That’s when I figured out something was wrong.
Brain Stew
It used to be that watching TV was a release for me. I could let it flow through the empty spaces of my day, wash over me and gently relax me. Old favorites would be on repeat, new shows would cause tense anticipation, and all the pretty moving pictures were friends. But whatever Dr. Manatee did to my brain ruined all that.
The familiar glow of my computer screen set up to stream my latest addiction, reruns of
Walker, Texas Ranger
, set the stage for my work. I fired up my Dremel to patiently grind out the space for a computer to fit inside the typewriter. But I couldn’t work. I kept stopping to stare at the screen. Any time there was the remotest form of action or dialog I was rapt. I lost several hours to the auto-play feature queuing up the next episode in the series.
Finally I turned off the computer and tried to get back to work, but I kept feeling like I needed to do something else. My legs were restless (I even considered that it might be sudden-onset Restless Leg Syndrome). Finally I got up and decided to walk around the block to get some air.
Outside, on the North Portland streets, the pavement was wet. During the long months from October to May it seemed like the pavement was always wet as if it had just rained or was just about to rain. The smell of moldering leaves mixed with the burning scent of the coffee roaster down the street. I felt at home again, at peace.
Slowly I started walking down the street to the coffee shop. Whatever it was about my workshop faded away out here. My legs, and my whole body, were relaxed.
Then several bike commuters rode by, joking and laughing as they rode two abreast down the street. I watched them intently and my legs almost immediately started to twitch in response.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t limited to television viewing. I went back inside to my basement workshop and locked the door behind. I needed to figure this out. Desperately. So I spent the rest of the day just watching videos online. At first it was whatever seemed to be entertaining, but I found that the videos that made me most twitchy were the ones where people were moving. Walker kicking something nearly made me go crazy with the need to move.
So I did. Chuck Norris delivered a smashing roundhouse to a bad guy in a black hat. I roundhouse kicked a coat tree into oblivion. Norris punched a criminal in the nose; I beat up my couch cushions.
I discovered two things that day. First, I can exactly mimic anything I see someone else do. I can do it perfectly the first time after seeing it just once. I know, it’s crazy, but I’ve tested it over and over, and it can’t be a coincidence. I’ve never played soccer before, but after watching a bicycle kick, I was able to do it exactly right in my back yard. I’ve never danced an Irish jig, but after watching some videos I was Michael Flatley (except with my shirt on).
The second thing I discovered is that I don’t have to do what I see - at least not right away. I want to do it. It’s that feeling of seeing someone else yawn and needing to yawn yourself. Just like that, I almost need to do what I see, but I don’t have to do it. I felt like I was Neo in the Matrix learning all the stuff by jacking in. Except I got tired and hungry so I went to the kitchen to eat a microwave burrito.
I supposed I should have gone to OHSU the next day to get things checked out, but I wasn’t too keen on getting connected to the police investigation. They might have a few questions about my, um, recreational activities that I wouldn’t want to answer. So I hopped on the MAX to head over to the free clinic on the west side. They did a bunch of tests and couldn’t find anything wrong with me. It was on the way back that I noticed the burly twins following me.
Once I got back to my house, I figured I should do some research to see what was going on with all this stuff. But Googling: “OHSU Dr. Manatee” didn’t give me much. I didn’t remember his name and Google wasn’t offering any helpful hints in response. They’re so good, and condescending, when I misspell a word, but they can’t figure out the mouth-breather that works at OHSU.
I finally realized that I could find it through the website of the local news station. Dr. Brenten Grosskopf hadn’t actually worked at OHSU, but he had lab space there. He applied for the space under false pretenses and they didn’t bother to check his credentials until people started dying. I guess rent is rent.
Dr. Grosskopf’s credentials were good, but spotted with tragedy. He studied neuroscience at Johns Hopkins, but there was an unexplained death in one of the volunteer test subjects. He was the chief of neurosurgery at the Mayo Clinic, but too many wrongful death suits caused him to resign. At that point, Google stopped yielding new results and just started regurgitating the same old stories from different sites. No matter, it was enough to make me nervous.
After another frozen burrito (hey, they’re cheap and I’m poor) I decided that I needed some training. So I found all the videos I could of kung fu fighting. It turns out, most of those videos are of guys breaking boards and stuff. Since I didn’t really want to break a bunch of wood, I started looking to other disciplines for help. Boxing offered some good tools, but I was afraid that the gloves would make things too different (translation: I was scared of breaking my hands). Then I looked at kickboxing because, well because it sounds cool and Jean-Claude Van Damme was in the movie (the first one anyway). But it’s even worse than boxing if you want to come out without broken hands and shins. Finally I looked to the MMA crowd - Mixed Martial Arts - to see what they do to avoid the hand-breaking.
Brazilian jujitsu. That’s the main discipline that nearly every MMA guy studies. It’s all about grappling, locking people up and taking them down. I figured I could do that, and it wouldn’t leave me with bloody stumps where my hands used to be. So I watched all the jujitsu films I could find on YouTube. It was like crack to me. I just kept going, long into the night, until I nearly couldn’t keep my eyes open.
So I switched off the computer and headed up to bed. Just after I crawled under the covers my phone buzzed with a text message. I reached over and grabbed it to see an unknown number with the message: “If you’re not dead, meet me at Powell’s @ 10am.”
I immediately texted back: “I’m not dead yet. Who are you?”
“See you tomorrow,” came the reply.
“But who are you?”
No response came, so I tried to fall asleep, but I could only think of my potential death as foretold by the texting-harbinger. But eventually I started thinking of Monty Python quotes and drifted off to sleep.
Angry buzzing woke me too early. Another text message: “Get up or you’ll be late.”
“Maybe I’m not going.”
“LOL, I’ll see you soon.”
Damn it. Whoever it was knew me well enough. I groped around for pants and a mostly-clean shirt. My late night and my rude awakening led to a grouchy mood. I rejected the next frozen-burrito-meal (breakfast this time) and stomped out the door to get some coffee and breakfast. I considered getting a beer too, but I didn’t know if I’d need my wits for this meeting or if more burly-pants were waiting to fight me. Though my new jujitsu skills were formidable, I wasn’t that anxious to try them out in real life.
The ubiquitous airpot of Stumptown coffee gave me my caffeine fix--and that sour taste of French-pressed coffee that’s too mixed up after running through an airpot pump--and helped me to shake off the angry-tired-confused state I’d been in since waking. The local, organic, vegan, gluten-free muffin tasted like moist sawdust with raisins in it, but it did the job of soaking up coffee.
Whoever was meeting me at Powell’s knew a lot about me, and I knew almost nothing about him or her. But at this point there was really nothing to do but see it out. At least Powell’s would offer some cover and witnesses, though the thug-life twins weren’t too concerned about witnesses in Pioneer Square, so maybe that wouldn’t make a difference.
When I got to Powell’s I forgot that it’s huge and my anonymous friend hadn’t told me where to go. The street car dropped me off just across the street, so I circled the block—on the opposite side of the street—seeing if I could find out anything. As I got back to the beginning of my circuit my pocket buzzed again.
“Just come inside. I’m in the coffee shop.”
I didn’t bother to text back. I did, however, walk past the coffee shop windows again to see if anyone looked familiar. No one did, so I went inside as ordered. I hunted through the rows of humor books while waiting for my clandestine rendezvous. I’d just started flipping through a Sedaris book, trying to look casual, when a perky, slightly familiar voice startled me.
“You want some coffee?”
“Yah!” I said suavely while putting down the book and turning. It was the cute red-headed girl from OHSU standing there, still being cute.
“Is that a yes?” dimples flashed on her cheeks as she smiled at me and cocked one eyebrow up.
“Yeah, that’d be great.” I followed her over to the register where we waited to order our drinks from the disinterested barista.
“Hey, how’d you get my number?” I asked.
“You gave it to me…on the form…”
“Oh yeah. Where did you go after that? I was looking for you.”
“Sorry, I had to get out. I’d tipped off the cops and didn’t want to be there when they arrested Dr. Grosskopf.”
“So that was you?”
“You’re quick. Yeah, it was me.”
We walked over to the only empty seats at the window facing Burnside Street. We watched the city walk by as we talked.
“So why did you text me? Why did you think I’d be dead?”
“I really hoped you wouldn’t be,” the dimples came back as she smiled at me, looking sideways through her mahogany hair. She wore an argyle sweater that clung to her fit frame allowing her to be sexy and modest at the same time. It was a nice effect.
Trials
“Can I at least get your name?” I asked.
“Sure, I’m Anka.”
“Thanks Anka, I’m Corey.” I stuck out my hand to shake hers. But she just laughed at me.
“Dude, you already told me your name when I filled out your paperwork at the doctor’s office.”
I was embarrassed, but not defeated. She took the sting out of her mockery by touching my shoulder as she adjusted in her seat to face me slightly. My heart pounded in my throat.
“So, um…”
Before I could devastate her with my charming line, she unleashed the full force of her smile on me. It was like her dimples were wormholes into my soul. She leaned toward me, put a hand on my knee and whispered to me in a husky voice.
“Corey, I really want you to stay alive. Is that okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” she took a moment to think, biting her lower lip slightly and looking down at the counter. When she looked up at me through her lashes she continued, “I know it’s a little weird, but I have a place we can go. You’ll be safe there. The doctor didn’t know about it.”
I wasn’t thinking about the slobbering death-doctor at this point. Not even a little bit. My heart was beating in my ears now too. So I’m pretty sure the rest of the conversation went like this, but I can’t be positive.
“It’s not weird,” I reassured her, “I trust you.”
She smiled and laid her hand on my cheek, “Good. Good.” She inhaled as if there were something else but then she decided against it and said. “We should go. My car’s in the parking garage.”
“Don’t you want to finish your coffee?” I asked in my most debonair voice.
“We can take the cups with us.”
“Oh, yeah.”
So we got up and walked out to the parking garage. If you’ve never been there, you should know that the Powell’s parking garage is old and awkwardly tight. Its wooden support beams and tight corners make for interesting driving and some awkward, parking jobs. But it’s free when you buy something at Powell’s so it’s worth the stress.
We walked out of the stairwell and I lagged a bit behind to see which car she walked to. I secretly hoped it would be the Smart Car, because they’re so tiny and cute, but she pulled out her keys and the silver BMW responded with flashing lights. At the time I wasn’t really in a position to think about the disparity of her age and occupation and this car. My mind was wandering ahead to her apartment instead.
The cool leather interior of the car smelled like new and something else, vaguely metallic. I got in first while she did something in the trunk. As she opened the door I heard shouts coming from the stairwell area.
“Damn, they followed you.”
“What? Who?”
She didn’t answer. She just got in and started the car. I snatched at my seatbelt as she threw the manual transmission into reverse and gunned the engine. I was sure she’d hit the central structure of the garage, but she cranked the wheel just in time to miss both the cars on either side of our parking space and the bits of building behind.
Another quick shift and she was in first gear staring down the burly twins. They both had bruised and scraped faces from our meeting earlier. I was both proud and a little embarrassed. They got out of the way when Anka sped toward them. But I quickly saw that she was going too fast to avoid hitting the cars ahead of us.
With a crank of the steering wheel and a pull of the handbrake, she threw the car into a sideways slide. I heard the engine rev slightly as the wheels spun and screeched and we slid around the corner of the parking structure and down toward the ramp. When we got to the straight ramp, she dropped the brake and straightened the wheel just in time to keep me from smashing into the wall and we sped down the steep path to the exit.