such a political scientist,” says Abby to me as she hands me a Scantron, “let’s see how you do on this test.” I look at the questions. “What causes political strife?” My choices include “A. Because they said so.” and “B. Te 99%” I skip this one and examine the next. “Who is the transit manager for the city of Quincy, MA?” “Abby,” I say, “I’m ofended by this test. It’s clear you’re just trying to make a point about how little I know.” Abby continues to pop one lens out of each pair of glasses she fnds.

75 “Five Charles Dickens Novels” Nov. 19th, 2014

An ordinary housecat is painted to look like a tiger. I know it is a housecat but am afraid of it anyway.

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A prostitute and her client speak in euphemisms to avoid the law. People are supposed to talk about “books” instead of sex. “I’d like fve Charles Dickens novels.” “Honey, just say ‘books.’ You want fve books.”

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I spend most of my time searching every power outlet for a very specifc type of charger that I have lef somewhere. I speak to a man through fowers.

76 “Bzzzzzzzzz” Nov. 28th, 2014

We were writing a sitcom about college-age men but struggling to come up with jokes. A sample scene, between two people: “Our dorm has stickers of bees on the door.” “Yeah?” “Tey say ‘Bzzzzzz.’” “Uh-huh.” “But the girls’ dormitory doesn’t have bee stickers.” “No?” “Why do you think that is?” “Well, with girls it becomes dirty, doesn’t it?” “What do you mean?” “It means vibrators. Bzzzzzzzzzzzz. You can’t say that.” “Oh, I guess not.”

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I was politely asked to stop photographing Rev. Billy Graham’s cornrows. “I’m just trying to get some reference pictures of 1970’s furniture,” I protested.

77 “Te Water” Dec. 5th, 2014

Te water is the most brilliant shade of glowing turquoise I have ever seen. As my father drowns me in it, it turns cold, black, and viscous.

“Wonkavator” Dec. 7th, 2014

I am envious of a journalist who has been given a James Jones Fellowship to write about “somatic policing.” A dispute erupts between Willy Wonka and a tour group afer Wonka reveals he is sending them all to be stretched in the tafy-room. (Eventually Wonka agrees to give up power and join the ranks of the tour group.) Every time I move my face, I get an additional wrinkle, forcing me to paralyze myself. I am asked what I think the key insights are from a reading I have not done.

78 “Diner” Dec. 8th, 2014

Charles C. Johnson meets me at a diner, then stabs me repeatedly in the eye with a candy cane.

[Note: several days afer this dream, the real Charles John- son is accused of having once stabbed someone in the leg with a ballpoint pen unprovoked. I consider my dream to have been a prescient assessment of his character, as well as evidence pointing to his guilt in the alleged ballpoint incident.]

“Bellybutton” Dec. 9th, 2014

A blonde man insists on driving his fnger so far into my belly button that it bursts through into my guts.

[Note: this marks the fourth consecutive dream involving the destruction of my body.]

79 “Alan” Dec. 12th, 2014

I was out of my depth hosting a radio interview with a horde of psychologists. “But did you control for the infuence of men?” I asked, thinking this was a good question. “No, Alan,” the psychologists laughed. “We did not.” Tey called me “Alan” every time I said something igno- rant. I could not get rid of the upstairs neighbor’s cat, which was called “Anus.”

“Wedding/Walls” Dec. 13th, 2014

Te wedding feast consisted entirely of Nerds Rope. My grandmother prodded it. I attempted to paint straight black and red lines on the walls, but made an embarrassing mess. Te magazine’s editor told me that a true communist would have done better.

80 “Nautical Semester” Dec. 14th, 2014

Te law school brochure indicated that we could spend next semester on a ship if we so chose. Te ship had a life- boat twice its size, which the brochure promised would be made of brand-new Lego. I impress the professor in two ways: by continuing to call her “Professor” long afer everyone else has begun to use her frst name only, and by reminding her of the names of the Teletubbies whenever she forgets them.

“Pink Slips” Dec. 18th, 2014

I am bitten all over by cats, whom I am convinced are working for Wall Street.

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Tey line us up beside the river. “As you know, there are ten employees. We are going to toss nine pieces of paper into the water from the bridge. You will all dive in, and whoever does not come up with a piece of paper will be fred.” Only the Working Class Boy and I refuse to dive in. We are both fred. Our employers think it is very funny that the paper is pink.

81 “Political Science” Dec. 19th, 2014

Te Political Science Department is putting on a “singing panel discussion” in the Grand Teater. Many famous professors are there, all of them pretending to be disabled. Te Brooklyn College delegation have all had their heads shaved specially. I watch the performance from a hole in the ceiling. I have never seen so much confetti, or so many acrobats. Te spectacle is extraordinary. Te panelists become lost in piles of confetti and acrobats. I retreat to the women’s dressing room, to recover a shoe I lef there during a sexual encounter. I am forced to hide among coats afer the semester begins unexpectedly.

82 “Block Quotes fom Hannah Arendt” Dec. 21st, 2014

“Statistics are not evidence,” I insisted. “Only block- quotes from Hannah Arendt are evidence.”

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As we descended further into the catacombs, I picked of her other suitors one by one. Her boyfriend went frst; I poured him coconut liqueur from a crystal decanter. He drank too many and got a bellyache. Te big one I distracted with a newspaper; I told him there was some good news today. Te next one I lost at the elevator; I pretended I couldn’t fnd the button to hold the door for him. For a moment aferward, I lost her myself. I found myself racing alone down a staircase in the middle of a cavernous hangar. But on the beach, I found her dorm room, and she began to kiss me all over.

83 “Te Doughnut Breakfast” Dec. 22nd, 2014

To impress a girl, I make her a beautiful doughnut breakfast aboard a luxury barge. But by the time she arrives, I have given every doughnut to a stranger. I tell her that generosity is more beautiful than breakfast. She scowls.

“Jeb” Dec. 28th, 2014

I argue vigorously with Jeb Bush’s daughter over whether it should be considered shameful to have been an elected ofcial. She is humiliated when her father shows up to support my position.

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I lie about a murder, insisting it must have been a sui- cide. Every day the sherif comes over to question me; each time we speak I am more convinced that my motives for lying are pure.

84 “Making It In Te Industry” Dec. 30th, 2014

As I heard shouting up ahead, I realize I have lingered too long in the village. Te demonstrators are being shot. What begun as a protest of the release of Guardians of the Galaxy is now a bloodbath. I seek refuge in a nearby grate, burrowing downward into the earth, hoping to happen across some public transit. But instead I fnd myself in an underground conference room, with twenty executives talking quietly. Instead of a table, they sit around a vast aquarium full of colourful fsh. Standing in the doorway, I burst into laughter upon realizing the situation. But to my surprise they do not call security, and instead invite me in. Tey tell me that if I want to “make it” in this industry, I need to show them what I’m made of. Tey set a timer, and tell me I need to have all the fsh pointing in the same direction. I tell them this is impossible, that a fsh’s angle is difcult to control. Tey tell me that sort of attitude will not get me far, and toss me into the tank.

85 “Waves” Jan. 3rd, 2015

As the waves crash over me, I think about what their OkCupid profles would look like. “I’ll get you very wet on Christmas Eve” is the line that comes to mind. I am so proud for thinking of this that I fail to notice myself drown.

“Advice to Undergraduates” Jan. 4th, 2015

“Don’t have any experiences that I didn’t have before you,” I say to the new Brandeis undergraduates. “Live my life exactly as I have lived it.” But they refuse to take me seriously. Tey say that a man who is afraid of the sociology building is not worth listening to. I repeat my insistence that from the center of the sociology building, the wind outside sounds like wolves.

86 “Leopard” Jan. 11th, 2015

I publish a book entitled History fom the Leopard to the Crucifx. When asked to explain the premise, I say: “Tere are some things so inappropriate that we would not tweet them to our Common Ancestors.”

“Font Sizes” Jan 14th, 2015 I run into Ted Cruz while walking around my neighborhood. He is sweaty, t-shirted, and covered in flth. His hair has turned completely white. I become very nervous, thinking he will bring up the article in which I repeatedly called him an idiot. Instead he asks me if he can look at a memo I supposedly once wrote for him about font sizes. “Tat was years ago,” I say. “Why do you want to see that again?” “Because I’m running for President,” he replies, spit- ting everywhere. It appears he has taken some kind of drug. His eyes are crazed. “A president MUST KNOW ABOUT FONT SIZES,” he screams. Terrifed, I open my inbox to fnd the memo. But it is full of emails from people congratulating me for writing an article calling Ted Cruz an idiot. He notices, but does

87 nocturnal emissions not appear to care. Instead he says: “Let me tell you a joke I’ve been using at fundraisers.” “Okay.” I have a sense the joke will be racist. “Te proboscis monkey has been contracting a virus that makes its fesh rot. Scientists don’t know the cause, but they say it’s okay because the only ones that die are on welfare.” I look at him aghast. “It’s getting huge laughs with Republican donors.” “I have no doubt of that,” I reply.

“Zounds” Jan 15th, 2015

I am put on the defensive about my novel Zounds!: Lyons and Hounds, which is about a boy who inherits a zoo. Most people seem to believe the title is intended to contain a subtle critique of Zionism.

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“But if you have admitted that believing in your philos- ophy would ultimately kill us all,” I ask the speaker, “isn’t that a fairly good reason for us not to adopt it?” He is slightly taken aback. “I- I’ll have to think about that.”

88 “Such Trivialities as Plot” Jan 16th, 2015

I star in a flm about a lonely man trapped in a decaying airport. Critics praise the flm for “daring to prioritize architecture over such trivialities as plot.”

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Tey are trying to talk me into joining the Graduate Stu- dents Union. “What is the Union fghting for?” I ask. “We want all meals on the Harvard jet to be served with fowers,” they reply.

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All of the nuns’ phones rang at once. It was the Dean, telling them the good news that they would soon be upgraded to Knights.

89 “Te Array” Feb. 1st, 2015

Just as I had fnished putting the last fower in its array, they strode through the door. “I am so glad you could make it!” I told them. “It will be $100 per night.” He appeared surprised. “But I thought you had invited us to come and stay with you.” “No,” I said. “I am the manager of a hotel. What you received was an advertisement. It is nice to see an old friend again, though.” “Tis is my wife,” he said, realizing he had not introduced her. “I didn’t think you could get married,” I said. “Oh, she’s not really my wife,” he clarifed. “She’s just some woman I met on a train today.” Te woman glared at him, disgusted. “Well, I’ll show you both to the suite.” I pointed the way. But it turned out I had got the wrong room, and we all soon found ourselves being escorted from the building.

90 “Te Beheading” Feb. 9th, 2015

Te judge ruled that I had caused the housing crisis, and must therefore be beheaded. “Don’t worry,” whispered my lawyer. “She’s blufng.” She did not appear to be blufng. Ultimately, the news of my death sentence gained me 400 new Twitter followers.

“Serial Killer” Feb. 18th, 2015

In the diner, she wept. “I’m pregnant with your child,” she confessed to me through tears. “Oh, well, that’s alright, I suppose,” I replied nervously. “But I’m also dating a serial killer. And he knows about the baby. And about us. And he’s on his way here.” “Ah. Well, in that case, I... I think I’ll be heading of now,” I said, backing out the door. “No, don’t go. Do you hate me? Is that it?” I reassured her that that wasn’t it. Marcos (the serial killer) found me as I was trying frantically to unlock my bicycle. He wore a bowtie and a six- gun. I did not even make it to the edge of the parking lot.

91 “ISIS” Feb. 19th, 2015

Afer capsizing my ambulance in Riyadh, I was kidnapped by ISIS. On the whole, conditions in the prison camp were not as bad as I had expected. Tey had opened a small shop where the inmates could buy shorts. ISIS had its own version of the FAA (Federal Aviation Administration), which they called the EFAA (the “E” stood for “Evil.”) Tere were group calisthenics. We were each given cats. For the frst time in my life, I was truly happy. But then, at Movie Night, I accidentally lef my cell- phone on and it began to ring during the flm. For this, I was rightly beheaded.

“Topiary Dentist” Feb. 27th, 2015

A neighbor chastises me for mispronouncing the word “topiary.” “It’s topi-ah-ry or to-pee-a-ree, not to-pi-airy.” A dentist is skeptical when I tell him my teeth are falling out. I show him the places in my mouth where the teeth used to be, but he insists that since I cannot fnd the teeth, I have not really lost them.

92 “Difering Conceptions of the Optimal” Feb. 28th, 2015

I had taken a job as a prison guard in a remote part of New York state. Tere was a general consensus that I was excellent at my job; I always kept my uniform impecca- ble even though the foors of the prison were made from mud. One afernoon, the prison caught fre. I realized that all of the inmates would perish, as they were locked inside. Braving the confagration, I opened all of the fre doors, and let everyone out. Te smoke billowing, they scattered to the hills. I was proud of my heroism. But to my surprise, the supervisors were furious. I tried to defend myself “But there is no longer a prison! And everybody is free now! It is the optimal outcome!” As they shouted at me for letting the prisoners go, I came to realize that we maintained difering conceptions of the optimal.

93 “Te First Innovation” March 3rd, 2015

As I ran a series of red lights, I fnally realized that I had once written one of George W. Bush’s State of the Union addresses for him. I was overcome with shame. When I arrived at business school, we were asked to defne what an innovation was. “Innovation is a single piece of glass,” I said profoundly. In large capital letters on the whiteboard, the instructor wrote: GRASS: THE FIRST INNOVATION. I tried to ride a horse to the cofeeshop but it wouldn’t stop defecating.

“Brandeis Day” March 10th, 2015

It was Brandeis Day, which meant that all of the lawyers in Paris were gathering in the stadium. As we mingled with the undergraduates’ families, light entertainment was ofered at various booths. An elderly hippie was performing failed card tricks, a woman cried because she couldn’t play the ring toss. As for myself, I paced frantically through the stadium, desperate to fnd Playmobil. But in the canteen, I was stopped by Glenn Greenwald, who asked if I knew any prison slang I could teach him.

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I emitted a garbled series of nonsensical syllables, and he walked away disgusted. (Tat night, however, he would kiss me sofly on the lips.) Later, I ruined the dinner party of some exceptionally touchy French people.

“Te Nigeria Bridge” March 16th, 2015

Te Nigeria Bridge was a Gothic bridge, which encased the Pan-African Highway as it traveled across the Niger, one thousand feet in the air. In addition to the highway, behind its windows and spires, the Nigeria Bridge contained endless cavernous rooms and a series of breathtaking viewing platforms. I had entered the Nigeria Bridge afer being warned that Boko Haram was looking for me. Te woman who had sold me a hamburger, a fellow American, had bonded with me over the fact that neither of us realized it was vegan. My aim was to get across the Nigeria Bridge to the Houses of Parliament, which were at the bridge’s exit on the other side of the river. But the bridge’s chambers were teeming with bellhops, whose loyalties I could not count on. I ducked and wove through hallways and across platforms, before coming face to face with a bellhop, who winced. I decided to tell him everything. 95 nocturnal emissions

“I am trying to escape from Boko Haram,” I said. “You must speak to the Federal Prosecutor,” he replied, and showed me the way out of the bridge. Te Houses of Parliament were flled with elaborate murals, which at alternate moments seemed either like crude cartoons or delicate masterpieces. I attempted to take pictures of them with my phone, so that I could show you, but then realized I was dreaming and felt like an idiot. Te Federal Prosecutor sat amid fling cabinets, in a pale blue Oxford shirt. He was a white South African with ginger hair, though he used “mate” like an Austra- lian. He agreed to show me the parliamentary staircase that people took to get away from Boko Haram. But as we passed back through the foyer, I ran into a tour group, which derailed the whole plan. Te last thing I remember, I was attempting to strangle a fat man who had threatened to give me away.

“Te Funicular” March 19th, 2015

I arrived in a small Argentinian village, and was immediately impressed by its network of underground funicular transit. Tere were at least two subway stops for every house. When I realized they kept the newspaper stands open past midnight, I knew I could live here forever, though an optical illusion meant there were fewer 96 nocturnal emissions streets than I had frst thought. I bought a copy of the Paris Review, which was running a special issue devoted to Suey Park’s poetry. Walking into a bakery, I burst into tears. I tried to explain what the reelection of Benjamin Netanyahu meant to me. It meant, I explained as I bawled, that we had given up all hope of not killing ourselves. Tat everything I loved and believed was destined to be despised. When the village talent show came, I was asked to fll in for Ethel Merman, who did not show up.

“Te Prosecutor” March 20th, 2015 Te prosecutor knew what I was up to, and stapled my hand to the desk. “I may be a prosecutor, but I’m no snitch!” he bellowed. When he had lef, she freed me and kissed me against the window of the 14th foor.

97 “Beach Ball” March 21st, 2015

“Please,” I said to the owner of the diner. “He’s my friend. And he’s wearing a suit this time.” “I told you,” he replied, sympathetic but unyielding. “Harry Nilsson is not allowed in my restaurant.” Harry, standing outside the window, made puppy-dog eyes. “It’s not 2009 anymore,” I protested. “And he has a beautiful singing voice.” “Give me your cell phone,” said the restaurateur. I obliged. “Tere, see. Pending criminal charges. I don’t care how turquoise his shirt is, he’s going to beat it.” For hours, I sat alone at the counter, commiserating with the chef over the death of my friend.

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I had a beach ball between my legs, and the ftness instructor was telling me to squeeze it as hard as possible. I told him I couldn’t do it. “It’s easy,” he replied. “Just imagine it’s the head of a Supreme Court Justice.”

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In the hallway, Emma Goldman managed to swindle me out of $1.2 million worth of colourful handicrafs, which I had been appointed to look afer. I wasn’t upset about that, but when she questioned my ethics as a doc-

98 nocturnal emissions umentary flmmaker, the situation became intolerable. Nobody in the dormitory of the screenwriters’ camp would make eye contact with me afer that.

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Biggie and I were robbing a bank, along with a small boy. We went in carrying a cardboard box flled with dollar-bills, and told the bank manager we wanted that much “times two.” But when we came out, the boy realized we had only two boxes on the cart. “Where’s the third box?” he shouted. “Tis is just our frst box, plus another!” “Tat’s right,” replied a nearby security guard, with a satisfed smile. “Your original box was 1. Times two is 2. Two boxes.” “No, we meant you give us two times the number of boxes that we already had. We’ve got one. Multiplied by two is two. So you give us two boxes and we already have one which makes three! Tree boxes!” “Sorry, kid. You asked for two boxes, and you’re leaving with two boxes. You got exactly what you asked.” Te child swore. But there was no time to return and argue, for the police had showed up and begun shooting, riddling the child with separate holes for each of his pro- fanities. Biggie and I made it to the SUV, but we could not save the child, who had tarried too long counting boxes. In the car, it became clear that Biggie was bleeding profusely from a bullet-wound. “Would you like to go 99 nocturnal emissions home, or perhaps to a hospital?” I asked him sweetly. “Hospital,” he gurgled. When we arrived at the hospital, a parade of nurses came out and carried me in with an elaborate musical welcome-routine, leaving Biggie in the car moaning. “No, no,” I insisted feebly. “I am not the patient!” “Of course. Do not worry. You must see the hospital director.” Tey brought me into the director’s ofce. He began to prod me. “Any recent aches? Pains? Troubles? Woes? Can I fx you up with any medicine?” I told him that I needed nothing, but that I had a dying friend. He was entirely uninterested. “Hang on a minute!” I exclaimed. “Tis is because I’m WHITE, isn’t it?” Te director paused. “Yes.” Tey were, however, kind enough to give me a compli- mentary miniature top hat to place on Biggie’s corpse.

“Sex Pistols/Melanie” March 25th, 2015

I had been appointed interim drummer for the Sex Pis- tols. I was dreadful. I ruined every show. I refused to play with drumsticks, would only play with brushes. I insisted that this added “complexity” to their sound. 100 nocturnal emissions

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John Cage, Jr. had spent his entire life creating the Mel- anie. He had never done anything else. I described the Melanie to people this way: It was a metal box, about two feet wide, three feet long, and one foot deep. Te outside was a dull brushed tin (though it, too, had its secrets), but when you opened the door of the Mela- nie, you saw a small cluster of coloured plastic triangles arranged into a star on a bright white surface. When you fipped a triangle, they would begin to clatter, producing more triangles seemingly from nowhere, erupting and cascading like a thousand Jacob’s Ladders. Tey grew in every direction, forming an array of three-dimensional geometries in every colour. Mountains grew and disappeared, arising as much as two feet out of the Melanie. All of the shapes could be fipped in order to cause the Melanie to make still more shapes, or return to its original formation. All of this was only half of the Melanie’s function (so we thought.) For if you rotated the back- ground, the other side of the Melanie contained a massive, intricate diorama full of wooden fgurines that lived its own independent life. John Cage, Jr. had intended the Melanie to be the most precious object in the world. It was. I do not know how the Melanie came into my possession. But most of my time was spent staring at it, showing it of to others, and then guarding it from those others’ jealousy. Eventually, my brother and I decided the Mela- 101 nocturnal emissions nie was not safe in the city, and took it to the beach. Tat was where we discovered the secret of its xylophone. Te metal exterior of the Melanie was divided into segments, and each segment was a note on a xylophone. Deceived by the Melanie’s dull appearance, my brother and I had never thought to strike the segments. But when we did, each emitted a note of such perfect beauty that we could hardly breathe. One did not need skill to play the Melanie; every sequence and combination of notes produced a harmonious perfection. Unable to contain himself now that we knew the full extent of the object’s magic, my brother shot me in the head and ran away with the Melanie.

“Sea Turtle” April 10, 2015

Nabisco is the frst company to colonize space. Te talk show host makes an excellent joke about CharlieCards, which I am comforted by because my CharlieCard mal- functions at the very instant the joke is told. Two women ofend a sea turtle by tossing it back into the water and remarking that there is no life on this beach. A woman thinks she is extremely funny when she says “My position on the St. Vitus’s Dance is a bit shaky.” We are shown an incredible series of painted ceilings that make many of us orgasm.

102 “1915” April 16, 2015

His fate is sealed the moment I accidentally pocket the keys to his truck. I try to prevent two cats from having sex; they attack me, but I am stronger than two cats. It is 1915, and I laugh with some cousins about how transit in 1915 means I rarely get to see them. A woman is shot before she can make it to the Land Rover. I explain to a moviegoer that an entrance and an exit are really the same thing.

“Tofu Fireman” April 19th, 2015

I told them I could no longer take care of the greenhouse, that it had become too flthy and the creatures inside it too unusual. When the creatures heard me tender my res- ignation, they tried to wrap me in vines. When I fed to a hotel room I thought I was free of them. But I soon realized that an orb-shaped bug had hidden itself in my anus. I yanked it out and shattered it into hundreds of petals. Tere were two conventions being held at my hotel, one about gardening and one about bondage. I was supposed to go to the gardening convention, but decided the other would be more useful. Te leaders of the bondage convention were skeptical

103 nocturnal emissions of me. Tey told me that if I wanted to prove myself, I would have to do something I was completely unaccus- tomed to: sit in the driver’s seat of a stick-shif Volvo, complaining about the baseball team. I sat for four hours. When I eventually became bored, I tried to see if I could wear the brakes out through dangerous maneuvers. A fre engine’s siren annoyed me, so I rammed it of the road. Te freman confronted me, furious, but I noticed he was made of tofu so I just began tearing pieces of him and eating him. His hair was grated cheese.

“Te Turmoil” May 19th, 2015

My life is plunged into turmoil when I discover that the only way I can become sexually aroused is by committing bank robberies.

104 “Con Men” June 16th, 2015

As everything I have worked toward is slowly devoured by fames, I descend into the ground on the last remain- ing glass elevator. “Don’t worry,” says the man next to me, “someday you will write the sequel to 2 Girls 1 Cup. It will be called 8 Con Men 1 Hotel.” Te twist turns to be that in the end, the con men help each other out.

“Realtor” June 28th, 2015

“I don’t care how reasonably priced the château is,” I said to the realtor. “I’m not moving into a house that is known to contain velociraptors.”

105 “Leather” June 29th, 2015

Te mugger points a revolver at me. He demands that I hand over any and all leather I might have on me. “Shoes, belt, wallet. Anything with leather, hand it over!” he barks. “Te wallet is imitation leather,” I reply as he points at it. “Keep it then,” he says, as he gathers up my other items. “Here, I don’t want this.” He has removed the buckle from my belt. He gives it back to me, because it is not leather. “I’ve been pretty bad at being a mugging victim, haven’t I?” I ask him as he turns to leave. “Yes, you have.” He and I both laugh heartily.

u u u u

I am the producer of a cable news program. We are in the studio. “Try to look less like a hostage, and more like a news anchor,” I say to the news anchor.”

106 “Brother” July 1st, 2015

Each step in a staircase is covered with a diferent colour of neon fur.

u u u u

I mistake some ants for bees. “Remember that bees never march in grids,” I am told.

u u u u

I am annoyed at the other cable-car driver. Our cable- cars look exactly like Twinkies. He is driving his too slow, and so I purposefully ram him, for which we are both indicted. My frustration only increases when he refers to me as his “brother.” “3 Men Hit In Te Testicles,” says the newspaper head- line. “But I didn’t hit three men in the testicles,” I mutter. “I just hit three men, period.”

u u u u

I am mesmerized by a framed picture of a battle, half of which depicts a battle, and half of which depicts a framed picture of a battle. As the battle melts into the picture of the battle, we see how war becomes romanticized in image.

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I am shown a catalogue of books, and asked which I would like to display in my hall. I choose two board- books by Bob Pece, one entitled Scary Shapes and the other entitled Magnifcent Monsters.

“Beluga” July 12th, 2015

We spend all day chasing the White Whale. Each time we catch up with it, it eats many of our men. As dusk falls, we fnally manage to corner it with the help of some friendly belugas. When we remove it from the water, I remark that it resembles a Xerox machine more than a whale. Indeed, it soon begins making copies. We are about to drive the fnal spear into the whale, when I stop the crew. “Te whale is weak now,” I say. “What if we just turned it into an exhibit and let it snooze?” But Chester would have none of my mercy. “We can’t take the risk,” he says as he stabs it in the paper tray.

u u u u

I meet a girl who was raised by the whales. “I am 21,” she says. “I lived with the whales from the time I was 6 to the day I turned 20.” She is shy, as one might expect from a girl raised by whales.

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She sits on my lap, and we discuss life and whales. But there is something of about her story. “How did you sleep in the ocean?” I ask her. “Oh, I would sleep inside a hippopotamus,” she said. At this, I know she is lying. Everyone knows that hippopot- amuses are very dangerous. Disgusted by this betrayal, I buck her from my lap and she falls to the sand. As if on cue, two hippos trot past us and frown.

u u u u

Te waiter is singing us a song about why we should donate to the Servers’ Union. As he reaches his second chorus, however, a tidal wave engulfs the restaurant. As I am pulled beneath the water, I am relieved that I did not have to sufer the awkwardness of declining to donate to the Servers’ Union afer he had gone to the trouble of singing us a song.

[Note: I regularly experience dreams that consist simply of being engulfed by tsunamis. I do not note down each of these here, because they are repetitive and lacking in plot. However, I felt this particular incarnation of the tsuna- mi-dream was exceptional enough to share.]

109 “Te Crab Egg” July 14th, 2015

Te setting is London. I have come to the city on a whim, via the train that crosses the Atlantic. Te travel time is half an hour. Sitting in a courtyard with some children, I try to fgure out the true purpose behind the quadratic formula and fail. I traverse the staircase of an elaborate multicoloured Victorian building. On the frst foor, a man is giving lectures on legal ethics, and there is a restaurant called Te Crab Egg. On the second foor, some men are fguring out how to play vertical cricket, in which one player stands at the top of the stairs and the other stands at the bottom. Te object of vertical cricket is to get the ball into a cup of water without getting it wet. Te third foor contains another cricket team, the only diference being that these ones are more intoxicated than those on the second foor, and they wear orange instead of blue. On the fourth foor, my friends notice the lifeguard has not yet emerged from the bottom of the pool. One by one, my friends dive into the pool, and do not come up either. Finally I dive in and collect the frst friend, who collects the second, who collects the third, who collects the third, who collects the lifeguard. When the lifeguard regains consciousness, he explains that he has been searching for his drowning mother. I enter the pool

110 nocturnal emissions to look for the mother, and soon fnd her attached to the drain. I bring her to the surface, and realize she is perfectly dry, and also an octopus. Apprehensive about telling the lifeguard his mother has dried out, I ask my personal assistant to go and fetch me a small box that can serve as a cofn. She returns with something that resembles a purple steamer trunk, and is made of plastic. I tell her it will do. But when I hand it to the lifeguard and explain that his mother is dead, he becomes ofended at the gaudiness of the cofn I have selected for her. Te ffh foor is a private apartment, decorated with elaborate furnishings. I realize this must be where my assistant obtained the cofn. I tell my assistant (who has changed from a white female teenager to a young Indian man) that we ought to leave, that it is not right to stand in the middle of a private apartment. But he makes a con- vincing case that this is a museum of a private apartment rather than the apartment itself, and we decide to stay a minute longer before ascending. Tere is nothing to see on the roof deck. Returning to the frst foor, I realize that the lecture on legal ethics is just a scheme to exonerate the landlord of Te Crab Egg. Te quadratic formula fnally makes sense.

111 “Chalet” July 15th, 2015

My team enters the chalet to set down our things and unpack. Te walls of the chalet consist of layers and layers of gently billowing white bedsheets. Te ceiling, too, is a bedsheet, and occasionally droops on us. In the center of the chalet is the only object lef behind by the previous occupants: an elaborate mechanical food-preparer in a glass case. Tere is a hole in the top of the glass, into which you are supposed to insert an egg. When you add the egg, and press a button, the machine goes into action, frying the egg and chopping some veg- etables. It makes an entire delicious meal. But because there is only a hole in the top, you cannot retrieve the food once it is cooked. Te point of the machine is to allow you to watch the fried egg gradually rot, and contemplate the decay of all things. When this is done, the chalet is a mall. Every surface is covered in yellow bathroom tile, with a bright yellow light setting everyone aglow. I see red duvets being used to cover all of the mall’s skylights, and I realize the Zapa- tistas are about to take it hostage. My friends try to talk me into taking up arms alongside the Zapatistas, but I realize that I am too cowardly and also wearing a suit.

112 “Tiki” Aug. 18th, 2015

I am at the ofces Te Nation magazine for their annual Christmas party. Te ofces are in a remote farmhouse, with an elaborate set of exterior wooden decks. I was not invited to the party, but have come to submit my article. Te editor, who is drunk, takes the article from my hand and runs over to the tiki lamps. “Let’s see if it fies!” she says, tossing it into the fames. Te fre turns pink. “Pink!” she exclaims. “Tat’s good! We’ll publish it! You’re lucky it wasn’t blue.” At this, she laughs hysterically until she begins to choke. Te tiki lamp reassembles my article and it futters away. I begin to look for the lavatory, but every bathroom in the farmhouse is too small for me to ft into. Suddenly, I realize that every attendee of the party has been an aunt of mine at least once. Still searching for a toilet, I enter the old barn. Tere is an exhibit of a large mountain of oats. A bronze plaque in front of it says “Oats.” Well- dressed people survey the oats and politely clap. I accidentally fall in the oats. Te mountain crumbles. I am covered in oats. I cannot escape the pile; every time I struggle, the oats just spray into the air and I sink in further. Te guests begin to panic and fee. Te whole scene is chaos. “What are you doing in the oats with your shoes on?” screams the editor, as I realize I have no future in jour- nalism.

113 “Nelson” Aug. 19th, 2015

“I miss those days when my father was still there,” I think. “Back when we still lived in the dirigible, and we used to wave at people.” Washington, D.C.: I remember being called to the Pal- ace Plaza Hotel once before. I took the executive elevator from the courtyard. But that was impossible, I could not have been there before, because the only people that came here were lawyers on job interviews. And why had I been summoned there now? Yet the blue ring of light around the elevator button was impossible not to forget. When I got out at the top, I was greeted by a familiar voice, and I suddenly remembered it all. Te man with the golden bowtie. He is bald, with a shriveled face. Te bowtie is made from solid gold and has little black-and- white tips. It is actually more like a scarf than a bowtie. Te man with the golden bowtie has been there all my life, as a sort of mentor, I think. No, wait, it was a job interview. Te man with the golden bowtie is furious with me, and now I remember why. “Over $900 was paid to you for services,” he says, “and all we received were these pictures.” He was from the Princeton Review. Some time ago, I had been given a job grading tests, and then immediately forgotten about it. Instead of sending them the graded tests, I sent them photos of cowboys. Te man sends me to live with my mother, telling me

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I need to prove myself. My “mother” turns out to be a schoolteacher I have never met, but I quickly accept my role as her son. My name, it turns out, is Milhouse, and I have a brother named Nelson. Nelson is cruel to me. He resents the fact that each night, as he begins to do the dishes, I am still buttering my bread. Te frst time I meet my “mother,” I make her cry when she asks me if I like her sweater and I say it is too bright of an orange for my taste. When she gives me an oppor- tunity to replay the scene, I say instead that it is “unusually sof,” which makes her talk about my father and the dirigible. I fnd a job cleaning the baked bean remnants of lunch trays. I encourage my coworkers to learn the keytar with me, so that we can start a business recording radio jin- gles. I tell them I even know where to fnd a keytar: down the Very Wide Hallway. Te man with the golden bowtie and I have a fght in his ofce. I tell him he cannot fnd me, and he insists correctly that he can. I know he has my best interests at heart. At a beach party, nobody will sit next to Bill Cosby. He looks depressed, and I begin to tell him he can sit by me. Ten I remember that he is a rapist, and think better of it. Just then, a rousing speech begins in which the recent accomplishments of the union are listed.

115 “Grapes” July 15th, 2015 “You’re acting like a child,” I told Paula Deen. “Tat’s sexual harassment,” she replied, wrestling me to the ground. From the corner, Wesley the Cynic made a joke about beige sedans, in reference to a racist jibe Paula had noto- riously spoken the month before. Once Paula was distracted by my removal of her tou- pee, Wesley and I began to devour the grapes that grew from the ceiling. “We’ve lived here fve years and never thought to eat the grapes,” I said, and we both burst into laughter.

“Eagle” July 15th, 2015

Te auditorium was flled with students for the end-of- term celebrations. Many pompous administrators gave long-winded speeches. When it was my turn to speak, I told everyone I had something rather special to show them. I directed their attention to a pair of hundred-foot stepladders that I had placed side-by-side, with a tiny platform across them, just shy of the ceiling. I began climbing one of the ladders, with a microphone in my hand and a live eagle tucked under my arm. When I got to the top, I held up the eagle.

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“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said into the microphone, “this is a bald eagle, symbol of America. It has a beak, as you know.” I kissed the eagle’s beak. Te eagle began to look alarmed. “What we are here to do today is to show how clever this eagle is, and how well it can fy. Now, you all know that if I dropped the eagle from this platform, it would not fall to the ground, but would simply fy away.” Te audience did not react, but stared at me in awed silence. “But what,” I continued, “would happen if we replaced the eagle’s wings with Muppet wings?” I began to remove the eagle’s wings. “It is my position,” I declared, “that the spirit of America is so strong in this bird that it would fy even with useless wings.” Te eagle struggled against me, but I managed to pop the wings of. Into the bird’s empty sockets I placed “muppet wings,” felt wings that looked like they had come from a Muppet instead of a real bird, which were decorated all over with green tinsel. “Ladies and gentlemen, as further proof that this eagle will fy, let me inform you that this eagle is Jewish. He thus has thousands of years of noble history to give him strength. Now, fy!” I move to the edge of the platform and drop the frightened eagle. It plummets to the foor with a splat. Te audience instantly erupts in anger and begins moving toward the platform. I make a rapid descent before they manage to channel an electric current through the ladders. When I reach the bottom, I cannot fgure out how to turn my microphone of.

117 “Water” Jan. 3, 2016

I wander through the underground food court. I have been told that one of the restaurants is secretly a bookbinder, and I need to have an old copy of Te Complete Works of Shakespeare given a new leather cover. I become convinced that the Sbarro is the bookbinder, but the teens working there don’t seem to know what I am talking about when I hand them the Shakespeare.

u u u u

I walk into the flthiest restroom I have ever seen. Te walls and foor are all soaking wet. Turning to leave in horror, I immediately slip and fall straight into the wet. Te more I struggle to get up, the wetter I become.

u u u u

As our canoe flls with water and we become sure we will drown, I hear “Indian Lake” by the Cowsills begin to play… ...just keep it in mind if you’re lookin’ to fnd A place in the summer sun Swim in the cove, have a snack in the grove Or you can rent a canoe At Indian Lake you’ll be able to make the way the Indi- ans do...

118 “Atheistic Ignorance” Jan. 20, 2016

Conficts are beginning to arise between myself and the programmers to whom I lease my underwater marina. I am dissatisfed with their progress on the Project, and they do not like me hanging around the marina asking them when it will be fnished. I have developed considerable wealth for myself, but I have spent it all on an enormous pink wedding cake of a house that sits next to the marina, and on a pink 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood the size of an aircraf carrier. I go for a drive to take my mind of the programmers’ fail- ings. When I return, my house is in ruins from an earth- quake. It is only then that I realize I live in San Francisco, which explains why the streets were surprisingly steep. My entire fortune is gone, the Project ruined. I realize that a computer simulation of Florida’s Gulf Coast is identical to the real thing. I tour the digitized Bra- denton on my bicycle, before falling into a pedestrian underpass. Afer much efort, I extract myself. Hitchens stands at the top pouring buckets of water into the underpass. “You fool!” I exclaim. “Don’t you understand that there are people down there? Tis is typical atheistic ignorance!” My appearance on Te Late Late Show with James Corden does not go well. I am upstaged by “Denny Crayon,” a blonde man in a pleated purple duster coat and sunglasses whose specialty is amusing gestures. I also spend my time trying to coordinate the various shades of

119 nocturnal emissions blue on the set, because I feel that they clash. I approach James as he prepares his fnal magic trick (involving a series of disgusting ingredients). I caress him gently, and beg him to tell me a story. He brushes me aside. “No! You do not want to hear a story. Te story is about a corpse.”

“Te Suspect” Jan. 22, 2016 I am the leader of a group of police ofcers in a motel room. We all become very shaken when we learn that a little girl has been abducted from the motel parking lot during the time we were sleeping. Tings get worse when evidence is found that her body was disposed of near the drive-thru sushi restaurant next door. We enter the sushi restaurant with guns drawn. We force the customers to line up against the window. But someone is missing. We suspect the murderer has slipped into the kitchen. Sure enough, there behind the fryer is Barbara. Barbara cackles at us, taunts us for having failed to stop her. She says that now we have disturbed her meal, we are all in dan- ger. Suddenly, I think of the two ofcers who remain posted at the motel room. Tey are sitting ducks for whatever Barbara has planned. Te little girl was a ruse. I call for backup on the radio. “Captain, we can’t survive out here on a skeleton force anymore. We need a swarm…” 120 “Coates” Feb. 9, 2016

“What are these?” I say to Oren, moving my hands through the sausages. “Sausages,” he replies. “Well, where did they come from?” “In the mail. Along with the peas. And that.” Oren points to the wall. A painting of a stagecoach hangs above the freplace. Now I remember: the stagecoach had been sitting outside our apartment when I lef. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now I dis- tinctly remember seeing a mysterious man painting it on an easel in the foyer. I wonder if this could have been Ron Ford, the great black Western director, notorious for having made the frst flm about a stagecoach. I head downstairs to ask Professor Coates. Knowing he will be annoyed at my presence, I make sure to knock on his door long before I arrive. “You’re in luck,” his assistant tells me, “Ta Nehisi is just fnishing up.” Te door slides open and I am admitted. Ta Nehisi rises from his computer and begins to put on his jacket, ready to leave. His hair has turned white since he endorsed Bernie Sanders. He pays me little attention as I start to speak. “I’ve been starting to write, like you,” I say, unsure of how to begin. “Tat so?” He walks out of the ofce. I follow. “Yeah. It was going very well, but then this came in the mail.” I hold up the stagecoach.

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“Uh huh.” He is not looking at me. He is contemplat- ing his genius. “People told me they saw Ron Ford hanging around my apartment before it appeared. I wondered if it might be one of his Western flms.” At the mention of Ron Ford, Ta Nehisi’s entire demeanor changes. He becomes awestruck and sinks to his knees. “Ron Ford?” he says incredulously. “Te Ron Ford? Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“Sturgeon” Feb. 14, 2016

Everyone on the barge has betrayed me, except for her. She joined us at one of the last docks and I instantly trusted her, with her sun dress and her range of enormous foppy hats. I knew she could not possibly be working for a foreign government. Everyone else on the barge was in the pay of some minor nation or other, and every word that came out of their mouths was calculated to serve the interests of their employer. Not her. Even though she seemed to grow older by the hour, she was compassionate and genuine. One day, she took us out on the deck and showed us how to catch sturgeon. “Te secret,” she said, “is hooks. Sturgeon love hooks. If you put a fsh hook in their mouth, they’ll never let go.” I reached into the water, grabbed a six-foot sturgeon, and 122 nocturnal emissions jabbed it in the mouth with a hook. She was right. In the days that followed, I tried to catch as many sturgeon as possible in an attempt to impress her. Ten, late one night, out on the deck, I heard sof voices. Turning a corner, I saw her whispering to one of the sturgeon. She was speaking Russian. My heart sank. She, too, was a spy. Te sturgeon were nothing but a ruse. Afer the next day’s general meeting, I ask her to come back to my cabin. Brushing her admirers away, I tell her I have something very important to discuss. Reluctantly, she follows. “I know you’re working for the Soviet Union,” I tell her as soon as we are alone. A look of shock comes over her face. “How did you…?” “I saw you conspiring with the sturgeon. Tey are spies too, aren’t they?” She nods yes. She tells me she can ofer no defense, except to say that nothing she ever told me was a lie. “I’ve been betrayed by everyone on this barge,” I tell her. “I thought you were diferent. Now I will never fnd love.” She clearly realizes how much she has hurt me. “Five minutes to Davis Square!” cries the steward from outside the cabin. “Five minutes,” she says. “I suppose you’ll give me up once we arrive.” “Yes,” I reply. “You and every last oily fsh on this vessel.” “Is fve minutes enough time to make love, do you think?” “If you’re not very good at it,” I reply. She hands me a book entitled How to Make Love, with diagrams. I open to page one, and we embrace. 123 “Tunnel” Feb. 20, 2016

I am Bernie Sanders. I am tired of campaigning. Break- ing away from my handlers, I rush into the tunnel. Tey’ll never fnd me in there. I will hide forever. Even when the trains come. Nobody can make me be President. Not if I don’t want to. It’s a free country.

“Demolition Derby” Feb. 22, 2016

Te editor of a magazine is concerned that her second issue will not have as exciting a cover as her frst. I watch her over her shoulder, plotting to steal her fonts. She is lamenting that she never should have let Simon & Gar- funkel guest-edit the magazine for a month. “But how was I to know they would massacre everybody?” she says. In the corner, Simon & Garfunkel smirk, their shirts covered in blood. I tell Stephen Hawking he is looking well these days. He is walking around on his own, and has a jaw like Roger Moore. I tell him I never would have expected him to be prancing around in such well-pressed chinos. “Tat’s because I’m not Stephen Hawking,” he replies.

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“I’m Roger Moore.” Te real Stephen Hawking descends from his spaceship and gives me an ofended look. Te cars are painted in so many colors that you would think there was a Demolition Derby on. I fddle with their gas caps to impress a girl.

“Police Ofcer Training Corps” April 15th, 2016

I am a trainee police ofcer. Te other ofcers do not respect me, because I am the only one in our contingent who refuses to wear pants. Sometimes I wear a tracksuit, which my colleagues insist is also inappropriate. We are divided into two groups. Half of us will be Death Squads, half of us will be Parking Enforcement. I am Parking Enforcement. “Hello, my prestigious friend,” says a Death Squad member to me. I look at my naked legs in shame. Despite all of this, I am confdent I will eventually solve the Mystery.

125 “It Was Adapted Into A Film” May 12th, 2016

A woman lives comfortably with her veterinarian uncle, who practices out of a parking garage cluttered with knick-knacks. His specialty is horses. (For telling his story, I am rewarded with a pony.) Our heroine’s brother is released from a mental facility. She is black, he is white. Soon afer his release, the brother accidentally kills someone. She knows her brother means well, and so she insists he hide the body. Tey fnd a secluded part of the garage and conceal it behind a large door. Having bought some time, her job now is to fnd someone who can take the body of their hands. She tries to locate a shady meat merchant, who will be interested in selling human-meat on the black market. Eventually, she locates a homeless woman who insists she is a butcher in her of-hours. Tere is a tense scene (flmed in one take) during which sister, brother, and “meat merchant” wander round the garage, as the sister assesses the homeless woman to determine whether she can be trusted with the corpse. Te camera moves as they walk, but it always keeps the body’s hiding place in the frame, so that the audience cannot forget. Our heroine decides the homeless woman is trustworthy. Te door is thrown open, the body dismembered and placed into bags. Te woman departs with the bags, overjoyed. Meanwhile, the veterinarian-uncle has a small dog, whose favorite thing to do is jump in the cereal bowl while people are trying to

126 nocturnal emissions eat from it. He especially loves to bathe in Cocoa Pufs, because of the chocolate water.

u u u u

A diferent flm, or perhaps the same. Our heroine is still here. But this time, she is attempting to delay a rocket launch at Cape Canaveral. Her father (who is played by Morgan Freeman, yet is somehow also my own father) tells her to wait at the top of the clif. He will go down and disable the rocket. She asks why she must remain on the clif. “To make sure my car alarm doesn’t go of,” he replies. It turns out, however, that the father has no intention of stalling the launch. Instead, he knocks the astronauts unconscious, and takes their place in the capsule, just as the countdown is occurring. From the top of the clif, the rocket launch is the most beautiful thing we have ever seen. Te rocket looks like it has crashed into the earth instead of heading for the sky, but NASA explains that this is an optical illusion caused by the planet’s curvature. An ofcial from the Space Department angrily ascends the clif, to demand answers. We fee, using several of her uncle’s ponies. Arriving at the garage, we weep. Her father, and my own, has just become the frst African American in space. It is truly a milestone.

127 “Crematoria” Sept. 20, 2016

I am having dinner with a beautiful woman, to whom I am attracted. “I don’t drink either,” she tells me. “I always worry I’ll end up saying something stupid. Like that the crematoria were too small to have actually served as a reliable exter- mination method for six million people.” Te next morning I awake in her bed, with a terrible hangover.

“Papercufs” Oct. 1, 2016

I was wandering the city in fear of a certain notorious Man With No Arms. He was notorious because every time you would enter a room he would immediately pummel you with his stumps until you were unconscious. People treated it as a joke, said “Oh, that’s just M. ____, he does that whenever he drinks.” But I could sense he was psychopathic. He knew he could get away with it because he had no arms. He thought nobody had fgured him out. But I had. Years later, I had fnally forgotten about M. ____. Te word was that he had been in prison upstate. But I didn’t pay much attention to the word, for I had a family by then, and besides, he didn’t even know me.

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I know now that my lack of caution was a grave mistake. When he kidnapped us, it didn’t actually seem like a kidnapping, at frst. It just seemed as if something had been... revealed. He laughed, but we could not fgure out why. I still remember the way his chest looked beneath his unbuttoned shirt, which was covered in blotches of oil. I also remember his arms, which seemed even less there than before (though they were not). We thought we had nothing to worry about by entering the house. Afer all, we had a police ofcer with us. We were so sure of ourselves, such fools, that we did not even realize what M. ____ meant when he said “Arise” to the ofcer. Nor could we understand the ofcer’s reply: “I arise, master, humbly to serve you.” When he began to put the handcufs on us (they were made of paper, wrapped tightly) we actually thought for a moment that he must be making some mistake. My kidnappers explained to me that back in the 60s, during the days of the printing press, you had to print manifestos on mimeographs. You couldn’t tweet a beheading photo. You had to get into the newspaper, which wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Social media changed the whole game. Even then, I do not think I quite realized that one of us would be beheaded before the night concluded. Te truth is, I escaped. I felt like a coward for doing so, but I reasoned that I was going to sound the alarm and save my friends. I slipped through a screen door. He followed me, of course (he knew all), but I mocked him 129 nocturnal emissions for having no arms and took advantage of his sobbing in order to fee. In a nearby diner, the police were already waiting. I told them what needed to be done, that the Man With No Arms was in ISIS, just like I had thought he would be (not by that name, of course) so many years ago. Tey sipped their cofee, refused to believe me, told me they were already well aware of the situation. Fortunately, I knew a sympathetic ofcer from back in my days on the NOPD. But she was still very much a rabbit, very fighty and with a penchant for unproven schemes. Her squad car alone could not stop an army, let alone the Man With No Arms. I returned to the house to fnd blood galore. My slowest friend had been beheaded. Worse, he had been killed by my other friends, rather than M. ____ himself, who had plied them with ecstasy and forced them at gunpoint. When I arrived, they were casually debating whether their respective religious traditions recognized coercion as a moral excuse for beheading a friend. I knew the police raid would go wrong. And it did. Instead of ofcers, with guns, she sent Pomeranians. Tey tried to bite, but really they nipped. She sent rainbows, for backup. Te rainbows wilted. As the Man With No Arms cackled, and gleefully praised Allah, I awoke and found myself home.

130 “Te Turber Tapes” Nov. 15, 2016

Oren thumbs through the pages of Superpredator. “It’s the best book I’ve ever read.” “You only like it because it’s about birds,” I modestly reply. “I do like birds,” Oren says thoughtfully. In the street, all of the policemen are leaving their houses and going to work in their police cars.

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Afer much searching, we f nally come across the vid- eotape of a rare interview with an 88-year-old James Turber. (Te interview was labeled “Turber talks about the Sandinistas.”) By that point, Turber found it some- what difcult to stay awake for long periods, and had to conduct the interview while lying in his typewriter case. But his speech was clear and his opinions strong. “Could you tell us a bit about the house you grew up in?” “I grew up on the East Side of Columbus, as you know, and the house was designed by Arthur King. In those days, many famous people lived in it, including Walter Mondale and Van Morrison.” “What do you think when the kids talk about revolution these days?” “I was always for revolution, revolution keeps you spry, but today’s revolution is revolution without strategy, and

131 nocturnal emissions if you don’t have strategy you don’t know where you’re going. I was in Israel recently, and I took the bus… Israel is the land of my ancestors, you see, and I wanted to fnd out what it was all about. Te people of Columbus were Israeli originally. Tat’s a long way from Nicara- gua though, especially for a cartoonist. But I don’t draw much anymore.” Turber begins to cough. We search the foodlit shop for more interviews, and for John Cleese’s long-lost television program, Frenzy.

“Clown Car” Dec. 9th, 2016

I telephone my house. A strange voice picks up and tells me that my parents have unexpectedly been called away on vacation. “You liar!” I scream. I consider calling the police, believing that he has kidnapped them. Instead, I realize that a meteorite is about to destroy the Earth. I tell people about the meteorite. Tey laugh. Some of them get naked, announcing a pre-armageddon orgy, but they do so only in order to mock me. I am the only one saved when the meteorite arrives. I am swept up by the Mystery Science Teater spaceship. I am immediately placed into “cadet training” on board the ship. Te frst lesson is on meteorites. 132 nocturnal emissions

“Tere are two types of meteorites,” says the instructor. “Centaurites and millenites. Centaurites can destroy the earth in 100 nanoseconds. Millenites can destroy the earth in 1000 nanoseconds.” Encouraged by the instructor’s joke, my classmates decide to haul me to the ground and pelt me with meteorites. Tey then tie me to one and drag me through the halls. Te last thing I hear before I pass out is: “Everything in space must look like it is from the 1960’s. Te mistake earthlings made was to think they could defy this rule.”

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Arriving for a game at the Harvard Lampoon Stadium, I try to save a clown’s Volkswagen by helping push it up a hill. But it falls into a puddle and drowns.

“Mickey Finn” Dec. 9th, 2016

“I know you boys prefer your yogurt with human brains in it,” laughs the elderly Greek lady at the yogurt stand. “But I used beans instead.” We look at her with abject disappointment.

Detective Harold Briscoe wakes up to fnd himself drowning. Sputtering to shore, he fnds that he is hold- 133 nocturnal emissions ing a severed human leg. As he recovers on the beach, Briscoe puzzles over the leg. He has no memory of where it came from. Has he just solved a murder? Or committed one himself? Briscoe throws the leg back in the water and begins the walk back into town. Before he reaches the end of the beach, he sees a police checkpoint. Briscoe removes his green Sharpie (his “Mickey Finn”) and bur- ies it in the sand, so that there will not be questions. At the checkpoint, there are questions. Ofcers frisk Brisco* (I briefy become Brisco for the purposes of experiencing this, though for the rest I merely spectate). He is asked to sign a confession that he has not seen a severed human leg. He signs. Te confession is pre-printed on a live convict as a tattoo. Brisco tattoos his signature on the dotted line. (If there are discrepancies, the convict will be called as a witness.) Te ofcers tease him about not having his Mickey Finn on him. Arriving back at the police station, Brisco fnds that the two other detectives (Francis and Socrates) are in heated discussion. Brisco fips through the script of his life, and realizes that his future doesn’t have many lines in it. Yet- Brisco still does not believe he can solve a murder. He is the only black ofcer in the Sarasota Police Department, which has given him a deep insecurity. Plus, Francis is a former pope, and Socrates is a great philosopher. Brisco is a lowly ex-TV news anchor, and cannot believe the others could have noticed something he missed. From all this, Brisco reaches a horrifying conclusion: “I must therefore be the murderer myself...”

134 “Sophistry is Tef” Dec. 22, 2016

I am infuriated with a professor, who runs a small shop where disadvantaged children come and buy advice from him. He tells them not to bother reading, that truth is a lie and “knowledge” is just another word for white male hegemony. (He is a white male.) He also cheats on his girlfriend, a reporter/policewoman with whom I am in love. Tere is a cat. Sometimes the cat is kind to me. We try to visit the Island of Fish with the cat, so that it may be happy. But the Island of Fish is trickier to get to in real life than it is on the map. (Tere is trafc.) My father collects the deposits for the bank. Te professor has deposited 4 million dollars, and a series of photos of himself with his mistress. My father has placed these in my car and asked me to take them elsewhere. Te car is heavy but I manage to lif it. When my uncle, Santa Claus, fnds out about the situation, he suggests we press our advantage. He removes the professor’s millions from their pouch, and gives them out to old ladies at restaurants, who are delighted to have met Santa Claus. I discover the professor’s girlfriend (the one with whom I am in love) burglarizing my backpack, attempting to remove the negatives. When I tell her she cannot have the negatives, she replies that she is a policewoman, and can have anything. I look around for Santa Claus to back me up, but it is Christmas and there are

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500 Santa Clauses all through the village. I soon remember that if she is given the negatives, she will realized the professor is cheating on her, and will fall into my arms. So I drop my objections. She and I go to a diner, where we discuss my cat and speculate on the future of the Fed- eral Reserve.

“Show & Tell” Jan. 2, 2017

I am terrifed. I am about to defend my dissertation, and I am worried the committee will not like it. My presentation consists of a series of photos of my grandfather. Te thesis of the project is that my grandfather was actually Bernie Sanders, who ran away to England as a young man afer graduating from the University of Chicago. My powerpoint features a series of photographs of Ber- nie Sanders next to a series of photographs of my grandfather, with the caption “See?” Because I am nervous, I decide to do the presentation wearing chain mail, so that the faculty’s stares will not penetrate me. Tey do not like it. “Tis is Harvard, not second grade show and tell,” Mario tells me. “But everyone else’s presentations were stupid,” I reply. “Tey did not just show pictures of their grandfathers,” he says, making a point I am unable to disagree with.

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Everyone appears to have gone mad, but I am unable to persuade anyone of this.

“Te M.S.C.” Jan. 5, 2017

We are in London, nervous about nuclear weaponry. I dream of bodies turning to shadows in an instant, of great cities disappearing with a brilliant fash. I hear the screams of millions and see the entire consumed by fame and ash. We realize we must get out of London. Te missiles have been launched (by mistake, naturally) and any large city will be destroyed within minutes. We open door afer door, looking for an escape into the underground. We cannot go to Brussels, because sixty nuclear missiles are stored beneath the city. Finally, we make it through a tunnel into Central Colorado. We are at the U.S. military’s Missile Storage Cave (MSC). It is the most peaceful place we have ever been, next to a thousand sleeping warheads. Te signal is given. Te warheads spring from the cave, heading for targets around the world. She cries frantically. “Come back, come back.” We know that we are in the last seconds of the world’s existence, that if we could only convince the missiles to return to their cave, life could carry on as usual. But the

137 nocturnal emissions missiles do not return. We are lef alone in the cave, pon- dering the infnity of sufering and loss that will shortly devour the earth. It is simultaneously the most frightening dream I have ever had and the most realistic.

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Sarah Kendzior is discovered to have fabricated a story about a 9-year-old Russian girl. I am concerned that the scandal will lead to increased scrutiny of my own research project: “My Grandfather’s Son: New Evidence on Te Bernie Sanders/British Connection”

138 “Mongolia” Unknown Date, 2017

Te tunnel used to have a little record shop in it. I return afer many years. Tere is still a tunnel, but the merchants are gone. It has been converted into adminis- trative ofces for the University. I know that things will never return to the way they used to be.

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Te new subway line opens, and we ride it. Te driver has amused himself by marking the trains’ destinations as “Outer Mongolia” and “Inner Mongolia” rather than “Outbound” and “Inbound.” We speak to him about his job. He says the pay is good, but he always wanted to be a racing driver. When he found out that you could not race trains professionally, he became depressed for years. He says the worst part of his job is that his boss calls him the n-word frequently. “As a black man, I do not mind not racing trains, but the racial slurs bother me.” He also feels as if people do not get his sense of humor. As we talk to him, customers come up to him and ask: “Tis train isn’t really going to Outer Mongolia, is it?” “Yes,” he replies. “It’s an express train.”

139 “Felonious Tweet” Sept. 5, 2017

Steve Bannon is out with the fu, and the press room is in chaos. I am trying to get Kellyanne Conway to answer a simple question. She is being evasive. Finally, I ask her if I can just borrow her notepad and copy down her talking points. She agrees, hands me the notepad, tells me she’ll be back in 20 minutes. I notice that in the upper right hand corner, she has scribbled: username-@realdon- aldtrump, password: lesserboy. I am stunned. I have found Trump’s Twitter password. I can say anything I like using his voice. Logging in, I prepare to write the perfect tweet. Something about Current Afairs. (“Fail- ing magazine Current Afairs is leading the opposition to my presidency. Sad!”) But I cannot get the wording right. I frantically call people who are good at tweeting. Looking at the webpage, I feel an incredible power and responsibility. I am now Donald Trump. I can say anything, and millions will hear me. I must not let my public down... When I awaken, I realize that logging in to Donald Trump’s Twitter will probably get me sent to prison.

140 “Te Big Book of Fascism” Jan 5, 2018

Everyone has piled into my apartment for Mardi Gras. I am at the gym, in the Running Room. Te foor of the Running Room is covered with water, but I remember something my publisher once told me: “Just think, in El Salvador you wouldn’t even have a gym that didn’t have water in it.” When I return to my apartment, my friends have all joined a fascist movement. Tey hand me the Black Book, an enormous leather-bound Manifesto of Fascism. Te last chapter is unwritten and the pages are blank. I begin furiously scribbling a new chapter in the book, hoping that if the fnal part is a denunciation of fascism, everyone will stop being a fascist. But others grab pens and begin writing parts of the chapter too. For every word I write, they write three. I feel myself drowning in gym-water. I do succeed, however, in making the book so illegible that nobody can read any of it. I consider this a victory. Afer reading the inscrutable scrawl- ings, everybody becomes a nihilist instead.

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Te receptionist explains to me why the building’s elevator goes in a spiral instead of straight up and down. Te explana- tion makes no sense. I ride the elevator anyway. It takes a very long time to go a very short distance. “Tey should have just made it go up and down,” I mutter. Te parlor is also a garden.

141 “Mercedes Benz” Jan 19, 2018

“But if you are not actually Hitler,” he asks me, “why are you driving a 1920s Mercedes Benz?” I look around the room and realize I am the only guest wearing a Mer- cedes. I begin to question everything I thought I knew about myself.

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Once we realize that the murderer emitted yellow shards, we are forced to accept a horrible conclusion: we should never have let the little girl go home with her “stepfa- ther.” I had seen a shard clinging to his back, but when I mentioned it he laughed it of. Will she be dead by the time gentrifcation sets in? I sit down to watch a documentary about property values and ponder the future of the neighborhood. It is as if you can’t trust anyone anymore.

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Te frst secret to being English, I explain, is to cultivate a quiet disdain for all other nationalities. To that end, when the dinner party begins, I make sure that I snub every girl who wishes to talk to me. I sit brooding in the corner blowing bubbles through my pipe and getting my feet wet. Sometimes I disappear into the bathroom for

142 nocturnal emissions more than 20 minutes at a time, to make it clear how little regard I have for what is being said in the Main Hall. I even rebuf J. K. Rowling, who says she is interested in turning one of my ideas into a picture book. I sense everybody’s envy and feel very pleased with myself. When the party ends, a man who resembles me leaves with J.K. Tey publish a picture book together that sells twenty million copies. Nobody ever said that being English was easy.

“Staircase Ghost” Jan 20, 2018

A condition of inheriting the house was that I keep my bed on the landing at the top of the stairs. But every night I awake in terror: from the place where I sleep, I can see every door in the house, and I am scared when I contemplate the number of people who might come through them. I become obsessed with making sure that every single door is locked, and soon I am sleeping very poorly. When I discover that the garage was open the whole time, and anybody could have walked in of the street, it is more than I can handle. I tell my father’s ghost that he must take the house back and let me sleep on the roof away from all the murder.

143 “Model U.N.” Jan 21, 2018

Te upper end of the school is North Korea. Te lower end, including the playground, is South Korea. Ten million people live in each of the Koreas, plus or minus several. I am not Korean. I am a journalist, or so I presume. I am free to wander between the Koreas, but I never venture into North Korea because I have heard rumors. I speak to Old Mr. Park, a South Korean who lives in a small, well-kept house by the Geology Building. He is terrifed of what Donald Trump will do. Trump, he tells me, is currently deliberating in the cafeteria. When he emerges, the fate of the two Koreas will be sealed. Old Mr. Park hopes Trump does nothing, leaves the status quo as it is. But the residents of South Korea, from the gym to the teacher’s lounge, fear that Trump will withdraw U.S. military support for their country, and they will be unable to defend themselves. “Saigon all over again,” I mutter to nobody in particular. Te word comes through. Trump, frustrated at being involved with Korea at all, has withdrawn U.S. military support for the Southern government. Panic sets in. Ten million South Koreans are now refugees. Tey emerge from their homes and try to enter the cafeteria. North Korean troops are massing along the border (next to the computer lab). I ascend the catwalk outside the cafeteria to watch Trump emerge. When he comes out, I am directly above him, looking down on his hair. If I was a

144 nocturnal emissions bird, I could poop on him. Trump stands on the steps outside the cafeteria, ready to announce his decision to the world. He shakes hands with the North Korean leadership, then is immediately assassinated. Tere will be debate for years over whether it was a roofop sniper or whether he was stabbed. I can see Trump’s bloated corpse splayed below me. Te leaders of North Korea immediately take the rest of the United States government hostage, and announce that “henceforth, one body shall be Ruler of All Te Koreas.” I soon realize the implications of this remark: the United States is, itself, now considered a Korea. Trump’s decision will go down in history as the worst ever made by a United States president. It created ten million refugees, turned the United States into a branch of North Korea, and resulted in his own death. From the catwalk, I think to myself: “Tis was not how I expected the frst day of school to go.”

145 “Tiger-Man” Feb 19, 2018

I am to give a lecture on the ills of bureaucracy. I intend to talk mostly about the “tiger man,” the animal tender at my high school who was in charge of feeding the high school’s collection of big cats. One day, the tiger man’s superiors told him he needed to stop feeding the tigers pistachios. I thought that was very unfair. It was especially painful because the tiger man had always been nice to me; he even authorized me to use the U.S. Marine Corps logo in ofcial documents. In the Q&A, a student asks whether the tiger man had the authority to license the U.S. Marine Corps logo. “Yes, he was the tiger man,” I reply. “Next question.” Another student asks: “In your talk, you repeatedly advocated socialism. But why socialism? Why now? If you want to make the world a better place, surely you should just pursue a career in medicine or chemistry.” I ignore this question. Afer the lecture, I wonder why nobody questioned the fact that my high school had so many tigers that it needed a man to take care of them. “Podcasts sure are getting more elaborate these days,” I muse to myself with a chuckle.

146 “Mardi Gras” Feb 21, 2018

It is a week afer Mardi Gras, but I cannot convince anyone that Mardi Gras is over. It continues to get worse, beads fying everywhere, intoxication is ubiquitous. Determined to see society return to normalcy, I form the Campaign to End Mardi Gras. Initial results are promis- ing but I soon get distracted by the antenna on my por- table radio, which I cannot get to retract.

“Te Veteran” Feb. 22, 2018

“Vietnam wasn’t all bad,” the veteran tells me. “I mean, the war was bad. But before the war, when we were just ‘American advisors,’ sometimes we still played the cello.” He takes me to a Vietnamese village to show me what he means. As American soldiers prepare to invade, he and his friend play a song on a makeshif bamboo viola and cello. When they are done, I applaud. Tey tell me that I should join them on the next tune, and hand me a bamboo penny-whistle. But every time I touch it, a series of painful splinters becomes embedded in my hand. Instead of making music, I spend the duration of the Vietnam War sitting with a pair of tweezers, extracting the splinters one by one.

147 “Piglet” Feb 23, 2018

Te vegan hot dog place has started ofering free piglets with its meals, as part of a campaign to show people where their food comes from. “Would you like a live baby pig with that?” the woman behind the counter asks me. “I don’t know,” I reply, thinking about the maintenance issues. “Is the piglet vegan?” “It can live on sunlight and water.” I go into the street and start betting strangers that I can hand them a piglet within 30 seconds. When they accept, I foist the squealing animal on them and run. Te restaurant’s stunt causes it to be featured on Te View, but the segment is aggressively sexual. I vow never to return until the piglets have been painted gold.

148 “Te Little Mermaid” March 5, 2018

I am investigating a murder that took place at the castle in Oran. But all of the evidence points to Vernon Kiner. I pursue Kiner by train, but my superiors believe I am going easy on him because he is a Yale man. To prove that I am not, I return to the castle in Oran and commit a murder of my own.

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Te frst time I cross the border into “Japan,” I do not have the right paperwork, so the next time I make sure to bring my bicycle. Once across, I search for a hammock to lie down in, but all of the hammocks are full of surly Japanese men reading novellas. On a remote peninsula, I fnally come across an empty hammock, though it is only a few inches above the ground. I lay down my bicycle and fall asleep. When I awaken, the tide has come in, and I am sitting in the ocean. My bicycle has disappeared into the water. I dive to search for it, but I soon realize that the water is continuing to rise, and my only option is to accept an ofer to board the submarine. In the lower decks of the submarine, there is an argument among the crew: “I knew the Liberals couldn’t be trusted, but I didn’t think you would store leaky poisons above the Lefist bunk!” one shouts. Not wanting to be poisoned, I decide to become a Liberal. A crewmember

149 nocturnal emissions whispers to me that the submarine is on a three-month search for rare anemones, and that it will be incredibly boring. She encourages me to jump from the submarine when it comes up for air, and we both leap from it as it is still moving. Afer making my way from the brush to the corridor, I fnd myself where I expected to be: in the security line for “Timfest,” an annual conference cele- brating author Tim O’Brien. We all wear matching Tim- fest jumpsuits, wear “TIM!” buttons and eat “Timbits,” which are pieces of Tim O’Brien’s books. But O’Brien does not show up. “Perhaps he thought the buttons were sarcastic,” I suggest to my fellow attendees, who laugh at me and demand I take of my jumpsuit. I tell them I cannot give it to them because I have wet myself. Tis is a lie, but soon becomes true. As I continue to pee in an unending stream, I think to myself “I am glad this isn’t a dream, because I’d be worried that I was actually wet- ting myself.” Wandering through the festival grounds, I look at the booths and feel sick. But I am cheered when I see the “Little Mermaid” exhibit, which consists of an enormous set of infatable tentacles, with people dressed as fsh running in and out of them. Te point of the exhibit is that when children tickle the tentacles, the tentacles cough up handfuls of candy maggots. Te children greedily devour the maggots, which wiggle uncontrollably.

150 “Te Passenger” March 15, 2018

I fnally come into possession of the one thing I have always desired most: a used 1991 Ford Bronco. When I get inside, however, I realize that there is a headless corpse in the passenger seat. “At least it’s not in the driver’s seat,” the dealer says to me. I shrug and drive away. As I am cruising down the highway, a severed head falls through the moonroof and into my lap, causing me to veer into the abyss. “I should have known the head would be around somewhere,” I mutter to myself.

“Te Screenplay” March 20, 2018

It is universally agreed that I have the worst job in the world. I am supposed to stick my head up between the lane divider on a highway overpass and check for cars. Every previous individual who held my position was beheaded by a car afer sticking their head up more than a few times. When people ask me why I do the job, I reply “Eh, it pays the bills.” But it doesn’t.

In order to escape my fate, I decide to write a brilliant screenplay. I develop a technique for writing realistic dia-

151 nocturnal emissions logue called the Listener Method, in which you lie back and imagine your characters conversing naturally, then just listen to them for a few hours and write down the most realistic things they say. Te flm I write goes like this: Two high school students, both aged seventeen, have been dating since they were freshmen. Afer they graduate, they both plan to attend Cambridge University’s “Japan Immersion Experience,” a yearlong program in Tokyo whose major selling point is that it promises not to require students to learn Japanese. Our couple help each other with their applications, and she even drafs one of his answers for him. But they soon fnd out, to their mutual dismay, that he has been admitted and she hasn’t. “You’ll come anyway,” he says, feeling he is being help- ful and failing to notice her ambivalence about spending a year in Japan alone while he studies. She does go, though, and they are both just pleased to be in Japan with each other. Te Cambridge program turns out to be terrifying: it is run by a very large red-haired woman who instructs the students to watch her lectures on Net- fix, then becomes furious when they point out that Net- fix doesn’t carry her lectures. At one point, she calls our young man on his cell phone while he is sitting in the school cafeteria with the girl. Not wanting to be shouted at, he ignores the call, only to fnd that she is standing right behind him. “Tere is no way now for you to get higher than a B in my class,” she tells him. Tere is evidence, however, that the teacher knows more than she 152 nocturnal emissions lets on, especially about love. As the young man studies, the girl wanders Japan, meeting people and having experiences, feeling some- what alone but enjoying the feeling of independence and discovery. At night, when the couple reunite at their sleeping pod, she tells him things she has learned about Japan that day. “Do you know how fast a Japanese train goes, on average? 200mph. Do you know how fast a train goes in Philadelphia? 40mph. Kind of tells you all you need to know.” Te young man smiles, but is sleepy. He is being made miserable in his classes, which are increasingly demanding and obscure. “Today’s lecture was on witches,” he tells his girlfriend. “We had to prove they exist. If we couldn’t, we got a failing grade.” Te girl nuz- zles him sympathetically. She knows how difcult it can be to believe in witches. Tere is no tension between the couple over the course of the year, despite what one might expect. Tey care about each other deeply, and the experience is unfolding in the opposite way to the one they expected: instead of him enjoying himself and her feeling lef out, she is blos- soming on her daily adventures through Japan, and he is sufering through burdensome academic tedium. Tey do not fght, but they do become increasingly uncertain of their future. What will happen afer Japan ends? Te Cambridge instructor soon helps the couple out, by funking the boy out of her program. We cannot be sure, but it appears she was attempting to humble him, to make sure that the Japan Immersion Experience did not drive a wedge between him and his girlfriend. If that 153 nocturnal emissions was the intention, it certainly worked. Feeling light and free the day afer his expulsion, he takes the girl to the top of the Tokyo Breakfast Tower for a bowl of soup and a cuddle. Te fnal scene takes place on the fight home, where the couple discuss various aspects of Japanese culture and ponder what they will do next. It is not clear that the will stay together, but it is obvious that if they do part, they will part as friends.

I ofer my screenplay to Hollywood, who laughs at me. “Get your head back in the overpass,” he shouts. I do as I am told, and am immediately beheaded.

“Te Gas” March 28, 2018

I am Michael Caine, playing a very elderly James Bond in the London Of Te Future, which is also New Orle- ans. In the opening credits, I am shown BASE jumping from Big Ben and using an ejector seat to parachute out of a Mini Cooper as it plummets through the air (leaving the car’s driver to his fate). Wandering through the city, admiring the svelte rear ends of cats in pet shop windows, I tip a street accordionist before receiving an urgent call. I rush to a hideously depressing Brutalist apartment complex. Te only room with any sign of life is on the ffh foor, where I am greeted by a kind family 154 nocturnal emissions who all live in a single room surrounded by glass walls, with an attractive Persian rug to make the whole thing slightly less depressing. Te family shows me the Mys- tery: an elaborately decorated envelope containing a series of threats. Many are unintelligible but the words “brutalist whore” and “getting even” are visible. Within the envelope is another envelope, and within that envelope is a bag of powder, which I am worried is Anthrax but which they assure me is ground up corn-fakes. “We called you,” they say, “because at the end it says ‘And Nathan too.’” I examine the scrawling closely. Te word “Nathan” appears repeatedly, somehow causing me to become very worried, even though I am James Bond. My original theory had been that the threat had come from someone close to them, perhaps one of the family members in that very room, because its wording is so intimate. Now I am worried that it comes from someone close to me. Since I know many people, large numbers of whom hold grievances, we are no closer to the Answer. A masked man appears outside the glass. I go outside with the eldest daughter to see what he wants. He says nothing, just opens his mouth and breathes on us. I demand once again to know his business. He opens his mouth and blows at us. Finally, the daughter realizes what is going on. “His lungs are full of poison gas!” she screams, running inside. I yank of the man’s mask. “You, stop spraying us with poison gas!” He apologizes. He was paid to do it, he says. I demand to know who he is working for. Who sent the threat? Soon he confesses 155 nocturnal emissions that “Ian” did it. I summon Ian and ask him why he is threatening the Brutalist family, who have all turned to stone. “I thought it was a good way to get your attention. I feel neglected in our friendship.” “Well, it was,” I say, giving him a hug before driving of in my Mini Cooper.

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Ann Coulter’s museum is not as bad you might expect it to be. First, we pile into a tiny, 1980s-era elevator and descend to the “bowels of Hell.” When the doors open, we exit briefy to look at the bowels (though they are not the main exhibit). Tey are wetter than I expected. We are then taken back to the top and deposited at the beginning of the tour. It is a swimming tour, and we begin in a dark pool at night. I notice that the pool descends in a spiral, like a lazy river, and I spend the duration of the tour wondering how the surface of the water can remain fat even though we are being swept downward. “I hope this isn’t like the aquarium, where they think it’s funny to have you avoid lobsters the whole time,” I comment. Ducking my head beneath the water I notice we are surrounded by gigantic, slow-moving lobsters, and that our job is to avoid them. I realize too late (only in the fnal pool, at the bottom of the spiral) that the whole thing has been an elaborate metaphor for Homosexual- ity. Properly interpreted, it is appallingly ofensive. 156 “Sherlock” March 31, 2018

I am berating the new assistant, A.J. “If you think wearing a paisley tie is what impresses me, you are in for a rude surprise. Te only thing that matters around here is how many Sherlock Holmes stories you can write per hour.” I foat down the river to A.J.’s desk. By the time I have gotten there, he has produced an entre fling cabinet’s worth of Sherlock Holmes stories, all organized and alphabetized. I am impressed, but I take care not to show it.

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In the underwater subway station’s bathroom (which is itself underwater), the group of billionaires is arguing over which one of them murdered the others. Tey keep pointing to the holes in their heads and demanding evidence. One of them rips of another’s gigantic mustache. “Aha. I knew you were a fraud.” “Tat’s cheating,” replies the billionaire who has had his mustache removed, clutching his upper lip. “Billionaires never cheat,” replies the mustache-ripper.

157 “Te Queen of Sheba” April 2, 2018

I met her in the grocery store. I was embarrassed, at frst, because I did not have anything to ofer her except a stack of hand pies. But she giggled, and told me she loved hand pies, as long as I could warm them up. “I can’t warm them up,” I confessed. “Tat’s okay, I love them anyway.” She had no previous acting experience. It didn’t matter. We were in love, and we worked day and night to put together our of-Broadway musical, Te Queen of Sheba. By the end of rehearsals, we knew it was good, and the glowing reviews came as no surprise. Her sudden death was all the more devastating to me because we had been poised on the brink of success. One day many years later, as I was standing outside the old familiar grocery store again, I began staring at a church spire. It appeared to be levitating. It was about 50 feet of the ground, with no church underneath it. A woman I did not know came along and gave me the news: my Queen of Sheba had not died at all. She had auditioned for a Broadway play, and gotten the part, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell me that she was going to leave our production, so she had faked her death. Ordinarily, I would have found this news emotionally wrenching. But I was barely listening. I was fxated on the mysterious levitating spire. How did it do that? As the news of my Queen’s betrayal sank in, I fnally

158 nocturnal emissions realized what was going on: it was mere illusion. Tere was a mural painted on the side of the church that looked like the sky. I felt stupid for not noticing more quickly.

“Te Vietnam Express” April 4, 2018

I have been invited to Vietnam to give a speech about the War, on the anniversary of Martin Luther King’s famous speech. I am nervous, because I do not think Vietnam- ese people care what I have to say about their war. I keep putting of writing the speech, because I know whatever I come up with will be seen as inadequate and insulting. Also, the man who arranged the event has an anger problem, and I somehow need to use the speech to tell him to seek help. My frst stop is China, where I become distracted. When I step out of the underground hallway that takes you out of the airport, I notice that there are almost no Chinese people. I expected the country to be bustling. It is deserted, though admittedly I am in a forest. I locate a deli, which doubles as a bookshop. Tey brag of having over 100,000 books, but it’s a small shop, so the books are stored in those movable shelves that certain libraries have, where you have to open the shelf you want using a big wheel. To buy a book, you have to order a sandwich from the counter, and a deli worker will come and turn the big wooden wheel and open a shelf. I fnd it curious 159 nocturnal emissions that everyone who works in the deli is black, and mutter something unintelligible about the “universal proletari- anization of blackness.” To get to Vietnam, I must take the Vietnam Express light rail. It is misnamed, for it is sluggish. But it ofers an impressively scenic view. We see verdant plains and crys- talline lakes. Tere are many water bufalo, and I wonder what they would do if you tugged at their beards. “Prob- ably gore you,” I think with a chuckle. Te railway car is a top-heavy bubble, and it clatters along threatening to fall over at any moment. But I am enjoying the view. Once in Vietnam, I must take a plane, but it crashes into a suspension bridge. “Perhaps I won’t have to give my speech now,” I think to myself as everything around me bursts into fame. I clamber down and am disappointed when I realize I am unhurt. My friend with the anger problem meets me at the wreckage and tells me my speech is in ten minutes. Stalling for time, I confront him about his anger problem. Enraged, he storms out of the restaurant, leaving me alone with his girlfriend, who gives me a smile I cannot interpret. I frantically take notes on a copy of Martin Luther King’s original speech. As I enter the auditorium, I believe I have fnally found something to say…

160 “Water Babies” June 24, 2018

I am in a house, hiding from the infamous villain Will Skelton, who wears a paisley frock coat and has tentacles where his face should be. I know what Skelton can do to a woman; I witnessed him demand that a girl remove her own eyeballs one by one, which she did. Because I was a witness, and I know he gradually replaced every one of her body parts with tentacles, Skelton is afer me. Nobody else in the house seems to care. Tey are having a party. I go out to the pool area, and notice that several of the guests are pulling babies from the water. “Do you need help?” I ask. “Te water is full of babies,” comes the reply. But the water is clear, and you can see the bottom of the pool, and there appear to be no more babies. “Just reach in,” the baby-puller says. I reach into the water, and sure enough, I am immediately grabbed by tiny hands. I yank out the baby and deposit it on the grass. I reach in again, and withdraw another. Te babies are invis- ible beneath the surface, but when they reach the air they become visible, and also begin to wail. Eventually, once hundreds of babies are sitting on the side, the noise becomes intolerable. While the others are not looking, I decide to toss a few back in. I don’t want Will Skelton to be attracted by their fear.

161 “Melania” June 28, 2018

I am working for the Trumps. Melania asks me to per- form an important task, which I am to tell nobody about. From a drawer in the grand piano, she takes out a series of tiny packets, and gives them to me. Inside the packets are glossy, paper-thin squares that look exactly like dis- solvable breath strips. She explains to me that they are flm negatives. Indeed, when you look closely, you can see tiny translucent images on them. I try putting a few on my tongue to see if they dissolve like breath strips. Tey do, and they cluster into a sticky ball in my mouth like a wad of chewing gum. “Please do not put them in your mouth,” Melania says. Te First Lady asks me to catalogue and sell some properties she owns in New Orleans, and keep the negatives with me. I notice that in the Catalog of Properties, she is listed as the owner of nearly every house in the city, through her shell corporation “Melongina Holdings.” I wander through the Little Woods to count and survey the properties. I encounter a black man whose face is entirely scars, who laughs when I ask him why the river behind the house is shown on the map as a street. “Why do you think?” he says, pointing at a sign. “It is a street.” His face is so dark and featureless that all I can see is eyes and a smile. I am in desperate need of a friend to confde in. I have concluded that Melania is committing tax fraud, and

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I think it would be amusing if the First Lady went to prison. But I am not a prosecutor, and I do not know any. As I am walking through a particularly desolate street, I notice a 6-foot koala on a second-foor balcony. Seeing that I see it, the koala bounds inside the apartment. But I shimmy up the nearest column and follow the koala through the window. Inside, a friendly man named Tim introduces me to the koala, whose name is Kris. “He can’t introduce himself, but he’s not being rude,” Tim tells me. “He’s just a marsupial.” I trust Tim, so I show him the negatives. I also show him the wadded up ball of them that I chewed, which he asks me to kindly put away. “Do you know what you have here?” he says. “You have evidence.” Tim agrees to help me, but I forget to ask him what he does for a living. He asks me to stage a citywide marathon in the morning in honor of the president’s daugh- ters, as a “diversion.” “26 miles?” I ask incredulously. “How could anyone possibly run 26 miles? Are you sure that’s actually the number?” “I run 26 miles all the time,” he says, showing me his wall of marathon participation ribbons. I do not believe him, and begin to mistrust him. Te next day, while the marathon is being run in circles around the Trump Tower New Orleans, I walk through the lobby and notice that Melania’s white grand piano is missing. Afer the marathon ends, it is back in its place, and Melania approaches it. Opening the drawers, she 163 nocturnal emissions becomes alarmed. “Where are the other negatives?” She asks me if I have them. I tell her that I do not, and show her a drawer of my own, which I have brought with me from my bedside table, as proof that the negatives are not in it. Melania begins to panic. Leaving her to fret, I return to Tim’s apartment. He still has his marathon participation number pinned to his shirt, and looks sweaty. “I see you have been ‘playing the grand piano’ this morning,” I say. “Shhhhhhh,” he replies. Going into his home ofce (which is made of expensive glass walls), we develop the negatives together. Te photos are blurry at frst, but they soon come clear. Each of them depicts a random adult playing with a koala and giggling. “Tis is exactly the evidence we needed,” I say. “What are you talking about?” replies Tim, as I give him a wink so hard that it hurts my eye.

164 “Wires” Aug 2, 2018

A doctor—or possibly a mad scientist disguised as a doctor—removes the lef half of my face, leaving a giant hole. I stare into the hole and realize my skull is mostly hollow, with a few internal wires and electrodes here and there. I become depressed about having an empty head. “I am just a machine like any other,” I scream. “I am nothing!” “Wires are not nothing,” the doctor replies.

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An extremely ft woman—who still cannot disguise her pregnancy—is recounting the date she once had with Donald Trump, Jr. She tells me that Don Jr. kept trying to fnd ways to tell her that his father was the president, and she kept pretending she had no idea who that was. She shows me the face she made to indicate just how unimpressed she was with the presidency. “Tat performance?” I say to her. “Worthy of a Day- time Emmy. At least.”

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It is nighttime, and I discover that my rental car is magic: where the button to raise or lower the windows should be, there is a panel listing every single type of car ever

165 nocturnal emissions made. Touch one, and the car is instantly transformed into another model. I realize what immense power this gives me, and I try to fnd a socially benefcial way to employ it. I end up using it to drop of veterans at a halfway house afer they return home from fghting the New Deal.

“Te Personnel File” Oct. 12, 2018

I am simultaneously trying to manage a cruise line, hike a trail, write a collaborative story, and solve the mystery of a missing bureaucrat. “May I look in your fles?” I ask the secretary. I have noticed that a new statue has been erected outside the agency. Te statue seems to be frozen in terror, and I suspect that the Trump Administration killed the subject and built a statue in their honor to mislead people. “Certainly, she replies. But you won’t fnd much useful in there.” I open the frst fling cabinet drawer. It is full of eggs. Undeterred, I begin sorting through the eggs. “Who is this?” I ask the secretary, holding up an egg. “Tat’s me.” My suspicions have been confrmed: the eggs are personnel. I notice one is broken. As I pull it 166 nocturnal emissions from the drawer, the yolk drizzles out everywhere. I realize this must be the victim. I search for the killer aboard the cruise ship, which moves along a fxed track through a tunnel. Everybody I have ever met is aboard. “I’ve decided to be a lesbian from now on,” Lauren tells me. “Is that something one decides?” I reply. She cackles and leaves the ship by climbing a mountain. I alternate between the ship and the trail. Te closer I get to the beginning of the trail (I started at the end), the longer my story becomes. My aunt and grandmother are coming the other way, having just arrived from England. I am too distracted by the story to welcome them, and I pass them by. On board the ship, the dolphin show has commenced. Te dolphins are each the size of a building. At one point I become an orca to impress the crowd. At the end of the show, the dolphins all jump ship and swim toward the horizon. We watch as hundreds of giant dolphins recede beneath the sunset. Turning to Mick Jagger, I try to convince him that I am Keith Richards. “We did a lot of great songs together, Mick.” “Like what?” he says skeptically. I cannot remember the names of any songs. I impro- vise. “Like ‘Wha-Wha-What Do You Know In Te Nighttime.’” “Uh huh.” “And… ‘Lady from Alberta.’ ‘Blog Rocker.’ ‘Lord We Had A Good Time.’ ‘Where’s Te Heartbreak No More.’ 167 nocturnal emissions

‘Have You Seen Your Mother Baby Standing In Te Shadow.’ ‘My Sweetie Knows Te Rest.’” “You’re not Keith,” he says. “And those songs are ridiculous.” “I know.” In the distance we can still hear the clicking of the dolphins.

“Te Western Wing” March 10, 2019

For some unfathomable reason, the presidency has been won by socialist magazine columnist and occasional Current Afairs writer Ryan Cooper. I am bafed, but thrilled, because it means I have the president’s telephone number. When I call him, Ryan is as surprised as anyone that he won. “Mr. President,” I say. “Are you used to it yet?” “What the hell am I going to do?” he replies. “I barely even ran.” “Tis is good, Ryan. Te president of the United States has a lot of power, you know.” I ask him if he has chosen his cabinet yet. He says he has not, but that he is looking over a recommendation list from the Center For American Progress. Before I can tell him he must burn the list, my phone dies. When I get it charged again, Cooper’s number no longer works. He has presumably been given the Presidential BlackBerry. My line of communication is gone. 168 nocturnal emissions

I decide to become a stafer in the Western Wing, where the president’s ofce is. Te Current Afairs magazine headquarters has always been housed in the Eastern Wing, but to get into the Western Wing requires a pass, and I have never had a pass. (It also requires climbing several fights of stairs, and historically I have been lazy.) I attend an audition to become a stafer. I pass the frst test, which consists of picking up a pair of sunglasses and putting them on. I prove myself fully capable of picking up the sunglasses. (Tey are aviators. Everyone in the Western Wing wears aviator sunglasses at all time, to make it clear that America is not fucking around.) When I fnd out that the next test is an “allergy test,” however, I become worried. All of the potential stafers are fling into an examination room to see whether they have allergies. I know that I have allergies (cats) and I will funk the test. I decide to sneak into the Western Wing. I hope that the sunglasses are enough to make me look like I should be there. I make it through a series of doors by waiting until people are exiting and then holding the door for them to seem polite. I fnd Cooper at his desk. To my surprise, he does not ask me how I got in, but treats me as if there is nothing unexpected at having me walk in. I suspect that he does not yet realize how tightly access to him is being controlled. He thinks his friends and acquaintances can just wander in and say hello. “Put down that list,” I tell him. “Tey are going to ruin your presidency with these people.” “Tey want me to put ‘Ann Newage’ as Secretary of 169 nocturnal emissions

Labor. Who is that even?” “It’s just a pile of neoliberal nobodies,” I say. “You need to get creative. Tink to yourself ‘What is the most insane choice I could possibly make?’ and make that. Tat’s how presidents are made.” “I’m very worried I’m going to screw this up.” “We’re all behind you.” “What, the 4000 subscribers of Current Afairs? Tanks.” “A movement, Cooper! I mean, Mr. President. Listen, this is your chance to socialize the country without it even knowing. And come on, Bernie is your VP. He can help.” A sheepish expression comes over Ryan’s face “Wait, you did pick Bernie, right? I wasn’t paying much attention to the race. Tell me Bernie is your VP.” “I chose Amy Klobuchar.” “What???” “Tey told me she was electable. She would help me win the Midwest. Balance the ticket.” “Okay, Ryan, we have work to do. Can the Secret Ser- vice get us cofee? Is that something they do? Let’s sit down and discuss this. Is the president allowed to fre the VP?”

170 “Te Sixtieth Degree” March 9, 2019

I am in a large golden theater, watching the flm Te Six- tieth Degree. It has won many awards and been widely praised for its breathtaking shots of oceans. Te plot of Te Sixtieth Degree begins as a conventional romance between an attractive man and an attractive woman. Te twist, however, is that during the climactic scene in which the woman is drowning in the ocean and our attractive man is trying to save her, she is instead saved by a mer-man. Te mer-man takes her beneath the sea to meet his family and see his town. Te Sixtieth Degree then turns into a comedy about the eccentric residents of the undersea village. Te original male hero is never seen again. Te flm is called Te Sixtieth Degree because this is the temperature of the ocean on the day the woman drowns.

171 “Possession/Te Perfect Room” June 5, 2019

Upon my return from England, my father tells me that my cousins developed a bad impression of me. “Tey think you are possessive,” he says. “For saying things like ‘my’ car.” “But it was my car. I was driving my car.” Given the history, he says, I could have made more of an efort to get them to like me. Tis I do not dispute.

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Afer spending some time enamored with a small metal footstool that I think has an interesting pattern on it, I resume my work as a graduate student. Tere are no ofces in the tower, so I drag my desk into the stairwell. At frst, an atmosphere of camaraderie emerges. People pass me on the stairwell to stop and chat and bounce around ideas. I realize, however, that having an ofce in the stairwell is quite obviously a fre hazard. I am able to remove my desk just before the fre inspector arrives. At frst, it looks as if I will have no place to do my work, which doesn’t bother me terribly, as it will give me a ready excuse for not doing it. But a fellow student tells me they will take me to the Perfect Room. I am dubious about the Perfect Room, but follow her down a series of hallways I have never seen before. Eventually we enter. Te space is gigantic, and painted like a child’s playroom.

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It looks out over the river, and has a deck with umbrellas and chaises longue. Troughout the room are giant bean banks, and pagodas with corinthian columns. Te pagodas have colorful embroidered curtains round them, and you can work in them. Tere are little miniature houses with French doors, like playhouses, that can be used as study dens. “It truly is the Perfect Room,” I tell the other student. She sinks into a beanbag and all of her limbs disappear into the fabric. “You look like an egg,” I observe. She giggles. She really does, though.

“Window Washer” June 11, 2019

Dozens of people fle into my ofce and push past me to get to the window. We are a hundred stories up and there is a heavy wind. Tere is word that a window washer is going to plummet to his death, and everybody in the building wants to watch. Since the window washer is suspended from a single thread tied to the bed in my ofce, my window afords an excellent view of the scene. I am disgusted by the gawkers, and leave them in the ofce. I take a book to the sofa in the business lounge. I am soon joined by Moebyl Davison-Whitney, who sidles up next to me alongside her boyfriend, Faiz. Moebyl is an aristocrat who changes from black to white depend- 173 nocturnal emissions ing on the day of the week. Today she is black. “Do you remember Anke?” she asks me. Anke was once a talented artist of my acquaintance. “Of course,” I reply. “How is she nowadays?” “Tese days all she does is masturbate,” Moebyl replies, looking bored. “How very tragic,” I reply, returning to my book. I attempt to look indiferent, but on the inside I am cry- ing.

“Chinese Beignet” June 12, 2019

“Tere are six cities in Ukraine,” Anatoly tells me. “Tree of them are capitalist, and three of them are socialist. Tat is why there are six yellow stars on the fag, with three on each side of the river. Of course, in reality there is not actually a river. Tat is what the war is about.” I ask him whether I am in one of the capitalist cities or the socialist ones. He laughs and tells me to look around. Everything is beautiful. Tere are ornate libraries with domes, and people sitting around drinking tea and hug- ging. “Kiev is socialist,” he says. I enter one of the libraries and am amazed by the size of the books. I pick up a large children’s book called Willie the Hedgehog, which contains a series of giant cross-sec- tions of the hedgehogs’ underground lairs. I have never 174 nocturnal emissions seen such elaborate artwork. It must have taken someone at least forty years to paint the images. Outside the library, a street musician smiles widely as he sings the most beautiful music I have ever heard. I realize that I never knew what it meant to sound “angelic” until hearing him. His afro moves as if it is underwater. Walking through one of the indoor streets, with its ceiling murals and its gentle fountains, I see people kneeling and putting their faces into what look like metal bidets. “Would you like to try a ‘Chinese beignet’?” Anatoly asks me. I put my face in a bidet and a giant purple bubble emerges from the hole at the bottom. I reach in and grab the bubble. It is heavier than it looks. I begin munching it. It tastes of pastry but has the texture of solid water. I ask Anatoly whether people have to pay for the Chinese beignets. “Not under socialism,” he replies. “But what if people from the capitalist city came and demanded all the beignets?” “What do you think the war is about?” he replies, shaking his head. I am so fascinated by my beignet, and the beauty of the buildings, that I fall in a ditch.

175 “Juice/Coincidence” Oct 3, 2019

I cannot convince my fellow passengers at an airport that $14 is too much to pay for an 8oz bottle of orange juice.

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In the French Quarter,* I pass by a black woman in a sun- dress walking the other direction. We realize that we are both in the middle of singing the line “Tonight the light of love is in your eyes / but will you still love me tomorrow.” We laugh and continue our separate ways, never to meet again.

*In this dream the Quarter has more arches and foliage than it does in Reality.

u u u u

We are taking Bernie Sanders across the border to see the Conditions. Aferward, Brianna is supposed to interview him about immigration, but I cannot get his lav mic attached to his lapel. As Bernie becomes grumpier I get nervous and shatter the lav mic. He leaves and we never get our interview.

176 “Sand Bar” Oct 4, 2019

When I honk the horn, the copper cows leave the sand bar, and so I am able to keep driving. But the copper tortoises are a diferent matter. Tey clog the entire ocean, and as I drive from the sand down into the water, I can hear them crunching underneath the wheels of the SUV. Te water is deeper than I expected, and as it begins the car, I wonder whether I am being punished for killing so many tortoises. As we drown inside the car, I spent my last moments arguing with my parents over whether or not this is justice.

“Mob Pool” Oct. 9, 2019

Te former mob bosses are imprisoned together in a giant windowless room, with a large swimming pool taking up most of its area. Tey are all naked and over- weight. I wonder why I have been put in this place, and fear that the moment I set foot in the pool, one will swim over and assault me. Sure enough, before I can even get of the steps, “George Meanie,” a notorious gangster who used to operate the swimming pool industry in Chicago, moves toward me with a menacing look on his face.

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u u u u

When you want the server to come, you are supposed to press the brightly-lit button on the plastic stand next to the table. Our table has been given six stands, but all of the buttons are broken. “When we want you to come, we will just make the noise of a jet fghter,” my female colleague says to the server, with a cackle. Te whole table joins her laughter. Our server, an old Chinese woman, looks furious. “If you do that, I will not come,” she says. To punish her, we all stand up on the table and do the Dance of the Palms. As we sway like palm trees, actual palm trees begin to appear around the table, and soon we have built an entire forest. “Tat will show her,” my colleague says, and then makes the noise of a jet fghter. I do not hear her, because I have wandered toward the Rare Books shop located on the second foor of the mall. Behind a two-story window, I can see all of the Rare Books with their leather bindings and gilt spines, and I wish to go inside and take the escalator. But in order to enter the bookshop you have to swipe a membership card at an entrance gate. I am not a member of the bookshop, and cannot get in. “Tis is capitalism run amok,” I say to nobody as I watch book enthusiasts pass through the turnstile.

178 “Bed Chair/Ice Cream” July 15th, 2015 I am asleep, and dreaming of nothing. Suddenly I can feel my fngertips touching something—a line of metal- lic studs. I realize that the studs are part of the armrest on a leather wingback chair, and I become alarmed. “Cate, there is a chair in my bed!” I shout. Cate comes running, but I cannot see her, because I am asleep. “You are dreaming. Tere is no chair in your bed,” she replies. Reassured, I slip back into the darkness. When I wake up, the frst thing I can feel is a row of studs. Tere is a giant chair sitting next to me in bed. “CATE!” I shout. But she is nowhere. She was a dream. It was the chair that was real. I begin to wonder who thought it would be funny to put a chair in my bed. I am scared, so scared, that they will come back.

u u u u

Te ice cream stand is laid out trapezoidally. Te reality show “Ice Cream For Rapists” is being flmed there. But something has gone horribly wrong. Te wall containing the serving window forms the short base of the trapezoid. Te show’s producers had meant to put the sign that says “FOR RAPISTS ONLY” on the wall that forms the long base of the trapezoid. Te idea is that people will not be able to see the sign as they approach

179 nocturnal emissions the serving window, because it is on the other side of the building. Tus they will buy ice cream without realizing that they are being called rapists. (It is a “prank” show.) However, the producers accidentally put the sign on the wall that forms a leg of the trapezoid, meaning that it is fully visible as you approach the window. Now all that is happening is that people who are proud of being rapists are coming up and getting free ice cream. “Someone is getting fred over this,” I mutter to the man next to me.

“Dying Birds” Oct 11, 2019

I am sad because nobody seems to notice the golden birds. Tey are nine feet tall and incredibly thin, lithe like her- ons. Tey have the legs of human women, but bird feet at the bottom. Teir beaks are so long that they come down almost to the ground, and they have big black eyes. Every part of them is bright yellow. In the street, cars are running over the birds without even seeming to notice they are there. I have never seen anything more beautiful than the birds, and I have never seen anything more tragic than their deaths. “Stop!” I say. “Te birds are people!” But all of the cars have their windows rolled up. I suddenly realize that I, too, am about to hit a bird. 180 “Te Car We Bought” Oct 12, 2019

I have taken my niece to the swimming pool to buy a car. “She needs a car that folds up,” I tell the attendant. “Because she won’t be using it all the time.” My niece whispers that the real reason she needs a car is to get away quickly afer her crimes. “Don’t tell them that,” I say to her in a hushed voice. “Ten they probably won’t give you the discount.” We buy a yellow MG that fts in the palm of her hand. It costs £600. “A bargain,” I say to her aferward. “When you consider its heritage.” She grins as if thinking of upcoming crimes.

“Te Grand China Dream” Oct 14, 2019

Te Grand China Dream is a luxury high-speed train that goes from one side of China to the other. It is four stories tall. When I try to board it, it is so packed with people that I cannot fnd a place and am asked to get of the train before it departs. I therefore fnd myself wandering

181 nocturnal emissions the endless platforms of Shanghai Central Station. None of the signs are in English, and nobody speaks a word of it. Tis means that no communication of any kind is possible between me and anyone in the station. It makes me feel as if I am a ghost. At a vending machine, I buy a smiling green bunny that I assume is candy, but that turns out to be a tampon. I try to plug my laptop into an outlet, but notice a piece of masking tape on it that says (the frst words I have seen in English) “Al Gore’s Plughole.” I look up to see Al Gore winking at me angrily.

“Pun” July 15th, 2015 Christopher Hitchens makes a pun on the word “Jews.” “He has such a genius for words,” I think to myself. Tat night, when I look at the essay again, I have a difcult time understanding why I had believed there was a pun. I read the line over and over: We may all have sympathy for that certain “Mr. J,” but you wouldn’t want to have had that initial during a certain time period. Later, I realize the confusion is my own fault, since I am the one whose dream it is.

182 “Beyond” July 15th, 2015

I fnd myself in the Aferlife, which consists of sitting in trafc on a Los Angeles freeway in the middle of the night. Te only unusual thing is that while everybody else is in a car (or rather, I assume there are people in the cars, though I cannot see their faces through the darkened windows), I must sit naked on the asphalt, dragging myself along with my hands. Afer a while, the trafc dissipates, and the road becomes very wet. I am now able to slide myself along at formidable speed, although the fact that there are cars tearing past me and I am naked makes the experience quite frightening. Eventually, I reach my exit, and the only sensation around me is blackness, though my naked body remains somehow illuminated. A voice in the dark tells me what life was all about:

“You are a rich man who has purchased immor- tality. In search of ways to amuse yourself, you decided to spend eternity inhabiting simula- tions of other lives, lived by people long since dead.”

A series of glass orbs presents itself in front of me. Inside the orbs swirl hints of image, that suggest landscapes and events but are impossible to comprehend. Each orb has a

183 nocturnal emissions diferent subtle tint. “Would you like to try another one?” I hesitate for a moment, then select an orb. My every memory disappears, and I fnd myself being born. Tis time, I am Martin Short.

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