Louse (21 page)
Authors: David Grand
“If you'll just place your hand over the screen, Mr. Louse,” she says, holding open the lid.
“Yes,” I say, and place my hand on the screen. As I do, the screen reacts with a thin bar of light that slowly and laboriously travels up and then down the box, all the time illuminating the veins,
arteries, and bones under my skin. When it is through I can see an imprint of my hand and crooked thumb on the computer monitor. Ms. Berger closes the lid to the black box and presses “Enter” on the keyboard. More numbers begin scrolling. Ms. Berger and I watch the screen until the last rows trail up the blue background of the monitor. And when this happens, a nine digit code blinks and flashes.
Ms. Berger writes this code on a piece of paper and then hands it to me.
“Please be careful with this,” she says, and then begins walking out of the Controller's office.
I place the piece of paper in my coat pocket and follow Ms. Berger back to the outer cubicles. Once again, I allow Ms. Berger to walk ahead. And once again, I follow her slow, soft movements, this time toward the elevator, thinking of the metal around her wrists and ankles and the way her thin naked body looked through the refracted lights in the water, how she reacted with such ferocity and loathing at times and how it now reminds me of her face in the halls as we heard the approaching footsteps.
When the elevator arrives Ms. Berger and I step into the shiny silver interior of the chamber. She presses floor eighteen. The elevator slightly rocks back and forth and pulls up on our legs, bending my knees. Ms. Berger stands stiff with her disengaged eyes fixed on the door. The sight of her sunken cheeks and the paleness of her skin makes my stomach turn sour. Her face is innocent at the moment. Even if she were imperfectly human at some other time, she is now perfectly innocent and devoid of spirit. It is as if she is hardly breathing.
When the doors open, the sight in the hall is no different than that of the ninth floor, with the exception of several more bodies
sprawled about. I allow Ms. Berger to step ahead of me. As before, I follow her down the hall, around the bodies to another glass paned vestibule. I can't help but wonder what purpose the code serves. Part of me cares, part of me doesn't care. I will hand it over gladly.
We turn right and then left as we zigzag into the back of the building where we enter a secured zone, the Internal Affairs Records Department. There is no one conscious around.
As we reach the very back of the building, near the windows we walk into an area containing an extensive series of floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets. We occasionally step over a passed out body or two; some are piled on top of one another. Ms. Berger doesn't pay them any mind. She walks robotically to an aisle, opens up a file drawer, and removes a black leather briefcase. She shuts the drawer and hands the bag to me. She then pulls out a shelf built into the filing cabinet and presents it to me with an open palm.
“You have what you need, Mr. Louse,” she says dispassionately.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Good fortune,” she says, and squarely walks off through the corridor, turns right, and disappears.
Without any hesitation I rest the briefcase on the shelf and open it. Inside is a thick stack of papers on top of which is a note.
Mr. Louse,
You are to briefly review this document then deliver it to the thirtieth floor via the interoffice elevator.
I don't know where to begin reviewing such a monstrous body of work. I flip through to find transcriptions and summaries of transcriptions and turn back to the very first page.
SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT #1 (-/-/-, 5:47:00 A.M.)
Mortimer Blank, formerly of the city of K., arrived in the resort town of G. at 5:47
A.M.
Some months after losing his job at the Law Offices of Yangdon, Font, and Barthelme he was targeted by Outreach Services, who initially spotted his record on a search of default accounts. They followed up by sending brochures about our credit guarantees. Mr. Blank called and requested further information and then sent credit reports and references.
Mr. Blank is on the verge of bankruptcy and has tapped all available resources. Other than his estranged wife and son, he has no living relatives. Mr. Blank's misfortune stems from gambling problems and bad employment decisions. All employers with whom he had found jobs consistently followed recent downsizing trends, thus leaving him laid off with no eligibility to collect unemployment (as his positions only lasted several months at a time).
I flip through several more pages, and notice a yellow tab toward the back that I didn't notice before. I open to this page.
WRITTEN CONFESSION OF MORTIMER BLANK -/-/- 4:30:33 A.M.:
When I had gambled away a substantial amount of Quarry's money, and after we had stayed up for two days straight, Quarry disappeared while I dozed off on a bar stool. When I woke up, the bartender was staring at me. “I
was told to tell you when you woke up that the man you were with has cleared it with the management to issue you a line of credit.” The husky voiced bartender pointed me to a dealer who stepped up to an open table. The dealer stared at me until I lifted myself up from the stool and followed his eyes. “You have an open line of credit for twenty-four hours, Mr. Blank,” he said. I signed for fifty thousand to start. I signed for fifty thousand more five hours later, and eventually, another fifty thousand. The banks' boxes opened and closed, my eyes fixed on the credit slips as they stuffed them in. At times, on that day, I questioned if it wasn't all an hallucination. I thought such thoughts as I greedily roamed the floor until I landed in the very center of the room, where I was interrupted by an insipid looking man with hands, head, legs, and feet too small for his torso. He was dressed in the same kind of gray flannel suit Quarry was dressed in, and he asked me if he could have a moment. I, of course, agreed, seeing that he had all my signed credit vouchers and it had just turned the twenty-four hour mark on my line of credit. He said something to the effect that it was time and that he would need to discuss arrangements for payment with me. I said I was under the impression that this was all paid for. I told him about Quarry. He smiled a pugnacious smile and told me that Quarry had merely vouched for me and said that I was good for whatever debt I incurred. That was very gracious of Quarry, I said, and I went on to say that it was a simple misunderstanding. “I'm afraid not,” he said, holding up the vouchers in his hands. “There is over two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars of debt here. You have incurred two hundred fifty thousand dollars of debt, Mr. Blank.” You can imagine what was going through my mind at the time. Or maybe you can't. It doesn't really matter. “Got your nose” is what he was saying in a very administrative manner. We were standing near the cashier when it happened, that is when I saw her pass, the security guard, whose holster just happened to be undone. The strap of leather that fastened her gun was flapping back and forth with the motion of her wide hips. There wasn't a conscious decision to do what I did; it just happened as though my body knew much better than my mind as to what was right for me at that moment and there needn't be any rational reconciliation between the two. I didn't think. I lunged. I lunged for the gun and easily took hold of it. And as though my fingers knew what was right I pointed the gun at the security guard and then at myself, at my head as I faced off with the woman and then the pit boss standing near the little man in the gray flannel suit and I can't remember what I did next. I swung the gun back and forth demanding this and that until someone larger than I am pounced on my body and everything went black.
Mortimer Blank. As hard as I try to associate that name with myself, I can't. But it is undeniably my story. With all else in my head, I can't see any of what Mortimer Blank has described. But I know it is my story. I saw it on the television when Mr. Bender and Mr. Godmeyer greeted me. Yet I don't remember putting the gun to my head, the image of it traveling to my temple or the feeling of
its metal touching my skin. Mortimer Blank. I don't remember. Mortimer Blank. I can't say it to myself enough times to jar it loose from all the images breaking free in my mind. Mortimer Blank. Me? And what if it's true? If I am Mortimer Blank, am I the Mortimer Blank who has caused all of this confusion? Can it possibly be me they are searching for?
My thoughts are so crowded I'm surprised I have room to think words. The images move so quickly I don't even know if I can accurately describe any of what's before me. The images repeat themselves over and again, as if to surface once isn't enough. And I can see all of it is beautiful and interesting to look at but I am unable to appreciate any of it because it all flashes by so quickly that I can only feel the short pulse of its rhythm.
I close the file and the briefcase. I latch it shut and try not to think of what to believe. I don't wish to think at all. I want to turn it off. I walk down the corridor, straight and then to the right, between the glass walls, and I count numbers to try to erase the fragmented visions and the confusion that accompanies them.
I am nothing I know of and my stomach is nauseated and my head is in pain and I'm full of exhaustion and all I really want is to return to my quarters for my pharmaceutical. I want this all to end. I will do anything to make it end.
I accidentally step on the leg of a man and then the hand of a woman, and I look at my own hands and wonder what it is I am made of and why I have arrived at this moment in time in the middle of all this as I have. Is it God's cruel joke? To hide my consciousness as he has? To let it be played with in such a perverse fashion? Should any animal have to endure such uncertainty in one given time?
I approach the elevator.
The doors open without my having to push any buttons.
I step in and ride.
Dearest Associates,
After falling back to earth, you undoubtedly have a number of questions about what has happened and what to do. Your questions will be answered in time as your memory returns and as your personalities realign themselves. I expect, however, that you will be fragile for some time, since you have been through a particularly difficult experience. I have provided you with a map and some money and directions to find the few people you left behind some years ago. I can't promise they will welcome you with open arms, but there is always the possibility they will comfort you through your initial endeavors. I mostly write this to you as a form of confession, a story, if you will, to try to justify what I have done, as I'm afraid that in the final moments I will not have the time to explain myself.
To begin with, as each of you will be aware at this point, I betrayed your trust in order to benefit my future. You will come to remember that I promised to help you
escape, but what was really to be your escape attempt was only a momentary diversion. It is true that I initially rescued you from your indoctrinations, but, really, I only delayed them. I took you from your rooms and enabled you to escape from G.; I moved you into the valley to Paradise, where you believed you would eventually be free.
All of this was necessary in order to complete the plot, which you now embody from your experience. I don't believe I have been an evil person as much as I have been driven to this desperate act. I don't imagine you will ever feel that my selfish motives benefited us all; but this is true.
Like yourselves, I have been held captive here and was taken from my life as you were taken from yours. Many years ago I lived near the foothills of N., where I worked for an architectural firm and led a quiet life. One morning when I arrived at the office, I found a letter in my mail box from a Ronald Sherwood. The letter said that I should meet him at the Golden Trails Restaurant in the local train station to discuss a business proposal. Naturally my curiosity was piqued, since I didn't know who this man was at the time and nothing as remotely interesting as this had ever happened to me. I wasn't one of these dashing young architects with a mane of hair and a trophy wife dreaming of buildings with my name etched in their marble facades. I didn't think twice about going. I drove out to the train station at the specified time and took a seat at the counter of the restaurant. Mr. Sherwood approached me from a back corner table, and without asking if I was who I was he introduced himself, then requested that I take a walk with him.
We walked out through the train station and onto one of the platforms, talking in generalities of N.'s inhospitable surroundings. Mr. Sherwood told me that he was representing a party who wished to hire me and that this party was waiting for us on the train. I thought it a little peculiar but didn't see any reason not to meet with him. When I agreed, we boarded an empty car and walked to a closed door at the back of the caboose. Mr. Sherwood knocked and told me to wait a moment while he announced me. I stood there admiring how immaculately clean everything wasâfrom the floor to the windows to the ceilingâand how distinctly it smelled of antiseptic. The light was dampened by dark tinted windows, but I could still see there wasn't a speck of dust trailing through the air as you would usually find in an enclosed space like this. All the seats had been gutted in every car and every car was sparsely decorated with expensive furniture whose seat covers and cushions were covered in plastic. Moreover, there was no one to be seen throughout the entire train. I started to feel a little strange about being there. My imagination was starting to recognize the oddness of the setting. I, who had always been naturally predisposed to laugh a good, hearty laugh in the face of a peculiar situation, became uncharacteristically afraid of the awkwardness of the moment. I thought of leaving, but as Mr. Sherwood opened the door and told me that I could go in, my reflex was to follow. He placed his hand around my shoulder and escorted me through to the other side. As I walked into the caboose, Herbert Horatio Blackwell, whose face I recognized from the newspapers, sat before me at his
desk. He was well groomed, his nails and his hair were short, his face clean shaven, his trademark pencil-thin mustache immaculately sculpted. He was dressed in a bathrobe. An ascot ribboned around his neck and funneled the smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers. I looked at him, then at Mr. Sherwood, and then at him again, thinking of his celebrity and my insignificance, and true to my awkward nature I began to laugh. The laugh, unfortunately wasn't the slightest bit contagious. It erupted in silence and bounced off their two stern faces. Mr. Blackwell, ignoring my outburst and thus declaring his distaste for my reaction, told me to have a seat. I sat down in front of his desk and watched his eyes survey me. He told me of his plans to build a gaming center at a location he wouldn't disclose, and asked if I would be interested in acting as his head architect. He told me that he was aware of my qualifications, knew exactly who I was and what I was capable of. In other words, this was not a case of mistaken identity. He was willing to pay me more money than I ever had dreamed of making. But I had to decide immediately. The train is leaving in five minutes, he said. It's up to you. He ashed his cigarette into the gold ash tray resting against his knuckle. Once again, I looked at Mr. Blackwell. I looked at Mr. Sherwood. I looked at him. And I laughed, not nervously as I should have, but as gregariously as I had at first. This was no indication of what I was feeling because I was undoubtedly nervous; unfortunately, this expresses what was and more than likely still is my pathetic ineptness at social grace. When Mr. Blackwell and Mr. Sherwood, once again, didn't react,
didn't let up from what I thought was a ruse, I sat there dumbfounded. For about two of the five minutes I remained dumbfounded. Then I thought about it for the remaining three as we sat in silence. And then I nodded my head and said, “Yes,” as the train departed. I nodded some more and laughed some more, this time nervously, as the two men continued their silence and stood coldly by as I humiliated myself in front of them. We traveled across the country, back and forth along the northern route, and then back and forth again along the southern, while Mr. Blackwell met with me about his plans. The plans slowly revealed themselves as we talked, but what also slowly revealed itself to me was the relationship Mr. Blackwell had with my mother while he was at the decline of his celebrity as a movie maker. I learned that the two of them had had an affair and that when my mother became pregnant she ran off to N. At this, I didn't laugh. At this, he laughed. But after this he never laughed again in my presence. Mr. Blackwell kept track of me as I had grown up and he felt that now was the time to claim me as his own since I had a skill that could benefit him and our future together. I tried to see the whole thing as a great adventure at first. I tried to admire Mr. Blackwell as my father, as a celebrity, as my employer. However, as the months passed, I began to learn how truly strange he was and how it was too late for me to turn back. I had become his possession, as it were, the symbol that represented his legacy should he ever be struck ill, which, in his thoughts, could happen at any time. I was constantly watched by a guardian whose job was to
make sure I played my role dutifully and that I was doing my job properly. Since the day I arrived at the location that would eventually become G., since the day I learned that I was his, all I've wanted was to leave. However, from the moment I nodded my head at the train station, this was never an option. It was never a topic to be discussed. As Mr. Blackwell's son, I was to listen obediently and help him plan our future. I have spent many years here, trapped on the thirtieth floor in my workshop, designing his vision of Paradise. I know it appears that I have had liberties and power, enough of both to act out in some manner, but I assure you this hasn't always been the case. It has only been a recent development, all due to a whimsical moment in Mr. Blackwell's life and only with his express authority. What has been done today, ironically enough, has been done by him, for reasons I can only say are mysterious. What I have done has been a direct expression of his will. The outcome of the situation has been an extension of his morality. I wish I could grant you and all the others more than he has; however, his will is his will and it must be seen to its final conclusion. I wish you the best of fortune.
Yours sincerely,
Herman Q. Louse
Head Engineer