When am I going back to work?
A. As soon as I get dressed.
B. During their lunch hour.
C. Tomorrow.
* * *
Stage
6
A life doesn’t always fall into disarray through faulty planning or negligence, but often through the absence of a very fine detail. A man might lead an entirely fulfilled life (on a formulaic level); but, content in work and love, he still approaches life with a certain degree of bafflement. That is, until the day he passes by a café window and sees his wife at a table, sitting across from another man, holding hands or exchanging a kiss. Of course, there will be outrage, heartbreak and streams of tears, but they only mask the sense of relief he feels because his life suddenly makes sense, it has found order. Everyone past childhood, no matter their creed or culture, has experienced betrayal. When one person trusts another, and the other person, thinking of their self first, does something to their own advantage, it is betrayal. While this level of betrayal is common and well understood, self-betrayal is much more common but very misunderstood. A person will eat a poor diet, overwork and never exercise, and fail to see that they act against their self; the enemy is within. Rather than admit their dual nature, they seek an external betrayer, an unfaithful lover, alcohol, a parent or a crooked business partner. Preoccupied with your external enemies, you won’t find the strength, courage or time to fight the beast within. To commit or invite betrayal is another means of betraying yourself; you have no enemies, you have no friends, only you.
Woozy, I let the medicine bottle slide from my hand and strike heavily against the wood floor. I looked at the clock; a little after 9AM and the workday had just started. I should call. Where’s the phone? To hell with it, I’ll get dressed. Shit! There’s a dead monkey in the foyer. I’ll show up during lunch hour. They’ll be gone, and I can incinerate the body without them knowing. Now, now, I have time. I have two hours. Laundry? No…no. Dizzy but standing upright, my eyelids fell shut. My hand reached for the suitcase and pulled it towards the edge of the bed, letting it topple over and crash beside me on the floor. I took the suitcase’s spot on the bed and fell dead asleep, while music still played in the background.
* * *
There was a prick and pressure in my vein.
I woke in a hospital bed. It was an IV.
* * *
It was a dream.
* * *
Arriving in the middle of lunch hour, I found the parking lot mostly empty, as I’d expected. I took the black, garbage bag beneath my arm, feeling the newly severed limbs through the plastic; over my shoulders, I wore a backpack with a change of clothes and an Andean, pan flute inside. I flashed my keycard at the entrance, passed through the corridor and walked directly to the storage room at the end. Nobody saw me.
When the last beams of light disappeared behind the door, I locked it and fumbled for the switch. The fluorescent light flickered and illuminated the metal racks, cardboard boxes and grayish blue walls. The squared incinerator lied dormant to one side, still looking too sterile and passive for the task of burning. I placed the bag at its feet, opened the metal, shoebox-sized door and peered into the dark interior. It was empty, so I leaned down and tore through the plastic. Keeping my eyes fixed on the wall, I started loading body parts into the machine, limb by hairy limb. At last, my hand rested on the rhesus monkey’s head; I moved my hand downwards, until the base of my palm was on the bald chest and my fingertips ran along the hairy spine. Still looking away, I took a firm breath, pick up the body and put it in, too, accidentally striking its head against the edge. I immediately closed the door behind it, turned and leaned my back against the incinerator for a moment.
The control panel was beside my hip; I turned my head downward and pressed POWER – PROGRAM 1 – START. As the machine came to life and began its low hum, I pushed away from it, walked across the room and repositioned myself against the storage room door. I slid downwards slowly, until I was sitting on the floor with my knees against my chest. I watched. A faint, red glow shone through the metal door’s teeth, as the incinerator warmed up and started burning; the same as ever, there was no smell or smoke. The program would run for ten minutes and, though it had never been my habit, I badly wanted a cigarette. Staying on the storage room floor, I impatiently waited until the monkey had turned to ash.
When the program finished, I stood, neatly rolled the plastic bag and put in the front compartment of my backpack. I turned off the lights and cracked open the door to make sure the hall was empty. It was, so I crossed the hall and ducked into the men’s room. The bathroom had a short row of lockers, two sinks, two urinals and two stalls, a normal one and a larger, handicapped one. I opened my locker, which was empty apart from my lab coat, and put my backpack inside. I took my white coat from the hanger and replaced it with the suede one I was wearing, I took the pan flute from my backpack and shut the locker door. Head down, avoiding my reflection, I walked towards the sink to clean the dried blood from my hand. Air-drying my hands and wearing a rainbow-colored flute around my neck, I passed through the corridor on my way to the breakroom, where I knew to find Jan; she always brought her lunch from home.
She had the same thick-framed glasses, wavy hair and flower of youth that I’d left her with two weeks ago. Jan looked up from her sack lunch and gave a wide grin, when I passed through the door, but the happy expression retreated a half step as I came close to her table.
“Doctor,” she said, “You look about five years older.”
Caught off guard, I replied just as candidly, “Good. That’s about how much older I feel, so I’ll take it.”
Jan eyed the pan flute uncertainly and asked, “How was Paris?”
“I didn’t make the flight, so I went to Peru instead.” I eyed the whole-wheat veggie wrap in front of her and asked, “When did you start eating well?”
“I started going to a different supermarket after you left.”
There was an odd moment between us, and her smile was renewed. Given my troubles, I was greatly relieved to see her spark and serenity again. I lifted the colorful flute from my neck and held it out to her.
“It’s for covering for me last week,” I said.
“Aww, thank you, Doctor, but the ‘A’ and the reference are really enough. You’re not trying to get out of giving them, are you?”
“No. I forgot about them, actually. But yeah, they’re still yours.”
Jan tried on the flute and blew in a few colored chambers. Then, she looked up and asked, “Did you really go to Peru? Everyone here thinks you went to France.”
“Yes, I really went to Peru. It was a last minute decision and nobody needed to know anyway.”
“That’s quite a change. Weren’t you going with someone?”
“Well,” I cleared my throat, “That changed, too.”
“Oh, sorry, Doctor.”
I simply smiled, while Jan attempted a brief, halting song on the instrument.
“You don’t play an instrument, do you?” I asked.
“I played the recorder when I was in middle school.”
“Oh, then this should be easy for you. What else is happening around here?”
“The usual, mostly. Dr. Weaver and York had a little confrontation last week, and Dr. York has been making himself scarce ever since. He’s doing normal checks on the subjects, but his time in the Draize lab has been minimal since that.”
“It’s not too surprising. What was it about?”
“I don’t know. I think she just lost patience with him. You know how he gets.”
“Right, I do. How’s the sentiment towards me?”
She didn’t answer.
I asked again, “Jan? Have they said something?”
“I can’t say exactly. There’s some talk about the tests last week, like maybe you said something or did it wrong.”
“Understood,” I answered crossing my arms. “I wonder why they’re taking it so seriously, all of a sudden.”
Jan shrugged her shoulders and repeated her attempt to play a song.
I shrugged my shoulders, too. Standing, I asked, “See you in the lab?”
She smiled, nodded and continued her childish blowing.
The Draize Lab hadn’t changed; white rabbits were still huddled in wire cages, there was the constant sound of nibbling and the air smelled of sawdust. There was an unattended clipboard on the countertop, so I flipped through a few pages and read the familiar product codes, subject numbers, time periods and reaction notes. It seemed my job hadn’t changed much either, just a new collection of colored gels to rub on fresh pairs of eyes. I sat on the stool beside the testing counter and waited for someone to walk through the door.
Dr. Maria Weaver came first. Sitting on a stool, I was eye level with my assistant; she was a only a few years younger than me and had perfectly gray hair, but the skin on her face was still taut and unspotted. Due to our individual holidays, it had been close to a month since I’d seen her, and she’d straightened her hair in that time, making her features more sharp and sophisticated, not that she needed it. She showed me a crooked half smile, as much as I’d ever seen, but her displays of happiness were usually restricted to her eyes.
Both amicable and smug, she looked at me from head to foot, and asked “How are you, Derrick?”
“I’ve been better.”
“You look it. Did you drink too much on the plane and take the morning to recover?”
“Something like that. How was Ireland?”
“Good. How was Paris?”
“F-fantastic.”
“Hmm.” Her half-smile vanished and her eye became quizzical, “You’ll have to tell me the truth later. There are other forces at work here.”
“Ah, I’ve heard rumors.”
“Home Office has been looking into your performance record. They talked to me first, asking if you’re capable and abide by company policy. Now, as much as I’d love to sell you out and take your job, I take deep contentment of being more competent than my boss, and I don’t want to lose that. [I laughed] Since they picked up on my standpoint, they started asking around, in LD50, and I think they found better answers.”
“Are you thinking forced retirement?” I asked.
“They’re trying to rattle you, I think. But, for now, my advice is to behave. Lay low and show up on time.
At that point, Jan walked in with the rainbow-colored flute around her neck.
Dr. Weaver turned to her immediately and said, “Sorry, Ms. Iris, unless this is Midsummer Night’s Dream and you’re playing Pan, that’ll have to go in your locker.”
Jan quickly turned her head, playing all the notes swiftly, and said, “Sorry, Doctor.” She disappeared into the hallway again.
Dr. Weavers fractioned smile came back, “Nice girl, but absolutely out of her head. Where did she get that?”
“Peru probably.”
“Interesting. How is Frida, by the way?”
I replied haltingly, “She’s good.”
“Oh, Derrick. That’s too many lies for one day.” She reached up, pressed on my arm and said, “We’ll have to talk later. There’s a lot of work to do. It’s good to have you back though.”
* * *
My job and the charms of my coworkers were enough of a distraction to get me through the shift. When we’d finished for the day, I might have seemed hesitant to leave their company, but they didn’t respond to it.
Soon after I got home, I took a DVD off the shelf at random and watched it, while sipping a tumbler full of whisky. I passed out within an hour and woke up later to see the movie had stopped. I reached for the remote and restarted the film, and fell asleep during the opening credits.
I roused just before 5:00am, dazed and unenthusiastic about waking. For several minutes, my eyes held the ceiling and my thoughts climbed the walls. Eventually, I showered and dressed, made coffee and went to the kitchen table. I sat there for two, silent hours, waiting to leave for work.
* * *
When I turned into the Research Institute parking lot, Dr. Wilke’s egg-shaped car was already there and he was in the driver seat, waiting again. Rather than avoid him, I sped up, drove just past the white car and rapidly pulled into the next spot, screeching to a halt beside it and leaving less than a foot between them. I didn’t turn to catch his reaction, but after a short minute I heard a soft thud against my passenger door, as he tried to exit his car. They were too close, so he had to climb into the passenger seat and get out through the opposite side. While he circled the cars, I cut the engine and turned off the radio, anxious to see if Wilkes was brave enough to persist. Soon, he stood at my door, tapping my window with one hand and holding a manila envelope in the other.