On Monday the side effects of Allevatrox have come into ugly bloom.
Though Billy feels nothing, nothing yet, he's seen it in others, like Ossap whose facial expressions would scare small children, eating, talking, walking about like the bogeyman until Dullick—"Ossap!"— tells him he's getting freaky, stretching his neck like some pervert tortoise, and Ossap apologizes, controlling himself for a few minutes until forgetting brings on another spell. Ossap is not alone. Other normals can be spotted chawing their own tongues, rolling their eyes upward, curling their lips like they're yelling in slow motion. Drooling has also hit. Those afflicted carry plastic-cup spittoons, which they consult every minute, a clepsydra in spit, their glands manufactering too much saliva to swallow without getting sick. Conversation with these people is difficult. The akinesiacs and akathi-siacs are also being divvied up within the group. The akinesiacs are zombies, slow and stiff, not too far removed from a graveyard and a full moon. And the akathisiacs could be channeling hummingbirds. Fingers fluttering from hands fluttering from wrists fluttering from arms, they are the chorus line of dancers behind an invisible lead in gold lame. The akinesiacs and akathisiacs, Billy thinks, they're like the Jets and the Sharks.
And that afternoon, there's a rumble.
It's Roger Coop, akinesia, versus Anton Krojak, akathisia.
Roger Coop spends his day waiting for a call that never comes. He's almost always the first to answer the ring—"Yeah!"—stomping from his room—"I got it, I got it!"—and when invariably the call is for somebody else, he screams the name—"Anton Krojac, phone!"—as if an elaborate scam has been perpetrated on his rigid frame.
"Anton Krojac, phone!" he screams again.
"Anton Krojac, you've got a phone call!" he screams louder.
Now Roger Coop is goose-stepping from room to room.
"You know who and where Anton Krojac is?" he asks Lannigan, Billy, and Do.
Nope.
Finally Krojac is found, napping in bed—"Can't you hear, phone!"— and Anton—"Relax, dude"—all electric shimmy, is escorted to the payphone by the plodding Roger who's already laying the groundwork for a short conversation—"Dude, I talk for as long as I like"—and Roger is none too pleased—"Don't dude me, you Croat!"—and Anton wags his arms—"I'm a fucking Serb from Massapequa, you idiot!"—and with the atypical antipsychotic heat coursing through his fingers, Anton grazes, inadvertently—"I swear"—the rigid cheek—"Fucking prick!"—of Roger Coop. Pushing ensues, followed by a series of misguided blows. A crowd is attracted. They watch Roger and Anton clutch like heavyweights in the last round. Roger does rope-a-dope without the rope; Anton throws extravagant punches that startle him more than his opponent. Roger leads with his head (Oomph!); Anton counters with his chin (Arrah!)\ Roger falls between Anton's legs (Yoops!); Anton trips over Roger's shoulder and pile drives the floor with his funny bone (Kphuck!); Roger lies sprawled, exhausted, pinned (Haaphew!); Anton rolls over and manages, by mistake, a glancing knee to the groin (Fwaaah!); Roger reflexively tenses and stubs his big toe (Oyooh!) on Anton's (Nyumph!) nose.
At this point, Nurse Clifford/George steps in. She holds, none too subtly, a can of pepper spray. "Okay, okay, break it up, boys." But the boys are already broken up, on their backs, massaging their various injuries and already giggling about the ridiculousness of the brawl. They are men bonded by fight. Nurse Clifford/George leans over and studies them. A little blood, some bruises, nothing serious. She takes close personal aim and sprays their eyes like the pupils are cockroaches. Now Roger and Anton are lovers in plight. They roll around, writhe, spit, snot, tear, and curse together. The floor could be the beach and tomorrow is good-bye. "No fighting," Nurse Clifford/George informs them. "If this happens again, you will be fined or possibly dismissed without pay." Security shows up—two beefy men who look as if they've recently outgrown a career in bouncing. They wear faux officer-of-the-law shirts a size too small so their guts might appear more menacing. As they lead Roger and Anton away, they seem nostalgic for club days when patrons were drunk and restraint was vaguely sexy.
"Mild agitation," Nurse Clifford/George remarks to the remaining normals. "Not a real surprise." She scans the crowd. "We also have stun guns if something like this ever gets worse, so don't worry about your safety. We have enough voltage to bring down the biggest agitator."
Nobody is relieved.
Do, for one, is having difficulty with urination. He asks Billy and Lannigan after dinner, "You guys having any problems peeing?"
"No," Billy says.
"Because I feel like I need to pee, but I've got nothing to pee, and it's driving me nuts." Do stands by the bathroom door. He rarely ventures outside the room for recreation, and hasn't showered since his inaugural attempt. The smell coming from him is offensively pure, like a newborn's spit-up. His beginning facial hair could be houseflies that have landed on skin and done everything possible to rip themselves free, leaving behind their legs. "It's like I got a few extra drops of pee trapped in the tip of my, uhm, penis." Do blushes. Or blanches. He has combination shame.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Billy tries reassuring.
"It stings."
"Ask the nurse about it."
"I'm not asking the nurse about that."
Do returns to his bed, holding his crotch in gotta-pee fashion.
"Maybe it's an infection," Lannigan offers. "A UTI. Maybe chlamydia.
Syphilis. Gonorrhea. Have you been fucking any sheep lately, farm boy? Or maybe it's cock cancer. Maybe a bit of flesh-eating virus got up in there. Or it could be soap, but you'd have to shower for soap, so strike that. I've heard stories—"
"Come on," Billy says.
"—about the urethra which would rattle your balls."
"You're fine," Billy promises as Do crawls under the sheets.
"Whatever you do, don't get a hard-on."
"He's kidding."
Lannigan shoots Billy a hard-truth look. "Billy, man, we've got to be honest with him. We both know what this is and we both know it's not good. How the rhesus monkeys, the test animal for this drug, had the same reaction, a burning sensation, an incomplete feeling toward urination, though of course they couldn't articulate that. No, those little critters just rubbed their rhesus monkey dicks raw, practically tore them off."
"He's lying," Billy tells Do.
"Billy, you're doing him no favors."
"Shut up."
"What, or else you'll sock me?" Lannigan cowers.
"What's the point?" Billy asks, hoping he's speaking in code and Lannigan is hearing, Why pick on a person like Do?
But Lannigan hears nothing. "Hey Do," he says.
Do, defensively: "What?"
"You're doing it again."
"What?"
"That thing."
"What thing."
"Oh, maybe you don't even notice it, maybe it's unconscious."
"What am I doing?"
"You just did it again."
"What?"
"Don't worry about it, it's no big deal, barely noticeable."
"So what am I doing?"
"Oh, never mind."
Do looks toward Billy, says, "Billy?" with doubt, like every blink, every breath needs reassurance.
"You're not doing anything. Don't listen to a word he says."
Do turns toward the window. The sun is setting. In the courtyard, that bronze finger berates the last minutes of the visible day, like the night will be long and cold and without meaning.