HE was standing on the other side of the turnstiles. Duded-up as always in some ill-fitting clothes that all probably belonged to HIS dad. The trousers in particular were way too baggy. HE gave a little wave with one hand, not even bothering to peel HIS back off the pillar HE was leaning against.
I inserted my ticket into the slot and waited for the metal bar to move out of the way. The boy behind me plastered himself to my back and followed me through. He probably couldn’t afford a ticket. Once we were on the other side, he mumbled something that might have been ‘Thanks’ and slouched off.
‘What was that?’ HE asked, smirking.
‘Same thing you always do.’
‘All the heads who couldn’t make it through are grouping up.’
‘What’ll they do? If they miss the last train, I mean.’
‘Just get thrown out.’
‘Yeah? I thought they could spend the night if they didn’t have anyone to vouch for them.’
‘That’s ancient history. The population’s got too big, they can’t accommodate everyone anymore.’
We leaned against the pillar side by side. My legs got tired pretty much right away, though, and I got down on my haunches.
HE crouched down beside me. ‘Wanna go somewhere?’
I sighed. ‘Sure … Aboveground, I guess?’
HE sighed too. Then, with an exaggerated air: ‘We do the same thing every time we hang out. I thought we were supposed to be madly in love.’
I rolled my eyes. We were similar, that’s all it ever was. Two years ago I’d been happy about it. Not only did we have the same sign and the same blood type, but we were even the same height and weight. Now I’m an inch taller, though.
‘Good grief.’ HE stood up. ‘Even moving around like this, I feel like I’m gonna drop dead. Why do I feel so sluggish?’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Oh, there you go. Slipped my mind.’
‘I’ve been trying to eat before I go out. I keep on collapsing. You need to eat a couple of times a day, apparently.’
‘I wonder why,’ HE mused vacantly. I had always assumed HE was doing an impression of a moron, but sometimes I wonder if HE isn’t simply stupid.
‘It’s probably the boredom. If you’re not doing anything …’
‘Yeah. You must be right.’
There were a bunch of young men and women (aged from twelve or thirteen all the way up to thirty or so) sitting around next to the stairwell up to the surface. Not a job between them.
‘How about we head to the unemployment cafeteria?’ HE suggested over HIS shoulder.
‘No way. That’s where all the gangsters hang out. If they snatch my ID card, I’m screwed. They’ll sell it on the black market.’
‘But you’ve got me to protect you.’ HE burst out laughing. I gave HIM a look that made it clear I wasn’t amused.
Aboveground, the sun was beating down on the filthy town spread out before us. Unfettered spaces scare me. I’m not used to scenes that aren’t in a frame. Looking at a picture inside a border always calms me down, whether it’s an ultravista or the real thing. It’s probably from all the TV.
‘Maybe I’ll do a little shopping.’
‘I don’t want to be involved. I’ll wait outside.’
‘It’s more fun with a co-conspirator. Maybe not you, though, you seem like you’d blow it spectacularly.’
HE prides himself on the fact that HE’s never been caught shoplifting. HE tells me the trick is to target the security cameras’ blind spots.
Walking towards the plaza, the one with the fountain, HE scoped out the stores lining either side of the street. Abruptly HE turned into a pharmacy. I just kept on strolling along. HE caught up to me again almost right away. After walking in silence for a little while, HE turned into a small alley. Probably going to see HIS fence.
After a minute or two HE came down from the second floor of a building with some cash in HIS hand. It wasn’t much. ‘Here,’ HE gave it to me. ‘Not my best work. The clerk was super intense, he was giving me the eye the whole time. Probably didn’t want to lose his job. So I had to settle for stuff that wasn’t worth a whole lot.’
HE took a tiny box out of HIS pocket and showed it to me.
‘What’s that?’
‘Some kind of after-the-fact contraception, apparently. I’ve never needed it, so I didn’t know what it was. My fence explained it to me.’
‘I wonder who uses it.’
‘People who do it a lot, or who have a lot of sperm on account of some weird metabolic quirk. Elderly perverts, probably. What’s wrong?’
‘Struggling to remember the last time I did it …’
‘If it was with me, we did it two years ago when we first met.’
‘So we did.’
‘Have you done it with someone else since?’
‘Come on, how often do you think I can do something like that? It’s exhausting.’
‘Sure, but … tiring yourself out isn’t so bad. You get that feeling of having really done something. Don’t you think it’s dull never wearing yourself out at all?’
‘Dunno.’
It seemed like something we ought to do. Might be that’s why we broke up for a year or so. We didn’t do it for such a long time that we started to lose ‘that loving feeling’. We were only seeing each other now because HE had appeared on television; my mother was one of the execs at the company that produced the programme. It was some staged show called The Psychoanalysis Room or something. When I called HIM and asked why HE’d gone on the show, he said, ‘I thought maybe if my mum saw it, she’d take pity and come find me.’ But there was no way HIS mother, who had vanished into thin air fifteen years ago, was ever going to recognize her son. HE was twenty-one years old now and appearing under an alias. That’s what I thought, anyway, but I didn’t say it out loud.
We went into a fast food joint. It proclaimed itself a ‘Gourmet Soupery’. What was gourmet about it, I couldn’t tell you. I got a little dizzy when I tried to lift the tray with our two bowls on it. Despite chiding HIM about HIS diet earlier, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday myself. They were saying on the news that more and more young people were forgetting to eat, starving to death.
‘This feels kind of embarrassing somehow,’ I said as I picked up my spoon.
‘Uh-huh.’ HE nodded.
‘I’ve never eaten with someone else before.’
‘Me neither.’
We ate sitting side by side, gazing at the video screen. It’s so hard to relax without something to look at. The screen was showing a sunset over some southern island. The camera didn’t move, so it was pretty much like an ultravista. Once the sun had sunk fully behind the horizon, the programme changed to Top Forty This Week. That restaurant chain’s catchphrase is ‘Brand new videos, guaranteed.’
I stacked the bowls one inside the other and put them into the nearby bin.
‘How’s your girlfriend?’
‘Hm?’
‘The girl you were going out with after me.’
‘Haven’t seen her.’ ‘How come?’
HE furrowed HIS brow, then let out a sigh as if to say guess I’ve got no choice. ‘Her parents are still together.’
‘Don’t hear that too often.’
‘Maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s something else, but she has total faith in society. She’s so boisterous, always got too much energy … Hell, she’s even got aspirations.’
‘To marry you?’
‘To have children and stuff.’
‘Through IVF?’
‘Yeah. Not likely, right? Not with a physique like that.’
She was about 4’ 9” and 110 pounds. The average height for someone that weight is about 5’ 6”, men and women alike.
‘Anyway, that’s all I’m gonna say about it.’ Sighing again, HE returned HIS gaze to the screen.
What more could there be to say? Maybe she still had periods. I used to myself for two or three years when I was younger. Once I hit eighteen I started eating less and less, and then before I knew it I just wasn’t getting them anymore. I mean, no one’s going to like you if you have a classic woman’s figure (or a man’s). The only ones with any meat on their bones in this day and age are older people and pregnant women on a hospital diet.
HE was staring at the pop star on the screen. She was probably the one HE was truly in love with. I’ve got my own favourite celebrity as well, so I’m well aware that there’s no point in being jealous. It’s just an image, it’s not real—how can you compete with that? And, yet, the jealousy is there.
‘Did you vote for her in the last election?’ I mean, I had to be jealous, didn’t I? Since we’re still treating what we had (HIM and me) as a love affair. The instant I became aware of this sense of obligation, it started to feel stupid.
‘Yeah. So what?’
‘It’s idiotic, giving people the right to vote at the age of fifteen.’
‘Maybe so.’
‘And all this Let the future shine! The Number Whatever Election bullshit.’
‘Voter turnout’s gone up, though. Now that all you have to do is sit in front of your TV and press a button for your favourite celeb.’
‘But they don’t even publicly announce which politicians the celebrity delegates choose with the votes they get.’
‘No shit, Sherlock.’ HE shook HIS head. ‘Let’s get outta here.’
The streets were overflowing with the jobless. Sitting, standing, talking, strumming guitars.
‘How come there’re so many, I wonder.’ HIS mood seemed to have improved.
‘It’s Shinjuku.’
‘Why do they all gather in the same place, though. Even when they have to dodge the fare to get here.’
‘They come for the spectacle. To check each other out.’
The closer we got to the Koma Theater, the more of them there were. Two police patrol ships were flying overhead. They would periodically descend and play the same taped message over their loudspeakers: It is against the law to remain in the same place for more than twenty minutes. Please move along.
We got to the plaza and sat down side by side.
‘So what’s up?’ HE asked. There was nothing much else to talk about.
‘Nothing at all.’ I instantly started to get irritated.
‘Doing well?’
‘Well enough.’
‘How’s your mother?’
‘Good.’ How the hell did I get stuck with this moron? ‘You?’
‘Me? Yeah, I’m good.’
‘How’s your father?’
‘Lately it’s as though he’s just hit puberty.’ HE smiled faintly. ‘Spends a lot of time lost in thought.’
‘About what?’
‘I dunno, maybe he’s having a midlife crisis. Turning sixty and all.’ We both laughed. ‘No, seriously though, seems like he’s found love,’ HE added. ‘Old people have so much energy, you know? It seems like he’s really giving it everything he’s got. Keeping a diary, writing letters, sending gifts.’
‘Is she a real person?’ A strange question, but HE seemed to know what I meant. Not a celebrity, in other words.
‘I think so, yeah. Doesn’t seem like a green door, anyway.’
An image, HE meant. Though it’s a term they use with psychedelics, too.
‘Isn’t that a lot of effort? Being in love at that age?’
‘Yeah. They act like it’s this huge deal. Not like us, right? Young people get involved out of a sense of obligation. It’s like we have to. Or because we’ve got nothing better to do.’ HE followed this with some total bullshit: ‘I’m not talking about you, of course. You’re special. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘And?’ I looked down my nose at HIM. I couldn’t tell whether I was genuinely pissed off or not. The performance had just become a part of my personality. If nothing else, I can be pretty sure I’m not happy, I thought vacantly.
‘You know I care about you, right?’ HIS voice had developed an edge to it. Though maybe that was an act as well.
‘Like how?’ Not that I really cared.
‘All kinds of ways—’
You, in the black, move along. The warning sounded over the loudspeaker of the patrol ship. Move along.
As the vehicle started to descend, the figure in black leapt up and took off running. Not swiftly enough, though. A mechanical arm reached down out of the patrol ship. The perp raised both hands. If you’ve got your arms at your sides when they grab you, they get pinned there and you’re more likely to get injured. The patrol ship departed with the black-clad figure dangling helplessly in the air beneath it.
‘Fucking horrible.’ HE looked up.
‘What’ll happen now?’
‘A formal warning, and a fine.’
‘You’ve been arrested before, right?’
‘Once. The cops will make an example of you whenever they feel like it. They can always find something to charge you with afterwards.’
‘How did it feel?’
‘Being carried up and away with my arms spread out like that … It reminded me of the opening to that Fellini movie.’
Meant nothing to me.
‘You don’t know much of anything, do you. No wonder you can’t hold down a job.’
Once every six months we have to sit for the employment examination. It gets recorded on our ID cards. What the penalty is for not showing up, I don’t know.
‘I pass the exam every time,’ I protested half-heartedly.
‘And? What occupation category do they give you?’
‘Waitress. There’re requirements for that too, you know. Height, for example. Your girlfriend couldn’t get that job.’
‘That girl’s always getting engaged, just so she doesn’t have to take the employment exam. They allow a certain period for marriage preparations. This conversation’s going in circles. What a drag.’
‘Were you two engaged?’
‘I don’t want to say.’
Then they must’ve been.
I started chewing a fingernail. HE took that hand in HIS and squeezed it gently. ‘Quit being such a pill. It’s a real turn-off.’
I remained stubbornly silent.
‘OK then, who was that call from that one time?’ HE asked.
‘Gimme a break. What are you even talking about?’
‘You got a phone call that time we went to your place together. You didn’t put it on screen because it was a man, right?’
‘The caller had the picture switched off, that’s all.’
‘Who the hell does that?’
‘Plenty of people. I do it all the time myself. When I’m not feeling presentable, for instance.’
What a nightmare.
‘And when would that be?’
‘Like when I’ve got bedhead.’
‘You always keep the picture switched on when it’s me. Even when your hair isn’t done.’
‘That’s because it’s you.’
I want to go home. Alone.
‘And you always wanted to get rid of me right after.’
‘You’re imagining things.’
How do I wrap this up?
‘You want to go home, don’t you? Because I’m asking all these questions.’
A series of dull thuds sounded behind us. A man was hitting a woman over the head with something heavy and hard. Again and again. The woman had her hands up. We heard one final scream. She collapsed. Covered in blood.
The woman wasn’t moving. Her attacker was muttering something under his breath. Serves you right … That’s what you get for … that kind of thing.
The man started to walk away, not even bothering to wipe away the blood spattered all over him. No one could move. The patrol ship didn’t arrive for another two minutes.
I thought HE might faint. HE’s anaemic, and HIS already-pale face had gone white as a sheet.
‘It’s so … vivid.’ HE was gazing at the bloody aftermath of the attack.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Hold on a sec. That was so intense, I was rooted to the spot. Almost like it was the real thing.’
‘It was real.’
‘Yeah?’ HE stepped closer to inhale the scent of blood, but the cops shooed HIM away. It was a pose anyway. HE has virtually no sense of smell. Can’t smell or taste much of anything. I’m the same way. Maybe that’s why kids nowadays don’t care about eating. And why our everyday lives feel like a scene from a TV show.
‘I end up putting a frame around everything I see,’ HE murmured, seemingly to himself. ‘It makes it seem fresh, helps me relax as a viewer.’ Then HE turned to me and grinned (at least I think it was a grin). ‘Man, I haven’t felt this amped in ages. That really wasn’t staged, huh. Where are the TV cameras? I want my mum to see this.’
I kept silent. I can’t explain it clearly, but I had the sense that HE was on the verge of some kind of mental breakdown.
The TV cameras never showed up.
But there was a thirtyish man taking an (amateur) video of the scene.
‘I’m gonna go ask him.’ HE was back to HIS usual cheerful self.
‘For what?’
‘A copy.’
There was a sound from the front hall. ‘What a racket,’ I thought, trying to focus my attention on the screen; I was watching Gone with the Wind. Seemed like my mother had arrived home, and right at the finale – the scene where Rhett Butler leaves and Scarlett O’Hara collapses on the stairs. I always end up crying at that part. No matter how many times I watch it, I end up crying.
Ever since I’ve been old enough to really understand the world (these past two years or so), I’ve never once cried at a scene in real life. Whenever something serious happens, I just convince myself it’s no big deal. I do my best to avoid any kind of shock. I’ve been fooling myself this way for long enough that it’s become a habit, and now nothing affects me. But in the world of make-believe, I can still relax enough to let flow my tears.
I heard my mother go into her room.
I wept buckets and pondered Scarlett’s fate. Would it be possible for her to win back Rhett’s love? No, I have a feeling he’s the kind of man who never changes his mind once it’s made up. Not like the softies I’d always dated. The kind of men you see in the movies would be hard to handle in real life, though – they’re so fixated on their own masculinity. And sometimes that male pride, that proper behaviour, it all starts to seem ridiculous. If they could just get over themselves, then everything might be a whole lot simpler.
I pressed the button and the screen went black.
‘Doing OK?’ My mother came into the room with a box of tissue paper in one hand, removing her make-up.
‘Yeah, you know, I’m fine, thanks.’ I felt awkward, like I didn’t know what to say. I always get that way when I’m talking with my mother.
‘What have you been up to lately? Anything interesting going on?’
I couldn’t just dismiss her attempts at conversation.
‘Same as usual. I did the housework and now I’m just vegging out.’
‘Hmm, must be nice to have so much time on your hands.’ My mother was crouching down and spreading cream all over her face. I had no desire to see a grown woman looking like that.
‘If you check the memory you’ll see, but … There was a phone call from Daddy.’ This was a dicey topic.
‘I see.’ My mother’s expression didn’t change. But her face was a mask of white so it was hard to tell. ‘What did he say?’
‘I recorded it … Wasn’t much of a conversation, though. I just can’t get on the same wavelength as someone like him. I know he means well, but …’
‘He sucks all the air out of the room, that man.’
Was I allowed to agree?
‘And every word out of his mouth is an exaggeration.’ My mother nodded to herself. The cream had become translucent. She gestured for the tissues and started wiping it away. ‘That’s what they used to call “personality” back in the last century. I hate these wishy-washy boys nowadays, but that doesn’t mean I want someone so hard-headed.’
‘Doesn’t it kind of seem like he wants you back?’ I couldn’t settle down with the TV off. But I felt like it’d be rude to turn it on.
‘Is that the impression you got?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Still as dumb as ever!’ Her former husband, she meant. ‘He’s like a wind-up metal robot, he’ll keep on going just as he is till Judgement Day.’
‘Mum.’
‘What?’
‘You know a lot of words, huh.’
‘That’s because I don’t spend all day in front of the tube like you. I even read books, if you can believe it.’
By the time she was done wiping off her face, there was a huge mound of used tissues. I threw them away.
‘There was a call from Daddy’s wife, too. Later on.’
‘What did she say?’ My mother stood up with the tissue box in her hand.
‘She just kept squawking on and on, asking, Has my husband been over there – she’s a real dog, huh.’
I was buttering my mother up. She’s the one who provides for me, after all. I feel like I have to do something for her. HE also comes from a single-parent home, but HE approaches it differently. HE’s decided it was HIS father’s fault that HIS mother left, so HE deals with it by bleeding him dry and ignoring him at the same time. Angelic trumpets will herald the day of HIS mother’s return. HE seems to see it as the day of HIS salvation, in every possible sense. That day will never come, of course, so HE can make HIS fantasy as grandiose as HE likes.
‘You think I’m prettier?’ my mother asked, her face gleaming.
‘Of course I do. I mean, she’s short and fat, and swarthy. And she’s got that raspy voice.’ While I was offering this up for my mother’s benefit, it struck me how similar Daddy’s new wife was to that girl HE had been engaged to. It wasn’t a question of whether they actually resembled one another. As long as my image of them was the same, I could lump them into the same category. Spurred on by this realization, my tone grew more forceful. ‘And having four kids? Giving birth to them naturally? What is she, an animal?’
My mother was clearly pleased. She’s the kind of person who always wants to be number one. She was saying something about how a lot of cats were infertile lately. ‘Come in here and let’s have a chat.’ She went into her room.
Is it really that important for parents and children to talk to each other? TV dramas are always talking about it, so maybe it is.
My mother had finished tending to her face and was lying on her belly on the bed, smoking a cigarette. It’s a vice she didn’t want anyone to know about.
I sat down in the chair next to the bed and clasped my hands around my knee.
‘It has to do with work.’
I nodded, to show that I was listening.
‘You’re aware that if you stimulate a certain part of the brain, it produces a sense of euphoria, right?’
I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway.
‘Such experiments were first conducted a long time ago. They would hook a patient up with electrodes and have them flip a switch five thousand times an hour. Now they have a device that links the subject directly to a television. When the monitor is turned on, it begins to stimulate the brain. The subject no longer has to flip the switch each time; instead, a weak electrical current is transmitted automatically at appropriate intervals.’
‘I’ve heard about that. One of my friends was using it.’ She was a real space cadet, though, and it’s not clear if she was always that way or if it was just thanks to the electrode attached to her brain.
‘But it hasn’t caught on, has it.’
‘Do you have to have surgery?’
‘A very simple procedure. Quick and painless. Like getting your ear pierced.’ For some reason my mother was angry. Or so it seemed.
‘And then?’ I felt like I had to say something, so I kept going. ‘You feel good? As long as you’re watching TV?’
‘Probably.’
‘Then, wouldn’t you just watch TV all day long?’ As if that wasn’t what I did already. When I’m alone in my room, I’m mostly watching TV. And I’m alone in my room most of the time.
‘They’re mounting a huge campaign this time, trying to encourage people to get the device installed. Personally, I’m against it.’
Was she speaking as a mother?
‘How come?’
‘I worry about going to such lengths to try and get people to watch more TV.’
‘But they’re committed to it now, right?’
‘They’re in production as we speak. Five-second and fifteen-second versions. The ad copy makes my skin crawl, too. Feel Good, and Happiness is within your reach – that kind of thing. Feels obscene somehow, don’t you think?’
‘Like commercials for gravestones.’ I said the first thing that popped into my head.
‘Now that you mention it, sure. Hell is keeping a low profile these days, and the whole country is under the spell of this image of Heaven. The difference, though, is that with Hell at least you know what you’re getting. But with Heaven, everything’s ambiguous. There are no actively good feelings, just a passive, ambiguous contentment.’
What’s wrong with that? I didn’t get why she thought that sounded so terrible.
‘But it’s good for you work-wise, right?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be a hit.’
I’m a sucker for trends. I don’t have much in the way of agency. I always want to try whatever’s popular.
‘If you become a TV addict, though, you won’t be able to do anything else.’
I pretended to think hard about this. ‘But, there’s nothing else to do.’
‘Oh? Really? What do you do all day while I’m at work?’
‘It’s not like I get up at the same time every day. But usually sometime before noon. First off, I have something to drink, you know. Then I watch TV. And I slowly start to feel human again. I take a bath. After that I clean the house. You see, I can’t really move my body until I’ve had a nice hot soak. Laundry. The housework only takes about an hour altogether. After all that, it’s TV for the rest of the day.’ I really don’t do anything at all. Even I was taken aback.
‘That’s it?’
What, did my mother think I was studying or something?
‘I’m unemployed, so I’ve got no money. It’s not like I can go out anywhere.’
‘What about the library?’
‘They only have the mainstream stuff, books and videos both. The other day I went to take out Blade Runner but they didn’t even have that. I couldn’t believe it. Going over to a friend’s place doesn’t cost anything, but talking to other people is so exhausting. I don’t see my friends all that often, so it’s hard to tell how to act. And talking to Daddy is exhausting for different reasons.’ Talking with my mother like this was exhausting too. I’m just no good with living, breathing human beings.
‘You can’t find work at all?’ My mother sounded concerned about me.
‘… Uh-uh.’
It’s because I’m stupid and childish, I thought. Each occupational category has a designated minimum IQ. Most require a higher ability index than mine. There are too many people, so no wonder. Then there are the ones like HIM, who are intelligent but fail the exam on purpose, who want their parents to take care of them forever. Of course, HE also does it to exact revenge on HIS father.
‘Now why would that be, I wonder.’
‘Mama, can I say something weird?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bad luck seems to follow me around. It sucks for me personally that I always get fired after a couple of weeks and never make any money, but the businesses themselves always seem to fall on hard times too. From the day I start working somewhere, the customers just stop showing up … I’ve started to feel like it’s somehow my fault for even putting on a professional act and going to work. It’s like I’m causing trouble for everyone.’
‘You’re imagining things.’
My mother smiled. How could she be so sure? I wish I had the confidence to make pronouncements like that. Does it come from her devotion to her work?
‘Bring me some water, dear.’ My mother shook out her hair.
Going into the kitchen, I let out a sigh. I’m a real sigher, but I do my best to hold it in until I’m alone. That’s part of the reason it’s so hard for me to be around other people. When I’m with HIM, I can sigh. Maybe that’s why I put up with HIM.
‘Why don’t you go back to school?’ my mother asked when I brought her the water.
‘It’s not like there are a lot of places I can go.’
After middle school, I went to a design school that didn’t have an entrance exam. They didn’t take attendance either. They had some fancy ideal of a ‘liberal education’. It was fun. Even after I graduated, I would still go hang out there whenever I got an invite to a dance party or something. That’s where I met HIM. I liked that HE wasn’t an old classmate of mine. Still, it’s not like it had to be HIM. Anyone who was about the same height as me and was similarly skinny and androgynous would’ve done just as well. And that place was chock full of guys like that.
‘Well, you don’t need to worry about money, at least. I’m in the top income bracket.’
‘I know that – is it OK if I go now?’
‘Go ahead.’ My mother reached out and began adjusting her sleep dial.
I went to my room instead of back to the couch. I opened up the TV guide and looked through it. There are so many lines and it takes a fair amount of time. Got to be thorough, though – I almost didn’t notice that one of my favourite bands was on.
I hurriedly turned on the TV.
I think Yūki (that’s the singer) is cute and smart and great. Though I’ve been upset about a daytime show I saw where they revealed he had a lover.
Nothing eases the boredom, of course. Aside from maybe when a pop star I’ve decided I like is on. It’s not that I like the content of the programming itself. So much of it is total trash. I just enjoy the feeling of sitting there spacing out in front of the TV set. Because I don’t have to be active. Doing anything of my own volition is so painful that I can’t handle it. If I can just avoid that pain, that’s enough for me.
I wanted to crank up the volume, so I put on my headphones. The shows would keep on coming forever. I slowly began to slip into a world all my own.
My father committed suicide.
I have no idea what went on between my parents. My mother has taken a leave of absence from work and checked herself into one of those mental hospitals that sells itself like a resort. Apparently she’s going to write an essay on the world of television while she’s there.
The worst part about it is that my dad’s wife has started calling all the time. If someone grabs my hand when I don’t want them to, I can never bring myself to shake them off. That’s just the kind of person I am. So all I can do when this person, the wife of someone who was basically a total stranger to me, calls up is grit my teeth and listen to her reminisce and lament.
‘Do you have any idea how hopelessly in love with him I was?’ What the hell am I supposed to say to that? So I just keep silent. It’s not like I can tell her I thought my father was a loser.
I know perfectly well what a good match my father and his new wife were. They both had total faith in society. Which is I guess why he committed suicide – he actually believed his death might have some kind of effect. Talk about optimistic.
At the same time, I’ve developed a conditioned response to the face of my father’s widow: every time I see it, I’m reminded of that girl HE was with. I’ve become crazed with jealousy. Feels like the first time in forever I’ve felt any kind of emotion. Having emotions is a good thing. Better than not having them, anyway.
‘Why do you have the video switched off?’ HE asked from the screen.
‘Because I’m naked,’ I lied. I felt like messing with HIS head a little.
‘Can you put something on? It makes me anxious when I can’t see your face.’
‘I’ve got nothing to wear,’ I replied, suppressing a giggle.
‘… Fine. I’ll turn mine off too.’ The screen went black.
‘So what’s up?’ Having a conversation with just our voices was strange, but kind of fun.
‘I’ve got something important to ask you, so can you get serious?’
‘Sure.’
‘Man, this is embarrassing. I’m not sure about asking this – should I do it anyway, even though I can’t see your face?’
What a weirdo.
‘Just spit it out.’
‘OK then – do you like me?’
‘Sure I like you. You know that.’
‘Like how?’
‘Like I like myself.’
‘That’s one hell of an answer.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Well, I’ve got this plan – is this conversation being recorded?’
‘Nope.’
‘You sure?’
‘I hate holding on to love letters. What’s up with you anyway?’
‘Well, I mean, I was thinking, what if we became one, like, body and soul. What d’you think?’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’ What could HE possibly have in mind?
‘I got one of those devices installed in my brain. I want you to try it too. It’ll change your whole outlook.’
‘Maybe. But my mum’s against it. She’s away right now, but she’d never give me the money for it anyway.’
‘I want you to get one more than anything. If you don’t, we can never become true mirror images.’
‘What happens when you get it?’
‘All the shitty stuff stops bothering you. Like, you realize that there’s a simple way of dealing with everything that’s been weighing on you up till now. You can just tack on an illogical ending to the story, like a deus ex machina for life. Reality feels like a TV show, and TV shows feel like reality. It’s like the boundary between them breaks down, like you’re living in a dream.’
‘Sounds like my kind of world. But I’d prefer living in a nightmare.’
‘It does cause a little bit of confusion. Sometimes you have to think for a minute before you can be sure if something’s happened to you or to the protagonist of a TV show. But that’s no big deal, right?’
‘Not at all,’ I answered right away. TV show, reality, who cares? Comfort, feeling good, that’s all that matters. And I almost never get to feel that way. I’m always just … bored.
‘Okay, so when you get one, you feel good? Comfortable?’
‘Yup. I think it has something to do with endorphins. The other day my tooth hurt so bad I could barely think, but once I turned the TV on, it went away.’
‘En-what-now?’
‘Opioids in your brain. Apparently if you keep jogging consistently for more than eight weeks, your brain suddenly starts producing tons of them. Daddy told me running makes him feel so good that he can’t give it up. He’s away on a trip right now, and he stuffed his suitcase full of running shoes and jogging clothes. I couldn’t fucking believe it. Old people have so much energy. My ankles hurt just thinking about it. But with the device, no more need for running.’
‘Older folks are amazing. They’ve got so much energy, so much stamina. They go to work every day, and somehow they still find it in them to have love affairs. My mum had a steady stream of them until recently. Her ex-husband had a wife and four kids, and she was actually envious! It drove her crazy. And Daddy’s second wife …’
Which made me remember. HIS pipsqueak girlfriend. Were they still engaged? Were they going to get married? I was intensely jealous now – just like our parents’ generation would be. I had never known an emotion like it before. Is envy always the last emotion standing? (Things like respect and awe are long since gone. Everyone lives in a happy-go-lucky depression – they only take life half-seriously, you might say.)
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Your girlfriend …’
‘Oh yeah, I was about to tell you. That’s all set!’
‘I heard you were seeing her again.’
‘I am. Just to talk. She went and got herself pregnant.’
‘At the hospital? Were you the donor?’
‘No, no, no. She went natural.’
‘Gross.’
‘It’s a quirk of her metabolism. I couldn’t believe it at first, but I guess it’s true. She’s no liar. That much I know.’
I lie all the time. I talk all kinds of bullshit. Something black began to stir deep inside me. ‘But … this happened because of you?’
‘She says she only dates one person at a time,’ HE said, dodging my question. ‘She says her head gets filled up with thoughts of that person, and here’s the thing, she trusts me completely. She says things like, “You’re a good person,” and “I’ll never betray you,” and “We’ll be together forever.” ’
‘Bullshit. You’re making this up.’
‘I told you, didn’t I? I mean, I seriously wonder if she’s an angel or something. Her vitality, the force of her sexual desire. I don’t think she would die even if you killed her. So I want to try it to find out.’
‘I’m hanging up.’
My head hurt. I wanted to get into bed.
‘Wait. I don’t want a kid. I want to slip quietly into oblivion, all by myself. I have to do something about her. Help me.’
‘If you’re going to talk her out of it, do it on your own.’
‘I’m no match for her, physically. Listen, please, can you come over today? Right now? I’m begging you.’
The screen flared to life, and I could see that HE was kneeling with HIS forehead pressed to the ground.
‘Please, say something. I love you, for starters. You’re my angel – no, my devil, my lovely devil. I mean it.’
HIS (father’s) apartment was fully mechanized. Everything spick and span.
‘This way.’
HIS room was especially clean, airy and pleasant. Seemed like a nice place to spend your time. A video camera was set up in one corner.
‘What do you record?’
‘My daily life.’
‘And you watch it later? Wow, must be riveting.’
‘Sometimes.’ HE adjusted the lighting, temperature, and fan.
‘You clean a lot, huh.’
‘It passes the time.’ HE put on a tape. It showed the square near the Koma Theater. ‘It’s from that day. I got the guy to make me a copy.’
The murder played out again on screen.
‘Doesn’t have much impact, does it.’
‘Right? If I don’t keep reminding myself that “this really happened,” it seems so lacklustre. But the angle’s bad and the camera shakes, so it’s really not like a TV show either. This has been copied so many times, see how the picture quality’s degraded? Makes it feel so much more authentic.’
‘The parts you can’t see all that clearly stimulate the imagination.’
‘Exactly. Now this I bought the other day. It’s a document of someone’s suicide. Apparently the guy was up to his ears in debt, and he made this so his family could sell it and pay off the loans. And it was a hit. Want to see?’ HE switched out the tape.
A sober-looking middle-aged man was making introductory remarks. He was about the same age as my father (hadn’t Dad committed suicide!) and they looked pretty similar, but of course it wasn’t him.
‘He sounds so matter-of-fact.’
‘Right? Makes it seem so real.’
The man on the screen said, ‘OK, here we go,’ then drank something that must’ve been poison from a bottle.
‘What is that?’
‘He was trying to be so meticulous, but he forgot to say. Now that’s truth.’
Even in this day and age, we still revere truth. But at the same time, we devote ourselves to the task of erasing the distinction between truth and fiction.
‘Is it fertilizer?’ It was a serious question, but HE apparently took it as a joke since the man didn’t look anything at all like an agricultural worker. ‘I never knew you had such a cruel streak.’
‘I like to keep you on your toes. Ah, to be Terence Stamp,’ HE said coquettishly.
‘Who?’
‘Come on, The Collector.’
‘Of what?’
‘It’s a movie. He plays this amaaazing guy. By the way …’
HE searched my face. I looked away, and when I looked back HE was still staring at me. I had a sudden premonition and crossed my arms in front of me. ‘No, don’t kill me!’
A faint smile touched HIS lips.
‘… Not you,’ HE crooned. ‘You’re not pregnant. She’s on her way here.’
‘But, that’s …’
‘I can’t do it alone. It would be too exhausting. I need you to hold her down, since I’m sure she’ll fight back.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘I think it’ll be simplicity itself once we actually get going. Wringing her neck or whatever.’
‘If I were the pregnant one, would it be the other way around? Would you get her to help kill me?’
‘Probably, yeah. But so what? Think of it as a TV show. Pretend you’re an actor.’
‘I don’t think I can get myself into that headspace.’ ‘I’m going to tape it, too.’
What the hell is HE thinking?
HE took both of my hands in HIS and sat down. ‘Once it’s over, it’ll be like nothing even happened. You can’t hide your sadistic side from me. And didn’t you tell me that when you were a kid, your mother tried to kill you a couple of times? Like Mary Bell.’
‘I have no intention of helping you.’
‘This really happened, in England: Two girls, eleven and thirteen, killed a three-year-old boy and a four-year-old boy, but the eleven-year-old was smarter and cleverer, and the older girl was just following her lead. She was acquitted, but the eleven-year-old was convicted.’
‘I don’t want to hear about it.’
‘Then, what about Lizzie Borden?’
‘Stop it. What are you getting at?’
‘That the way you yourself were raised was problematic. An endless cycle of absurd coddling and other horrible experiences, right?’
‘You yourself, why are you—’
‘Don’t be stupid. There’ll be one more good tape in the world! And, if it comes out and I get caught, the police will track down my mum for me, I’m sure of it.’
The doorbell rang.
Around dawn I became hysterical, and my crying woke HIM. It felt like the first time I had cried in my whole life. HE patted my hand gently to try and calm me down.
‘There’s nothing to worry about. Tomorrow you’ll go and get the surgery. The one to get the electrode installed in your brain. Then you can relax forever.’
I tugged as hard as I could at the end of my stocking. HE had lit the flame of my envy. Her corpse was crammed into the freezer. Eyes closed, tongue lolling out.
‘What’ll we do now?’
‘Get married.’
‘No thanks. Who wants to share this kind of memory?’
‘Under the current law, testimony from a spouse is inadmissible. So it’d be better for both of us if we got married. Like in Brighton Rock.’
How can HE be so calm? Is it because of the device?
‘Wanna do it? It’s been a long time.’
‘Do what? Oh … But the sheets might get dirty.’
I didn’t want to be in the room where we’d killed her, so we were sleeping in HIS father’s bed.
‘It’s fine.’
HE took me in HIS arms. I just lay there the whole time, worrying about the sheets.
When it was over, HE opened HIS eyes, and seemed to be seeing something else.
The boredom is gone.