The Voices in Our Heads (19 page)

One cursor, no waiting.

“Almost six years ago I was faced with the difficult task of setting my husband’s estate upon his sudden death . . .”

He just had to choose one. Whether he was having a vision or stepping over some line or getting involved with an “occult phenomenon” he believed in about as much as the fucking tooth fairy wasn’t finally the point. Tiffany Fowler’s soul was here on his computer, and telling himself not to tab in was like telling a drunk he wasn’t allowed a reward beer, or a Biggest Loser candidate that he had to skimp on his energy bars.

He clicked on the heading “The Most Private Thing I’m Proud Of” and got a screen laden with still shots of Tiffany Fowler’s backside: black leggings and a sparkly sash, a light tan business dress, a blue jean skirt pulled up in back to show cotton underwear with valentines, a pair of pink hot pants cut in diagonal across the middle of each buttock, and dead center the straight nudie shot, close up, feet clearly spread in “at ease” position, her sex visible, lovely, yet only the exclamation point to the curvy presentation above and to each side, back-dimple like a diamond poised above the affair. Her ass was a bit wide for such a skinny frame, but not too wide, just enough to make her human as hell, and it wasn’t bulbous enough to be rude, but was sure pronounced enough to make a statement.

“. . . James McFinn, through patience and understanding, enabled me to better deal with the details of the various policies my husband had.”

McFinn looked up, caught her eye, and smiled. Couldn’t help it. Her chin came slightly off her palm, and she smiled back, just a little, automatic reaction. He pulled the immediate glance-off maneuver and shared the expression with a fat woman in the back row, huge mole on her chin, and then a dude second row left with a crewcut and black-collared shirt, clearly gym and health. Neither responded. His smile was frosted, professional, the life clearly drained from it two stops ago. Did anyone notice?

Too late to care, on to the next riddle. McFinn hit the back-arrow, got the front page, and clicked on “Biggest Secret.”

“. . . His handling of the legalities and the myriad of questions I had were put into the simplest terms that I could easily make sense of.”

On the screen there was but one image, Tiffany most probably back in high school, hair tied back in a ponytail, field hockey uniform, cleats off, ankles drawn up under her on the sofa, shoulder turned into the chest of a balding man in a grease monkey’s blue jumpsuit, her face buried in his neck. His arm was around her, but he was looking away, the TV reflecting in his glasses. Below the image were the words,

“Pay attention to me, please.”

She had a “Daddy” complex. McFinn finished the testimonial, paused, and cleared his throat.

“Look,” he said, closing the laptop, feeling the immediate release from the invisible seat belt that had been pressing him down into his chair. He folded his hands. Went heart to heart.

“In all, I want you to take care of yourselves. It’s a lonely world out there, a tough world, a good world that sometimes needs fixing. Just as you sometimes have to be parents to your students, it’s my job, my duty, my passion as a former educator to step in as your surrogate father so to speak. I’m here to help, to guide you, to listen. Sometimes you need praise, and sometimes you simply need to take your medicine. Considering the financial climate nowadays, I’ve come to the conclusion that teachers need more than a financial planner, more than a friend.”

He looked right at Tiffany Fowler.

“You need someone to metaphorically put his arm around you, and tell you everything’s finally going to be all right. Really.”

There was applause, real applause this time, but McFinn barely heard it. He met up with Tiffany Fowler that night, her place, not his. She had a lot of plants and a nice kitchen, and the whole thing was a mistake. Leaving was awkward. And she’d refused to give him anal.

He left at one in the morning, carry case tucked under his arm as if he were a dark figure in some cheap spy novel. All the way back to his split-level in Havertown, he fingered the thing on the seat next to him, to keep it safe, keep it real. When he got home, it wouldn’t work, blank screen, probably had a limited range that couldn’t reach the neighbors McFinn didn’t really care about anyway. He finally went to bed at 2:20 and dreamed his dick was a Geiger counter that wouldn’t straighten and beep.

He woke at 8:30 Saturday morning. Already the memories of his strange voyeurism were fading, and he didn’t want them to. Deep down, a voice tried to gargle out that there was a chance the procedure would leave a trace, cookies or something that would expose him, that he should reconsider, abort.

He promised himself in the shower that he most certainly would.

After one quick trip to the train station.

There was definitely something wrong with this thing, or him, he couldn’t decide which. He sat on a polished bench right out in the middle of everyone and the world, but couldn’t get a flash or a blip. Commuters crossed and crisscrossed around and in front and behind him, a beehive, a living network of prospects, and his screen was dead zero. He angled it up, checked the battery light. Glowing. He rested it back in his lap and hit Ctrl/Alt/Delete. Nothing. It was maddening. If he’d lost the strange program forever, his regular crap would wink up, his smorgasbord of icons, his life. But the contradiction, the battery light versus the blank flat line proved he was on the cusp of this thing, one code or keystroke away, stuck in limbo.

The bathroom prophecy had said to risk temptation. Well, he was risking all here, so that couldn’t be it. If he wasn’t taking the chance of his life, he’d at least have been leaning against a wall so no one could look over his shoulder. But this was part of it, the attraction, the lure, the seduction. Like the social studies room, this had to be a public action, sewn into the broadcloth around him, so bold, so brazen that no one around would ever imagine. He’d almost been glad it hadn’t worked at home. Felt like cheating.

You only need fear what the wind may blow near.

Well, that could be taken two ways, now couldn’t it? The more obvious equation, stay out of the wind, was the easy one. And that didn’t pose any sort of a barrier really, it was clear that this was meant to be a parlor game. The more subtle message was to stay away from anything the wind might blow into a building near to him, and he was hell and gone from the front entrance. The revolving doors were a good two hundred and fifty feet away.

He was hungry all of a sudden, and a warning flare surfaced. He usually started the day with his bowl of Fiber One, his glass of Minute Maid, his slice of fresh cantaloupe. Today, he’d skipped. And he had two overdue field reports that he promised himself he was going to tear into this weekend, besides the Share-Over-Lunch he was required to deliver to the other managers in the conference room Tuesday. His subject was second mortgages, and the housing biz wasn’t really his thing. He needed to research, to plan, to keep organized, it was all looming.

He closed the laptop cover and looked around. There was a coffee shop next to a rather dismal-looking stand selling magazines. Maybe he’d get a breakfast sandwich, egg and sausage, risk the heartburn.

He opened the computer again and hit a couple of buttons. There was a flash. It was coming up blue.

McFinn gripped the laptop on both sides, feeling a bit of the Tilt-a-Whirl press in his lap, a hint of pressure, yet not nearly as much as before. The “Human Websites” title flickered on and off at the top of the screen, and the cartoon outlines below, about nine of them, played the shadow game as well, strobe-lighting on and off, teasing, then fading completely. The faint feeling of restraint across his hips vanished.

McFinn’s breath rushed through his nose, and he looked up. People were moving in front of him, but not as many as, say, ten minutes before. There had been a lull, the lobby less crowded for sure. There had also been a slight pause in the fairly consistent announcements blaring from somewhere overhead, blanketing the hubbub, droning, loud as shit, mostly indiscernible unless your specific departure or arrival was announced.

A woman wearing leather dress boots and a coat with a cloth strap belt was walking briskly toward the north tunnel. She had on a winter hat with that Russian flavor, ring of fur at the edge. McFinn was pretty sure that the first figure, right side in the second row of flickering silhouettes on the screen, had been lined with the mink thing. And the guy with the cane and the slight hunchback, shuffling off toward the men’s room was wearing one of those ancient tan Brixton Stroll hats. The shape was unmistakable, and McFinn was dead positive that it had flashed for a moment in the bottom left corner.

Right. They had been standing in front of him, reading newspapers and magazines, looking at schedules and the clock and their cell phones; a rare moment where a random group had just happened to have paused right in front of him. The subjects had to be sitting still. He got out his agenda book. Monday was cluttered with in-office client meetings: Mrs. Flannery who was thinking of coming off term and going to whole life, Brett Davis who wanted to discuss his contributions and a rather shifty tax/loan scheme he’d conjured up, Miles Kravitz who wanted to roll over his distribution from one program to another.

Fuck ’em.

McFinn got out his Blackberry. Time to cancel a bunch of appointments, get creative, and book a few demonstrations.

He wasn’t eating, at least not regularly, and his place was a mess. He’d also been short with a few people at the office, and that wasn’t his M.O. McFinn was a charmer, a winner, the big ole boy who looked as if he went somewhere on a football scholarship, then knuckled down and learned a trade the old-fashioned way. He had those puppy-dog eyes, the big neck, the square jaw, all that gave the initial impression that he was more suited for construction or law enforcement. Then he won you over with that unexpected verbal ability, with product knowledge, his commitment to task.

For a bare moment, he’d considered setting up his “peeper-shop” right there in his cubicle at work, but wisely decided against it. You don’t eat where you shit, his father used to say. Yes, and you didn’t torque up your spying device in an environment where people knew you enough to be comfortable meddling, and peeking, and seeing what the hell you had on your screen. There was also the nasty thought that there were those around McFinn who honestly disliked him, and he was not interested, for example, in seeing some skewed, biased version of “Jimmy McFinn” in Joan Wasserman’s or Eva Davidson’s or Gina Vanderfinch’s “Men You’d Like to Castrate” column.

What he did were demonstrations, what he did best, and that next week he read the souls of thirteen individuals, twelve women, one dude. And truth be told, he’d grown a bit frustrated with it. He was currently sprawled across the right side of his sectional at home, Christmas shit still up even though it was two and a half weeks past New Year’s, the J-O-Y stocking holders over the fireplace missing the “J” and spelling the mock Jewish “OY,” Chinese takeout boxes from two nights ago still sitting on the coffee table, a pizza box, flap open with half an extra cheese and onion long past stale parked on the wet bar. There were the pieces of three different business outfits mixed and tossed across the floor and flung over the arm of the leather reading chair he liked to use for drinking top-shelf brandy and listening to classic rock on his iPod when the mood hit him, and to be totally honest, he just didn’t know what to do with himself. Right around last Wednesday he’d had to admit it was all starting to feel a bit stale. It wasn’t that he was bored actually, just desensitized. It was like anything else, like porn on the net, once you saw enough of it, the shit became regular.

Not that the last week had been your average walk in the park; on the contrary, at first he couldn’t believe some of the dirt he’d uncovered. Kate Robinson, a middle school history teacher, fucked her first cousin on a camping trip when she was fourteen. Deborah Henninger, a reading specialist at Newman High, fantasized about sucking burning hot chocolate syrup off her bitchy new female assistant’s ripe little nipples, Brenda Fagaro recently got power of attorney over her stepfather’s estate and planned to siphon it off at a clip of a thousand five hundred or so per week, and Donna Rowand once hit a homeless woman with her car, then left the scene at forty miles per hour over the speed limit. True, it was all still
naughty
enough, but he somehow wanted more, something else, something better.

Oh, he wasn’t abandoning ship in any way, shape, or form, Christ no. Just because he’d grown a bit . . . expectant . . . didn’t mean that he had outgrown the basic need to explore. It was this weekend jazz that really made it the pits, this open stretch of seemingly endless nothingness, this jail sentence with no one available to spy on, no subjects in perfect little rows, none of that addictive pull down in the lap that he’d come to enjoy more than drinking Champagne, or smoking cigars, or eating roast duck, or touching himself in the shower.

By the time the weekend was over, McFinn had lost six more pounds. He’d never made it to the dry cleaner and had actually re-worn his Wednesday, after smelling it under the pits and giving it a spritz with his Burberry Brit. Mirror. He didn’t look good. There were sallow bags under his eyes and his neck was reddened with razor-rash. Didn’t care, not really. He was demonstrating at Dudley Charter, ghetto school, rough and ready staff who couldn’t get better placements. He’d fit right in, down-to-earth, one of the boys who looked like he was out late drinking last night. He had to be sure to make some comment about how much he enjoyed the collapse of Eli Manning and the Giants. He was an implant here, a newbie Eagles fan, and it never hurt to reassure your brethren of your loyalties, especially when you pronounced chocolate
chauwwclit,
making it clear you’d been born and raised in a neighborhood closer to the Statue of Liberty than Big Ben.

When he got to Dudley, he was welcomed by three teachers who wanted to sign up right away for plans requiring the most contributions possible. Real go-getters. He spent the first half-hour in the lounge, presenting forms in triplicate and getting signatures. By the time he got to his first presentation (in a science lab space, no, he didn’t need a projector thank you very much) it was 10:45 and his hands were shaking, or damned close to it. He finally didn’t care how many clients he bagged, how many high-risk/high-fee plans he shuckstered, hell, he didn’t even care if his presentation was all that spectacular. He just wanted to exercise his secret power, reveal that window of opportunity, peek into the thin crack the door made with its frame, through the tiny keyhole exposing the inner core of some stranger with the promise that the vision could possibly surpass status quo.