Louse (17 page)

Ms. Lonesome glances at me.

I glance away from her.

Then I'm distracted by the lights hanging from the corridor's ceiling. We pass one every few steps and I can see the intensity of their illumination left behind on my eyes. As we pass under their intermittent pulse I suddenly remember walking through a tunnel, a long, straight tunnel of bare earth and wooden support beams that stretches out as far as I can see. Caged construction lights dangle from wires hammered into rocks. I weave in and out of the beams and push against a strong breeze until the mouth of the passage opens wide and bright.

“Are you all right, Mr. Louse?” Ms. Lonesome asks.

I find that we have stopped and I'm leaning against a wall beside a set of double doors. The wave of nausea I felt earlier has returned and my head throbs at the sight of Ms. Lonesome's face. And the images don't stop. I can see the silhouetted claw of a bulldozer and the neck of a crane, a morning light washing over the side of a hill into a valley.

“Are you all right?” Ms. Lonesome repeats.

“Yes, I'm fine,” I say with some difficulty.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Ms. Lonesome, I'm sure.”

Ms. Lonesome smiles at me with concern.

I remember the hot chalky smell of dry desert burn my nose and the back of my throat as I looked onto a silver starfish-of-a-building that shaded the land for miles. It rose hundreds of feet above the earth, and rested on immense metal pillars.

“I must be ready for my pharmaceutical, Ms. Lonesome,” I say with my teeth clenched.

“Yes, Mr. Louse. That must be what it is,” she agrees.

“Allow me just another moment if you will.”

“Yes, of course.”

Scores of wide craters surrounded the periphery and stretched into the distant plain of the desert, on whose horizon all I could make out were far away rock formations back-lit by the rising sun and a huge basin of dust that hovered above the ground like a low lying mist. I remember how the fine granules attached themselves to me as I walked down into the valley. I removed my jacket and wrapped the arms around my face so I could breathe freely. I cupped my hands over my eyes to avoid the spectacle of light reflecting off the glass and metal. When I reached the bottom of the hill I wandered around deep craters and swerved in and out of the shadows of the pillars. Triangles of metal crisscrossed under glass passages, making layers of kaleidoscopic patterns. I walked through the shimmering light and the dust until I found an elevator. The next thing I remember was being back in Poppy's secured zone. I went through the hall leading to Poppy's chambers. I passed a number of people whose faces I could see, but I don't recognize them, that is all but two, Ms. Berger and the woman who greeted me in Lounge 18 earlier.

“Please, Mr. Louse,” Ms. Lonesome says, taking hold of my shoulder as she does Poppy's when he is ill. “Allow me to do something.”

I shake my head at her.

I remember when I arrived in Poppy's chambers, the ceiling rose to the height of a cathedral's; it rose into a gigantic cupola, over which was the entire galaxy, the moon and the constellations on one side and the earth with all its colors on the other side. The only piece of furniture in the room was the bed. I could hear a woman
say, “Who is that?” from one of the corridors. “Who is that?” I responded. A dark figure walked out as the sun began to rise over the earth. Ms. Lonesome emerged into the light. She said something I can't remember now. But I do remember that I walked toward her and my hands reached to her face.

“Please, Mr. Louse,” Ms. Lonesome says, studying me. “Perhaps I should bring you to the infirmary, to Dr. Barnum.”

“No, Ms. Lonesome, I'm fine,” I whisper, looking at her crossly, recomposing myself, concentrating. I push myself from the wall and look deep into Ms. Lonesome's translucent eyes; all I can see are my hands reaching out to her face. As I stand up straight, the dizziness begins to pass.

“All right?” Ms. Lonesome says compassionately as she swipes her identification card for passage through the set of doors before us. I look at her carefully as she does this and wonder if what I see is a memory or a dream.

“Yes, I'm fine,” I reassure her in a steadfast voice. “Really,” I say, “perfectly fine.”

“Good,” she says, looking less concerned.

We enter and continue toward a waiting room where a very tall, skinny man with an oblong backside is standing against a glass panel of wall. He is in our standard uniform. A camera dangles by a strap from his bony hand.

“That is Glimmer Artaud. He will be photographing you. Good evening, Mr. Artaud,” Ms. Lonesome says as we enter through the glass door.

“Ms. Lonesome,” Mr. Artaud says is in a droll baritone, pronouncing her last name in two long syllables as if they were two words. His eyes are stationed at his upper lid. His face, like his body,
is long and narrow. His jaw is unusually loose. His lower lip curls over his teeth as he affects what is supposed to be a smile, but isn't. His chin holds a deep cleft and dangles much like the camera in his hand.

“This is Herman Q. Louse, our newest trustee,” Ms. Lonesome announces.

“Yes,” he says, drolly, his eyes looking me up and down, but never leaving their stationary position. “Yes yes. This way.”

Mr. Artaud leads the way through a swinging door and brings us into a circular room with a number of colored backdrops and some props.

“This way,” he says, snapping his camera at me. “Navy, Mr. Louse. Navy.”

My head circles the room in a blur of color, searching for navy as Ms. Lonesome takes a seat behind Mr. Artaud. I can't seem to take my eyes off her. I am still enticed by the image in my head. In a world in which I never expected anything to change, all of a sudden I feel something happening, something pulling me in directions I never imagined.

“Come, Mr. Louse.
Navy!
As in blue.”

Mr. Artaud raises his eyebrows at me, then takes me by the shoulders and scoots me down to navy so that I am standing in front of a square of navy blue.

“Trustees go navy these days,” Mr. Artaud exclaims to the ceiling as he removes a remote control from his jacket pocket. He clicks a button that turns on a set of very bright lights that blaze directly into my eyes. All the colors of the room are momentarily bleached out and little black dots begin dancing and melding onto the mucus of my retina.

“Navy! Say navy, Mr. Louse. Na-veyyy!” he sings a little vibrato. “Feel it in your lips.”

“Na-vey!” I sing flatly, feeling my jaw drop and the corners of my mouth curling into the shape of Mr. Artaud's face, which doesn't suit me, but at the same time feels good simply because it is not my own.

Mr. Artaud clicks a picture.

“One more time, Mr. Louse,” he says, stepping closer. “Na-vey!” he sings.

“Na-vey!” I say.

“Click,” he says. “Na-vey!” he sings.

“Na-vey!” I say.

“Click,” he says. “Na-vey!” he sings.

“Na-vey!” I say.

“Click,” he says. “
Green!
” he sings.

“Green?!” I say.

“To the green backdrop, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Artaud says, snapping his camera at me. “In the event that you become a manager we will have your picture on file. For the sake of expediency, efficiency, forward-thinking. We are thinking forward, Mr. Louse. For your benefit. For the benefit of all. Trustees think forward. Get used to it. Forward thinkers.”

As Mr. Artaud continues his diatribe I search for green. But I am having a difficult time differentiating color after having all that light in my eyes. The black dots continue to dance and meld into breathing dollops.

“Green, Mr. Louse!” Mr. Artaud says firmly. He then pauses for my response. And then, “Ms. Lonesome! Would you please?”

Ms. Lonesome comes to my assistance. She swings me around and places me before the green backdrop.

“Thank you, Ms. Lonesome,” I say, enjoying my close proximity to her.

“No problem at all. Come, Mr. Louse. Up.”

She places her hand on the small of my back and holds it there forcefully. It seems that I have been bending forward in response to the sight of Mr. Artaud's concavity. Ms. Lonesome then lifts my chin in the direction of the camera and walks away.

“Don't move,” she says.

“What did you say?”

“Don't move.”

“That's what I thought you said.”

“Don't move,” she'd said. There's no reason why I should remember it. But she said it just this way.

“Give me green, Mr. Louse.
Manager green!
”

“Green Green!” I exclaim, lips pursed, thinking of how Ms. Lonesome had said, “Don't move.”

“Not green green, Mr. Louse. Just one great big,
GREEN! MANAGER GREEN!
” he sings. “Open that mouth. Stretch those rose buds.”

“Yes, all right,” I say. The woman in SR-5 said it the same way–long on the “o” long on the “o.” “Don't move.” As I was about to get up. “Don't move.” Long on the “o” long on the “o.”

“Let me hear it, Mr. Louse!”

“
GREEN! MANAGER GREEN!
” I sing.

“Very good. Here we go.”

Mr. Artaud presses the remote control and the blinding lights shine in my face.

“
GREEN! MANAGER GREEN!
” I nearly shout.

“Excellent, Mr. Louse.” Mr. Artaud clicks the picture. “Red, Ms. Lonesome. Around to Red Middle Manager Red. Swallow the ‘R,' feel the tongue in the back of the throat, hear the croak, looped like a boat on the bed of the mouth. Give me
RED
, Mr. Louse,
MIDDLE MANAGER RED!
Here come the lights.”

The lights flash on.

“
RED
, Mr. Artaud.
MIDDLE MANAGER RED!
”

“That's the spirit, Mr. Louse. Now you're catching on. Click click. And onto gray with him Ms. Lonesome. Onto
GRAY!
”

“Onto gray, Mr. Artaud, onto gray,” says Ms. Lonesome, concentrating on how to get me to gray.

I step in front of the gray backdrop and look into Ms. Lonesome's translucent eyes as she squares my shoulders. And what if it was her? What if it is her? What if she is one of them? Does that mean that I'm on her side or is she on mine?

“Come,” Ms. Lonesome says. “This way, Mr. Louse. Look this way.”

“Was it you?” I mumble.

“All right, Mr. Artaud,” she announces.

“
GRAY PARTNER GRAY IS GREAT IN THE GRAY!
” bursts Mr. Artaud “Aaaand…here come the lights.”

The lights flash on.

“
GRAY PARTNER GRAY IS GREAT IN THE GRAY
,” I say.

Click click click.

“
AND ONTO THE DIRECTORIAL BOARD OF PEARLY WHITES!
”

Ms. Lonesome guides me across the room, one hand on my shoulder, one on my elbow.

“You shouldn't be letting your thoughts wander, Mr. Louse. Stay focused. Stay clear,” she says. “Smile, Mr. Louse.”

“Here come the lights, Mr. Louse.”

Mr. Artaud points the remote control.

“
AND ONTO THE DIRECTORIAL BOARD OF PEARLY WHITES!
” I sing with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

“Click click click,” says Mr. Artaud as he clicks away.

My cheeks are contorted in spasms.

I open and stretch my mouth.

“And onto the finale, Mr. Louse.
EXECUTIVE BLACK LOTTERY BLACK WINNER WINNER WINNER BLACK!
”

Mr. Artaud points.

“At the desk in the corner. Right there. You've got it.”

I find my way to the desk in the corner. Ms. Lonesome wheels over the chair. It is the same desk as the one in Poppy's study. The same one at which he sits in a Transit Air promotion. With the same model airplane rising at a forty-five degree angle.

“
EXECUTIVE BLACK LOTTERY BLACK WINNER WINNER WINNER BLACK
, Mr. Louse!” Mr. Artaud positions his camera at his eye. “Give it to me,” he says.

I begin thinking of Poppy in his chambers, in his bed with his bed sores, comatose, dying, and suddenly Mr. Artaud, with all his vibrant energy, looks like a piece of bent tinsel in the shape of a question mark. Simultaneously, the glow in Ms. Lonesome's face begins to fade and I have a sensation of euphoria as though whatever spirit once inhabited my body before my memory was annihilated has returned. I can feel what it is that has been lacking, but it is so mild and filled with riddles and confusions and is now, disturbingly, gone.

“Mr. Louse,” says Mr. Artaud, slow and droll, brows raised, his momentum obviously broken.

“Mr. Artaud,” I say, collecting myself, nodding my head. “I'm sorry.”

Mr. Artaud flashes the lights.

“Executive black,” I say, not smiling, not feeling like it. I look at Ms. Lonesome's dark profile as she stands next to Mr. Artaud and try to imagine the shape of her shoulders in my hands.

“Have it your way,” says Mr. Artaud. “Click click click.”

Mr. Artaud clicks away.

The lights dim.

“It's a wrap,” Mr. Artaud says. “
Basta!
”

Mr. Artaud exits the room.

“Come, Mr. Louse,” Ms. Lonesome says. We walk into the waiting room. We stand in silence. All I can think about is the darkness of the sex room. I try to listen for something familiar in my memory that would connect Ms. Lonesome's voice to the past. If it is her, is there a way that I could ask?

“Here we are,” she says as my new ID is slipped through a mail slot. It falls into a small glass case. I pick it up. It is warm. Laminated. My bald head and large ears shine in contrast to the navy blue background. Written below, in bold black typeface, is:

HERMAN Q. LOUSE, TRUSTEE.

“Insert your old ID into the slot,” Ms. Lonesome says, “and we'll be on our way.”

I insert the old ID card into the mail slot, place the new ID in my pants pocket, and follow Ms. Lonesome out of the waiting room into the tunnel-like hall.