Placebo Junkies (4 page)

Okay, Ladies and Specimens. You're really committed to doing this thing?

First, feel your skin.

Go on, do it. I bet it's nice and smooth. Pick your softest part. The skin on the inside of your forearm, or maybe that little patch just behind your ear. I don't care how hard you've been living, there's always somewhere that's still soft.

Now, imagine that nice, soft place of yours all blistered and poxed. Imagine peaks and crevices, rashes and boils. This life gives you a whole new topography—bumps and bruises, patterns and scars.

Your soft parts will never be the same.

Still ready to say goodbye to that pretty little complexion of yours? All righty, then. Here are some helpful tips on how to make a living in this crazy world:

1. Stock up.

The pay is lousy, but sign up for the right consumer-product studies and you'll never have to shop again. Deodorant, laundry soap, moisturizer, contact lens solution, hemorrhoid cream, tooth whitener. Get in on one of the big nutrition studies and you may even get your meals provided, or at least a few cases of diet soda with that new artificial sweetener that
probably
doesn't cause cancer, all just for agreeing to fill out a questionnaire or two. Sure, you might get hives now and then while they work out the kinks, but that's a small price to pay for a full cupboard, don't you think?

2. Pick your poison.

I've said it before—if you really want the big bucks, you're going to have to suffer. And generally speaking, there are two categories of suffering: deprivation and infliction of pain. But you learned that particular lesson long before you got here, didn't you? Still, know your limits before you sign up—do a little soul-searching, figure out just how far you're willing to go. For me, it's my eyes. I won't let anyone near 'em. Makes me break into a sweat just thinking about it. For my good friend Jameson, it's anything but his brain. His body is a temple, I guess, because the only labs he'll grace with his presence are the ones that do psych studies. Whatever. It all comes down to personal preference and pain tolerance, chickadees.

3. The foot bone's connected to the leg bone…

C'mon, don't roll your eyes when I sing. This little tip is the best one I have to offer. See, technically, you're supposed to wait weeks, or even months, between studies. But fortunately for us, the scientists who run these things aren't exactly social butterflies. They
never
talk to people working in the other labs. So, you lucky devil—this means you can hop from floor to floor, study to study, if you just play it cool and stay under the radar. You can even chain your studies together. Did you get burned during the laser hair-removal protocol, perhaps? They're testing an analgesic cream for that on Six. Are those funny new antidepressant pills giving you night terrors? Why not sign up for the sleep study just down the hall? Sure, you'll have to stay up for a couple of days, but what a great way to avoid those nasty dreams! It's actually sort of fun when you get the pieces to come together like this—kind of like a real-life Tetris game.

So work on your strategy and tune in next week, Warts Fans, for more helpful tips on how to survive and thrive in the Wild Wild West of human-subject testing!

My midnight bravado fades a bit in the morning. Isn't that just how it goes? Moon swagger: everyone's a badass in the right light. Today I'm not so sure I want to do anything more physically or emotionally taxing than ordering takeout.

Reason number one for reconsidering Charlotte's test marathon: spite. Dylan was gone when I woke up—no note, no explanation. I'm not gonna lie, it stings. It wiped that little
he's worth it
glow right off my decision.

I'm sure he had a good reason. He's not a “love 'em and leave 'em” kind of guy—he's proven that much enough times to deserve a pass…maybe. Just this once.

And sitting here on the couch with Jameson, my favorite coffee mug in hand and music playing on a stereo that I neither had to pay for or steal, I'm working hard to keep it in perspective. Or at least to keep the sulking to a minimum.

But that just brings up reason number two for having second thoughts about Charlotte's plan: inertia. I mean, I've already managed to save up a decent chunk of money doing things my way, and Charlotte's system is, at a minimum, going to get us blacklisted around the labs once they catch on. Which they will.

And maybe it's just me being lazy, but I really don't hate it here. I'm comfortable. Plus, our apartment is the nicest place I've ever lived. Granted, that doesn't say much, but trust me, it's nice. Homey and clean, with actual curtains, and doors that have never been kicked in. Swirly-patterned carpeting that first strikes you as hideous, but ends up being sort of pleasantly mesmerizing once you get used to looking at it.

I'm sofa-soothed. Bathroom-tile-tranquilized. I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Okay, maybe a little.

I was nervous as hell when I first moved in. I felt like such a kid, just some punk trying to impress a bunch of people who seemed so adult at first—so inaccessibly stable. Not that Jameson is even that much older than me. He's somewhere in his midtwenties, I'd guess, and Charlotte's the same age as me—she just seems older because she's been on her own basically forever. But here were two people with a fixed address and all these grown-up accessories—things like two couches that actually match each other, hand towels, a freaking food processor. It took me a while to get comfortable.

We get along great now. We're all a lot alike—even Jameson, once you get to know him. I know he didn't have it easy the way he grew up—he swears his mom named him for the whiskey she was drinking when she went into labor, though I'm pretty sure that's just part of his
me and my brain against the world
shtick. But you can see all the little signs of a hardscrabble start if you know what to look for, like the way he gets really anxious around anyone who could remotely be considered an authority figure. His weird little throat-clearing thing goes into hyperdrive until it's just us in the room again, and then he's fine. He's happiest when he feels like King of the Castle, I think, even if the so-called kingdom is populated almost entirely by freaks and weirdos (present company included, of course). You almost never see Jameson sitting in a room by himself. Which is fine, really, because he's a useful guy to have around.

Charlotte, on the other hand, I call the Queen of the Fuck Off—a title she adores, incidentally. She's a ranter and a door slammer and a loud talker, but also a hell of a lot of fun, and it's completely impossible to stay mad at her. You'll try—she'll pull one of her tantrums or flake out on whatever you had planned, and you tell yourself you're completely done putting up with her shit, and then two minutes later she's worked her evil-bleached-pixie magic and she has you laughing so hard you have tears streaming down your face and you can't remember why you were ever mad in the first place.

It's funny. For as close as we are now, for as much time as we hang out—how we genuinely
like
each other—we don't talk much about our pasts. It's a common theme among guinea pigs. You don't exactly get here aboard the Yuppie Express, you know? If you're willing to sell your skin here, chances are you probably sold it in some other way, in some other place, too. Boo freakin' hoo, I know. Yours, mine, and everybody else's sob story. I'm just saying we're not the types to sit around and wax poetic about what used to be.

We talk, though. About a lot of things. Just usually in the present tense.

Like now. Jameson's trying to pry me out of my bad mood this morning, conspicuously avoiding all reference to Dylan. He'd rather talk about work, anyway.

He frowns when I get around to telling him about the Beagle, though, especially when I tell him the part about the nurse leaving the rest of us alone. You can always tell what he's thinking when he hears about stuff like that—that it would never happen if
he
ran the place. Like I said, he should've been a doctor, and I think it burns him up sometimes that he isn't. Jameson is the picture of thwarted ambition.

I, on the other hand, am the picture of comforter-wrapped complacency. I burrow deeper into the couch, pull the blanket up to my chin, and make up my mind to officially forgive Dylan. Nothing decided while feeling this cozy can be wrong, can it?

“Are you still writing?” That's Jameson changing the subject, just like Charlotte did when I tried to tell her about what happened. I told you—people around here don't like talking about bad outcomes. It's a superstitious thing, I guess. You don't call out the boogeyman's name. You don't rattle locked cages.

I shrug. “Kind of. When I find the time.”

We both know it's a lame excuse. It's not like I'm trying to write the next Great American Novel or anything—it's just a blog for people who want to learn about drug testing. It was originally Charlotte's idea—she thought we might even be able to make some money out of it somehow from the newbies who come wandering in with questions about how this stuff works, or how much that hurts, or whatever. We're supposed to be doing it together, but she's hard to pin down sometimes when it comes to anything resembling actual work. Charlotte tends to be all spark, no fire.

It doesn't matter; I like working on it myself. It makes me feel halfway useful, since everyone's nervous when they first show up here. But you find your niche, I tell them. Your comfy little hidey-hole. And soon enough you wonder what all the fuss was for. So that's what I write about.

A lot of people here have gigs on the side—there's a whole underground economy. One lady runs a kind of travel agency for medical trials all over the country. She'll get you signed up, book your tickets, maybe even charter a bus if there's a big enough group going. Another guy walks dogs and waters plants, that kind of thing, for people doing inpatient studies. He'll also run errands for you, pick up medicine, whatever, if you're really hurting and can't fend for yourself for a while. All for a small fee, of course. Jameson keeps a whole damn pharmacy in the spare room in our apartment. He buys up our unused meds for next to nothing, then sells them for a ridiculous amount of money on the side. But like I said, it's not as bad as it sounds—it's not like he's running a meth lab or anything. He's just selling medicine that hasn't been officially approved, or maybe just isn't available yet, to people who don't have time to wait for all the boxes to be checked. Occasionally some walking skeleton of a person we've never seen before will show up, go back to the extra room with Jameson, and come out ten minutes later in a big rush to leave.

I don't ask any questions. You do what you gotta do, right?

“You're a good writer. And you let your personality come out more on paper. It's like you, only…more sparkly.”

I stick my tongue out at him. “Are you saying I don't usually sparkle?”

“Oh, you sparkle all right. You sparkle like a horny teenage vampire,” Jameson says. “I'm just saying that you can be a bit reserved in person, and I like the way you let yourself out of your head cage a bit when you write. You should keep it up, maybe take some classes.” He turns up the stereo to drown out the sound of Charlotte having sex with Scratch in the next room.

“Yeah, right. Harvard keeps calling, asking me when I'm going to accept my full ride, but I just haven't gotten around to it yet.” I yawn and then make a show of burrowing even further into my blanket nest, but Jameson doesn't take the hint.

“I'm serious, Audie. You're smart, and you should be in school. Not high school, you're already way past that. Maybe a class or two at the community college, though, or something online.”

I shoot him a dirty look. He's doing what Charlotte and I call his Den Mother Thing. For someone who can't be much more than five years older than me, he can be a preachy bastard sometimes. “Gee, thanks, Dad. And if I don't, are you going to send me to my room?” I know he means well, but I hate it when people treat me like a kid. I may be young, but I pay my share of the rent and manage my life just fine, thank you very much. “Besides, I don't see you applying to med schools.”

“Maybe not, but I've already memorized more textbooks than I'd ever have to read in medical school.
I'm
pursuing my interests. Unlike you.”

He's about a centimeter from the border between irritating me and seriously pissing me off. “Yeah, well, there's a reason you've never met a self-taught heart surgeon, don't you think?” I can hear my voice turning sharp.

“Easy there, Audie.” Charlotte's still buttoning her pants as she comes out of her room. “The fine Dr. Jameson has hooked me up with many a cure. He's a hell of a lot more reliable than most of the quacks working around here.” She hands me a pill and then sits down on the couch, practically on top of me. We both started a birth-control study last week and we're trying to help each other remember to take our pills. Mine are little beige ovals, hers are yellow octagons—it's anyone's guess which are the real deal. I'm usually the one to remember first, but sex with Scratch is probably an excellent reminder to take preventive measures ASAP.

They're both giving me that look, basically accusing
me
of being the jerk, and I can tell from the way Jameson starts clearing his throat with little
heh heh heh
noises that I actually might have hurt his feelings. “Sorry, J. You can operate on me any day.”

Jameson winks away my apology, and we fall into one of those awkward silences. Charlotte shifts in her seat and I can tell by the semipredatory expression that spreads across her face that she's about to bring up her plan. She did a psych study once where she had to sit through assertiveness training, which is pretty funny, because Charlotte isn't exactly a shrinking violet. She kind of got off on the stuff they taught her, and she'll occasionally throw around some of the techniques she learned. I can tell I'm looking at a few of them right now:
Position yourself directly in front of your conversational opponent. Maintain steady eye contact. Always be the one to initiate a change of subject. Match your opponent's breathing pattern.

Personally, I would've called it Manipulative Asshole Training, but that's just me.

After her training session, they sat Charlotte in front of a big red button and told her that each time she pushed it someone in another room would get a shock. It's one of those bullshit things they always tell you in psych studies, like anyone would actually be stupid enough to believe that was really what was going on, that some poor asshole on the other side of the wall was really going to sit there wired up to a bunch of cables and let himself get juiced over and over just because someone in a white coat said not to move.

Charlotte didn't press the button a single time. Instead, she used the little pocketknife she used to carry around with her to pry the whole damn button out of its casing, and refused to give it back until the researchers paid her in full for participating in the study. “I didn't want them to think I hadn't been listening,” she said. “I mean, what's more assertive than that?”

But maybe I am still a little raw about Dylan's disappearing act, because I'm just not in the mood to be on the receiving end of Charlotte's Psych 101 bullshit techniques this morning. I start untangling myself from the blanket so that I can leave before she starts pressing me for a commitment.

I'm not totally lacking in self-awareness—I'll probably say yes to her plan soon enough. I mean, we both know she'll talk me into it eventually. I can be sort of susceptible to certain types of people. And Charlotte, for all her flaws, just has this way of making her version of events seem so much
better
than anything I could ever come up with. It's like being best friends with a cult leader, sometimes.

Sooner or later I'll drink the Kool-Aid, but sometimes you have to show some resistance, put up a little fight, just to remind yourself that you can.

Fortunately, Scratch comes out of Charlotte's room and drags a chair over to join us just in time to distract Charlotte from pouncing on me.

Scratch. Poor, revolting Scratch. True to his nickname, he's got a rash. Scratch always has a rash. He's allergic to damn near everything. You so much as eat something for lunch that ever sat next to a tree nut and he'll sprout hives if you breathe on him three hours later. He's the peely-est, sniffly-est dude I've ever met, and as much as I've gotten used to finding his eczema shrapnel dusting our cushions and hearing him hawking up lung butter in our bathroom, he still makes my skin crawl at times like this, idly fingering the yellow-helmeted battalion of pustules marching up his neck. I would think he'd give the techs a heart attack whenever he walked into a lab, but he's carved out a nice little niche for himself volunteering in skin and allergy studies; he'll smear damn near anything on his flesh. I'm pretty sure Charlotte only fools around with him now and then because she feels sorry for him.