CECIL

A written creative work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State University A 5 In partial fulfillment of 3 (s the requirements for the Degree 2o<5 &

* Master of Arts

In

English: Creative Writing

by

Joshua Alexander Hamlin Harris

San Francisco, California

May 2015 Copyright by Joshua Alexander Hamlin Harris 2015 CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL

I certify that I have read CECIL by Joshua Alexander Hamlin Harris, and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirement for the degree Master of Arts in English: Creative Writing at San

Francisco State University.

A/\. Peter Omer, J.D., M.F.A. Professor

/j/lu -

Toni Mirosevich, M.F.A. Professor CECIL

Joshua Alexander Hamlin Harris San Francisco, California 2015

Cecil is a novel that explores the themes of alienation, microbial health, and post­ humanism.

I certify that the Annotation is a correct representation of the content of this written creative work.

/c* l~2— *W V 1 2 Peter Omer, Thesis Committee Date ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am thankful to: my wife for her unwavering support of my mid-life “Crazy Ivan” and for her enduring love of my new best friend, Cecil; my sons, Leo and Lex, for being inspirational in their own quirky, wonderful, exuberant ways; and Peter Omer for letting me roll during the initial creative process and for many keen insights on completed drafts.

v TABLE OF CONTENTS PARTI 2

Chapter 1

I slide my hands into the brine and begin to massage cabbage leaves as early morning sunlight breaks through a small crack in the heavy curtains covering my living room windows. It’s going to be a hot day in B-town, but it’s dark and cool in here. White scum has formed on the water’s surface and gathers on my hairy forearms as I reach deeper into the green bucket. They say the top mold should be discarded, but I know better. This batch has been fermenting for eight days, and I can just begin to feel its power. It’s blooming for me. It’s longing for a place in the folds of my intestines, the ripe core of my precious microbiome. And oh how I long for it. I close my eyes and finger the filigreed edges of the decomposing leaves. So smooth and fine, like perfectly decaying skin - so raw and alive and extraordinary. The microbes celebrate with me in the dark depths of the bucket, feeding on my dead skin cells and offering their all-powerful services in return.

After twelve minutes (my trusty water-proof Timex - a sixteenth birthday present

- now reads 7:19 a.m.), I pull out a large dripping piece of cabbage, suck it down, and lick the salty-sour water from my hands. Sauerkraut, so simple, so ancient, so awe inspiring .... The tang has intensified since yesterday, but this batch still has a ways to go. Luckily, batch 597 has peaked, and I will have plenty to feed my wondrous gut for the next few days. Without my bacteria-rich sauerkraut, I have no idea where I would be .

. . or rather, who I would be. 3

After checking on an open vat of beet and pear kvass next to the T V. and a large ceramic vessel of yogurt covered with dead and dying flies next to the front door (the optimal spot in the house for quick, sour yogurt), I saunter from the living room into the kitchen - my mother’s kitchen (though she would hardly recognize it now). No matter how hard I try, I can still hear her shrill voice resonating through this old house: “Cecil, get in the bath and don’t forget to scrub your toes!” I didn’t know it then, but she had it out for me. “Cecil, your hands are filthy!” Then she would scrub me raw and cover me in sanitizer. She never knew when to quit. I run my finger along the heavily soiled countertop. “No disinfectant here, Mama,” I whisper as I suck dirt from my fingertip.

Then I open the back door. It’s time for my bio-soldiers to come home and share the spoils of their nocturnal adventures with me. Marcus, Cassius, and Denarius spill into the kitchen, their thick nails skittering across the linoleum. I fall to my hands and knees, to be licked and to lick. “What have you found for me, my beauties?” I say, as we exchange bacterial greetings. “I want all of your exquisite, invisible treasures.” Marcus, my affectionate English Mastiff, rubs up against my face. I grab him and roll and scratch and nibble at his coat. Cassius and Denarius, two slobbery bloodhound brothers I saved from the pound, jump in. My dogs, my family, my loyal conduits to new germs and fungi

- they help me every day in my mission to create my microbial kingdom, a tiny slice of heaven here on earth. With each lick, each exchange, my bacterial garden flourishes and I grow stronger. I have trained my soldiers well, encouraging in them all forms of garbage exploration and carcass revelry. It did not take much; wild dogs love to hunt at night. 4

One might say my neighbors disapprove of my dogs’ nightly excursions, but what do they know, with their sterile houses, guts, and lives. Mr. Montague, the king of the

Antiseptics (that’s what I call the ignorant masses of sanitizer-addled mysophobes) and my neighbor since I was a kid, barks at me every time he sees me. “God damn you Cecil, clean your house,” he shouts. “Clean your dogs. Clean your disgusting body! Your mother would be ashamed!” Sometimes I ignore him. Sometimes I lunge toward him and growl. He thinks I’m feral. But I don’t care; I know he is dying inside, one squirt of

Purell at a time.

After feeding my dogs, I descend to the repository. A pull-chain light illuminates a large bookcase containing perfect rows of Para-Fix™ stool collection kits, each carefully labelled with the date and the time of preparation, along with my initials. A tag hangs from each vial recounting the exact type and amount of food I consumed prior to the sample and the consistency of the fecal specimen. I smile; I am approaching my thirteen-year anniversary, a real milestone if I do say so myself. In a few years, I will contact the world’s leading microbiologists, and they will come to test and praise me.

And thus my reign will begin, and all of my hard work will start to pay off.

All is silent down here except for the low, never-ending hum of activity emanating from my pit latrine located just behind the bookcase. I think the cockroaches are the noisiest inhabitants, but one can never be sure. The basement is unfinished and thus was completely off-limits for most of my childhood. It took many days of hard work with a pick axe and shovel to dig the hole for the latrine. When it got really deep, I had to 5

carry each bucket of dirt up a ladder and dump it into the southwest corner of the basement before climbing back down. After I was done digging, I constructed a wooden platform out of a couple of salvaged doors reinforced by scrap wood and placed it on top of the hole. I cut a small opening in the middle of one of the doors for my deposits and covered it with an old Cadillac hubcap. The latrine is almost full now, but somehow the dark pile never quite reaches the top; I wonder which creatures - the aforementioned cockroaches . .. the flies, the rats, or the trillions of bacteria reveling in my accumulated waste - 1 have to thank for that. Symbiosis. It’s a beautiful world.

I carefully remove a sterile specimen collection container from a tightly sealed

Tupperware bin. There can be no contamination of the stool sample - that would be tragic indeed. I place the collection container into a slot in a bucket specially modified for this purpose. I sit down in front of the bookshelf. Quite the view!

At first, it does not want to come out. But then ... as I do every morning . .. I think of Mother’s rotting corpse and relax.

##

After finishing my specimen collection and dumping the remainder of my discharge into the latrine, I climb back upstairs. I pull on shorts, a faded blue t-shirt with holes around the neck, and a pair of worn Converse All-Stars. Then I go into the back yard for my workout. Daily exercise is a required element of the Plan. Not a day can be missed. 6

The dogs exit with me to lounge in the shade of the high fence that surrounds my yard and to watch me. This must be great entertainment for them. First, I run fifteen laps clockwise around the yard . .. and then counterclockwise, fifteen more times. The size of my lawn requires a lot of turning, and I have worn a deep track around the edges. My body gleams as a slick sweat breaks over my dirt-streaked skin. Now it’s time to lift weights.

Seven years ago, I built a shed next to the towering avocado tree in the back of the yard. It’s actually more of a corrugated steel roof half-assedly propped up on some posts and the fence, but it hasn’t fallen down yet and it protects my gym equipment from the rain. I have a bench press, a set of free weights, and a couple of jump ropes. The weights are quite rusty, but they still do the trick.

I even dragged a full length mirror - chipped at two comers with a spider-web crack at the base - back here because I saw Arnold Schwarzenegger flexing in front of one on T.V. once. Of course, I don’t look a thing like him. Sure, I’m tall - about 6’2” - but my muscles don’t bulge at all. In fact, I’m quite skinny. I think most Antiseptics would say that I am sick-person skinny - like I should be hospitalized - but I am the opposite of sick. Those same Antiseptics would say that I’m 35 years old - because that’s what it says on my driver’s license - but I think I’m still hovering around my early twenties.

These days, I cut my own hair in a tight buzz cut with Mother’s old Oster clippers and shave my dark beard each week. The dreadlocks I had a few years ago made my skin 7

itch something terrible, and my facial hair used to get all matted up too. Back then, I scratched like my dogs all day long, and then one day I couldn’t take it anymore and shaved it all off.

My most distinctive feature is my eye color: sky blue. Someone once told me that

I have the Pierce Brosnan gene - you know, blue eyes, dark hair, and freckles. It’s true, I share those traits with old 007, but my nose is slightly crooked (“Right turn, Clyde,” the kids used to tease me on the playground) and my face is defined by excessively sharp angles like one of Picasso’s deranged cubist masks; in other words, I could never be a famous movie actor. In fact, only one girl at Berkeley High managed to look past my odd face long enough to allow me to get to second base. Her name was Julie May Arbuncle.

She was a dork then too, but in my eyes, she was the sweetest girl I had ever met. When

Mother found out about us, she scrubbed me so hard that my sheets were streaked with blood the following morning. But enough about that, I’m in too good a mood to talk about Mother.

After fifty-five minutes of weights and jumping rope, I go back inside. I crush up seven ounces of raw almonds and pour them over a bowl of kimchi - an excellent balance of pre- and probiotics. The dogs are sleeping now, but my colony of flies is awake and buzzing everywhere. As I eat my first bite, a small guy with glistening auburn eyes, a hairy body, and a golden posterior lands on my left forearm. I let him crawl across my wet skin and watch him press his sponge-like proboscis against me to investigate. It’s nice having a few friends with strange noses like mine. Where have you been today little 8

musca domestical The sewer? Mr. Montague’s trash? A dead bird in a nearby park?

What riches do you have to share with me? Each time he rubs his little legs together, I think I can feel the bacteria raining down on my skin. Then he sucks up a final sip of my sweat and flies away. After I finish my breakfast, I remove my sweat-soaked shirt and let more flies land all over my pale body. They’re ticklish little buggers, but I know it’s worth it. There’s no creature better at spreading microbiota than the trusty little housefly. 9

Chapter 2

10:27 a.m. I am not usually in such a good mood, but today is Monday, Albert’s

day off, and he will be here any minute. Albert is - how should I say - my dealer? No, that’s kinda weird. I knew him in high school - or at least I knew o f him then (and he

knew about me too, I think) - so he is more like an old friend . . . maybe. But he’s also

my delivery guy. So I guess I don’t know really what to call Albert, but I like to think of

him as a friend.

I pull on a dry t-shirt, walk to the front windows, and part the curtain a few

inches. And there he is, one minute early, carrying two boxes. The bottom one is

cardboard, which I know is filled with groceries. A Styrofoam box with a biohazard

sticker is balanced on top. It contains my Treatments. I like Albert’s punctuality; he’s

been dependable for nearly ten years, ever since I found out that he worked at a lab on

Telegraph Avenue and I asked him to do me a favor. Of course, now I pay him quite a

bit, so he better show up on time . .. and with the goods! I remove the chain and the two

deadbolts and open the door to let him in. Three flies buzz out into the warm sunlight.

“Hey Albert!”

“Hi, Cecil. Here’s your stuff.” He holds the two boxes out to me, but I don’t take

them from him.

“Come inside. Come on,” I say as I turn and walk back to the kitchen, leaving him

little choice. 10

“Okay, but I really can’t stick around,” he says, following me. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do today.”

“That’s what you said last week. Let’s just have our ritual beer like always, and then I will give you your money and you can take off, okay?”

He sets the box down on the kitchen counter. “No, I really have to run.”

“What do you mean? Come on, man, you know how lonely I get sometimes.

You’re my only—”

“I know, dude. I know. Okay, just the one beer. I gotta talk to you about

something anyway. But you know I can’t stand it in this place. It smells worse than ever.”

“I think that’s from the heat. My food prep area always gets a little funky when it gets over eighty degrees. Once the fog comes in for the summer, things will get better around here.”

“Yeah maybe.”

“Outside then.” I rummage through the box of groceries until I find the two pale ales tucked in at bottom and we go outside. Although it’s just after 10:30 a.m., the yard is

already sticky hot, so we walk to the workout shed. I offer him the bench, but he leans

against the fence instead, and I take a seat. Albert used to run track in high school, but he’s gotten soft since marriage. His hair is black and he’s got that classic white-bread

American look to him. I think he married a Jewish girl from the City, but he’s never brought her over to meet me. 11

One beer a week, and man that first sip always tastes so good. I imagine the microbes in my stomach having a little party down there before the alcohol moves on to

my small intestine to be absorbed into the blood stream. I wonder if any of them ever feel

like dancing.

“Sierra Nevada, my favorite. Thanks, Albert.”

“No need to thank me. You wrote it on the list, and you’re paying for ‘em.”

“I guess you’re right. Thanks anyway though.”

“Listen,” Albert says, “Like I said, I need to talk to you. I think my boss is on to

me. He keeps asking me weird questions. And he’s watching me all the time. It’s getting

harder to stay late. I don’t think I can do this anymore. I mean I can still get you groceries

and stuff, but I have to stop stealing from the lab.”

“It’s not stealing if no one wants it anymore.”

“I’m sure it’s against some law. Plus the legality doesn’t really matter. I just really

don’t want to get fired. There are too many lab techs out there looking for jobs.”

“You can’t back out now. That would completely mess up The Plan.”

“Cecil, I don’t give a shit about your plan. I’m only doing this for the money. But

the money ain’t enough to risk my job right now.”

“How can you say that you don’t care about The Plan. You have been

instrumental in bringing it to fruition. Without your supply, I don’t know what I’d do. I

promise you, you’re going get tons of credit when this thing takes off. And believe me,

it’s going to take off like crazy. We’re going to be running a huge institute. Hundreds of 12

thousands of people are going to trying to sign up every day. You’re going to want to be in on this. And you’re already in on the ground floor. You’re gonna make a fortune. You just have to be patient. But I told you that already, so what are you really talking about?”

“Listen, Cecil... my wife’s pregnant. She’s three months along. I gotta quit taking samples for you. Plus, I still don’t really think it’s healthy for you to be sticking other people’s shit up your butt every day. I mean what doctor ever told you to do that?”

“No doctor would ever prescribe my Treatments,” I say. “That’s the point.

They’ve all got it backwards. The science on this is all upside-down, really. But I am going to show them all the way.” Albert looks at the house like he wants to get going. I take a deep breath and try to stay calm - but it’s not working. “Funny, how the truth comes out in the end: I guess you’re just like all the rest of them - completely unwilling to think outside your own little cat box. Shit in the comer now and cover it all up, Albert.

Make it all go away!”

“Come on, Cecil, don’t be an asshole. I’ve been pretty cool about this whole arrangement.”

“You can’t quit. You gotta listen to me.” My grief therapist used to tell me to just stop talking when people call me an asshole or some other name, but I don’t see her anymore. “You have 100 trillion bacteria living all over your body — on your skin and your tongue and, of course, in your intestines. Only about ten percent of your cells are human, man. You gotta understand that. The rest of your body is made up of resident microbes. Come on, dude. You literally hold in your hands - and in your ass - nature’s 13

most amazing garden. You and all the other Antiseptics walk around annihilating what little life you have left in your body - killing, polluting, and starving every bacteria that comes your way. You feed them processed sugar all the time - which they don’t like, as

I’ve told you before - and sterilize everything you touch so you never get exposed to any new organisms. Your body’s like a desert now, man, and mine is becoming a most extraordinary rainforest. Don’t you see that? The more diversity I add to the mix the stronger I get. That’s why I still need the fecal transplants. That’s why I need you.”

Albert shooed a fly off of the rim of his beer, poured a bit out over the rim to wash it off, and then took a swig. “I know, I know, I’ve heard your lecture before.

Granted, you look as young as you did in high school - which is kind of weird - but do you really think it’s because of all this crazy shit you’re doing around here. You really think that has something to do with my samples. Come on, that’s just genetics. That’s just plain ol’ luck.”

“No, you got it wrong. You can change your luck. That’s what I’m doing here.

Look at me: I haven’t been sick in years. Sure, the first few years on the Plan were a bit tricky, but since then I’ve been healthy as an ox. Not a sneeze. Not a cough. Nothing. Can you say that? Do you remember how weak I was in high school? Plus, I had terrible allergies and the doctors kept trying to diagnose me with asthma and diabetes. And now?”

“Look, Cecil, I’m—“ 14

“And now?!?!” I’m all revved up, I can’t hold back. “I’m skinny and fit and healthier than any of you jocks were back in high school.”

“Cecil, I’m not here to debate you about your plan or who you were back in high

school. Maybe someday you’ll be on all the talk shows and have your own book and your own institute and everything, and then you’ll be right and I’ll be wrong.”

“No, not maybe. That’s for sure. I guarantee it. I’m going to show all of America

that dirt is beautiful. I’m going to live to be 150 years old, and everyone’s going to want

to talk to me all the time. Everyone will embrace me wherever I go, shower me with gifts.

They’ll call me a genius, you wait and see. You don’t get it. Nobody gets it. But I see the truth, I see it every day: the world is just you and everything else; it’s you combined with

the Everything. When you embrace the Everything, you create harmony around and

within you and the longer you’ll survive. It’s so simple - it’s like floating downstream

instead of fighting the current all your life. It’s right in front of your face! Can’t you see

it?”

“Sure, Cecil, whatever you say. If you’re right, I’ll come kiss your feet and eat all

the sauerkraut and nasty, homemade yogurt you want to feed me. But in the meantime, I

can’t keep stealing stool samples for you, okay? That’s it. End of discussion.” Albert

finishes off his beer and handles me the empty bottle. “I’ll bring your groceries next week

- but no samples - and we can talk more then, okay?”

“Don’t bother,” I say, “and here’s your money.” I take out a sweaty check for four

hundred dollars from my left sock and shove it in his hand. As he walks down the 15

driveway, I call out, “The proof s in the pudding, Albert, and you got a lot more pudding now than you did back in high school.” 16

Chapter 3

The dogs are asleep when I go back inside. I want to curl up with them and just be done with this awful day, but I’m too angry. I pace back and forth between the living room and the kitchen, whispering things I wish I would have said to Albert: “What you don’t understand is that I am doing this for you - for all of you sick, murderous people out there.” But they won’t understand for years; that’s the real problem. I need to shatter their ignorance right now, but there are still so many years left in The Plan before that can happen.

When I’ve calmed down a bit, I put the groceries away: five pounds of unprocessed nuts, ten heads of cabbage, wheatgrass, three large bags of organic carrots, ten spirulina energy bars, a box of steel cut oats, seven bananas, six thick taro roots (for making poi), one bag of raw pinto beans, two quarts of fresh, unpasteurized cream, a handful of dandelion greens, a dozen chicory roots, and three bags of crude wheat bran. I unplugged the refrigerator long ago, and then I removed the door to make it easier to access. I arrange all the food by day on its plastic shelves.

Monday afternoon is usually a busy, pleasant time for me; I crank up some

Dvorak - 1 have not yet figured out what type of music my bacteria prefer, so I just go with what I like - and cut cabbage to start a new batch of sauerkraut. Then I open the

Styrofoam box and introduce myself to all my new friends. I prepare the most promising looking sample by blending it with crushed wheatgrass and saline, curl up on the bathroom floor, and inject it into my gut. There is no other feeling in the world that 17

compares to the warm ecstasy of those first few minutes of my Treatments. Sometimes I have to clench and sweat, holding the magical elixir in for as long as possible in order to give the new microbiota a chance to sit and visit for a while. I always imagine my hosts being pleasantly surprised by their guests. They’re completely hospitable of course, I would expect nothing less; it’s like an impromptu, bacterial tea party down there.

But I’m too upset to do anything like that right now. Instead I go in the back room and switch on my ancient Dell computer. It’s dark here, like the rest of my house - except the kitchen. I like to see what I’m eating. I hate this room because it’s Mother’s old bedroom. Rose linoleum covers the floor. Mother always said that linoleum was the easiest surface to clean. The walls have pink toile wallpaper, and the windows are covered by metal Venetian blinds, which I keep closed. I converted the room into an office a year after Mother died - removing her bed and vanity and bringing in a small desk and chair - but I think she still hangs out in here sometimes. Every once in a while I think I can still smell her - latex and bleach - but it’s got to be my imagination, right?

I search “stool suppositories,” then “fecal samples,” then “fecal transplants,” and on and on . . . with no luck. There’s not a single company out there selling what I need, a daily dose of that primo shit. Fecal transplants are the closest hit, but those websites just talk about projects in experimental stages. Those scientists don’t have a clue yet, and they’re moving too slow.

Adding to my frustration, the damn cursor keeps jumping around the screen.

When I bring it up to type in a new search term, it skips over the box. Then I bring it 18

down and its skips to the bottom of the screen. Has the whole world turned against me? I keep typing and searching, and typing and searching, and then my keyboard is flying across the room.

I cover my face and being to weep. It’s not crying, not blubbering, bawling, or sobbing - because it’s more than that, much more. It’s true weeping, like the ancient

Greek women who tore out their hair or Jesus’ followers who wailed as he carried the cross up the road to Calvary. I’ve been carrying the weight of twenty worlds on my shoulders for over a decade, and no one understands. It’s been so hard. But the Earth and the future of humanity depend on me. I’m tested every single day, and I know I have to persevere ... like every great leader before me.

Because it’s not just about the microbes, you see. It’s not about me or my gut; it’s about the Everything. Humans kill and sanitize all the Earth’s wondrous creations, not just microbes. Gorillas, whales, buffalo, wolves, fish, cows, pigs, chickens, they are all treated like the bacteria in our guts. The Antiseptics want to get rid of them so that they can live their lives with their brains plugged into computers and eat sterilized flesh grown in labs. The more science they get under their belt, the more confused they get about how the Everything works. The perversity of this truth keeps me up at night. The Antiseptics seek out conflict, disharmony, and imbalance; that is the disease, the affliction of this 21st

Century. If I can shape my microbiome into the most perfect environment on the planet - more diverse, more resilient, more stable than any place left on Earth - and live to an age beyond all current human expectations, then I will be able to take my rightful place in 19

this world and change Antiseptic perceptions of all nonhuman species. I will become the oldest, wisest man ever - a true prophet - and the science that will help me accomplish this will be based on the ultimate respect for, not rejection of Nature, in all her gritty glory.

So now can you see why it’s so important for me to get my hands on some shit samples?

##

I realize what I need to do to get through the rest of the day. But that means I must deviate from The Plan. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do; even prophets are imperfect sometimes. And it can’t always be about the bacteria; I’ve got a soul too.

I dry my eyes and turn off the computer. Then I go to the kitchen sink and reluctantly begin to wash my arms and face. I would do this in the shower, but the memories are just too awful in there. This ritual is painful, but necessary. I take off my t- shirt, shorts, and sneakers. I am fully naked, streaked from head to toe with weeks of dirt, sweat, and trillions of precious microorganisms - my armor.

By the way, I’m not stupid; I know I don’t smell “normal.” I smell human - deep, pungent, earthy human. But I know that this smell repulses nearly everyone (homeless people don’t seem to mind much). So when I decide to go on an Excursion, I have to put on my Antiseptic disguise, which unfortunately includes washing my entire body to rid it of its natural smell. 20

I get out my homemade lye soap, lather up, and rinse off. A large muddy puddle grows on the kitchen floor, but it will dry or drip through to the basement eventually. I hate to kill so many bacteria, but I haven’t figured out how to eliminate body odor without soap. Perfumes disgust me and, in any case, don’t even come close to covering up my usual smell. Sometimes I think that I can hear my microbes pleading for their lives or crying for the murder of their relatives as they desperately cling to my skin.

When I’m finished washing, I walk into my bedroom, which is directly adjacent to Mother’s room . .. I mean my study. She could always hear everything I was doing in here, like she had her ear up against the wall all day and night. I have a stash of laundered cloths - thanks to Albert - a comb, and some odor-free antiperspirant in my closet. I pull a long-sleeve, white button-down shirt off of a hanger and grab some khaki pants. I put on a pair of black penny loafers that I save for these occasions. And then - the final touch

- 1 don a clean Giants baseball cap and some fake Ray Ban sunglasses. I look in the mirror, and I have to say, I look quite passable for a harmless, financial district doofus.

Perfect. 21

Chapter 4

I hesitate at the front door. I repeatedly turn the door knob and then let it close. I look out at the sidewalk through the window next to the door. It’s empty. I close my eyes and breathe. I open the door a few inches and then close it again. I retreat to the kitchen. I decide I need a snack before I go. The dogs are snoring in the corner of the kitchen as I eat two large carrots and a bowl of yogurt.

I don’t have to go, I tell myself. I could just change back into my normal clothes, put a violin concerto on the stereo, and get back to my routine. But then again, it would be such a waste of all those microbes that I just washed into eternity if I decided to stay.

And I need this now. Albert may not come back, and I’m feeling .... Well, let’s just say that the Plan has some obvious flaws; first among them is that I can’t make any friends - if you don’t count Albert, which I don’t anymore. Nobody understands me. So I am force to compensate when necessary with my Excursions.

I walk to the front door and stare down the door knob. I do not touch it until I am ready to go. I check the sidewalk. Still empty. 3:48 p.m. People will start to leave work and head home to their families. I grab the knob, twist, open, exit, and quickly close the door. Success. The heat catches my breath as I descend the six stairs to the sidewalk. I don’t look back as I march down the block, turn left, and head for Solano Avenue.

At the bus stop, an old lady waits and a teenager smokes. I stand upwind of the kid, seven feet away from the AC Transit sign and five feet from the woman. When the

18 arrives, I let them both board, pay my fare, and look for a seat. I see a chubby college 22

student in a tight t-shirt and shorts (probably on his way to a late-afternoon class or to

meet up with friends) sitting alone in a double seat. His face is flushed and sweaty like he just ran to catch the bus. He must’ve got on just a stop or two before me. Avoiding eye

contact, I take the seat next to him.

He is clutching a backpack and his right elbow protrudes just slightly into my

space. I adjust in my seat as the bus takes off so that his elbow now rests ever-so-slightly

on my forearm. It is not skin-to-skin, my shirt separates us, but I can feel his warmth

nonetheless. These seats are tight. His oversized hip spills over the divide and touches me

through our respective layers of clothing. Our hips rub against each other as the bus

rumbles up Solano, through the dark tunnel under the Marin Circle, and then back into

the sunlight and on toward downtown. I close my eyes, pretending to doze. But every

molecule of by being - the human ones at least - are awake, alive, and laser-focused on

our connection and that tingle - oh, that electric, life-affirming tingle - of our arms and

hips resting against each other.

When the bus pulls up to the stop near the Cheese Board, it fills with the smell of

the shop’s famously delicious pizzas. My stomach grumbles, but I don’t even think about

eating right now; I am in contact with one of my future followers.

My seatmate adjusts his backpack as we cross University Avenue, separating our

arms and breaking the spell. That’s okay though. My stop is next, and my Excursion is

far from over. 23

As I prepare to exit the bus, I see the old woman from the bus stop getting ready to get off as well. Her hair, pulled up in a bun, is as white as an iris. She’s dressed in a dated, mushroom-colored pants suit. Her hands and neck are covered in liver-spots. She is wearing a modest wedding ring, with a diamond set between two small rubies. I wonder if her husband is still alive. I wonder if they touch each other.

I rise and stand in front of her, pretending to study an advertisement for rug cleaning directly above her seat. I am momentarily distracted by its offensive content.

The commercial artist responsible for the ad has depicted a gruesome array of tiny bugs hiding in thick shag. A fat, white baby is crawling recklessly toward the nest of microscopic vermin (their sharp teeth bared, their eyes bulging and bloodshot) and presumably toward her imminent demise. Oh the humanity!

I reach up to see if I can easily remove the poster - such misguided propaganda - but it’s sealed in tight behind a sheet of thick, clear plastic. Never mind, the bus is stopping anyway. I gallantly step aside to let the old lady exit first. “Please,” I say, and she smiles at me.

As most oldies do, she firmly grasps the vertical bar next to the door as she steps down off the bus. I am right behind her, nearly tripping on her heels. I zero-in on her hand and close my fingers around it for just a moment. This is skin-on-skin now, highly coveted territory for me. I can feel the bacteria jumping from her hand to mine and vice versa - each transplant finding a new home, kissing neighbors, and making new friends.

That’s our microbiomes embracing, an ancient and nearly lost ritual, a more highly 24

spiritual event than you will ever find in any of the Antiseptics’ so-called houses of worship. It’s as if our souls collide, and for just that instant, we become one.

As I slide my fingers down the back of her heavily wrinkled, mottled hand, my stomach turns, and I grow momentarily weak at the knees. I manage to exhale. And in order to avoid confusion and suspicion, I murmur, “Oops, so sorry.” Then I step to the sidewalk and turn toward the Downtown Berkeley BART Station.

##

The ride into the City is a disappointment. There are not enough people traveling from Berkeley to San Francisco right now to give me an opportunity to touch and be touched. It would be too strange to sit right next to somebody when there are so many empty seats on the train. I don’t want to creep anyone out. So I sit by the window, alone.

The quiet ride gives me a chance to replay my two Captured Touches so far - a good start, but by no means a successful excursion. The woman’s hand is especially delicious in my memory as I think of all she may have seen and been exposed to. Perhaps she has given me someone special, an old line of bacteria brought with her from a faraway land. I dream that she Eastern European, an immigrant, and her bacterial heritage reaches back through the millennia to the first Europeans, each mother passing her family’s own microbial fingerprint onto the next generation, for hundreds of generations.

I postulate that some microbes must be nearing extinction - as the Antiseptics’ bacterial holocaust reaches its zenith. Perhaps the old lady and I have protected some important, previously unknown strain of commensal - she and I, as one, through our magical, 25

innocent touch. We pass West Oakland Station and dive into the tunnel that cuts under the Bay, and then within minutes we are almost to Embarcadero Station.

When the train pulls into the station, my knees begin to tremble. It’s rush hour on a hot day. People - long, short, fat, pale, black, brown, old, young, hairy, smooth - are packed cheek-by-jowl on the platform. The train slows to a stop and the doors open. The crowd pours in, a flood of suits and sweaty skin and hair that fills every comer of the car.

It’s hot and breathy and lusciously close in here. A neatly dressed Indian man grabs the seat next to me and opens a shiny little computer on his lap. “Nice to get a seat,” he says.

“Sure is,” I reply as I slide a bit closer so that our elbows meet. Each time he hits the space bar, he jiggles my elbow. Again, I pretend to fall asleep - I’ve found that this tactic most effectively deflects suspicion from the Antiseptics - and scoot a bit closer to my seatmate. I listen to the conversations around me. A loud-mouth lawyer behind me spouts on about the best hot dog he ever ate - was it Coney Island or Santa Monica, he wonders (the whole car waits with bated breath as he tries to figure it out). Two young secretaries in front of me giggle about their inane bosses. I open one eye and look at the backs of their heads. One girl has dark brown hair split into pigtails. Her scalp is exposed in a perfectly straight line down the middle of her head. I would like to run my tongue up and down that fine line, but resist for obvious reasons. The other girl has short, spiked hair and terrible dandruff. I would take her head and rub it on my stomach if she would let me. I close my eyes again and the Indian man’s rhythmic nudging feeds me those 26

prized touches - each one a reward for cleaning my body and leaving the house, a

reassurance that I am, in fact, not all alone in this world.

My system is simple. I ride the Daly City train out of downtown San Francisco until the car is nearly empty. Then I step across the platform and board the Richmond

train heading back into the City and then on to home. I stand in the train now, despite the

availability of seats. The car fills gradually, Civic Center, Powell, now no seats left.

Montgomery, the standing areas begin to fill. Then back to magical Embarcadero.

Eager to get home, commuters standing on the platform discard their usual sense

of personal space and pack themselves onto the train, a snake gorged on hundreds of

mice. My hand holds the bar above me, and my armpit bumps against the back of a blond

woman’s head. A black man takes off his backpack. His butt rams into my right thigh as

he leans down to set it between his legs, causing me to brush up against man with a gray

beard wearing a Hawaiian shirt. The train jostles us together. We are touching each other

countless times, and overload of sensation and contact. We are sweating despite the air

conditioning. I roll up the sleeves of my shirt. Slick skin rubs slick skin. A girl, young -

faded jean jacket. A roly-poly banker. His wonderfully round stomach against my back.

An old, bifocaled reader of Hesse, gently rubbing his forearm against the side of my

ribcage with each quick page turn. A listing septuagenarian to whom no one offers a seat,

momentarily steadying herself against my chest as the train abruptly slows to a stop.

## 27

It’s always difficult to return home after an Excursion, and tonight, because of my fight with Albert, my place feels especially empty. I think of the people on the train and wonder if they all have families waiting for them at home - with stories about their days and a meal to share at a worn kitchen table.

Standing alone in my kitchen - the dogs gone for the night - and eating a bowl of oatmeal, I think about Albert and what can be done about my Treatments. I decide that I will call him tomorrow and apologize. I need him. I’d offer him more money, but I know that’s not economically feasible. In fact, Albert bowing out right now may be the least of my worries. My last bank statement showed a balance of $901.53.1 have officially burned through almost all of Mother’s life insurance money. It’s been a long, good run, but the $320,000 is gone. I’ve tried to get a job, but even the trash collectors wouldn’t take me. One guy actually laughed at me when I walked in the door. He said that I looked like the stuff they throw in back of their trucks. It would be too confusing for everybody, he continued, and then he howled with his buddies until I walked out the door. I just don’t know what I am going to do. There’s nothing in The Plan about making money at this stage, I’m still building my super-microbiome. It will be years before I can prove my case. Nobody will take me seriously yet.

I’m exhausted when I climb into bed. I cling to the thrill of the Captured Touches, but my mind returns to Albert’s decision to abandon me and to my nearly empty bank account. I am up until 3:13 a.m., tossing and turning and then my body finally surrenders.

And I sleep, a dead man walking into a raging sea. 28

Chapter 5

Mother is standing over me, a mountain of thick, white flesh in a plastic apron, starched nurse’s uniform, and long rubber gloves. Her blue eyes - my blue eyes - glow violently. She cradles my infant brother - our beloved Isaac. Her rubber fingers press tight against his skin, wrinkling the thin baby flesh covering his fontcmelle. The right side o f her neck is severely swollen and blood red... like how it looked that day she lay among folding chairs in the grass so long ago.

“Get out o f bed, ” she says. “It’s nearly 5 a.m. ” Her expression is stern. She is

unforgiving and impenetrable; she is a flickering, night-shift prison guard.

“Mother, I can’t wash today. ”

She laughs, a sharp knife cutting through the darkness. “You, you, you... it's

always about Cecil... and what Cecil wants. What about the rest of this family? What

about keeping us safe? Have you no consideration for that? ”

“Safe... I wonder what that means, ” I respond, my tone wrong - it always was.

In one powerful motion, she hauls me out of bed - me, thirteen, seventeen, twenty-

seven, thirty-five, ageless, timeless, she is always there, and I am always just me. She

drags me through darkness down the hallway. Her black leather shoes squeak on

sterilizedfloors as she applies her weight to the task.

She is scrubbing now - harsh soap and scalding water - her knees pressed against the side o f the bathtub. Her black hair is now tied back in a plain, white bandana.

A bead of sweat drips from her forehead, down her sharp nose, andfalls to the tub’s 29

edge. She wipes it clean with the sleeve o f her uniform and continues. Blistering water fills the tub in a steamy torrent.

Infant Isaac lies still in a plastic bag in the corner of the bathroom; he was always such a good boy.

I have gone blank inside, the place where dreams go when they ’re no longer remembered. She cannot stop herself - some demon, some angel, some sickness has taken her. She lathers, scrubs, and rinses... lathers, scrubs, and rinses.... My skin burns like each molecule is combusting into a microscopic ball of flame. Layers peel, my armor torn from my soul. Mother does not hear me crying. She explains the burns to me instead:

"It’s the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse sent to redeem your soiled soul. Every time we prepare for divine judgment, we come closer to God. ”

I turn my head away from her, a moment of defiance - of self-preservation. Her theology is all off, a mishmash of ideas squeezed together in her confused, injured psyche. I bear witness.

“White, red, black, and pale, ” she continues. “Horses fly through the night.

Conquest, War, Famine, and Death. We will be ready when they come. ”

In the steam above her head, I write, “S.O.S. ”

And Isaac remains still in the corner.

##

The next morning, I have a hard time getting out of bed. But I don’t take days off.

Ever. I rise at 7:03 a.m., greet Marcus, Cassius, and Denarius, collect a specimen, and 30

then I take a dirt bath in the back yard. My clean white skin repulses me, and I am glad to get back to my normal dusty color. I spit on my skin and rub the dirt in, welcoming new

subjects to my kingdom. The soil around here contains so many wonderful, deserving bacteria. And just like that, I start to replenish myself and begin to feel a little bit better

about things.

Now it’s 8:17 a.m. The sun lights up my kitchen, and the still stickiness of the

morning promises another over-hot day. She began knocking at the front door six minutes

ago. I was preparing a breakfast of fermented bean curd. Then I was going to exercise.

The dogs started barking when she stepped onto the porch, so I put them in the basement

and told them to be quiet. They started up again immediately after I closed the door.

“Cecil, I know you’re in there.” Her voice slides through the mail slot like a wad

of unwanted flyers. Yet she is not completely unwanted here. Unlike most other

Antiseptics, she’s not an entirely intolerant person. She knows all about my gut, although

I’m not sure she fully understands its importance. She wears too much perfume, and

sometimes I gag when I am around her. It’s disgusting really. She’s way too clean. Not a

speck of dirt anywhere. I bet she’s even got one of those little vacuum cleaners in her car

- the kind that plugs into the cigarette lighter. “I can see you watching me from the

kitchen, Cecil. Please let me in so we can talk.”

Her name is Soledad. I think it means solidarity, but it could be loneliness. I’m

not sure. She has the blackest hair I have ever seen and a husky voice like she swallowed

a hairball when she was a kid and never coughed it up. I like that about her. She is round 31

and dark and is missing her right index finger, but I’ve never asked her about it. I was taught to respect people’s privacy. I bet she has a hard time bowling though.

One thing I know about Soledad is that she’s persistent. During previous visits, she has knocked for over an hour. Our current record is 77 minutes, a number I was completely obsessed with at the time. Today though, I’m too tired to play our little game.

So despite the fact that it has only been 9 minutes, I tiptoe between the green buckets of fermenting vegetables and the vessel of yogurt to my front door. I remove the chain, undo the deadbolts, and slowly turn the knob. But I can’t face her quite yet. I let the door creak open a couple inches and retreat. I beeline to the bathroom. Before she crosses the threshold, I am safely seated on the edge of the tub with the bathroom door closed and locked. I scrape a line of grime from the side of the toilet tank with my fingernail and roll it into little greasy worms between my fingers, a nervous habit.

“Cecil, come out, please. I know you don’t like visitors, but I really need to talk to you.” Her voice is muffled now due to the surgical mask she always wears when she’s inside my house. I used to find it offensive, but then she told me that her boss makes her wear it. I’m not sure what to believe.

“Just leave a note,” I call through the door. “I promise to read it later.”

“I can’t leave a note, you know that. I need to see you in person to make sure you

are okay. And I need some signatures. Will you please come out?”

“Not right now. I’m in the middle of something.” I fake grunt.

“Cecil, I know you don’t use that toilet. That’s part of the whole problem.” 32

I grunt loudly now. “Oh yeah,” I shout. “Now, that’s how we do it.” I’m not sure what I mean; it just came to mind out of nowhere ... like maggots in old meat.

“Cecil, I ain’t buyin’ what you’re selling. We’ve been through this before. I have the whole morning blocked off just for you. I’m not going to leave until we talk.”

She knows the knocking gets to me, so she begins to thump away at the bathroom door. I check my watch. 8:33. Thump, thump, thump . . . . At 8:57,1 crack the door and step into the tub. I pull the moldy shower curtain - black stains and faded sunflowers - all the way across. I used to have trouble being inside here, but a few years back - after a particularly dreadful nightmare - 1 filled the tub halfway up with dirt. A few dandelions, a small clump of native grass, and a raspberry plant have all volunteered. The raspberry climbed the tiles, twirled itself around the shower head, and is now reaching for the ceiling.

A fair number of pill bugs also live in my tub. You know, roly-polies, armadillo bugs . .. potato bugs, they have lots of different names. Whenever I see one in the garden, I transplant it here. I keep the soil nice and moist because I know that’s what they like, and I bring in leaves and handfuls of grass for them to gnaw on every morning.

Sometimes I take one or two of them out to the kitchen to keep me company while I eat

lunch. They always roll up into a tight ball the second I disturb them and then slowly relax when I leave them alone on the kitchen table for a few minutes. A year ago, I found

one that had turned completely blue. I did some research and found out that it was

infected with an iridovirus. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. I put it 33

in a jar and kept it by my bed. Then it died. I also found out that these fascinating little bugs - crustaceans actually - carry their young in little pouches like kangaroos, drink water through their anuses, and practice autocoprophagy, meaning they have to eat their own shit to survive. Sometimes I wonder if I’d be happier if I had been bom a simple pill bug.

As Soledad slowly enters, I carefully dig my toes into the comfort of the wet soil.

I have reclaimed this place; the days of Mother’s cleanliness have been over for more than a decade.

“Okay,” Soledad says, “now that we are in the same room, how are you, Cecil?”

“Never better. And you?”

“It doesn’t really matter how I’m doing, does it? Although I do appreciate your asking. Listen, I’m going to cut straight to the point: the city is getting ready to condemn your house. It’s not good, Cecil, not good at all. Apparently, you have ignored all of the city’s citations and notices. You never told me that the building inspector had come by.

And I find out that the final hearing is this Friday. Why haven’t you fought this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The dirt worms between my fingers have migrated to my palm and have combined to form a finger-length snake that traces my heart line. I roll it gently back and forth in my hand.

“Anyway, I talked to the city’s lawyers. If Friday’s hearing goes poorly, they’ll padlock the doors. They’ll kick you out of here and onto the streets.” 34

I’ve never been good with bad news (although technically this is not entirely

“news;” I just never thought the city would actually do anything). The day my mother died, I spent the afternoon digging a big hole in the backyard. It was dark and damp and cool down there. Someone (Mr. Montague?) found me days later, and I ended up at the hospital. Like I said, I’m not good with bad news.

“Cecil? Do you understand? You have to clean this place up right away or you’ll lose your house. The years’ worth of dog shit in the back yard, the rotting vegetables, your fecal specimen repository, the flies, all of it.” Apparently, she doesn’t know about my pit latrine. “And the rats, too, Cecil, you have to do something about the rats right away. Are you getting this? They might even knock this place down if you do nothing - your mother’s house, demolished.”

I press my right index finger against the tip of a raspberry thorn and begin to dapple the tiles next to the vine with blood, my own little raspberries. I then prick all four fingers in a row and slowly draw parallel lines from the very top of the shower down to the black ring of mold around the edge of the tub. A pill bug peeks out at me from the overflow drain and then quickly disappears.

“Cecil, what are doing in there? Come on out and talk to me. I’m serious now.”

I pull the curtain back just a bit and peek around it at her. She is wearing an oversized, horrifically loud, pink-paisley blouse. A blue mask covers her mouth and nose.

Flies buzz around her coiffed head. Her perfume invades my nostrils, causing them to burn. I am feeling sick now . . . and dizzy too. Perhaps I will faint. Perhaps I will die. She 35

becomes a whirl of color. I want her to leave my house now. I quickly close the curtain and squat down. I can smell her breathing on the other side of the curtain. I check the time. 9:07. Can’t they all just leave me alone? But I need them. I live like this for them. I dig my fingernails into the meat of my forearm.

“I’m really sorry, Cecil.”

And for just that brief moment, I truly believe that she means it. m

It’s Friday, 9:12 a.m. The crumpled paper in my hand states that my condemnation hearing is scheduled to start at nine. I am dressed in my best Antiseptic disguise, skin washed for the second time this week - a deep and potentially extremely harmful deviation from the Plan. My palms, forehead, and back are sweating ... my soul is sweating. Sun cuts through the thick curtains covering my living room windows. My hand is on the doorknob. I twist it back and forth. 36

Chapter 6

As you might guess, I never made it to the hearing. One week has passed and still no visits from city officials. I guess the demo crew had better things to do than bother me in my own home. I think I was right all along; they were just trying to scare me.

And they succeeded, to a certain extent. Ever since Soledad’s visit, I’ve been cleaning up around here. For example, although it took almost five full days, I managed to shovel all of the dog shit into one massive pile in the middle of the back yard. The dogs and I had quite the bonfire at 3:45 the following morning. It burned a little bit hotter than I had expected and set part of the avocado tree on fire, but by 5:34 a.m., the flames had all died out, and most of the feces was gone; a smoldering pancake of residue was all that was left. Mr. Montague wrote me a note the following day and put it in my mail slot, but instead of thanking me for cleaning up, he wrote, “If you ever do anything like that again, I’ll call the police, and if they don’t come fast enough, I’ll throw you in the fire myself.” He’s nearly eighty, but that’s no excuse for his constant cantankerousness.

Also, although this hardly qualifies as cleaning, I installed some additional security. I put in an extra lock on both the front and back doors. I also painted a large sign, which I hung on the old picket fence in the front of my house. It reads, “My dogs have rabies - do not trespass!” Below the words, I drew a picture of a crying man hopping on one leg. Next to him, a dog gnaws on his other, recently severed leg. White foam pours from the dog’s fearsome mouth and into a puddle at his feet. 37

And one last thing I got straightened out, I talked to Albert on the phone. After

quite a bit of back and forth, I finally convinced him to bring me one last mega-delivery

of food and lab samples. He swore that this was it and seemed quite irritated with himself for caving in. If I am parsimonious with my meals and Treatments, my current supply

could last me up to five weeks. I gave him a check for the remainder of the money in my

bank account so he should not have been complaining so much. My plan is to talk to

Soledad when she visits next and make her put me on welfare. Mother’s life insurance

money had eliminated that option before, but now that it’s completely gone, I should

qualify.

So after a bit of a scary time, my life is starting to fall back into place. This is

what they must call the calm after the storm - or something like that, right? And maybe -

fingers crossed - 1 can even re-enlist Albert. He’s integral to the Plan, and I know he will

need money once the baby comes. It’s not like I am asking him to commit murder. I’ll just have to wait and see how much welfare money I get before I can make him an offer

he cannot refuse. I just have to make it work.

##

The heat wave continues. Every night, the local news highlights the records being

broken all across the Bay Area. On June 3rd at 6:41 p.m., a blond newscaster announces

that May was the hottest single month in San Francisco since meteorologists started

keeping records. The program cuts to clips of people walking on Ocean Beach, playing in

a fountain in Golden Gate Park, and eating ice cream in Justin Herman Plaza. 38

I immediately kill the T. V. and stare at the blank screen, gnashing my teeth. Do

they know that they’re glorifying collective suicide? They should show pictures of dry

riverbeds, abandoned farms, and dead salmon. For that matter, they should show pictures

of family homes being inundated by rising seas in Bangladesh and all the thirsty, starving

children in sub-Saharan Africa. They should make a pile of corpses - birds, bears,

butterflies, tortoises, mountain lions, bighorn sheep, elk, frogs, salamanders, iguanas,

whatever they can find - to show the viewers the real story. And what about the millions

of microbial species threatened with extinction? Does anyone care about them? Ice cream

and beaches! Unbelievable.

That night, I dream of the Four Horsemen - not my mother’s version, but the real

ones. Every corner of the earth is ablaze. Dead bodies - human and otherwise - are

splayed out everywhere. The horsemen descend from the heavens to deliver the final

blow. But I am there on my steady, green steed, leading an army of slime-covered, shape-

shifting soldiers. On my orders, they repel the Horsemen with volleys of microbial

bombshells and extinguish the earth’s flames by vomiting oceans of ooze. Then my

soldiers spread out across the planet and become flowered meadows, dark forests, and

vast green plains. They spit flocks of bluebirds and shit herds of buffalo. They become

lakes and rivers, glaciers and rain clouds. They build small villages to shelter the

remaining human beings. And then they decompose into rich blankets of bacteria to

protect and nourish us all. And I am exalted as king.

## 39

At 9:58 a.m., I’m sitting in my kitchen listening to Wagner and rereading Heretics o f Dune when I hear a knock at the door. I finished working out twenty-seven minutes ago, but I am still wearing a sweat-soaked Oakland A’s t-shirt, a pair of cut-off jeans, and my Converse All-Stars. I figure it must be Soledad so I quickly kill the music and gather the dogs. I lock them in the basement and tell them to be quiet. They immediately begin to howl when I close the door. Today, I am in the mood to play - perhaps we will even break our record - so I squat down next to the cabinets in the kitchen, smile, chew on a loose fingernail, and wait.

Another knock. This time, much louder. Not her usual style.

“Open up!”

My stomach drops. It’s not Soledad . . . and it’s not Albert either.

“Cecil Reitmeister! It’s the police. Open up. We know you’re in there. We have a warrant requiring you to vacate the premises.”

I scurry on all fours out of the kitchen and through the dark living room. I pull the curtain back ever-so-slightly, and peek out the front window. Four cops, including one female cop with mirrored aviator glasses, stand in the bright sun on my front steps. The one at the door is barrel-chested, with thick tan arms and a laughably typical, Burt

Reynolds moustache. Soledad, in a garish pastel muumuu, stands on the sidewalk, looking worried.

I retreat and take position behind the couch between two green fermenting buckets - one cabbage, one whole beets. The smell of rot is strong and comforting here. 40

“We’re not home!” I yell.

“Cecil,” Soledad’s familiar voice calls through the mail slot, “Please let us in. It’s for your own good. I’ll get you some help, I promise.”

Help! They want to help me? Talk about irony! “Come back tomorrow. I’ll open the door then.”

I hear a minor scuffle behind the front door. Soledad has been quickly demoted; the barrel-chested voice is back. “That’s not how it’s going to work, Mr. Reitmeister.” I hate it when people call me “Mr. Reitmeister” when they are obviously being condescending instead of respectful. It’s like saying “yes, please” when you mean “go to fuck yourself.” The voice continues, “You better get it through your head right now, I’m giving the orders around here.”

“We’ll see about that!” I don’t know exactly what I mean, but it sounds good.

“Open this goddamn door!”

“You can’t come in here. I won’t allow it.” I think of the green, shape-shifters from my dream and wish they were here to defend my kingdom. “This is a delicately balanced ecosystem. I have spent years perfecting it. You Antiseptics will throw

everything off. You don’t understand, no one understands! But you have to trust me. Just

leave me alone for a few more years, and I’ll show you amazing things.”

“I am going to count to three, Mr. Reitmeister, and then my men are going to break down this door.” 41

Soledad in the distance: “Don’t do it! He’s very sensitive. Just wait a few minutes! He’ll come around.”

“We don’t have time to wait.” Now I hear shuffling feet near the door. “And one more thing, Mr. Reitmeister, your social worker tells us that your dogs are probably locked in the basement right now. Don’t let them out or we will shoot them on sight. I don’t care if they have rabies or not - I’m not going to get bit by some filthy mutt today.

You understand?”

I respond with silence. There is nothing in the Plan about home invasions from overly aggressive, misguided police thugs. What to do? On the one hand, Gandhi would let them in. He would protest in silence as he let them take everything away, a true martyr. Then his followers would gather around him and they would all hold a hunger strike until the authorities capitulated. But no one would get it if I just surrender right now. I don’t have any followers. I would just be noted as one of many Berkeley lunatics, not a hero, not a leader, and definitely not a savior - not yet. On the other hand, Malcom

X would let the dogs out of the basement and go down fighting. Of course he would have a whole arsenal of automatic rifles hidden in his bedroom. I’ve never even shot a gun.

More importantly, I cannot risk losing Marcus, Cassius, or Denarius.

“This is your last warning, Mr. Reitmeister. One!”

But I just can’t go down without a fight. This is too important.

“Two!”

Symbolic resistance, that’s what they’ll call it in my biography. 42

I stand up, grab a fermented beet in one hand and a handful of sauerkraut in the other and ready myself.

“Three!” 43

Chapter 7

The door shudders and the jamb splinters when the police thrust their battering ram against my front door, but the new deadbolt holds fast. For a split second, my dark living room is seductively still and silent, as though nothing is happening outside. Is this unjustified attack on my home actually happening? Or could I just retreat to the kitchen, turn Wagner back on, let the dogs out, and return to my daily routine?

The inevitable answer comes in the form of another whack from the battering ram, and this time, the door flies wide open. A fat vat of yogurt next to the door tips over,

spilling white all over the living room floor. The first cop in - barrel-chest - is blind in the room’s utter darkness and immediately slips and falls heavily into the yogurt with a thud and a splat. .. and a loud, anguished grunt.

My arms and legs are shaking now as I shift my stance and prepare to repel the

next invader.

The female cop enters, weapon drawn. Barrel-chest cries out, “Watch out,

Angel!” as I hurl the slimy beet in my hand and connect squarely with her head, knocking

her mirrored sunglasses to the floor. She leans against the side of the front doorway,

momentarily stunned. I pelt her with sauerkraut. And she falls back outside.

I hear Soledad screaming, “Stop it, Cecil! You must cooperate!”

I grab two more beet grenades. Through the open door, I see the two remaining

cops running around the house to my back yard. Barrel-chest is groaning on the floor,

covered head-to-toe in yogurt and flies. 44

The two cops at the back of the house have little trouble breaking down the door.

I step into the kitchen. Sunlight illuminates the encrusted countertops next to the sink and soiled linoleum at my feet. I launch my second attack. These guys see my missiles coming and duck, easily evading the flying beets. One beet flies out of the house into the back yard; one smashes into the wall behind the cops, leaving a vibrant purple blood stain at the point of impact. The guy closest to me, a red-headed kid who looks about fifteen loses his hat when he ducks and then straightens up and says, “Come on, man, is that all you got?”

The other cop, the red-head’s overweight, graying partner (I assume), yells in a deep baritone, “Taze him for god’s sake!”

The red-head smiles, points over my shoulder, and winks at me sadistically.

Before I can turn, I feel two light touches - one on my shoulder and one on my calf. Instantly, I hear clicking and my muscles seize up into violent balls of fire. I fall to the floor, head smacking linoleum. A pain - sublime in its totality - shoots through my body as an army of invisible claws pinch each muscle - each cell - until I feel that I am breaking apart and quickly disintegrating into a mushy, electro-charged blob of oblivion.

Are they killing me now, I wonder, without even conducting a trial? Even Jesus got a trial. And what are they doing to my sacred microbiome? Murdering every exquisite being inside me? And for what? Spite? Jealously? Mistrust?

I try to inch toward the basement door, but the pinching claws are relentless. I should have let the dogs out when I had the chance; we could’ve all gone down together. 45

I can’t move. I’m a stiff board, jittering madly on my kitchen floor. Through vibrating eyeballs, I see black shoes. The gray baritone says, “Nice shot, Angel, give him a few more jolts.”

And then I pass out. m

I wake up in the back of a police car, the window cracked just slightly, like I’m a dog. My hands are bound behind my back, making it impossible to sit comfortably. The car reeks of disinfectant and fake pine, like Mr. Clean and the Brawny Man had recently engaged in some sort of ultra-hygienic sex back here. I guess because they couldn’t kill me, they’re going to torture me now. I vomit my breakfast - bean curd and peanut butter

- into the hard plastic seat next to me. The car instantly smells better.

Soledad is sitting on my front steps with her head in her hands. Police tape has been drawn around my property. Barrel-chest walks down the driveway carrying my old

Dell computer. He has wiped much of the yogurt from his uniform, but streaks of white are still visible near his lapels and on his right pant leg. He walks to the squad car where

I’m sitting, pops the trunk, deposits the computer, and climbs in.

“Oh my god, you shithead, you had to puke in my car too?” He starts the engine and rolls down his window. “You’re under arrest,” he says. “Assaulting an officer .... and whatever else we can find on you. And might I mention, I think you’re fucking disgusting.” 46

As we pull away - barrel-chest’s head leaning out the window - 1 see a hazmat vehicle and the city’s animal control van pull up in front of my house. I know now that all is lost. They will destroy everything. They will clean, “disinfect,” “sanitize.” They will slaughter everything in there until Mother’s order has returned. They will wash the last thirteen years of my life away with hoses, sprays, and de-molding agents. They - all those self-important Antiseptics in their white plastic suits and gloves - they are the hazardous materials that need to be addressed, wiped out, remediated. They are the scourge, the blight, the plague - not me, and certainly not my bacteria. I yell out the window to Soledad, “Save my samples,” but I cannot tell if she hears me.

We turn onto Colusa and drive past my old elementary school where, for a brief period of time, I was considered normal. We turn onto Solano and I think of my dogs and hope someone takes good care of them, but I know they are destined for the pound. They will not do well there; they are too liberated and nocturnal. I begin to moan, and then it turns into a growl. Barrel-chest quickly eyes me in the rear-view mirror. I get the sense that he would love nothing more than to take a rubber hose to my already ailing body - they still do that these days, right?

And my growl quickly turns to a whimper.

My only hope is that the microbes in my gut survived the police’s brutal electrocution of me and that I can continue with the Plan as soon as possible.

## 47

When we get to the station, barrel-chest pulls me roughly out of the squad car and says, “You should’ve just cooperated man.”

As we are about to enter the building, he trips me, and I fall face first onto the pavement. “You should be more careful,” he says, laughing. As he helps me up, I feel blood running down the side of my face. Just then, I see Soledad standing at a distance, watching us. She turns away quickly and disappears into a beige city government building.

My first hour at the jail is a blur of voices and shocked expressions. Now they are taking my mug shot. I blink as the shutter clicks. “Try again.” Do I smile? Will this photo be remembered? Included in the history books? “Can you believe that guy?” says the

mug-shot photographer as I’m exiting the room. “Freaking disgusting!” his partner

responds, the door closing behind me. A short cop takes me to a bathroom and wipes the blood from my face. He puts a large, rectangular Band-Aid on my forehead, and repeats barrel-chest’s warning: “You should be more careful.” I wonder if this is code for, “If you don’t cooperate, we will hurt you again.”

I am read my Miranda rights once or twice, maybe three times. “You have the

right to remain .... You have the right to remain .... You have the right to remain . ..

They don’t ever seem to finish, but maybe that’s just me. I can’t seem to focus on

anything. A woman takes my fingerprints. Then, she hands me a wet wipe to clean my

fingertips, but I just drop it on the floor. I am not sure she meant to insult me, but I can’t

stand the cottony clean feel and wet stench of those death cloths. They are one of the 48

worst inventions of all time - a true wolf in sheep’s clothing. The woman picks up the wet wipe and shows me to the door to the next room. I turn and tell her that “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

At every turn, people are afraid to touch me. One large, black policewoman comes out of an office and says, “Get him into the showers before any more processing.

He’s stinking up the entire station.” An officer watches as I undress. He then carefully inspects each item of clothing before placing it into a clear plastic bag. He is wearing blue latex gloves, and that’s all I see of him. As I removed my Timex, I notice that the screen is cracked; the digital display is no longer working. I want to throw it in the cop’s face, but instead I just place it in the palm of his blue gloves.

I am shivering, but not from the cold. Is it fear or anger? I cannot tell. Now I am naked in this sterile room, and all I can think about is how just this morning, I was sitting peacefully in my home, reading and listening to music. Was I harming anyone? Do I deserve this kind of treatment? I want to curl up and shut down - something I used to all the time when I was a kid - but I am afraid they will beat me. Mother never liked it when

I shut down, and I don’t see much difference between these guys and her . .. not much at all.

The blue gloves begin to search my body. The rubbery fingers run over my scalp, open my mouth wide and pull my cheeks. They move my tongue around, squeezing it tightly between rubbery index finger and thumb. They pull my ears forward then guide my arms to the sky. Now I am turning around, and the fingers are digging in my armpits. 49

These are not Captured Touches for me; these latex fingers are foreign, cold - unconnected from the human soul.

“Spread your legs wide and squat three times.” I do as I am told. “Cough,” the officer says. “Lift your feet and wiggle your toes.”

The officer escorts me to a small shower area. He makes me wash myself three times, lather everywhere and shampoo each time. With each soapy scrub, each rinse, I feel myself getting weaker and I mourn the loss of trillions of microbes, my armor being washed down the drain. The police soap is harsh and stinks of industrial chemicals. I am afraid I will never get that vile odor out of my skin. I can feel the sanitary-industrial complex overpowering my ecosystem, as it wages its unrelenting chemical warfare on the planet, one square inch of skin at a time. It indiscriminately unleashes foaming nukes and lethal Agent Orange all over my body. The soap stings my eyes, and I begin to cry. I try to hide my tears in the spray of the shower, but I can’t stifle the sobs - can’t hold in the wrenching sorrow.

The blue latex fingers inspect me again and then hand me an ultra-clean orange jumpsuit, some slip-on shoes, and a fresh Band-Aid.

“You can make one phone call.”

Albert? No, he doesn’t really give a shit about me. No one does.

I turn and look into the officer’s eyes - they are blue like mine - and say, “I have no one to call.” 50

He’s a big cop, round in the middle with a soft mouth and a pronounced dimple on his chin, like an overweight Kirk Douglas. He winces almost imperceptibly at my answer and nods. “Okay then,” he says, “I understand. Maybe later.”

I avert my eyes.

“I’m Officer Dan, by the way.” The way he says his name makes me think that he was made fun of as a child.

“Cecil,” I say quietly. And I realize that I haven’t introduced myself to anyone in years.

“Listen,” he continues, “we have sixteen communal cells, two detox cells, and two safety cells. We’re pretty booked up right now - heat waves always bring out the

crazies - but I can place you in one of the communal cells by yourself for right now. You

seem like you might need some time to pull yourself together.”

“Yes,” I say meekly. This is not my idea of symbolic resistance anymore, I

realize. His pity is searing, but completely justified I’m afraid; I feel like I’ve been

sucker-punched in the stomach, and I can’t catch my breath.

“I can’t promise you that you’ll have the place all to yourself until your

arraignment tomorrow morning, but at least you’ll get a few hours alone this afternoon.”

He then escorts me down a series of florescent hallways, his hand lightly grasping

my elbow. As we walk, I notice his nearly imperceptible limp, and I want to ask him

about it, but don’t have the courage. “Got shot in the line of duty,” I think I hear him say,

but he doesn’t look at me. His soft grip on my arm is so reassuring (a Captured Touch 51

now) that I wish we could walk like this forever - never reach my cell. . . but alas we do.

And just like in all the movies, the door closes and locks with a dreadful, haunting certainty. Officer Dan smiles at me reassuringly, but fails to reassure me at all, and then walks away. 52

Chapter 8

Two sets of bunks face each other in the cramped cell, punctuated in the middle by a stainless steel toilet. The smell of industrial laundry detergent wafts off of the sheets

and my jumpsuit, drowning me in the stench of the Antiseptics. I dry-heave; I have

nothing left in my stomach.

I sit on the floor next to the toilet, hug my knees to my chest, and stare blankly at

the bars of my cell. Alternating waves of depression, terror, and fury wash over me as I

imagine what they are doing to my house and my dogs. I mourn the potential loss of my

years’ of irreplaceable specimens - what a loss for me personally and for science in

general. And Poor Marcus, Cassius, and Denarius! They’ll hate the bath the Antiseptic

dogcatchers will undoubtedly give them and the sterile, concrete-metal pound. And what

will become of me, I wonder. This death place violates every ounce of my being. 1 can

smell the Antiseptics’ touch on everything. I want to spit and shit everywhere, but all I

can do is quiver while a steady stream of tears soaks my orange-clad knees.

And then I think of Isaac. It all started with that cursed baby brother of mine. I

was seven when he was bom and seven when he died, but the Albatross he hung around

my neck may never fully disintegrate. We were normal before Isaac. He ruined

everything. Even this - my imprisonment in this lethal cell - can be traced back to him

too, in a way.

Before Isaac, I was a well-adjusted first-grader at Thousand Oaks Elementary,

played soccer on Saturdays, traded football trading cards, and loved all things superhero. 53

Mother was a geriatric nurse at a nearby old folks home. Her hours were flexible; she

used to pick me up after school and spend long afternoons with me in the backyard. I

used to love climbing the avocado tree up to a small platform Father built for me - a

crow’s nest - and pretending I was a pirate. Father was an English professor at various

community colleges in the East Bay and a classical music buff. We were so typical we

even drove a brown Country Squire Station Wagon with wood paneling along the sides. I

remember sitting in the rear-facing back seat, shooting pretend invaders as we sped

toward Yosemite for a week-long camping trip. We had so much apple pie coming out of

our asses, I am surprised Uncle Sam didn’t live next door instead of that evil Mr.

Montague.

Backing up a bit, after I was bom, Mother and Father (although I must mention

that I stopped thinking of him as “Father” years ago) tried desperately to have another

child, to complete the perfect American family of four. Brother or sister, I didn’t care, I just wanted someone to play with. And then one day, Mother called me into the bathroom

and showed me an e.p.t. test. “You’re going to have a sibling!”

You would think I would have been ecstatic, but the blue liquid in that little test

tube filled my heart with an inexplicable dread. Mother was always a big woman, but

then she grew bigger . .. and then bigger still. I repeatedly had nightmares that her

stomach was going to explode all over me. To address my fears, she made me rub

mineral oil on it - stretch marks and all - every day, but that only made the nightmares

worse. Father took me to a psychologist right before the birth; the doctor gave me a 54

mystery flavored Dum-Dum lollipop and told Father that my anxiety was normal. What I realize now is that my Exceptionalism was shining through (even at that young age); deep down, I knew that unborn baby was going to try to ruin my life.

Isaac was bom with severe combined immunodeficiency, or SCID, also known as

Glanzmann-Riniker syndrome . .. although I don’t know who either of those guys were or why they got their name on my brother’s condition. It’s more commonly known as the bubble boy disease, made famous by David Phillip Vetter, who lived for twelve years in a sterilized environment. Basically, SCID babies have an immune system so highly compromised that it is considered absent. John Travolta made a terrible movie about the disease in 1976, at the height of its “popularity.”

The tricky thing about SCID is that babies with the disease look normal for a few months because they are still carrying around their mother’s antibodies. Isaac was big, kind of red and splotchy all over, and deceptively cute. The repeated infections - bacterial, viral, fungal, he had them all - started when he was four months old and continued until he was diagnosed with SCID and hospitalized on his six-month birthday.

Father took me to see Isaac a few days before he died of pneumonia. He had tubes coming out of every one of his orifices and was lying in a special crib sealed by plastic.

Mother had been sitting by his side for four weeks straight. She refused to leave when he was first admitted, and the doctors didn’t ever have the heart to make her go home. She was unable to touch him except by means of two rubber gloves attached to his sterile environment. When Father and I arrived that day, she was standing over his crib, stroking 55

his blond hair and holding his little hand, her hands in the rubber gloves. I still remember that his head was turned toward her and his little blue lips were puckered together,

making a sucking motion.

There was no funeral. Mother just came home and started to clean. That’s how I

found out. That’s how I knew Isaac was dead.

But it wasn’t cleaning really, it was industrial sterilizing and hermetically sealing.

She started with my room. She removed everything - bed, dresser, pictures, cloths, toys -

and then pulled up the carpet. She had linoleum installed the next day and watched the

guys closely, making sure that no gaps were visible between the flooring and the

baseboards. Then she scrubbed the walls and the ceiling with bleach . .. over and over

again. She put thick plastic sheeting over the window and sealed it tight with duct tape. I

was advised not to go near the window, not to touch the plastic. She bought me a cot with

a removable cover that she washed every two days and all white sheets and blankets that

could be easily bleached. She boiled my clothes on the stove and threw all my toys away.

She bought me one plastic Superman doll to replace everything else. That doll would,

over a period of years, lose all markings due to repeated vigorous scrubbings. I renamed

him “Nothingman.” I even drew a comic book about him. He was lost on a giant white

planet covered in spiny bushes, black spiders, and ghosts. In the end, he never found his

way home.

When she was done with my room, she did the same thing to the bedroom she

shared with Father and then to the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. I never once heard 56

Father complain to her about the transformation; he just stopped being there, just like

Isaac.

And then there were two.

I can’t begin to describe the daily humiliation I experienced during the remainder of my childhood . . . but I guess I’ll try. Mother began dressing me exclusively in white cloths. Not only could she bleach every item immediately upon my return to the house, she could tell right away if I had been playing in the dirt, which I was quick to learn called for hours of painful scrubbing in the bath. She got me kicked out of Thousand

Oaks a year after Isaac’s death because she smacked the principal in the face over a disagreement about lunchroom hygiene. She enrolled me and pulled me out of two other local schools in quick succession, concluding finally that there was no safe place in the world for me except at home.

As you might guess, my homeschool had a very particular focus - bacteria, viruses, parasites, mold . . . you name it. If it was microscopic and it could kill you, we were all over it. She was an impassioned teacher and frequently set up meetings with biologists, epidemiologists, mycologists, ecologists - pretty much any scientist at UC

Berkeley who would agree to meet with us. As a nod to Father - despite his absence -

she also required me to read great works of fiction and listen to classical music every day.

Mother was very good at math, to which we also devoted considerable time. We left many subjects by the wayside (history, foreign languages, civics . . . and of course sex ed.), but those that we addressed, we studied intensely. 57

In the evenings, we watched T.V. Mother said I deserved some downtime and explained that popular culture was a critical component of a young person’s education; I always suspected that she was secretly in love with Alex Trebek or Pat Sajack ... or both. We watched many other shows too, but we never missed Jeopardy or Wheel.

Mother always sat in Father’s old La-Z-Boy, and I got the couch all to myself. We were quietly together during those hours ... but separate too. I used to dream myself into the extraordinary lives of rich teenagers in Beverly Hills or the zany twenty-somethings that met in the little cafe just downstairs from their perfect NYC apartment.

When I was fourteen, I got a stomach bug. It couldn’t have been food poisoning because Mother intentionally overcooked everything she prepared for us. She boiled nearly everything we ate - meat, fruit, eggs - and the rest she burned. I had been sick before under Mother’s aseptic regime, but this one lasted two full weeks and was particularly messy; I had stuff coming out of both ends and shat my cot multiple times.

She must have spent a fortune on cleaners, but she didn’t complain. She of course refused to take me to the doctor because, in her words, “medical offices are cesspools of disease, crawling with fatal supergerms ”

After I recovered, she put some new rules into effect. I was not to flush the toilet under any circumstances; she would be keeping close records of my bowel movements from then on. I could no longer leave the house unless completely necessary. And when I returned, I had to strip down in the backyard, where she would spray me down before escorting me directly to the bathroom. There she would watch me as I scoured every 58

square inch of my body. We no longer went to campus to visit the scientists. She deemed those trips unnecessary and too risky. Instead she bought me a pile of used med school textbooks, which we read and discussed together. I knew better than to question or

disobey her rules; she was still stronger than me and would use a variety of kitchen utensils to straighten me out if necessary.

When I think back on those two weeks when I was really sick, I know now that I just had a common strain of the flu. But my immune system had been significantly

compromised and would continue to deteriorate every day I spent in Mother’s makeshift, gem-free bubble. And, as I would eventually find out, her sterilization regime was having the same deleterious effect on her own body’s defenses. 59

Chapter 9

I did not see Father for about ten years after he left. Mother told me that he was still in the Bay Area, and I came to learn that he had been paying child support and alimony all the years that he had been absent. He came to the house one summer day when I was seventeen. Mother would not let him, but allowed me to go outside to talk to him. He told me that he had met a Mexican woman and was moving to Guadalajara to be with her. I asked if I could come along. He shook his head, “No,” and that’s all he said.

Before he left, he told Mother (through the front door as she refused to come out) that he had quit his various teaching jobs months ago and was now completely broke. She did not answer him, but rather told me to meet her in the backyard for decontamination. I guess in her own way she did answer him.

Amazingly, Mother had little trouble finding a job. Her cleanliness-is-next-to- godliness attitude served her well as the Safety Specialist/Industrial Hygienist at the

Oakland Children’s Hospital, where she was responsible for designing and implementing a comprehensive environmental health and safety program to protect hospital workers from infection. They never ran out of antiseptics on Mother’s watch, I’ll tell you that much. It was an intense job and paid well.

The only problem with the new job was what to do with me. I begged to be enrolled at Berkeley High. I had no idea what to expect, but I knew it would be better than being at home alone all day. After a few days of door-slamming arguments, she agreed .. . with conditions. First, I was not to touch any other student. Second, I was to 60

wear a surgical mask at all times, except when eating. At lunch, I would eat alone, outside, at least ten feet from any other human. Third, I would not be allowed to participate in any extracurricular activities and would come straight home after school.

Fourth, I would immediately disinfect my cloths and my body when I got home each day.

A week later I was back in public school. On the first day, I walked through the front door eager to make friends. It had been so long since I had even talked to someone my age. I imagined finding a little group of strange, smart kids like me and fitting in. As I proceeded through the crowded hallway, though, I noticed people snickering, whispering, and pointing at me. A paper airplane flew by my head, just missing my forehead. I knew I looked weird - all white cloths and a mask over my mouth, nothing like my T. V. friends at Beverly Hills High - but I hadn’t expected that my appearance was going to make that big of a difference. One guy in jean jacket with slicked-back hair called out, “Hey

Doctor! Hey you, Doctor Dorkenstein! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” I wanted to point out how divergent his references were and that he had cast himself as a frail, old man, but

I suspected that would just add fuel to the Doctor Dorkenstein fire. As I walked away, the guy started signing, “Doctor, doctor, give me the news, I got a bad case of hating you . .

.,” at which everyone in the hallway laughed. I made it through my first class, but after that, the mask was gone. I never told Mother about my betrayal, and she never found out because I always put the mask back on whenever there was a chance she’d see me at school. 61

I tested into 12th grade (including two AP science classes) and made one friendship with a guy named Archie, who went to college in Missouri after graduation.

One warm night in May, I snuck out of my house after bedtime (Mother’s lullabies that. night seemed interminable) and met up with Archie to go to Prom. Of course we didn’t have dates, but that’s when I kissed Julie May Arbuncle, who had also gone to the big dance solo.

She wore thick glasses and had braces at the time, but she smiled at me a couple of times at the punch bowl and agreed to dance with me, and that’s all I cared about. She wore a white, strapless dress, ruffled at the chest and the hem. When I put my hand on her bare shoulder, I nearly exploded. I had borrowed some black pants and a bow tie from

Archie, who was a bit larger than me around the middle. I had to hold Julie May at bay for the entire song because I did not want her to feel my insistent tent-pole against her thigh. We kissed at the end of the song, at which point I’m sure she noted my resolute excitement. She whispered, “I like the way you kiss,” and then a few minutes later she let me touch her left boob under the bleachers by the football field.

Mother was enraged. She had quickly discovered my empty bed and had stayed up “half the night” waiting for me. The bath I received that night was nothing short of torture. I had to miss school for two days while the wounds scabbed over. And that’s when I really started to understand that Mother and I were beginning to see the world quite differently. 62

I passed all of my classes with relative ease. Mother’s attention to my education served me well. In June, the school sent home a packet of information about the upcoming graduation ceremony. Mother thought I was joking when I asked her to come.

Too many germs. “We are not attending. Have the school mail your diploma to you.”

Then she clubbed me on the side of my head with her thick fist, walked into her bedroom, and closed the door.

This was, however, an argument I was not going to lose. Not only did I desperately want to be there - Archie and I already had plans to put “Class of 2002” on our mortar boards - but I also needed to have at least someone there . . . and Mother was the only person I knew to invite. The local printer had given us ten free invitations (with the expectation that many students - those with big families and networks of family friends - would order more). I took an invitation a day and handwrote a famous quotation on it before sliding it under Mother’s door first thing in the morning. I picked quotations about seizing the day, overcoming fears, and the importance of family. On the tenth day,

I simply wrote: “I love you, Mother. Please come to my graduation.”

And I meant it, I did love her. And I didn’t blame her for the way she was. By then I had figured out that Isaac’s death had permanently snapped something in her brain; she had no control over her phobias. I just needed her to put them aside for one day.

When she sat down to breakfast that moming, she nodded her head. We would both wear long-sleeved shirts and surgical masks and leave the instant the ceremony was over, but she would attend my graduation. 63

##

It wasn’t the sound of sirens racing to the Greek Theatre or the commotion in the crowd. It wasn’t a teacher pulling me aside and saying, “Come with me, we have an emergency . . . No, I knew something horrible was about to happen when our mascot, a sophomore in a yellow-jacket costume, passed out on stage. He had been whipping the graduates into a frenzy (throwing his arms in the air, somersaulting across the stage, leading us in a “B-H-S” cheer) when all of a sudden, his knees buckled and he collapsed into a vase of red and yellow gladiolas (our school colors) next to the podium. The P.E. teacher jumped to his side and removed his headpiece. He then turned the kid’s pale face toward the crowd for just split second, and I saw his lips. They were Isaac’s blue lips.

I quickly turned and scanned the enormous crowd behind me, looking frantically for Mother’s blue surgical mask. But it was nowhere to be seen. And then I saw a few panicked movements in the crowd in the very back. A big black guy started waving his hands in the air and urgently shouting something I could not quite hear. Three people held their cell phones tight to their cheeks as they looked at something - or someone - on the ground. Most of the crowd’s attention remained on the faculty’s attempts to revive our fallen mascot, which they eventually managed to do, but the people in the back obviously had a much more serious situation on their hands.

I took my surgical mask off, slid down the row of black gowns, and ran away from the stage up the red-carpet aisle. I took the stairs between the rows of families two at a time, and then quickly climbed the grassy hill behind the stands to the spot of the 64

commotion. Sirens began to blare in the background. An EMT raced along the top of the hill.

When I got there, the world went silent for a moment, except for the sound of a bee buzzing around my head. Mother was lying in the grass, her blue mask removed, her thick dark hair fanned out above her head. Her face was swollen beyond recognition, lips like bananas, eyes like grapefruits. But it was her neck .. . her neck that I will never forget; it looked like someone had forced a bowling ball down her throat. A woman was yelling at me, but all I could hear was the buzzing.

I rode with Mother in the ambulance as the EMTs pumped her full of epinephrine and anti-inflammatories, but it was too late. She was declared DOA at the hospital. I ran

out the door before the administrators could corner me and walked home, my black graduation gown fluttering in the wind behind me.

##

As I sit in this cell, I can almost feel the heat of the sun on my shoulders that day.

I walked blind, a zombie, untethered from all that I had ever known. Like today, that day was the start of something new. And like today, the heavy sense of dread I felt was mixed with a tiny, shameful measure o f. . . relief. 65

Chapter 10 % After a wholly inedible dinner of stewed (dead) turkey, canned (dead) peas, instant (dead) mashed potatoes, and ultra-pasteurized (dead) milk (I can’t stand the smell of it all - much less even think about taking a bite), Officer Dan brings an old man to my cell. For reasons unknown to me, the man is not wearing an orange jumpsuit; rather he enters my cell wearing flip-flops and a long, brown, terry-cloth bathrobe cinched around his narrow middle with a wide leather belt. A pin affixed to his robe reads, “Embrace your inner luddite.” He has a long, wispy beard and a thin braid of gray hair that falls to his lower back.

“It’s nearly a full house now,” Officer Dan says to me. “Are you feeling better?”

“I suppose I am,” I respond quietly.

“Good. This is Mr. Oh,” Officer Dan continues. “I think you two might get along just fine. In any case, he knows the ropes around here and will answer any questions you might have. I’m putting him in here with you because I can tell that you’re both non­ violent types.”

I try to smile and then simply nod to him in appreciation.

“Thank you, Dan,” Mr. Oh says. “That will be all.”

That will be all? Does he think he’s staying at a hotel?

“Sure thing, Mr. Oh. See you tomorrow morning.”

When Officer Dan leaves the cell, Mr. Oh walks to each corner of the cell and drops a few grains of sand that he pulls from a pocket of his robe onto the floor. I am now 66

seated on the bed, with my arms resting on my knees. “I hate squares,” he says more to himself than to me. Then he kneels directly in front me and says, “I’m Mr. Oh - not ‘o’ the letter, mind you, it’s the exclamation, like ‘Oh, I just saw a seagull’ or ‘Oh, I just shot my brother.’” As he speaks, his old-man halitosis washes over me, a welcome relief to the cell’s stench of cleanliness.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, looking at the toilet. His face is a foot away from mine.

“My name is Cecil.”

“Try again,” he says.

“What do you mean, ‘try again?’”

“Introduce yourself like you matter.”

I turn and look at him. We are so close that I could easily tap his forehead with my crooked nose. His face is deeply wrinkled; his weathered skin hangs from the bones of his face like a drenched blanket on a drying rack. “Cecil,” I say a bit more forcefully,

“Cecil Reitmeister.”

“Better. Now, tell me what you are in here for?”

“I don’t know. The city decided to persecute me for some reason.”

“Believe me, I understand. What do ‘they’ say you did wrong?”

“They kept saying something about ‘assaulting an officer.’ Is that bad?”

“No. I’d say that’s a damned honorable thing to do - except if it was Dan. Was it

Dan?” 67

“No.” I consider telling him the whole story, but am not sure where to start.

Instead, I ask, “What about you?”

“Trespassing and public nudity. But I have a rock solid constitutional defense, freedom of religion. That’s the first amendment, you know?”

“Of course. But what were you doing?”

“Meditating.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere and everywhere. Understand?”

“Maybe.” I can’t figure out if this guy is crazy or not. “But so why did they arrest you?”

“Property lines and public decency regulations, arbitrary numeric systems created by domineering, power-hungry men. What would ‘they’ say? ‘They’ would say I was sitting ‘naked’ with a couple of my followers in somebody else’s ‘backyard.’ But how can someone own a piece of the beautifully smooth globe called Mother Earth? And how can an entity outlaw our most natural state of being? It’s all in the numbers man.”

I’m starting to lean toward concluding that he’s probably crazy.

“Let me explain,” he continues. “How many numbers do you see in this cell?”

“Numbers?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see any numbers in here.” 68

“Hmmm . . he says, followed by a deliberate pause as he glances around the room in a mock search for numbers. “They’re all I see.” Another pause for effect; he strokes his thin beard. “Ninety degrees in the comers, ten foot walls, serial numbered mattresses, codes for the paint color and the toilet model. . . percent of chlorine in the city’s water supply. And then there’s the ever-present marching number, you know the one I mean - dinner at six, late at 6:05, twenty-four hours to see a judge (the timer is directly above your head, don’t you see it?), six months jail time, breakfast at seven . .. on and on, the numbers are swallowing you whole. And then there’s you and me: address, arrest number, time of arrest, violation code, prisoner number, and case numbers for the lawyers . .. height, weight, age, money in our pockets, all written down, all measured and determined, one shirt, one pair of soiled underwear (1.5 inch streak), one watch, one 8- ounce dime bag, a pistol, three bullets, one dead spouse. We are statistics now, California crime rates, recidivism, number of suicides per 1000 prisoners, percentage of whites to blacks, blacks to Hispanics, Hispanics to Indians, Indians to aliens, men versus women, old versus young .... Don’t you see it now? We are drowning in an ocean of numbers.

Decimals and fractions - the long division of our excessively numbered lives - suffocate our tender souls. They bleed the life force from our very essence one numeric paper cut at

a time! Now, I ask you again, do you see the numbers?”

I am starting to feel weak and a little nauseous now. I am not sure if I’m feeling

sick because of the lack of food in my system (the Plan requires that I maintain a zero calorie balance and if I skip a meal or two, like today, I start to feel the effects almost 69

immediately) or by my overexposure to Mr. Oh’s hot breath (he remains directly in front of me), but I know I have to lie down. I curl up on the bottom bunk and stammer, “I guess so.”

Mr. Oh pops to his feet and starts to pace back and forth in the cell; apparently I have awakened a sleeping giant. “You guess? You guess? No need to guess.” His voice is rising. “The evidence is right under your nose. Think about it and then ask yourself one question: how many numbers can humanity stand before our collective soul is crushed under the black boots of the number men?”

He awaits no answer: “Not many more. I’ll repeat: not many more! ATMs and the god-damned IRS, stock tickers and weather reports, customer service 1-800-numbers and bus schedules, dizzying license plates, VIN, registration, and driver’s license numbers . . .

social security and student identification numbers, GDP and MPG, shooting percentage

and batting averages, GPS coordinates and mile markers, seismic readings and cosmic measurements, Richter scales and asteroids velocities, penis sizes and inseams, shipping weights and bar codes, twelve ounces of Coke and 33 grams of sugar, bone density and cholesterol levels, alarm at 5:31, bed before ten, two beers, but never three, international

bittering units and alcohol proofs, percent cotton, percent polyester, percent child’s

blood, rising sea levels and increase average daily temperatures, state-by-state handgun

ownership and school shootings, gender pay gaps and abortion rates among teens, hate

crime statistics and average cruising altitudes, price of milk, meat, cheese, corn futures

and derivative markets, mortgage-backed securities and new home starts, algebra and 70

trigonometry, longitude and latitude, the tallest building in the world and the fattest person to ever ride a motorcycle, all recorded, all set down in an endless stream of zeros and ones, a numeric sledgehammer accessed by billions of computers and cell phones every instant of every single day. And the number that beats them all: 7.3 billion blithering, withering automatons wandering soullessly around this great, green - 1 should say, previously green - earth of ours.”

I begin to moan quietly. His tirade is making dizzy.

He continues to pace vigorously up and down the cell, ignoring my state, and says, “Cecil, I am glad you asked about the numbers. You will start to see them now.”

Did I ask about the numbers? He takes a breath. “Now I will tell you a story.” I consider telling him that I would prefer to sleep, but he starts in before I can muster the energy.

“I am Mr. Oh. Years ago, I was the head accountant at a large consulting firm and went by the name Fredrick Bronstein. One morning, I woke up next to my lovely wife

Susan, god bless her soul, and felt a crushing panic. I could not remember the interest rate on deal I had just finalized for a client. We stayed up late many nights in a row on that particular deal, checking and double-checking the complicated math involved. Now I could not recall whether the final rate was 5.7% or 7.5%? Or was it 75% or 175%? Or

3%? I ran to my computer in the home-office to check, but I could not remember the client code. I looked at the time on the computer screen: 3:13 a.m. Was I late to work?

What train did I always catch? The 8:07, perhaps? 11:13 a.m.? 205? One-billion-one- hundred-and-seventy-seven? I looked at my phone to check the stock market - something 71

I used to do compulsively - but the numbers were a blur of swirling red and green, blood and grass, cherry juice and vomit.”

I roll off the bed and dry-heave into the metal toilet. I can see my reflection in the water. My eyes are bloodshot. Black circles cut deep lines underneath them. I wonder if I might die in this infernal institution, with my last waking memory being the slippery feel of this sterile toilet and the sound of Mr. Oh’s voice, droning on about his life.

It seems Mr. Oh doesn’t notice or care about my changed circumstance. He simply continues, “I returned quickly to the bedroom, woke my wife, and asked her what was happening to me. She sat up and looked at me, a ‘no vacancy’ sign blinking in her eyes. I explained my predicament and when she laughed, numbers spilled out of her mouth and onto the bed around her. They began writhing like snakes around her buttocks and in between her legs and then down under the sheets. My daughter, Anya, four years old at the time, came into our bedroom and, before I could stop her, she climbed into the bed. The numbers slithered up over her shoulders and then covered both of them completely. I grabbed handfuls of them and threw them to the floor, but they were infinite. I could not win.

“They called it a nervous breakdown, and so my wife sent me to a fancy ranch for crazy people. We rode horses, played board games, and talked about our delusions and hallucinations all day. One afternoon, as I was sitting in a rocking chair on the back porch, it hit me. I didn’t have a nervous breakdown at all; I had overdosed, that’s all. I 72

had been addicted to numbers, and, at a certain point, my little brain simply malfunctioned, rejecting my drug of choice.

“At just that moment, I saw a hawk on the wing above the tree line just beyond the horse bam. It held steady as it eyed the ground below, tipping and regaining its position time and time again as the winds changed. I realized that there are no numbers for something so pure and beautiful. And right then, I got my epiphany. I would go cold turkey! I would avoid numbers at all costs and focus on the organic reality that could not be reduced to zeros and ones. I had found the holy grail of happiness. I ran down the porch stairs to the yard and shouted to the heavens, “Oh, Oh, Oh . . my excitement growing, “Oh, Oh, Oh ...” - until three orderlies tackled me to the ground and shot me full of tranquilizers.

I crawl back into bed, this time removing my shoes and climbing under the sheet and blanket. Maybe he will get the hint. The clean sheets bum my skin, but I am cold and afraid. I curl up and despite my desire to simply fade into nothingness, I continue to listen.

“When I was released a few weeks later, I was a completely new man. No longer would I wear clothes that categorized me as a 34x30. No longer would I eat food that advertised 20% more vitamins and 25% fewer calories than other leading brands. No longer would I check the Dow, the S&P, and the Russell 3000.1 refused to participate in the world of numbers. 73

“Of course, when my wife started noticing my new routine, she immediately tried to send me back to the ranch. But I refused to go. She quickly left me for a bigger man with bigger numbers, and the courts sadly granted her full custody of Anya. The judge didn’t understand my non-numeric perspective, and I didn’t blame him. I could not avoid these unhappy changes in my life - for I had glimpsed a higher truth - obscure and partial and idiosyncratic, but a higher truth nonetheless.”

I am almost gone. It feels like sleep, but it could be death. How would I know?

And then Mr. Oh leans close to me and says something - something I will never forget - right before I drift away: “Don't be fooled if you are the only one who knows the truth. It is truth nonetheless. And truth is the only thing worth fighting for. And truth is the only thing worth dying for.” 74

Chapter 11

Mother is grunting heavily next to me.

I awake up and prop myself up on one elbow to see what she’s doing. She’s dressed in her white nurse’s uniform - 1 guess they did not have an orange jumpsuit in her size - and is seated on the metal toilet. Her pants are pulled down around her ankles, and the white flesh o f her thighs spills over the side o f silver toilet seat. Veins pop from her neck andforehead as she bears down - fists clenched, teeth bared, eyes slammed shut.

“Mother, are you okay? ” I ask as I swing out of the bed.

"Am I okay? ” she answers. Her eyes are slits now, daring me to reach out and touch her. “You figure it out. ”

“I'm going to get us out of here, I promise. ” I'm whispering because I don't want to wake Mr. Oh or the guards. Mother has to remain my secret in here.

“You? You haven’t done anything since you got me killed. We ’11 rot in here. ”

“You ’re wrong, Mother. ”

She groans again. “Leave me be! ”

“I have nowhere to go. ”

“Turn toward the wall!'’

I lie back down on the bed and turn my back to her. She is straining so hard I think she might pass out or die. Then what would I do with her enormous body? I cannot 75

hide such a thing in this cell. Even if I stuffed her under my bunk, they will surely discover her corpse.

She is yelling now. “Ahhhhhh! Help me, help me, help me!!! ” I turn back and realize that Mr. Oh is no longer in the cell with us. We are alone, as we were always meant to be.

“I'm here, Mother. ”

“It hurts. ”

She grabs my hand and squeezes it so hard that I am afraid she will break it. And

then I hear the cascade - the climax, the release, the final push - and then somewhere, deep down below her vast buttocks, a baby cries.

She collapses forward onto her legs, fully spent.

“Isaac! ” I scream. “I ’m comingfor you. ”

He cries out. His voice is muffled but I can almost hear my name.

I push against Mother as hard as I can, but she cannot be moved. She is a white

mountain atop the toilet and Isaac is deep in a mine shaft underneath her. I begin to claw

away flesh and muscle, dirt and algae, diving headfirst into the hole I am creating in the

side o f her monstrous leg, gasping for air as I dig furiously for Isaac.

He calls out to me again, and I push my body down into the darkness. I am

swimming toward him through gooey blackness. And then Ifeel his little hand in mine for a moment. His fingers squeeze my hand so tightly, but then he slips away.

## 76

When I awake the next morning, Mr. Oh is laid out on the ground wrapped in a blanket between the two sets of bunk beds, snoring and kicking one of his legs in his

sleep. I see a smile cross his face, and I wonder if he is vanquishing enemy numbers in

his dreams.

I’m not feeling well at all. My hands are shaking. My teeth are chattering. I rise to

pee and almost topple over. I lurch past Mr. Oh and land on the toilet. My pee is a deep

brown. I cannot move my bowels ... my depleted gut has nothing to offer. This will be

the first day in nearly thirteen years that I won’t be able to prepare a specimen for my

collection. I am weeping now as I sit on the sterile metal toilet, breathing the Antiseptic’s

manufactured air. I am a desert tortoise wandering the Antarctic, a penguin lost in the

Sahara; I must get out of here soon or I - and all of my wondrous microbes - will surely

perish. I have no doubt about it.

After I’ve returned to my bunk, Officer Dan brings two breakfast trays to our cell,

waking Mr. Oh. On my tray, a pile of scrambled eggs sits next to two strips of bacon and

four triangles of white buttered toast. I stare at it, salivating despite my disgust. Finally I

decide that I cannot defile my microbiome with the highly processed “food” on my tray

and set it aside.

“Tsk, tsk,” Mr. Oh says, who now sits cross-legged against the bars of the cell.

“You will die if you don’t eat. Look at you. You already look like a holocaust survivor.

How much skinnier do you want to get?” 77

“It’s not about being skinny,” I answer. “This is pre-masticated, preservative-

filled, death food. I can’t eat it... it’s not on the Plan.”

He smiles and nods at me. “‘The Plan,’ huh? So you have some higher truth in you as well. I watched you sleep last night for a couple of hours. You drifted off while I was talking. I wanted to make sure that you weren’t going to die. You seem awfully

weak.”

“I’m not usually. It’s this place.”

“I understand. But true strength requires a certain measure of adaptability. And

you my friend are not adapting well in here. Anyway, while you were sleeping, a strange

light shone from somewhere within you. I pulled back the covers, but I could not find the

exact source. Your heart maybe? It was vague, but strong, like the glow of a distant city

on a cloudy night. Do you know that light?”

I ignore the part about him pulling back the covers, and I look him dead in the

eye. “Yeah, I know that light. It’s my Exceptionalism.”

“That’s good word for it, Cecil. Now I see why Officer Dan put us together. He’s

the best cop on the force, and believe you me, I know them all. But listen, your

‘exceptionalism’ will become quickly and definitively ^exceptional if you are dead. It

will be extinguished, and the world will go on orbiting the sun without it - without you.

A wise man who is also stubborn quickly finds himself standing on his head. Do you

want to be standing on your head all your life?” 78

He smiles, piles foamy eggs on a piece of toast, and takes a bite. “Do you think

this is the kind of food that I want to eat? Do you think I like these measured portions,

these ‘eggs’ - two parts powder to one part water? Prison meals must meet certain calorie

and nutritional standards. It violates my ‘Plan,’ as you call it. But I’m eating, aren’t I?

Sometimes I have to deal with numbers. Sometime I have to pay for things. Sometimes I

have to know what time it is. These are my little compromises. You must comprise, too,

Cecil, or you will find yourself in an early grave.”

I pick up my tray and insert the plastic spork into a nugget of egg substance. I

raise it to my quivering lips, which at first refuse to part, but then slowly allow the yellow

matter in. I chew slowly and swallow, promising my gut a real meal as soon I as get out

of there. I take another bite of eggs and pick up a piece of toast. I am drooling as I chew.

The bacon tastes like a grease and flavor explosion in my mouth. It is saltier than

anything I have eaten in years.

I want to eat it all, but I can’t... I won’t. I refuse. They won’t break me that

easily. I set the tray on the ground and slide it over to Mr. Oh. “You eat it, if you like it so

much.”

“Little compromises,” Mr. Oh says, as I lie down to digest, “they are the bastard

children of high idealism and lowly practicality.”

Within minutes, my hands are no longer shaking.

## 79

Officer Dan returns to collect the trays. “Mr. Oh, you’re gonna cool your heels for a couple of hours. Your arraignment isn’t until this afternoon. Cecil, you need to come with me.”

As I exit the cell, Mr. Oh puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Don’t forget your truth, and you’ll be fine.”

My hands and feet are shackled and I am led, along with six other prisoners, to a prison bus. Bright sun shines off the side of the bus, which idles in an alleyway behind the jail, filling the small space with heat and exhaust. I sit alone in the back. The bus smells worse than the squad car did yesterday. It’s like every inch of the interior has been smeared with rose-scented sanitizer. My repulsion, however, is slightly tempered compared to yesterday. I want to vomit to override the bus’s aseptic perfume, but I can’t

- even with the newly deposited lump of garbage in my stomach. I think of Mr. Oh and his little compromises. Is this how it starts? The Antiseptics could take me apart piece by piece until I am just like them - slurping down antibiotic-riddled meat and spraying anti- fungal “medicine” on my balls every time I get out of a scalding, murderous shower.

I wonder if I will be forced to spend years in this smell - in this horrible sterility. I wonder if my convictions are strong enough to survive this test.. . but then I know that they are. I think about my house and the Antiseptic cleaning crew destroying everything.

It is hard to comprehend the fact that my habitat - the only place I have ever known - no longer exists for me. I will be forced to create a new reality - come up with a new plan.

Holy Microbiome, version 2.0. If I am jailed, I will have to eat Antiseptic food and wash 80

precious bacteria from my skin every night. For they will beat me if I don’t. My bacteria will suffer greatly, but they cannot not kill my “higher truth,” as Mr. Oh put it. They will not break me no matter what they make me eat or how many times they make me strip and scrub.

A driver climbs into the cage in the front of the bus and ferries us through hot, angry traffic to a large courthouse in Oakland. I watch out the window as we pass

Antiseptics on their way to their sterile workplaces. A woman - suntanned, skinny, and sharp-featured - drives a gray, two-door Lexus with the windows rolled up. I watch her for a few seconds through her sunroof and then through the windshield as she parallels us on Martin Luther King, Jr. Avenue. She is undoubtedly running the air conditioning at full bore, afraid to let the dirt and heat of the morning into her tightly sealed, undoubtedly immaculate, metal-and-glass box. As we creep along, she is alternatively yelling at someone on her cell phone and pulling ferociously from a green straw stuck into a giant frozen coffee drink covered in caramel sauce and whipped cream. I wonder if she will ever consider the trillions of life-bearing beings lodged in the crevices of her toned body, hitching a ride with her to her workplace. I can almost hear the firmicutes and bacteroidetes crying out for help. Give us nourishment, give us fiber, give us healthy playmates. We’ll gladly make room. Give us something more than this processed chemical-shit, you oppressive, inconsiderate bitch. Give us a whole grain of something once in a while! Give us life! 81

We pull up at a stop light and she suddenly looks up at me. I give her the finger on behalf of all the living beings - both large and small - that she will kill today. She looks momentarily surprised, but then quickly reciprocates and speeds away.

We prisoners are led to a wood-paneled courtroom with the state seal affixed to the wall directly above the empty judge’s chair. A few minutes later, a bailiff emerges from a side door followed by a lumbering judge with a black robe partially zipped up over a blue shirt and red tie. The bailiff says, “All rise! Court is now in session. The

Honorable Judge Arden Stanswick presiding. All those having business before this honorable court are admonished to draw near, give their attention, and they shall be heard.”

I look over at my fellow prisoners. The three closest to me have tattoos on their necks. One has a black tear under his eye . .. and I know what that means. A sickening wave of anxiety washes over me, instantly extinguishing the confidence I felt on the bus.

What am I going to do now? I’m no criminal. I can’t be here. I can’t go to prison with these other men.

The judge looks about ninety-five years old, is bald and fat, with a tremulous voice and a flabby neck that cascades over his blue shirt collar. He picks up a pair of thick glasses, shuffles some papers, and then calls my case first. I rise and fight back the salty saliva building in my throat. The bailiff instructs me to stand next to a pimpled

Asian kid in an oversized gray suit at a table facing the judge. 82

“In the matter of the People of the State of California v. Reitmeister,” the judge announces. “Counsel, please state your appearances.”

“Andy Aberdeen for the prosecution your honor,” a forty-something suit says from the opposite table.

“Erik Choi,” my lawyer says meekly.

“Try again, Mr. Choi,” the judge says. “This time, state your name and who you are representing.” I’m starting to get a very bad feeling about all this.

“Defense.” The bottom half of my lawyer’s suit is shaking madly. I think he might urinate himself right there. It is hard to believe, but I think he might be more nervous than I am.

“Now put the two parts together.” The judge sighs heavily. I hear someone giggle behind me.

“Erik Choi. . .for the defense.”

“Bravo, Mr. Choi!” the judge says. The prosecutor mocks applause, and the judge winks at him. “Will the defendant please state his full name for the record.”

I wish I had the courage to explain that in order to fully identify all of the beings that comprise “me,” we would need the help of a team of microbiologists, but I don’t.

Plus, I figure that Mr. Choi next to me has already done a sufficient job of starting us off on the wrong foot. “Cecil Walter Reitmeister.”

“Is that your full true name?” 83

It’s almost like he’s begging me to explain the complexity of his question, but again I take the safe course: “Yes.”

“Now, Mr. Reitmeister, if at any time during these proceedings there is anything that you do not understand or which confuses you, please stop me so that either the court or your attorney can clarify it or explain it to you. Do you understand?”

“Okay.” I can barely understand the judge because the room is spinning a hundred miles a minute and my heart is beating like a jackhammer in my ears. All I want to do is get out of the courtroom. Mr. Choi and I are now jointly shaking at the knees, and I find that I must lean forward on the table to keep from passing out.

“Please answer the question: Do you understand?”

I can’t remember the question, but I know the answer anyway: “Yes, sir.”

“It’s ‘Your Honor,’ not ‘sir.’”

It takes everything in me to put it together: “Yes, Your Honor.” Now I understand

Mr. Choi’s earlier difficulties. I try to imagine myself at home, rolling on the sunny kitchen floor with my dogs, but then I realize that I may never experience a morning romp with them again and my pit of despair gets deeper.

The judge continues: “Mr. Aberdeen, will you please state the charges that have been made against the defendant in this case.”

“One moment, You Honor,” the suit at the other table says as he shuffles through a stack of files. “Here it is!” he says triumphantly, opening the file. 84

“Hmmm . . . unusual case here, Your Honor,” the prosecutor continues. “An anonymous letter has been filed on the defendant’s behalf. And subsequently, the district attorney requested that no charges be filed.”

“Bring the file to me,” the judge orders. I feel a moment of confused hope, but I know it must be false hope; they are torturing me again. The bailiff collects the file and hands it to the judge, who quickly pages through it. Then he asks me, “Where did you get that bump on your head, Mr. Reitmeister?”

I reach up and touch my forehead. It feels like it has been years since my arrest, but the wound is still tender. “I was tripped, Your Honor.”

“You tripped, you say?”

Adrenaline pulls me straight up; does he take me for a fool? I may be in orange and he in black, but I know where we stand in relation to each other. He will die soon from heart disease or a massive stroke caused by decades of microbial abuse. His gut is a monocultural desert; he’s nothing but an ignorant Antiseptic. I respond forcefully: “No,

Your Honor, I said ‘I was tripped.’ It’s a big difference. A policem— ”

“That’s enough, Mr. Reitmeister,” he interrupts holding up his hand. “Do you know how many prisoners claim police brutality in here?”

“No.”

“Every single one.”

“I’m not like the others.” 85

The judge holds up a piece of paper. “You have a friend, Mr. Reitmeister, someone who is willing to stick his or her neck out for you.”

Soledad.

“Mr. Aberdeen, please confirm that the prosecution does not wish to file charges against Mr. Reitmeister.”

“That’s correct, Your Honor. The prosecution does not wish to bring any charges at this time.”

“Mr. Reitmeister,” the judge says, “today is your lucky day. Based on the information in your file and the position taken by the prosecution in this hearing, I order that you be returned to the Ronald T. Tsukamoto Public Safety Building in Berkeley.

There you will receive your possessions and then, after the proper paperwork, you will be free to go.”

“Thank you. Your Honor,” my lawyer says timidly.

The judge laughs so hard that I think the whole building shakes for a moment.

“Mr. Choi, you’ve got a long way to go before you can thank me for anything. Next case!” PART 2 87

Chapter 12

The A’s t-shirt and cut-off jeans I was wearing when arrested have been washed and pressed and now smell like the jailhouse’s sheets and orange jumpsuits, but I am nonetheless glad to be back in my own clothes. I consider putting my smashed watch back on my wrist, but then just throw it away. Officer Dan gives me a sandwich and an apple. I quickly gobble down the apple, including the core and seeds. Then I remove the bologna from the middle of the sandwich and take a few small bites of bread and cheese while awaiting the completion of my release paperwork. The meal feels almost celebratory, but I know that I have simply replaced one set of problems with another.

When I walk out of the police station and into the midaftemoon heat, I turn toward home and run all the way down Martin Luther King, Jr. Avenue. I turn onto

Solano and then cut north on Curtis. I am sweating profusely now, and I finally begin to smell a tiny bit like myself again.

I slow as I turn onto quiet Washington Ave, nervous for what I am about to see.

Yellow police tape still surrounds my property. All of the doors and windows are completely boarded up like it was some kind of crack house. I duck under the tape and walk up my front steps. A yellow, laminated notice of demolition is stapled to the plywood. It says that the city will knock my house down in thirty days.

I walk around to the backyard to see if any of the windows is uncovered. I need to get in to see if my samples are still there and maybe even get some real food. Perhaps the cleaning crew did not venture into the basement or maybe they just gave up entirely and 88

left everything alone - given the city’s decision to demolish the place. None of the windows is open however, and the back door is boarded-up as well. But I need to get in there. I need some time alone. I need to feel safe just for a little while.

I go to my workout shed and grab the long bench press bar. Then I walk to the back door and start hitting the edge of the plywood with the end of the bar. Whoever boarded the place up must have used a nail gun because there are hundreds of nails

holding the thick plywood in place - one every inch or so. I keep whacking at the

plywood, and it eventually starts to splinter. If I can get enough of an opening, I can jam the bar in between the plywood and the side of the house and use the bar as a lever.

It’s hard work - a large blister quickly forms on the palm of my right hand - but

after fifteen minutes, I’ve created a 2” x 2” hole. I push the bar into the hole and then

pull with all my might, but the plywood does not give. I change the angle and try again,

but still no luck. I leave the bar hanging out the hole and walk over to the garden spigot

for a drink of water.

The city, however, has already shut off the water.

I sit down in the shade of the old avocado tree. My head aches now, and I am

feeling weak again, so I close my eyes for a moment. m

“Wake up!” I recognize the voice, but cannot place it immediately. Nor can I

remember where I am or what’s happening. “Hey, shithead, I said ‘wake up.’” 89

Now I remember everything, and I recognize the voice too; it’s the barrel-chested cop. I open my eyes. It’s still hot, but the shadows in the back yard have grown long.

Barrel-chest stands over me with his hands on hips. He nudges me with the toe of his black leather boot. “Back for more, huh?”

“I just wanted to check on some things in my house,” I answer groggily. “Can you let me in?”

“Ha! So far, I’ve got you for destruction of city property, interference with an

ongoing police investigation, loitering, and trespassing.”

I stand up. “What are you talking about?”

“One of your neighbors called you in - said you were trying to break down the

back door. You messed the wood up pretty good. You don’t own this place anymore.

This is city property. I’m taking you in - again - and this time, I’m going to make sure

they bring charges against you. Why don’t you try resisting arrest, huh? I would love to

subdue you right now.” He strokes his Burt Reynolds mustache with his thumb and index

finger.

There is no way that I am getting thrown back in jail right now. Another

humiliating shower and strip search, another night in a sterilized orange jumpsuit, and

more dead turkey stew. I can’t do it; I will die first. I won’t go.

“Mr. Montague?” I ask.

“Mr. Montague what?” He licks his chapped lips with his thick, pink tongue. 90

“Was it Mr. Montague who called you? Was it that guy there?” I point down the empty driveway.

When Barrel-chest turns to look, I bolt for the fence. I am up and over it before he can grab me, and then I sprint through Mr. Montague’s back yard and out onto

Washington Avenue. I am surprised at my energy - 1 feel fleet of foot - but you know what they say about a cornered animal. When I look back, Barrel-chest is jumping into his squad car. I run down the block and round the corner. As soon as I get out of sight, I run behind the house on the comer (my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Richardson used to live here) and wait for Barrel-chest to speed past. As I double-back at full speed, I hear brakes screeching. I quickly sneak back into my yard, praying that Mr. Montague is not watching, and climb up the avocado tree as quick as I can. The path through the branches has not changed since I was a kid, and I quickly reach the remnants of the old crow’s nest

Father built for me so many years ago. I am glad to discover that a couple of the boards are still solid enough to hold my weight.

From this vantage point, I can see Barrel-chest driving slowly around the block.

After his second go-round, he stops in front of my house. I climb around the backside of the tree so that I am almost completely hidden from his view. He steps out of the squad car, stands with his hand resting on the open car door, and shouts, “I’ll get you, you little shithead! I know you can hear me wherever you are. One of these days, when you’re least expecting it, I’m going to be there and I’m gonna light you up! Then I am going to take you downtown, Mr. Reitmeister - just you wait and see.” 91

I want to yell back that he is a condescending, arrogant, good-for-nothing police thug, but I hold my tongue. After he drives off, I stay up in the crow’s nest to catch my breath and try to calm down. The sun is setting over Mt. Tamalpias now, and I can just make out a line of cars and buses crossing the distant Golden Gate Bridge. I am exhausted and hungry, homeless and penniless, and I feel as alone as I have ever felt before.

##

I try to sleep in the workout shed, but because I’m wearing only the t-shirt and cut-off jeans that I was arrested in, I’m too cold to sleep. I end up walking up and down dark, silent Solano Avenue - a skin-and-bones ghost of the night - to stay warm until morning. At 10 a.m., when the warmth finally returns to my fingers and toes, I consider going back home to sleep, but it is too dangerous there for me now. Barrel-chest is sure to return looking for me. So I walk to Memorial Park and fall asleep on the bleachers next to the baseball diamond. Its summertime and the playground area of the park is packed with mothers and kids. The baseball diamond is quiet though . . . until Little League practice starts. But I am too weak to get up and move somewhere else. Thankfully, the coaches choose to ignore me.

Later that afternoon, I search through the trash cans around the park for food. I’ve never been this hungry before in my whole life. I am nauseous and dazed as I pick through the day’s detritus. A group of mothers is watching me closely, talking and pointing; I’m afraid that they might call the police, but they don’t. 92

I gladly eat half of a black banana, two apple cores, and a tangerine peel, all good sources of prebiotics for my gut. My poor microbes have been nearly starving for over a day now. I hope I haven’t done too much damage to them. I wonder what they’ve been thinking down there during my incarceration. “What has happened to our perfect world?” they might ask. “What have we done to deserve this maltreatment?” I rub my taut gut and silently apologize, hoping that the meager fiber from the discarded fruits will somewhat alleviate their recent deprivation.

Though I keep searching, I can find nothing else appropriate to eat. But I’m so hungry. I make a pile of Antiseptic eatables: three comers of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, ten soggy Cheetos, and half of a fruit roll-up. I know that my microbes will reject these things and hate me for exposing them to the many toxins in these foods. And

I know that I am doing extreme injustice to the Plan. But I now feel that I have to eat everything I can find - even the Antiseptic’s most repulsive creations - or I might not make it through the night.

So I scoop up part of the pile I have created and, with my eyes closed, shove it all into my mouth at once. The pile sits on my tongue and in my cheeks, slowly dissolving, becoming one with my mouth’s bacteria. I consider spitting it back out. Can I risk exposing myself to this death food? But then I start to feel things happening in there. I’m scared, so very scared - but excited too. Syrupy strawberry jelly invades my taste buds.

It’s not a fruit flavor exactly, but. . . oh, I can’t say it out loud. I can’t, I just can’t admit it. Fruit roll-up adheres (deliciously) to my molars. (Now I’ve let the cat out the bag.) 93

Cheetos grow soft on the outside, yet I can still feel the promise of an ultimately satisfying crunch; the pleasure awaits me, like a poolside servant in an orange tuxedo catering to my every whim.

I chew once, eyes still closed. Saliva spills from my mouth; the floodgates have been thrown open. I can almost hear Rachmaninoff emanating from my taste buds. I chew rapaciously - 1 can’t hold back - swallowing and chewing, swallowing and chewing, every morsel a different kind of crazy in my mouth. I take another handful and shove it in my mouth. It’s all wrong . . . strange and unnatural (I keep telling myself this is death food created by mad scientists in abhorrent laboratories) but I can’t help it, I like it... I like it all so god damn much!

I dig through more trash cans and find more disgusting, heavenly garbage: two partially dissolved Skittles, an inch of Sunny Delight, an Oreo cookie with the middle licked down to a smooth, shallow bowl. I even stoop so low as to lick the inside of a vanilla pudding cup, which tastes like . .. how could I ever begin to describe it to you?

Plastic saccharine goo? Liquefied rubber with artificial vanilla death syrup? A fat lab worker’s wet dream (both literally and figuratively)? The substance violates Nature herself - every standard of decency was thrown out the window in formulating it - but somehow just that little taste leaves me wanting so much more. Where can I get more?

The Antiseptics - those bastards in charge - have figured it all out. They plan to kill every last, weak human by giving them daily doses of this irresistibly sweet poison. 94

Despite my moral outrage, I dig through more trash, looking for another discarded pudding cup, but unfortunately there’s just that one.

As the park begins to empty, I find my stomach full and aching. I am bloated and angry . . . and deeply satisfied in a way I haven’t felt in years. I crawl into a sunny corner in the grass behind the bathrooms and fall asleep again. A cold fog rolls in after dark as I continue to sleep. I awake shivering. I walk, returning to Solano Avenue. But then I venture all over my old neighborhood, revisiting places I recall from childhood and trying to figure out what to do next.

By sunrise, I’m weak and hungry again. Somehow, the meal of garbage failed to sustain me much at all. 95

Chapter 13

The next day, I walk to the Goodwill on University Avenue. An elderly black woman wearing a Goodwill apron covered with hundreds of buttons (“Eat Bush 2004,” a smiley face with squinty eyes smoking a joint, “Save Berkeley Iceland,” a red one that simply reads “Panic” . ..) approaches me and tells me to take what I need free of charge.

I guess I look pretty homeless. I grab a pair of thick sweats and a Cal basketball sweatshirt, which I stuff into an old army backpack with a metal frame that I find in the back next to the used books. I am about to leave when the old woman walks around a counter filled with cheap jewelry and old toys and says, “Sweetie, do you need something to eat?” She rubs her lips back and forth, working in a fresh coat of celestial blue lip gloss while playing with one of her two gray pigtails. If she weren’t so old, I would think that she might be flirting with me.

I start for the door without answering, but she follows and gently grabs my elbow.

“Come on, I can tell you need food.”

“I’m kinda hungry.” It’s an understatement, but I am unused to charity and I don’t really feel like answering a bunch of questions.

“This way,” she responds, leading toward the back of the store. “We have hot coffee and two dozen donuts.”

Donuts! No! I know it’s against all odds, but I was really hoping she was going to offer me some sauerkraut or seaweed or just some plain old nuts ... or dried fruit maybe

- that would hit the spot - anything even vaguely microbiologically healthy. After 96

yesterday’s death food binge, I am feeling a need to get back on track with the Plan. But I can’t refuse her offer now; I’ve already accepted. Plus, my stomach feels like it’s grinding itself to shreds. I hate being this hungry all the time. My body has so few reserves; after just a few hours without food, I get dizzy and feel like I need to lie down. I am starting to think that this may be a flaw in the Plan. I think of Mr. Oh and his telling me that “true strength requires a certain measure of adaptability.” I guess a few bites of donut won’t kill me. I need to eat something.

“I’m Annette,” the woman says as we pass through large swinging doors into a dark, high-ceiling room that seems to serve as part break room, part warehouse. Purple employee lockers, a beige fridge, and five file cabinets line the wall to our left. Behind to the file cabinets, a small, makeshift office pieced together by scraps of particle board and two aluminum windows sits dark and empty. On its door, a sign warns “Property

Protected by Smith and Wesson.” On our right, a pile of worn boxes huddle against a dingy kitchen counter with an inset sink. The boxes spill acid-washed jeans, high heels, down jackets, silk scarves, books, Tupperware, cutlery - all of the cheap, sundry items that make up Goodwill’s bread and butter - onto the floor. The collection of miscellanea seems to have just recently been kicked back into place. The floor is dusty. I notice the marks of many shuffling feet around the pile and a relatively clean rectangle of floor space next to the rear office where, I presume, another pile of boxes recently stood. In the middle of the room, four mismatched folding chairs surround a round table covered in women’s magazines. 97

Annette leads me around the boxes to an accessible length of kitchen counter. She walks slowly, but seems sure-footed. “I’ve been working here for about 250 years now.”

When she laughs at her own joke, I see a gold tooth hiding in the back of her mouth.

“You don’t seem that old to me.” I shake my head when I realize what I’ve just

said.

“Well ain’t you a peach!” And she laughs again, a deep, booming smoker’s laugh

that turns to coughing, then true hacking, and then back to laughter.

When she catches her breath, I introduce myself.

The make-up covered skin around her eyes crinkles like tissue paper when she

smiles at me. “Cecil’s a fine name, strong ... but smart-like too. You do good in

school?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you take in your coffee? We have Coffee-Mate and yellow sweetener.”

It might sound strange, but I’ve never really had coffee before. Maybe a few sips

of Mother’s, but she never liked sharing food or drinks. I plan on eating at least part of a

donut though, and I will likely need something to wash it down with. Mother used to take

hers with milk and sugar. “Both, please.”

Annette dumps three heaping spoonfuls of Coffee-Mate and four spoonfuls of

granulated sweetener into a large plastic travel coffee cup that reads: “Drink Coffee: do

stupid things faster and with more energy.” She fills it to the top with steaming coffee 98

from a well-worn Black-and-Decker coffeemaker and screws the lid on tight. “The mug’s yours if you want it. Free refills here anytime.”

“Thank you.” I take my first sip through the small opening in the lid. The coffee is hot and so (artificially) sweet and comforting; it reminds me of the pudding cup. My heart immediately starts to race.

Annette then opens a large pink box filled with a variety of donuts next to the

coffee pot. “Choose your weapon.”

I pick a long, spiral one covered in chocolate and multicolored sprinkles. It looks to me like a very crude DNA model. Annette grabs a couple of napkins for me and tells

me to sit down at the table. Then, she locates a ceramic mug from the counter below the

coffee maker, fills it with black coffee, and sits across from me. I haven’t sat with a

woman at a meal since my last meal with Mother; we had beef stew and boiled Brussel

sprouts. I think about just grabbing the donut and leaving when Annette says, in a kind

and gentle voice, “Go on, now. Eat.”

I take a bite of the donut. Then I take another . .. and another. I take a sip of

sweet, creamy coffee and lick the chocolate off of my fingers. In seconds, the huge donut

is gone.

“I’d say you were more than ‘kinda hungry,”’ she says. “Listen, it ain’t none of

my business, but you need to fatten yourself up some if you’re gonna survive on the

streets for long.” 99

She gets up and gets me another donut. “You strike me as a maple bar kind of guy, down-to-earth, but classy too.”

I want to refuse. I want to leave. I am already regretting eating all of the first donut. But she’s so kind and the smell of the maple bar reminds me of something. I take a bite, and then I remember. In the pre-Isaac years, Father always bought a bag of donuts before we left for a long drive. His favorite was chocolate old-fashioned. Mother liked maple. I had simple tastes back then: raised glazed, if I remember correctly.

“Now,” Annette says, “What’s your story? Are you ok? You don’t really look so good.”

“My story’s not that interesting.” I set the maple bar down on a napkin, take a sip

of my coffee, and look away.

“No, no, my dear, I am sure your story is very interesting.”

I look at her face and see that her soft, old eyes are begging me for just a bit of

information.

“The cops kicked me out of my house - and I swear I was just minding my own

business as I have been doing all my life - and then they threw me in jail.” I feel

energized by the donuts - or the coffee, I don’t really know - and go on: “Can you

believe that? I just got out yesterday. Now my house is boarded up, and I’m not allowed

to go back there. I don’t know where they put all of my stuff, and they took my dogs as

well. My dogs are super special to me, you know? Plus I now have some psycho cop out

there hunting me down ‘cause he thinks I hurt him ... or something.” 100

“Fucking pigs,” she whispers under her breath. “Excuse my French.”

“Excused.” Officer Dan’s pleasant smile flashes in my mind for a second, and I

consider a qualification, but then think better of it. “They ripped me from my home and turned my whole life upside down - for no reason.” Is it the caffeine that’s making me so talkative?

“So you’re on the streets now, huh? Do you have some family or friends who

could help you out?”

“Maybe one friend, but I don’t know about him.” Albert was so irritated when he

brought me my last delivery a few days ago, I am pretty confident that he doesn’t want to

see me again for a while. “Probably not.”

“Really? A nice boy like you - and with those magnificent blue eyes - with only

one friend?”

“That part’s a bit more complicated.” I don’t want to get into it with her. It would

take too long to explain the Plan to her.

After a moment of silence, she lets me off the hook: “Okay, I won’t pry. We all

got our stories.”

I take the last bite of the maple bar and drink more coffee. My stomach is in knots

now and my hands are trembling, but I feel extremely alert.

“Do you have a social worker?”

“Yeah, I do. She helped me get out of jail... I think.” Am I talking quickly? I

take another sip of my coffee. 101

“Well let’s call her up and get you a meeting. What’s her name?”

“Soledad Gonzalez.” I am talking quickly.

Annette leaves the break room for a second and returns with a cordless phone and a phone book. She pages through the phone book, finds what she is looking for, and dials.

This is a good idea; Soledad might know what to do.

“Oh, I see,” Annette says into the phone. “And so, have her cases been reassigned?”

And then, after another pause, “Okay, well, we’ll just call back later in the week, I guess. Thank you.”

She hangs up the phone and looks at me with mix of confusion and pity. “Well, hon, your social worker has been put on administrative leave. They’re working on reassigning her cases, but the guy said it’s gonna take a few days, maybe even a few weeks.”

“Those bastards,” I say. “I hope she doesn’t get fired ‘cause of me.”

“How’s that?”

“Never mind.”

“The guy said that you could go to the office and fill out an emergency petition to get your case reassigned to another social worker right away, but you would have to prove that it was an emergency. I doubt being homeless counts as an emergency.”

Annette then goes to a filing cabinet in the comer of the break room, pulls out a piece of paper, and hands it to me. “This is a list of all the local homeless shelters, with hours and 102

services. They’ll feed you and give you a place to sleep, okay? Then you come back here tomorrow morning for more coffee and donuts. We’ll talk more then. I get here at eight.

I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, but I know I can’t go to any of these shelters. Barrel- chest will certainly have people looking for me at every one of them. I’ll get arrested within minutes of my setting foot in any city establishment. I’m going to have to figure something else out.

Annette offers me another donut, but this time I decline. My stomach is heavy with grease and dough. I pick up my nearly empty coffee cup, thank her again, and grab my newly acquired backpack. She walks me back out to the front of the store.

“Tomorrow,” she says.

“Tomorrow,” I answer as I walk out the front door and back onto the streets - though I have no idea what the next 24 hours will bring. 103

Chapter 14

I squint into the morning sun as I look east up University Avenue. I consider walking to the Lab Corp office where Albert works on Telegraph Avenue. But I am not sure how much good that would do. For one thing, I know that he would be very annoyed that I came to his workplace. And what do I want from Albert anyway? I am not going to shack up with him and his pregnant wife; that would never work. Maybe he would lend me some money, but I doubt it.

So I turn west and start walking. It’s time to go get my dogs.

I finish the last sips of my coffee as I near Sacramento Avenue. I have heard people talking about a caffeine buzz, but I never knew it felt like this. My entire body is jittery and tense. My eyes dart here and there, white flashes popping in the periphery. My jaw works my teeth together; I am afraid they will crumble under the pressure. I am nervous, but somehow elated too. I feel too good, too strong, too fast, too powerful, too everything. I could be a boxer, I think, ready for the match of his life or a high-speed race car awaiting its run on the salt flats of Utah. I am a rocket ready for blast off, but it dawns on me that I have no place to blast off to. I almost throw up from irrepressible excitement and excessive stimulation, and then I realize something very important. I realize that if I don’t find a bathroom immediately, I am going to shit my pants. And still, I feel so uplifted, so pumped up. What a strange high.

So this is why everyone drinks coffee all the time. 104

I cross to the 7-11 on the corner, and walk quickly to the restroom. The clerk yells out, “Restrooms are for paying customers only.” I close the door and lock it and set my backpack on floor. Safe.

The restroom has not been cleaned for quite some time and it reeks of serial defecation; it feels almost like home. I don’t bother to clean the piss from the flimsy toilet seat and sit down. My bowels are raring to go. I know it’s going to feel so good. But I clinch and hold. I hear gurgling in the depths of my core. It hurts so much now to hold it, but I can’t let it go. Sweat breaks on my brow and back.

This will be the first time in thirteen years that I will flush my bowel movement down a toilet. My precious excrement and all of the microbes (those unfortunate souls departing my system) should not be forced to comingle with the thick streams of the

Antiseptics’ pharmaceutical-leaden sewage. My poor, pure bacteria exiled into the cruel, poisonous world of some distant wastewater treatment plant, to die in a vat of foamy sanitizers. Plus, it’s such a waste of valuable information. What has happened to my microbiome in response to my recent drastic diversion from the Plan? I am sure that it has been like the Trail of Tears in there. Who’s dying and who’s surviving? Will it take years to build my system back up to its former glory? Or can my amazing gut take a punch or two without missing a beat? Many years from now, scientists will bemoan this moment; they will curse the city administrators who have persecuted me and forced me off the

Plan. 105

I take in every detail of the bathroom - the pile of wet toilet paper in the corner next to the door, the broken paper towel dispenser on the wall, and the large drawing of a penis with “Duchess gives good head” written in block letters right down the shaft - and try to bum them into my memory. I want to be able to recreate this scene for my biographers years from now.

And now I can’t hold it any longer.

The release is as magnificent as it is heart-wrenching. Water splashes out the sides of the toilet. I gasp for air and feel every inch of my body trembling. But I am not done. It comes again and again, like a series of tsunamis after a deep ocean earthquake. And then all is quiet. A wave a relief and exhaustion washes over me. There is nothing more I would like to do than to curl up on the floor next to this pot of my feces and simply be, simply exist in close proximity to this momentous event.

But I know if I stay in the restroom for too long, the clerk will call the cops. And then I would have to deal with Barrel-chest. I would surely go to jail again.

So I stand, take another mental picture, and then reluctantly push down the lever.

It’s a sacrilege, but I feel like I have no other option. Good bye and good luck, I whisper.

And then I turn and walk directly out of the 7-11, head held high, a tear falling down my cheek as I push open the door. m 106

My buzz has significantly diminished by the time I reach the animal shelter just west of San Pablo Avenue. The walk has done my nerves good; I’ve finally stopped shaking.

“What d’ya want?” a short, fat man with bushy hair, big eyes, and extensive sideburns asks when I approach the counter. His loose jowls and angry frown make me think that he’s been spending too much time with stray bulldogs. When I fail to answer immediately - 1 just need a moment to process his unusual appearance - he barks, “Hey, you!” Then he snaps his fingers at me.

“Hi,” I say meekly, “I’m here to collect my dogs.”

The man pinches his nose and says, “Pungent, man. Real pungent.”

I ignore him and continue, “They were taken away from my house a couple of days ago. One English Mastiff named Marcus and two bloodhounds named Cassius and

Denarius. Do you have them here?”

“I know the dogs you’re talking about. They’re in the back. Are you their owner?”

“Yes, that’s right. Just show me where I need to sign.”

Instead of handing me a clipboard with a release form or something helpful like that, he just glares at me.

“Do I need to pay you or something?” I ask as politely as possible.

“Shame on you, man.” He shakes his head at me. Then he picks up a piece of paper from a plastic inbox and quickly reviews it. “When they came in, your dogs were 107

covered in fleas. They tested positive for three types of worms, for Christ’s sake. And they all had mange, too. Didn’t you ever think of taking them to a vet?”

“Why would I do that? They’re the healthiest dogs around. Stronger than any of the other precious, little mutts you have caged up back there.”

“I bet you hadn’t washed them in months.”

“Years!” I say defiantly. “And don’t you dare touch them. You’ll throw their systems off balance. You’ll kill them.”

“We’ve already begun treatment - we had to break out the heavy duty stuff - so that they have a chance of getting a new owner, one that will take decent care of them.”

“A new owner? They’re my dogs.”

“Not anymore they ain’t.”

I think I hear Marcus barking from behind the closed door behind this rude, little man. “Come on. Just let me see them. They know I’m here. They can hear me. They need to see me.”

“They can probably smell you too, dude. And no, they don’t need anything from you. They need a fresh start with somebody who will love them, not neglect them like you did.”

“I never neglected them. I love them like family.” Tears well up, and I wipe my eyes. “I’m closer to them than I am to anything else in this world. And you . . . you ju st. .

?? 108

“Alright, guy. Calm down. I understand.” He steps back from the counter. I think he’s afraid of me now. “But I can’t let you see them, my boss would freak out. And you’re not ever going to get them back. I’m sorry. But they don’t ever review cases like this.”

“But they’re my dogs!” I bang my fists on the countertop, knocking a bowl of chocolate kisses to the floor. The man quickly picks up the phone. I can tell it’s time for me to leave. I don’t want any more trouble than I already have.

“Just get out of here, buddy. You’re totally freaking me out.” He begins dialing.

I really want to grab that little Antiseptic by his sideburns and rub his face in

some dog shit - get him really dirty - and then break my dogs out of this death camp. But

I know I can’t do that.

Instead I shout, “You’re all animals! You’re all stupid, fucking animals!” And

then I leave, grinding fallen kisses into the linoleum on my way out. I go around the

corner and hide in the alleyway, where I can still hear my dogs barking desperately. My

body is so full of sorrow that I cannot move. Then I hear sirens approaching, and I get up

and run. Adrenaline trumps grief as I fly away from that place.

##

Over the next few days, I establish the semblance of a routine. I sleep off and on

during the day in different spots throughout Memorial Park - under the large redwoods

when the sun is hot or in the outfield of the little league field for variety. Mostly though I

bed down behind the bathrooms (I’ve made a little nest of leaves there) where there’s a 109

bit of privacy. Then, toward evening, I dig through the park’s trash cans for food.

Fortunately, there’s always some discarded fruits or vegetables. I have yet to find any nuts, but I’ve gotten lucky a couple of times and discovered some half-eaten cartons of yogurt. One time, it was even organic. I try to keep the death food to a minimum, but I know I won’t survive for very long if I restrict my eating to only food that is on the Plan.

So I compromise, thanks to Mr. Oh. My microbes may suffer, but I need calories to stay on my feet and out of the hospital. Sometimes when I am asleep, I dream about pudding cups. I wake up feeling ashamed (and yet also so excited). I have now tried all sorts of exotic Antiseptic foodstuffs, including Cool Ranch Doritos, a Danimal smoothie, and a handful of greasy McDonald’s French fries. Each bite I take (and, humiliatingly enough, relish) reaffirms my commitment to the Plan; these people, the Antiseptics who eat this shit voluntarily, really need a messiah to lead them out of this calorie-bloated, nutrient- starved wilderness.

At night, I walk. Even with the sweats and sweatshirt, I get cold sleeping outside at night. I have made friends with a family of raccoons that patrol Solano Avenue at night. I usually hear them snarling or growling before I see them; they are noisy little buggers. I think I heard a baby coon purr one night when I got close, but I’m not too sure.

One of them hissed at me once, but that was because she was trying to defend a raven carcass that I hadn’t noticed in the gutter. I shooed her off long enough to inspect the carcass myself before letting her get back to her meal. 110

I fear walking by my house at any time, day or night. I sense that my dealings with Barrel-chest are not over. Sometimes I think he is watching me, but when I turn around, he disappears. Perhaps he also has a dose of Exceptionalism, because I can feel his eyes on me. He’s waiting for me to slip up again. I’m not going to let him catch me easily though; he’s going to have to work hard for me. Sometimes I peek down

Washington Avenue to make sure that my house is still standing. It is. I cannot remember how many days it has been since the cops broke down my doors and ruined my life, but I know it hasn’t been thirty days yet.

The heat wave’s subsided; mornings and afternoons are predictably foggy now. I haven’t been back to see Annette, although some mornings I fantasize about a full cup of hot coffee and a sticky-sweet donut. But I know how these things work. She’ll start asking questions, and the caffeine will kick in, and before I know it, she’ll know everything about me. I still can’t believe I told her about getting arrested. I should have just left that morning after I had picked up my supplies. I’ve passed by the Goodwill a few times and watched her through the window. She’s always behind the jewelry counter, helping someone. I begin to call her “Grandma” in my mind, and when I’m really feeling lonely, I take out the travel mug she gave me and hold it next to my heart. You can say it is fast becoming my prized possession - though, to be frank, there’s not that much competition.

Going to the bathroom is still a struggle for me. I simply have no way of preserving my daily movements. So each morning I enter park’s public restrooms, Ill

resigned and defeated. And each morning, the sound of the toilet flushing when I am done fills my heart with a deep sadness. I try to reassure myself that this stage in my life will not last forever. I will find a way to revive the Plan, I tell myself. This is but a temporary setback, I repeat to myself.

Because of my poor diet and irregular sleep schedule, I find that I’m tired and confused much of the time. I know I should be doing something to address my dire situation, but my mind can’t seem to wrap itself around any one of my problems. Where should I begin? I need a home, right? Maybe. What home? Where? But first, I need better food. Yes? The right food, first. Then I will be able to think straight. But where? Who?

Better food costs money. What money? A job? I couldn’t even get a job when I had a house. No, not a job. But I also need to retrieve my samples, if indeed they’re still at the house. How can I do that with Barrel-chest watching? And what about restarting my fecal transplant regimen? It has been too long. I will lose thirteen years’ of work if I don’t act quickly. Will Albert help me out again? Who else can provide me with a reliable supply of samples? The questions blaze through my head. Try as I might, I cannot stop one question long enough to grab hold of it before the next one crashes in. It’s like a frenzied stock ticker in my head cranked up to ludicrous speed.

When I’m down, I try to focus on the silver linings - though they are few. I mentioned the raccoons. I look forward to seeing them every night, for they are a great comfort to me. Sometimes I find myself talking to the family’s father. He’s a big, lumbering guy. I’ve named him “Chuckles” because he sometimes laughs at my jokes. 112

Mostly though, he just mumbles encouraging responses. So I’ve been opening up more

and more to him. It feels good to talk to someone who does not judge me all the time.

I’ve told him all about the Plan and about Mother of course, and well. . . just about

everything really.

Also on the positive side, I am finding that living in continual contact with Nature

has some real benefits. I have begun to notice that I’m smelling more human than ever

before. Underneath my normal body odor, a profoundly organic fragrance has bloomed,

which I think must be attributable to sleeping in dirt and grass and being constantly

explored and colonized by new bacteria. It’s a rotting leaf kind of smell - a damp,

sensual, living scent that grows and changes daily. I am thoroughly absorbed in its

mutations and find myself smelling different comers of my body - armpits, elbows,

knees, toes - throughout each day.

Similarly, my skin has returned to its naturally crusty state, but I am noticing that

there is a new healthy gloss to it. It’s almost like a group of microscopic impressionist

painters crawl all over me while I sleep, touching up my patina with tiny, expert brush

strokes.

Living this close to the earth definitely has its benefits. Perhaps, in the end, this

homeless phase of my life will provide me with some critical information for the Plan.

The vitalizing effect of persistent exposure to dirt, leaves, grass, bugs, sun, fog,

moonlight (and possibly raccoons?) surely calls for a revision or two when I get back on

my feet. 113

Chapter 15

About 7 o’clock one morning, as I head back to Memorial Park to sleep, I see a

middle-aged woman emerge from Peet’s Coffee on Solano. She is carrying a gargantuan metal cup, smiling broadly in spite of the dark, foggy chill of this typical Berkeley

summer morning. She has just returned from some sort of early-morning workout session

and is still dressed in black yoga pants and a fuchsia athletic top, with a small towel

draped around her neck. As she passes a man leaning again the wall, she drops a few

coins into the cup he is holding. He’s dressed in Nike sneakers (not old), clean jeans, and

a nice, warm coat. He nods at the woman - barely an acknowledgment. And then she

says, “See you tomorrow,” as she climbs into her hulking, white SUV (with license plates

that read “FMLY TNK”).

I walk past the man (he ignores me like everyone else) and down the street about

twenty yards, where I take up position next to an ice cream store to observe. A few

minutes later, a father with a little boy in tow greets the man. Again the man barely

acknowledges their presence, offering them only a minimal nod. The father gives the

child a dollar bill and then pushes him toward the man with the cup. The boy reluctantly

deposits the bill and then rushes back to the safety of his father’s thigh before they turn

and continue down the street.

This seems a bit too easy, I think. Why are these people just handing this guy

money? Of course I’ve heard of begging, but this man looks freshly showered, and

moreover he’s a bit pudgy around the middle. I would guess that he has a decent 114

apartment not far away and maybe even a family and kids. He doesn’t look like a beggar

at all.

I look at my reflection in the window of the ice cream store. Though faint, it

provides plenty of details. My black beard has grown back already, making my face look

dark and gaunt. I have lost weight - though I barely had any to lose in the first place. My

cheeks are sunken, and my blue eyes bulge. My nose seems to be the only part of my

comportment that has remained the same; it veers to the right as it has since birth. My

hair is greasy and spiked haphazardly. My sweats and sweatshirt seem to be barely

hanging onto on my fading body and are covered in dirt and grass stains. Overall, I look

quite pitiful. I figure if a clean, well-dressed man with a cup can get paid for just standing

there, I should get double or triple his daily take because I actually look hungry and

desperate.

I’ve read that beggars can be quite territorial. I decided to return to this spot later

in the day to see if he’s gone. As I walk back to the park, I envision shopping at a natural

food store for some nuts, a bag of whole oats, and a jar of sauerkraut. Perhaps I will feast

tonight!

I fall asleep behind the bathrooms, drooling onto my backpack and wondering if a

piece of the puzzle has finally fallen into place.

##

“Hold still, my dear, ” Mother says. 115

I open my eyes. Blue sky, the color of childhood, ripples in the wind like a flag above me. I turn toward Mother’s voice, and there she is, calmly cinching a leather strap around my left arm, just above the elbow. She is seated on the lowest bench of the park’s little league bleachers, and I am lying on my back one row up.

“You are going to have to remain very calm and be completely still. We must avoid infection. ” She smiles at me. “Otherwise, what’s the point in all this? ”

“All what?’’ Iask.

She continues, “I thought about doingjust a finger or two, then just the hand, but this will be so much more dramatic. More bang for your buck, son. ”

“What the hell are you talking about? ” I try to sit up, and quickly realize that I am tightly strapped to the bleacher.

“I told you to sit still, Cecil!” she says, elbowing me in the head

“Ouch! Okay, okay. I won't move. But please tell me what you are doing. ”

“Don’t you remember? That'sfunny, I could have sworn this was your idea in the first place. Maybe you need to go get your head checked. ”

“I don’t think any of this is funny, Mother. Please, let me up. ”

“You need money, right? You told me you need money. ”

“Well yes, I want to buy some real food. ”

“Real food. ‘Realfood, ’ he says! ” She yanks hard on the leather strap and buckles it into the last hole. It is now so tight around my bicep that I quickly lose all feeling in my lower arm. “Ifyou were any younger, I would bend you over my knee and 116

teach you a thing or two about nutrition. ‘Realfood, ’ he says! As far as I can see, you just want to kill yourself. You just want to gobble up every parasite in town - swallow

down all the worms and bugs you can find till your insides drop right out from

underneath you. What a mess you 're gonna make. And I ’m not going to be there to clean

it up for you this time. You think eating dirt and rotting vegetables is so special? So

wonderful? Why don't you tell that to the millions ofpeople who die from Hepatitis A,

Listeria, and E. coli every year. I bet they don’t think dirt in their food is very wonderful,

do they? Ever heard of amoebic dysentery? Cholera? Montezuma's Revenge? I t’s all out

there, just waiting to get you. My goodness, you’ve strayedfar from the Lord. But we ’re

not going to get into all that right now. You ’re in enough of a pickle as it is. Poor child,

all alone, starving and living on the streets. It’s enough to break a mother’s heart. ”

She then turns away from me and starts digging through a leather doctor’s bag on

the ground next to her. “Here it is, ” she says gleefully as she pulls out a thin wooden

box. I watch her undo the latches and slowly open the box. An antique saw with a wooden

handle sits in orange velvet. “Look at that. She’s a real beauty - the sharpest one they

ever made. I got it special -justfor you. It’s an antique from the Civil War. ’’

“No, no, no, Mother! You are not going to cut my arm off. Why would ever think

that I would want you to do such a thing? ” I t’s not just panic Ifeel now, i t ’s the rising

tide of the inevitable - Mother’s beastly inevitability.

“You know . . .for the begging. I could have sworn we discussed this. You ’re not

going to get a dime the way you look now. You just look lazy. Nobody likes lazy. If you 117

weren ’t so sick in the head, you couldfind a job in a heartbeat. You and I both know that.

But once we cut off your left arm, you 11 be raking it in. And let me emphasize, it’s just the left; you can still do everything you normally do - which is next to nothing anyway - with your right. Nobody can fault you for losing an arm. They will all sympathize - ache for you really - and then pull out their fat wallets. The plan is already in motion, no changing it now. So without further ado

“No, no, no, I refuse this medical treatment, Mother! Please let me go. ”

She whips out a wet cloth from her bag and places it firmly over my nose and mouth. “I ’ve already signed the consent form, dear. Don't ever say I didn ’t provide for you. I have always been on your side, 100%. And honey, don't forget to show your stump, okay? ” I struggle as much as I can but quickly find that I'm falling back asleep.

“Turn your head away from the saw, son. This promises to be a messy operation. ”

My headfalls away from Mother. Through the bleachers, I can see the toddler playground. I'm there in blue overalls, twirling in the sun. And then I feel the weight of the blade on my elbow and the first stroke o f the saw. m

I wake up; both gritty arms are still here with me. I curl up in a ball and squeeze myself together so tight that I almost fold up into nothingness. But my stomach is grumbling, pulling me back to reality. I eventually relax and get up off of the ground. 118

When I get to Peet’s, I see that the man from this morning is gone. I dig through a nearby trash can until I find an empty paper cup. Then I go stand against the wall near the entrance. People come and go, but they all pass me by without even looking at me. Am I a ghost to these people? I hold the cup in my hands, but maybe I’m not making it obvious enough that I’m begging.

But what am I supposed to do? Stick my cup up people’s noses? And what am I supposed to be saying? Must I interact with every single person on the sidewalk?

Impossible. Even though I have been away from the safety of my house for days. I’ve still only had those few conversations with Mr. Oh, Officer Dan, and Annette. I’ve worked out my new schedule so as to avoid almost all contact with Antiseptics. I am finding that I don’t mind being out in the world, I just don’t like to talk to anyone.

People continue to pass by me. My humiliation burns bright and hot.

I try to draw a young couple’s attention to my cup by saying “spare any change,” but it comes out all wrong. And when I breathe in, spittle goes down the wrong pipe. I start coughing violently. The couple quickly veers away from me. After I’ve recovered, I think about throwing the cup away and going back to the park to look for food. I can’t figure out which is more shameful - eating garbage or failing to raise any money by begging.

Just then, a black guy in a suit drops a few coins into my cup. After he’s climbed into his midnight-blue Mercedes and zoomed away, I look in the cup. Eight cents. Why 119

would he even bother giving me eight cents? That’s not even enough for a single stalk of

celery.

Now, I’m just plain irritated. Three pennies and a nickel! I shake the cup nervously side-to-side, rattling the coins around in the bottom. I wish the sound was louder. I wish I had some cymbals to crash in these Antiseptic faces. I shake and shake

the coins. My shoulders tense. My brow furrows. The cup is moving rapidly in my hand,

the coins bouncing angrily at the bottom.

A few minutes later, I get a quarter from an old lady, who says, “God bless,” as

she drops it into my cup. Half an hour later, a Hispanic laborer with paint all over his

clothes throws seventeen cents toward me; the dime misses the cup and rolls away from

me. I scamper after it and grab it right before it almost falls into the gutter. And I

continue to shake my cup.

As the fog rolls in and darkness begins to invade the comers of Solano Avenue, I

total up my earnings: $1.41. Maybe I should cut something off. (“Don’t forget to show

your stump.”) I wish I had a tail or some missing teeth. Maybe I could severe an ear; they

don’t do that much just sitting there on the side on my head.

I cross the street to Andronico’s Supermarket and walk straight to the produce

section. I feel a young stock boy’s eyes on me. Organic Fuji apples are $2.99 per pound.

A head of cabbage is nearly four dollars! I can barely afford anything here. Eventually, I

pick out a thin carrot and a banana. I join a short line at the register, but a managerial type

quickly waves me over to another register. This special treatment is no compliment; my 120

neck flushes as he smiles his hello to me. The total is $1.63.1 give him my money and, after a quick count, he says, “Good enough.” I take my food and leave without thanking him.

I sit down on a bus stop right outside the grocery store and devour the carrot and banana. Despite the afternoon’s difficulties, I feel uplifted. Finally, a proper meal in my system - small, but proper. My microbes will be pleased with me. The sun peeks out from the swirling fog over the distant bay, lighting up a patch of water below it, and my soul takes flight. I think that someday I will write a book of poems about fresh, whole, natural food. Each poem will focus on one perfect food. It will not only describe the flavor, texture, and overall sensation of eating the specific item, it will also recount the bacterial value of it. It’s a grand idea! I see the book climbing the New York Times bestsellers list. “A book of poems no less!” the critics proclaim. It will be mandatory reading at every one of my seminars. I will call it “Odes to Holy Foods,” and it will make me millions. The first poem will be about carrots and the first line will be: “let be it known, Adam and Eve’s first meal was not apple, but carrot.”

The sun disappears and the evening turns decided cold as I try to think of all the words that rhyme with “carrot.” “Parrot” and “ferret” are not that helpful, really. I keep searching my mind. I don’t think “Ret” is a word. Does “pet” rhyme? Carrot, pet, carrot, pet. Rot? No. I keep mulling. I think a “garrote” is a wire used to strangle someone.

Terrible. Not at all on point. I try to work out a different first line, but the clarity of a moment ago is gone. Now I am just cold and frustrated. 121

A bus groans to a stop in front of me, and I get up and start walking down Solano

Avenue. Now I am thinking about the afternoon. I can’t figure out why the well-dressed

man this morning had people shoving dollar bills at him, while all I got was a few pennies here and there. Must I be clean to beg? That can’t be. I need the money more than he does. That’s obvious. Is it my smell? Do I scare people? Am I too poor? Too

desperate? Too pitiful? What perverse thinking. It cannot be. It has to be something else.

Maybe the other guy just has the location and timing elements of his trade all figured out.

Maybe that’s the key. Lots of people get coffee in the morning, but not so many in the

late afternoon.

So where are people gathering now?

Across the street I notice a stream of people entering a busy tapas bar. I have been

avoiding that side of the street when I walk at night, but now I cross over to it. I have no

coins to rattle in my cup, and I am feeling quite tired, so I sit down on the sidewalk a few

feet from the entrance and set my cup in front of me. My butt grows cold and numb, and I

am about to nod off when a hand appears in my vision and drops a five dollar bill in my

cup. A man with a skinny woman on his arm nods at me when I look up as he enters the

restaurant. Five dollars! Now that’s more like it. I think about sitting up, but perhaps it is

my nearly dead demeanor that engendered such kindness.

I am too excited to sleep now, thinking about what I will buy when the natural

food store opens tomorrow morning. But I keep my head down. When people approach, I

list from side to side - 1 throw in a quiet moan here and there just for effect - like I’m 122

drunk or sick or just too miserable to hold my body still. Seventy-nine cents falls from a mustached hipster and another fifty cents from a plump woman with rosy cheeks. I get two dollar bills from a middle-aged couple holding hands. After two hours, I have over ten dollars. If I stay for two more hours, I could buy a whole week’s worth of food. I thank my lucky stars and continue to make a mental grocery list.

“Jesus Christ, man,” a voice above me says. “You are stinking up the whole fucking block. This is a nice restaurant. You shouldn’t be here.”

I look up and see that I am surrounded by a group of college kids. The guy swearing at me has broad shoulders and is wearing a tight flannel shirt and jeans. He steps closer. “And look,” he says to his friends, “he looks like fucking Skeletor. You remember that dude from the cartoons?”

One of his friends answers, “Totally, dude.”

I look down and mumble, “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”

“But you already got trouble, don’t you?”

“Come on, just leave me alone,” I say. I can hear the weakness in my voice. I know they hear it too.

I reach for my cup, but the kid is too quick. “Looks like the next round is on you,

Skeletor.” He pulls the bills out and pours the change into his pocket. Then he crumples up the cup and throws it into my face. “Now get out of here. I know the guy who owns this place. And if you don’t clear out right now, we’re gonna call the cops on you. Got it?” 123

I stand and try to scoot away.

“Hey,” the kid barks. I turn involuntarily. “So you don’t forget.” Then he punches me hard in my stomach, knocking me to the ground. “Now, get the hell out of here and don’t come back.” He kicks me in the back as I lay crumpled on the ground before turning and entering the restaurant.

I slowly get up and stumble down the sidewalk, trying to catch my breath. 124

Chapter 16

Fifteen minutes later, I’m staggering through foggy Memorial Park. I haven’t eaten anything all day except for my little meal of banana and carrot. Nor did I sleep enough today. And I’m feeling so cold now. Anger, shame, and misery boil deep in my gut, right in the spot where that punk-ass kid sucker-punched me, but I’m so enervated that I can barely focus on anything else but my severely weakened condition. Maybe tonight is the night I fall into the dirt and never get up - my story untold, my truth snuffed out by blind cruelty and punishing circumstance.

I drag myself over to the drinking fountain and gulp down water, hoping to fill the void. But I retch and convulse as I work my way around to the backside of the bathrooms. Maybe that kid broke something inside of me ... my spleen, my spirit... both. I consider trying to walk to a hospital, but at this moment I can barely stay on my feet.

When I get to my nest behind the bathroom, I nearly kick over a plastic container on the ground. I collapse next to it and open it up. By the light of a nearby street light, I see that it is nearly lull of tortilla chips covered in congealed nacho cheese sauce.

Someone has left this for me, I think to myself. The nachos are soggy, limp, and cold, but they taste divine to my starved palate. I eat each heavenly chip slowly, with my eyes closed. I imagine that they are a newly discovered vegetable, a previously unknown superfood that will sustain and fortify the creatures of my gut for days to come. With each bite, I feel a bit stronger. I pray thanks for the tenacity of kindness. My followers are 125

here . .. just hidden, like ghosts from the future. They are everywhere, and they will

sustain me through this dark time (even though they don’t even know I exist yet).

After licking the bottom the container clean, I roll onto my side and sleep for an

hour. I awake shivering and start walking through the dark streets. I am still drained, but

an ember of faith glows resolutely in my soul. Who would have thought cold nachos

could have such an astounding spiritual effect?

##

Later that night, as I make my way up silent Solano Avenue, I hear an

unidentifiable caterwauling coming from behind Zachary’s Pizza. I think it might be my

raccoon friends in trouble (though I have never heard them make such odd noises). I rush

down a narrow pedestrian alleyway that takes me to the back of the restaurant. A

streetlight on Solano illuminates the top of a nearby tree, but everything below is painted

black. The strange howling has stopped, but now I hear rustling coming from a dumpster

hidden in the shadows. As I approach, I see a beam of light flash into the air above the

dumpster, momentarily lighting up the night’s thick fog like a spotlight at a movie

premiere. I stop suddenly and consider running. It’s obviously not my raccoons. But then,

who could it be?

Just then I see two heads pop up, facing each other. One face is illuminated from

below by a flashlight.

“I am the ghost of slightly bruised tomatoes!” the ghoulish face sings. 126

A second light comes on under the other face. “And I am the ghost of mozzarella cheese one day past its eat-by date!” Both faces disappear back into the dumpster in a fit of laughter.

They’re clearly unaware of my presence, so I sneak into a nearby dark comer to watch. After a few minutes, a skinny boy jumps out of the dumpster. I figure he’s about eighteen, but it’s hard to tell. He’s tall and lean, with a significant afro, and moves like a cat. “First, hand me the cans,” he says. The other figure - a teenage boy as well by my estimation - starts pulling large tin cans out of the dumpster and handing them to his buddy, who loads them into what appears to be a Radio Flyer wagon parked next to the dumpster.

“The priestess will be happy with us tonight,” the skinny boy says, carefully stacking the cans one at a time.

“And we’re going to be eating some serious pizza all week! Here’s the dough and the mozzarella. What a find!” The boy in the dumpster lifts two large plastic bags over the edge of the dumpster and drops them into the wagon. Then he swings himself out, landing perfectly on two feet. He throws his arms in the air and arches his back like an

Olympic gymnast. “Perfect 10,” he says and then takes a bow. His hair is cropped close to his head, and he’s shorter than his partner, but much more muscular.

The tall boy with the afro picks up the handle of the wagon, and then they pass right by me on their way to the pedestrian alleyway. The wagon rattles loudly on the 127

uneven pavement. I can hear them turn the corner onto Solano Avenue and head down the sidewalk.

When all is quiet, I walk over to the dumpster and peek in. I can only make out vague, black mounds. I assume that the boys took all the good stuff, but I decide to investigate further. I set my backpack on the ground and try to lift myself up onto the edge of the dumpster. But I lose my balance and fall forward into the trash. I am decidedly not cat-like. Luckily, my head hits something soft, and I avoid injury.

I’m on my hands and knees now and gingerly feeling all around. Almost everything is neatly stuffed in trash bags. I start tearing them open, one by one. The first three contain folded paper plates and unending masses of soiled paper napkins. Each time

I rip one open, I am overcome by the smell tomato sauce, oregano, and butter. My mouth is watering like crazy. But I find nothing edible in any of the first three bags.

The fourth bag is smaller . .. and heavier. The contents are soft. It feels almost like a dense pillow. I have hope for this one. I find a seat on top of the large pile of paper refuse I’ve created and pull the fourth bag open. Now I smell something real - something

I haven’t smelled in days (or has it been weeks, I can no longer remember): it’s rot!

Thick, green, essential rot! I reach in and bury my fingers into slimy spinach leaves.

“Eureka!” I shout as I pull out a handful of glorious, decomposing goodness and shove it into my mouth.

## 128

During the next few nights, I creep around Berkeley’s back alleyways, digging through restaurant dumpsters. They’re not all treasure troves of microbiologically beautiful food, but I manage to find a box of discarded oranges just past their time, a small bag of chopped peanuts, and a dozen tomatoes with slightly moldy tops. I keep the bag of spinach in my backpack until, sadly, I’ve eaten it all. I know the bacteria in my gut must be feeling better now that we’re getting some decent food, but my diet still consists mostly of death food. I fear my body is growing weaker.

In addition to looking for food. I’m also keeping a close eye out for the two dumpster-diving teenagers. I need to speak with them. First, I want to ask if they will show me around. I’m sure that they know where all of the best dumpsters are located. I wonder if there are some days that are better than others for collecting food. If I promise to let them take what they want first, maybe they can take me on a tour. As it is, I’m spending a lot of time groping around in the dark through greasy, inedible garbage. I smell more like a French fry than a human now, which is profoundly disturbing me. But I figure the sacrifice is worth it in my attempt to preserve what’s left of my super- microbiome.

Second, I want to find out more about what the two boys were discussing that night. I keep returning to the skinny boy’s reference to the “priestess.” Who is she? And what’s their affiliation with her? Are they members of a cult? And then I think about how happy and free they seemed, rummaging through that dumpster in the middle of the night.

I think they might hold some key for me. My Exceptionalism is telling me that they may 129

be kindred spirits - that somehow they may be part of the Plan. So I look for them every night.

Then, one evening, I hear the sound of a wagon rattling up Solano Avenue.

There’s no fog tonight. The orange-pink sunset lights up the street and west-facing storefronts with a warm, peaceful glow. I duck into the ATM alcove of a Bank of

America branch and watch the two boys march quickly up the sidewalk on the other side of the street. They are both dressed in black boots, dark, long-sleeve t-shirts, and camouflage pants. They could be mistaken for a couple of young Black Panthers - or whatever the equivalent is these days. The tall boy, however, is whistling a cheerful tune as he pulls their Radio Flyer, and his stocky comrade skips every couple of steps to keep up; they look more like characters from an edgy musical than violent radicals.

I consider crossing directly over to them. “Hello!” I rehearse. “My name is Cecil

and I want to ask you some questions.” I’m not sure I can do it, though. I’m afraid I will turn into a stammering fool. And even if I managed to get it all out, would they stop and

kindly introduce themselves to me? Perhaps. But probably not. I don’t really know what

they’d do. What if they turned out to be like those asshole college kids from the other

night? I really don’t want to get beat up again. But I need to talk to them. The beginning

of a plan takes shape in my head, but I cannot figure out if it’s a really great idea or the

worst I’ve ever had. I guess only time will tell.

So I pretend to be using the ATM as they pass by and then start following them.

They veer off of Solano onto a narrow side street and head toward the back of a Mexican 130

food joint. I am pretty sure they haven’t noticed me yet. I’m sneaking along the sidewalk, hiding behind trees and fences like I’ve seen private investigators do in movies. The teenagers park their wagon next to a dumpster covered in graffiti. I’m squatting behind a rose bush thirty feet away when they throw open the lid and jump in.

Instantly, I get to my feet and I rush toward the dumpster. When I get there, I slam the lid closed and scamper up on top of it.

“Hey, what are you doing?!?!” I can’t tell which one of the boys is talking. They both push on the lid, but I’m sitting firmly atop it and holding it down.

“Who is that?”

“What are you doing?”

“Come on, you asshole, let us out of here!”

They are both ramming the lid hard, but I have my fingers wrapped tight around the front bar of the dumpster. With my weight and my superior position, it’s easy to hold the lid in place.

“One, two, three,” a voice from within shouts, and then they simultaneously push against the lid. But I hold fast.

“Stop!” I say. “Just stop it. I need to talk to you.”

They stop pushing on the lid. “What kind of fucking asshole locks two kids in a dumpster? Let us out!”

“You don’t understand. I just need—” 131

“Come on, man, let us out.” The voice is desperate now, pleading. I’m pretty sure it’s the taller boy that’s talking. “I think my brother is dying in here. He’s got asthma real bad. I think he’s having an attack!”

He definitely could be lying. But what if he’s not. These guys aren’t going to help me if I end up killing one of them by accident before we’ve even properly met.

“I’m not flicking kidding!”

“Okay!” I shout as I jump off of the dumpster.

The lid flies open and bangs loudly against the back of the dumpster. Both boys jump out - no sign of asthma, I should’ve known - and step right up to me.

“That was fucking uncool, man,” the taller brother says, shoving me in the chest.

The shorter brother then pushes me harder, and I fall to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was afraid you wouldn’t talk to me. I want to know where the good food is. I’m hungry.” That came out better than I had rehearsed.

“Yeah? Well, trapping us in a dumpster isn’t gonna make us want to talk to you much, is it now?” The taller brother is clearly the leader.

“No. You’re right. I’m very sorry. It was a stupid idea.”

A dog is barking loudly in a nearby yard, and three crows - their wings faintly illuminated by the dying sunset - land on a telephone wire attached to the Mexican food restaurant.

The tall boy sighs. “You’re real skinny. Are you homeless?”

“Yeah. Homeless.” 132

He then gives me his hand and helps me back to my feet. The palm of his hand is calloused, but it’s a Captured Touch I’ll never forget. I feel the warmth of his entire being flow through me. I realize that I’ve not truly been touched by anyone - 1 don’t count being punched or kicked - since a rusty-eyed officer took my fingerprints. “Alright, man,” the boy say. “It’s cool, now. We know about being hungry. It’s hard to think straight when you’re starving.”

“Thanks”

“I’m Izzy, short for Ismael, and this is my little brother, Abe.”

I look down at my shoes momentarily, but then Mr. Oh’s advice flashes through my head: “Introduce yourself like you matter.” I look at the brothers’ faces and say, “I’m

Cecil Reitmeister . . . and I really need your help.” 133

Chapter 17

Izzy takes me over to their red wagon, which contains a jar of peanut butter, three kiwis, and half of a baguette. “Take what you want,” he says.

“Really?” I want it all, but I stop myself. “Can I have some bread and peanut butter?” My voice cracks at the end of my request.

“Are you okay?” I am starting to notice that Izzy does all the talking.

I can’t answer because I’m about to cry. Abe rips off a piece of bread and hands it and the jar of peanut butter to me.

“I suppose we should all have a little snack, huh, little brother?” Izzy says.

Abe nods.

As night descends in earnest, we sit down together, silently passing the peanut butter and spreading it on the bread with our fingers. I am surprised that they sit near me, given my state. I think they must have been homeless themselves at one point; only people who’ve been homeless understand what it’s like.

“I’m really sorry about the dumpster thing,” I say after swallowing my third bite.

“No blood, no foul,” Izzy says as he pulls an afro pick from his back pocket and starts running it through his hair. “My brother really does have asthma, by the way. I wasn’t lying about that.” His eyes are a striking, light tan color; they’re glowing like an owl’s eyes in this crepuscular light. “So what’s your deal, man?” 134

“I have ...” I can’t think of where to start. What is my deal? What could I say that would possibly make any sense right now? “I have dietary restrictions.” That sounds weird, but somewhat reasonable.

“Hmm.”

“And, well, I saw you guys a few nights ago. You got a whole bunch of stuff from a dumpster behind Zachary’s. You looked like you were having fun.”

“Yeah, that was quite a haul. We made some killer pizza that night when we got home.”

“Since then, I’ve been looking for you guys. I need to find some healthy food to eat on a regular basis or I’m afraid I’m going to just keel over and die pretty soon. I’ve been eating whatever garbage I find in trash cans. You two seem to know what you’re doing. So I wanted to ask you to show me where to find the good stuff. I promise I won’t get in your way. I won’t take anything that you want.”

“Hey man, there’s enough good food in these dumpsters to feed an army. I mean seriously, these fools throw away so much food, it’s positively ridiculous.”

“Well that’s great for us, right?”

“It ain’t bad, but it certainly ain’t good either. Americans throw away almost half of the food produced in this country. Can you believe that? 50%! Eat one egg, throw the other one out the window! What kind of society is that?”

“I didn’t know,” I say. 135

Abe is shaking his head while Izzy continues, “It’s a real shame. When I first started learning about the way we waste food, I couldn’t believe it. Our supermarkets throw away thousands of pounds of edible fruit each year just because the fruit is too small. Too small! Restaurants are always getting rid of stuff because they think it’s not fresh anymore. So that’s where we come in. Have you ever heard of freeganism?”

“No.”

“That’s what we do. We’re card carrying members of the International

Community of freegans, ‘ICoF’ for short. We’re saving the planet one dumpster dive at a time. Abe and I used to eat out of trash cans like you - and we begged on the streets for a while too - but then we met the priestess. Man, she really saved our lives.”

“That’s great,” I say. “You guys are lucky.”

“She can help you too, man. We’re always looking for new members. You just gotta promise to go diving when you’re on the schedule and bring everything that you find to the group. Then we share. They’re good people, and we eat good food every day.

Sometimes we have group dinners and parties. We meet every Tuesday in the big church

at the top of Solano to plan the week’s activities. It’s mellow, and there’s always some

food there for people to eat. You should come to our next meeting.”

“What day is it today?” I ask.

“Sunday. So the next meeting is the day after tomorrow.” 136

“I’m not really one for big groups.” I have a vision of some other-worldly priestess asking me to introduce myself and of me pissing my pants and running out the door.

“Abe’s the same way. Right, Abe?”

Abe nods.

“He only ever talks to me,” Izzy explains. “He’s funny as shit, but I’m the only one that gets to laugh at his jokes.”

“Why does he only talk to you?”

“Trust. He doesn’t trust anyone anymore, except me. But listen, if you come, you can sit with us. Alright? That will make it easier.”

“Thanks, I’ll think about it.”

“You should really come. You need to start eating on a regular basis. You look like a pile of bones sitting there.”

We have finished the peanut butter and the bread. I stand up to leave. Abe gives me the three kiwis from the wagon.

“See you on Tuesday,” Izzy says. “We get going at 5:30.” m

Tuesday, 5:23 p.m. It’s another sunny afternoon, though wisps of fog are beginning to drift in from the Bay. I am standing across the street from the church, watching people come and go. An obedience class must be meeting somewhere in the church’s facility because I see at least ten people walking their dogs in through the front 137

door. I miss my dogs and wonder if they’re safe. I vow to return to the pound to check on them again soon.

Two minutes later, Izzy and Abe enter the church with their red wagon. I want to follow right away, but the prospect of meeting a big group of people is just too much.

Earlier today, I tried to clean off my sweats and sweatshirt, but they are still streaked with mud and grass. I know I look awful to most Antiseptics. And I know I don’t smell

“normal” either. I’m not sure the church workers would even let me in the door in my current condition. What if they yelled at me and told me to get out of there? And even if I got to the meeting, what then? Did Izzy and Abe invite me to their meeting as a joke? Are they all going to laugh at me when I walk in? Were “freegans” even real?

I start walking away from the church. Next week, I think to myself, I’ll definitely go next week. I’ll just have to make sure to keep track of the days of the week from now until then. Three crows land on the sidewalk in front of me and start cawing at me. I am reminded of the crows behind the Mexican restaurant and Izzy’s thin hand reaching down to help me up. And then I think of Abe handing me the kiwis as I departed. That was no false compassion. I should go over to the church. So I turn around and walk back.

As I approach the door, I begin to panic. My heart races, and I can’t catch my breath. Every inch of my body is sweating profusely. I wonder for a second if my microbes can feel the rising tide of my anxiety. Do they sense my adrenaline? Do they begin to organize themselves into tiny militias to support me? Somehow, I think they do.

I stop and lean against the wall of the church building. The white paint is warm to the 138

touch. I look around. Luckily, no one is around. I lean my forehead against the church and close my eyes. I picture walking into the church, asking for the freegans, and then walking into the meeting. I simply cannot do it, I conclude.

But then I think about the next week - seven full days before I can come here and try this again. Seven more days of eating garbage. Seven more days of starving bacteria.

Seven more days of problems with no solutions. Then I think about next Tuesday. Will it be easier for me then? No, of course not. I will never want to do this. It will always be nearly impossible. I think of Mr. Oh telling me that the “truth is the only thing worth fighting for.” Right now, I have to fight this phobia of mine, so that I can recapture my truth. These are people that might help me. I just need to go and ask for it.

So I take three deep breaths and walk into the church. An ICoF sign points me down a hallway. Another one indicates that I’ve reached the right door. I twist the doorknob, hesitate for moment, and then quietly slide into the room. 139

Chapter 18

Approximately twenty people are sitting on the floor of a non-descript meeting

room in a tight circle and chanting. We reject a globalized system dominated by

corporations in which critical resources like food and housing are wasted while the

needs o f hundreds of millions go unmet. Some members have their eyes closed and are

chanting from memory. Some read the words off of photocopies. We seek to change the

current economic model where profit is valued over the environment and human and

animal rights. They seem to come from all walks of life. A man dressed in a pressed shirt

and a green tie sits next to an elderly woman with salt-and-pepper hair in loose-fitting

clothes made from hemp or some other rough material. The current petroleum-based

economy is both ecologically disastrous and inextricably connected to warfare and third

world domination by the oil conglomerates. A woman in a cycling shirt and shorts is next

to an Asian man wearing jeans, a western-cut button-down, and a large fishing hat

decorated with shiny lures. Participation in the corporate-centered economy is a form of

complicity in practices like sweatshop labor, rainforest destruction, andfactory farming.

I spy Izzy and Abe, and they wave me over, but I’m not ready to join the circle just yet.

We envision a future based on self-sufficient, sustainable communities, where we obtain

vital resources in ways that don’t exploit people, animals, or the earth, and share them freely to ensure that everyone's needs are met.

The boys are sitting next to a woman dressed in a creamy robe with an African

print scarf hanging around her neck. Her legs are crossed, her eyes closed, and she is 140

sitting up straight as an arrow with her chin held high. She is a great horse of a woman, tall, broad, with thick, coarse hair, red as a sunrise before a hurricane. She seems twice the size of anyone else in the room. She has a long, narrow face framed by a strong jaw.

Her large hands lie upturned on her knees, her fingers relaxed into massive, gentle curves. Her large mouth barely moves as she chants, her concentration undisturbed by my entrance. She exudes grace, focus, and power. There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s the priestess; her Exceptionalism pulsates through the room.

I scoot over to the nearest comer and sit down on a chair. I’m glad to have entered without disturbing the group’s chanting. I hope that they will not notice me at all. I’m horrified that they will ask me to introduce myself. They will surely hate me if I throw up during my first meeting, but I feel bile boiling up my esophagus. If only I could become invisible whenever I wanted, life would be so much easier. I could still leave. I could go back to the park, to the safety of my solitude.

But I stay. I stay for her.

The chanting continues for a few more minutes and then the group sits in silence.

The man in the fishing hat sneezes a couple of times, the lures jingling softly. I watch

Izzy and Abe shifting their bodies around, trying to control their teenage restlessness. The priestess is perfectly still, a statute of a perfect Clydesdale with its face to the wind. And then she speaks: “Let’s get started.” Her voice is low and raspy, a sultry, Lauren Bacall voice. She rises without effort from the floor and walks over to a white board. Some of 141

the members of the group grab a chair and sit down. Izzy, Abe, and a few others stay on the ground and simply reposition themselves into more comfortable positions.

“Before we get started, can somebody please tell me where that horrible smell is coming from?” the man in the green tie asks. “It smells like somebody took a giant shit in here.”

My face is instantly on fire. I shouldn’t have come. I should know better.

Antiseptics will always reject me until I prove myself to them by completing the Plan. I get up and move quickly to the door.

Izzy turns and says, “Wait, Cecil!” But I’m not going to wait. I’m out of here. I’ll find my own food. I’ll figure something out.

I grab the doorknob and just as I’m about to throw open the door and exit, the priestess’s voice booms at me: “Stop right there!” I cannot tell if it’s reflexive obedience

(for she sounded so much like Mother right then) or her Exceptional ism digging its horse’s teeth into me, but I instantly freeze and find that I cannot move.

The man in the green tie says, “Let him go. He’s making it nearly impossible to breathe in here. I can’t even think with that awful smell in my nose. He’s literally making me sick.”

The priestess responds, “Dick, I know that you are relatively new to us and that you still have much to learn about our ways.”

“He can come back when he’s taken a shower,” Dick says. “It’s just common courtesy.” 142

“Abe and I will vouch for him,” Izzy interjects.

“No, I’m leaving,” I say under my breath. My fingers grip the knob, but my feet

are glued to the floor. I’m hyperventilating now, and I think I might faint. I lean against the wall for support and bow my head to the floor. I want to run, but something tells me that I have to hear what the priestess is about to say.

“Your ‘common courtesy’ may not be the same as this gentleman’s understanding

of the term,” she says. I glance up to see who she’s talking about and then realize that she

means me. I’ve been called all sorts of things, but never a gentleman before. I try to calm

down by taking a deep breath. The priestess continues, “Jessie Jackson once said, ‘Never

look down on anybody unless you’re helping them up.’ We have never expelled any one

from our group based on smell or any other intolerant reason - and we never will. If you

cannot stay with the group this week, Dick, then leave and come back when you’re ready.

But this poor, staving man is not going to leave here without getting some food, some

respect, and a short lesson about freeganism just because you have an overly sensitive

olfactory system.” Her voice rises only slightly at the end of her monologue; she is

quintessentially cool and collected.

“Fine,” Dick says. “But can we at least open some windows.”

“Of course.”

And now she is smiling.

I glance at her and try to say ‘thank you,’ but my tongue is a balloon in a tin can.

When she nods to me, her green eyes shine with compassion. My knee buckles, and I 143

almost fall to the floor. I’m glad that I still have a hold of the doorknob for balance. I feel a combination of ecstasy and sheer terror rushing through my body. It’s almost exactly like the coffee and donut high from the other morning except I don’t have to run to the bathroom and I feel a wild, unfamiliar fluttering in my chest. It’s as if all of my body’s bacteria have gathered around my heart and are dancing in frenzied, joyous unison.

##

After I have collected myself, I sit back down on the chair in the corner, as far away from everyone as possible. Izzy gets up in front of the group and quickly introduces me. He tells the group that I don’t like talking to strangers. “We know about that, huh,

Abe?” he says, leaning over and patting his brother on the back. “But he’s a good guy,”

Izzy continues before sitting back down.

The priestess runs the meeting efficiently. The members go around the room reporting their weekly activities, including a detailed accounting of the food recovered from dumpsters and any observations about new potential sources of “reclaimable food waste.” Then, the priestess details the group’s overall supplies, which are stored in a place called the “warehouse.” On the white board, she draws a simple grid and then assigns each member to a team and each team to a day of the week.

“Cecil, you will dive on Thursday night with Izzy and Abe. They will show you the ropes. When you get more comfortable, you will go out with other teams, but for right now, you’ll stick with our own little dynamic duo.”

I nod, happy to have my assignment. 144

“We’ll meet you at sundown at the peanut butter and kiwi spot, okay?” Izzy says.

“I’ll be there.”

“As long as you are diligent in contributing to the group’s well-being by diving and bringing everything you find back to the warehouse,” the priestess explains to me,

“you can go there anytime to get something to eat. I will take you for a tour when we are done with this meeting. We are not hoarders, and we do not compete with each other for food. Do not take more than you need.”

“I understand.”

I feel like pinching myself. m

After the meeting, the priestess and I leave together and begin walking south on

The Alameda. I’m too nervous to strike up any conversation - I’m having a hard enough time just walking in a straight line - but she seems perfectly content to walk in silence. At first I rack my brain for something interesting to say, but her calming aura at my side eventually allows me to relax. I focus on the sounds of our footfalls in unison and fall into her comfortable rhythm.

The fog continues to roll in and the day’s light is fading fast. As we cross

Berryman, the street lights above us flicker on. We turn east and walk silently for another

seven blocks until we reach a collection of approximately ten houses nestled on a hill, all facing a large central courtyard. “Welcome to the ‘Eternal Peace and Light Compound of

Berkeley,’ or EPALCOB for short,” she says. 145

“Thank you,” I respond. What’s with all of the crazy acronyms? I think to myself.

“See that house in the back with the giant blue evil eye painted on it? That’s where I live.”

“Neat .” I want to say so much more, but the tranquility of the walk was shattered the instant we starting talking, and my mind is now spinning again. What’s the right thing to say? Could I ever be charming? Even just once? Just right now. Just once! But no, I have nothing worthy to say. I’ve got no game at all. At this moment, I really wish I had not spent the last thirteen years of my life in self-exile. It’s obvious why I can’t converse with the priestess. Not counting Soledad (which I don’t because she was more like a nosey, helpful aunt than anything else) and Annette (a grandmother, caring and kind, but a grandmother nonetheless), I haven’t been in the presence of a potential girlfriend (or any female approximately my age) since Julie May Arbuncle at senior prom. In other words, I’m completely terrified by this gloriously oversized woman.

She leads me to the nearest building, a dark, broad shed nestled amongst a small copse of white birch trees. The door is unlocked. She flips the lights on. “This is ICoF’s warehouse.”

The shed is clean and cool and contains eight large, metal shelving units, chock- full of food. Two refrigerators flank a large wooden table piled with fruits and vegetables in the middle of the room. The shelves are labelled and neatly organized by food type.

The ones in the back are labelled “Mexican” and “Other International.” The shelves 146

directly to my right contain nothing but nuts and crackers - to the left, slightly dented boxes of pasta and taped-up bags of rice.

I realize that my mouth is agape.

“Take anything that you want,” the priestess says.

“I don’t know... I . . . um . ...”

“I order you to go shopping. Fill you backpack, man. And then come back tomorrow and take some more. This is what we do. We share, we live, we commune with each other. You are a perfect example of the inequities of our fatally flawed society. You and the billions of other hungry people on this planet are the reason why freeganism came into being. Don’t be shy now. This is all for you, for all of us . . . and for equality . .

. and for the planet, too.”

She puts her hand on my right shoulder blade and gently pushes me forward. The spot where her hand touched me turns to a molten circle of liquid metal that pours from my shoulder into my core, filling my loins with a heavenly, but inopportune heat. I remove my backpack and hold it in front of my pulsing groin.

I quickly take two bags of roasted, unsalted almonds, five apples, a head of cauliflower, and then I spy ajar of sauerkraut. I’m sure that it’s pasteurized and full of preservatives, but I miss the taste so much and even jarred sauerkraut still contains a lot of resistant fiber. Now my bag is stuffed full.

“Sweet tooth?” the priestess asks as she reaches for a large plastic box.

“Um, what?” I turn, still holding my backpack in front of my midsection. 147

“Do you have a sweet tooth, my dear?”

My dear? My dear! My dear\!! My heart is about to explode. “Ah, yes, I mean no

. . . ah, I don’t know.” I’m stammering and slowly sidestepping toward the door.

She sets the box on a comer of the table, takes the lid off, and shows me the contents: chocolate bars, bags of gummy bears, Skittles, sugary cubes of caramel, candy com, jelly beans . . . and any other type of candy you can imagine. “Aren’t you just a tiny bit tempted?”

I’m remembering the joy of eating an entire candy bar from my pre-Issac days - before Mother outlawed sugar from my diet (“cavities can easily become fatally infected, and dentist offices? Well, don’t even get me started!”). I stand with my back against a shelf filled with bread and tortillas. I don’t know what to say or do. I just want one piece, one rich bite of milk chocolate, but I know that box is filled with nothing but empty calories. My microbes need every bit of healthful, whole fiber and sustenance they can get right now. Candy just won’t do.

She then lifts the box off of the table by pressing it against her stomach and begins to approach me. “Take some,” she says. The top edge of the box sits just under her ample bosom, pulling the cloth of her robe tight against her breasts. I can feel her intense green eyes watching me, studying me as I continue to inch toward the door. But then I stop again - she’s got me - and I think about reaching toward the box. Then I think about reaching for her. My eyes are fixed on her chest. She steps up close to me. Her box mbs gently against my backpack, and that’s all the stimulation my throbbing candy bar can 148

take. I turn and grunt and then run wildly out the door of the shed into the darkness of the night. 149

Chapter 19

As I walk that night, I feel light as a feather - no, lighter than that, more like a dandelion seed being lovingly conveyed by a strong wind over the peaks of the Rocky

Mountains. Of course I feel an intense level of satisfaction regarding the availability of abundant clean and healthy food (I can now start nurturing my microbiome again!), but that serendipitous turn of events is not at the root of my euphoria. No, my mind is filled to its limit with thoughts of her, that glorious magic-equine-goddess of a woman, the

Priestess. I rejoice in every small memory of her, skipping and becoming breathless each time I recall her words of kindness spoken on my behalf and then . .. when I think of that moment in that dark, moist shed . .. what to do with that feeling, that excitement, I haven’t a clue.

The night’s cold fog has settled deep and low into the streets of Berkeley, but a

new and completely unfamiliar heat fills my body. I feel like I have just discovered the

existence of a second sun, one that shines just for me. She has penetrated every layer of my being, burrowing through blood and guts and bone until the deepest comers of my oh-

so-mortal marrow glow red with her stored warmth. How did I live so long without her?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am well aware of the fact that I’ve completely

embarrassed myself. She surely surmised what humiliating event transpired behind my

tellingly placed backpack. My abrupt exit was anything but cool. But I’m sure that I’ll

see her again in just one week’s time, and for that reason and that reason alone, a blazing joy overpowers any sense of shame. 150

After a few hours of sublime wandering, I sit down on a bench in front of the

North Branch Public Library to rest and eat. I first crack open the jar of sauerkraut and hungrily shove a large pinch of it into my watering mouth. Oh sweet, heavenly sauerkraut, I hope that I never again go so long without you. I close my eyes as I’m transported back in time to my home, to a typical day of undisturbed quiet and peace. I feel my dogs rubbing against my legs and smell the life-attesting mustiness of my living room, with its vats of fermenting cabbage and tubs of souring cream. Mozart plays in the background and the kitchen is filled with the pleasant buzzing of hundreds of friendly flies. Hello little musca domestical What treasures do you have to share with me today?

I resist the temptation to feel sorry for myself. The Plan requires iron-clad commitment and extreme fortitude. I’m living the Story that will be told for generations; courage is the only option. And now, for once, I actually feel like I might have found a partner to help me on journey. She surely does not know it yet, but I can see our future, and we are happy together ... we sit hand-in-hand in a heavenly garden, watching hummingbirds and spotting rainbows; we are at one with each other. We make love and our constantly interchanging, overlapping microbiomes celebrate the power of our union.

She and I and the bacteria that make us human - till death do us part.

##

On Thursday evening, I get to the alley behind the Mexican restaurant early. I am nervous. I cannot remember the last time I spent more than an hour with anyone, and these dive sessions (in freegan nomenclature) can last all night. What if Izzy and Abe 151

don’t like me? What if I screw up somehow and lose access to the warehouse? And more importantly, what if I’m banned from all future ICof meetings? “It was a mistake inviting you in the first place,” Dick in the green tie says as he slams the door definitively in my face. That would be tragic indeed. Given the probable unfavorable first impression I made on the Priestess, she might decide to shun me forever, and my dream of a life with her would shrivel up like an autumn leaf and fall into a whirlpool of unbearable despair . .

. in other words, all would be lost.

As the black pot of my anxiety is about to boil over, Izzy and Abe appear, their signature red wagon in tow. We greet each other and then walk to the nearby dumpster.

Izzy says, “You first, Cecil. I’m not getting trapped in there again.” Abe smiles and pushes me gently toward the dumpster. I am 99% sure that they’re not going to shut the lid on me, but the remaining 1% still makes me hesitate. Turnabout is absolutely fair play.

“Come on, man,” Izzy says, “we would never do that to you ... at least not on your first night out.” He nods at me reassuringly, and I jump into the dumpster. I find three dented cans of tomato sauce and a large bag of stale tortilla chips. “I like this place,” Izzy continues, as I hand him the goods, “they often bag up the stuff they think we might take separate from the other garbage, just to make it easier on us.”

I dig through the remainder of the trash, but find nothing interesting - except for two fat, dead rats. Despite my joking insistence, Izzy refuses to add them to the wagon. 152

After I get out of the dumpster, he shows me the list of tonight’s targets. “If we hit all of these places, we’re going to have a super haul. First, we’re going to check out the grocery store up the street. Thursday is a heavy day for restocking. Last Thursday night, we found a case of unopened jars of artichoke hearts up there. According to the date on the lids, they had just expired, but man they tasted pretty good to me. I love artichoke hearts!”

We don’t unearth any artichoke hearts tonight, but we do find ten loaves of bread, a can of cheese-whiz (the plastic safety top was slightly cracked), a perfectly good cinnamon cake, and a pile of small, slightly bruised (but exceptionally sweet) apples.

“You’re good luck, man,” Izzy says, winking at me. “We’ve hit only two places and we already have a full load. Let’s take this stuff to the warehouse and keep going. I have a feeling that tonight is going to be a bonanza! Beginners luck is on our side!”

My concern about spending the night with these brothers is completely gone.

They almost seem eager to have a new companion on their crew; eagerness for my company is not something I’ve experienced in a long, long time.

By the end of the night, we’ve taken three full wagon-loads of food to the warehouse. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun. Despite his silence, Abe is

always doing amusing things, making funny faces. And Izzy and I have been joking around all night. I told them all about the Plan, my life before being homeless, my dogs,

and about the police invasion. I even took them by my old house and then showed them my nest in Memorial Park. It’s easy to talk to these boys; they may think I’m strange, but 153

they don’t seem to care too much about that. As I walk around the warehouse and refill

my backpack (two jars of pickles and some fresh fruits and vegetables), my eyes begin to

droop, and a touch of melancholy creeps into my soul.

We exit the warehouse into the early morning. Thick fog swirls around us, but the

promise of a new day is slowly emerging from the darkness. Izzy says, “I’m not sure if

you heard, but next week is our semi-annual feast. Come to the meeting as usual, and

then we will all walk back here to eat a great big meal together.”

“I don’t know. . . ”

“What? You got somewhere else to be? Come on, it’ll be fun. There’s always

music and dancing. It’ll be great.”

“It sounds like a lot of people to me, and I’ve never really been to a party.” But

the priestess will undoubtedly be there, so I know that I should pull myself together and

attend. “We’ll see.”

“I’ll drag you here kicking and screaming if I have to.”

“I’ll pencil it in.”

Izzy laughs.

We reach the sidewalk, and the boys turn to leave. I’m exhausted, but I don’t want

the night to end.

“Hey,” I say after they’ve taken a few steps down the sidewalk, “I’ve been

wondering all night, where do you guys live?” 154

“Our cousin’s basement. He thinks we’re crazy with all the dumpster diving and meetings and stuff, but he doesn’t charge us any rent, so who cares what he thinks. We’d offer you a spot, but he sells drugs upstairs and doesn’t like strangers hanging around the house, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I wasn’t asking for a place to stay. I was just... wondering.”

“You don’t have any cousins or anything like that around here?”

“I don’t think I have any cousins anywhere. Nobody ever told me about them if they do exist.” I shift my eyes to the pavement in front of my feet. “I had a brother a long time ago, but that’s about it.”

“Where’s he now?” Izzy’s voice is soft like the somber light in the trees above the street.

“Long gone. I’d like to think he’s in heaven, but I know he’s just worm food. I guess I’m kind of all alone.”

“Sorry, man. Sounds rough. But don’t worry, you’ll get back in the game in no time. Abe and me, we sank about as low as a couple of kids can go - beg, borrow, and steal, we did it all. But now look at us; we’re living the un-American dream, just a couple of upstanding, self-sufficient, fun-loving freegans.”

I nod my head. “Yeah, I’m sure your right. Thanks. So I’ll see you two on

Tuesday then.”

“Cool.” Izzy takes the wagon handle from Abe, and they start walking away again. 155

I’m left standing alone, not sure what to do. The boys have almost disappeared into the fog, when Abe turns around. “Chin up, Cecil,” he says - his voice, clear, deep, strong like the bells of the Campanile.

I want to respond, to thank him, to hug him . .. some gesture of gratitude ... but all I can do is wave. The boys then continue down the sidewalk, turning to ghostly silhouettes as the fog slowly swallows them up. 156

Chapter 20

Monday night, about an hour after sun down. I’ve now been awake for nearly 72 hours. My nerves are a mess. I look at my eyes in the mirror of the bathroom at Memorial

Park, and they are so bloodshot, you can barely see any white at all. I’ve scarcely been able to eat anything all weekend. I dry heave each time I think about tomorrow night. I can’t go to the party - how can I? - but I know I must. She - the divine female, my queen, my ultimate aspiration, the pinnacle of all that is precious and holy in the world - will be there, and she will be glimmering like a molten sun dipping between the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. And I will be there, and I will be .... Oh dear, I know what I will be. I will be so pathetically tongue-tied. I will drip sweat all over everyone’s food. I will vomit on the table. I will trip and bleed and cough and . .. perhaps I will have a heart attack as dessert is brought out. I can see it so clearly: there are candles everywhere, and I fall, grasping my chest - the compound is set ablaze, my final and complete embarrassment in this cruel world. Is she dead? Have I killed her too?

But my Exceptionalism will not allow me to skip this party. I just don’t know how

I’m going to survive. This is too much, too fast. System overload. I struggle around to the back of the bathroom and fall into my nest. I am shivering - now convulsing - and then .

. . the pinhole shrinks and the world goes black. And I am far, far away.

##

(We standface-to-face in a brightly lit, all-white room)

(We are naked) 157

(Mother is covering her pendulous breasts with her arms)

(Mother’s stomach hangs heavy over her crotch)

Mother: This is where you want us to be? Like this?

Me: No, Mother, this is your doing.

Mother: No, son, your mind, your rules, not mine. I always knew there was

something off about you.

Me: Let’s just get on with it. What do you want from me? Are you going

to chop off a leg this time? Or have you decided to conduct brain

surgery on me?

Mother: No, Ijust want to talk. So you're in love now, is that what I ’m to understand?

Me: I don’t know what this feeling is. I think it’s bigger than love.

(Mother snorts)

Mother: Bigger than love - do you know how foolish you sound? The candy

pusher will only hurt you.

Me: Like you did?

(Mother snarls at me)

Me: I want you to leave me forever. I don’t want to hear what you have

to say. Your opinion is irrelevant to me. You only hurt me. You

only despise me.

Mother: Shame on you! You can’t talk to me that way! 158

(Mother reaches over and grabs the skin behind my bicep, tearing off a chunk of flesh)

(I do not move)

(Blood oozes down the backside o f my arm)

(Mother opens her fist and the chunk offlesh quivers on her palm like a cube of

cherry jello)

Mother: Is this you?

Me: That’s me. I t’s as much "me ” as I ’m "me ” standing over here.

Mother: How can you love this so much?

Me: I love everything Mother... except...

Mother: Don’t test me, son. What color is love to you?

Me: Your love for me has always been black. Is that what you mean? Is

that what you want to hear?

(The lump o f flesh turns black in her hand)

Mother: You don't know a mother's love. You have never held a dying child.

You blame me, you blame Isaac, but you do not know us. You do

not know yourself. You blame too much. You hide yourself from

yourself under your dirty skin and disgusting habits.

(The black lump hardens into glistening coal)

(Legs push from its edges and thick hair from its back)

(Mother closes her fingers around a giant, pulsating spider) 159

(The spider reappears from between her knuckles and then another and another)

(A waterfall of spiders cascades from her closedfist andforms a sea of blackness

around my feet)

(Mother’s thick folds offat are shrinking quickly as the spiders continue to spill

from her; her legs turn slender; she grows taller; her hair turns red andfalls

down over her face and her firming breasts; her gut recedes, revealing a fiery pubis)

(The spiders climb up my legs and cover my torso and my arms)

(The spiders crawl up my neck and burrow into my cheeks)

(The spiders cover my scalp and push into my ear canals)

(The spiders spread over my face until I am entirely covered except for my eyes)

(Mother parts the curtain o f red hair that covers her face)

(And the priestess stands before me in all her naked glory)

(Her red mane grows long and curls around her like Bottichilli ’s Venus)

(She is reaching for me; she will save me)

(The spiders crawl onto my bare eyeballs)

(All I can see is black)

Mother: You will never have her.

##

The sun is hot and high in the sky when I awake. My underarms are soaked with sweat. I scramble to my feet. I’m dizzy, and the world is spinning. Sweat stings my eyes. 160

How long have I been sleeping? Days? Weeks? Did I miss the party? No, no, no! I run around the bathroom building, leaving my backpack in my nest.

“What day is it? What day is it?” I shout as I lurch toward the playground, listing to the right. “What day?”

Nannies jump to their feet. Babies are swooped up into mothers’ arms as I stumble wide-eyed into the middle of the playground. The Antiseptics are scattering quickly, running toward their cars, their homes, the nearby community pool, any place away from me. But they turn as they retreat, their clear eyes watching me. They relish the spectacle. They feed on their own fears and crave the bizarre. They think that I’m dangerous and dirty . . . that I’m diseased, but they want something from me as well.

They need me, they long for me.

I want to take them by the collar and yell at them. I ’m not dangerous; I'm hungry.

I ’m not dirty; I ’m desperate. I ’m not diseased; I ’m just helplessly andfrantically in love!

Can’t you see me? Am I that different in your eyes?

But none of it comes out that way. I’ve swallowed hundreds of popcorn kernels, and they are clogging my voice. I’m garble-grunt-barking at them. I fall to my knees onto a thick mound of wood chips. I fear my heart will break and splatter blood all over the playground.

I find my voice and scream, “What day is today?”

One nanny has not moved. She is old and narrow, with bare, tendinous arms and a leather forehead. She sits on a low cement wall five feet away, feeding pureed brown 161

paste to a fat, white baby in a stroller. The baby’s bib features a picture of Yoda and

reads, “Feed me, you will.”

“Pobrecito” the nanny says. “Loco pobrecito she coos to her chubby-cheeked

charge. Turning to me, she says calmly, “Tuesday. Tuesdays are tough sometimes. Duro, muy duro”

I cover my face and fall forward into a fetal position. I find that I’m hysterically

laughing now. I find that I’m completely out of control. Is it the dream that is affecting

me so? Am I still there? Has Mother taken control of me? Or is this the dream? Or is this

madness a result of my starvation?

“Tuesday? Are you sure?” I ask, giggling through my hands.

“Si, si, Tuesday.”

“And what time is it, old woman? What time on Tuesday?”

She checks her watch. “11:30 a.m. Okay, Senior?”

“Okay? Okay? More than okay!!!” I stop laughing, take a breath, and get to my

feet.

Everyone has stopped running away. A black woman is loudly whispering to the

old nanny: “Get up! Run!”

“Why?” I turn to face her. Her face falls and flattens. Did she think I could not

hear? Does she think I am a fool? “I won’t hurt her,” I say, “I won’t hurt any of you.”

She looks decidedly unconvinced and pulls her daughter to her hip. 162

I turn back to the old Hispanic nanny to thank her, but she’s gone. The stroller, the brown paste, the fat baby, Yoda, all gone in an instant. She’s an apparition of reality that I cannot see.

The remaining mothers and nannies remain - solid as clay, durable and resolute.

They stand in a circle around me, frozen and staring. Then they slowly begin to advance, gray bodies tightening the noose. My joy turns to fear, which turns to anger and then sadness. These are my people, my future followers, but they look at me with such scorn. I am a rabid animal at the zoo, I am a viral YouTube video of a life gone horribly wrong, I am a rotten pork shoulder slithering down the cereal aisle of the community supermarket.

They want to poke me with their toes, but they’re too frightened. They will tackle me and quarantine me, remove me from their purified lives forever.

I break past a tall woman with twins and run over the tom up grass of the park and into the street. A red Mazda screeches to a stop as I fly past it and around the comer. I am blind and running, guided by my other-than-eyes through side-streets and alleyways and then onto University Avenue. My black eyesight is opening back up now as I approach a bright yellow storefront.

I stop and grab my knees to catch my breath. My lungs burn and my calves are twitching uncontrollably. I rub them for a moment, and then I stand up straight. And now

I realize where I am. She must help me; she’s my only hope. 163

Chapter 21

I quietly enter the Goodwill store. The small bell on the door rings softly as I ease

the door closed. I slide over to a rack of pants and look around the store. I begin to worry that she may not be there. It could be her day off. But then, from behind her counter of junk jewelry and broken toys, Annette’s kind, wrinkled face pops into view. She’s

wearing the same button-covered apron, but today her gray hair is pulled back in a bun.

She hands a gaudy gold necklace to a young woman on the other side of the counter who

then holds it up to the light.

I duck down behind the pants before she spots me. Sweat courses down my face

in thick stained rivulets, forming a series of trembling droplets on my chin. I wipe my

face with a jean leg from the rack, and consider my options. What if she’s angry at me for

not coming back? And what am I going to say to her? Can I tell her about the priestess?

About the party? Can I trust her? Would she even care? I glance over at the front door. I

could sneak out right now, and she would never even know I was here. I peek around the

rack of pants and note that she’s still occupied with the customer.

Just then, an assertive voice from behind me says, “Excuse me, sir, can I help

you?”

I yelp loudly and nearly jump out of my skin. I spin around to find a young,

uniformed security guard staring at me. He looks almost as startled as I am and is

fumbling hurriedly with a Taser holster on his belt. 164

“Don’t tase me!” I yell, throwing my hands in the air. “Please, whatever you do, don’t tase me!” Everyone in the store stops what they are doing and looks at me.

“Why were you hiding back here?” the guard asks without taking his eyes off me; his fingers continue to work ineptly to free his Taser.

“I ... ah ...” I keep my hands in the air and call out, “Annette, help me!”

She is by my side in a second. “Arthur, stop bullying the customers,” she says in a friendly, disarming tone.

“You know this guy?”

“Of course.”

“He was just spying on you from behind this rack of pants, like some kind of pervert.”

“Don’t talk that way,” Annette responded. “He is an old friend.” Her kindness almost brings a tear to my eye. “Now come, Cecil.”

She tells another sales clerk to take over for her, and then leads me directly to the break room in the back of the store. “Lordy, you sure do know how to make an entrance.

Was all that really necessary?”

She takes off her apron and folds it over a chair. “That thing gets so heavy sometimes.” Then we sit down at the round table covered in the same dusty magazines from last time.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m all twisted up right now. I just can’t think straight.”

“All twisted up, huh? Why didn’t you come back here and see me earlier?” 165

“I . . . I don’t like coffee.” Such a strange answer. “I mean, I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry, my feelings aren’t hurt. I just thought you might need my help. I’ve seen your type before - many times, in fact. Apparently, I was right. Look at you, you’re a complete mess. Where are you sleeping? When was the last time you washed yourself?

What the hell kind of trouble you got yourself into? Is somebody out to get you?”

I don’t even know which question to answer, so I just say, “No.”

“You running from the cops then?”

“No.”

“Well, spit it out, son. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you need. You must have come here for something. Everyone always wants something.”

I sit silently, brow furrowed, inspecting my black fingernails.

Annette gets up and crosses over to the pink box of donuts on the countertop.

“Maple bar, if I remember correctly,” she says setting the donut down in front of me. “No coffee this time?”

“No ... thank you. I think I have caffeine issues.” My heart speeds up a couple beats just at the memory of the extreme over-excitement I experienced after the last cup of coffee I had here. I need to keep my nerves in check today if I plan on being in any kind of shape for tonight.

She pours a glass of milk from the fridge and sets it next to the donut. “Now eat and tell me what’s on your mind. I know you don’t like to talk too much, but you’re safe 166

with me. I like people, and I like helping good people who are in bad situations. That’s you, in case you didn’t get the memo.”

I haven’t eaten a decent meal in days. My stomach chums violently when I get a whiff of maple. I take a bite and then drink some cold milk - fireworks and a crescent

moon. Annette waits patiently. Eyes closed, I try to savor it. I think momentarily about

the soft apple and the jar of pickles in my backpack that I inadvertently left in the nest. I

feel like I am cheating on my microbes, but this maple mistress is a powerful bitch. I

resist the urge to wolf the entire thing down before speaking. I’m going to make it last.

“I don't know where to begin,” I say. “It's . .. about a girl. No, a woman. She's a

woman, and she’s magnificent. She's resplendent. She's . ...” I search for the right word,

“.. . perfect.”

“I think I understand,” Annette says.

“Do you?”

“Well, yes. You know I was a woman once upon a time.” She laughs and I can

see how pretty she must have been in her prime. “So what’s she like, besides magnificent,

resplendent, and perfect?”

“She's like no one I've ever met before. She's the Milky Way and the sun and

those odd animals deep down in the ocean that no one has ever seen. She’s the infinity of

blackness beyond all else. She's soulful, powerful... it’s like she has her own

gravitational pull. She's good and kind and deeply principled. She’s—” 167

“Okay, okay, I get the picture,” Annette interrupts. “And what’s this goddess’s name?”

“Funny you should ask like that. Her name is the Priestess.”

Annette shakes her head. “Come on. What’s her real name?”

“I guess I don't really know.”

“Hmmm.” Her eyes narrow. “So just how long have you known ‘the priestess?”’

“I met her just once. A week ago. But I've known her forever, I swear it. And I will see her again tonight... I think.”

“Where?”

“At a party.”

“You are going to a party? Tonight?” She crosses her arms and leans forward, elbows fixed to the table. I instinctively lean back in my chair. The remaining half of my maple bar stares at me from its paper napkin bed. I reach for it, but then retreat. I feel I must wait until Annette stops peppering me with questions.

“Yes . . . I think so. That’s why I’m here. I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how to do what?”

“Well... any of it.”

“Any of what, Cecil? Sex? Are you talking about sex?”

“No, no!” I feel my entire body immediately radiating heat. “I am talking about the party. I’ve never been to one before. I don’t know what to do, where to stand, what to 168

say. But I just have to go. I have to see her or I will never forgive myself. If I don’t go,

I’ll die before sunrise.”

“Okay, okay, let’s not overdo it, Sarah Bernhardt. It is just a party. I can help you.

Don’t freak out. If you want to get her attention, you’re going to have to play it cool. Real cool.”

“That’s the problem. I’ve never been cool in my entire life.”

“Well, I guess tonight is going to be a new experience for you. First rule, don’t mess anything up. Just be there, quiet like, and look like you’re enjoying yourself- even if you’re not. Don’t do anything too outlandish. In fact, try not to do anything at all. You are going for the strong, silent type - not the entertaining man-of-the-world type. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Silent, maybe. Strong?”

“It’s just a saying. You focus on staying quiet - not freakishly quiet, mind you, just reserved - or she’ll never take a chance on seeing the strength in you.”

“Okay, I think.”

“So now, what are you planning to wear?”

I take bite of my maple bar and look away. I pretend to be inspecting a yellowed, hand-written notice affixed to the refrigerator door (“If you eat my food, I will eat you.

Cordially, Jeff’).

Annette tsk-tsks me. “You are not going to any party dressed like that. Have you looked at your clothes recently? And you’ll be washing up as well.” 169

“I can’t wash.”

“You have to. There’s no option.”

“I can’t. I hate it. I hate soap. I hate cleanliness. It’s ... it’s against my religion.”

“Against your religion? What religion is that?”

“Not religion exactly, philosophy . .. of life - it’s complicated.”

“But the last time you were in here, you—“

“The last time I was in here was a couple days after the cops violated me by making me scrub my entire body with disinfectant. It was awful. This - how I am now - this is the real me. If the priestess doesn’t like it, well then . . . ”

“So are you saying that you have never voluntarily washed yourself in your whole

life?”

“No, I wash sometimes. But I only do it when it’s completely necessary.”

“And when is that?”

“I wash when I really need to feel the touch of another human being. Sometimes I

get this feeling, like a hole is opening up in my gut and I am beginning to fall through.

When that happens, I clean up, put on some fresh clothes, and look for people - like on

the bus or on BART - and I kind of just bump into them for a while.”

“Oh honey,” she says as she reaches across the table and grabs one of my hands. I

almost flinch at her touch. Is it too much? “How can you stand to be so alone? How have

you survived this long?” 170

Her pity (or is it compassion?) cuts deep. My face contorts as I try to control the rush of anguish. “I’m, I’m, I’m ....” I can taste thick, dirty tears on my quivering lips. I

pull my hand away from hers and cover my face. As I get to my feet, the chair tips over behind me, clanging loudly on the floor. I start for the door, but she grabs me firmly by the arm. I try to pull away, but her firm grip does not allow it. I melt and fall to my knees,

sobbing uncontrollably now. She steps close to me, and pulls my head to her stomach. I

am shaking as she holds me close.

“It won’t always be like this, son.”

I wrap my arms around her upper thighs and bury my face in the folds of her

abdomen. She strokes my greasy head and begins to hum, swaying ever-so-gently side-

to-side. I am a child at her feet. I am the lowly beggar broken by my destitution.

After a few moments, I catch my breath. I know I should pull away. I should be

embarrassed. I should apologize. But I can’t separate myself from her just yet.

“Imagine this woman has feelings for you,” Annette says quietly. “If you show up

looking like you do now, she will assume you don’t care about her. But you do care. It

sounds like you care quite a lot. I can’t pretend to understand your philosophy about

washing, but there’re very few people in the world who will ever try to understand you -

or even want to be near you for long enough to get to know you - as long as you look and

smell like you do right now.” 171

I turn my head just slightly. I can hear her intestines gurgling; her microbes must be hard at work in there. “Why do you care? How can you be near me if you say it’s so hard?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s because I was married once ... to a man who lost his way. He would wander home sometimes, and I would barely recognize him. He smelled like you do only with a strong undercurrent of Red Ripple and cherry cigars. He was so

pungent you could cut the air around him with a knife. After a while, he was no longer

welcome at my house, and then . . . and then it was too late.”

“What do you mean?” I pull away and look up at her, still on my knees.

Her eyes glisten as she holds back tears on a knife’s edge of thick mascara. “I

think you know what I mean.”

I nod.

“I never really recovered from that.”

“I’m sorry.” I press my head against her stomach again.

“So, I guess that’s your answer,” she says, her hand resting on my shoulder. “I

can hold you - and I can see the real you - because I wake up every morning wishing I

had taken better care of my sick husband.” Her hand strokes my hair now. “You decide

what you want to do? You can wash or you can go to the party like you are. But you have

a much better chance of making some friends if you just clean up a bit. And I’ll tell you;

life really isn’t worth living - no matter what your philosophy - if you live the whole god

damn thing alone.” “But I’m not alone,” I whisper. “I’ve got my microbes.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind.” 173

Chapter 22

“Well aren’t you a tall drink of water?” Annette exclaims when I step out of the changing room in tight black jeans and a blue button-down shirt. I’ve showered (in the

Goodwill employee bathroom with mild soap and shampoo provided by Annette) and

shaved, eaten one more donut (raised chocolate), and have tried on ten pairs of pants and

five shirts. She finally found a pair of skinny jeans in the women’s section that are long

enough for me and don’t fall off my boney hips. This shirt is the only one that comes

close to fitting my narrow shoulders and still reaches my wrists. She hands me a pair of black leather shoes, takes a step back, and says, “That shirt makes your baby blues pop

right off of your face!”

To a certain extent, I feel like I’m in my Antiseptic disguise. But something’s

definitely different. I was thinking about it in the changing room. I wore my disguise out

of desperation; I needed to leave my house to be with people - strangers. My Excursions

for Captured Touches were absolutely necessary, but I always knew they were a bit

shameful too. Or pitiful. Or pathetic. But definitely sad, so very sad. I always rationalized

those unpleasant feelings as unavoidable byproducts of the Plan. My dirtiness repels

people, I would tell myself, but it contributes to my microbiome so it’s right, it’s good.

Microbes are more important than friends; microbes are the best of friends. I would tell

myself that I’ll have boatloads of human friends once I reveal my bacterial fountain of

youth. But even despite my constant reassurances, the abject loneness of my existence

was so frequently difficult to ignore. 174

These clothes make me feel different. I despised washing away my bacterial armor, and the shirt feels stiff and sharp and wrong against my depleted, vulnerable, pale skin, but somehow I almost feel. . . (it’s not “normal,” it’s better than that) ... I think I might be feeling kind of “cool.” Yes, cool! Cool for the first time in my life. I cannot help but smile when I look at myself in the mirror. Even my bent nose and sunken cheeks look like they belong; they’re distinguished now, not off-putting.

I decide to play a game in my head. I’m not Cecil. I am a long-lost cousin come to visit from very far away - Germany, let’s say. I give myself the name of Hans. Hans doesn’t even know about his microbiome. Hans is a playboy who likes to go to clubs and get down. Hans eats death food and drinks beer with every meal - even breakfast! Hans winters in Monaco and sits for hours in a giant hot tub filled with adoring women. Hans

has jumped out of an airplane and survived being lost at sea for weeks. I will be Hans in

my head for the night. Hans will help me. I turn in the mirror to see how Hans looks from behind.

“It’s nearly five o’clock,” Annette says, disrupting my reverie. “You should get

going.”

“Right,” I say, embarrassed. “Thank you.”

“Do you want me to throw your other clothes away?”

“No. Why?”

“You can get some new, clean ones tomorrow.”

“Can you just hold onto them for me?” 175

She takes me behind the building and shows me a small utility closet by the

dumpster. “Put your stuff in here. I’ll keep it unlocked for now. That way you can get it

whenever you want.”

“You don’t think I will come back to see you?”

“You didn’t last time. Only time will tell.”

I momentarily consider throwing my old clothes in the dumpster - 1 am sure she

would be overjoyed if I did so - but I quickly reconsider. Each patch of slick black grime,

grass stain, and ragged hole is a medal of sorts - courage, principle, perseverance - which

I cannot simply discard.

She gives me a hug and says into my ear, “Remember: strong, silent type. Keep

her guessing for now.” m

As I walk up sunny Shattuck Avenue, I notice eyes on me. But the people in the

street are not looking at me with disgust and fear like this morning in the park. Here is

curiosity. Here is manly acknowledgement (I think I am too skinny to be threatening).

Here is open friendliness. I even think I catch a couple of young girls checking me out as

I pass by the Guerilla Cafe. What are they whispering as I walk away?

When I enter the meeting room, Izzy and Abe race over to me.

“You look like a million bucks!” Izzy says. Abe gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-

up before they return to setting folding chairs up in a circle. 176

I step over to the window to wait for the start of the meeting. Five oaks line the

street; the grassy hill in front of the church building is mottled by gently shifting pockets

of shade; sunlight flashes off a passing car windshield, momentarily blinding me. I feel so

oddly uplifted and appreciated; it’s as if I have entered a foreign land.

But then Mother is standing behind me. She puts her heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t turn around. Don't look at me, ” she says. “So you ’re clean, now, huh? ”

“I am. I t’s for the party. You approve? I look like you want me to look, right?

Have I made you happy? ”

She is silent; a trash truck passes by. “I'm not pleased at all. Confidence borne from superficiality is like a boat made of salt. You know better. I taught you better. You

won't fin d what you 're looking fo r like this. ”

“Go away, mother. ”

A thick bank of fog rolls over the sun, and I shiver inside my costume. As I slowly

turn around, her hand lifts from my shoulder, and she is gone before I can see her face.

##

The priestess arrives. She is wearing a long brown skirt and a loose Mexican

blouse. Her hair hangs over her shoulders, curled today as in my dream.

She strides directly toward me. “I hardly recognized you. You look great -

different, very different - but great.”

I cannot speak; I mutter, “Thank you.” 177

“You’re welcome. But I want you to know, we accept you in any clothes, in any form. Naked, dressed like a superhero, covered only in animal skins, I’ve seen it all. You really didn’t have to clean up for us.”

I nod and glance up at her face for just a moment - five prominent freckles on her nose like an unknown constellation - before looking down at my shoes. Strong and silent

.. . as if. Terrified and speechless is more like it.

She gently grabs my chin and pulls my head up, forcing me to look directly into her bright green eyes. “I mean it, you’re always welcome here.”

Her touch is magic; I nearly piss my pants, but somehow I hold tight. She releases me and then begins setting up for the meeting.

I’m dizzy. I close my eyes and lean against the window frame. A couple of minutes pass and then Abe shakes my arm and hands me a photocopy of ICoF’s mantras.

His smile helps, and I stand upright again. As members continue to filter in, we begin to chant together. This time, green tie Dick (though now he sports a red bow tie) encourages me to sit in the circle with the others. I wonder if he even recognizes me. After three rounds of chanting, the priestess stands at the white board and goes through the schedule.

I’m assigned the same dive session as last week with Izzy and Abe.

After the meeting, we leave the church together and walk through darkening streets to the EPALCOB compound. I walk in silence with Abe as Izzy chats with the priestess a few strides ahead of us. I am wary; Mother’s appearance has shaken me and 178

diminished my mood considerably. But the beacon of the priestess’ red hair keeps me on course. I would follow her to the ends of the earth. 179

Chapter 23

A long table sits below a web of twinkle lights in the central area of the

compound. Choral music - Vivaldi’s Gloria - emanates from a speaker on the porch of one of the nearby houses. The large evil eye painted on the Priestess’s house watches

over the scene from a short distance. A small group of people, drinks in hand, have

already gathered at the far end of the table, near a bar set against a large oak tree. Five

children race after a sixth, an older boy, who is holding a Nurf football above his head.

They cut right in front of Abe and me, kicking dust up as they pass.

I step through the cloud of dust and look for the priestess’s red hair ahead of me.

She has parted with Izzy and is moving toward her house. The door opens before she gets

to the three steps leading up to her small porch, and a man emerges. He is short, pudgy,

and clean-shaven. He sports a fedora atop his thick mop of salt-and-pepper hair. He wears

a tight fleece jacket, zipped up and pulled tight around his middle, and running pants,

Adidas, with three stripes down the side of each leg. He looks like an old man trying to

be nineteen. He smiles broadly when he sees the priestess, bounces down the steps to

greet her, and then - as the camera slows to heighten my utter disbelief and horror -

kisses her squarely on the lips. She must bend down to receive his affection and then she

pulls away after a moment and flicks her hair back. They exchange a brief word before

she continues into her house - their house? - and the man walks over to the join the

burgeoning group at the bar. 180

I made a mistake coming here; that much is clear. It’s time for me to leave. Any of the confidence that remained after speaking to Mother at the church has drained from me - the plug pulled from my heel. I can almost feel the whirlpool of doubt dragging me down. These clownish clothes are instantly wet with perspiration - despite the dark fog spilling through treetops - and the image of myself in the mirror (oh Hans, oh glorious

Hans) has died from multiple gunshot wounds to the heart, a quick and definitive death. I slow as we approach the group, and then begin to turn around. But Abe is there. Quick like lightning, he has stepped quickly behind me and now blocks me as a try to move past him. He shoots me a look - a cross between encouragement and impatience. I move to go around him, but he shadows me, hands held up like a cop stopping traffic.

Just then, I feel fingers wrapping themselves around my wrist from behind. I wonder if Mother is back again. How has she begun to sneak into my waking hours, I do not know. Is she here to gloat? To pour salt in my wounds? To see if she can make me cry in front of all these people?

The fingers are cool and steady on my skin, and I am caught by whoever it is. I turn, expecting the worst. But instead of Mother, I instantly recognize Mr. Oh. He is dressed in the same brown robe and wide leather belt. The pin on his robe this evening reads, “I won’t be impressed with technology until I can download love.” He is holding a mason jar half full with a cloudy, amber liquid. He catches my eye and holds it for a moment; I am a baby robin pinned to the ground by a veteran alley cat. Then he smiles and releases me: “I had a feeling about you. Don’t try and run away just yet. I’m very 181

happy to see you - and you’re not in jail. Congratulations! Orange is certainly not the new black for you. You look .. . better.”

“But what are you doing here?” I’m having trouble putting the pieces together right now, but at the same time I’m relieved that I’m not confronting Mother.

“Well, to the extent that I ‘live’ anywhere, I live here with these people. And may

I ask you the same question?”

“I’m not supposed to be here. I was just leaving.”

“Come now, Cecil, I saw you walk in. You’re a freegan; this party is for you.

“But I—”

“But what?” Mr. Oh steps close. “You are afraid, yes?” I can feel his hot breath

against my lips - smell his sweet, boozy aroma. “Not to worry, we’re all afraid when we

first get to a party. So . . . many . . . people. You try to talk to some, avoid others. You

have conversations that don’t make sense, that lead nowhere, and then ones that make too

much sense, reveal too much. You step on toes. You find yourself in midsentence with no

end in sight. And then as the night wears on, you see the raw and real, the guts and the

inglorious. You find fault lines and ugliness among friends. You discover deception,

unearth betrayal. .. you pull back the curtain on a landscape of anger and jealousy

marked by lethal peaks and canyons so deep they seem to go on forever. So many bleeding sores and misplaced expectations; it’s a wonder more parties don’t end in

murder or suicide. But we attend - we attend with vigor, don’t we? - for we are social

animals and the mere possibility of a connection - a shared moment of light in the 182

inevitable, growing darkness - is enough to draw us in, like proverbial moths to the flame.” He takes a deep breath and snickers. Abe takes this pause as an invitation to

escape and join his brother. “Too heavy, I suppose, for your young friend. But what about you, Cecil? Too bleak? Or not bleak enough? You look peaked? Are you still sick? Like

last time I saw you, or is that just the way you always look?”

As was the case in our shared cell, Mr. Oh completely overwhelms me. I look

away. I do not know how to answer him. Why is he even talking to me?

“You are confused. And I ... I’m drunk already.” His voice has changed; it has

become sing-song in an instant. “Ah, ‘the party’ - a topic of so much interest and

complexity. I am so glad you’re here. You will be my companion, and we will sail these

high seas of dysfunction and disorder together. Let’s get you a glass of mead - pour you a

few ounces of personality - and we will revisit the subject of desperate characters later in

the evening when the ghouls will most certainly come out. I will not take ‘no’ for an

answer.”

Just then, the priestess reappears dressed in a teal dress with long flowing sleeves,

beaded here and there with swirls of pink and blue. I am reminded of Van Gogh’s Starry

Night. She glides from her house to the bar; everyone turns to see her. The barman has a

tall orange drink ready, which he hands to her with a slight bow.

A tear escapes my eye; Mr. Oh notices it before I can wipe it away.

“I see,” he says. “You think she’s extraordinary.”

“Yes,” I manage. 183

“You’re right ”

“I can’t stay.”

“Why? Don’t answer that,” he quickly follows, “let me guess. You’ve decided to give up before the race has begun? Throw in the towel before the first punch has been thrown? You are the barer of the white flag at sunrise, unscathed from battle? So you’ve

seen your competition, I assume.”

I hate to answer him, but his Exceptional ism has a lock on me that I cannot quite

break. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And what? I don’t know anything.”

“Yes, yes you do.” Mr. Oh takes a drink from his Mason jar. “You’re just being

polite. Be warned, he won’t reciprocate.”

“You don’t like him?”

“His name’s Xavier, and no, I don’t like him. No one does . .. except Cake. But

we all pretend. You’ll see.”

“Who’s Cake?”

Mr. Oh laughs through his nose, and then, finding that he cannot contain himself,

throws his head back and roars. A couple passing by takes note and moves quickly on.

“What are you doing? Why are you laughing at me?” I ask.

Mr. Oh whispers in my ear, “My dear friend - and you are my dear friend now,

you should know - Cake is the apple of your oh-so-innocent eye.” Then, taking my arm 184

and leading me toward the party, he continues, “She is the prospective Eve to your little

Adam down there. She is what you have been searching for, dying for, and what you will be fighting for. Ah, to be a gladiator again, to draw arms in the great arena of polite conversation and deferred loneliness; you are more lucky than you know, Cecil.”

He leads me on, though I want to turn and run. “I thought her name was the priestess.”

“No, that’s just the boys’ crazy, little nickname for her. They adore her so. Trust

me, her name is Cake. I’ve known her forever - though I’ve never actually ‘known’ her, if you know what I mean.” He squeezes my arm, and I am strangely comforted. “Now, pull yourself together, and let’s get you that glass of mead.”

I consider my options, but they are few. Leaving now would be a categorical

defeat; I worked so hard to get myself here. And Mr. Oh is right - as usual - 1 can’t give

up now. So despite the unexpected circumstances and my nearly overwhelming desire to

slip away into the darkness and return to my nest, I find that I’m compelled to stay. 185

Chapter 24

Mr. Oh refills his Mason jar with mead from a keg and pours me a fresh one.

“Cheers.” He takes a large swig. I sip and then follow quickly with a gulp. Except the donuts and glass of milk this afternoon, I’ve eaten next-to-nothing for days. The honey glows in my mouth. Like beer, but lighter and sweeter, I drink again. “Good, right?” Mr.

Oh asks.

I nod, thinking that my microbiome might appreciate a little fermentation - reinforcements for my exhausted troops. Mr. Oh leads me up a little rise behind the bar,

and we stand outside the group. A commune member, a woman of about seventy, follows us and greets Mr. Oh. He tolerates her small talk. She’s seems oddly flirty, but what do I

know. I’m just afraid he will leave my side, but he stays close.

The day is gone. Darkness envelops us, giving me a moment of quiet solace and

an opportunity to observe the scene below. A distant streetlight - largely obscured by

trees - casts a narrow, jagged wedge of light from the entrance of the commune up to the

lower end of the table, like a gala’s red carpet, but blank and ethereal and torn at the

edges. The partygoers are illuminated by the overhanging twinkle lights and the newly-

arrived kerosene lanterns, which have been placed in a line on the table and hung from

permanent hooks on branches of nearby trees.

The priestess - no, Cake - is talking with four young people, including Izzy and

Abe. I watch her mouth, but cannot hear what she’s saying. Her lips are pronounced like

a French movie star I once saw on T.V., but, at the moment, they also remind me of Mr. 186

Ed. I find my jar empty and then refilled again before I know it. I’m having trouble concentrating on anything but her lips; they are pale like her skin, a soft orange from the same palette as her hair. Is she whispering to me now? Can I feel her breath on my earlobe? Has she told me that she loves me? I begin to lean forward toward her - 1 think I might fly down through the strands of lights and land on her shoulder, a canary settling into the nest of her crimson hair. I catch myself leaning too far forward, overcorrect, and fall back, landing with a soft thud on my butt. The gentle slope cushions my fall, however, and only a small sip of mead splashes over the rim of my Mason jar and into the soil.

The woman talking to Mr. Oh excuses herself and begins to carefully walk down the dark hill to rejoin the party. He sits down next to me. When she’s just out of earshot, he says, “You wouldn’t know it by looking at her, but she’s like an ice cream cone dipped in honey and covered with sprinkles - messy but, if you have enough time and napkins, totally worth it... if you know what I mean.”

Did I hear him correctly?

And if I did hear him correctly, what am I to say?

I completely fail to respond.

He begins asking me questions. The mead has loosened my tongue significantly, and I find myself telling him all about the Plan. He seems to know quite a bit about bacteria and how they work in our guts. He asks about my diet and my daily routine. I tell him why I can’t wash very often and how I had set up my house to maximize microbial 187

exchange. I tell him about my dogs and their training. I’m surprised that he doesn’t laugh when I tell him that, if I stay on the Plan, I will likely live to be 150 years old or older.

“So let me get this straight,” he says, “you’ve been saving your shit for thirteen years?”

“That’s right. I just hope my samples are still there, in my house. I’ve got to get them out of there soon.”

“And you’re really 35 years old? You don’t look it. I pegged you at 22 or so.”

“Yeah, I know. The Plan really works, I’m telling you. By nurturing my microbiome, I was able to turn my body into the perfect little ecosystem. I was a tiny, self-regulating world where everything had its place and my micro-biodiversity gave me a vitality that no other human has ever attained. I’ve done the research. I’m really onto something. But the cops messed it all up, and no one believes me enough to do anything about it.”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly. I could be convinced, quite easily. And Izzy and Abe were talking to me the other day about you and the Plan, and they seemed kind of interested too. Who wouldn’t want to live twice as long as everybody else? That would be so cool. And look, I used to be convinced that I knew everything, or could figure it out with a few clicks of a mouse. I was a steel rod of knowledge, inflexible, uber-sure of everything, and, like most of the limp-dick morons out there espousing theories for the sake of fame and self-promotion, I was completely out-to-lunch. But now I see things differently. I’m a pure relativist, man, and if you catch me being sure of anything, call me 188

on it. I’m a huge hypocrite, too, of course; don’t think I don’t see it. My own line of bullshit is so long, you’d think I was moonlighting as a cattle rustler. But I know one thing for sure, in 100 years, some cyborg-clone-android-carbon-based-computer-being will be laughing at many of the preposterous notions of our time, just like we laugh at past false truths - the world is flat, the Bible can predict the future, the sun is cool and

inhabited by aliens, pent-up sexual energy from frogs and salamanders causes St. Elmo’s

fire . .. they all had their scientific advocates. I certainly don’t see anything so crazy

about you or your Plan - maybe your time has just not arrived. You’re just a hard

avocado sitting in the sun; in a few days, you might be the best guacamole the world’s

ever tastes. Everybody hated Galileo, right? And now they have children’s summer

camps named after him. Imagine that? I bet he’s been giving the whole world the finger

from his grave for centuries now. Just so pissed off down there, nothing but dust in the

dirt. I would scratching my non-existent eyes out if I were him. And poor Giordano

Bruno, that freak really had it bad. Hot, hot, hot! And just for looking at the stars.”

“Yeah, all right.” I don’t think he really cares if I respond? I wonder if he even

hears me. We clink mugs, lean back, and look up at the dark gray sky above. I want to

see stars, but that won’t happen tonight. Then we prop ourselves up on our elbows and

watch the party-goers as they buzz around each other.

“Look at them all, franticly sniffing each other’s assholes,” Mr. Oh says. “I wish I

had a string of firecrackers - like for Chinese New Year - that would shake things up.” 189

A few minutes later, Cake excuses herself and walks to a bell the size of a watermelon hanging from a branch of a massive oak tree. She rings it three times, deep sonorous gongs, and announces, “Dinnertime!”

People begin to sit down on the benches next to the table. Mr. Oh helps me to my feet and leads me back into the light. . . back into the party. I sway toward him momentarily, and he catches me. “The mead is strong,” he comments, “but how else are we going to get through this shit?”

Xavier removes his fedora and sits at the head of the table. Cake sits down at his side, and then Izzy and Abe right next to her. Mr. Oh quickly claims two spots for us immediately across from Cake and the boys. “Front row seats for the show,” he whispers, as he takes my glass, which is empty again, and walks back to the keg. I almost tip over when I try to sit down, but quickly grab the side of the table and regain my balance. I am facing Cake, though I don’t dare look at her; I can feel Xavier’s pulsating presence directly adjacent to me.

“And who are you?” he asks.

“This is Cecil,” Cake says, “he’s the newest member of ICoF.”

“Another freaky freegan, huh?”

Cake laughs momentarily, “You’re such a jokester.” Then, more seriously, she

says, “he really needs us, I think. I am so pleased to have him in our group.”

I turn to see what’s taking Mr. Oh so long. I’m having great difficulty focusing, but I think I see him adjusting a mechanism on top of the keg. 190

“You got a name, kid?” Xavier asks me.

“I just told you,” Cake answers before I can respond. “His name is Cecil.”

“Oh, right. Cool name, guy ” His comment barely registers.

I look back over my shoulder again and am glad to see Mr. Oh returning to the table. I’m starting to feel ill. The table rocks side-to-side. I think I should go, but I can’t move from this spot or I’ll surely fall flat on my face. The humiliation would likely be more than I could endure. I hold onto the edge of the table and try to steady my body.

As Mr. Oh takes a seat right next to me (tight fit), Cake rises to her feet, holding her glass. “Today is Freegan Feast Day, the day we celebrate our good fortune. We have many reasons to be thankful this year. First on my list, our humble little group is now in its twelfth year; we’re almost teenagers!” The crowd cheers and raises their glasses. I grab my mead and barely manage to clink glasses with Mr. Oh - his glass doubling and tripling before my eyes - and then I take a small sip. My queasiness intensifies. I slam my glass back onto the table, spilling mead; my depth perception is shot. “Second, we continue to grow. More people have joined ICoF this year than ever before! Thank you to our new members!” Again, the partygoers raise their glasses and drink. I put my elbows on the table and rest my chin in my hands to stop my head from spinning. Cake is flashing by me, as if on a night bus zooming past me over and over again.

“And I thank, as I must every year, our host and benefactor, Xavier, for without the warehouse and the electricity to keep the refrigerators running and the taxes and the 191

maintenance and all of the other generous support, we could not do the work that we do.

So here’s to Xavier!”

I take my glass and manage to raise it sloppily toward “our generous benefactor.”

He is now standing and waving, both hands above his head. The bottom of his fleece jacket pulls up an inch or so, and despite my drunken haze, I distinctly see the white underbelly of the beast, marked only by a line of thick black hairs descending from his protruding navel to the tight waistband of his sweats. I consider the length of sword necessary to drive it from this chink in his armor all the way up through his sweetbreads and into his heart. Then, as if he knows my thoughts, he steps around the table, takes hold of Cake by the neck, and kisses her. I cannot drink to that.

When Xavier sits back down, Cake continues: “It’s a privilege to lead our group. I go to bed every night, thankful to all of you who believe as I do that we live in a wasteful, immoral society and who have the guts to do something about it. I firmly believe that we, the members of ICoF, are one of those small groups of people who Margaret Mead so famously and eloquently identified: we will bring about change in this deeply flawed, but ever-beautiful world. As is tradition, I have written a short poem for you, call it a token of my appreciation and commitment to you all.”

She holds her hand out to Xavier. He looks back at her blankly.

“Do you have it?” she asks.

“Ah ... no. It’s not my job to—”

“I asked you . . .,” she says under her breath. 192

“No, no, you didn’t,” he replies.

“One moment, please,” she announces to the group. “A little mix-up, that’s all.”

Her face flushes. My head is wobbling, my chin keeps falling to my chest, but I almost rise ... to do what? To slay the dragon? To vindicate the princess’s honor? To scoop my maiden up and carry her off to the protected confines of my kingdom?

And then I see it clearly; I am on him, pummeling his snarky face with bloodied fists. I rearrange his teeth and break his jaw. I bite off his ear and spit it into the dirt. I pop out an eyeball and swallow it whole. I reach under his ribcage and tear out his still- beating heart. I offer it to her on bended knee. “You are mine now,” I cry out into the night. And the villagers explode, cheering loud enough to shake the leaves from trees for miles around. She falls to her knees before me, and I collapse into her arms, a hero who the bards will celebrate in song forever.

But no, that’s not how it goes at all.

Mr. Oh places his arm securely around my shoulders as I nearly fall off of the bench and says softly to me: “And thus it begins! Didn’t I tell you? Just like always.” I watch Cake quickly retreat through a dark haze to her house. I nearly pass out.

When she returns, her celebratory tone is gone. But in its place, her voice becomes soft and tender; each word dances slowly down the table - pirouetting past kerosene lanterns, salt pigs, and bottles of wine - before slipping off the edges, into the trees, and into the night. “Labor not my loves in the trammeled fields of busy commerce, 193

for there are gardens in the trash and a humble path to freedom lit by the anonymity of a simple life ...”

I hear only the first line before I float off into a woozy dream. Cake is in a cavernous theater holding a single candle. I’m her only audience. She is a diva, worshiped by the masses. We tour the world, she and I, Athens, Morocco, Taipei....

The spotlight does not catch us, does not scald us, for it’s always only me watching her from the very back row. 194

Chapter 25

With Mr. Oh’s considerable assistance, I manage to assemble a plate of grilled eggplant, couscous, and buttered peas from the dark bowls and heavy platters handed around the table. I take a bite or two of each dish, knowing well that my microbes have been suffering these past few days. My world finally begins to spin at a more manageable pace. My stomach is slowly settling.

I find myself staring at the plate of food before me, watching the flickering light

from the nearby lantern trace and retrace the contours of the shadowy pile of couscous

and the glimmering splay of peas. Steady Mr. Oh holds me close to him with one arm and

eats with the other.

I am slowly realizing that I’ve lost part of the night. It’s as though the last half-an-

hour (or hour, or however long it’s been) didn’t really happen - or maybe it happened to

someone else. Out of the comer of my eye, I see Xavier’s fingers sliding a comer of a

white dinner roll around and around on his plate. I hate his stubby, little fingers and the

way he’s pinching his dinner role. I consider leaving again - feeling now that I might be

able to excuse myself without falling flat on my face. I wonder how Mr. Oh ever talked

me into staying in the first place. But the vision of Cake reading her poetry compels me

to stay. I imagine climbing the three wooden steps to her small house, our footfalls

creaking in unison; and then, I follow her into the darkness behind the front door.

I eat two more bites of couscous and stab a piece of eggplant with my fork. My

ability to focus is gradually returning. I glance up from my plate; Cake notices my slight 195

recovery and passes a whisper of a smile to me across the table. She’s a vague, teal shape in the darkness, and I fear I have lost her, that I will never find her . .. that she’s an island in an ocean of impossible dreams. I swallow hard and look away. I note a new face sitting next to Cake, where Izzy had been sitting before (I have no recollection of the boys’ departure). This woman’s cheeks, pocked by years of acne, catch the lantern’s shadows like my couscous. She is leaning around Cake; her sharp eyes aimed squarely at the head of the table.

Xavier pushes his empty plate away, nearly knocking over my mead, and says,

“This idea of genetically altering humans is an abomination. It shouldn’t even be discussed.”

“But you haven’t even really considered it,” Cake replies, “you’ve simply dismissed Cheryl’s idea out-of-hand. Don’t be so closed-minded.”

“Listen, both of you,” Xavier says, “I know we all get excited about little pet theories, and we all want to save the world, right? But mandating that all future humans be reduced in size, in stature, by half is hogwash - or did you say three-quarters? In any case, this isn’t constructive thinking at all, and it’s certainly not helpful or productive problem-solving. It’s a complete waste of time, that’s all, that’s it, don’t pass ‘Go,’ don’t collect your ‘$200.’”

“But just think about it for a second,” Cheryl’s voice rings with educated confidence. “Demi-people would require half the calories and half the water to survive.

They would need half the space to live in and use half the fuel for transportation. They 196

would create half the amount of waste and half the carbon dioxide. Talk about reducing footprints, we could quickly buy ourselves hundreds of years of additional time to come up with sustainable solutions to our intractable overpopulation problem.”

“Xavier, you have to agree: it’s a pretty simple and elegant idea,” Cake chimes in.

“So, just to get this straight, you’re both saying that if you were in charge, and I wanted to have a baby - and it was scientifically possible and safe (a preposterous assumption) - you girls, as the leaders of our government, would make the birth-mother of my child undergo a genetic procedure to reduce the size of my child - and the resulting adult - by half? You would force us to do that?”

“I think I might,” Cheryl answered. “What’s your real objection? Could you not love a demi-son or demi-daughter? Or is just that you always wanted to raise the next

Paul Bunyan or Kareem Abdul Jabbar?”

“Come on. If I ever wanted to have a kid, I would just want it to be normal, not some midget.”

“It?” Cake narrows her eyes.

“It, he, she, whatever,” Xavier replies, “I still wouldn’t want a midget running around my house.”

“But he or she wouldn’t be a midget!” Cheryl says, ready to bust out of her seat.

Cake puts her hand on Cheryl’s forearm as she continues, “Every child would be smaller.

They would all be demis and they would all be normal. Is getting used to the idea of a smaller human race such a big price to pay for the future health of our planet?” 197

“Yes, yes it is,” Xavier responds. “You shouldn’t mess with nature. You have to respect the rules. You can’t just go around genetically modifying human beings!”

“But we’ve already ‘messed with nature.’” Cheryl won’t be bullied. Xavier grabs my glass of mead (perhaps by accident) and takes a drink. “In fact, we’ve nearly destroyed her. And we have genetically modified nearly everything else in our lives. Isn’t it time that we do something - drastic maybe, but also effective - to try to remedy the destruction we’ve caused? Right now we are just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.”

“Bah! You ladies drive me crazy with this kind of shit. Your suggestion is not only immoral; it’s reckless and completely ridiculous.” Xavier’s almost out of his chair now too. Cake leans back - caught in the middle. “And where, pray tell, does this kind of thinking stop? Maybe we should start castrating every other male child born next year?”

(A small dark object flies by my face toward Xavier.) “Oops, sorry Mrs. Smith, your

son is number seven-million-four-hundred-thousand-six-hundred-and-thirty-one. He’s an

odd one, so off go his nuts!” (Another thing flies by. This time it bounces off Xavier’s

cheek. He’s momentarily annoyed, quickly wipes his cheek, and continues undeterred;

he’s a runaway train.) “Or how about we tear out infant ovaries for a while? At least

those are scientifically feasible options.” (I feel Mr. Oh silently giggling next to me.

Under the table, he pushes a pea into my hand, and then nudges me with his elbow.)

“Maybe we should stop having babies altogether and simply plug our brains into

supercomputers so that we can live forever in solar powered warehouses and let the

planet heal itself? Or, I know, who gives a shit about human rights anyway? Let’s just 198

nuke India and China, and let’s throw Bangladesh and Pakistan in there for good measure.” (I position the pea just so between my thumb and forefinger. I shouldn’t do it, I know. I can’t even believe I’m contemplating this. It must be the mead - liquid courage, as they say - or maybe, I don’t know, maybe I just think he deserves it. I really want him to shut up, though, I know that much.) “That’ll reduce our footprint pretty quick, right?

Right, girls? Let’s just destroy all the developing nations, bring them to their knees so that—”

I flick the pea. It hits him right in the eye.

“Ouch! What the fuck, man!” And before I know it, he jabs me in the face - one

direct shot to my crooked nose - knocking me off of the bench.

I scramble to my feet. Blood is everywhere. It’s gushing over my lips and into my

mouth. It’s dripping from my chin. I cup my hands; they’re full in an instant.

The partygoers are stunned. The compound falls silent, except for the sound of a

soprano singing Brahms from the speaker on the porch - a glorious and startling

soundtrack - until a bus roars up an adjacent street, drowning out her rhapsodic voice.

Xavier is standing, his hands in fists, watching me. They’re all watching me . .. watching

me struggle . .. and bleed. I’m the dazed bird caught in the farmhouse, the mangled

bicyclist lying in the middle of the road, the corpse under the hulking mass of the slowing

commuter train.

I back away a step or two - they can’t take their eyes off of me - and then I trip

over an exposed root and fall on my ass. 199

“Oh my God!” I hear someone say. “Help him!”

But I’m back on my feet in an instant - 1 don’t need their help - and I run (“Cecil wait,” is it her voice or just my cruel imagination?).

I run so fast down that black hill that I think I might begin to disintegrate, pieces

of flesh flying off of me as I become a small, red comet falling through a dark, empty

sky. 200

Chapter 26

My lungs bum and my nose throbs as I reach Live Oak Park and cut into it. I begin to run down a set of steep stairs leading to a creek in a small ravine, but I lose my footing in the darkness and fall head-over-heels, banging my face against the ground at the bottom of the steps. I’m dazed. My teeth and tongue are covered with dirt. I see white flashes on the periphery of my vision. I struggle over to one of the nearby picnic tables and climb on top of it. I look up and realize that I’m surrounded by the impenetrable darkness of a grove of black evergreens. For a moment, everything is still and quiet. . . except for the murmuring condemnations of the adjacent creek.

I know they’re laughing now - 1 can almost hear them - all of them, laughing at me, the vile stranger who tried, but failed to ruin their fun. “Who wants more mead?” the bartender asks. “Hurray!” they cheer in unison. “Can you believe that guy?” And they

shake their heads in disbelief. “I hope we never see him again,” they say as they close the door on me and return to their banal conversations and drunken flirtations.

And Cake is laughing too. Her laughter rings louder in my ears than all the church bells in the world. It shakes loose a thousand metal shards inside my heart, shredding me

into tiny pieces of bleeding emptiness. Why did she have to touch me so? I was fine before, wasn’t I?

As I lie on the cold, wooden table, faces - distorted and ghastly - begin to appear

in the dark underbellies of the tree boughs above me. At first, they’re just shadows, a

suggestion of movement caught in the corner of my eye. But then I begin to see noses and 201

eyes, tongues and lips. Xavier appears first. He is glaring at me, but when I look directly at him, he disappears. When I look away, he comes back. Is he giggling now? And then he vanishes again. I cannot catch him with my eyes, but he’s there. He’s everywhere; he’s the tooth I want to crush. And then I spy Mr. Oh’s face stuffed up in a thick, black hole of branches. His eyes are pixelated, and his entire face keeps coming in and out of focus, but

I know it’s him because I can hear his all-too-familiar voice. He is spewing an endless and garbled monologue that turns to black vomit as it falls in piles all around me.

Cheryl’s face is up there too along with Izzy’s and Abe’s - their teeth have been filed into points like the Congolese boy who was displayed in the Bronx Zoo. They’re spinning around in a circle above my head, singing an unknown song and baring their sharpened teeth at me.

High above them all, in the star-shaped gap in the trees, Cake suddenly appears, but she’s not laughing. Shrouded by swirling fog, she shakes her head at me. Her face is streaked with dirt and blood, her left eye swollen. “You see what you’ve done to me?” she says.

“How can you say that!” I scream at her. “I’ve done nothing to you!”

“You see how you’ve hurt me?” She says as she begins to cry tears of fire.

I gasp and then begin coughing violently on a drop of blood I’ve sucked down into my windpipe. The masks, recognizing my vulnerability, descend rapidly toward me

- all except Cake, whose burning tears create a flaming ring around the picnic table where I lie, small and defenseless like a wounded squirrel. Xavier, Mr. Oh, Cheryl, Izzy, 202

and Abe are chanting now. They will chew me to death if I don’t confess. They threaten to drag me into the creek with their teeth. I can see my blood flowing past rocks and broken branches, through long, dark concrete tunnels, and then eventually falling out . of a dented drainpipe into the vast, black waters of the lifeless Bay.

As their chanting reaches its zenith and Cake’s fire intensifies, I muster all of my energy and scream, “No, no, no!” Then I jump to my feet, sprint across a small bridge and up the adjacent stairs. I stumble out of that hellish grove into the pale light of the empty street.

When I glance back, the flames and faces have disappeared. The grove is silent once more, except for the murmuring prayers of the ancient stream. m

A taxi speeds down University Avenue - the only car on the street this time of night - as I stand in front of Goodwill, much as I had done earlier today: out-of-breath, confused, and with nowhere else to go. But everything has changed. You see that, right?

Dim security lights glow inside, casting faint, white rectangles on the sidewalk in front of me. I step into the light just enough to illuminate the toes of my black, leather

shoes.

I wonder how long Annette has been communicating with Cake, Mr. Oh, and the others. I wonder if she was hiding in the bushes up at the compound, gleefully watching the whole disgusting scene play out. Was this their plan all along? How many rehearsals did they hold? There must have been many late night telephone calls to discuss details. Is 203

there more to come? This might just be an intermission, a break to let the actors catch their breath. What further, highly orchestrated, precisely scripted surprises do they have in store for me next? Will they deal me a final, humiliating blow? Or do they plan on toying with me forever? What more could they do to break my spirit?

They all deserve a standing ovation; every one of them was so convincing. I might give an award to Izzy or Abe, for they had significant and difficult parts, but

Annette, she was something else this afternoon with the tears and all; she deserves to have an Oscar shoved right up her ass. How could she stand all that lying! And the unconscionable storytelling? A sick husband! A lifetime of regret! And now, here is

Cecil, a babe in woods seeking motherly direction and love. Were all women born cruel?

Does it come from some dark bone in their body? Hidden deep in every uterus, inscrutable, undetectable, but as plain as the day is long? You see it too, right? Or is it a mysterious lobe in their brains? A pulsing, aching bulb of hot neurons, vindictive and programed to exact revenge for millennia of alleged abuse and degradation? Or does some omnipotent administrative agency teach young girls how to inflict pain at school?

Subliminal signals transmitted at a frequency only the female ear can detect? Maybe all three? But really, in the end, it doesn’t matter - they all end up so cruel. Annette knew . .

. she knew exactly what she was doing when she dressed me up and sent me off to the slaughterhouse, my doe eyes glistening with the last glimmer of hope I could ever be expected to muster. 204

I step backward, removing my toes from the security light, and walk around to the back of the store to get my real clothes. They are still sitting in a pile on the floor of the utility closet (I’m surprised she didn’t burn them the instant I left, just to pour salt in my gaping wound). I kick the ridiculous black, leather shoes against the wall. I strip off my bloodied shirt and pants. Then I remove my socks and the ghostly white underwear

Annette so “lovingly” handed me through the blue curtail of the changing room just hours ago.

My naked skin glows in the soft light of the illuminated fog above me. I could be a dove or a glass of milk. I could be a jack rabbit in the winter or the inside of an oyster shell. I am the embodiment of purity and hope. I am the blinding, white flash on the horizon, followed by years of radioactive snow falling on innocent heads. I think I can feel the snow now. I close my eyes, put my arms out, and begin to spin slowly around in circles.

Dizzy now, I stumble over to the dumpster near the utility closet and hold on.

After a moment, I climb in and rummage around in the dark trash. At the bottom, I find a plastic bag in a comer bleeding some kind of thick ooze into a puddle. It smells like rancid grease and coffee. I mb the bag on my chest, groin, and thighs and then dip my hands into the dark pool at my feet. I wash my face and then slowly clean my body from head to toe with the black liquid, making sure to cover every inch.

I’m shivering now and nearly throw up as I climb out of the dumpster. 205

When I reach into the utility closet for my clothes, I notice a tool box. After I pull on my sweats and sweatshirt and lace up my sneakers, I take a closer look. Among the pliers and measuring tapes, I find a hammer and a few bent nails. I take the clothes that

Annette picked out for me and carefully nail them to the side of the building - lined up to look like a person with arms and legs extended in an x (I don’t want anybody confusing this powerful statement with some Jesus reference) - and then I place the leather shoes together on the ground below the left leg.

They’ll remember this. It’s the sign of my persecution at the hands of the cruel and ignorant masses. They’ll paint enormous pictures of this image and hang them in their houses, schools, and churches. It’s my cross to bear and their symbol of faith and forgiveness: an “X” with a small dot below the left leg. Always the left leg . .. always. It will be printed on hundreds of millions of t-shirts, carved into trees and rocks, and tattooed in thick black lines on the foreheads of my most faithful followers.

I stand and admire my work for a moment before returning the tool box to the utility closet. As I turn to go, I bump into a shelf near the door. A hefty crowbar - three feet long with two thick, silvery teeth - falls to the ground with a loud clang. It’s a sign, I know it - my Exceptionalism is screaming at me. I pick up the bar, close the closet door,

and walk back into the streets.

I stop and stand in front of the Goodwill store one last time and stare at my reflection in the big, plate glass window. I notice that my face is not only covered in dried blood but it is also stained dark with the ooze from the dumpster. I lift my sweatshirt and find that my torso is also painted deep black. I am becoming invisible now - fading the night I think - so I quickly pull my sweatshirt back down and start walking. 207

Chapter 27

My arms are so weak that I can barely jam the crowbar in between the plywood and the window frame. On the fifth try, I skin three knuckles on the side of the house and throw the crowbar into the dirt. But I cannot give up. Eventually I manage to create a little separation and start prying the wood away from the house. I can’t wake Mr.

Montague, so I work as quietly as possible.

After fifteen minutes, the large piece of plywood falls with a thick thud. I use the crowbar to force open the window and then I’m in.

It still smells like home.

I feel my way into the living room. I hear what sounds like a large rat running in the attic above me. A fly lands on my ear, inspects my cheek, and then flies off. There’s a

skittering sound behind me, somewhere in the back of the kitchen . .. could be a legion

on mice or maybe even a family of opossums. Even in the dead of night, so much life! I

can sense the great armies of microbes marching all around me, across the floors, up the walls, on the ceiling. They sense me too and remember me, I know it. I can almost hear

their trumpets signaling my return. They quickly locate me and come to me - entering my

body through every orifice, every open skin pore - and I can feel their vital energy begin

to flow through me once again. I stand in the complete darkness - swaying dizzily in the

absolute stillness - and breathe the air of the only place I’ve ever called home.

I want to rejoice - to dance and sing, to explode with joy - but in my heart, I

know this homecoming is only temporary. I cannot stay here. This fleeting tease of 208

ecstasy will inevitably lead to more sorrow. There is no cause for celebration tonight for I know that I’m more lost and homeless than ever. I hold back my tears. I’m afraid that if I start to cry, I’ll never be able to stop.

I get down on my hands and knees and feel around on the floor. The couch and

T. V. are still here. But the cops cleaned out all of my food prep buckets. I crawl into the kitchen. All of the supplies in my refrigerator have been removed as well. But that’s okay, I’m not really here for food.

I make my way into my bedroom, retrieve a large duffle bag from under my bed and cautiously proceed back through the dark kitchen, down the stairs, and into the pitch black basement. The air here is stale and moist... dense with the smell of wet dirt and old feces.

I take a deep breath, hold it in my lungs, and begin to see the end of time in my mind. A flaming tornado rips my house from its foundations. I stand alone before an almighty force, invisibly present in everything I perceive, everything there is to perceive.

The force calms the fire and the winds and wrenches a tiny fissure in the dark cloud cover

overhead. A shaft of light shines down directly into my glorious basement, lifts me into the air, carries me through the crack in the clouds and up into the black soil of eternity. I

exhale.

Now I look for a point of light in front of me, a beacon, a lighthouse, but there is nothing but pure darkness, like the inside of Queequeg’s coffin floating in the sea. My

head begins to spin, and I nearly lose my balance. I turn, grab the handrail behind me, 209

and quickly sit down on the stairs with my head between my knees. When I have recovered a semblance of equilibrium, I get up and fumble my way to the bookshelf. I have a purpose, I try to convince myself My heart is racing. I have a path forward. My breathing is labored. I have meaning. I set the duffle bag down at my feet and extend my hand into the darkness.

But then I draw my hand back before I touch anything. For a second, I think I can

see a vague outline of the shelves - a high, dim grid standing before me - but when I look for it again, the lines disappear. I focus harder, but now see nothing at all there, but the blackest black. I take a breath and reach out again through the darkness, and this time, my fingers alight on the edge of one of the shelves. I slowly move my hand onto the flat

surface. I’ll die if they’re gone. For a moment, I feel only thick dust, which gathers on my

fingertips as I slowly search . . . like a blind man reading a letter from home. And then, just as I’m about to give up all hope, my ring finger brushes up against one of my

precious, long-lost samples. I nearly knock it over, but manage to catch hold of it. I pick

it up, finger the attached label - what day? what year? what wonderful microbes? - and

then raise the container like a holy chalice to the sky as I fall to my knees and now,

finally, begin to cry.

At first, I think these are tears of happiness - I’ve retrieved my life’s work! - but I

quickly realize that this moment of joy has only just lit the short fuse leading to my ever-

enduring desolation and despair. I feel the explosion coming. Black has eaten white; my

darkness sees all. I can’t bear this life one more minute. I lie down to die right here in the 210

dirt. No one will care. They’ll bury me in a pauper’s grave or burn me up with other unclaimed corpses. My body is trembling uncontrollable now. No one will mourn my passing. Not a tear will be shed. My cheek rests against the hard ground. I breathe in black soil. It crunches between my teeth. I’ve been my only audience for years now, the sole witness to the events of my great and tragic life. But it doesn’t matter in the end - for who will miss the earth once it’s gone? Who will mourn the lone, wild pasque flower as it reaches for the sun on that final day? One more life, ten more deaths ... ten more lives, one more death ... there is no difference anymore, the scales are broken. The inconsequentiality of these times is more than I can possibly bear.

This is it - the end of Cecil!

But then, as I think I’ve drawn my last breath, I hear something emanating from the depths of the pit latrine. I recognize a few notes - odd and spectacular - but in my weakened condition, I struggle to place them. Faint at first, the voice of a clarinet rises and grows, its invisible tendrils reaching for me and then twining around my arms and legs. A moment more passes, and I can hear it clearly now, Debussy’s Premiere

Rhapsodie, growing louder still. It winds around my chest and then envelops me completely, each note resonating in my gut. I can feel my microbes yearning for life once again. The music lifts me to my feet, and as it crescendos, I see a green light -indistinct and imperceptible - pulsating from behind the bookshelf. “You go on,” it says, just under the music. “You must go on.”

## 211

I slowly walk away from the house dragging the duffle bag, which is now filled with thirteen years’ of preserved shit. I try to locate the music now, to find the clarinet in the night, but all I can hear is the gnawing and chomping of the thousands of cockroaches living and dying in the darkest reaches of my nearly-fiill pit latrine.

It feels like my ears are filled with cockroaches.

By the time I reach Memorial Park, I can barely lift my feet. I shuffle, a zombie in harsh fluorescent light now, around the bathroom building and collapse into my darkened nest of leaves. I’m burning up, yet I feel so cold. I try to pile the leaves up over me for warmth. My body shakes uncontrollably. I pull the duffle bag to my chest and curl up around it. The racing fog covers me with dew. All around me, quick, gray wisps, like twirling ghosts, giggle secrets to each other, and I sense that they are all laughing.

Without dreams, I sleep.

Days and nights pass overhead.

Days and nights flow through the soil beneath me. m

“What is that?” a voice asks.

“Is i t . .. ?”

“Holy shit, I think you’re right?”

I feel two fingers against my jugular.

“He’s alive.” PART 3 213

Chapter 28

I wake up and feel the pull of sheets and the weight of a blanket against my body.

I gently move my fingers and then my toes. The fabric is tight... but soft and warm. I’m confined, wrapped, buried . . . but so very soft, so very warm. I don’t open my eyes or move again, I can’t risk it; instead, I float on a meandering white river of time - minutes, hours, days, I can’t tell how long - where anger, confusion, and darkness do not exist.

Eventually, though - has it been years now? - niggling details begin to emerge, disturbing the waters of my trance: a nearly imperceptible beep every three seconds; a timed click and zing, less frequent than the beep; then a cough in a distant hallway and a screaming child. “Other humans are here,” I think to myself. The white river becomes still, stagnant - vague thought-shapes begin to swim toward me. A shadow of soreness in my arms and the discomfort in my toes from the constraining tautness of the sheet begin to annoy me.

I think I taste honey for a moment, but it’s only a memory that refuses to materialize. As the memory floats away - a unidentified bird, momentarily glimpsed, but now long gone over the horizon - 1 begin to realize that many things are missing, completely gone. I can almost feel it between my fingers. Is it a leaf? There are no leaves here. Is it a tree, a towering tree in the fog? Is that a bug walking there in the corner of my mind? A fly? A spider? Maybe a colony of spiders? Where did those things go now?

As quickly as my mind’s eye reaches for each image, it blends into a white background 214

and disappears. And then another answer flashes past before it too is submerged into whiteness.

I open my eyes. I am lying in a white room, bathed in blinding light. The walls are white. The ceiling is white. The floor, the curtains, and the sole chair in the corner are all white too. I quickly close my eyes against the brightness. I will not open them again, I promise myself. . . at least until night.

Now I notice that my teeth are clean. I run my tongue over them. They’ve been brushed and are slick and smooth. This strikes me as peculiar, but I can’t figure out why.

I wonder what else they’ve done to me. As I work my arms out of the tight sheet, I feel the tug of an IV on my right hand. I raise both hands to my face. They smell of rose perfume and disinfectant. This seems important, but I can’t remember why. I stroke my cheeks and chin. I am completely clean shaven. I move my hands up to my scalp; it too is hairless, smooth and wrinkled without even the suggestion of resistance. I think perhaps

I’ve been purified for some sort of sacrificial ceremony.

A bizarre question comes out of nowhere and flashes across the pure pinkness of

the backs of my eyelids: Where will they crucify me?

But, I argue with myself, who is “they” and why would they do such a thing?

As I run my fingers around to the back of my head, I notice something strange. I

think I can feel a straight line of skin - smooth in a different way than the rest - starting

at the base of my neck and reaching up about six inches to just below the spot where my 215

hair whorl used to be. But I can’t quite tell if the skin actually feels different or if I’m just making it up; my entire head is so smooth, what could be different? More smooth?

I turn my head to the side - eyes still clamped shut - and finger the line over and over again, feeling it from different angles, with different fingers, pulling the skin tight and then pinching it together, but I still can’t tell what, if anything, I’m feeling. My arms grow heavy, and now I’m very cold. I straighten up and put both arms back under the

sheet and blanket.

How long have I been awake?

Have I been awake at all?

I ’m working a zipper on a dirty canvas bag in the night. Now I 'm twisting,

twisting, twisting. The angry fog is trying to steal my valuables. What’s that smell?

What’s that awful taste in my mouth?

Am I still awake?

I hear the door to my room open, and a person enters. The door closes with a soft

thud.

“Well hello there! We’ve been waiting for you for quite some time now!” The

voice is distinctly female and seems intimately familiar, but perhaps I’m just picking up

on the nurse’s cliche exuberance.

I don’t open my eyes. I don’t respond. It just seems like the right thing to do.

The nurse pulls the sheets and blanket down to my waist. I can now feel the

nearly imperceptible weight of the thin hospital gown covering my torso, but it does little 216

to protect me from the air conditioned breeze that she has exposed me to. I begin to shiver.

She first fiddles with my IV for a couple of seconds and then places a cold disk under my gown. I assume she is listening to my heart; I wonder if she can understand what it is saying. I wonder myself what secrets it holds.

“You’re cold,” she says as she pulls the sheets back up to my chin. “I’m sorry.”

Then, she places a second blanket on top of me. “That should help.”

I don’t open my eyes. I don’t respond.

“Come on, Cecil, I was watching your heart monitor out in the hallway. You got very excited when you first came to. Do you remember what you were thinking about?”

I don’t open my eyes. I don’t respond.

“We all gathered around and watched you wake up. It was funny how you started feeling your face and scalp. We saw it on the video feed. We’re all very eager to talk to you, especially Dr. Brow. I know you can hear me. I can even see your eyes moving behind your eyelids right now. Why don’t you just open your eyes a wee bit and say

hello? We’ve got lots to discuss.”

She’s piqued my curiosity. I wonder where I am, what she looks like. What do we

have to discuss? And why was everyone watching me? I nearly open my eyes, I feel my

lips part just slightly as if I am about to speak, but then I remember something, or rather,

I remember some feeling. It’s cold and distant, so far away that I cannot put my hands on 217

it. But I know that the feeling is only found in a dark, slippery place that no one else knows about. I close my lips.

“Remember, Cecil, you’re very special now.”

My energy is fading fast.

Special?

“I’ll leave you so that you can rest more. These first few days can be very tiring indeed. But you’re not off the hook, you hear me. Next time, I want you to talk to me.

I’m pretty nice, you’ll see. I promise I won’t bite.”

I hear her opening a drawer and then tearing open a package.

“I’m going to give you a little something extra to help you sleep. It’s like a vitamin for your soul. Trust me, you need it.”

A few seconds later, something touches my forehead (lips?) and the white river begins to flow again.

##

I awake, eyes closed, andfind that I am floating, but this isn 7 the white river. It is nothing like the white river. This water is warm and foreign .. . and thick, somehow thick. I rub my right thumb against my fingertips and notice an oleaginous slickness. I breathe in and instantly recognize the sour smell. I bring my right hand up to my mouth and taste the water. Yogurt.

I am in a tub, the edges of which are as slippery as if they were covered in a microscopic layer of wet moss. I slip down - my bare buttocks sliding easily on the 218

bottom of the tub - and touch my lips to the water’s surface. I drink. The water is a tea of sour and sweet, a rejuvenating, fermented liquidfilled with microorganisms. In fact, I can feel bacteria swimming into me, attaching themselves to my tongue, uvula, and esophagus. They ’re all here - Akkermansia muciniphila, Roseburia intestinalis,

Ruminococcus flavefaciens... rods, spirals, spheres, ladders, wheels, boomerangs, chains.... They crave me and I them. They cover every inch of my body, flood my starved stomach... a pounding wave of white life... seeking to replenish my internal strength and purpose.

I want to drink every drop, but I quickly begin to feel sick. I open my eyes and pull myself into a seated position. I am in a claw-foot tub in a small bathroom. The walls are constructed of rough-hewn wood. A mirror, framed by Mexican tiles, hangs above a pedestal sink. I am alone. Three large containers labelled New Dairy yogurt sit empty on

the floor by a small red trash can. On a chair next to me, Ifind three apples in a blue

bowl and a chipped coffee mug filled with almonds. I eat an apple and all of the almonds and slide back into the yogurt bath to digest. I hear a noise in the next room, but I am too

weak to get up, and I slowly slip away. m

“Cecil, Dr. Brow will be in shortly to see you. It’s time for you to wake up,

sleepyhead.” The nurse is as enthusiastic as before. She gently shakes my shoulders,

pulling me out of the white river and into the hospital room. I don’t want to come back,

but my arms and legs feel instantly restless. They want to walk. I try to still the urge. 219

“Cecil, one more chance to wake up and cooperate.”

Silence.

“Okay, I’m going to count to three.”

These words, these words, why are they so familiar? They go together like a string of pearls or a line-up of holocaust victims. I think they must have been in some movie somewhere?

One.

I won’t do it.

Two.

She can’t force me to talk.

Three.

Silence.

The nurse reaches down and pinches the skin behind my right bicep.

“Ouch!” I cry out as I involuntarily sit up and grab my arm. The sun is pouring in

again, and the brightness of the room punishes my eyes. I fight though the painful light

and squint in her direction.

“I knew you were faking it.” She’s squat and pale, beautiful in the eyes of her

mother to be sure. She wears her hair short, bleached and spiked. Compared to her overly

large forehead, the features of her face are small and tightly clustered as if God ran out of

clay just as he was finishing her off. “My name is Moneta,” she says pleasantly.

“I don’t think you can do that.” I check to see if she’s drawn blood. 220

“Do what?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” I haven’t felt this awake in a very long time.

Adrenaline.

Moneta smiles and shakes her head like I’m crazy. Then she adjusts the bed so that I can sit up comfortably. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” I say reluctantly. “Will you pull the blinds? This room is too bright.”

She walks around my bed and pulls the far side of the curtains closed half a foot.

“More,” I say impatiently.

She pulls it a couple of inches farther, making no noticeable difference in the room’s intense illumination.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Not doing what I asked.”

“I did what you asked. I always do.”

Just then, the door opens and a man in a white gown walks in. He’s tall, broad- shouldered, has light gray skin, and an extravagant, silver-fox bouffant. His name tag reads, “Dr. Brow, M.D.”

“Reitmeister!” He says it like we are old college buddies. “Cecil Reitmeister! We brought you back from the dead!” I’m not sure if he wants me to give him a high five or

start chanting his name. Maybe he expects me to dance for him: “Toga, toga, toga!” 221

“How’s our favorite patient?” he asks Moneta as he takes the chart from the foot of my bed and glances through it.

“Testy. But that’s to be expected, I suppose.” She smiles at me then, like a mother smiles to someone else’s child. “He’s been making things up, too.” She sticks her tongue out at me as Dr. Brow continues to look at the chart.

“Okay, gotcha.” He replaces the chart, sidles up to the side of my bed, and takes my left hand. Moneta sits down on the white chair in the comer. “You must have a ton of questions, huh Cecil? And I’m going to answer all o f‘em for you just as soon as you tell me a few things. Okay?”

He strokes my hand with his old fingers. His nails are immaculately trimmed and healthy like he just spent hours with a manicurist.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” he says. “Before we start, I want to let you know that we are recording everything here, for the sake of science. It’s important that we get all the details right. You know how it is, right? Details.”

“I kind of wish you would close the curtains a bit,” I reply. “I can barely see in here. You know how it is, right? Is that what you are talking about?”

Dr. Brow nods and squeezes my hand. “Exactly.” But neither he nor Moneta makes a move to close the curtails. “I knew we were going to connect. I could see it in your face when you were first brought to us. I was so excited that day. Am still. So now, let’s get started.”

I am tired of looking at their faces, so I close my eyes. 222

“That’s fine. Concentrate, but don’t go wondering off in the darkness in there alright?” He laughs, and then Moneta laughs too.

“Uh-huh.”

“First things first, what’s your name?”

“Cecil Reitmeister.”

“Good, good, good.”

Of course I know my name. Does he think I’m crazy?

“Now, where do you live?”

After a moment of searching: “Hmmm . . . that’s strange.”

“What’s strange, Cecil?”

“I can remember the address, 23 Washington Avenue, but I can’t picture the place.”

“Good, good, good.”

“No, not ‘good, good, good,”’ I respond.

He is still holding my left hand. “Just be patient here, buddy.”

“But so, was I right, 23 Washington Avenue?”

“Sure.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

“Of course.”

“Of course what?” I pull my hand out of his grasp and begin to rub the back of my head. 223

“Okay now, question number three.” His ebullience persists.

1 ’m in a room, small, dark, full... a closet, shoes on the floor - 1 keep stumbling

- and silky gowns on wooden hangers before me. I touch everything. I step on shoes with bare feet. A line of belts lead to a plastic head with hair hidden high above me. I cannot reach it, but I want to hold it, to smell it....

The room is silent.

“Did you hear me?” Dr. Brow asks.

“He’s doing it again,” Moneta interjects. Then I hear her get up and walk to the bed.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Dr. Brow responds curtly.

“I didn’t hear you,” I say. “Did you ask me another question? And I can’t remember what just happened.”

Moneta is fiddling with my IV line.

“It is all part of the process, Cecil,” Dr. Brow says. He’s disappointed in me.

“We’ll pick up where we left off next time, okay?”

I reach for the image, the place where I just was, but the white river swallows it as it surges underneath me, warm and soft; I can’t help but to submit. m

I ’m waking up slowly, pulledfrom a thick sleep by an odd, but urgently familiar sensation on the soles my feet. 224

My body is sore - every joint and muscle ache in fact - but the pain seems to glow, not hurt, like a wounded soldier’s last sunset before being shipped back home. I don’t open my eyes, but I can feel that I ’m dressed in a terry-cloth bathrobe - naked underneath - and sitting in a very comfortable leather chair with my feet propped up on some type of broad, sturdy ottoman. Ifeel my weight being pulled down into the chair by gravity, and I press the back of my head against the soft headrest. My body sinks deeper into the chair as it pulls me closer, hugging me into its worn, warm skin. I can also feel a thin residue o fyogurt - alternatively slick and sticky - on my forearms as I run my fingers up and down, up and down them. I am perfectly hot to the bone, and my stomach is full... fullfrom something good and healthy that I cannot remember.

A tongue is licking my feet and now it moves to my shins. It is thick and rough and wet and warm. The licking tongue feels like childhood - long ago, far-away, a dream where someone once called me “kiddo ” and rumpled my hair before letting me go outside to play - and I think I know who it belongs to - at least I have a guess - but I fear opening my eyes because it can’t be true. None o f this can be true. m

In the white river, I see faces. They’re submerged, all-but-invisible through the thick waters, but I can see them. When they call out to me, bubbles reach the surface. The messages emerge garbed and distorted beyond comprehension. I am swaddled like a baby, set in a floating basket, rapids threatening around each bend. The faces are telling

me something urgent, but I cannot, for the life of me, understand what they’re saying. 225

The river boils with bubble messages - they are trying to warn me - but I can just hear a discordant droning that I want to understand, but can’t.

##

The insistent tongue begs me to open my eyes. Then a cold, wet nose nudges my knee, and I feel the edge of this terry-cloth robe falling open, exposing my upper thigh.

The tongue is licking a new patch of skin now, and I cannot contain my curiosity any longer.

I open my eyes to a dimly lit room and see him clearly - immediately - as though he’s real, as though he’s alive. H e’s standing next to the ottoman now, watching me, his long ears hanging down each side of his perpetually sad face ... but I know he’s not sad right now. My eyes, my memory, they’ve lost their power somewhere along the way, but

I ’m not deceived by this vision: one of my old bloodhounds, Denarius, eagerly barks when we make eye contact. I pull myfeet off of the ottoman, sit up, and wrap my arms around my old dog. He licks my face, rams me with his forehead, and then licks me again. His dog smell penetrates me, cuts me so good and deep and thoroughly, that Ifall out of the chair and onto the floor. I begin to sob, an eternity o f tears into his coat, his coat of live brown felt, his ribs o f living wood, firm and perfectly shaped under tough, leathery skin. He is here, more here than anything else in the world, more real than you or me or the falling sky that is climate change. I lie back with him and he bathes me with his tongue - 1 nibble back — in this unknown, dimly lit room... and I hope to stay here forever. 226

m

“One”

She waits for a second.

“Two.”

I am quickly starting to come around.

“Three!”

I sit up into the excruciatingly white room before she can pinch me. I shake my head and rub my eyes. “Are you kidding me?”

“Doc wants to try again. He’s on his way right now.”

“Try what?”

She shakes her head and says, “Now Cecil, I’ve been in this business a long time.

You’re very lucky you have me and not one of those other brutes out there. Then you’d really understand. You’d get it right quick, yes you would. But anyway, I’ll give you a piece of advice. It’s time to cut the shit and start owning up to what you’ve done. Who you’ve become? It’s funny how you just know when somebody’s not right, not all there.

We can help you, that’s our job, but it all starts with you. Understand now?”

“What? Do I understand what now?”

She doesn’t answer.

I continue, “I wish I did understand. Does that count for anything?” 227

“Oh Cecil, don’t fain ignorance, it’s not becoming.” She smiles in a false way; her scrunched-up face becomes a bathroom grimace. Is she farting or trying to tell me something?

I sit back against the hospital bed and remain quiet; I think that’s what she wants me to do.

“We’re going to cure you, whether you like it or not,” she says as she takes my temperature.

“Cure me of what?”

“Exactly.”

There is it again, the ‘exactly’ answer.

She’s wrapping a blood pressure monitor around my arm.

“What do you mean ‘exactly’?”

The door opens, and I hear Dr. Brow’s voice finishing a conversation about a party with a nurse in the hallway. “Should be a lot of fun; I hope to see you there.”

Beyond the nurse’s faint reply (“You can count on it!”), I hear a woman screaming and man’s voice yelling at her to shut up.

“Something’s wrong out there,” I say to Moneta. She shakes her head at me and continues to listen to the sound of my blood stream struggling against my constrained veins. When she is done, she removes the cuff, gives me a kiss on the forehead (so it was her lips I felt before), and whispers into my ear, “You better behave this time. I’ve seen him get angry, and it ain’t pretty.” 228

Dr. Brow enters with the same excessive smile and greets me: “Reitmeister!

Righty! How’s it hanging, oP boy?”

It’s hard to know what to say to this guy. I get an image of him as an old-time quarterback. He’s on a trading card with a black helmet. His statistics are printed on the back. The edges are worn, dirty; it’s been carried in someone’s back pocket to and from school for many days in a row. I want to crawl under the bed and hide from him - and his excessiveness - but I’m sure he would notice.

He walks right up to my bedside and takes my left hand again. “Two questions: one, are you ready to party?” At this, he nudges Moneta who is standing right at his side, and she giggles obediently. “And number two, did you have a chance to think about the answer to the last question I asked you the other day?”

“You mean yesterday?”

“Was it yesterday?”

Moneta chimes in, “Could very well have been yesterday.”

Why don’t they know what day it is?

“Great,” Dr. Brow says quickly, “now that we’ve got that settled, what do you say?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer because I don’t remember the question. I don’t think I heard it.” I’m feeling timid and starting to sweat. It’s too hot in here. The sun - almost alive in its intensity - is streaking through the windows, blazing rectangles of super-heated light onto my hospital bed. The floors glisten brilliantly and for a moment it 229

feels like we’re all on the stage of some big-budget musical. Who will sing first, I wonder.

“The question, the question ... the question on everybody’s mind . ...” And I think for a moment that he’s actually going to break out into song - like he read my mind. He squeezes my hand and continues: “The question is, Cecil. . . will always be,

Cecil,” again, perhaps again he is about to sing, but no, “whether you remember a time in your life when you were happy. Truly happy. Do you?”

I furrow my brows and can only think: why is that the question? Why not another question? Something less ... subjective.

“Now before you answer,” he quickly follows up, “I want to show you a picture.

Nurse Moneta, the photograph please.”

She un-attaches herself from him, picks up my chart at the end of the bed, and crosses to the other side. Now she stands with the sun directly behind her. I cannot look in her direction, I cannot see her face; she is a black silhouette. She takes a photograph from my chart and places it on my lap. “Pay attention, here, Cecil, this is important,” she says, lightly stroking my right arm.

I pick the photo up and turn away from her and the sun. It is a picture of a cheerful apartment building, three stories high, with a child’s bike locked up to a parking meter in front.

“That, my friend, is 23 Washington Street, your old home. Remember now?” Dr.

Brow is smiling broadly, like he has just given me the best Christmas present of my life. 230

“Leading the witness,” Moneta whispers to me from her blacked-out face.

I study the picture and rub the back of my head with my right hand. The IV bounces around as I do so. The building in the picture is so familiar, but something is different, something just not right. “Was it always that color?” I ask.

“No, no, or course not,” Dr. Brow responds, “it’s been repainted many times. It was a different color back in your day, I’m sure. Now do you remember?”

“Well, I guess.”

“And were you happy there?”

“I think I was. Maybe even ... I think I was very happy.” This feels good, these are the right answers. Dr. Brow seems pleased with me. Moneta encouragingly squeezes my knee. “Good,” she whispers to me. I’m glad they showed me this picture. This is all starting to make a lot of sense.

“Good, good, good.” Dr. Brow now steps closer to me, clasps my left hand between both of his hands, and brings it close to his heart. His hands are hot, but dry, like two socks coming out of the dryer.

“Yeah, good, good, good. I like the way you say that, Doc.” None of the hair on my head has grown back . .. and that vertical line ... it still does, but somehow doesn’t exist. “But why can’t I remember more? Is that my bike in front? It looks kind of different.”

“Of course!” Dr. Brow is getting very excited. 231

“Did I play jacks there on the sidewalk?” I’m rubbing the back of my head vigorously now. It feel so good, up and down, up and down, alternatively sticky and slick. The IV is starting to come loose. I can feel the tape stretching and pulling out the hairs on my arms.

“Of course you did.”

“But, I can’t remember who I played jacks with, Doc. Why not?”

“I think you’re ready now, Cecil. We can trust you, right? We will show you the way home - your real home. Do you think that you are ready? Do you want to go home today?”

“Exactly,” I answer.

Oh, I couldn’t have responded any better. Dr. Brow’s eyes are aglow with pride, admiration, and satisfaction. Giddy anticipation flows through our connected bodies, starting with Dr. Brow, traveling into me and down my left arm, then into my blood and down to my right knee, where Moneta’s hand still rests. She receives the signals, amplifies them, and then bounces them back into our highly synchronized system. They have been waiting a long time for this - for me. They think that I’m exceptional. That’s what they said. And now I know that I am. I wonder how many people are watching the feed from the cameras in the room. Perhaps the entire country . .. the entire world.

“Exactly,” they respond in unison.

“Can I get a hallelujah?” Dr. Brow calls out. 232

“Hallelujah!” Moneta sings; the sun forms Jesus rays around her darkened face and spiked hair.

I’m now in a state of near-frenzy, rubbing the back of my skull. The line is becoming a seam, stretched and delicate. It is a canyon covered by miles of taut, pale silk.

Dr. Brown continues: “You’re so very special because you have . . . and here it is,

Cecil, here’s the punchline . .. trauma-induced, transient global amnesia. How do you like that? Pretty cool, right? You can take it with a side of bacon if you like or maybe you’re a fruit guy.” We laugh together! This is so much fun! “You can’t remember new things, but the old stuff, the good stuff, is still in there. It’s just buried deep, but we’ll dig it up, we’ll find it, and then you’ll be well. . . then you’ll be you again. Do you remember that guy in the news - something-something Boatwright - who traveled to Palm Springs for a tennis tournament and woke up the next morning thinking his name was Johan Elk and speaking exclusively Swedish? You remember that? You’re like him. Although he never really recovered ... I think he killed himself... but with our help, you’re going to be normal again, okay? Do you want to be the ‘normal you’ again? The ‘real you’?”

Now I get it! Oh, this joyous day! “Yes, yes, yes, I want to be me,” the IV tape is tearing free now and the skin on the back of my head is growing raw. “The real me, I want the real me, please someone, anyone help me!”

“We are here! We will help you,” Moneta shouts.

“You will remember your happiest days, the days the sun shone down on you and blessed you with light.” Dr. Brow is yelling like a Baptist preacher in the throes of 233

rapture. “You’ll be cleansed of your innate impurities. We’ll pound your imperfections right out of you. You will rise like a phoenix and soar again!”

“I will!” I respond, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. “I will soar!” The IV finally slips out of my arm and falls away, down to the ground next to my bed.

“You will come back from the darkened valleys and join humanity again!”

“I will!”

“You will become a sacred man, an un-cursed being, saved from all that ails you .

“I will!”

“Your affliction will not claim you - it cannot win against the forces of goodness, of light ...” Dr. Brow continues in this way - even though I abruptly stop responding.

He is climbing ever-furiously to an unseen mountaintop. Moneta quickly steps in for me

- swept up by his fervor - with frequent “Amens!” and “Hallejuhas!” She knows how to make him happy. He’s flying high, squeezing my left hand to his heart, eyes rolled back in his head, chanting and preaching as if the world were about to end ... or begin again.

I’ve stopped answering, though, because I’ve noticed something very strange, very interesting - almost unbelievable. Something black has entered the room. At first, I can’t see it, I don’t recognize it, I can’t track it - it’s so small and fast. I think it’s panicking, but then it circles my bed, comes toward me, and hovers above me. . . one foot from my face. It slows its four beating wings so I can see them clearly - a map has been etched into their translucence. And I think I recognize a few curved avenues, streets 234

on hills, intersections like neurons connecting. The tiny creature begins to move side to side in a gentle swinging motion like a hypnotist’s pendant. I stop rubbing the back of my head so vigorously; the line has become a zipper, and I trace it tenderly.

“Hello musca domestical What riches do you have to share with me?” I say, following the fly’s graceful arc with my eyes.

I hear buzzing. Is this yogurt on my skin? I think I taste yogurt from the bath. I lick my forearm. Sour, right, and the buzzing continues.

Dr. Brow abruptly stops his incantations. “What did you say?” He doesn’t look so pleased now.

“Please, Cecil, don’t do it!” Moneta digs her claws into my thigh.

The fly nods at me as only a fly can do, and I take hold of the zipper pull. The zipper slides from the base of my skull up to the crown of my head, opening the thin layer of skin that has been covering the long, deep fissure in the back of my skull. Blood like afterbirth shoots from the back of my head onto the white pillow below. Now, I pull my left hand from Dr. Brow’s grip.

“Restrain him,” he shouts to Moneta. “Dose him now!”

Moneta reaches for the cabinet next to my bed, where the white river lives. But I won’t go there again. I am starting to remember, but it’s not the apartment-building life.

Not jacks, not kids’ bikes. Pieces of some faraway place are emerging from the whiteness of my mind. A treehouse. An worn action figure. A playground. Dr. Brow climbs onto 235

the hospital bad. He is on me now, pinning me down. “Stop it, Cecil, I know this is a lot to take in. I thought you were ready.”

“What have you done to me?”

“What have we done? Look what have you have done to yourself?”

“Did you cut my head open?”

“No, Cecil, you did that! Don’t you remember?”

“Fuck you, Doc!”

“Nurse, sedate the patient immediately!”

And then I remember who he is. “You can’t fool me, Jim Plunket,” I scream in his face.

Angered, he presses harder. “Don’t call me that!” I reach my head forward in an attempt to bite him, but he leans back just far enough. I bite the air and then spit in his face.

“You’re an old football player,” I yell. “You’re one of my cards when I was a kid.

You played for the Raiders. You threw for 2,935 yard in 1983. Why are you doing this to me, Jim Plunket?”

As he squeezes me harder, the blood continues to pour out from the wound in the back of my head. For a moment, I see them in my mind’s eye, as if I am sitting uncomfortably in the back row of an old-time operating arena. They are working on my brain . . . Moneta (the shadowed version) and Jim Plunket, trying to make me normal, 236

trying to change who I am . .. it’s not me doing the cutting. I scream at them to stop, but they don’t look at me, they just laugh and keep pulling out parts of my brain.

A dog’s tongue gently licking my face. The buzzing continues.

The bed is quickly filling with blood, so saturated now that it begins to sag in the middle. In the confusion, I have lost the only thing that really matters to me right now.

“Where are you, fly?”

And I say, “where are you fly? ” The dog does not answer.

And then I see it, still hovering just above my forehead. The bed is sagging more as Jim Plunket presses me down, a giant old man holding me tightly by my arms, his knee now grinding into my abdomen. The fly comes down within inches, then lands on my crooked nose and kisses me with its perfect proboscis. Our bacteria embrace for the first time - our ancient ritual passed down through generations - and her golden filth washes over me like an enormous flood of sacred vomit, covering me from head to toe.

Then, right there on the tip of my nose, I witness the elemental soup of monomers and polymers giving birth to the one primordial form, the true origin of life - a glistening aberration in the endlessly empty cosmos that begins to multiply and deform gloriously.

More primordial matter oozes toward the sun, dancing on bubbles in the organic depths of silent swamps, ocean vents, and salty shorelines on an empty planet, millennia ago.

Jim Plunket begins to shake me violently. The fly holds on, but then its job is momentarily complete so it flies away. 237

Jim Plunket can’t stop himself. The veins on his temples are thick and blue and throbbing wildly. I am afraid they will burst. “Stop-stop! Stop-stop!” he yells, shaking up and down in precise rhythm with each of his 2-syllable pleas, my body a skin-and-bones ragdoll in his powerful grasp. Blood is flying everywhere, his white coat smeared, his face speckled like a hen’s egg. And then, just as he is reaching some type of climax, a bellowing, grunting, bloody climax - “Stop-stop! Stop-stop!” - the bed collapses. I’m pulled out from underneath him, and the bloody mattress swallows him whole as it emits a murderously loud sucking, smacking, swooshing sound. I glimpse his arm disappearing

- fingers outstretched, one last plea, “St—” - as I fall down a quite separate hole into an urgent darkness.

I am squeezed and folded, pressed and compressed, and then, in a torrential release, I’m propelled forward, feet first, shooting through a ribbed tunnel of red and black - a limbo place where neither hope nor anger exists, only survival and the most glorious shower of microbes ever conceived - and out onto the hospital floor. I gasp for air as I slide naked - my gown ripped away - on a runway of blood, pus, and mucus all the way to the far end of the room.

Now, I am in the hallway running, the fly is leading me, and Moneta is hard on

my heels, calling to me to come back. I turn to see if she is close. Red footprints mark my

path down the stark white hallway. As I pass each room, I hear patients crying out to me,

“Help me,” they say uniformly, their voices digitally mastered recordings of each other,

which collectively form a resounding echo that fills the hospital with silence. I’m 238

agitating, but I know they cannot follow me yet. Moneta gains on me as I slip around a corner. “Shut it down, shut it down,” she is shouting, but no one can hear her over the din emanating from the empty rooms.

The fly leads me to a doorway, which opens onto a flight of stairs.

“Canyou hear me, Cecil, ” a voice - warm andfamiliar - says. “I'm not here right now. I ’m climbing the stairs. ’’ The fly continues to buzz, now somewhere near my toe.

I run up the stairs, two-, three-at-a-time. My feet are still slippery with blood, but

I hold tight to the handrail as I swing around the comer on each landing. Each stair I touch holds a memory, my whole life written in metal and concrete. My toes, my readers, grab what they can, and the story begins to take a vague shape in my mind. I fly over many stairs, and the story suffers so, but she’ll catch me and tackle me if I slow down so

I continue to run and remember what I can. The letters fall into slots that have existed for decades, keys into locks, locks into doors, doors into houses, houses into neighborhoods, neighborhoods into cities, and cities into an enormous world teaming with vibrant life and magnificently shaded by uncharted darkness.

There was a boy and a family; there was a dead brother and a mother; there was cleanliness; there was more death; there was darkness; there were dogs; there was life . . . life everywhere ....

[I look down and see Moneta’s hand on the rail a flight below. “Cecil, come back.

You got it all wrong. I will help you.” She is still gaining on me; she is flying up the 239

stairs faster than humanly possible. I am nearly silent on the stairs, but my trail of blood is so obvious I could never slip onto one of the floors in hopes of losing her. “/ go on, ” I shout, “I must go on. ” A dog and a fly and now another presence. I am breathing heavily, but I won’t let her see my weakness. “Are you having a heart attack? ”]

.. . there was pain, insufferable pain; there were hopeful mornings; there was confusion; there were trees, great, glorious trees; there were children, two black boys; and then there was a weird man . . .

I reach down and feel my thigh. It is bare. The skin is pleasantly warm. I pull the robe tight around my legs - terry-cloth. I smell strawberries, like the first time. Not strawberry lip gloss, not strawberry ice cream, but cut strawberries, the juice dripping from the tip of the strawberry onto my tongue. Red and wet inside, seeded skin covering flesh. Someone is feeding me strawberries. The fly wants the juice. Please eat, please eat.

A hand shoes the fly away as a berry slides into my mouth.

. . . and then . . . then . .. then there was a ... a woman?

I burst out of the emergency exit at the top of the stairs onto the roof of the hospital. Immeasurably tall, the building stands high above a thick blanket of unbroken clouds that hide the city below and stretch all the way to the horizon in every direction.

To my left, the sun - ensanguined and raw - kisses the still cloud cover at the horizon.

Above it, red gives way to orange and pink, the sky creating its own luminous, impossible color wheel. To my right, the moon rises full to greet the coming night, a 240

monochrome goddess pulling at the water in each of my cells, begging me to declare that tonight is the night of the lunatics.

A light breeze circles the building, emanating outward in concentric shifting circles as though I am standing at the true center of the universe.

I turn and face the red exit door - now closed - and begin to back away from it, hoping against all odds that it remains closed. I could learn to live up here if necessary, I think, away from them all. I’m remembering more and more of my life before all this. I lived for years by myself I could build a shelter, like Father’s tree house. I could find food, I’m sure I could. It wouldn’t be great, but....

The door flies open, and Moneta emerges. I can see her face now, lit from the dying sun on one side and the rising moon on the other. She looks deep into me, past my tongue, down my gullet, into my guts as though she is looking for something within me, something lost. She smiles - that false smile again - and takes a step toward me.

Her face - as though made of clay - begins to change, slowly at first.

“What do you want from me?” I ask. “Haven’t you hurt me enough?”

“I want what I’ve always wanted,” she answers. Her large forehead is shrinking, her features spreading out on her face.

“I’ve done nothing wrong, you must release me.”

“You’ve done nothing at all - right or wrong - Cecil, that’s the real problem.” I begin to see a face in there, one that I recognize, but can’t put my finger on. “You chose to live alone for so long that you don’t even know how to do anything with anybody.” 241

In the dim room, I have been put back in the chair. A thick blanket hangs over my propped-up legs. I can feel her breath on me. “Do you know where you are? ” The voice rasps sensual and primeval... vibrating through the air, divinely random and mathematically sublime.

“I am working on something . .. something amazing,” I say to Moneta. “It will be worth all of the years of loneliness. You’ll see.”

She is slowly backing me up to the edge of the building. Her stature is changing as well; she grows inches and gains pounds with each step, her nurse’s costume expanding to accommodate her unexplainable growth.

“You are frightening me,” I say, my voice, a child’s. I begin to cry, a child’s cry, from the days when the world seemed greater and more confounding than any little soul could ever bear - a place where sorrow is infinite and perfection slowly rusts into reality.

“I’ve always frightened you, Cecil.” Her previously cropped, white hair has grown long, and falls down in brown, ropey lengths to her heavy, now-dropping bosom.

Her eyes aflame continue to spread apart. Her mouth grows full. Her nose rises and adjusts itself.

I reach up andfeel her hair. Is it out of the closet? She is so close I can smell her.

She smells real, like sweat from work, like garlic and onions, like leaf litter in the gutter after a heavy rain... milk curdling at the edges of a ceramic vessel.

“Don’t you recognize me yet?”

“I know who you are, but I just can’t remember.” 242

“Don’t you want friends?”

“Yes, I want friends.” I am so agonizingly close to remembering her.

“Maybe a family of your own?”

“Yes, a family.”

“You could have one son and one daughter, wouldn’t that be nice?” She says this as though she has been dreaming about it forever.

“With you?”

“No, Cecil, you could never have children with me.”

“I still don’t know what you want from me.” I wipe my cheeks; tears mix with blood as they cover my face.

“I want you to be normal, to find your own family, make your own life with others. Why can’t you do these things?”

The hair in my hand glows red. It is fine and clean and reminds me of an earthquake. I finger it and begin to see her, an offshore wind blowing dry heat into a cold, dark city. “Why are you crying, now?” that transcendent voice asks. “Please stop.

Please come back. You ’re scaring me again. ”

“I don’t know, I just can’t.”

She continues to back me up toward the edge of the building, one slow step at a time. “Yes, you can. You can do anything. I’ve been telling you that for years.”

“But M o th er,!— ” 243

Words trigger memory before memory exists, and then I see her, remember her.

My tears turn from fear to sorrow, but their saltiness in my mouth tastes like they might be tainted by salvation. She’s 35, my age. She’s overweight from the two pregnancies, but she’s much prettier than I remember: a kind smile, bright, inquisitive eyes, and delicate, graceful hands. Now, I see her cooking as I emerge from my bedroom, the linoleum institutionally clean underfoot. I’m in white pajamas and white slippers. The house is warm, cozy. The kitchen smells of garlic and onions, and she smiles at me. “You look very handsome in your new pjs,” she says, stirring the sizzling onions. “I have a surprise for you: a special dessert for a special boy - after dinner.” She has bought ice cream, and later we eat big bowls of it together in the living room, competing against each other and the less-skilled contestants on Jeopardy. When she tucks me in that night, she lingers over her nightly kiss on my forehead. “You are my entire world,” she says before closing the door.

“Mother?”

She is silent. She stands before me, a testament to all that was real.

“Mother?”

She is growing older before my eyes, graying hair, sagging skin, liver spots developing all over her face and hands. She is alone, dead and alone.

“Mother?”

And this time she responds. “No. I’m not your mother. I was once, but I’m gone .

. . been gone for years.” 244

“Then who are you?”

“I’m you.”

“Have you always been me?”

“Yes.”

“In all my dreams? All my nightmares?”

She(me) nods.

We’ve reached the precipice. The wind is quickly picking up now. A knee-high wall is all that separates me from a fall to certain death miles below. There is nowhere for me to go. “Why did you cut my head open?”

“Like we told you before, you did that.” She(me) is speaking loudly now to be heard over the growing gale. “You’re unhappy, Cecil. You’re lonely. Not the kind of sad,

drunken loneliness that subsides a bit when you see your coworkers the next day. No, you’re the kind of lonely that exists only on islands. You’re exile-lonely - the last white rhino wandering vast, empty grasslands - yet you live among your people. You can’t live much longer like this. That’s what I’ve been trying to explain for so long. That’s what y o u ’ve been trying to tell yourself all these years. If I were your mother, I would cry

myself to sleep every night. How can you survive even one more day?”

“I survive for the Plan,” I yell, “you’ve, we’ve always known that.” My heels are pressed up against the base of the short wall; I nearly lose my balance. 245

“Your plan will kill you, sure as a knife to the jugular. And I don’t capitalize

‘plan,’ just so you know.” She(me) is five feet away. “The Storm is coming, Cecil. Now is our time.”

I notice right away that she capitalizes “Storm,” just to spite me. I look away from her old eyes for a moment and see that the wind has gathered a growing stream of trash from somewhere far below. More objects fly up from out of the clouds, forming a vast ring of human detritus - greasy pizza boxes, torn bike inner tubes, watermelon rinds, broken headlights, partially inflated, plastic floaty chairs, clogged gutters, broken highways, felled trees, desecrated temples, bleached coral reefs, machine guns, whale carcasses, troop carriers . . . a ballistic missile. Soot arises from below in shooting currents and falls from above like black snow, adding thick darkness to the density of the swirling mass. This halo, intensifying with each passing moment, throbs like a massive black heart.

She(me) is shouting, “We should go, we should go,” over and over again.

“Go where?”

She(me) points behind me. “Over the edge! It’s what you want, trust me. It’s what you’ve always wanted . . . ever since Isaac died.”

Perhaps she(me)’s right, perhaps I ’m right. I imagine Isaac’s silent corpse in its hermetically sealed plastic tent. I always wished it had been me. I don’t want to go on without him, my phantom limb of a brother. I want to taste the dirt below forever, rid myself of this Mother, that Isaac, and all she(me)(he) represents. The palliative reality of 246

non-existence is the only comfort for lost people like me. Let the warm blanket of death enshroud me. “Come take my hand,” I call out to her. “We’ll jump together.”

The swirling mass has become a giant tornado and we are in the eye. It now blocks out all light from both the sun and moon. Her hand slips into mine through darkness. It feels like Mother’s even though I know different, but I pretend nonetheless -

I don’t want to so this alone - and then I imagine becoming part of the black gyre.

“Cecil, please, it’s me!”

“Why are you interrupting me? ” My voice, so strangely real in this dream, bounces back to me from the walls o f this dim room.

“You must wake up, snap out of it. I am so very scared for you right now. ”

“I ’ve made my decision!"

Now, we step up onto the top of the wall. The wind howls as the storm closes in.

I’m squeezing her hand so tightly, bones may break.

“Ouch! Cecil you ’re hurting me! ”

One. She(me)(he) is counting out loud one last time.

“Open your eyes! ”

“It ’s too late! ” I respond.

Two.

“Cecil, i t ’s me, C—”

But I cannot hear the rest. She’s consumed by confusion.

A dog barks. 247

Three.

And then her voice, loud like thunder in the mountains this time, reaches me: “It’s me, i t ’s Cake. ”

Bent at the knees, I nearly jump, but my muscles seize as my mind searches for clarity. Cake-Cake! Cake-Cake! She does not belong here. Cake-Cake!

She(me)(he) senses my hesitation. “We must go now!”

I pull my hand away from hers. A strong gust of wind nearly knocks us off the ledge. “You can’t rule me anymore,” I yell. “I won’t listen, I won’t obey. You’re mine no longer, and I will be free.” And as I reach toward her through the darkness, I see out of the comer of my eye that far above me, a giant slit of white light begins to open, tearing into the dark sky.

She(me)(he) tries to grab me, her fingernails scraping parallel lines across my still-naked body, but I am too fast for her. I seize her flabby forearm and pull it down.

She bends awkwardly, her other arm flailing forward as she tries to regain her balance.

Now I take hold of the back of her white jacket. She looks back at me momentarily, her wrinkled face anguished by her imminent defeat.

“I only wanted to save you,” she whispers.

“I know,” I respond, before catapulting her out into the storm. I nearly fall with her, but manage instead to jump back to the safety of the rooftop.

I tremble. The slit above continues to open slowly into an eye, allowing the faintest light to enter the scene. She(me)(he) is gone. I sit up and try to catch my breath. 248

My heart feels ready to rupture, and somehow I know that I’m still only seconds away from death. I reach down and notice a change: the hard roofing material has given way to grass and soil. I look around and find the outlines of ferns where there had been metal heating vents, fruit trees instead of HEP A filter units. The opening above me continues its awakening, letting in still more light. And now I realize that I’m in fact no longer on the top of a hospital building at all; it’s been transformed into a verdant mountain. The spiraling trash is breaking up into flocks of birds and swarms of insects that spiral down toward the canopied forest below and then scatter into the dying winds. A deep gorge opens in the forest floor and sucks all of the swirling soot down into an unknown vault far below the earth’s surface.

Now some structures arise from the jungle, skyscrapers, cathedrals, and apartment buildings, but they are not cold steel cutting through green. They are not rectangular edicts pressed down from above. They do not bleed endless paved streets and parking lots. No, indeed, these buildings bend and twist in harmony with their surroundings.

Vines drip from their roofs, and bright flowers form large swathes of color across their surfaces. Moss covers every square inch. Each building is alive, giving shelter to birds and monkeys, sloths and pandas. And I begin to see human forms darting through the trees. There’s one now, standing on a balcony. She is naked and surrounded by butterflies and hummingbirds. She looks up at me and waves. Is this the future? Are these my people? Have I found my followers? 249

The eye, nearly completely open now, illuminates all that is before me. I look up to witness it. And through it, I see her, red hair, tears in her green eyes. She is looking down at me, touching my cheek. I float up from my bucolic sub-world, growing larger .

. and then larger still, until my eye fits into the eye in the sky. One of her tears falls and lands on my forehead. I’ve become the eye looking up through my own tears, and they are as clear and warm and pure as when I was a child. PART 4 251

Chapter 29

I’m lying on my back under a blank ceiling; the plaster above me has been cracked and mended so many times that it looks like a satellite image of a melting ice cap

. .. or a crazed freeway map ... or a diagram of testicular veins and arteries; there’s a peculiar permanence to the floor that supports me, as if it’s been here forever, waiting for me; I imagine pottery shards, piles of ancient seashells, and Indian bones buried deep down, directly below me; I’m thinking that if I were a seed, I would want to land here to take root; I feel my wooden tendrils burrowing into layers of loam and clay, crawling down through time, as I create a tiny, clean, white stalk that reaches for air; I take a deep breath and sense the stillness of the room; it overwhelms me; I’ve been shot from a cannon during battle and fallen into a quiet corner of forest... far away from the action .

As this frenetic blur races through my mind - thoughts tripping over each other as if I’ve bathed my cerebral cortex in adrenaline - my body lies wooden, unattached, my vision fixed on the cracks above me. I wait for the heaviness of Mother to interrupt, to take over as she always has. But she no long exists in that form. Her role in this drama has been reduced: she’s now the quirky innkeeper who’s been in town for so long that no one really notices her anymore. My fingers start to twitch and I roll my ankles one at a time. I’m awakening, feeling the world around me again ... or anew. I sense the confusion of where I have been and where I am now as the tiniest seed; it has not flowered into existence. Rather I’m simply content to be breathing real air again. Each 252

molecule of my being, each microbe, buzzes with a contained, but powerful energy. I wish I could stay in this invigorated calm forever.

Then I realize that Cake is kneeling next to me. I feel her breath on my semi­ exposed chest; I smell her earthy perfume. She’s holding my hand, now taking my pulse.

Her touch is unimaginable - no Captured Touch here, she gives it to me freely, fingers on skin. Real skin, my skin. “Slowly,” she says.

I turn away from her voice.

How did this happen?

I shouldn’t be here.

But where else would I want to be?

“Cecil?”

I’m too weak to move, to run - my first instinct. I can’t remember anything right

off the bat, but I know what I feel, and I have to get away from here . .. from her. I can’t

imagine answering her, but then I hear myself saying: “Thank you.”

“You’re safe now. You’re in my living room, and you’re safe. You just had

another episode and passed out again.”

I slowly turn my head and look at her.

She is relieved; her face, wet with tears, softens as I look for a brief moment into

her eyes.

All of my thoughts of fleeing sink quickly into those eyes, like coins into the sea,

never to be retrieved. 253

“Just take your time. I think you’re going to be okay now. You look different somehow. How do you feel?”

I don’t know how to answer; is there a reference point? I respond as best as I can:

“I think that shadow place is gone.”

“Good.”

“And Mother, too.”

She squeezes my hand . .. and somehow I find the courage to squeeze back.

##

“It’s nice to see the color coming back into your cheeks,” she says. “I was so worried.”

We’re sitting at a tiny table, facing each other, knees almost touching. The kitchen is small, but sunny, with an open ceiling, exposed rafters, and a skylight. Above the kitchen sink, an open window allows the faint sounds of the compound, mostly kids playing, to penetrate the otherwise silent cottage. Across from the sink, the back door, painted dark blue with five cartoonish sunflowers shooting up from the floor, is also open and leads to a small, empty slope covered in clover. At the top of the little hill, a mossy, overgrown fence leans against a line of citrus trees, where countless lemons shine like

Christmas ornaments in the afternoon sun.

She sips coffee. I’m slowly eating a large bowl of fresh cut peaches in kefir with a heavy soup spoon and drinking a glass of water. She is dressed in a flowing outfit of heather green. I’m barefoot and wrapped in a terry cloth robe that seems familiar. A 254

bright rectangle of sunlight on the wooden floor boards warms my feet. She’s watching me, but I can’t bring myself to meet her gaze.

Denarius sits at my side, his head resting like an anchor on my thigh. I look out the open door and think about slipping out and disappearing, but I have no place to go.

Also, surprisingly, I realize that I’m not feeling cramped here with her. Something is different about me ... or is it just her? I’m so used to running and hiding, but my gut says to stay. And she seems to want me here too, at least for a now, though I know not why.

“What happened to me?” I ask. Bits and pieces are coming back to me in a garbled form - they’re like a skipping DVD - but huge gaps still permeate my memory.

“They told me at the hospital that I had some type of amnesia. Did they tell you that, too?”

Cake’s awkward smile measures equal parts confusion and fear. “Hospital?”

I take a bite of kefir; a section of peach squirts juice into my cheek. “No hospital?

I wasn’t just released to you or something like that?”

“You haven’t been to a hospital... as far as I know.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Four days.”

“Four days! I just got here ... didn’t I?”

“No, you’re confused. It’s been over four days now.”

“Really?”

“Why would I lie?” 255

“Of course, I’m sorry. So how did I get here?”

“The boys found you in Memorial Park.”

“Izzy and Abe?”

“Yes. They went looking for you after you didn’t show up for Thursday night’s dive session. I looked for you too - the morning after . . . but I didn’t know where to find you.” Her voice breaks, but I don’t exactly know (remember) why. “They brought you all the way over here in their little wagon. Izzy pulled while Abe pushed and held you upright from behind. When I saw the state you were in, I wanted to take you to the hospital right away, but Mr. Oh said you might freak out. He said you’re terrified of places like that - places that are too hygienic, too clean. Izzy and Abe agreed. I was out­ voted.”

“They were right. I can’t be in a hospital. It would kill me.”

“I know that now. I understand. They told me about your microbes and your plan.

They said you thought you’d found a fountain of youth or something.”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” I say quietly, though it nonetheless comes out more abrupt than I’d intended. “So they found me in the park?” Now I’m starting to remember a bit more: the twinkle lights, Mr. Oh and I standing on a dark hill, the taste of mead. “What was I doing?”

“Nothing, they said that you were just lying there, buried in leaves and trash. At first, they thought you were dead. But they said you kind of woke up for a second and said something they couldn’t understand. You were dressed in that gray sweat suit you 256

wore to the first ICoF meeting, and your skin was covered in thick, black grease. Does any of that ring a bell?”

I close my eyes. I remember the alleyway behind Goodwill and the grease from the dumpster. Annette giving me those dress-up clothes flashes through my mind .. . coupled with a cloudy, but unmistakable sense of shame. Then I remember the crowbar, falling to the ground. “Yes, I remember a little bit more now.”

“They also said something about hundreds of little plastic cups.”

“Plastic cups?” I’m searching, but I can’t quite grab hold of the right memory; it dashes here and there like a snow hare through the heavy drifts in my mind. I’m starting to feel highly agitated, though, and anxious ... and nauseous. Where the warmth of the sun soothed before, it has now grown too intense. My feet are sweating. I open my eyes, drop the spoon into the remaining kefir, and push the bowl away.

I feel her looking at me quizzically. “They said the cups looked like they were from a doctor’s office or something.”

“Yes.” I close my eyes again, a weak, but necessary defense against her scrutiny.

Maybe I should I go, get out before she finds out about. .. but I can’t remember and I need her, so I remain. “I remember breaking into my house.”

“What house?” I hear her concern escalating with each strange remarks.

I cover my face with my hands and begin to rock back and forth in my chair.

“Are you okay?” 257

“Never mind.” I say as calmly as possible, though I know my uneven tone reveals my own growing alarm. I feel my body balling up, the ancient instinct of preservation taking over. “Keep going,” I say through my hands as they press against my face.

I ’m in my pitch black basement, breathing dirt. I'm facing my shelves, my collection. I hear Debussy's Premiere Rhapsodie. Then, I ’m walking away, dragging the heavy duffle bag behind me.

The chair below me begins to complain loudly as my rocking intensifies.

“Well, let’s see, they also found your backpack, which had just a few items in it - like a coffee mug or something.”

“Yeah, okay.” Though I am not okay at all. I recall that first morning with

Annette, her unsolicited kindness, and then fast-forward to my quasi-crucifixion on the back wall of Goodwill. How could I ever have thought that she would betray me? So much went so wrong that night.

“Please don’t freak out again,” Cake says, reaching across the table and putting her hand on my hunched, shaking back.

“I have to know! What else? What else did they find?”

“They also mentioned an empty duffle bag.”

“Empty?”

I ’m lying in the nest... about to die.

I almost fall off the chair into the scorching sun, but catch myself just in time. She removes her hand from my back. I want to climb under the table. 258

“Yeah,” she answers, “that’s what they said, completely empty.”

I ’m too weak to move.

“They were so worried about you, they didn’t bother to grab any of your—•”

“Wait, and the containers?”

I look for anything to eat.

“Were they empty too?” I ask.

“The boys said all the little blue lids had been removed and—”

“No, no, no!” I'm a pill bug, and I must eat to survive. “You’re lying!” But I know it’s true.

“Cecil, what’s wro—”

“Please don’t talk to me. I need to lie down again. I need to die - 1 mean be

alone.”

“I understand. You have a lot to process.” She then helps me from my chair and guides me through a swinging door back into her living room. “Rest now. Try to get

some sleep.” 259

Chapter 30

Hours later, I’m waking up on Cake’s sofa, curled up in a ball, with a thick duvet pulled up over my head. I feel Denarius’s heft resting against my feet. The air in here is hot and filled with the smell of my own breath . . . and with an undercurrent o f. . .

(what’s that smell?). .. an undercurrent o f. .. ass from the couch cushions (maybe hers?). I’m as cozy as a goose egg in an incubator.

So all my samples are gone. Thirteen years of work, the careful documentation of my microbial life down the drain - or ‘the gullet’ rather. They were irreplaceable. Holy relics, some (in the future) might have said. It seems impossible, like a poorly conceived nightmare. But I remember the taste in my mouth - an indelible memory that will fascinate me for the rest of my life.

But at least I'm still alive, right? My continued existence has to be noted ... and highlighted, for that matter. Maybe my samples served their purpose after all, albeit not the one that I had initially intended. I’d be six feet under right now if it weren’t for those precious few calories. I’m sure of it. The Fates can be so cruel, though, rolling their golden dice in the great, gilded casino in the clouds. They laugh as they set forth the most painful, rugged path for some, while granting a tranquil stroll through sun-dappled meadows for others. But maybe the loss of my samples is all part of a greater plan, an expanded version of my Plan - a predestined result set in motion the first time I pulled my pants down and sat on that old blue bucket in my basement so many years ago. The 260

Plan must be fluid ... or it is shattered. And I refuse the latter. Mr. Oh would agree. I was rigid before and look where that got me.

I don’t know what to make of this bizarre gastronomical twist in my great story, but I resolve not to mention it to anyone . .. ever. There is no need for such a disturbing

scene to be included in my biography. It could be confusing. I don’t want any of my followers to replicate that act, ceremoniously or otherwise. I never liked the idea of

people eating the body and blood of Christ; what insane replica would they make up for

my samples? Plastic cups of thickened maple syrup? Dollops of chocolate? Sodden brown bread? We will have other ceremonies, just not this one. I also decide not to mourn

excessively the loss of my shit; I have the capacity to make more and that is worth an

entire mountain of old samples.

I’m fingering my ribs, so pronounced now that they feel like a series of mountain

chains across my chest. As I awake more, I realize that this body, my body, has already begun to recover. My arms and legs ache only a little. I run my hands down my thighs

and then message my calf muscles for a few minutes. They are still tight. I may have lost

my way - and a few pounds in the process - but I’m still strong. I just need to replenish

my systems. Get everything back on track.

I wonder what has been happening in my gut and in my skin. Have my microbes

persevered through all of this? Did they just slip into a state of hibernation or something, just waiting for me to recover? Or will I have to rebuild? Start from scratch? Whatever

the case may be, I am starting to think that I can face the future, despite its radical 261

departure from the past. It’s as if a piece of a difficult puzzle has fallen into place ... or maybe better, it is as if I’ve just thrown the whole damn, mismatched puzzle that I’ve been working on my entire life into a blazing fire and decided to try something totally

different, like pinochle or Parcheesi. I don’t know what that means exactly, but I’m a

feeling something I remember, but almost forgot , it feels kind of like pissing with the

wind at my back, my shining, yellow stream reaching through pure sunlight for the glassy

clear sky high above. It feels like optimism, I guess - what a strange and rare bird she is.

Now I cover my heart with my palm and follow its soothing rhythm between

somnolent visions and a flood of returning memories. I’m hugging Annette, admiring

myself in the mirror at Goodwill, looking into Cake’s eyes at the ICoF meeting, walking

with silent Abe, talking to Mr. Oh. I try to avoid the disaster of that night for as long as

possible, but eventually I can’t push the memory far enough away: Mr. Oh pushing the

pea into my hand, that green orb flying through the dark night, Xavier’s fist connecting

with my crooked nose over and over again, stuck on a rewind loop in my mind. I

remember running down the hill. . . and then I see the spirits in the park. Every detail of

that fateful night has come back to me in crystalline form (minus the mead-induced

black-out at the table of course)... but then I see only a gray blizzard after that... with

disconnected snippets appearing through the blowing snow: blacked-out Moneta in the

white room, my samples dumped in a pile in the nest, the line - the zipper - in the back

of my head, the white bath and the chipped coffee mug of almonds, Jim Plunket and the

picture of the strange apartment building, the worn leather chair, my bloody trail through 262

the hospital, Denarius’s tongue on my thigh, Mother whispering and then falling into darkness. I’m sweating profusely now under this duvet, so I throw it off, sit up, and swing my legs onto the floor.

The room is dark. An outdoor light shines through partially closed Venetian blinds, casting a dim set of lines onto the floor, where I awoke - and Cake kneeled next to me - just this afternoon. I’m naked, except for a pair of boxer shorts, but it’s a warm night.

“I was starting to wonder what you were doing under there, man,” a voice from a black comer says, nearly scaring the shit out of me ... literally.

After a moment, I say into the blackness: “Mr. Oh?”

“Yeah, of course it’s me.”

“What are you doing sitting in the dark like that?”

“Thinking. Listening. Being. Not being. You know. Oh, and I yawned a couple of times a while back. That was exciting. What were you doing?”

“Remembering,” my tone, unintentionally accusatory.

“Oh yeah, about that, I’m sorry. I totally forgot that that douche-bag Xavier can’t take a joke. Do you know that he has never worked a single day in his whole life? When he was young, he spent all his time becoming some kind of Judo champion, but I think his real black belt is in arrogance and drunkenness. His dad made a bunch of money importing toxic floor tiles from Bangladesh and then died a few years back in an ultralight crash in the Himalayas. What a stupid way to go. So now Xavier walks around 263

like he’s some kind of big shit, but he doesn’t even see the world around him, he doesn’t understand anything. Money doesn’t make you smart or right.

“But anyway, the other night was completely my fault. I get a little carried away at parties sometimes. My wife used to hate attending any social events with me. We hosted a Super Bowl party one year, the 49ers were in it -Joe Cool at the helm, remember him? - and I got so fired up that I pissed my pants, kissed my neighbor’s wife on the lips, and accidentally tipped over our brand new television during the fourth quarter. I had a lot of making up to do after that one. My wife made me take her to Panama for spring break, and I still didn’t get laid until late summer. Talk about dog house. But anyway, I shouldn’t have put you in that position. It was crazy of me, in fact. Totally crazy. But as they say, ‘all’s fair in love and war!”’

“What’s that supposed to mean? You can’t just throw out some old saying and make everything all right. It doesn’t even make sense.”

“Sure it does. I mean, you won the battle, dude. And you might just be winning the war.”

“What battle? What war?”

“You know, what we were talking about that night. Remember?”

“You’re crazy.”

“Listen, after you made your very dramatic exit the other night - kudos, by the way, on letting it all hang out there . . . very Michael Douglas of you - anyway, like I was saying, after you left, Cake shut the whole party down. She was furious. When she tried 264

to kick Xavier off the property, he refused to leave. Of course he owns the whole place, so I guess that makes sense. But then she called the cops, and he got so belligerent that they ended up locking him up in the drunk tank for the night. It was awesome!

Everybody was screaming and hollering, women were crying! Even the kids were freaking out. Definitely one of the top ten parties I’ve ever attended.”

“You’re insane. But I still don’t understand. What does that have to do with me?”

“Really? You’re not that naive, are you? You got the bloody nose, man, but you could end up with the girl! It’s a classic move.”

“I’m not naive at all. . . well, maybe a little ... I haven’t really . .. well... so what do you mean? I wasn’t making any ‘moves’ . .. was I? And can you turn on some lights please? It’s weird talking to you and not being able to see your face.”

After a moment, a faint light from a floor lamp flickers on next to him. “CFLs, they just ain’t the same,” he says, smiling. He’s sitting in that soft leather chair that I vaguely remember. “So anyway,” he leans forward and clasps his hands together, “you got a legit shot at the title if you can stay on your feet a few more rounds. I’ve been watching her. The morning following the party, she ran all over town looking for you.

She was really worried.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything. She’s just a kind soul, sympathetic to a fault.

She just felt bad about what happened at the party. And why should I trust you anyway?”

“Trust me or don’t. It’s your call. But I have to ask: who else do you have in your life who you can talk to about these things? Your dog?” 265

I shake my head.

Oh, your microscopic friends then? They give you good romantic advice, do they?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want a friend?”

A friend? The word hangs in the air above him, illuminated by the dim lamplight.

What an alien, but beautiful concept. “Yes,” I whisper, as I turn my head away and wipe one lone, but heavy tear from my eye.

“Good. So now, what are you going to do? But before you answer, let me tell you what you’re not going to do. You’re not going to keep freaking her out all the time, okay?

You’ve been acting way too crazy over here the past few days. I can handle it, Izzy and

Abe can kind of handle it, but she’s starting to think you have some serious problems. For example, you’ve got to stop convulsing on the floor every five minutes, okay? Just stop it. It’s not working - for her, for anybody, really. Get your shit together. And no more eyes rolling back into your head; it’s not really a good look on you. And you’ve got to stop asking where your mother is all the time. It’s way too weird; I’d venture a guess that only the tiniest minority of women could ever - ever, ever, ever - get turned on by that, my friend. She might like the freaks - I’ve heard some disturbing things about Xavier’s sexual eccentricities - but you’re asking a lot there with that Mommy blabber all the time.”

“What are you talking about?” 266

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember a lot of stuff right now. Everything since the night of the party is mostly gone. Just not there, like a hard drive wiped clean. I have little pockets of memories -they’re like ghosts or fireflies - but they’re all jumbled up with a bunch of other stuff that doesn’t make any sense at all - that didn’t really happen. It’s some kind of amnesia or something, I think.”

“Wow, that’s fucked up. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, I’m a little confused about some things, but I’m starting to feel better.”

“Glad to hear it.”

But wait, what were you saying about my mother?”

“Oh yeah, you’ve been saying over and over - in this terrible, sing-songy voice -

‘Mother, Mother, where are you, Mother?’ You’re like a broken record of a little baby lost in the supermarket. Sorry, but it’s true. Talk about mommy issues. Paging Doctor

Freud. You also keep repeating, ‘Why are you here, Cecil?’ like you’re the Ghost of

Christmas Past or something talking to yourself about your existential angst. I keep thinking that I should hit you over the head with a copy of The Stranger to see if that would knock some sense into you, but then you keep collapsing onto the floor - and you start jerking around in circles and drooling and all that shit - and then the moment is completely lost. It’s all been more than a little bit creepy, my friend. I keep telling you to just shut up and act normal, but you just don’t listen.”

“Are you serious?” 267

“Yes!”

“That’s terrible. I don’t remember any of that.”

“You can fact check me with Izzy and Abe when you see them. They’ll be by tomorrow. We’ve all been taking shifts, making sure you don’t swallow your tongue or turn into that girl on The Exorcist or something.”

“I don’t really know what to say.”

“Oh, and Cecil, one more thing, do yourself a favor, put your robe on - my robe, actually, it’s a loaner, so don’t get too attached to it - before Cake gets back; your little soldier is peaking out at me through your boxers.”

“Whose underwear are these?” I ask, as I pick up the terry cloth robe from the floor and wrap it around me. Denarius stirs at my side, but does not wake.

“EPALCOB surplus. They don’t throw anything away around here ”

“Thanks for lending me the robe.”

“No worries. And I was just joking. It’s yours if you want it. I’ve got hundreds stashed all over town.”

“Really?”

“No, but you can still have it.”

“Thanks. And thanks for everything. I think you all saved my life . . . right?”

“If it walks like a chicken ...”

“You mean ‘duck’?” 268

“No, I hate ducks. Can’t stand all that waddling. At least chickens can walk around with some self-respect.”

“Okay, well anyway, thanks . . . again.”

“For you, anything!”

“You’re a very strange guy, Mr. Oh.”

“Right back at you, Big C. Beer? I know I could use one.”

“No thanks. But I am hungry again.”

“Great. I’ve been working on gathering together some of your favorite foods, based on the conversation we had at the party. We have bags of nuts, fresh fruit, carrots, beans, lots of yogurt, you know, all that healthy stuff for your precious microbes. Oh yeah, Izzy said you went ape-shit for sauerkraut. It just so happens that one of the many

EPALCOB grannies who are always trying to get in my pants - well, under my robe, rather - makes huge batches of the stuff all the time in her pantry. There’s a whole big bowl of it in the kitchen, just waiting for you.”

##

I’m dead and am now in heaven. How many days, months, years, lifetimes has it been, my tangy, fresh friend? Too long, much too long. If abstinence bent appreciation

over the dryer, their babies would taste like the sauerkraut I’m now devouring. Each limp

leaf is a Vivaldi concerto; sour violins and acerbic violas penetrate my taste buds, reaching down deep into my soul and lifting me into the clouds. I suck and chew, pour juice from the bowl into my mouth, spilling only a few drops down my chin. I slurp. 269

chomp, and swallow; the earth stops spinning and then disappears for a moment, and it’s

just me and sauerkraut floating through the pulsating universe, neither here, nor there, just floating in black, blissful emptiness.

Mr. Oh sips his beer and watches me in silence (a feat of remarkable abstinence

on his part, I should say).

When I have drunk down the last drops of vinegar and licked the bowl clean, he

says, “I guess Izzy was right. Taste good?”

“That was .. . orgasmic.”

“Really? Well good for you. I doubt many people have said that about sauerkraut

before, but that’s cool. Whatever gets you off. I’ll get you some more tomorrow, no

sweat.. . well maybe a little, but she’s really quite a sweet, but energetic old thing. And

we’ve never done it in her pantry.”

“Huh?”

“Never you mind.”

Just then Denarius - who had, moments before, been audibly snoring in the living

room - barks, pushes his big snout through the swinging door, and then pads into the

kitchen, tail wagging.

“I think your girlfriend’s home,” Mr. Oh says with a wink.

“Stop it.”

“Don’t worry, you got this. No more of that Mommy crap and you’ll be fine. I’ll

be back later - tomorrow - or whenever. I’ll see you soon, okay?” 270

“Okay.”

He goes into the living room as the front door opens. I hear them exchange a few words. “Goodnight,” Cake says before closing the door.

And then I realize that we are alone in here, just her and me - and Denarius, of course, but he’s not much of a conversationalist. I’m afraid I’m going to throw up all the sauerkraut I just ate. What a mess that would make all over the kitchen floor. I swallow hard against this thought as the kitchen door opens. I think about what Mr. Oh said: all I have to do is stop acting sick and crazy. I should be able to fake that for a little while, right? No, not really, I fear - I’ve got a pretty poor track record - but I straighten up anyway and promise to give it my best effort.

“Hi,” she says, as she walks into the room, her voice strong as always, but different... in a sad way. But maybe she’s just tired - a wilting daisy that will perk up come morning. “How are you feeling?” She crossed the small kitchen, sets a cloth bag down on the counter, and begins to unpack a few items from the ICoF warehouse.

“Better, so much better. Thank you. I think I’ve turned a comer. I’m like myself again, only different. . . maybe even improved.”

“I see you ate all the sauerkraut?”

1 m sorry.

“No, that’s not what I meant at all. I’m glad to see you getting your appetite back.

Can I make you anything more to eat? I’m going to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” 271

“No, I’m really quite full now. I ate too much, I think. But it tasted so good.”

“I’ll tell Mrs. Bitterman.”

Oh & Bitterman, its sounds like a respectable actuarial firm, but I know better.

“Please do,” I respond, after a moment.

Cake cuts two slices from a loaf of multigrain bread and begins spreading peanut butter. She is methodical and quiet. The jelly lid is stuck, but she picks up a kitchen towel, applies herself to it, and pops it open.

I’m watching her - her back mostly - searching for something to say. Her hair falls down between her shoulders like a red waterfall; I want to bath in her pool. Then she sits down at the table, across from me just as before. “It’s strange,” she says, “you’ve only been here for four days.”

“What’s strange about that?”

“I don’t know.” She takes a bite of her sandwich and puts up one finger as she chews. Her eyes are tired and red as though she may have been crying. She swallows and says, “It’s strange how .. . comfortable I feel with you here. I’ve gotten used to our... silence. Maybe it’s just because I don’t want to be alone right now, but... I guess I’m just trying to say that I’m glad you’re here and getting better.”

Even her smile is unhappy.

I don’t know why she is so upset, but I know it’s better not to ask . . . yet. “I can’t thank you enough.” 272

“You needed someone, and we were lucky enough to be here for you. I believe in karma, or something like it, so the more people I help, the better, the stronger, I’ll be.

Your presence is a gift.”

“Do you get karma points for saving my dog too?”

“No, not really. Izzy said he was hanging around the park when they found you and then he followed them all the way up here. Mr. Oh said that you had three dogs before you became homeless. We figured he must be one of yours, the way he was acting and all.”

“His name’s Denarius.”

“I know. It’s a beautiful name. I went down to the pound a couple of days ago to see if I could find your other two. But they were gone.”

I see a thick needle inserted into a leg vein and then massive corpses being shoved into an incinerator. Why do Antiseptics feel the need to kill so many extraordinary creatures all the time?

“Dead?” I ask.

“Nope,” she shakes her head, “adopted. They wouldn’t tell me where they’d been placed. The records are confidential. But they did tell me that Denarius here escaped as he was being groomed for his new owners. I didn’t mention that we had him. It’s pretty amazing that he found you.”

“He always was the smartest one of the bunch.” I reach down and pat him on the head. Although I miss Marcus and Cassius, Denarius’s presence at my side gives me 273

strength. Half a family is better than none, I guess. Once again, I feel that rush of optimism, like my life is turning, finding a new direction. “I have another question for you, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.”

“Did you guys give me a bath?”

“Yeah. You remember?”

“It was all white.”

“Yogurt. Mr. Oh’s idea. You were covered in that black grease, and I didn’t want it all over my house. Sorry, but there was just no way you were going to stay here looking and smelling like you did that first day. Mr. Oh said that you don’t like soap because of your bacteria. So we compromised. We washed you and then tried to put some of the microbes back by dumping live-culture yogurt in the bath and letting you soak in that for a while.”

I grab the back of my neck and then run my hand down between my shoulder blades. “It’s very strange. I keep noticing how clean I look, but despite that, my skin feels kind of normal. M y normal, that is - rich with microbes. I don’t feel depleted, reduced, or anything like that. It’s weird and wonderful. Maybe you’re onto something.”

“Can you really feel a difference?”

I smile. They’ll never know . . . until I teach them. “You’ll probably think I’m crazy - most everyone does - but sometimes I can feel every single microbe on me, sense them doing their good work for me, with me, in me, as a part of me - on my skin, in my 274

mouth, all through my guts. Somewhere along the line - probably around the time humanity decided we were God’s gift to the world - we forgot how to listen to our entire bodies, including our legions of co-inhabitants. But when my microbiome is in tiptop shape, my body literally hums - or maybe it’s more like singing. Yeah, that’s it, my collective being singings a primordial song in three-trillion-part harmony. I know it sounds strange, but the difference between bacterial discord and corporal harmony is like night and day ... it’s the difference between being truly alive - more than you can ever imagine - and trudging through your days as a sterilized zombie.”

“Sounds like powerful stuff.”

“Oh, you can’t even imagine.”

“Maybe I’ll try a few spoonfuls of yogurt in my bath tomorrow.” Then she eats the last corner of her sandwich, grabs her plate and my empty bowl, and goes to the sink.

My eyes fall to my hands, which are cupped in my lap. Now I see her climbing into the bathtub as it fills with white liquid. She slides slowly down into its warm, opaque embrace. Bacteria swim between her breasts and legs, under the curve of her spine, and through the forest of feathery hairs on her arms. They are looking for the best spot to climb aboard. It’s warm in there, so wet, and sticky slick . .. like when I was in the tub, my skin so smooth, now her skin .... Now I’m in there with her, a microbe swimming and exploring, rubbing against her, and ....

“Cecil?”

“Oh! Sorry, I . . . .” 275

“I just asked you if you wanted a glass of milk. Are you about to have another one of your episodes?”

“No. I was just.. . daydreaming. I’m here, I’m okay,” I say as I wipe a few beads of sweat from my brow.

“Good. So?”

“So what?”

“So do you want some milk?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

She pours milk into two small juice glasses. Cricket- and frog-songs float into the kitchen through the slightly open window above the sink. She puts the milk jug back in the fridge, and I say: “Cake, one more thing about my bath, did you—”

“Wait! Before you continue, please don’t ever call me that again.”

“What? Cake? I thought—”

“You thought wrong. That was Xavier’s pet name for me, and then the others started using it. Nobody’s going to call me that ever again. My real name is Catherine.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. Of course you didn’t know.”

We both take a drink of milk.

She sets her glass down, rolls the base of it on the table, and then takes a breath.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be curt. I’ve had a hell of a day, and . . . .” 276

After a moment of silence, I let her off the hook: “You certainly don’t have to

explain yourself to me.”

“Thank you. I’d rather not, just for now. I’m too tired to get into all of it. Are you tired too?”

“I think I could sleep for the rest of my life and still want more.”

“We’ll get you caught up, don’t worry. EPALCOB is the best place for sleep.

Everyone’s calming energy coalesces at night, and then we all sleep like a bunch of

drugged-up babies - that is until Casper, our very punctual and boisterous rooster, begins

to crow. Then all bets are off.” She half-heartedly smiles at her own mild joke and then

finishes her milk; I follow suit. “But before we say goodnight, you were going to ask me

something more about your yogurt bath.”

“Oh yeah, so were you like ... in the room?”

Now she actually laughs: “The boys and Mr. Oh handled the actual bathing. Don’t worry, your dignity’s still intact.” 277

Chapter 31

The next morning and every morning for a week after, Catherine and I (along with eager Denarius of course) take a walk before dawn. She wasn’t lying about Casper;

he’s got a hell of a crow on him. I think his motto must be “five minutes early is ten

minutes late.” We’re always awake much before the sun. Then we cruise through

Berkeley’s empty streets until the darkness lifts and the streetlights overhead begin to

flicker off. We talk very little during these walks. I have found that she prefers it that

way. But our mutual silence is also due to the fact that I’m so frequently out of breath

that I have a hard time putting sentences together as we walk. Her long, thick legs carry

her up and down the steep hills of our designated route as if they’d been perfected for this

very purpose by countless generations of mountaineering ancestors. My stick-skinny

counterparts keep up, but just barely; I’ve discovered that my cardiovascular conditioning

has plummeted since I got kicked out of my house and lost access to my little gym and

backyard track.

When we do talk (often on the downhill stretch toward home), I notice that she

generally wants to hear about the Plan. Maybe she asks her many questions because she

knows it’s easy for me to tell her about microbes and the future of humanity. I think she’s just being kind. But I’ve also noticed on more than one occasion that she actively avoids

any discussion of her personal life. Every time we come anywhere close, she quickly

changes the topic: “I’ll tell you about that some other time,” she’ll say, “just not today.”

So, not wanting to overstep any boundaries with my overly gracious host, I stick to safe 278

topics. But I can always sense the cloud hanging over her head. Maybe she’s just getting

over her break-up with Xavier, I can’t be sure. Or perhaps, she is having trouble with

some of the Freegans. In any case, we just talk about the Plan and my former life. As we talk and as my strength begins to return in earnest, I start to work on the next phase - or maybe I should say, “The Next Phase” because I think it’s going to be huge, a slant

rhyme with the events surrounding Jesus rising from the grave or Buddha sitting under

the Bodhi tree.

When we return from our walks, Denarius immediately retreats to the couch

(where we two spend our nights wrapped around each other in a warm, slobbery

embrace). He seems to have softened at the shelter, but his calmer nighttime demeanor

works for me now. Catherine makes tea (decaf for me) and whole wheat toast topped

with peanut butter and banana slices. She cuts each piece diagonally into two thick flags

and then dribbles honey over the top. I take my small plate, steaming cup, and a couple of

thick blankets outside and sit on the front stoop of her cottage to give her time and space

to shower and get dressed.

As I eat, I watch the compound come alive. Mrs. Bitterman never fails to bring

me a large bowl of sauerkraut first thing after she wakes up. (One morning, I glimpsed

Mr. Oh sneaking out her back door as she emerged from the front.) I usually try to wait

until lunch to enjoy her gift, but the bowl is often licked clean by 10 a.m. You’re the only

person in the world who loves sauerkraut as much as I do, she says when I return the

empty bowl. She walks with a limp and uses a long Aztec rain stick for a cane. When we 279

talk, she casually flips it over. She tells me that the trickling sound of the hundreds of tiny pebbles falling through the helically arranged pins inside the hollow cane is her prayer for the end of the drought. She is soft and kind, yet fiery in an old-lady-radical kind of way. I am beginning to see why Mr. Oh spends so much time in her cottage.

Cheryl, the young woman who argued so vociferously with Xavier at the party about genetically altered human beings, also checks on me each morning on her way to campus. I’ve learned that she’s a highly regarded sociology professor. She always brings me the day’s San Francisco Chronicle and asks if I need anything from “the outside world.” But the Freegans’ warehouse leaves little to be desired. Nonetheless, she invariably offers again each morning and then wishes me “excellent health and a little fortune” before disappearing into her day of books, theories, and students.

About the time that Catherine emerges from the cottage, the compound’s children begin to awake and gather in the central area to decide how they’re going to spend their completely free summer day. They’re a rag-tag, little band of eight, with two long-haired preteens in charge of six grubby, little followers. I imagine them digging deep holes in the dirt, falling down grassy hillsides, and climbing trees, their many scrapes and cuts exposed to all of the bacterial glory of the natural world. I think perhaps that I should be spending my days with them, but never quite work up the courage to ask.

The week is marked by the East Bay’s typical summer weather pattern: cold, thick fog in the morning, a few hours of bright sun in the afternoon, and then more gloomy fog in the evening. I see Catherine only in the dark fog - early morning and at night. I wonder 280

what she does all day, but when I ask, she consistently answers with a vague response.

She would tell me if she wanted me to know, so I don’t press. I’ve taken to cooking dinner for her. Per her request, I prepare only food that is on the Plan. During the first couple of nights, we sit at the kitchen table together, but she ate almost nothing. For the past few nights, she just takes her plate, says thank you - while apologizing - and then retreats to her bedroom, the door to which is always closed. She is tired, she says. It’s been a long day, she says. I need to lie down, she says.

I just hope that she’s not tired of me.

While she’s gone during the day, I’m mostly alone. The round-the-clock monitoring has been cancelled. Everyone agrees that I’m doing much better since the

Awakening, my working name for the moment after those dark-blank days in which nothing was certain (no capitalized name for that shattered experience yet, but I’ll figure it out soon). So I just read the newspaper, think, and plan. I nap in the afternoons and play with Denarius in the evenings. I’ve begun taking yogurt baths every other day, usually in the morning after Catherine leaves. When I am drying off and I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I’m always struck by how normal I look. I am changing into somebody new, but I don’t know who that is yet. I miss my dirt-encrusted self, but my skin has never felt more alive, and I have to trust that feeling.

Mr. Oh visits frequently, as do Izzy and Abe, but they don’t stay long. They’ve got their own lives, and they sacrificed so much time and energy to get me back onto my feet. Plus, I don’t mind time alone right now. The presence of so many people in my life 281

so quickly is amazing, but also exhausting. I crave quiet now like I used to crave

Captured Touches.

I’ve made one of my favorite meals tonight, miso soup with a side of kimchi

sprinkled with chia seeds, and I’m hoping to gently convince Catherine to eat with me.

Our quiet walks in the morning together are blissful, yet I’m starting to want more. I can’t

help myself. Every morning when she comes into the dim main room where Denarius and

I are waiting, I catch my breath and think I’ll never again be happier than right at that

moment. But then the next morning comes, and the feeling intensifies; each repetition a

shard of hope stuck in my heart. Perhaps my time with her will become indefinite, a

haunting voice sings in my head. Perhaps. You see, my mind now lives on a knife’s edge

between ecstasy and complete annihilation. I worry that one of these morning will be our

last. Will she ask me to leave? Will Xavier come back? Is she simply putting up with me

until I seem fully recovered? Sometimes she places her hand on my shoulder as we head

out into the darkness. These touches are becoming more real, and more necessary, but are

they significant just for me? I’m terrified to ask, but I know I must.

I’ve set the table for two with cloth placemats and rainbow-colored napkins that I

discovered hidden in a cabinet behind a large pot. I’ve asked for and received a bottle of

white wine from Cheryl. She said it’s dry with a wide body, whatever that means. And I

even picked a few, tiny clover flowers from the backyard and arranged them in a small

glass as a centerpiece. 282

As I am stirring the soup, Mr. Oh pops his head in the kitchen door. “What’s all this then?” he says.

“I’m just making dinner.”

“Oh, well, if that’s all, then can I stay and eat with you?” He takes a seat at the table.

“No!”

He laughs. “I’m kidding, Cecil. You clearly have plans for two, not three. What are doing? What’s your plan?”

I hesitate. My plan? I stir my thoughts in with the soup in the pot below me. “I don’t have a plan. I think I... I’m nervous about Catherine. She’s been so distant for the past few days. She doesn’t eat with me anymore. She takes her dinner into her room. And

I don’t know... I’m scared that she could never love someone like me. I’m too ...”

“Too what? Too skinny? Too ugly? Too weird? Too shy? Too traumatized? Too fucked up six ways from Sunday? Well, let me tell you, you’re all those things - and much more. But so is everybody else, buddy. From the Queen of Sheba to the King of

Siam, everybody’s got their warts, some large and bulbous and right smack on their nose and then some much less obvious. But sometimes those insidious ones are the worst - sometimes they ooze pus right when you least expect it, like all over your family vacation or the Thanksgiving table.”

“What are you talking about?” Sometimes I wish he would just keep it short and plain. 283

“I’m just asking: do you think Catherine’s shit don’t stink? Or mine? Or even sweet Mrs. Bitterman’s? Trust me, that little old lady’s got more demons locked up in her wrinkled head than a psychiatric ward built over an Indian graveyard. Sure, some people seem ‘normal’ but they’re just better at faking it, better at pretending to be okay. Some people pretend so long and hard that they actually believe their own hype, but all their insecurities are still there, boiling in caldrons behind thin, fraying curtails. Those types tend to lose touch with their darkness - with their true nature - and then they just

explode. Listen, Catherine doesn’t need some big, empty dick in her life; she already tried that with Xavier. All she needs - all anybody ever really needs when it comes right down to the subterranean reality of our fragile psyches - is someone we trust enough to

comfort us when we feel pain, doubt, and confusion. I’m sure that Catherine doesn’t trust you yet, given the way you came into her life. She probably thinks that you’re going to

disappear soon, go back to your wandering ways - or cut her into a thousand tiny pieces

and shove them all up your ass. Who knows what she’s really thinking?”

“Ah . . . okay. So how do I get her to trust me?” I’m still stirring the soup, an

excuse not to turn and face Mr. Oh. He freaks me out so bad sometimes. “She barely talks

to me. That’s why I set the table. That’s why I got the wine. I want her to sit with me and

look at me, even if I can’t look back.”

“Can’t look back?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look at her? Even when you are talking? 284

I move my face into the steam as it rises from the pot and let it moisten my face.

“She’s like the sun,” I respond. “Even after all this time, I don’t know how to look at her.

It almost hurts when I try.”

“That’s not going to work, dude.”

I set the ladle onto a small china plate decorated with a pastoral scene of a single hut next to a waterfall with smoke rising from its short chimney into the cerulean sky and turn around. “Well what am I supposed to do?”

“Haven’t you been listening to me at all? You have to fake it till you make it.

Pretend like you’re someone else for a while. Pick a superhero. Pick a movie actor. Pick anybody that exudes confidence and then just pretend.” I think of my partying, world-

savvy alter ego, cousin Hans from Germany for a quick moment. “Put the vast, stinking

piles of garbage in your head aside for a while, and be someone that she can rely on -

even if it’s not really you. Become the palm tree that she tethers herself to during the hurricane of life, the anchor that holds fast during the stormy nights. Look her directly in the eyes and let her vomit her insecurities all over your face. And then lick it up like

you’ve never tasted anything so good in your life. Eventually, it will come true. You’ll

ache for her to vomit in your face. It’ll become an integral part of you. Then she’ll begin

to trust you and start to spew more. It’s simple really: vomit, lick, trust, rinse, and repeat.

After a while, she’ll start to think about choosing you to be her mate for life. And then,

and only then, can you start parceling out all of your weirdo crap onto her. But don’t rush 285

into that because I think you’re probably boxing in the heavy weight class when it comes to fucked-up-shit-ness ”

Sometimes Mr. Oh’s perspective on life seems a bit bleak to me, but what do I know? He certainly has more experience than I do. “Fake it till you make it, huh?”

“That’s right - you have to become the giant, male gorilla in her life that can bring home the big banana at night and then bear the burden of all her insecurities and vulnerabilities in the morning. Look at her, touch her, and give her confidence that her broken soul can find solace with you.”

“I guess I can do that.”

“Don’t be silly, of course you can. Everyone acts myriads of parts in life. You just have to choose the right role for the right situation. So now, I’m going to take my leave, fine gentleman. Third wheel and all that. Good night and good luck.”

A few minutes after he leaves, while I am putting the finishing touches on the kimchi, I hear the front door open. I can feel her presence seeping under the kitchen door and attaching itself to me even before she says hello. My stomach drops, but I fight the nervousness.

“I’m in here,” I call, “in the kitchen.” I think my voice sounds normal.

She pushes the swinging door open and comes in. When I glance at her, she looks so small, so deflated.

“Are you okay?” I ask. 286

“No, I’m not okay.” She immediately sits down. “You set the table. And picked flowers. And wine.” Her voice is so flat I can’t tell if her statements are observations or accusations.

“I was hoping that we could eat together tonight. I... I miss you.” It sounds wrong coming out. I wish I could take it back immediately. I can’t miss her because I don’t have any claim to her.

But it wasn’t wrong. She pushes one of the place settings aside, folds her arms on

the table, and rests the side of her head on her right forearm. I see tears forming at the

comers of her eyes, but she holds firm. “You miss me? That’s the nicest thing anybody’s

said to me all week.”

“It’s true.” I try to look at her, but she shifts her head away, so I turn to the stove.

“Can I serve you a bowl of soup?”

“Yes. That would be nice.”

As I’m ladling miso, I hear a noise (a man shouting?) that seems to be coming

from the central area of the compound. Perhaps one of the kids is getting in trouble,

though yelling is not one of the preferred EPALCOB methods of discipline. Usually, they

make the disciplinee sit in the cleansing tent or simply hug him or her and whisper kind,

gentle words into their ears until the moment passes. I step over to the table with a full

bowl of steaming soup. Catherine sits up, though seems pained by it. I slide the placemat

back in front of her, set the bowl down, and fill our two glasses with wine.

“Thank you,” she says as she takes a sip of the wine. “Lovely.” 287

There’s another noise outside, this time louder. She notices too, but doesn’t say anything. I close the kitchen window.

“I have to tell you something,” she said, picking her spoon up and skimming the top of the soup. “But ...” She sips a tiny bit of soup from the spoon. “This is very nice.”

I know she is looking at me, I can feel her gaze on me, but thankfully I’m filling my own bowl. Mr. Oh is right, though, I need to be able to look at her. She needs to be able to trust me. I glance back just as her eyes shift back to her soup. Again, a second too late.

“Tell me,” I say as I sit down across from her. Per Mr. Oh’s suggestion, I’m channeling Hans, but this time I’ve added in some David Hasselhoff. I think he could really help. I try to sit up straight, thrust my chest forward, yet my eyes disobey.

“I don’t know where to begin,” she says.

What would Hans-David do? I can’t look up yet. She’s too close, so instead I slowly move my hand across the table, offering it to her. This is good, I think to myself, a confident move.

Please take it, I silently beg her. I hear Denarius growling in the other room, but I ignore him. My eyes slowly climb over the table from my bowl, past the salt pig, to my outstretched hand, up to her bicep, and then finally to her eyes. She is looking right at me.

A sad smile breaks across her face like the first rays of sunlight on a sky dappled with pinking clouds, but then it disappears quickly. She places her spoon down and moves her hand toward mine.

“Cecil, I need to . . . there is this—” 288

Just as her hand is about to fall into mine, a sudden, brutal hammering at the front door causes us to leap from our seats. My chair tips over and falls loudly to the floor, soup and wine spill. “Come out here!” a voice yells. “Cake, I need to talk to you, right now!” 289

Chapter 32

“Just a second!” Catherine yells back as she exits the kitchen.

“Hurry up!” This accompanied by three more thunderous bangs on the door.

And then I quickly recognize the voice. It’s as if I had stumbled upon the perfect

picnic spot, a sylvan glen hidden from all the eyes of the world’s except ours, and then - just as I’d set everything up, each Tupperware lid removed, two plates of fermented bean

curd laid out just so - one of Gayelette’s wicked, winged monkeys descends from the

sky, rakes its claws across the picnic blanket, and then snatches my precious Catherine up

into the sky, her tired body struggling vainly against its bloodied talons. Damn you,

Xavier, I think I almost had her.

I quickly follow Catherine out into the main room.

She opens the door and says, “Leave. Just leave.” Xavier’s leaning against the

right side of the threshold, the remainder of the covered porch behind him.

“I’m coming in. I need to talk to you.”

“You’re drunk.”

Xavier’s eyes float momentarily past her shoulder and pierce me. “That guy?

That’s who you’re doing now?” He’s wearing athletic clothes again, this time a tight-

fitting sweat suit, gold with black piping. He sports a black baseball hat with an

enormous panther logo stitched across the front, side, and brim, which he adjusts as he

spits on the porch. 290

Catherine pushes past him to step outside. He turns to face her. Denarius barks loudly. I put my hand to his thick head, and I squeeze him close to my thigh. “Quiet now, don’t stray.” We scoot past Catherine and Xavier to the side of the porch where a small bench swing hangs from chains attached to the rafters above. People are quickly gathering around the porch. Mr. Oh and Mrs. Bitterman are at the fore, Izzy and Abe are there too, and I also spy Cheryl and a few other recognizable faces. It strikes me that we four, Xavier, Catherine, Denarius, and I, have found ourselves a perfect stage for this drama, with the growing crowd below, our surprised and keenly interested audience.

“Get off my porch,” Catherine says calmly. “And go home.”

“Your porch!” Xavier laughs. “How about my porch? How about my cottage?

How about my compound?”

“I hate you.”

“Ditto, girl. But not to worry because soon enough we’ll never have to see each other again.” Then turning to the crowd, he says in a loud voice: “I have a special announcement for all you EPALCOB fools. Your free lunch program has been cancelled.

I am evicting you hippie-dippies once and for all. My Dad thought this place was a good idea, some kind of charity bullshit for unmotivated slobs, but now he’s dead and I’m in charge. I see this ‘Shangri-La’ for what it really is. You guys are a bunch of lazy freeloaders, and the only reason why you got to stay for so long under my watch is because . . . well, it’s because - and there’s no delicate way to say this, so I’ll just come out with it - your reigning ‘priestess’ is a big, fat, fucking prostitute.” 291

“Fuck you, Xavier!” Mr. Oh shouts. “Get the hell out of here ” Mrs. Bitterman

has her rain stick cane placed at an angle in front of his legs, blocking him from moving toward the porch.

I want to say something too, but I’m frozen. I’m not quite ready for this, I realize.

I wish my understudy, Hans-David, was here to fill my shoes, remember my lines, save

me from myself. I feel like I’m shrinking; Xavier’s aggression having completely

overwhelmed me. My impotence burns like a red-hot knife blade running up and down

my back. My mind sprints down the stairs to the basement of my old house. To the quiet

there. To my rows of samples and the safety of my microbe-counting. To the calm, dank

buzzing of my co-inhabitants as they chomp away at my excretions. I think about my

days making sauerkraut in the living room and listing to Vivaldi and the redwood tree in

the back yard and the tiny treehouse hidden high in the branches. But then I retreat back

into harmonious basement, to the safe darkness and the ancient wealth of knowledge

throbbing in the living, damp soil where I want to rest my head and fill it with only quiet.

My heart is racing, my fists balled at my side, but I can do nothing but stand here, hiding

in plain sight next to the porch swing, watching in blank horror as my mind attempts to

flee this confrontation.

“Oh yeah, that’s right, I said it,” Xavier slurs. He stumbles and catches himself by

grabbing the porch railing. “And there’s nothing anybody can do about it because you all

don’t believe in violence. So I can call Cake whatever I want. I see some kids back there

- hey there, Jimmy-boy and sad, little Kwame. Your parents can’t mess this one up or 292

you’ll always believe that it’s cool to beat somebody up just because they say something

nasty about one of your dirty, freaky friends, right? No fighting at school, right? So let

me just tell you a little secret about your Auntie Cake: she has sex with people for money.

She’s a filthy slut-bag. And she’s really good at it, I can tell you from first-hand

experience. There’s nothing like a slice of Cake in the morning. Any day, anytime, in

fact, she’s always more than willing.”

“Xavier, please stop.” Catherine is crying now, but her voice remains calm, as

though she’s seen this show before. “I know you’re angry, you’re upset, and you’re

clearly wasted, but you have to stop this. You’re just embarrassing yourself. . . again. We

can work something out. We can figure this out. Just come back when you’re sober. It

would be so much easier. Come on, I’ll help you get a cab.” She reaches over to place her

hand on his shoulder, but he quickly grabs her arm and twists it, forcing her to her knees.

His wobbly drunkenness seems to have disappeared into an angry, black background of

vengeance.

“You’re hurting me!”

“I know! And you’ve hurt me more that you can ever understand. Be quiet or I’ll

break your arm.”

The crowd begins to yell, a woman screams in the back, and Mr. Oh steps around

Mrs. Bitterman’s cane and up onto the first porch step. Sheryl moves in too, but

Catherine immediately shouts out, “Don’t! Stay calm, please!” 293

I think of Hans-David, again. He wouldn’t just stand here like a door-knob. But

everyone’s faces are blurring into one another, and the porch beginnings to tremble under

my feet. I’m quickly losing vision, the darkness seeping in from all sides. Now I’m

falling back through blackness, anywhere away from this ugly scene -my hand on

Denarius at my side, my only tangible anchor to the real world. As the pinhole - where

light once shone - closes tighter and tighter and then shuts out light completely, I find

that I’m floating in a dark sea of microbes in an unknown gut far from here. Perhaps we

are in a human child sitting at a desk, a wild horse on the range, or tiger mosquito in

Vietnam, but it doesn’t matter much, because we’re here together, we’re here to do the job. I am acinetobacter calcoaceticus, and I’m busy gleaning energy from undigested

carbohydrates, including those pesky polysaccharides (your run-of-the-mill resistant

starches, pectins, and cellulose), the reluctant oligosaccharides that beg off digestion, as

well as those unabsorbed sugars and alcohols that we all love so much down here.

Bark!

I am a fermenter, a maker of primo quality gut-beer, and I sell the finest short-

chain fatty acids around - butyrates for my friend the colonic epithelium; propionates for

the distant liver; and, of course acetates for all my friends in the muscle tissue bar, what

fun they must have on Friday nights. We’re all working hard together, my bacterial mates

and I, synthesizing vitamin B and K. We metabolize bile acids, sterols, and xenobiotics.

We run communications between our host and the resident microflora at the mucosal

interface, dialing in the critical pieces of a competent immune system. We sculpt the 294

memory mechanisms of systemic immunity to help discriminate between potential pathogens and commensal bacteria. We recognize bacterial threats almost immediately; we are a driving force behind the efficacy and homeostasis of the host’s immune system.

Bark! Bark!

I snuggle in tight with my friends - we like to be close, but you can see me if you look hard enough. I’m the pudgy rod-shaped character. See me there or perhaps not, but I don’t care because I don’t matter, yet I am the source of all life. My friends and I don’t rest, we don’t play, we don’t question, we don’t fight.

Bark!

We don’t sing, we don’t kill, we don’t “make lemonade out of lemons.” We exist and live and die in the natural course of things - of all things. We respond to undigested fiber, poisonous antibiotic pills, radiation from solar flares without complication. We are flowing in the river life, rocks and twigs and eddies be damned because the end is just right there at the beginning.

Bark! Bark!

We go nowhere and do nothing, yet we process the world and give breath and energy to lifeforms that break trees with tusks, leap up sheer rock faces with cloven hooves, and paint masterpieces of love and anguish that we will never understand. I’m not there, and I’m not here; I’m the everywhere and nowhere that man wishes he could find.

“BARK! BARK! BARK!” 295

Denarius shatters the blackness, and I return with the speed of light through the

evolutionary millennia to my human form. I am awakened. I grab Denarius by the scruff

of his neck as I find my balance, and he quiets down, though I feel his energy pulsing through me. I look up and see Mr. Oh, and he’s watching me, like he knows where I’ve been.

When he nods, I find my own voice and I hear it shout: “Stop it, Xavier, stop it

right now!”

“Ah, the new boyfriend speaks!” he says turning toward me. He’s still holding

Catherine down. “Don’t even think about touching me, dude, because she’ll hate you

forever. That’s what happened to me because your sorry ass had to show up at the party

the other night and act like a shithead by flicking peas in my face. I don’t like you very

much at all.”

“Let her go!”

“All right, big man. You want me to let her go. Then let’s play a game, shall we? I

walk out without hurting anyone once you answer a few questions for me. How’s that?”

“I’ll answer anything if you just get the hell out here.”

“Great. First, has this whore told you what she’s been doing all week?”

“Yes.”

“Oh really, and what has she been doing?”

“She’s been very busy with Freegan business.” 296

“Hah! You’re so much dumber than you look, and that’s a hell of an accomplishment. Good try, junior chipmunk. Let’s try another. This time try not to lie.

Now, has this whore told you why she has a red wig in her closet?”

I rifle through the jumble of memories of the past couple of weeks. There’s a red wig there, it’s floating in darkness at first, but now it’s firmly in my hands, and I’m fingering it, smelling it, and rubbing it on my face. I’m in her closet, but it’s a snapshot from Moneta’s white river, and I can’t remember anything more. “No, I don’t know

anything about that.”

“Would you like to know?”

I want to spit his saccharine tone back in his face, but I only manage: “Yes.”

“I’ll tell you why. I’ll tell everybody here why your leader here has a red wig in

her closet.”

“Please don’t,” Catherine says.

Xavier twists her arm again forcing her forehead to the wooden boards of the

porch. “I said be quiet or I won’t stop twisting till your arm pops right out of your

shoulder socket. Then I’ll take it and beat every living soul in this compound over the

head with it.”

I take a step toward him, but Catherine screams, “No! Don’t fall into his trap. I’m

f i — ”

“I said shut up,” Xavier screams. Then, to the crowd, he announces: “Alright, you

dirty-hippie, EPALCOB folk, what’s that red wig all about? Well, it seems that your dear 297

Caaaaaake is not doing so well. It appears that Caaaaaake is feeling a bit under the weather. Your fearless, perfect Caaaaaake is all black and blue on the inside. Yes, that’s right, you guessed it, you got the million dollar prize, she’s got the big C, soft tissue sarcoma, right up there in her left armpit. She just started chemo this week. Let’s give her a round of applause - or not.”

The crowd gasps. “What’s he talking about?” Mr. Oh asks Catherine.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Everything will be okay.”

“You didn’t tell us?”

“I thought—”

“Quiet!” Xavier interrupts. “So now, little Cecil with the crooked nose, how are you feeling about your new girlfriend? You like her honesty? You ready to trust her with your heart? You know what else she didn’t tell you?”

“I don’t care what she didn’t tell me.”

“Oh but you might. You really might care quite a bit. For example, I was paying all her doctors’ bills, and I was going to pay for all the chemotherapy because, well you know, they don’t really give that shit away in exchange for a couple blocks of old cheese

and a few walnuts found on the street, right? I was the one who was going to help her through all this. She needed me. But now, everything’s changed. And all because of your little pea. Isn’t that strange? Beautiful in a way: something so small can change so much.

So now I’ve got no reason to keep paying. I’ve been kicked to the curb - no place in her heart for me. So in addition to evicting everybody in this goddamn compound, I get the 298

pleasure of watching you all try to decide whether to let poor Cake die for lack of money or struggle for life under a crushing load of debt. What an interesting choice you have before you. You should probably get out while you can, you skinny, little freak, because this beautiful albatross is just going to bring you to your knees, one way or the other. And there’s no sex during chemo, that’s what I’ve heard, so there’s really no reason to stick around.”

“You’re an animal,” I respond. “You’re a heartless, broken animal. You’re the reason for war. You’re the reason for hate. The world would be better off without the likes of you.”

“You think I’m an animal? You’re absolutely right. I’m a rich animal, a powerful animal, the dominant male in this jungle of life - and I have great lawyers too. You want to see what a real animal does when he’s been hurt, just watch this.” He lets go of

Catherine’s arm, puts one of his sneakers on her back, and shoves her hard onto the porch floor, where she turns and looks up at him. “Don’t move. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Then he reaches inside his jacket pocket, pulls out a small pistol, and aims it directly at her forehead. “What do they call it? Oh, that’s right: ‘Hastening the inevitable!”’

For a moment, the crowd stands still, stunned. And a silence, deep and wide, takes over the entire compound.

[And this is where the curtain should fall, the lights should come up, and then you find yourself smiling, cheerful because the drama has been taken to a whole new level - and, what perfect timing, just before intermission. Then, to the crowded bar with you to 299

pound a quick, overpriced drink or two and discuss in uninspired cliche the quality of the acting, writing, and production, before the lobby lights flicker, and you quickly return to your seats for the concluding act. But this is no performance, my friends - the drama and the actors much too real. This is the life of a human, our hero, our Cecil, now enmeshed in the lives of others, pulsating with all of the love and hate of life, the lightness and the misery. No one is immune from the violence of our species; no one avoids the self-hatred

... or the sublime. So stay in your seats; for there is no intermission, only the final, meaningless conclusion that awaits us all ]

A child’s scream ignites the crowd into a furious confusion. Other screams rip into the night as the crowd runs for safety. Sheryl takes Mrs. Bitterman by the arm and they disappear into the darkness. “Get away!” Mr. Oh shouts as he heads for cover behind a nearby cottage. “Run for your lives!”

I want to rush him but I know he could easily pull the trigger before I could even touch him. Denarius is yelping at my side. I look down and realize that I have been clutching his scruff so hard that I’ve drawn blood. I let him loose and he remains at my side. To Xavier, I hear myself ask: “What are you doing? And why?”

“Don’t ask why. That’s completely immaterial,” he answers. “I’ll answer your first question though. I have a new plan: I’m going to kill just one of you two lovebirds and leave the other one to live.”

“Xavier,” Catherine interrupts, “he’s not even my boyfriend.” 300

“How many times do I have to tell you to shut up!” he says as he winds up and kicks her in the stomach.

I jump forward, and he turns the gun on me. “Don’t move. That’s not part of the plan. Now, as I was saying, I’m only going to kill one of you so that I can watch the other one spiral around the events of tonight for the rest of your life. Now the best part, you, you bent-dick, pea-shooting asshole, you get to decide who’s going down. You get to choose death and give life, or chose life and kill.”

“No,” I respond. “I can’t do that.”

“Then I’ll just kill her.” He turns the gun back onto Catherine.

He smiles as he says, “One.”

Mother jumps into the scene. She’s standing right behind me. Isaac has come too, though I sense that he is grown up now. They flank me. Each puts a hand on my shoulder

- Mother to the right, Isaac to the left.

“Two.”

Mother squeezes my shoulder and whispers into my ear, “You have been loved, my dear. It was long ago, but I loved you with all my heart.” Isaac steps forward, right close to me and says, “you can come with us, I miss having a brother.”

“Thr—”

“Wait, I’ll choose.”

Sirens are screaming up the hill.

“Good. Let’s hear it. Seems we’re almost out of time.” 301

“I choose me. Kill me. I’m sure of it.”

He trains the gun back in my direction. “You’re braver than I thought.”

“No. I’m just in love with her. And I choose to love her forever.”

He steps closer. “If I didn’t know any better, I would believe that shit.” Then he

smiles and begins snickering. “You should see your face right now! You look so scared.”

Now he is really laughing. “Lighten up, man, do you really think that I would kill

anybody?” He’s slowly lowering the gun. “I have a Lamborghini, a Ferrari, and phattest

Escalade you’ve ever seen, all parked in my nine-car garage in Pac Heights. I’m not going to give all that up just for a couple of peons like you. Come on, Cecil, you really

fell for all that?” Then he steps closer, reaches up, and slaps me across the face.

Just as I realize that I’ve been struck, a flash of brown, wrinkled fur leaps up from

my side and sinks flashing teeth into Xavier’s face. Xavier falls back against the porch

railing. Denarius quickly follows, jumps again, and drives Xavier over the railing. Both

fall to the ground below. I rush down the stairs, screaming, “Denarius, hold!” but the

animal instinct is too strong. Dog and man struggle against each other in the dark dirt,

growling and screaming, teeth and eyes glistening in the porch light. Denarius is on top

and tears at Xavier’s face. Blood flies as he rips a cheek wide open. Then a shot, a single

shot in the night, and the melee is suddenly over. Denarius’ blood flows from his chest

wound all over Xavier before Xavier can lift the dead dog off and struggle to his feet. His

face is unrecognizable. White light digs deep black caverns into the bleeding gashes that 302

cover his face. He tries to speak, but his mouth is filled with too much blood. He aims the gun at me and Catherine, but then drops it and runs out of the compound. 303

Chapter 33

Six hours later and the cops have finally departed. An eerie silence has overtaken the darkened compound. I wish for a barn owl hoot, a frog croak, a distant train whistle - anything to break the stillness of the night - but there’s only nothingness out there, calm,

quiet, unnerving nothingness. At this hour, all of Berkeley’s suburbanites toss and turn in

mute fitfulness, minds ablaze despite growing sleep deficits, adult-children of the T.V.

culture sleeping towards another humdrum day of excessive stress, consumption, and

mindlessness. Mice, cats, and raccoons prowl, play, and kill, but even they respect the

hour, their nighttime activities as soft as they are deadly. Even the underpaid ambulance

drivers, firefighters, and nurses walk like zombies through cold lounges and doze

restlessly through the quiet hours of the morning on foldout couches; fires and suicides,

car accidents and triple homicides, heart attacks and endless overdoses having

surrendered to the city’s circadian cycle. Only the great machines of the city sit truly

dormant; street sweepers, trash trucks, cherry-pickers all communing in the dark, their

black bulk radiating power through silent, cavernous halls.

I’m on the couch, alone - empty like the night, a blanket over my knees though I

know not how it got there. I cannot even lie down to pretend like I will sleep - will ever

rest again. My thoughts cannot be nailed down to their floorboards on which my feet

nervously bounce. They carted Denarius away like a slab of meat. Catherine is dying, or

may be dying. I had a gun to my face and asked to be killed. Which to choose? What to

mourn? Where do I go from here? 304

I hear Catherine sobbing in her bed. She is the only sound in the night, yet even she tries to suppress her sorrow. Is it shame? Is it anger? Fear? True heartbreak? Or does her anguish defy categorization? Does it live in her sea like the swirling mass of plastic poisoning the Pacific, unable to be captured - ever-present, but always moving, flowing with the endless currents of rising warm and sinking cold. I think about her alone in that bed, door shut, as her heart sinks deeper and deeper into despair.

I rise and walk to the door, my stocking feet silent across the floor. I hear her crying more clearly now, her quiet moaning so primal it tears at my guts. I reach for the doorknob, but stop short. The highly polished brass faintly reflects the dim porch light from a small window on the other side of the room. The curve of the knob distorts the tiny yellow rectangle into a misshapen star. I want to dive into that star, take Catherine with me, but I feel my feet too firmly planted on this floor, my mind too focused on this reality. I reach for the door and grasp the handle. It’s hot where the light had been. I hold tight, though it bums ... yet I know it’s just my imagination.

I try to turn the knob, but I cannot. My hand refuses to engage, my arm, unmoving. I close my eyes and listen: she is the only thing in the world that matters to me now. Slowly the knob begins to turn; slowly I begin to turn the knob. The mechanism releases, and I push the door open into her darkness.

“Cecil?”

She stops sobbing.

I stand in the doorway, my hand still on the knob. 305

“Cecil?”

Can I turn and run?

My hand drops from the door, and I step into the room.

“Cecil.” A statement now, her question answered.

“Yes, it’s me.” I walk slowly to her bed. She is covered by a pile of blankets. I sit down on the edge, in the spot between her curled legs. She does not turn toward me. “Are you . .. ?” I ask.

She buries her head in her pillow and cries quietly now - a muffled, dying sound.

I place my hand on her blanketed hip, and I can feel her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. I sense the weight and warmth of my hand pressing into her, trying to

find its way to her skin through the thick covers. I want to reach into her, snake through

her intestines - past her liver and spleen - and push up to her heart to ease its throbbing

pain.

After a few moments, she turns her head slightly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“But I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“But I brought you into all of this. He nearly killed you, and . .. your dog - I’m so

sorry about Denarius.”

I press on her hip three times. 306

“He was a good man once. You have to believe me. I’m not who he said I am. We were in love years ago ... and for a long time. But he changed. He changed so drastically. It was the money and the drinking. I was going to leave him, but... then I got sick. And I didn’t know what else to do. But I’m not.. .

“I know you’re not - you’re not anything like that. I see you - 1 saw you that first day. You’re exceptional.”

Her breathing slows. “Did you mean it?”

“Did I mean what?”

“When you told Xavier that you love me, did you mean it?”

I close my eyes and try to think of a way to express the depths of my feelings. I’m dizzy with the thought of losing her. I’m dizzy with the thought of being with her. I

shouldn’t have said it - she can’t reciprocate - but they could’ve been my last words. I

had to tell the truth. And now I find I must do the same again. I open my eyes before I pass out. “There are no words for how I feel about you ... but I know one thing for sure:

I will surely die without you.”

“Oh Cecil. . she whispers.

“It’s true - more than anything I’ve ever known.”

Now she turns toward me. “I cannot say the same, you know that, right? I cannot feel anything right now. But I’ve loved having you here with me. I’ve loved being with you these past few days. And that’s really something - because this week has have been the worst week of my life.” 307

“I understand.”

“I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me, Catherine, you have given me life.”

“I can’t believe you were going to die for me.”

“I’d do anything for you.”

“Will you help me?”

“Yes, of course. But how?”

“I’m sick, so sick, and so very scared. I think that you might be the only person in the world who can save me.”

“What do you mean? What can I do? I don’t have any money.”

“No, no, not like that. I need you to help me build my body up to fight this thing.

Put me on your Plan. Feed me, change me, make me stronger. Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do it. Show me the power that you’ve discovered. I believe in you. I want you to save me, Cecil, I want you to cure me and my microbes.”

“I can do that.” The words “The Next Phase” begin flashing wildly above her head. This is it, my destiny turning toward her. “We’ll start tomorrow. You’ll see. You’ll never feel stronger. We’ll beat your cancer. I know we will.”

“I feel better already.”

“Can you sleep a little now?” I ask. “It’s nearly morning.”

“Maybe.”

“Okay.” I get up and walk to the door. 308

“No, Cecil, not like that.”

I turn back toward her. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t sleep alone .. . not tonight.”

The stage shifts under my feet, and I nearly collapse. She’s improvising now, so off-script that I find myself lost in her invention. As I take a step back into the room, I find that my muscles have turned to jelly. I wobble to the other side of the bed.

“You want me to . . . ?”

“Yes, come lie down next to me. I want to feel your heartbeat. You are pure and kind and you have been alone for too long.”

She opens the pile of blankets for me and makes a space next to her. “Climb in,

you must be cold.”

I sit down and then gently roll onto the mattress. She is facing me; I turn away.

My head falls onto her outstretched arm and she pulls me close to her, fitting me into her

curves. I feel her breasts against my back, her breath on my neck, her strong thighs

against my narrow buttocks. Her other arm wraps around my chest, and she squeezes me

tight.

I hear Casper’s cock-a-doddle-doo as it breaks the silence of the night.. . and the

sound of someone crying. But then I recognize my own sobbing, begin to taste my tears.

Her hand moves from my chest to my face to wipe them away. She runs her fingers

through my hair and then down the side of my body. She presses herself against me as

her hand moves to my leg. She rubs my tired quadriceps softly, my blubbering 309

amazement turning quickly to incredulous excitement. She moves her hand to my waistband. Her fingertips deftly slide under and slowly creep over my virgin skin to grasp the epicenter of the earthquake that is building inside of me.

She gently pulls at me, slowly at first, and then in rhythm with my accelerating breathing. I’m no microbe now. I’m rising. I’m not just a collection of bacterial co­ inhabitants now either. I’m growing larger still. . . and she goes faster. I’m not a self- imposed science experience, I’m not a messiah, I’m not destined for loneliness. I am . . . oh, oh, oh .... I am above the clouds and I begin to see it all - the death and misery, the kindness and generosity, tigers crouching in the dark forest, waves breaking on purple starfish in tidal pools, a lone elephant wandering the Sahel.... There, just there, the sun dips below the horizon, a goat lies down in the sand, and a young Bedouin boy begins to sing to the coming night. I am all these things and none of them. I am simply human, with a heart, a mind, and a soul. I am Cecil, and I will love and be loved.