The Failure (14 page)
S
ee what I’m saying? said Billy, staring straight ahead. He held his hands outstretched across the booth toward Guy, who sat with his head in his hands, head down, eyes closed.
-I am, replied Guy.
Billy snapped his fingers three times.
-That’s some kind of code, said the drunk girl who’d come over to join them, accompanied by a less-drunk friend. The less-drunk friend had red hair, and was very slim. She wore a light-green T-shirt decorated with sequins that spelled out a word. In the gloom of the bar it was difficult to make out the word. On the floor next to her seat was a helmet of some kind that matched the color of her shirt. Her friend, an artificial blonde, had on a black dress.
-No it’s not a code, said Billy. -It’s part of what Madam Rose taught us, it helps concentrate the mind. We can do it without the snapping but it’s more difficult. Up to you …
-Let them snap, said the blonde, pushing the straw in her almost-empty glass to and fro with the tip of her nose.
-Go! said Billy, throwing his hands theatrically toward Guy, who nodded gravely in response.
-I’m starting to get something, said Guy.
Billy snapped his fingers quickly five times.
-Tell me what you see! he commanded.
-I’m picturing a rock band, began Guy.
-Oh my God, exclaimed the blond girl. -This is creepy!
-There’s some trick to it, insisted the redhead.
-Where is it? asked Billy.
-That’s the strange thing. It’s out in the desert somewhere. It’s like just this lone rock band standing out in the desert.
-Okay, said Billy.
-But it’s not the band. You’re picturing something, or rather someone, more specific. Guy rocked back and forth in his seat, in a sign of intense effort.
-Is it … he continued. -I’m getting a very clear picture now. Is it Bono from U2?
The blonde squealed in a mixture of delight and concern.
-No way! said the redhead.
-Did I get it right? Guy asked Billy innocently, looking around as if resurfacing from a trance.
Billy watched the skeptical expression on the redhead’s face with more than usual attention.
-Do I know you from somewhere? he asked her.
-Almost certainly not, she replied. -But you’re the psychic. You tell me.
-It doesn’t work that way, murmured Billy.
SPOILER ALERT
: The following paragraphs contain spoilers about the mind reading trick. If you don’t wish to have your ability to believe in anything or anyone ever again completely trashed forever, we suggest you read no further from this chapter, or in fact from any other chapter of any other book containing fiction. Or just to be safe, any book whatsoever.
The first and most important element of the trick is alcohol. The second most important element is girls. The trick will work on guys, but they will be much less willing to admit it. They will go to all sorts of lengths to prove that the trick is in fact a trick and not a genuine display of extrasensory abilities. They will fail, because the secret of the trick is so absolutely, completely simple and banal that no one has ever successfully guessed the trick that does not already know the trick. The trick will also still work without alcohol, but it’s less fun and therefore rarely performed sober or on sober people. One time Guy and Billy ended up at a dinner party where the assembled guests were so confounded they made Guy and Billy sit back to back facing away from each other, which of course had no effect whatsoever on the efficacy of the trick.
Here’s how it works: the transmitter, in this case Billy, receives “something that can be pictured” from one of the girls, something concrete—at least at first, until a certain suspension of disbelief has been achieved by repeated success (and the occasional deliberate or even accidental failure, which only serves to underline the authenticity of the trick, because a trick cannot fail, but a genuine ESP transmission might be expected to fail for any number of reasons), at which point the girls or guys are free to suggest abstract concepts, people neither Guy nor Billy know but the girls or guys know, the make and model and color of the guys’ or girls’ friend’s car, etcetera.
To heighten credulity, the receiver, in this case Guy, usually leaves the table and goes either outside or at least out of sight of the others, returning only when someone—not Billy, obviously, that would be ridiculous—fetches him. In the meantime, the girl, because let’s use as an example the one already presented above, has whispered into Billy’s ear, “Bono.” You’d be surprised how many times this is the first famous person that comes into the mind of anyone playing the mind reading trick. Billy nods, sagely, tells the girl, “Good choice. It’s difficult, but I think I can picture him. Don’t be disappointed if Guy doesn’t get it, though, it’s not an easy pick and the noise in this bar is very distracting.”
It’s always important to emphasize the distracting nature of the environment, in case, as has happened, something goes drastically wrong and the trick repeatedly fails. This is why Guy and Billy will often reject the first few suggestions if they are judged to be too difficult to transmit, settling only when someone puts forward something assured of success. In this example, success was assured right away, which sometimes happens, happily.
Guy comes back in with a distracted air, sits opposite Billy, puts his head in his hands. Billy does a lot of preamble talking, to which Guy knows he doesn’t have to pay attention until Billy claps his hands together once, signaling the beginning of the actual transmission. “See what I’m saying,” Billy begins, then snaps his fingers three times. “No, it’s not a code,” he assures the girls, which is actually part of the code. Then he does the theatrical “Go!” followed by five quick snaps. At this point Guy already knows that Billy is transmitting the name of a singer, and is pretty sure he knows of which band, which means he already knows the answer. But Guy vamps, to add to the air of mystery, by claiming to picture a rock band. Billy slowly adds a couple more coded messages to draw out the tension, while Guy fills in imaginary details of the imaginary picture Billy is supposedly transmitting. Then, as if on the verge of passing out from the mental effort, he gives up the answer, to the astonishment of the girls, who immediately want to try again, and again, and Guy and Billy oblige, even switching from transmitter to receiver and back again with facility, never faltering and never letting on that the whole thing is an incredibly easy con.
The first letter of every sentence that Billy says is the code. In other words, when he says,“See what I’m saying?” the code is “S.” Everything after that initial letter is meaningless, which is why it’s easy to change around and avoid repetition that would give away the secret. The finger snaps are vowels: A, E, I, O, U, in that order, which is to say three snaps for I, which is what Billy did. So Guy understood at that point “S, I.” Then Billy said, “No, it’s not a code,” etc., incorporating the code into his response to the girls—in other words, the third letter is “N.” The theatrical “Go!” provided a “G,” which led Guy to “sing,” which he knew from long experience with Billy was shorthand for “singer,” most likely, a fact confirmed when Billy snapped his fingers five times, indicating “U,” at which point Guy understood the clue to be shorthand for “the singer of U2,” and all the rest was stalling for effect.
N
othing good ever happens in the winter, thought Marcus, staring out the window of his Cambridge town house. Not one good thing. Christmas is a disaster, New Year’s is a letdown, and now my dad’s dead and my brother’s right behind him. Guy was smart to stay in California. Winter never happens in Los Angeles. That must be the attraction, for most people. I mean, obviously that’s the attraction, Endless Summer and whatnot, but besides that, when nothing good ever happens you don’t notice as much, because there’s the sun. There’s the sea-blue sky. Is it going to be hot today, or merely comfortably warm?
I need the winter, though. I need the contrast of shadow and light to make sense of anything, not that I’ve done such a great job. Making sense. Mom’s right, I’m not a very kind person. Nor am I a particularly honest person. I haven’t been honest for years, not with my family, not with my wife, and least of all with myself.
Constance came into the room with a cup of coffee, which she handed to Marcus, wordlessly, smiling. He smiled back.
-I have to leave.
-Again? said Constance. -But you just got back. You’ve hardly had time to unpack.
-I know. But this is different.
Constance sat down with a quizzical look.
-What’s wrong? she asked.
-Nothing. Everything. I feel like I’m moving backwards. Five gears in reverse, darling. Like the old soul song. That’s all I’ve got. I’m always facing backwards. Benjamin’s angel of history. I can only see what’s happened, and look on in horror. I can never turn around.
-Because you’re the angel of history.
-You know what I mean.
-Honestly, I don’t. I usually do, but you’ve got me stumped, buster.
-Yeah. I’ve got myself stumped.
-Well, you’ve been through a lot in a very short period of time.
-I haven’t, really. My dad went through a lot. My brother. Even my mom, because she actually loved them both. Loves. Whatever. I’ve just had to do a lot of responsible Marcustype stuff. But if we’re talking about emotional toll, which I think is what you meant, I really haven’t. Maybe on some level that hasn’t hit me yet …
-Marcus, if you’re talking to me like this, which is pretty much the first time you’ve ever talked about anything to do with your family, in a serious way, then “on some level” is right here. On the surface.
-You’re right. It’s just that I don’t feel it.
-What’s “it”?
-Anything! Grief, anger, melancholy, sorrow, loss, pain.
-Those are good things not to feel, I’m thinking.
-That would be true. That would be true if the inverse were also … Are you happy Constance? Do you ever feel happy?
-No.
-No?
-Not really.
-Well, how is it I don’t know this relatively important fact about you? I’m not happy either.
-I know.
-Jesus.
-I’ve never really thought of happiness as any kind of realistic goal.
-Really? Since when?
-Since forever. I don’t remember the actual date and time of my epiphanies, dear. I’m not Joyce.
-Joyce who? Oh.
-So you want to leave? You think that will make things better?
-I don’t know. I thought it was worth a shot.
-Have you … is there someone …
-What? Oh God, no. No. It has nothing to do with …
-I didn’t think so. It’s just one of the questions you’re supposed to ask.
-And you? True to your name?
-More or less. Okay, more.
-You never liked my family.
-What’s that supposed to mean?
-I don’t know.
Constance sighed deeply. -No, I never did. In fact I couldn’t stand your family. Except for your mom. I feel sorry for your mom. I didn’t know that was an issue for you.
-It wasn’t. It’s not. You probably liked them better than I did. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
-Maybe there isn’t anything left to say.
-Maybe there isn’t. Shouldn’t that make me feel sad?
-If you want my opinion, which is why you asked, I’m assuming, it’s because you spend all your time feeling sad. You’re so used to feeling sad that you don’t know what it’s like to feel anything else. Maybe you’ve even given up on the hope of ever feeling anything else.
-That sounds more like what
you
are feeling.
-Yes. Ironic.
-So what, then?
-What do you mean, what?
-I mean, what do we do now?
-I don’t know. Until five minutes ago I didn’t know that anything needed to be done.
-You mean you’ve been unhappy since I guess forever, and you were prepared just to keep on going, the way things are, indefinitely?
-Why not?
-Because … this … Marcus waved his hands around the room as a gesture to encompass his entire empty life.
-This?
-Isn’t working. Isn’t making you happy.
-It isn’t making me unhappy. I can do that either with you or without you. I had the idea we were in this together. Why, what’s your plan?
-I guess I don’t have one.
-Remember way back before we got married, when we were both still dewy-eyed college kids, and you proposed to me, or however that went—you did propose, didn’t you? We didn’t just sit down and do a cost/benefit analysis of getting married …?
-We might have. But that was after I proposed. And I was never dewy-eyed.
-Exactly my point. But one of the preconditions I insisted on imposing, I do remember this, specifically, was that if ever either of us wanted out, for any reason, he or she would be allowed to go. No muss, no fuss. I remember insisting because at the time I thought it would more likely be me who wanted out.
-You were right. At the time.
-If somewhere in the frozen tundra of your heart you believe that our marriage is the root cause of your … let’s call it
dissatisfaction
, then you need to leave.
-I don’t know what I believe. Either in the tundra of my heart or the fallow field of my brain.
-I don’t think people like you and me are made for happiness, Marcus. I don’t think we’re constructed properly. We get along. We do things the right way. In order to be happy you have to be like Guy.
-Who you hate.
-He never brushes his teeth!
-I know. It’s gross. But maybe sometimes you have to look beyond dental hygiene.
-Maybe I just did.
-But how can he be happy when he’s comatose?
-Before the coma. Or maybe even after the coma, who knows? But it’s the risks, the carelessness, the more or less complete lack of self-consciousness that allowed Guy to experience, I suspect, at least a few brief moments of happiness in his life. Along with a great deal of fear, and misery, and self-loathing, possibly related to tooth decay. That’s something we don’t have to deal with as much.
-I’m pretty good at the self-loathing.
-Yeah, but it’s different. It’s muted or muffled by your internal engine.
-I could get hit by a bus any minute now.
-People like us don’t get hit by buses. We look both ways before crossing the street. And then we look again, just to be sure. We don’t get the highs, but we don’t get the lows, either. All we get is a kind of general malaise.
-World Fever. That’s what Guy called it. He was convinced that the world was actually diseased, or at least the human race. He said World Fever would eventually cause the breakdown of ordinary life. He was really looking forward to that day.
-He may well live to see it. But I don’t think World Fever’s fatal, I really don’t. I think it’s like any other kind of fever, you just feel like shit for a couple of weeks, maybe you take some time off work, maybe you dose yourself with antibiotics and cold medicine and tough it out, but it goes away, eventually. After a while you forget you were even sick.
-But if everyone got sick …
-Then everyone would have to forget that they’d been sick. It sounds like a lot to ask, but when you think about the stuff we’re used to forgetting on a daily basis …
-Yeah. You know, we never talk like this anymore.
-That’s not true. We’ve
never
talked like this. Ever.
-Not even back in the dewy-eyed years?
-We were too stupid to talk about anything real back then. We thought the future was bright with promise. We had hope.
-I miss hope.
-I don’t. It raises expectations, which are inevitably thwarted, and next thing you know your husband wants to leave.
-You knew I wasn’t leaving.
-I knew you were unlikely to leave. I also knew you were likely to do something, maybe for the first time in your life, completely foolish if I didn’t step in.
-Which is when you brought me coffee, said Marcus, staring into his now-cold cup. -Which I don’t drink.
-You’re welcome, said Constance, smiling, as she got up to leave.
-I have to do something, said Marcus, toward Constance’s retreating form. -I have to make some kind of change. Otherwise … otherwise this has all been for nothing.
Marcus sat silently for a while, thinking.
-Maybe … maybe my antipathy toward wallpaper, I mean any kind of wallpaper, in general, is misplaced. Maybe there’s something to wallpaper after all. Maybe there’s good wallpaper and bad wallpaper, and I need to figure out the difference.
He looked, as if for the first time, around the wallpapered room.
-I mean, this pattern isn’t so bad. Maybe in a different color …