Читать книгу Freudian Slip - Erica Orloff - Страница 9

JULIAN SHAW EXPECTED a long tunnel. Then a white light. Or at least his dearly departed Grandma Hannah.

Instead, he got Gus.

“Listen, old boy, try not to panic” was Gus’s advice, delivered in a clipped British accent.

“I’m too confused to panic,” said Julian, but then he spied his body in the hospital bed, and panic struck him like the shock of a defibrillator.

“Remember not to panic,” Gus urged, but it was far too late for that. Julian let out a Friday the 13th shriek, and frankly, Julian didn’t even care that his scream sounded like a girl’s—like the time he dropped a toad down his cousin Tori’s shirt the year she got a training bra.

“What the hell is going on?” Julian looked down at his body, which had a frightening assortment of tubes protruding from just about every orifice. Bags of dark blood and assorted other fluids hung from IV poles surrounding his bed like silent sentinels. Machines whooshed and whirred and beeped. Their eerie sounds echoed in the otherwise sterile quiet of the room, as if the body were just another machine being driven by devices and not life itself. A nurse appeared to be taking his vital signs, which, if her frown were any indication, didn’t seem to be too vital.

Julian approached her and asked, “What’s wrong with me?” but she looked through him as she walked away, pushed through the door, and back to the nurse’s station on the other side of the glass.

“Hey!” Julian shouted. He followed her, but she never acknowledged him, and when he touched her arm, she didn’t react at all. He turned to another nurse, and then a doctor, waving his arms wildly, “Hey! Someone tell me what’s going on!”

But they all continued working, talking with each other, looking at computer screens, ignoring him.

Because Gus had spoken to him, seemed to see him, Julian now faced the short, thin old man in the blue pinstripe suit, with the elegant little silver mustache and one of those old-fashioned monocles perched on one eye. “What’s going on? Do you know?”

“You don’t remember anything, young man?” Gus asked, clasping his hands together expectantly.

“No. I mean…how did I get to be here, and my body there? Am I…you know…dead?” He said dead in a whisper, because he really didn’t want to know the answer.

“No. Not dead. In a coma.”

“A coma?” Julian again looked at his body—long black hair, thick and curly. High cheekbones. Tattoo of an angel on one forearm, another of a hypodermic needle near his elbow, with the words Rock Or Die on the biceps above it. Yep. It was him. He was a good-looking SOB, he thought, even though his face was nearly as pale as the bedsheet.

“Yes, my dear chap. Seems you are in a coma or I wouldn’t be here.” Gus smoothed his burgundy tie, fussed with his diamond tie-tack, and then clasped his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on the heels of his highly polished black shoes.

“Where is here? And, for that matter, who the hell are you?”

“Well, no need for hostility, young man. We’re Neither Here Nor There. And I’m Gus, your Guide.”

“Come again?”

“Neither Here Nor There. As in, neither in Heaven nor in Hell. We’re in between. Or, rather, you are. And I’m to show you the ropes, so to speak.”

“Why aren’t I over there? With my body?”

“Good question, which begs a thorough explanation. As thorough as I can give you when we have a rather pressing agenda. How familiar are you with quantum physics?”

“You’ve gotta be friggin’ kiddin’ me, little man. Not at all. I’m a DJ, the shock jock at WNRQ, not a…physicist. Jesus, I must be dreaming. I gave up heroin a long time ago, but is this a flashback or something?”

“No. I am not a figment of your imagination. Trust me, you are not that creative. All right.” He sighed. “As best as I can explain it, the universe is always moving. Even a table, a chair, a rock, they have moving parts, tiny atoms and particles and, if the string theorists are to be believed—and they’re right, you know—there are parts even smaller than that, like tiny strings in a realm we can’t even begin to understand, it’s so microscopic. Mind-boggling, actually. And the universe—from the cosmos to tiny particles—is in a state of constant motion, ever expanding and accelerating, with the idea that one day, it may actually collapse back into itself, though I am not entirely privy to all the secrets the universe has up its sleeve.” He chuckled slightly.

“Speak English, pal.”

“I’m trying, young man. Again, I can’t be positive of what the future holds for the universe. However, I do know that the universe is not, ever, at any time, in a state of inertia. In terms of astrophysics, cosmic inflation describes the exponential expansion driven by a negative-pressure vacuum energy density.”

“Look, buddy…can we get past all this science stuff, which I can promise you I am not ever going to understand, and get to the part about how it is my body is lying there with tubes up my friggin’ nose?”

“Getting to that. You see the way God made the universe, She created Heaven and Hell, and then the place in between.”

“She?”

“Of course. You mean to tell me you never noticed how women are the nurturers, the creators?”

“Well, maybe but…you know, the whole Bible and…”

“Written, I’m afraid, with a bias. By men. The original Old Boy Network.”

“So you’re saying a chick made the universe. Including Neither Here Nor There.”

“I know. It’s an unwieldy name. I wish She had thought of something…I don’t know, catchier. But nonetheless, just because you happen to be in a coma, you do not, my new friend, have a free pass as far as the universe is concerned. You must be doing something. Consequently, you are Neither Here Nor There, and you have work to do while you are in the in-between realm. We have an agenda, which, I might add, we must get to. Soon.”

“And you?”

“Me? I’m a Guide.”

“Got any identification?”

“Afraid not. I would have presumed the very fact that your body is there and we’re here would be identification enough. It usually is.”

“What’s with the British accent?”

“I was British on earth, and apparently it’s quite difficult to lose the accent, even after centuries in the Afterlife. I’ve retained a love of stout, too. And scones.”

“Afterlife. I thought you said we weren’t dead. Afterlife sounds suspiciously like ‘after you’ve bought the farm.’”

“We aren’t dead. I am dead. Was dead, actually. Now I’m a Guide. Well, technically, I am still dead, but my spirit…Well, I suppose it’s all about whether you view the glass as half-full or half-empty. You, on the other hand, are not dead. You are…well, in this rather in-between state.”

“So what happened to me?” Though his body—the one in the bed—looked painfully uncomfortable, he didn’t feel any pain at all in his newly acquired spirit body. In fact, he felt surprisingly terrific, if he thought about it. Except for the sheer terror stuff.

“You really have no memory of it? Think back.”

“Well…” Julian tried. “You know it’s a little hard to think when I’m staring at my comatose self.” Again, he felt waves of panic sweep over him. He tried harder to remember. “I was on the air. Lesbians. I was talking about lesbians. They’ve made me the number-one late-afternoon and evening drive-time show in radio. Syndicated. I’m on every hour of every day somewhere in the country. Rebroadcasts. Cable. Chicks getting it on with other chicks? The audience loves it. And…” He tried to think. “Oh…yeah. I pushed the envelope big-time. Holy crap, but it was an awesome show. Live sex. On air. The switchboard went wild! Two women were having oral sex right there on my couch. That couch is like a shrine to sex. Then I wrapped up the show. I met with my producer. Then…I went outside. Was waiting for my limo to circle the block and pick me up. And that’s the last thing I remember.”

“Think back. Someone said something to you. On the sidewalk. Someone approached you.”

Julian fell silent, and then a flood of memory and more panic threatened to drown him. “Oh my God…I was shot.” He rushed over to his comatose self. “Oh Christ…in the stomach.” Julian could see bandages peeking over the top of the blanket. “By a guy who was pissed off about my show. Religious fanatic. He’s called in before. I recognized his voice.”

“Yes,” Gus said quietly.

Julian’s terror intensified. “Jesus.” He began pacing. “Oh my God. Holy shit…Am I going to make it?”

“I don’t know,” Gus said. “I’m not privy to that information. It’s not in your dossier.”

“I don’t get it. I don’t get any of this.”

“That’s understandable. Give yourself time. You’ll adapt. In the meantime, you have a job to do. Get your mind off the situation, so to speak.”

“What kind of job? What? Do spirits need a call-in radio show?”

“Hardly. No, this is far more important than any earthly job. Particularly an earthly job involving prattling on about lesbians.”

“You got something against lesbians?”

“No.”

“Does God?”

“No. She’s of the opinion it’s not who you love but that you love.”

“She.”

“Yes. I told you that already. Keep up, young man. Take notes if you must.”

“I’m trying. Give me a break. I’m still working to fathom that. A woman. God is a woman. Damn. All right, I’ll bite. Do I get to meet her?”

“You don’t want to. If you meet her that means…” Gus looked over at the comatose Julian and then moved his hand across his own neck in a cutting motion of death.

“Gotcha. No meeting God. Okay, so you gonna tell me about my job?”

“Yes. You see, we’re not angels. And we most certainly don’t work for the Other Team.” Gus shuddered. “We don’t have the power of either extreme. We talk and eventually, those on earth start to hear us—maybe. And if they listen, then we have some influence.”

“So what? We talk to schizophrenics? People who hear voices?”

“Oh, no. Those unfortunate souls hear voices from chemical imbalances in the brain. Occasionally, I suppose, they may intercept voices from one of us. No, in our case, the people we speak to hear a voice urging them to do something.”

“Like a conscience?”

“Yes. Or maybe, sometimes, if we have a very strong connection to our assigned case, they may actually blurt out what we say to them. You’ve heard of a Freudian slip?”

“Sure.”

“Freud himself had a strong connection to his case worker.”

“So does everyone have one of these voices? One of us?”

“No. There aren’t enough of us to go around, I’m afraid. Those few in-betweeners like yourself are assigned a case, usually based on need.”

“Need?”

“Yes. The person prays for guidance. Or sometimes those around the person pray. A relative will plead their case. And what he or she gets is us. Or, in this case, you. You have one person, one case, you’ll be seeking to influence and help.”

“That’s it? I talk? Like I do on the air. For an audience of one? That’s it?”

“That’s it? My God, man, have you not been listening? You must not be fully comprehending the gravity of this. Perhaps it’s the shock. We take this job quite seriously. This isn’t a ‘that’s it’ sort of matter. Someone’s life—their very well-being, their sense of hope—is placed in your very hands for help.”

“Well, if they’re looking for help from me…they must really be desperate.”

Gus smiled. “She knows what She’s doing. So no time to waste. Come along and meet your assignment. According to the Boss, your case is fairly desperate. She has had a terrible day of unseemly proportions. Simply ghastly.”

Gus took Julian by the elbow and led him out of the intensive care unit. As they walked past other comatose patients, machines whirring like whispering sentinels, Julian saw other Guides, and even a dog—a big old chocolate Lab—lying by the bed of what he presumed was its master. Deducing that no hospital allowed dogs in the ICU, he guessed the dog was a spirit, too.

As he walked through the lobby, Julian struggled to discern who was real—as in alive—and who were spirits. He quickly understood that anyone dressed anachronistically—like Gus with his monocle—was a spirit. And the ones who walked through things—well, they had to be spirits, too. He had a million questions as they left the hospital. So many questions that Julian felt dazed.

The two of them wandered Manhattan’s streets, unseen. Julian kept looking at people, stepping in front of them at times, but no one acknowledged him. Finally, he and Gus arrived at an apartment building in Greenwich Village, which they entered as a resident left, slipping through an open door, and then ascended a flight of stairs to an apartment door.

“Come along,” Gus said.

“What? Do we ring the doorbell?”

“No, we walk through. Just don’t hesitate—that can get messy.”

Gus took him more firmly by the hand and half pulled him through the door. The two of them were now invisible visitors in a small one-bedroom apartment near Washington Square Park. Two policemen in uniform stood in the middle of the messy living room.

“There she is,” Gus gestured toward a brunette with hair to the middle of her back, neither thin nor plump, with rosy apple cheeks and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She clutched a tissue and looked around her apartment as if in shock.

“Can you see anything immediately missing?” the female officer asked, a notebook open, pen poised.

The brunette shook her head. “The TV. But other than that…it’s just the mess. My jewelry box is gone, but my good jewelry I kept in the freezer—I saw it on a TV show once and always have done that. I just checked. It’s still there. They didn’t take much. My dog must have scared them.” Then she started crying. “And now she’s gone.”

“Your dog?” The second officer looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry. That’s difficult.”

“When they left, they must have…let her out. Will you guys look for her?”

“Realistically…this is New York City. We have hundreds of break-ins. Thousands. What kind of dog?”

“A little Yorkie. Just the kind of dog someone would scoop up and keep.” The woman sat down and started sobbing. The two officers shifted on their feet, looking uncomfortable.

Julian stared at Gus. “You’re telling me I have to solve a dognapping? Give me a break. This isn’t a crisis. You know how many people get robbed a day?”

Gus shook his head. “You need to pay attention. This is just the end of a very, very horrible day.”

Julian and his Guide watched as the officers handed the woman a form and a card with a number to call to follow up on her case. The cops let themselves out. Julian watched as the woman wandered into her bedroom and tried to fix her mattress, which had been tossed on the floor. She started crying harder, the sounds changing from sniffles to guttural sobs. She unbuttoned the back of her skirt to change out of her work clothes. While she was undressing, Gus tugged on Julian’s arm. “Give her some privacy.”

Disappointed at missing a free peep show, Julian followed Gus to the living room. The woman emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later, in a black sports bra and gym shorts. She straightened up a bit, returning knocked-over lamps and a spilled basket of magazines to their rightful positions, then opened a bottle of white wine with a shaking hand. Soon, she was lying on the floor of her apartment, a box of tissues and a now half-empty bottle of white wine next to her.

“She’s beautiful,” Julian said, moving closer to her. “But she’s a mess. What’s wrong with her? Why is she crying? Besides the break-in? What happened to her today? This can’t all be over a Yorkie and a television set. So what is it?”

“That’s for you to find out, my boy. And solve. Julian Shaw, meet Kate Darby.”